Salutations, home slices.

You Should Probably Read This If You Want To Know What Is Going To Be Going On In The Story And If You Actually Care, Which I Hope You Do Or Otherwise I Will Be Sad: This is a super major AU. And when I say major, I mean major. In italics, that's how not-canon this thing is. I will now provide back story, and if you complain later that you have no idea what just happened, it's not my fault.

In this universe, instead of Kurt being in crappy public schooling until last season's collection hits the fan (or trash bin, whichever you prefer), when Mama Hummel and Burt realized Kurt was BFFs with The Village People, they started a – trust fund? Collection? The word escapes me at the moment – for Kurt to go to Dalton. So Kurt goes through private school the majority of his life and never has anything to do with McKinley except for competing against them once or twice or whatever during Sectionals/Regionals/blah when he's being an Uncool Penguin with the Garglers. That means that Kurt has been raised as a pampered(ish) douche, and Karofsky is still confused but has thankfully not been given the chance to go all psycho I-Will-Kill-You-Herp-Durp.

TL;DR Dalton!IcePrince!Aloof!BAMF!Kurt + StillVeryMuchConfused&Unaware!NotPsycho!Dave = sweet, sweet poetry.

I can't guarantee you'll get any more than a prologue because I only sometimes write oneshots and I can barely get through those without losing interest. I'm really bad with updating, so I'm sorry in advance. :C

(Also, sorry for sucking with any dialogue I might include. I'm not a dialogue person because I'm awkward enough with it in RL. I tried to edit this as much as possible, but I'm sure there's still plenty of mistakes, so I'm also sorry for that.)

Anyways, enjoy~!

I. PROLOGUE

It didn't start with silence. Well, perhaps initially it did, when everything was just beginning to manifest. But it wasn't like those clichéd "deadly silence" situations in books or movies. I mean really, how can the death and destruction of the entire world be silent? Dave did not wake up clueless. It was not sudden. How could someone not hear the screams? How could someone be unaware of flesh peeling – being stripped with blunt, rotted teeth, flesh from past victims still wedged into their rocky crags and pits – unmercifully off unwilling and protesting bones?

You couldn't.

And if it came at you by surprise? Perhaps it was a blessing. Maybe it was foolish. In the end, philosophy and semantics were pointless and useless and generally all around depressing.

There was no longer anyone around to correct you.

No one knew how it started, obviously. How does one go about figuring out how something seemingly fictional is actually extremely possible, and find a cure for said previously fictional situation when they can't even cure cancer yet and probably aren't even going to ever now because oh crap oh god oh why why why everyone is dead everyone is dead I'm so alone Mom Dad where are you what the hell happened EVERYONE IS DEAD –

'Get a grip,' his mind whispered harshly. 'Stop being such a pussy or they'll find you in a weeping pity puddle by yourself –' alone, alone, always alone '– and if you wet yourself they won't care because nothing will stop them from eating you. Nothing.'

Surprisingly enough, his own subconscious did nothing to abate his fears.

It started with the sores. People would first get flu-like symptoms; vomiting, stomach pains, dehydration, headaches, that horrible hot and cold feeling, diarrhea, nausea, and that all around ague. Common enough symptoms, right? Nothing to really worry about unless your fever starts climbing up to over 100.

Which is exactly what would happen.

But before that, the sores. As soon as one sore broke out, they started rapidly multiplying and sprouting and spreading. The sores started at the mouth and looked vaguely like cold sores, just larger. Still nothing to worry about, because it's not too unlikely that when you're already sick, other viruses would take advantage of that. Then the sores would quickly overtake the face and neck, resembling someone who picks at wounds too much and leaves their face pock-marked and with a permanent look of slight-bloodiness. Most people took on the appearance of a severe drug addict, which certainly didn't help the situation when you wanted someone to take your illness seriously.

The sores would progressively take over the body, leaving its hapless victim bedridden and noodle-limbed, barely strong enough to take themselves to the bathroom on their own. Suddenly, the fever would spike dramatically, causing violent and bloodthirsty delusions. For any good Samaritans who tried to help these unfortunate souls, they were lucky not to get attacked. As soon as someone touched the infected, they would react with murderous rage, kicking and hitting and scratching and biting. If you were bitten you could expect to catch the "flu" within a few hours. How long did you have before your mind was taken over with disease? A week if you were lucky.

The disease cursed the body to decay while alive. The people were living while their body died around them. Then the situation was reversed.

How did Dave come to have so much knowledge of the sequence of Zombie-ism? He had watched his parents and little sister die around him, and woke up in the middle of the night for a piss only to almost be jumped from behind while he was still trying to adjust his boxers.

Now he was living in his smelly, second-hand truck because there was no freaking way he was going back to that house, and to put it bluntly, he was kind of in deep shit at the moment. He was trying not to think about it, hence the slog of information about how complete and utter crap everything was.

An emaciated hand smacked dully against the window in repetitive, monotonous motions. Dave scuttled away from the window into the middle of the car, wedging himself uncomfortably in between the two front seats. A hand rest butted him in the thigh and he pushed at it with no effect.

He sat there, his breathing raspy with terror, skin clammy and eyes wide, for the next few minutes without moving from his curled up position. He tried desperately to ignore the banging getting progressively louder as more zombies joined the group swarming around his beat-up truck. He wanted to run them over so badly, with an obsessive longing, but his lame ass truck had run out of gas. So he was stuck. Stuck and cursing himself out for being so freaking stupid as to not realize that gas wouldn't last long. He figured when he'd first camped out in his car, traveling around occasionally to raid homes and stores or to find a protective spot to park, that he was home free. Untouchable. A complete and utter boss at this zombie survival stuff.

And then reality had hit him harshly with the worst possible timing. Ain't that the way.

He was stopped in one of the previously busiest parts of town, near where some chain stores were located, devoid of the Doritos he'd been hoping to snatch, and instead of eating lunch he was about to be eaten for lunch.

Dave also ignored the steadily growing crack in his window, branching out from where a rock had hit it before all this Apocalypse crap had started.

An Infected slammed its diseased face against the window, smearing blood and pus across the already dirty glass. As its teeth clinked against the window as it mashed its mouth viciously in a disturbing parody of chewing, the creature's eyes bored right into Dave's, like the thing was still aware of what it was doing. Like its brain wasn't entirely taken over by the sickness.

As they stared into each other's eyes, Dave knew he was going to die today. The zombie's eyes promised a painful, gruesome death. Though he wasn't willing to give up yet, he felt some small part of himself breathe a small sigh of relief. It was going to be all over. No more fighting, no more loneliness, no more fear, and no more waiting. No longer wondering if each minute would be his last. No longer questioning how exactly he was going to die. Now he knew it was going to be agony. Now he knew that he had no chance of fighting back, since he'd broken his shovel over the head of a zombie on his last raid and had been too scared since to go out defenseless. He was hungry, and tired, and his body ached in ways he had never thought it could, even throughout football.

So when the glass of the window finally showered in a spray all over Dave's worn jeans, he didn't scream. He was prepared to face them and accept his fate.

Then they crawled through his open window, uncaring if their already ruined clothing snagged and ripped on the jagged pieces, and they grinned at him with large, leering smiles of pure malice.

And yeah, then Dave screamed. Like a pre-pubescent girl.

He crab-crawled across the passenger seat as fast as possible, kicking his sneaker-clad feet out at the faces of the zombies crawling after him, filled with the need to wipe the smug grins off their ugly faces.

His hand swiped at the door handle somewhere behind him and missed, and his hand frantically searched for it again, attempting to push the handle up. His sweaty fingers slipped on it a few times, and he swore at himself and the zombies before the door burst open and he spilled onto the pavement below.

There were zombies everywhere. In front of him, behind him, all emitting horrible smells and sounds. He felt an ice cold scaly hand slide across the back of his neck before he jerked forward in panic, and then the zombies in front of him grabbed him with surprising strength and crushed him against their rotted bodies. Dave gagged and screamed and might have started crying because he wasn't prepared, he really, really wasn't, HELP ME, and why did he think he was? HE WAS GOING TO DIE and it would hurt so bad OH GOD IT WAS GOING TO HURT and he wanted a gun so he could just shoot himself SOMEBODY HELP ME –

There was an abrupt, wet THWACK! as the head of the zombie that was currently grappling clumsily for Dave's stomach caved in. The zombie went sprawling drunkenly across the road, limbs flailing in sharp seizures, partly rotten and disgustingly yellow eyes dripping with pus and infection rolling in their sunken sockets.

Taking his eyes off of the twitching of the Infected below him, Dave stared at the figure who had taken over the zombie's previous position. Said figure was a dark blur of movement, arms swinging madly into the hoard of zombies around them, hands gripping an aluminum bat tightly. A serious of thuds and moans and the slightly damp crunching of broken bones followed, as the zombies quickly fell to his savior's masterful swinging and twirling of the bat. The figure attacked the zombies from in front of Dave, as well as the ones climbing out of his truck, with remorseless abandon, while a few managed to escape and flee down the road. Dave was frozen in complete shock and confusion.

A few seconds – or possibly minutes – later, the last zombie arched backwards in an uncomfortable bend, appearing oddly graceful even with its spine smashed and its brain oozing out through every orifice of its now misshapen head. It collapsed with a final, dull noise that seemed to echo in Dave's stricken head, piercing through his haze of confusion.

The boy – Dave could see he was a boy now – was breathing heavily, harsh pants ripping through his lean chest, which was covered in a fashionable but heavy looking blue coat. The boy's fringe was plastered messily to his forehead, and his whole face was flushed red as a cherry. His eyes when he turned to meet Dave's were a light, cold blue.

'Well, don't I feel tough,' Dave grumbled to himself, 'I was just saved by an eleven year old boy.'

The boy stared at him tensely, pursing his lips with a somewhat displeased expression. He shifted his stance every few moments, as if he constantly needed to make sure he was ready to bolt or fight. As the boy kept watching him, his gaze wandering up and down Dave's body intensely, he self-consciously wondered what expression was on his own face.

A high, clear voice came out of the boy's mouth. "Have you been bitten?" he asked. His fingers twitched impatiently upon the handle of the blood caked bat at his side.

'Yeah, definitely eleven,' Dave mused, 'he sounds like a girl.'

"N-No," Dave coughed, his voice still hoarse with lingering fear. "You came just in time, man."

The boy nodded, just barely. His tight grip on the bat relaxed almost imperceptibly. The flush on his face was gradually fading, leaving a soft paleness in its wake. His skin looked like those weird porcelain China dolls his Grandma had liked to collect. He had never understood the appeal of them (and they were kinda creepy), but now he wondered if his Grandma wasn't as batty as he'd thought.

As his rosy face lessened, though, Dave realized that perhaps the kid wasn't eleven. 'Maybe fourteen,' he thought, 'but that's being generous.'

"So…uh," Dave stammered. "I'm Dave. Karofsky."

The boy's lips drew together tightly again, creating a rosebud. "Kurt," was all he said. He glanced dispassionately at the mangled bodies splayed haphazardly around him, and leaned over close to Dave to prop the bat against the side of the dented truck carefully. He stretched his fingers with an unpronounced wince, rubbing at the knobs and knuckles to get the cramps out. "Any others wandering around, or were they it?" His narrow chin tilted to one of the bodies, unspecific.

"Those were the only ones that I saw. They came out of nowhere," he admitted, feeling ashamed at showing weakness to a fourteen year old boy. "Oh, and thanks. You know. For that."

Kurt's finely arched eyebrows rose, his face bland and expectant.

Dave coughed. "For… saving me," he clarified grudgingly.

A slow smirk spread across Kurt's mouth, and the tiny tilt of his head fully displayed all the condescending feelings he had. Dave felt his own eyes narrow and his eyebrows furrow in an instinctual response, though he understood that it was reasonable for a fourteen year old boy to feel smug at rescuing a seventeen year old man. That didn't make it any less annoying, though.

Kurt reached for the bat. "You're welcome," he replied, completely blasé and incredibly infuriating. "Well," he said abruptly, "I'll be going now." He turned sharply on his heel, kicking a zombie's limp arm out of the way while he was at it.

"!" Dave made a noise of exclamation that fit nowhere in the realms of the English language. "I… I… what?" He seemed to have forgotten how to speak it momentarily.

Kurt paused, glancing quickly at his surroundings before he pivoted on his beaten black army boots. The ratty laces swung like tassels as he turned, whipping a zombie's decayed nose with the clicking sound of beads. "What now?" he asked tersely, clearly impatient.

Dave scrambled out of the passenger seat he had taken to catching his breath on, wincing when the leather seat stuck to his clammy skin. "Where are you going?" he demanded. Words seemed to fail him around this self-confident, aloof boy. He had meant to ask 'why', and he certainly didn't mean to demand anything from him. The kid had just saved him. But he was scared and quite possibly scarred – in more ways than one – and he could feel the loneliness creeping in again, eating away at his mind much like the sickness. He didn't want to turn into a lunatic, like most people Dave had seen still alive had.

Kurt, obviously, stiffened. His demeanor screamed 'Bitch, please'. "I don't think that's any of your business," his voice was frigid.

"You…" Dave struggled to articulate, "You just – saved me." He couldn't help but to stumble over 'saved'. No one had ever saved him before. He didn't particularly like the feeling of needing to do something in repayment. Being indebted to someone – especially a fourteen year old – gave him a lack of control he wasn't used to.

"And…" Kurt drew out the word, warping it until its entire definition was sarcastic.

Dave was in disbelief. Here this kid comes along, spreads zombie carnage to freaking China like a total BAMF, and then doesn't even realize he did something incredible. Like he pulled off crap like this every day. Like he ate zombies for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Like he was Chuck Norris. Or Sue Sylvester. Dave cheered himself up by thinking that the kid played video games thirteen hours a day. 'Kids these days have no life,' Dave mused to himself… and then realized what he said and winced. He scratched his wrist absently.

"And you should –" Dave started to say, and then abruptly stopped himself.

But Kurt caught on. "And I should let you tag along with me because you're helpless and hopeless and have no clue what's going on, while I'm the one who's in their element surviving?" His voice was the epitome of smug.

"I… well, not in so many words…" Dave mumbled, cringing.

Kurt laughed, "Absolutely not. I don't think so."

"Why not?" Dave burst out, uncomprehending. He seriously didn't get why this kid had to be such a freaking jerk.

"Because I don't want you to!" Kurt yelled, cheeks flushing in anger. His eyes were wide and frustrated.

"But it's like you said!" He implored, "I have no idea what I'm doing! I thought I did, but seeing you, obviously not. You know what you're doing. Help me," he whispered, voice breaking slightly.

"I…" Kurt murmured, looking torn. He clearly didn't want him tagging along, but he seemed to have retained his moral code, luckily for Dave.

"Please," Dave pleaded with him, driving his argument home, "please don't let me die."

Kurt stared at him. Dave stared back. Kurt worried his bottom lip between his teeth, and Dave looked briefly down in distraction before flicking his eyes back up again. 'How does he keep his teeth so white during a Zombie Apocalypse?' he wondered.

Kurt closed his eyes tightly for a second before opening them, looking resigned but not all that pleased. "Fine," he said. "Fine. But if you do something stupid or make me angry or drag me down, I will be leaving you behind. Understand?"

Dave nodded enthusiastically, ecstatic that the all consuming loneliness would finally be gone, even if this kid was a bit of a priss.

Kurt jerked his head towards Dave's destroyed truck. "Grab your supplies and let's get out of here. I'm not becoming zombie bait too."

While Kurt tapped the toe of his boot impatiently against the pavement, Dave scrambled to pick up some of the food and clothes that were scattered along the backseat. He left his broken shovel behind, as well as some food wrappers and cans. He juggled the items in his hands briefly before they settled in his arms enough that he wouldn't drop them.

"Ready?" Kurt's face was looking more and more stressed by the moment.

"Yeah," Dave nodded and followed after Kurt down the street. "So, where exactly are we going?"

Kurt didn't glance back at Dave, instead keeping his line of sight straight forward. Dave looked worriedly at their 6 o'clock, but all was ominously calm. "My Dad's shop," he answered, "He's a mechanic, and the garage is build pretty solidly. We've been holding fort there since this whole thing started."

"So it's just you guys?" Dave asked.

"Yeah. It was," was Kurt's abrupt answer.

"Right."

Queue awkward silence.

And that was how the rest of the travel to Burt Hummel's mechanics shop went.