Eight months. It had been only eight months. It really wasn't that long ago in retrospect, everything just happened so fast.
It started as another pandemic that broke out across Europe, another disease that had surfaced itself as itching, red sores all over a person's arms and face. No one knew what it was nor had they any idea how to treat it. Eventually the untreated sores evolved into symptoms of nausea and a series of coughs until it mutated into something far worse.
Slowly, it infected the patient's brains, causing a form of mental decay and ate away at their bodies, leaving behind an animalistic corpse that only had basic survival reflexes. These emotionally stunted, carnivorous shells were so longer seen as people because they were, scientifically, not among the living anymore.
Mass hysteria insured within the first few weeks, as friends and loved one's began to rip each other apart with this sickness finally taking over. It was a massacre that had more people becoming infected and turning at faster rates and left what was left of humanity in shambles.
Murdoc Niccals scoffed as he read the newspaper from under his Cuban heeled boots. On the front page were the words "A Cure in the Making" in bold print followed by a picture of three supposed scientists milling about in their lab, wearing large white lab coats and protective goggles like what he used to wear in Biology class in high school before dissecting a frog. He wasn't even sure why he was reading this.
Reading the top right corner, Murdoc let out a hearty chuckle deep in the back of his throat. The date this newspaper was published was a little over three months ago.
"So, where's that cure you promised you bunch of quacks?" he asked himself aloud, jagged teeth showing in a crooked smile, finally stepping away from the littered piece of paper and continued on his way. To where, Murdoc couldn't really say.
After the initial outbreak it became apparent that the British government didn't really care about helping their people; thousands were unrightfully quarantined while hundreds more were "put down" under the assumption that they were infected. Whoever was left behind had to gang together to protect themselves from the unjust tyranny.
Even Murdoc had a band of misfits which he called "Satan's Scrotum". Well, it wasn't official or anything but it got a few laugh from the boys, though soon enough everyone in the band learned to fear and respect their Satanic and unrivaled leader; Murdoc himself.
Or, that was what the Satanist thought before the boys knocked him over the head with his own bottle of liquor, beat his unconscious body to a pulp and ran off with his prized Winnebago.
"Those bastards," Murdoc growled, taking out his pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit one, dragging deeply. "They left me for dead. Me! Murdoc Niccals!" He huffed as he blew smoke out of his mouth, touching the tender skin around his now broken nose, wincing as he did so. "If it wasn't for me those lot would have been dead within the first month. Ungrateful fuckin' sods."
At least they were merciful and dropped his long duffle bag on top of him. Literally. It was full of the "Murdoc Essentials" -a pack of cigarettes, non-perishable food, quite a bit of liquor, a handgun with ammunition, and his prized Flying V bass dubbed El Diablo. A parting gift from Satan, at least that was what Murdoc liked to tell people.
With another long drag of his cigarette, Murdoc continued down the road, the click of his heeled boots resonating on the pavement the only sound that surrounded him for a long while. Besides the completely totaled cars littered on the road and the occasion garbage that was blown in from a nearby town, there was nothing and, more importantly, no one around to try and rip his face off.
Then again, Murdoc never did have the best of luck.
It took of moment for Murdoc to realize that it wasn't so quiet after all. His stroll came to a stop, as he strained his ears to listen to the sounds coming in the distance. Distorted, strangled noises could barely be heard but they were distinct enough for the Satanist to know that trouble was afoot.
With an agitated sigh, Murdoc flicked away the forgotten remains of his cigarette, stubbing it out with his heel, and pulled his handgun from the belt loop on his worn-down jeans. (He left himself a mental note to look for a gun holster in the next town.) After making sure he had enough bullets, Murdoc readied the gun, safety off with his finger on the trigger.
Feeling prepared for anything, Murdoc continued on his way at a slightly faster pace, running his dirty fingers through his greasy, dark hair. He may not have been the most hygienic man alive (he never even brushed his teeth) but he would literally kill for at least five minutes of running hot water for his sore muscles.
Just as suddenly as the far-off noises started, however, it stopped. Pausing again, Murdoc held his pistol ready, slowly turning around and faced—
Nothing. No one, or thing, was there. The Satanist furrowed his brows behind dark fringe, concentrating hard on the road behind him, analyzing every area, making absolutely sure that there was no infected or—Satan forbid—people ready to attack him. With the coast clear, Murdoc spun around on his heel, ready to run for it.
That is, until he ran completely face-first into a large torso. Murdoc and said torso, along with the person attached, tumbled down onto the concrete pavement, knocking the wind out of Murdoc's lungs and his pistol from his hand.
The other person seemed to be doing far better, now trying to straddle Murdoc's hips, wildly flailing their arms in a poor attempt to harm him, snarling in his face, specks of saliva and blood splattering all over Murdoc's shirt. Holding back on the assailant with the sleeve of his jacket, the Satanist could clearly see now that the person before him is obviously infected.
A fairly overweight fellow, balding at the top of his head, the infected looked to be in his forties, hitting fifty soon. His skin was an ashen grey and his clothes were very casual; a regular T-shirt with a band logo and capris shorts that have been turned into a tattered and bloody mess. His blank eyes burned into Murdoc's as he tried to bite at the downed man's face.
"Get offa me, you lard arse!" Murdoc growled, desperately kicking at the infected assaulter on him and pushing his face away, mindful of the undead's mouth. The zombie man seemed very determined to make a meal out of the Satanist, however, growling in return and doubled its efforts in its attack. Murdoc's dichromatic searched wildly for a chance to escape, some way to save himself from this situation. He was not going to die here! Not now, not ever!
Seems luck had finally decided to turn in Murdoc's favor.
Without any warning, the butt of a shot gun connected to the side of the infected man's head, a crack resonating from its skull as it rolls off of the Satanist. The zombie was in such shock from the impact that it never had a chance to react before the stranger took aim and shot a round into its head. With a gurgled cry, the infected stopped moving. The stranger then fired another bullet into its head before turning to look at Murdoc.
Saying this stranger before him was big would have been an understatement; the man before him was a behemoth of a person with dark skin and milky pools in place of where his pupils are supposed to be. The wide-set man looked at Murdoc with a very displeased look, curling his lips into a snarl before his expression suddenly softened when he looked past the downed man.
Sitting up, Murdoc rubbed the sore spot on his left shoulder he landed harshly on before he felt someone behind him tap their finger on his other shoulder. Twisting himself ever so slightly, Murdoc was sure that his eyes widen ever so slightly at what he saw.
Standing before him, holding his misplaced handgun out to him, was a little Asian girl no more than twelve years old. Her short black hair was mainly obscured by some strange helmet and the jacket she wore was definitely two sizes too big for her stick-like frame.
Slowly, as if in a daze, Murdoc took his gun back and looked at it. The safety was turned back on. The little miss must have done that just in case. Smart idea, you can never really know when someone will turn on you, even after you save their hide. Though the thought that the girl before him had to go through something like that didn't really sit well with Murdoc.
"Tatakai." The girl said, finally stepping away to pick up a backpack with a cute cartoon character on it, the front of it littered in stickers and food stains.
Murdoc blinked owlishly before realizing that she was speaking in another language. Great, a language barrier. "Alright? Uh, I suppose you lot want a thank you or something." He said, standing up and dusting his pants fruitlessly. Some dirt and stains are just destined to stay where they are. Collecting himself, Murdoc walked to his forgotten duffle bag as the large man spoke up.
"You should be grateful that me and Noodle over here didn't let you become someone's lunch, you cracka' ass." He said in almost a growl, his deep but soft baritone giving off a slight American accent, but there was something else there too. Must have been in England for quite some time then.
"What the fuck kind of name is 'Noodle', anyway?" Murdoc asked incredulously, "I can clearly see that she's Asian, but come on, man!"
Shuffling his own bag over his shoulder, the wide man glared at Murdoc with those eerie white eyes. Then, without another word, the man turned and started to walk away, motioning for the girl, Noodle, to follow closely. She stared at Murdoc for a long while before slowly catching up to the other man, giving Murdoc a look that said she wanted to ask him to join them, but couldn't really find the right words.
Running his fingers through his dirty hair, Murdoc watched the two walk off. He heaved a heavy and annoyed sigh, clipping his pistol to its place in his belt loop and started to follow them. "Wait, wait, waaait!" He called after them, walking in a brisk pace to reach them before they disappeared from sight, waving his arms dramatically to catch their attention.
The duo ahead of him stopped in their tracks and turned around face the Satanist. The other man had a very disinterested look on his face, but the younger girl looked absolutely delighted to see Murdoc coming towards them.
"Listen, I know we probably started off on the wrong foot earlier," Murdoc began nonchalantly, hands raised in surrender to show that he meant no harm. He had done this enough times before when making bands; show them you come in peace, give them a proposition they can't refuse, and bam! You got a gang to look behind your back. Sure, some of them ended rather poorly—Murdoc thought bitterly of his last group, those wankers—but so long as he can survive this will be his routine.
"But I think it to be in our best interest to stick around together. Y'know, 'strength in numbers' and all that." He gave a shrug, looking for their responses. Little Noodle seemed pleased, but her giant counterpart needed a bit more nudging, judging by the slight lift in his lips. Unconvinced, the dark man was about to turn and leave again but Murdoc stopped him just in time.
"You can't honestly expect to protect her forever, do you?" He asked. The wide-set man's head snapped back to look at the Satanist, anger flaring in his nostrils, his brows knitted tightly. Murdoc continued, "What are you going to do when there's a hoard, huh? Protect her all by yourself? You may be big, but you're no one man army."
The other man's anger seemed to disappear and be replaced with self-doubt and contemplation before looking down at Noodle. The little girl gave him a wide grin and nodded, though she most likely had no idea what the two adults were talking about. The larger male gave a defeated sigh before looking back to Murdoc, "Don't make me regret this, man." He said.
Hook, line, and sinker, Murdoc thought, pleased with his work. The large man huffed, extending his meaty hand to Murdoc. "Name's Russel Hobbs—if we're to be acquainted we might as well know each other's names." The man, Russel, said.
The dark haired male couldn't help but crinkle his nose. He hadn't really considered how long they would travel together, but he quickly turned the charm back on and shook Russel's outstretched hand with his own, grimy digits. "Murrrrdoc Niccals." He said, his grin exposing his sharp, snaggled teeth.
"Noodle!" The little girl shouted, hands shooting up in the air. Russel gave her a soft smile and ruffled her helmet, purposefully skewing it and messing up her short haircut, causing Noodle to shout in distress and duck away, giggling as she righted her helmet. "So, Murdoc," Russel began. "Where are we going now?"
Murdoc hummed and looked around the group. Finally, a bit ahead of them, was a highway sign, a bright green beacon. The Satanist made his way towards it and the others followed, hoping for an answer. After some consideration and observation, Murdoc pointed to one of the closer cities on the sign.
"We'll head for Crawley."