Title: Once Bitten
Author: Meridian
Rating: R (language, violence)
Summary: AU: Someone's been bitten ahead of schedule. If a bite is a death sentence, then what
would give the condemned a stay of execution?
Author's Notes: Welcome to my first alternate universe fanfiction for Dawn of the Dead. The
muse has run off, left me grasping at straws for continuity-friendly stories, so I'm indulging in
the make-yourself-feel-better-because-the-ending-was-not-to-your-liking genre: the AU. So, have
fun, play the spot-the-detour-from-the-movie-plot game. In short, enjoy.
*****************
"Get back inside! They're fine!"
"Get back inside!"
"There're still six more people inside the truck!"
"Andre!"
Luda's scream trailed off into a primally fearful howl. He felt like he moved in slow motion, throwing the oncoming ghoul aside, against the bar, then shoving his gun under its chin, pulling the trigger. All too easy, but more were coming, and he'd followed Michael outside for no reason. There were no more bullets, so he ran. Meaty sounds, the impact of steel and flesh, came from behind him as Michael retreated, following him back to the door.
Andre slid inside, breathing a premature sigh of relief.
"Andre, pull!"
A rotting, sun-burnt hand had a firm grip around Michael's wrist even as he tried to close the door on it. Andre leapt forward, threw a quick right hook into the nose of the ghoul keeping the door open. He might have reached for the other gun, but the door needed to be shut now. If he waited a second longer...
The ghoul's nose broke noisily under his hand, and, although it seemed not to notice, the momentum of his fist sent it back a step, just enough to lose its grip and for Michael to slam the door shut. Andre threw the bolt and sagged against the comforting strength of the wall.
"Jesus, man, that was stupid."
"Tell me about it," Michael looked rattled as he rubbed his wrist. "Could feel those things practically breathing down my neck."
"They breathe?"
"They do something to make that noise."
Shrugging off a shudder, Andre nodded. "I think that's my last trip outside, man."
"Yeah," Michael agreed, recovering from the adrenaline high. He jerked his chin toward the loading dock gate. "How do we get them out of the truck?"
"We are not opening that," Andre crossed his arms. This guy could be a tad thick where heroics were concerned. Luckily, he didn't have to make an issue of it. Terry appeared, rounding the corner so fast he only just made the turn by grabbing a support pole.
"Guys! Come on, we need your help getting this one woman out of the truck."
"And how are we supposed to do that?"
Gesticulating madly, Terry shifted his weight back and forth. "Blow torch the top. Come on, come on!" The excitable security guard disappeared around the corner without another word. Michael nodded once, deciding something, and made to follow Terry but stopped on the steps. Andre unfolded his arms when Michael rounded to level a serious look at him, one vaguely apologetic. He was never very good with making or accepting apologies, and so had to restrain himself from fidgeting.
"Andre, I'm sorry."
"Hey, don't worry about it."
"No, you shouldn't have had to risk yourself like that." A pained expression, one Andre couldn't place, chased from one side of Michael's face to the other in a grimace. "Luda needs you." Thoughts of Luda made him feel worse for running out there. She'd want to know he was okay.
"You think you can handle the new guys? I wanna go tell her I'm all right."
"Yeah, sure," Michael said, accepting the responsibility as means of compensation for what he'd nearly cost them both. They were lucky, not a scratch on either of them, so he was inclined to ignore it, or would once his heart quit leaping about his chest. Not a scratch, he reminded himself, a mantra, not a scratch.
He caught a faint flash of red against Michael's bronze skin as the other man disappeared. Well, maybe a scratch, maybe Michael had suffered a scratch, but he was fine, and they were both alive. Alive, and that's what mattered. Andre took a deep breath, releasing it slowly to calm his nerves, settling himself before he went to see Luda.
*****************
"The bites killed her. The bites brought her back."
Michael stiffened, alarmed, but it was Andre who spoke, beating him to it.
"How do you know?"
"I watched it happen. I felt her pulse she was gone." He watched her reach for the cup, pause. There was more, more she hadn't said and was debating whether or not to mention. Would he have to press her for the information? As it turned out, no. "And...yesterday I saw the same thing happen to somebody else." A heavy swallow, a gasping recovery. That had hurt her. "I think that's why it spread so fast."
He should say something, ask, but, business first. "All right. So who else in the group is bitten?"
"Frank, for sure."
"What about the one with the foot?"
"Tucker? He says no, he fell." Andre's silent departure registered only as passing absence, an aberration that could not dissuade him from the task at hand. An awful thing, this duty.
"Frank. Tall guy, right?"
"Right, so we have to quarantine him right away."
"Where exactly do we do that?" Michael looked up at Kenneth, appreciative. Kenneth had a cop's instincts and had reached the same conclusion. Only Ana stood against them, though he suspected she wasn't yet aware of it.
"I don't know. There must be some place to keep him in here."
"Then what?" Come on, you know what has to happen.
"I don't know."
"It's too dangerous to keep him around here." Take the hint, Ana, he willed her. Anything, so long as he didn't have to say it.
"I'm sorry...what are we talking about here? Are we talking about killing him?"
"Would you rather we waited for him to die and then he tried to kill us?" Think. All she had to do was think about it. She wasn't about to, though, and he could see it. She was feeling, thinking with her heart, her training as a medical professional, not with her head, not with logic. As a result, all she could do was react.
"Yes-no! You can't kill him!"
"Ana..."
"He's got a daughter!"
"I'm sorry. I don't think there's any other choice." He grabbed the gun, nodded at Kenneth, summoning the appearance of confidence. Just keep walking. Just a matter of left in front of right in front of left. Only the weight of the gun threw off his balance, he felt like he teetered, in peril of falling over with each step. Somewhere in the blackness outside of his tunnel vision, he heard Kenneth speak, reassuring him, devastating Ana.
"He's right."
Footsteps, light, hers. Her hand on his arm, restraining, urgent but gently.
"Michael, you can't do this. What if I'm wrong?" He could only bare to glance, his eyes sliding over the lower half of her face, not daring to meet her eyes.
Lecturing, admonishing, reminding her. "You've seen it happen before."
Flighty, she shifted between feet as he worked at remaining steady, one foot, the other, and repeat. He watched her run off, sprinting a few yards, hesitating to look his way, absorbing his intent stride, then darting forward again. Kenneth never left the coffee bar, Terry staying with him, probably thanks to a staying look or gesture from Kenneth--a don't-follow-where-you're-not-welcome, kid. This was Michael's show, now. He'd presumed to make the decision, so his was the responsibility. Nervously, he scratched at his elbow; the touch burned, irritated skin leaving a trail of red when he pulled his hand away. A double-take, twisting his arm to see, to see clearly.
Shit. He could muster no other reaction, not anger, not even denial. His mind went blank, his feet carried him after Ana, towards Metropolis, dumb-struck. Ana arrived only a few seconds before him, but she still had the advantage of speaking to Frank first. If he could think, if his mind could raise itself past its shitshitshitshitshit monologue, maybe he could have dealt better with it. As was, he heard Frank's response to her, could guess what had been said.
"What are you talking about?" The tall guy, half-laughing because no one could take death threats entirely in jest, not any more.
"You're infected. You're going to become one of them."
All eyes on him. It was a reaction he might, absurdly, have to get used to. People here were listening to him, looking to him for ideas, for plans, for help. He knew himself better than that, and now he knew something else, too. If they believed they would look to him for answers forever, they would be sorely disappointed. This was the last thing he could help them with, but maybe he could do it right. Go out with bang, literally.
"Is this true? Are you here to kill me?"
Lamely, he shrugged, hesitant to use that word, that word he'd made Ana say for him because he couldn't. Wasn't ready to accept just yet. "You've been bitten. It's only a matter of time."
"No! No! No! Leave my Dad alone! Go away!" His daughter, defiant, crumbled into her father's embrace, sobbing, her voice growing smaller, pleading, "you can't do this." How he wished he didn't have to.
"You have to understand that she's lost everyone. Her mother, her two brothers. I-I'm all she's got."
That wasn't helping. He wanted to shout, what about me? The numbness prevented it, made it worse as Ana rounded on him, mistaking his silence for determination instead of confusion.
"Well, Michael, what are you waiting for? Go ahead, kill him." How she loathed him. And they had been getting along so nicely, too, ever since he'd popped Bart in the mouth for that misogynist comment this morning. End of the world, and he still managed to offend every female in his general area. Story of his life. Maybe it should be his epitaph.
"Hey, kill Tucker, too." Great. Sarcasm.
"Wait a minute, I was never bit."
"We can't be sure. Do it, Michael!" Your fault. Your doing, so do it!
"Are you sure it's the bite?"
"No."
Oh, no, no, you don't. She wasn't getting away with that. "She's sure." What that meant, though...oh shitshitshitshitshit. Frank looked like he was thinking along the same lines, only he had his daughter with him--another thing he could hate the man for but didn't. What was the point? The girl did it, his heart ached for her. He wanted to hug her, too, like Frank, say goodbye to her and pretend she was his...he had never gotten the chance. For her, for her loss, she said, "I'm sorry."
"Can we...ha-have a minute?" Frank choked, holding his shuddering daughter closer. Michael tucked the gun into the back of his jeans, hiding the weapon as a gesture of peace. I'm not here to hurt you because I want to. Ana turned to him, taking exactly one step towards him, invading his personal space. In her life before yesterday, Michael could see her being something truly imposing, definitely intimidating. Her posture, the steel in her spine, the firm grimace set on her earnest lips. He might have backed down but for the defeat in her eyes. In the days before this place, they might have been resolute when she was sure of herself. No longer--she knew now, understood as he did, that while she was right medically, she was wrong practically.
"I hope you're happy."
He let her walk out, fought the urge to seize her by the arm. Temper, temper. Changing his mind, he swivelled on his heel, prepared to follow after her. Kenneth stood at the entrance, Terry behind. Michael made to walk on by, to track down Ana, have 'the talk,' their last on the subject. Kenneth's hand on his shoulder brought him up short.
"I got it."
He nodded, wondering how much to say. Someone would have to take care of it, if, in the end, he couldn't. Terry stared at both of them, then at the girl and Frank, comprehending but removed, distanced by shock. Kenneth patted his arm again, redirecting his attention.
"You don't have to watch."
"Yes, I do."
Expecting protest, Kenneth's answering nod surprised him. He moved in slow motion, self-consciously backing away, making sure he faced everyone and kept his back against the wall. Frank, when he was ready, limped past with his daughter clinging to him, aware only of her father, of time passing them by. Kenneth took the lead, and they followed. Terry stared at him, looking again, looking for answers.
"Go check on C.J. and Bart, Terry."
"Why?"
"Let them know..." he swallowed, not sure what flimsy excuse to use. "Tell them there might be gunfire." Forced smile, humorless chuckle, "Don't want them to worry." Terry, confused, remained rooted in place, so Michael left him gaping. He stayed a respectful distance behind Frank and his daughter, idly wondering where they would stop.
Kenneth picked the Verizon store. Death among a thousand unsold models of cellular phone. Reach out and touch someone. A thousand and one inane jingles, pitches, things he was used to making to seal a deal. The things you thought about when confronted with the end. Funny.
The girl brushed him as she left, her face wet with tears, nose running, gasping for breath between sodden sobs. Kenneth looked to him, reaching for the grate. This was it. Do and die time.
"I'm coming," he mumbled, stumbling forward as Kenneth slammed the metal brackets down into place. It was done. Now all that remained was awkward silence while Frank...was infected to death. He still had trouble wrapping his mind around the concept, but the proof he couldn't deny. They had to do something other than wait. The wait could drive all three of them crazy, Kenneth's stoicism be damned. "Frank."
"Yes, uh..." Frank's wan smile was polite, even apologetic, "I'm sorry, I forgot your name."
"Michael," he said, trying to match Frank's good humor. "How long ago were you bitten?"
Frank laughed, the sound dissolving into coughs. "This business or pleasure?"
There wasn't anything pleasurable about it. He only had so much time, he didn't care if he offended, and Kenneth wasn't likely to ask. "It might be important, Frank." Using his name, letting Frank know he regretted what would happen.
"We were in the chapel, after...after Bonnie..." His held fell onto his chest. Sympathetic, Michael crouched closer, comprehending in a heartbeat who Bonnie was.
"Your wife."
"Yeah," Frank's smile was bittersweet. "Our son came home late. He'd been in--in a fight."
"He was bitten?"
"Ye-yeah. He was shook up. We thought we should get him to a doctor. Bonnie stayed with him, and Paul--my oldest boy--he went to the police to file a complaint."
"When did you see your wife again?" That was Kenneth, helping him out; Michael flashed him an appreciative look.
"She came home, told me the hospital was full of people in our son's state. He didn't even recognize her anymore," Frank trailed off, choking. "He bit her. Oh God," Frank dropped his head into his hands. "He bit her."
"And she bit you?"
"We heard on the radio about this church, and Bonnie knew where it was. Glenn let us in..." Frank sobbed into his hands, obscuring his words. They could draw their own conclusions at this point. If Bonnie had gone with her husband and daughter, with a bite, and they were here without her...
"Did your daughter--"
"Nicole."
"Did Nicole see...?" God, how he hoped she hadn't had to see her mother die, turn into one of those things. He struggled against a lump in his throat. No child should have to see that, and maybe Nicole had been lucky, but what about...? Michael couldn't breathe.
"She knows." Frank shook his head. "I said I'd look after her when Bonnie..."
Michael stepped away, leaving Frank to his grief, searching for comfort in his own. Now was the time for silent reflection. A day, Frank had been bitten for less than a day. Frank's sons were dead, his wife was dead, had attacked him. And he, he was going to see Frank die, while Frank cried over a family that was absent, maybe he could weep for his, too.
An hour passed, and another, and Frank sweated them out, offering but few snippets of conversation at first, then lapsing into a prolonged, torturous silence. His face was ashen, blue veins stuck out as if painted on top of his pallid skin. Michael kept his arms folded over his chest, looking out through the grating, hoping Ana would come by, so he could tell her...what? That she was wrong to judge him? What point would that serve?
"You.." Frank's hoarse whisper sent shivers running along his spine, and he turned. Frank heaved, his breathing too labored to last much longer. He spoke to Kenneth, Michael noted, wounded. "You'll watch...every...single second?"
Kenneth nodded. They watched, as they both tacitly promised. Frank accepted this, shaking; then his head fell back, and he ceased to be. Michael held his breath, jumped when Kenneth cocked the shotgun, leveled it at Frank's body and sighted along the length.
"Wait," he stuttered, but Kenneth didn't waver. He'd made it this far, and now his will was failing him. Damn it, but he wanted to stop this, deny it. Throughout his sudden moral crisis, Kenneth remained focused.
Fortunately for them, too. A half-formed protest, more coherent, was on his lips when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Its head--he refused to call it Frank--tilted forward, fixed its exotically necrotic eyes on them. Then it made that sound--the sound that was terror--and lunged. Directly into the burst from Kenneth's shotgun. The top half of the head was shredded where it wasn't blown entirely away.
In the smoke and silence that followed the thump as the body fell, Michael let out a shaky breath. "Jesus." He felt like being sick, made it behind the sales counter before he did. That. That was worse than he had been expecting. How could he go through with it?
"Take it easy," Kenneth's voice was sonorous in the quiet, perfectly balanced. He stood, righting himself, wiping his mouth and shuddering. Oh God. Kenneth nodded, signaling that this was done, that he would be fine. Michael watched, dizzy, stupefied as Kenneth walked towards the grate. Slowly, comprehension, cold-hard and concrete recognition rooted heavily in his gut.
"No." The other man made no sign of having heard. "Stop!" His shout brought up Kenneth's gait, spun him around, shotgun at the ready.
"What?"
"Don't open that."
"Why not?"
It was time. Purposefully, he brought his hand up to his face, unconsciously mimicking Frank's gestures of despair. Slowly, he drew his hand up, up to run through his hair and clutch, angry, at the strands, cursing God, cursing fate. His right elbow was pointed at Kenneth, and the bigger man let out a snort of disbelief.
"You can't," he didn't look up. Now that he was saying it, it was hard, it wasn't abstract. Numbness faded as resignation settled. "You can't leave yet."
*****************
The shotgun blast destroyed all her wildest hopes and most fanciful denials. Ana hugged her knees, drawing them up under her chin. Damn him, she fumed, despondent, futilely combatant against fate. She was far from maternal, she couldn't comfort Frank's daughter, but she could curse her father's murderer. Michael wasn't Kenneth, he wasn't trained to know how to kill if necessary. How could he, so easily, so eagerly, take Frank off to put a bullet through his brain?
"Ana?" That was Terry, his polite tone unmistakable. She grunted, her barest acknowledgment of his presence. What could he want, or say, to make this reality untrue? What false comfort could he offer? "Ana?" He pawed at her shoulder, too vigorously to be contrite or melancholy.
"What?"
"Kenneth asked me to come get you."
"Why?" What now?
"I don't know, he just said he wanted you to come over."
Sighing, resigned. "Where?"
"The cell phone store."
The shot had come from that direction. "Okay," she said, though anything but. Mechanically, she extended her cramped legs--how tight she'd held them against her body, feeling so small. Each step she took would have to rebuild her shattered her faith. Otherwise, when she got there, if she saw...if what was left of...No. No time for that, if there was no time to even consider it, there was no time to fail. If Terry could have gone by, seen...whatever, and been fine, she could handle it. She checked his face. Terry was starring, blankly, at his feet; his cap was in his hands, being wrung into knots by his twitching fingers. She softened, squeezed his forearm, and he looked up at her.
"She's in Sanity, crying, and it's such a mess in there..." Terry mumbled, stringing all the words together as one. Was Sanity the mess or was it at Verizon?
"Terry, maybe you could go check on the girl."
"Nicole," Terry smiled without noticing, a sheepish grin, a secret one he couldn't hide because he lacked artfulness in his state of shock.
"Why don't you go make sure she's okay?" Get lost, she thought in his direction. Keep away from these sounds of violence. Puppy love, so sweet, so innocent, totally misplaced, like the rarest daisy growing among weeds. Irrationally, she wanted to preserve it, fix whatever necessary to keep it for them. Go away, don't see this. He took the hint, and she watched him clench and unclench his fists as he walked to the stairs, up towards the music store. Lucky damn kid. Her destination would be much less pleasant.
"Fuck," she swore aloud, surprised at herself. She hardly ever cursed. This occasion, however, seemed to call for it. The mobile phone dealership loomed ahead of her, and there could be no point in delay. What needed to happen, would, sooner or later, it did not matter, it would not make it any less gruesome when she got there.
Decided, Ana set an even pace, ready, at last to confront the 'winners.' She tried to dismiss bitterness, to encourage her natural inclination to comfort, to offer support. The memories weren't even a week old. They seemed born of another life, flashbacks leftover from a different version of herself. From a married, happy self.
"When?" That was Kenneth, his baritone unmistakable.
"When we were outside, trying to get Norma and the others out of the truck. I didn't even notice." Michael, sounding weary and something worse, more unstable. As she rounded the corner, she finally spied them. The gate was locked down, sealing off the store, a reasonable precaution to have taken, though useless now, as Frank was, presumably, dead. Kenneth stood, legs shoulder-width apart, an alert stance, just inside the metal grating. Not until she came right up behind him could she see Michael.
His whole figure spoke of defeat, head leaned back against the counter, eyes fixed on the ceiling, long legs kicked out in front of him. There was a smell of sick, more recent than the smell of blood, which, once she spied the smallest streak of red, she avoided investigating further. Michael saw her first, when, eventually, he lowered his head. His expression was neutral but not blank--more like two very strong emotions cancelling each other out: intense scorn warring with desolate self-pity, two waves, traveling with inverted amplitudes, leaving a straight line behind, a dull, glazed look on his weather-beaten face. That smile that never reached beyond to honest emotion, a grin without humor.
"Hey, Ana."
"What did you guys want?" She addressed Kenneth, kept her gaze fixed on Michael. "I figured everything was settled when I heard..." she gestured, helplessly, letting the situation speak for itself.
"I wanted your opinion on something. Your professional opinion."
"Why?" Despite herself, venom rose into her tone, reflexive against the pitiable figure Michael cut, pale and tired. So different from the confident, unrelenting peace-keeper, life-and-death dealer who had taken care of Frank. Images of that Michael goaded her to fury. "What do you want? You want me to search the others? Make sure no bite goes unpunished?"
"Frank had been bitten for about a day. Nothing serious," Michael explained, unperturbed by her vitriol. "How serious was the bite the other woman had? Life-threatening?"
"No," she shook her head, delving into medicalese and then translating what she came up with. "She had a chunk missing out of her upper arm, substantial blood loss, but nothing that would have killed her, not with some treatment, stitches, fluids. I'd say she lost less than half a pint. You can donate that much easily, no problem."
"How many bites did she have?"
"Just the one that I saw."
"How weak would it have made her?"
"Why all the questions? Suspicion flared brighter with each time he spoke in that curiously resigned, clinical tone. "What--"
"Frank was bitten three times on the hand. It killed him in a day. How long had she been bitten?"
"I don't know, at least five hours, that's how long she was in the truck. Michael, what's going on here?" Michael didn't answer. Kenneth grimaced, remaining silent. She puzzled it out. "You want to know how long someone lives once they've been bitten."
"Would be nice to know," Michael agreed, head falling back again.
"Why? Doesn't matter, does it? I mean," she crossed her arms, driving the point home, "we wouldn't want to wait around for someone whose been bitten to kill us, right?"
"Ana," Michael growled, an unusual sharpness to his typically soft voice.
"Give it a rest," Kenneth seconded. "This is not the time."
"What are you talking about?" Kenneth's chiding wore on her nerves, unnerved her.
He spoke to Michael. "Show her." It was an order, one he hated to give.
Ana caught Michael's eye, held it. Recrimination, desperation, resignation. Then spite, defiance. Deliberately, he smiled at her, and raised one arm in front of his face. Her brain scrambled, jumping to associate the image with the meaning, with the reason and the understanding.
Dried blood was caked about his elbow in a distinctly mouth-shaped mark.
Notes:
Obviously, you can tell where this alternate universe deviates from the film's story: Michael was
bitten when he and Andre went outside the mall, rather than at the end of the film. Despite being
an AU, I modified very little from the scenes represented her up until Frank's quarantine. The
dialogue is taken from the movie, save for the interlude after Andre and Michael make it inside
the door, and what had to be added after they make the decision to kill Frank because it was not
shown. However, while the dialogue is the same, I altered the company present to hear it. In the
film, Kenneth and Terry followed after Michael and Ana. Here, they stay behind long enough so
as to avoid having either one spotting the plot device.
