This is my hand at a zombies fanfic, and mainly for the purpose of exploring the Marlton/Misty pairing. This story may contain future lemons. Please review and enjoy.

SO, WHERE DOES THIS LEAVE US?

BY THE YOUNG AND FREE DRAGON

PROLOGUE: THE RAT RACE

Misty glanced around quickly to check if anyone was watching. No one alive was. She raised the B23R pistol with a silencer attached and squeezed off one burst into the head of a zombie with no legs that was crawling toward her. It groaned and fell on its face, blood quickly draining from the doorway the bullets had created as they had made the zombie's head their new home.

Misty turned away from the corpse, smirking to herself and let out a cry as she saw Marlton just behind her.

"Jesus Marl... you scared me," She panted.

"Please don't call me Marl," He said and continued before she could retaliate about the cute nickname she had given him. "You know we're suppose to be conserving ammo."

"I know but c'mon! I just washed these jeans. I'm not going to have a zombie get its blood on them already."

"You're going to find you're three rounds short when you need them, and those jeans aren't going to help you then," He commented, moving past her and kicking the zombie once to ensure it was dead.

She stuck her tongue out at him behind his back, but did admire a nice view as he bent over and attempted to unhook a hair pin from the tangled and dirty locks of the now dead zombie. Always looking for parts for something new to build. That was Marlton for you.

"What are you building now?" She asked as he stood up.

"I'm trying to top the Thrustodyne Aeronautics Model 23," He replied, fiddling with the pin with his back still to her.

"Oh yeah, the Jet Gun," She said.

"Indeed..." He murmured as he focused on getting the pin unhooked.

"What're Russ and Sam doing?" She asked, almost spitting in disgust upon the mention of Samuel.

"Samuel is searching for things to add to his horde," Marlton said, referencing a stockpile Samuel had built up in the anticipation of aliens to come and top the zombie apocalypse. "Russman, I don't know. Probably looking for watermelons or fried chicken."*

"Hey! Don't be a racist prick," She said, smacking him in the back of the head and glancing over his shoulder. "What are you trying to do with that?"

"I am attempting..." Marlton grunted, seemingly becoming more urgent to get whatever it was he was doing done, now that she was watching. "To bend this into a straight... shape for my invention. It's made out of... some material I can't manipulate however."

"Let me see," Misty said, pulling it out of his hands.

With one quick motion, she bent the pin into a perfectly straight shape. Marlton looked at it with embarrassment while Misty smiled smugly as she held it out to him.

"Put down the Spiderman dolls and pick up a dumbbell once in awhile," She snickered.

"They're action figures..." He grunted, as he pushed past her, as though this was opening up an old conversation he had had many times, regarding his collectibles.

Misty shook her head and watched him disappear back inside of the farm house before heading to the barn. They were staying currently at the farm because they had set up a system of retrieving ammo as the bus passed by each time, and getting food when necessary. Here they were quite well protected and could set up more or less of a home that they could defend. With Marlton's invention of the turbine, turret, and the electric trap (one Misty let him take credit for, despite that she built), they did not often have to face the zombies, aside from an occasional crawler that got past the defenses.

Inside the barn, Russman was digging about in one of the crates that was strewn about. The old, arthritic geezer was moaning and groaning as he bent his misshapen back to reach inside. Misty stopped beside him and leaned against one of the roof supports.

"What're you doing Russ?" She asked.

"Russ is lookin' fer ten cents," He said from inside the box.

Misty didn't question why he thought he might find it there but asked; "What for? The only machine here is Double Tap. It's not very useful."

"Russ's ol' trigger finger's a gettin' stiff. Might help him keep up with the freak-a-lopes when they start runnin' faster."

Misty glanced around and saw several mashed bottles from the Double Tap vending machine.

"Does Double Tap taste like beer to you?"

"What makes you say that?" He asked, standing up and his back letting out an audible pop that sounded like a snap.

"Nothing," She said, shaking her head and reached in the pocket of her jeans and produced ten cents. "Knock yourself out."

"Russman will pay ya back some day," He said with a lopsided grin and headed for the stairs.

"If he remembers..." Misty murmured to herself before heading for the shed where Samuel would stockpile things.

Misty knocked loudly on the door of the shed, not wanting to use up her turbine, nor did she want to walk in on something she didn't want to see. Samuel lifted the blind over one of the windows, and he looked as though he would have preferred aliens.

"What do you want?" he shouted through the glass.

"What are you putting in your pile?"

"What does it look like?" He asked.

She sighed and looked around. She saw nothing lying around on the ground outside, and she couldn't see anything inside accept Sam's ugly face.

"I don't see anything,"" She said, putting her hands on her hips.

"Exactly," He said, and shut the blind.

"Asshole..." She murmured.

She moved around behind the shed, hearing an occasional crash from inside and Samuel talking to himself. She always had to check what he was stockpiling, since he'd been known to steal from her and Marlton. She saw the Jet Gun propped up beside the back door.

"No way," She grunted, hopping over the fence.

She hefted the heavy gun up and hauled it away from Sam's items to stock. She entered the farm house and shut the door behind herself. Marlton was working on something at the table.

"We need to put the Jet Gun somewhere that Sam can't reach it," She said.

Marlton didn't say anything, as he was "in the zone" currently. Misty approached him and bumped him with the business end of the Jet Gun. He turned, about to go off about how he needed peace, but stopped and moved quickly out of the way of t he gun, bringing the small gizmo he was working on with him.

"Don't going that at me!"

"Then listen to a lady when she speaks," She replied. "Can you lock the Jet Gun in your computer room?"

"But the room is cramped as it is!" He whined.

"Don't worry, you'll have room to move your hand," She said, smirking.

Marlton blushed heavily, about to contradict her statement, but she leaned closer and put a gloved hand over his mouth. He scrunched up his nose at the smell of zombie on the glove and... whatever she did with them.

"Just don't set the gun off while you're "researching"." She said, mocking his usual excuse.

She winked at him and turned and wet up the stairs, shaking her hips a bit more as she walked. She heard him drop the gizmo he was working on and it bounced off the metallic Jet Gun. She could also feel his mouth hanging open and his eyes following her.

She sat down on a lawn chair they had set up on the balcony of the farm house. Her eyes scanned the mist that hung over the road in front of them. She assumed it was mist anyway. It hung there at all times, swirling and wet like a cloud on the ground, but it smelled of smoke and death.

She glanced down and noticed the DSR-50 leaning on the railing. She rolled her eyes and picked it up. Samuel had left his gun out here again. She wrinkled her nose as she picked it up and held it. God, it even stank of cheese.

"Something's wrong with that man..." She murmured.

Samuel seemed to have fully immersed himself in the apocalypse. Now he was leaving guns around like toys. Her eyes darted up as she saw movement in the fog.

A zombie came charging out, growling in determination to get her. She could let the turret take care of it, but what was the fun in that? She lifted the gun to her shoulder and looked through the scope. It was hard to find the zombie again since there were smears all over the lens. Stupid asshole...

She fired and the zombie was left charging headless until the body realized the head was gone and it collapsed. She put the gun inside and kicked the discarded casing off the balcony. The smell of smoke from the round was familiar and on her clothing.

She sighed and closed the doors and untied the skimpy T-shirt she wore and tossed it in a wash pan of old water. Standing in her black sports bra and jeans, washing an old raggedy shirt. This was the rat race.

*This is of course, not intended as a true racial remark. Please don't be offended.