Dan was gone.

It set in slowly as Phil stepped over cracked jars and broken glass to the place where Dan should be. And he could've been there, except the blanket he slept under was ripped and crumpled and his bag where he kept the essentials was thrown across the room, the contents of it scattered on the floor and broken. Blood-probably Dan's blood-was splattered on the walls. Phil's throat closed up and it was suddenly difficult to breathe. The soft sunlight coming in from the broken window illuminated the specks in the air. A bird outside, the only bird, chirped and sang its song. Phil fingered the claw marks that gashed the wall and tore the plain wallpaper.

He sank to his knees in silent disbelief. Dan had guns and knives and weapons of all sorts. Phil could see them now, spread out all around the floor. Dan had been trained to fight the zombies, ever since he could hold a pistol. He saved Phil's life so many times, and he found food and water when Phil was too weak to walk. How could he be gone? How could zombies taken him?

And yet, Dan was gone, completely and utterly. It was obvious the way he was sprawled on the ground. His mouth was frothing and his eyes gleamed black, dead. The bite mark was all too apparent on his neck. His body shook with spasms. And when he growled and opened his mouth, his previously white and healthy teeth were sharp and mangled.

"Dan." Phil whispered, close enough to smell the change from flesh to corpse but far away enough to be safe. "No."

He was different, a completely different…thing. This wasn't the Dan whose hazel eyes sparkled when he laughed, or whose long fingers flew across the keyboards of pianos they found in old shelters, or who thrust Phil behind him when they faced a horde. This wasn't the Dan who was headstrong and stubborn, but also intelligent and witty. This wasn't sarcastic, negative, absolutely amazing Dan who protected him and took care of him and shared food with him. This wasn't Dan who cared far too much about his hair and knew too much about how to kill zombies and whose family died of an attack when he was eight. This was a monster. A monster who was slowly sitting up and growling.

Phil scuttled away in fear and horror. The gaping wounds on Dan's body were now not covered up and healing, but rather suddenly horribly infected and obvious. Zombie Dan moaned, and a single tear slid down Phil's face.

But for a moment, for one glorious moment, Dan blinked and his eyes burned hazel and he said, "Phil," He dragged out the l and coughed, a deep, throaty cough. "Ki-kill me….befo-before I…hurt you."

And Phil whimpered, and as soon as he started talking, he couldn't stop "But I love you, Dan, you're better than anybody I've ever met and I can't survive here and-"

Dan blinked and his eyes were black again and he blinked once more and they were normal. He coughed, a horrible cough. "I….love you too. Phil." Another cough. "Phil. Kill….me…I can't-"

And suddenly, his articulate words turned into mush and he groaned and his eyes were like coals, and Phil picked up his shotgun and he knew this was it. If he didn't kill it while it was still confused and drowsy, Dan would bite him quickly.

Phil wasn't sure if becoming a zombie was a bad thing at this point, but Dan told him to. Phil swallowed hard. He told him to. So he grabbed the pistol with a heavy heart and closed up throat and pointed at Dan's head. His hands were shaking and the pistol was too cold and heavy in his hands but suddenly Dan roared and lunged towards Phil and the pistol went off.

There was a loud bang and a splatter of blood and guts and Phil dropped the pistol and staggered away, breathing hard.

Dan was gone.

And it was all Phil's fault.