Your name is GAMZEE MAKARA, and you are currently occupied getting blood off your clothes.
You lean back and survey your work. Yeah, no, that shirt's never gonna be the same again. Which is a real motherfucking shame, because you are rapidly running out of clean shirts and it ain't like you can just run to the store and buy replacements. Not that you were ever rich enough to own more than a few shirts at a time, but still.
It's getting pretty motherfucking tiresome, having to fight your way through a crowd of ferals whenever you want to get some groceries. That's what you've decided to call them, ferals, because while most of them aren't the traditional walking-corpse zombies, they clearly aren't human either. They're more like...something in between.
You don't own a radio or a TV, and you haven't been able to leave except for essentials, so you don't know exactly what's going on. You can guess, though. You've seen enough zombie flicks to have a basic idea. Funny, they don't actually seem to be dead. It's more like they're rabid. Occasionally, you manage to sneak up on one during your weekly excursions, and they are often ranting and raving about things only they can see.
Since the sink is already dirty, you decide to take this opportunity to wash out the wounds on your arms. You don't know where you got them all, exactly; it gets pretty motherfucking hectic in the heat of battle. A few look suspiciously like bite marks. You suppose that means you're screwed, but hey, whatever. You haven't seen another person since this whole thing started, and if that's the state of affairs from now on you might well prefer to die.
You glance out your window, at the crowd gathered there. It's mostly composed of the especially far-gone ones. The ones who are still semi-sane generally hide in their own homes, or at least can go look for other prey when they can't get to you - these guys were the first infected and the first to turn, and they are slowly dying from lack of maintenance. Somehow, they still have the energy to make noise, though. Day in and day out, the area outside your house is full of moans and shouted gibberish. You can barely even sleep for the racket.
You need to get out of here.
You motherfucking need to get out of here.
So you load yourself up with every weapon you can find, which is a lot; prior to this you did odd jobs for some people who may not have been entirely law-abiding, and you got in plenty of fights. You pack as much canned food and bottled water into a duffle bag as you can fit, along with the few clothes you have left, and what's left of your pot stash. You doubt you'll be able to use it, but lately the voices in your head have been getting louder and you want to make sure you can drown them out if necessary.
You set out.
You are careful to keep to the alleys and backways, where most don't think to look. You keep your ears open for any signs of danger, and you cover ground as quickly as possible. You have no particular destination in mind; all you can think is out out out and the omnipresent smell of blood is making the wicked whispers in your brain shriek. Your hands shake. You might decide to duck into a building and light up after all.
The voices you're hearing now are unfamiliar, though, and they don't seem to be saying what the voices usually do. One is loud, and ranting about the stupidity of the world and shittiness of life in general, and the other you can barely make out - it's timid, polite, with a vaguely Hispanic accent - something like Karkat, please, we don't know what could be around here, we need to be stealthy.
You poke your head around the corner of a building, hardly breathing. Sure enough, there are two real, flesh-and-blood human beings poking through the dumpster, unless you've finally graduated to visual hallucinations. There is a short boy in a dirty red jacket, with super-pale skin and white hair; despite his companion's warnings he continues his tirade.
Said companion is about the same age, with light brown skin, a dark mohawk that is beginning to flop over sideways, and equally dirty clothes. They look like they've been on the run for a while.
You are not exactly sure what to do now. You can't let them go on without you, but you don't have the faintest idea how to approach them without startling them, and possibly getting blown to bits by one of the guns they carry.
So you opt to follow them. They aren't doing anything very exciting - just poking around the trash, probably looking for supplies. They're avoiding the buildings and main streets, which is smart. It's a little disturbing that the ferals follow the same routes they did before - clinging to the echoes of their old lives, an uncanny reminder that they used to be regular people.
A can clatters somewhere in the warren of buildings. It's nearby. You heighten your senses and do your best to fade into the shadows, a trick you learned during the days when you lived on these streets. You can see that the two men noticed too, but they aren't as used to this as you and they panic, trying to run from the source of the noise - which of course only draws attention to them.
It's a pack of three or four, slinking towards their prey like feral cats. They're some of the ones who can still function, can still remember to eat and bathe and sleep, so they're in relatively good condition. Shit. That's going to make this a whole lot harder.
You draw one of your knives, long and deadly-sharp, the one you like to use in close-combat situations. A gun would probably only draw more of them. You lope towards the pack; their backs are to you and they haven't noticed you yet. They are more focused on the pale boy, whom one of them has managed to grab onto. The other boy is drawing his gun, but it's obvious he doesn't have the knowledge or the will to use it properly. You're going to have to make this quick.
You knife the first one in the lungs, then twist the blade, and he goes down instantly. His compatriots turn to you, snarling, and one makes a lunge at you, grabbing onto your coat. You kick her off and slit her throat in one economical motion. Another has managed to get behind you, his arms around your neck, but you slam your head backwards and successfully dislodge him before opening him from jaw to collarbone. The third is larger, more fit, and he actually manages to strike a crushing blow to your ribs. While you're distracted he grabs your arm, sinking his teeth into it until you swear you hear bone crunch, and holy fuck that hurts and you're distantly wondering if this might be the last fight you lose - but then there's a sick, meaty thud, and he slowly topples over sideways, his head dented in by the metal pipe in the albino boy's trembling hands.
You stare at each other for a moment. His crimson-red eyes are wide and horrified - he's clearly never had to do this before, and you are sorry to be the reason for his first kill. You feel you should speak.
"Thanks." You really ought to say something other than that, but you're losing a lot of blood and it's hard to think of anything.
He huffs. "Why are you thanking me? You're the one who took those most of those assholes down." He looks you over, scowling. "Fuck, you're hurt pretty bad, aren't you?"
"Yeah." Your wrist sends a wave of pain through your arm and you grimace. "I think he broke a rib or two, and maybe my wrist. Took a pretty big chunk out of my arm, too."
The pale boy hisses through his teeth. "Fuuuuck. Okay. Tavros, do you know anything about medicine?"
The other boy - Tavros - gnaws on his lip worriedly. "Um, no, not really. Kanaya or Equius might, but they're still back with the others."
He brightens slightly. "But, I do know, how to bandage a wound, from when I used to go camping with my dad. So, I should be able to do something, about that bite."
His companion rubs at his eyes. "Alright. I guess just patch him up as best you can, and we'll get him back to camp, see if one of the others can do anything."
As Tavros - who, you can't help but notice, is very cute - does his best to stop your bleeding, you inform your other new friend that you didn't catch his name.
"Karkat Vantas. And you would be?"
"Gamzee Makara."
"Well, pleased to fucking meet you, Gamzee. Thanks for saving our asses."
As soon as you can get to your feet, the three of you cautiously begin heading back to their camp.
