Previously: Arthur decides to kill himself rather than die at the hands of the undead.
Thread One: Part Two
Arthur
Arthur pulled the trigger.
The gun clicked uselessly.
The dead man strode forward, arms outstretched, mouth widening. Ten steps away. Now nine.
Cold panic shot up Arthur's spine. He pulled the trigger again but still no bullet took him out of this hell. The man lumbered forwards, seconds away.
Shit, what if it had jammed? That happened, right? At least it did on the telly but he wasn't a cop, or a soldier, or even a goddamn gangster and he had no idea how to fix the problem. No idea and now there was only three steps between them, three steps before the dead man was going to tear into his neck just like it had done his brother.
Arthur pushed backwards on the chair, wincing as it scraped along the floor. He heaved himself up and a cry of pain escaped his lips the moment he moved his leg.
The dead man lunged forward. His hands brushed Arthur's dirty shirt and – reacting on the instinct that had saved him a few broken noses in his teen years – he punched the dead man in the face. For a moment the dead man tilted off balance, but then he was back on this feet and throwing himself at Arthur.
They hit the floor. Hands snagged in his hair, jaws snapped in his face. Arthur used all his strength to maintain the few inches of distance between them. Up this close the pungent scent of decay clogged his throat and made his eyes water. Arthur turned his head to gasp for fresher air. His gaze landed on the gun and he wanted to laugh, or cry, when he understood the reason for the gun's earlier failure to shoot.
Instead he manoeuvred his left elbow to the dead man's throat to hold off gnashing teeth, and used his right to fumble for the gun. Arthur flinched as drool landed on his cheek but his hand curled around the grip.
With his thumb he flicked the safety off and shot the man in the head.
Blood spurted against the underside of the counter as the man flopped on top of him.
Ears still ringing, Arthur inhaled a shaky breath before he tossed the body aside. He wiped the drool off his cheek and hoisted himself up, the pain in his leg returning full force as the adrenaline fled his system.
He avoided looking at the body, avoided thinking about the way his wet shirt clung to his skin, avoided listening to the voice in his head that whispered how easily he had put a bullet in that man's brain.
Instead he lifted his gaze to the window and found the dead making their way to the pharmacy.
Without thinking, Arthur retied the rag tight around his injured thigh and hobbled to the back exit. He shifted the table out of the way, which took more effort than it should, and held his ear to the door. When there was no telltale sign of groaning or scraping fingers, Arthur cracked the door open and peered into the alley. From his position he couldn't see any of them, though he supposed there had to be at least a few lurking out of his sight range.
The pharmacy window smashed and loud moans filled the shop. Arthur didn't spare a glance as he slipped into the alley and softly pulled the door shut behind him.
Dead men shambled down the main road, passing the alley opening without pause. Down the opposite end roamed two women and a child.
Arthur moved the gun to his left hand – determined to shoot only if absolutely necessary – while he scoured the debris for a weapon. Midway between him and the child lay a jagged piece of metal.
There was no way he could get to it without them noticing. Even if he clung to walls and moved at a snail's pace they would sniff him out before he got close enough. And it wasn't like he could run, not with his injury, but staying hidden in the doorway wasn't exactly an option either.
Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. Images of shooting that dead man in the pharmacy, of people attacking each other in the street, of his brother's hands reaching out for help...
He ground the heel of his palms into his eyes. Christ he needed sleep. And food. And more than a few sips of water.
Arthur opened tired eyes and located the piece of metal. No time like the present.
He pushed himself off the door and travelled along the wall, his movements jerky, probably not too unlike the dead, he thought wryly. The women wandered in loose circles but the boy stood in place, head bowed, arms dangling by his side.
Arthur had crossed a quarter of the distance. His leg throbbed and every step brought fresh pain. Still he clenched his teeth and limped on, even when the wound reopened.
The dead boy lifted his head. The skin around his mouth had been ripped away exposing all his teeth while half of his cheek hung from his face. He sniffed the air and his pale eyes latched onto Arthur, to the blood leaking down his leg.
Arthur's gaze flicked from the boy to the metal. He was closer but he knew the boy would be faster. But maybe not fast enough.
Arthur veered from the wall and did a half-jog, half-hop jig towards the metal. The boy growled, then lunged forwards. His pace was quick but unsteady, reminiscent of Arthur's drunken walks home from the pub.
It was a pitiful race, pitiful but terrifying. The boy was coming his way and behind him the two women were taking notice of the sudden movement. Arthur feared turning around and finding all those passing by the mouth of the alley were coming after him too.
With laboured breathing, sweat dripping down his spine and his leg throbbing, Arthur struggled onwards, struggled until the piece of metal was within grasp.
The boy dove at him as Arthur dove on the metal. His leg gave out and he fell to the hard ground but the impact didn't register because his hand was on the metal and the boy was reaching for his face and the women were close behind.
Arthur impaled the boy on the metal; through his throat and up into his skull. The boy dropped to his knees, gravity bringing him further down the weapon. It was gruesome and hideous and made a thousand times worse when the boy's face flickered for a split second into Peter and Arthur almost gagged.
But he couldn't because the women were nearly on him.
Arthur freed the metal and used it as a cane to push himself up. The woman in a floaty dress reached him first. As soon as she within reach Arthur drove the weapon through her eye socket. He pulled the metal out, suddenly aware of how it was slick with blood, before he swung it in an arc and into the second woman.
She fell to the side and brought the embedded piece of metal with her. Arthur wiped wet hands on the back of his trousers, careful not to bring them anywhere near his wound, before the unmistakable sounds of groaning drew his attention.
Behind him half a dozen of the dead were heading his way from the main street.
Arthur picked up his gun and retrieved the metal and hauled himself down the opposite end of the alley.
In thirty seconds he was passing through the gap in the chain link fence and turning onto a small side street. A quick sweep of his surroundings revealed half a dozen sat in a circle, stuffing their mouths with bloody guts.
Was it Cillian?
But no, of course, that didn't make sense; Cillian had been dead for days. They would have stripped him down long ago.
Arthur shook his head of thoughts and tried to figure out a new hiding space, or maybe an escape route. Was there even a way out of the city?
There had been too many bodies at first, too many people fleeing the city in all directions until it had been impossible not to get crushed or ran over or bitten by those already infected. They'd been caught up in that panic, desperately clinging to one another until they had to turn away when the dead began feasting and soldiers began shooting.
It had been so unbelievably loud with so much shouting and screaming and crying, so loud even without the gunshots and the breaking glass and the car crashes and the snapping of bones.
And now, now there was silence, a ghost town to the nightmare of two days past.
Arthur didn't know if that was better or worse. He supposed though, that there was no more soldiers at roadblocks, no more people clogging up the streets and that, if he got a car he might be able to get out.
Or maybe a motorbike?
Arthur stared at it, parked neatly beside a meter as if waiting for its owner to return.
The motorbike would be able to sneak through the gridlocked roads. It would be loud but it would be quick. It would be more dangerous than a car but a car would be dangerous if trapped in a blocked road.
Satisfied that the dead were still enjoying their latest victim, Arthur hobbled to the bike. There were no keys but he hadn't been expecting them. With some difficulty, Arthur awkwardly managed to clamber into the seat. Recalling his recent years of delinquency, Arthur set to work hotwiring it, just as he done when he was sixteen and had taken Sibhion's motorbike for a joyride. She'd belted him when he'd returned home at three in the morning, and then Alistair had taken his shot, but Cillian had patted Arthur on the back with a grin because he and Sibhion were in an argument and he wanted to piss her off. Then Dylan had come downstairs and told them to shut up whilst Peter slept blissfully unaware in his bed.
The moment of nostalgia was cut short by the sudden movement to his right.
Arthur snatched the piece of metal balanced on his knees and shoved it towards the face of an Asian kid. A living kid. A living kid who also had a knife pointed at Arthur and a small horde of the dead following in his wake.
"Get off my bike or I'll kill you," the kid said, his voice strained.
"Finders keepers."
The kid stared at him and Arthur stared right back, purposefully not looking at the dead creeping their way.
"Do you want to die?"
"Do you think I'll live if I get off this bike?"
The kid's gaze fell to Arthur's back at which point Arthur remembered the fucking gun sticking out of his waist band and how much better it would have been to threaten the kid with that rather than the metal.
"I'm with a doctor," the kid said as his gaze travelled to Arthur's injured thigh, "and we have medicine. Move over and I'll take you to him."
The dead loomed ever closer.
Arthur shifted back in the seat. "Deal."
The kid was leaping onto the bike, twisting a key in the ignition and driving away from the horde in a dizzying speed.
Arthur clung onto the kid's backpack for dear life as they raced down the streets, weaving in and out of the lunging dead until they reached the outskirts of the city and headed into a deserted suburbia. The kid stopped the bike and stood up. "We walk the rest of the way."
"Easier said than done," Arthur murmured as he stood up.
The kid glanced at his bloody thigh as they walked the bike down the quiet streets. "How did it happen?" he asked, the underlying 'were you bitten?' went unsaid.
"Broken glass," Arthur answered. "Back when people were looting, someone smashed a window and I got pushed into the frame."
"It looks bad."
"It feels bad."
As they trailed down the street, Arthur noticed the kid peeking at the gun still tucked away in his belt. Arthur guessed it was the only reason why the kid hadn't jumped on the bike and fled.
"What's your name?" Arthur asked, if only to distract him.
The kid seemed to turn the question over in his mind before he answered with, "Li."
"Arthur. I'd shake your hand but I'm covered in blood."
Li nodded, his face passive but his gaze darting over the gun, over Arthur's blood stained shirt and hands, and over his injury.
"Is there a doctor?" Arthur asked. "Or was that a tactic to get me to move over?"
"There's a doctor."
Relief flooded his system.
They walked down the street at a relaxed pace and Arthur took the opportunity to look at the kid. On closer inspection he guessed the kid wasn't so much a kid but a young adult, maybe late teens, but it was hard to tell with Li's short height and the smudged dirt on his face. Choppy dark brown hair framed a stoic face and clothes that were at least two sizes too big emphasised his slim frame. Above brown eyes were thick eyebrows that wouldn't look out of place on a Kirkland.
Li peered his way, those dark eyebrows lowering a fraction into what might be considered a frown. "What?" he asked.
Arthur shook his head but Li remained staring at him.
"Where are the dead, the living dead I mean?" Arthur asked, again to distract Li more than anything. "This neighbourhood is surprisingly quiet."
"They're at the hospital. Lots of bodies there for them to... eat."
"Oh," was all Arthur could think to add.
"How did you get that blood on you?" Li asked.
"From killing them."
"Have you killed any of us?"
Arthur shook his head. He hadn't and for that he was grateful.
From the brief nod his way, Li appeared to take his word, or maybe it was a ruse to lower Arthur's guard. Or maybe Arthur was pessimistic.
After a few more minutes of painful walking, Li turned into a driveway and parked his motorbike before leading Arthur into the house.
Almost immediately, a voice called out from the depths and light footsteps sounded their way.
"Li! Li are you alright? Were you hur-"
The man came into view and froze when he found Arthur. He was Asian too, a little taller than Li with longer hair but thinner eyebrows. He glared at Arthur. "Who are you?" he spat out before turning his anger onto Li. "Who is he? Why did you bring him here?"
Li shrugged. "I had to."
"What kind of answer is that?"
When Arthur leant against the wall to alleviate the weight off his injured leg, the man saw the gun still tucked away.
"Did he threaten you?" the man asked and grabbed the nearest object – a lamp – and brandished it in Arthur's direction. "Did he hurt you?"
"He tied to steal my bike," Li answered, sounding bored.
"So you brought him here?"
"I didn't have much choice, not with the zombies chasing me."
"I told you not to call them that." The man frowned when he saw the rag around Arthur's thigh. "Are you bitten? Are you infected?"
"No, just unlucky. Or lucky depending on the way you look at it," Arthur said with a harsh laugh.
The man lowered the lamp and tilted his head as if assessing Arthur. "When was the last time you slept or ate?"
"A day or two, I think."
The man shook his head. "Li fetch some water for..."
"Arthur."
"...for Arthur and put the kettle on."
"A cup of tea?" Arthur asked, momentarily delighted as he allowed the doctor to lead him into the living room and onto the couch.
"To sterilise water so I can clean your wound, idiot," the doctor said.
"Well, I'd still love a cuppa if you could."
"No milk," Li said as he returned with a glass of water.
Arthur accepted it eagerly and downed the contents in seconds, almost moaning as the cool liquid soothed his parched throat.
Li took the empty glass and disappeared once more as the doctor pushed Arthur onto the sofa. Arthur wiggled an arm under his back to retrieve the gun digging into his spine and handed it to the doctor. He held it with distaste and moved it to a side table with great delicacy.
As he lay back on the soft cushions, a wave of exhaustion rolled over Arthur and his eyelids lowered.
Before he passed out, Arthur remembered the gun and that he was supposed to have used it on himself.
Characters: Cillian = Northern Ireland; Siobhan = Republic of Ireland; Alistair = Scotland; Dylan = Wales; Xiao Chun Li = Hong Kong
A/N: So yeah, Arthur's alive... sorry for the misdirection. I actually planned to end the first chapter on a cliffhanger with Arthur about to be killed by the zombie but then his committing suicide came to me and seemed a perfect ending. Sorry if it feels like a cop out but I never planned to kill Arthur off, at least not this early in the game.
Thanks to Capricarin for commenting on all the previous chapters and to those who favourited and followed!
