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"What the hell are you doing in here?" The voice repeats.

Olivia pulls the towel tighter over her and watches with Peter as the man's face comes into focus through threshold of the door, parting through the steam

It's a man's voice, older and halfway strangled when he pushes through the door for Olivia and Peter to see he's not an immediate threat. Short and stocky, the buttons on his dark flannelled shirt pulling tight over his chest in a way that Olivia's sure it wasn't originally his. He's gripping his left arm as blood seeps tellingly through his fingers.

"I've got a gun." The man says, almost as an afterthought. They both can see his hands are empty, the sheen of sweat on round face dripping.

"We're not here to hurt you." Peter says as calmly as he can manage through the hammering of his heart. He's got one hand outstretched in front of them, knowing better to air on caution.

"Are you one of them?" They're asked, the terrified voice trying to sound unimpressively dangerous.

"One of whom?" Olivia asks. Even without looking at her Peter knows she's thinking back to where they left the pipe.

"The bastards who keeps pillaging the whole goddamned state." The man's eyes are wide, bloodshot and just a little too crazy for Peter's comfort. Taking a step back as the man makes his way into the room as a precaution seems prudent.

"Why is the shower still on?" He finally asks, deflated, hobbling into the room.

"We hadn't had a hot shower in ages." Olivia answers, standing firm beside him despite being alost naked. When the man stumbles and flops onto the bed does Olivia treks back to the bathroom. Peter hears the squeal and the water's cut. She disappears behind the closed door and Peter's left alone in the room with the old man that looks about as threatening as Walter.

"You're hurt." Peter states, watching the labored breathing and bleeding arm without making a move in his direction, "I can take a look."

More wheezing, little gasps of pain as the man pushes himself up into a seated position. Peter guesses that he either believes that they aren't resisters or is too hurt to do much about it if they were. So he takes a few tentative steps in his direction, hearing Olivia's entrance from the bathroom behind him.

"You a doctor?" He asks, letting Peter take a step closer but keeping a wary eye on him as he peels the flannel shirt back.

"Not exactly," Peter tells him scathingly. The gash is deep, really deep. It pools black over the torn skin, stretched tight and white at the edges. It's already infected. "Cops." Peter abridges, when he's given a tight scowl.

"Cops." The man repeats, taking in their clothing and looking thoroughly unconvinced.

"FBI," Olivia amends, "Or used to be." Peter cuts a gaze through her that she ignores.

The guy's lips pull, nodding approvingly.

"So you know what those things are. That caused all this." The tone is firm, Peter freezes. He looks to Olivia for an answer.

"Yes." Olivia starts cryptically.

"So what they're saying is right? That this is a zombie apocalypse."

"Who's saying that?" Peter sidesteps.

"They're not zombies." Olivia's voice leaves no room for argument.

"What's your name?" Peter interjects, prodding a little around the edges of the gash.

The squat man twists his head to face Peter, his face sickly pale. He deliberates for a minute before answering, as Olivia hands him the small kit of their medical supplies. Her face grim looking.

"Norman. It's Norman." he answers as his chest erupts into wet coughs.

"Well Norman," Peter's face scrounges up as he catches a glimpse of white through the worst of the wound, "You're going to need stitches."

"Don't bother." Norman clips.

"What were you doing out there, in all that?" Olivia asks.

"What are you two doing in here?" Norman retorts. Peter and Olivia share a conspiratorial look.

"My wife's out there." Norman answers without waiting, his breath coming in great draws, sucking thin through his throat. Peter's pouring what's left of their alcohol into the wound, causing an electric hiss to erupt and another stretch of hacking as Norman doubles over, smothering a hand over his cough.

"She's out there?" Olivia asks, shocked. She inches around to sit rigid the leather chair, elbows against knees as she leans, keeping a keen eye on the man as he hisses against Peter's fingers.

Norman doesn't respond; both eyes squeezed shut as Peter takes out some gauze to wrap around the meaty part of the wound. Peter can see the loss washing through the older man's features. He recognizes it.

His words are low, intimate, like he was talking to an old friend.

"She's changed, isn't she?" He asks without it really being a question and Norman sputters a little. Olivia looks at Peter with wide eyes, finding his clear blue ones.

"She's one of them?" She asks, horrified. "And you're what? Visiting her?" Her incredulous tone garners a hard stare from Peter.

Norman fades a little against Peter, his sweaty brow angry. "She's my wife." He tells her and Olivia grimaces. He twists his head back to Peter as the last of the gauze is tied together. "That's fine, thank you." Peter nods and stands, but something he sees freezes him for a full second.

"How long?" Olivia asks, noticing Peter's face whiten.

More hacking. Norman sputters blood that he catches in his hand, some escaping to dribble down his chin. She stands, concerned.

"Almost two months."

Olivia stretches her arms over her head to smooth back the wet wavy strands off her forehead, Norman raising his voice to continue over her. "She's trapped in the basement of our home. I go to make sure she's okay."

"Okay," Olivia mumbles under her breath, turning away from them as Peter snaps her name on his lips as a warning.

"This is our bookstore, our life together. Our retirement." Norman rumbles, breathing hot. He pulls his lips up into a smile, like he's remembering something pleasant, his teeth stained in rust. "Guess it just came earlier than we thought."

Olivia's about to snarl back before being cut back by Peter's voice, "Did you visit her today? Is that how you got injured?" It's strangely calm, completely in control. Olivia knows that something's terribly wrong.

Norman's eyes swivel to look at to him, his breathing short. The jerking movements tumble off his chest like a hummingbird's trapped inside. He's waxy looking, the skin slick. Peter extends a hand to the tattered collar of John's shirt, pulling it down his neck to reveal the chunk of skin that's missing. Peter goes a little grey.

"Oh, god." Olivia breathes. She doesn't have to see it; she has all the confirmation she needs from Peter's cautiously terrified face, taking backward strides into Olivia. Norman's neck jerks violently to one side and there's a cracking noise that makes Olivia's stomach heave. He lets out a whoosh like all air's been punches out of his lungs.

"We've gotta get the hell out of here." Peter's voice is low, the pale face of the man they just met going smooth, his eyes rolling back. There's the ticking of time passing from the old clock hanging on the wall and neither of them move, watching cautiously and hardly breathing.

She doesn't answer, taking cautious steps toward the body. Peter's tearing around the place, picking up anything that looks useful and tossing it in the bag. There's a crowbar nestled neatly in the corner and he grabs it.

"Olivia, it's time to go." He spats, balancing the crowbar in his palm before adding it to the bag and zipping it to toss around his shoulders. He stops short when he notices Olivia's a foot away from Norman's slumped body, her head cocked. Peter's blood boils in his skin—he takes two steps in her direction before the sucking sound splits the soundless room.

Norman's eyes flicker open and the air melts a little around them. Olivia's rooted as Norman's body jerks, skin rippling under his clothing. Olivia watches the transformation with an air of interest as she locks on as his pupils are blown wide open into the muted black, flat and lifeless and unseeing. There's the same horrible gurgling sound as lips pull back over teeth.

"Olivia-" Peter's about to shout at her to get back but she moves faster than he could recognize, the glint of the pipe shining as it's lifted high over her squared shoulders. He misses the downswing but he hears it, the wet thud of cracking bone as the pipe disappears and Peter's left to stare opened mouthed and horrified.

The former form of Norman the book-keep jerks backward, half his face obscured by the impact of the blunt force trauma, hissing angrily as Olivia's already lining up like she's handling a Louisville Slugger rather than a lead pipe and swings. Blood explodes as Norman's jaw is nearly disconnected, spraying the walls, the books, everything. Peter jerks back from the blood, his own voice tight when he manages to speak.

"Jesus Christ, Olivia." He yelps, grabbing her elbow as she rears up for another blow.

"He's one of them now," her face calm, eyes cold. She could be talking about the goddamned weather her temperament is so even. It sends a shiver over Peter's skin. She catches Peter's gaze and shakes his arm off when the corpse sputters and the nearly headless Norman tries to pull himself back upright. Olivia drops the pipe again. There's another sickening crunch and he moves no more.

She holds for a moment, hands covered in Norman's blood, saturating the fibers her coat, trapped under her nails. When she turns to face Peter again there are little droplets of blood spattered against her cheeks. Air is rattling through her chest but her hands are deathly still. Peter reaches out to her face, touching a spot on her cheek with a soft curl of his knuckle. She jerks away. His hand drops.

Wordlessly, Peter opens his hand to her, not asking but not giving her a chance to say no, either. She averts her eyes momentarily before handing over the pipe. The cold look has changed, morphed on her features and all she looks is tired. She shoves past him into the bathroom, closing it behind her—closing Peter out—and he's left standing in the spot where Olivia was moments ago, holding the bloody pipe in hand, the rush of water sounding and wishing desperately for a shower to wash away what he just witnessed.