Note: Sorry if this is late, but, you see, I just HAD to rewrite this. I just HAD to! I did research and everything for this chapter! Hopefully, it comes out well.
To anyone who has read the Stupid and Sucky Original until my recent update (chapter 23), then I would just like to inform you that I have changed the cyberspace chats to phone calls, 'cos spacing, italicizing, bolding, and etcetera-ing the chat messages are becoming tiring, so yeah.
And, like,wow. This is, like,5 pages longer than the Original Chapter 7... ...Wow.
Right, so...sylar1610, evergirlin, GabrielReid, WillowGray, Isabella97, Woodrow Graham Kenobi-Rimmer, jayden, Hanane, fbdarkangel, andanneryn7:THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR REVIEWING TO MY CHAPTERS!:3
_:("):_
By next week, on Wednesday night, Claire stared blankly at the computer screen, finishing up her Physics report. Just when she was about to type in her conclusion, her phone rang. She glanced at the Caller ID.
Sylar.
She took a few seconds before answering.
"Hello?"
"Hey," Sylar's voice greeted her.
"What's up?"
"Nothing much. Except maybe for the fact that Crash told me to call you."
She sighed. "Still following her advice?"
He sighed, too. "Yeah. But I can't help it."
"Why not?" She frowned.
"I already told you. She gave me some... useful information. And every time she talks to me—in a dream, of course (apparently, she can't talk face-to-face with me)—she... impliessome... things."
Her frown deepened. "What kind of things?"
"Things that are of no interestto nosy ex-cheerleaders like you," he growled.
She cocked an amused eyebrow, "Oh really?"
"Yes."
"How can you be so sure?"
"I just am."
"C'mon!"
He sighed again. "Crash knows something about my father. ...My realfather."
She blinked. "...Oh." She lowered her head, her eyes fixed on the computer screen but not really seeing the words on it. "I know how that feels..."
"Oh really?" She could picture him raising an eyebrow at that.
"Yeah, of course." She frowned.
"I thought Noah didn't know a thing about your parents."
"Well, yeah, but—"
"See?"
She sighed. "Okay, fine. Never mind." She was silent, and so was he. "So..." she began after a few more seconds, "what did Crash say we should talk about?"
"She didn't say." She could almost see him shrug.
"...Maybe we should talk about this... hunger thing? What is the 'Hunger' anyway?" she added curiously, frowning.
"Well, the Hunger came with my original ability to understand how things work. The Hunger is something I can't really control. ...It makes me want more abilities by taking the abilities of other special people."
"By digging and poking through their brains?" she scowled.
"Examining, actually."
"Mm-hmm..." She frowned thoughtfully. "How does it feel like? The Hunger, I mean...? It shouldn't be so bad, right?"
He snorted. "'Shouldn't be so bad?' Yeah right."
"Oh please. I'm betting it just feels like starvation."
"It's not," he said gruffly.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes." He sounded angry, but regained his composure with a sigh, "Picture this: You're in a door-less, windowless room and you're parched. Soparched that your throat feels like its burning and your tonsils feel dried-up. And then, suddenly, you see water coming out everywhere, but you knowthat you can't touch them, because they're off-limits. Picking up a bit of that water and drinking it down is a sin.So what would youdo, Claire?" he growled. "If you knowthat you can't takethat little ability, but you're just so goddamn thirstythat you can't help it?"
She was silent.
"I'm sorry." She meant it. "I didn't know..."
"Of course you didn't!" he scoffed. "Who would?"
She bit her lip, and changed the touchysubject, "So, um... how do you suppose I could help you control it?"
He took a calming breath, "I don't know."
She paused to think. And then, like a freight train, it hit her, emerald orbs widening. "Hey. Why don't we start tomorrow?"
She could picture him frowning. "Um... Alright..."
"Great!" She grinned. "Bridge at five PM?"
"...Ok, sure."
"See you then!"
"Uh, okay... You, too." He was about to hang up when...
"Hey, um..."
"Yes?"
"Can you bring a gun tomorrow?"
She could picture him frown. "Why...?"
"Just bring one. Please?"
"Uh... All right then..."
"Great! See you!"
"Yeah, you, too," he bade before hanging up. (Who wouldn't be freaked out with a suddenly bubbly mood after having a little senti-moment?)
_:("):_
The next day was a cloudy Thursday.
The school bell's rings echoed "FREEDOM" throughout the halls.
"Class dismissed. See you tomorrow," Prof. Crane announced and gathered his things. He spotted Claire walking out of the classroom, slinging her bag onto her shoulder. He walked up beside her. "I noticed that you weren't dozing off anymore, Claire. No more nightmares?"
"No, sir," Claire looked up at him, smiling. "No more nightmares." She huffed. "Well, see you tomorrow, Professor," she bade and strode to her car.
"See you," he returned and walked towards his own car.
Claire turned on the engine and drove to the Bridge. When she had arrived, it was four minutes past five. She spotted Sylar sitting in the middle of the bridge, in the same position he was in the last time they met up there. She walked over to him.
"Sorry, I'm late," she apologized, tucking a few golden strands behind her ear.
"It's okay." He stood. "I didn't mind." She glanced over his shoulder, and noticed a long black bag slung on his back. He shrugged his shoulder, making the bag disappear out of sight.
"What was that?" she inquired curiously.
"The gun," he answered, then cleared his throat, "So, why did you tell me to bring one?" he asked, frowning.
She drew out a red folder from her messenger bag and gave it to him. He flipped it open. "There's a necromancer named Xander Shawntley living somewhere in the forest."
"So that explains it," he said more to himself, and handed her the folder back.
She took it from him and slipped it back in her bag, then asked coolly, "So, what kind of—?"
He spoke over her, asking, "How farther up is he?"
She paused, then answered, "Just... farther along. Won't be somewhere in too deep, though." A smirk grew on her face, "Why? You scared?"
He rolled his eyes, "As if I'd be afraid of the forest," and started walking off, away from the clump of bushes hiding the old abandoned inn from view, his unbuttoned long, black trench coat billowing behind him.
She started to jog after him, since his strides covered big distances. "It's not like you've ever beenin one, anyway."
"Well, neither have you." She shut up. "And, for your information, I happened to be somewhere deep within the woods south from the border after Hiro Nakamura stabbed me."
She raised her eyes at him, eyebrow quirked up curiously, "You were south of the border?"
He nodded.
"How come?" she prodded.
"I was brought there. ...After eight surgeries... It's amazing I still survived."
"Well, you are hard to get rid of," she muttered. From his raised eyebrow, he had heard her. She just rolled her eyes. He chuckled, and then the rest of way was silent.
A few more minutes later, they arrived at an iron fence, horned at the top-ends. Both of them frowned. "That's weird." Claire remarked, poking the top of one horned bar with the pad of her index finger. "The picture of his house didn't have a fence like thisin it."
"The one with the garden in it, you mean? A cream-colored two-story surrounded by trees?" he asked. She nodded. "That was his old one, most probably."
Claire frowned then her eyes widened in realization. "Oh, right..." Sylar raised an eyebrow at her. She looked at him, her index finger still on the horned end. "I remember that I read in his bio that he set a horde of zombies loose in his neighborhood. He killed a lot of people then." She turned away, now fingering the edges of the horned end, and muttered, "Much more than you have."
He chuckled at this. "What, you thought I was the worst murderer ever?"
She thought about it for a few seconds before finally admitting, "Something like that..." and hesitated before adding, "I really thought you were the worst serial killer ever. Killing more than—"
"I'm not a serial killer," he suddenly interjected.
She looked over at him curiously, an eyebrow raised. "You have a pattern," she pointed out. "You go after specific victims, you collect mementos..."
"Okay, technicallyI am a serial killer," he ground out.
She smirked, "Told ya," and diverted her attention back to the fence. She had never seen a cemetery fence before. Heck, every cemetery she's seen didn't haveany! "Hmm..." She ran her fingers along the bars.
"Shouldn't we go in and get this over with already?" he suddenly said.
She jerked her hand away from the fence and stared at him, suddenly confused as to how she had gotten here. "Oh," she finally said after remembering. "Right." He rolled his eyes, turned away, and strode off to find the gate. She took another look through the iron fence, then started to jog after him.
The gate wasn't that far off. It was in front of a huge clump of trees, and there seemed to be no way to be able to find it if one were to go through the trees. Sylar started to push the iron gate open, but found it to be locked. Claire had walked over to his side, then she caught something out of the corner of her eye. She looked over to the cement bungalow, where on the front was a wooden door—which had a hole on the center of the left-hand side for a doorknob—and a single window on the left side of the door.
Claire blinked, then squinted, but saw that there was nothing in the window, which was actually just a small square hole. Huh. That's weird. For a second I thought that there was someone—or something—looking out from it... Oh well.
She turned back to the gate and saw that Sylar made to reach through the bars of gate, but she stopped him by offering, "I'll do it." He looked at her, one eyebrow raised. "It'd be better if he saw me first. I am more friendly-looking than you are. And, well... Introductions, you know?" He gazed at her for a few seconds and she stared back, just noticing when the sun shone on his eyes that they were actually dark brown and not black. Or was it just her imagination? Finally, he dropped his hand, but he was still staring into her eyes.
Forcing herself to look away, she walked over to the gate and reached through the bars to lift the lock.
Claire shrieked and Sylar instantly lit up one hand with Elle's electric ability, while the other hand grabbed her elbow and pulled her toward him. She slumped back into him, clutching the front of his shirt, her face pale, her green eyes wide, and her whole body trembling with shock and fright.
A ghostly skeleton hand had grabbed her wrist when she had put her hand through the bars. Its bone was decaying and some ripped parts of clothing and sickly-white flesh hung onto the bones. The hand had fell, limp onto the ground when she had pried it off with Sylar's help. When it had, its fingers waved in the air like a spider's legs when it's upside-down. It rolled onto its palm and stood up on its spider leg-like fingers.
"Oh shit," Sylar muttered, eyes widening.
Another hand had suddenly shot up from a nearby grave, this one just as rotten, skeletal, and skin-clung as the first. The arm bent to dig its fingers into the earth in front of it, then pushed down with all its might. Slowly, a decaying, bone-white, worm-infested skull-head with one eye rolling in one socket rose up from the ground. Next, rose out its skeletal torso that had ripped bits of clothing clinging unto it, a pair of legs with torn pants, and skeletal feet. The zombie was looking at them murderously as it rose from the ground and attached its hand back to its right wrist. It slowly half-limped, half-trudged towards the gate even as two more zombies rose from graves nearest the gate.
"Holy hell..."
"Umm... I think we should... You know, tellhim that we mean no harm and such...?" Claire suggested shakily, her grip on his shirt tightening by the second.
He rolled his eyes, "Riiight. Like a ball of electricity says 'we come in peace,'" he pointed out, sarcasm dripping in his tone.
"Well you could just put it off!" she half-screamed.
"I can't!" He glared down at her.
"Why not?" She glared back.
"Because, Claire, what if they climbed over the fence?" Claire froze, wide-eyed with shock. He was right.
She glared at him again and shrieked when more zombies rose from their graves near the fence. "Sylar... dosomething!" she pleaded, eyes widening with fear. She could survive bullets, fires, and falls, sure. But zombies?
"You're not welcome here," a low male voice hissed in the distance.
"I'm looking for someone named Xander Shawntley. Are you there?" Sylar called out.
"You're not welcome here..." the voice hissed again.
"P-please, sir. W-we just... we just want to talk!" Claire begged.
"Liar!"
"No really!" Sylar called again before extinguishing the electricity in his palms. He lowered his raised hands, with one of them gripping Claire's waist protectively. "Nowcan we talk?"
A hesitation...
"H-how do I know you're not lying...?" The voice became less low, less threatening, less harsh, and more fearful and uncertain.
"Because I hateliars myself, Xander." Sylar told him. "Now would you let us in?"
Another hesitation...
"Alright..." He still seemed unsure, even when his trembling form came out of the house.
He was in his early twenties with dull, brown hair that stuck up everywhere except the front, and a pale, sunken face with bulging dark eyes that had equally dark circles beneath them. The soil and dust on his light brown pants, plain dark brown shirt, and gray vest increased in population when he tripped over his own bare feet, and fell on his face.
Immediately, the zombies nearest him helped him up gently, like a close friend, parent, or sibling would. He spat the dirt off his mouth, gasped a whole-hearted thank-you to the zombies, and continued his shaky stroll towards the gate.
For Claire, it seemed like an eternity for Xander Shawntley to finally reach, unlock, and open the gate. Even when they entered through it, the zombies took less menacing—but still menacing nonetheless—stances. And even as they were led into his house, Sylar never let go of her, and she never loosened her grip. Being the daughter of Noah Bennet, she learned to never let her guard down. Ever. And that included anything to do with Sylar.
But she somehow felt safe under his arm.
She looked up at him. His eyes were sweeping around the graveyard, making sure that not one of the zombies were thinking of attacking them. She let a small smile creep onto her face and rested her head on the side of his chest as they entered the small cement bungalow.
_:("):_
Xander Shawntley is a loner.
Was then, still is, and will always be one.
No one from his school ever visited him whenever he got sick. Nor did any of them give him words of encouragement and strength when it spread around that he was anemic. The only ones who ever did were... well, no one. He never knew any uncles or aunts, or family friends. His dad freaked and panicked when he heard the news that his girlfriend was pregnantbecause of him and went back home to Texas, but his plane crashed from an unexpected storm. His mom was the only one who cared for him, but she, too, left him when she found out about what he was.
It was just an accident... A freak accident of a fifteen-year-old boy's hormones...
He didn't know that he could talk to the dead. He didn't know that when he had told his mother that his dreams of zombies awakening in the middle of the night was because of his ability, she would tell him that his thoughts were just all addled up. He didn't know that she would then call a hospital for the psychologically and mentally unhinged. He didn't know that when he felt the panic rise inside him when the doctors had forced him into a straitjacket and dragged him out the door, his last sight of his mother would be her regretful but determined expression, silent tears streaming down her face. He didn't know that when he hadn't frankly cared, he would have the power to end the life of the only one who ever loved him. He didn't know that when he suddenly wished that the only person who had cared for, loved, and raised him would just die, a horde of zombies would suddenly run from the graveyard between their town and the next to his house and eat the doctors' and his mother's brains and innards. He didn't know that when he thought he would be next in line for a gory and very painful way to die he would be wrong.
He didn't expect the zombies to help him out of his straitjacket through the several times they fumbled at the straps. He didn't expect them to help him up to his feet. He didn't expect the ones nearest him to help him dust himself off. He didn't expect one of them—most presumably the "head" due to the Spanish general uniform he was wearing—to step up to him...
Hrrrrrraaaghh... the head of the horde had said in a gravelly tone. But Xander still understood him; "My name is Juan de la Nova."
"Juan... de la... Nueva...?"he asked shakily. The zombie nodded. "Oh. Um..." For courtesy's sake, he started to introduce himself, "I-I'm Xander—" but Juan raised his hand, indicating him to be silent. He clamped his mouth shut and felt the heat rise in his cheeks.
"We know who you are, Xander Shawntley."
Xander's eyes widened and his jaw opened and closed like a fish out-of-water.
"You called us. We responded. We know who calls us. Your mind tells us about you."Juan answered his unspoken question.
"...Oh."
"Are you alright?"
"Y-yes... Fine, th-thanks..."he said shakily and was surprised to hear coherent English and the same groan-like language come out from his mouth.
"What was wrong?"
"I-I... I told my mother about my ability that... that I could... talk to the dead..."
"She didn't take it well."It wasn't a question.
"N-no..."
Juan looked thoughtful; well, from what Xander could see, it lookedlike it since Juan cocked his head to one side and his eyes rolled around in their sockets, staring up at the ceiling. After a few moments, the zombie finally said, "You're welcome."
Xander was taken aback. Blinking, he said, "Th-thank you, by the way."
Juan put his rotting, flesh-clung skeleton-hand on Xander's shoulder. Xander felt disgusted, but he also found it oddly comforting... "When you need us again,"Juan said to him, "you know what to do."
Numbly, Xander nodded, and the zombies slowly sunk through the tiled floor—as if, phasing through it—and were halfway through disappearing from sight and leaving no trace—except for a strong smell of rotted flesh, soil, and death that hung in the air—of their arrival when they and Xander suddenly heard a commotion coming towards the house. They turned towards the front door and immediately, an ear-piercing scream filled the room.
The neighbors had seen the horde come into the house.
Why wouldn't they? It was only nine o' clock in the evening!
Panicked, Xander looked over at the zombies, who had risen up from the floor and were poised to strike. His eyes widened in realization of what they were about to do.
"No! Don't—don't eat them! Don't hurt them!" Xander begged, but the zombies just stared at him, as if waiting for another, more satisfying order.
While Xander and the zombies were having eye-contact, the neighborhood disappeared and came back again with torches, pitchforks, and guns, screaming incoherently.
Finally, when the neighbors were at the porch, Juan spoke up in English and in Zombie, "Hrrrrrrrrrraaaaarrrgh. If we don't hurt them, they will hurt you. Hrrrarrararrrrgh... You were given this ability so that someone could protect you...Hrraaarrrrrrrrrrarrrgh...We are supposed to protect you..."
At that, the zombies charged at the neighborhood that had assembled at the doorway. Xander kept his back turned from them, tuning out the screams, the wails, the sounds of clothing and flesh being ripped off, the sounds of dying screams...
A sob escaped his throat. He didn't mean to... He never meant to...
The next day, the headline in the evening news was all it took for Xander to get out: "Anneryn Shawntley, 25, was found dead in her house with three doctors fromDamien's Hospital for the Psychologically and Mentally Unhinged; all of them had their brains and organs taken from them. On their porch and doorway, the whole neighborhood's corpses had their brains and organs taken from them as well. No one from the next towns know how they died for it was said to have happened at around nine in the evening. Surprisingly, Anneryn's only child, Xander Shawntley, is still found to be alive. How he survived, no one knows. No one also knows why a strong stench of rotted flesh and soil was in the air of the Shawntley residence."
Xander quickly booked an immediate flight to Costa Verde, California when the news came.
For eight years he has lived in that little cement house he made all by himself. He never knew how easy it was to make cement; everything he needed to make it was in the earth itself. How long it took to make it, he didn't know; but it felt like years. The only other things in his house were a few essential things, most of which he had brought with him from his house—some clothes, a bar of soap (the only thing he buys with all the savings he and his mother had), a cot he had used for camp when he was a kid, his blanket, his two favorite pillows, a cleaver, a chef's knife, a paring knife (which were hung on rusted old nails he had found and hammered in with a rock), and a spear, which he had made himself—and had managed to get the knives past security by telling the guard that they were his uncle's and that said uncle needed them back, for his mother had forgotten to give them back the last time they had stayed, and that he couldn't send them through mail, of course. He didn't even know what day, month, or festivity it was anymore. He didn't care. The only way he knew that it was already eight years was when a blond teenage girl by the name of Claire Bennet asked him "how it was like to live all by himself in a house he made and lived in for eight years?"
This question took him back to the present, since he had been thinking when the last time he had visitors was... He blinked his big, bulging dark eyes. "Wha—oh." He frowned, mentally calculating, dark brown eyes fixed upon the dirt floor beneath him, then looked up, a curious expression on his face, "It's been eight years, you say?"
"Yes, Mr. Shawntley." The girl nodded.
Xander shifted uncomfortably on the dirt floor, not because he was still not used to sitting on the floor but because of the use of the term "Mr. Shawntley" on him was so... alien. "Erm... would you please... notcall me that? ...It's... It's just... Just Xander. ...Alright?"
"Oh. Well... alright, um... Xander."
He nodded vaguely, "Thank you," then averted his eyes back to the dirt floor in front of him.
Silence stretched between them.
"Erm..." Xander suddenly said, still shifting uncomfortably due to the knowledge that he actually had visitors. "So..." His eyes were still fixed on the floor in front of him. "What... why... I've never had... Nobody really..." He swallowed a lump in his throat. "I thought no one knew..." He looked up, his dark eyes had a desperate look to knowin them. "How did you know I was here?"
"We... keep track of most specials," Claire replied.
"How?" Xander frowned.
"Er... We have our ways."
"...Ah."
Silence...
"By... 'most specials'... do you mean that... there are... others? ...Like me?" Xander looked up hopefully.
"Well, not exactly, but, yes."
"You mean someone can talk to the dead, too?" he asked, trying not to sound too excited, but failed.
"Well... we don't really know anyone else who can, but... other people can also... doanother things..." She raised her hand up, palm facing him. He frowned. The other man who came with her, Sigh-la-something-or-other, reached out and enclosed the girl's hand in his. Mere seconds later, Xander gasped, eyes widening, and almost fell onto his back had his arms not supported him; the other man's hand had glowed a bright, eerie orange and when he took his hand off, the glow disappeared slowly like a dying light, and the girl's hand... healed.
"You're..." Xander breathed out, unable to express his joy in words. "You're like me?" He couldn't really believe it.
Claire nodded and withdrew her hand slowly. "Sylar"—she glanced over at the other man (Oh, sothat's his name.)—"can do much more than be radioactive." She looked back at Xander. "He can understand how things work, and... well... he..." She bit her lip, trying to think of the best way to describe her companion's ability. "He... Let's just say he gets his other abilities by that."
"...Oh." Xander slowly sat back up, his brow creased into a frown, his dark eyes boring into Claire's green ones. "So... why did you come here, then?" he asked suspiciously.
"We want to see how your ability works," Claire answered.
"But... you've already seen it, right? ...Earlier? And... he can"—he glanced at Sylar, then looked back at Claire, when he suddenly felt very uncomfortablewhen he looked at the other man—"understand how things work, you say? So... that means he can understand my ability, right? So... you could... leave now... right?" he asked uncertainly, hoping that he didn't sound like he was deliberately kicking them out, or that his eyes didn't look toohopeful.
"Well... yes, but... we just... want to know what you can doexactly," Claire elaborated.
He studied her for a few moments, still frowning, then asked, "Why, though?"
Claire was taken aback. "Why... what?"
"Why are you here? Who sent you?" he asked her more suspiciously, his dark brown eyes narrowing.
"We... we work for a company that... that watches over specials..." she replied uncertainly.
"What kind of company?" His dark eyes narrowed still, boring into hers.
She was unable to tear her eyes away from his. "A... A company that watches over any special whose ability starts to manifest, and... we... we keep track of their progress, and... um... that's it." She hoped her voice wasn't tooshaky.
He didn't respond; his eyes just kept boring scorching holes into her eyes. Finally, he asked, "You're leaving something out."
She blinked. "W-what...?"
"There's something you're not telling me. How do I know I can trust you if you won't tell me everything?" he demanded in a low growl.
"I-I... I already... I told you everything!" she sputtered.
"No. You didn't," he accused, then snapped, "Tell me!"
She flinched at the harshness of his voice and blurted, "They cage the dangerous ones!" She slapped her hand over her mouth once the words flew out of her mouth.
His eyes widened in realization. "...You think I'm dangerous, don't you?" he said, half-terrified, half-accusing.
Her eyes widened as well and she removed her hand from her mouth saying, "No!" She realized she had shouted, causing the zombies nearest the house to peer through the solitary window and through the crack on the door. She blushed, embarrassed, and, in a lower voice, explained, "We don't think you're dangerous. We just want to—"
"Know how my ability works," he snorted, grinning evilly. "Right. As if I would believe that crap again."
"No, really! I swear!" She was close to panic; the situation was getting wayout of hand.
"Fuck it!" he snapped, getting angrier and angrier by the second. He was appalled at himself; he never swore before (well... maybe only that one time when he got reallypissed off at one of his classmates who kept making up stories about him; unfortunately, the teacher had just came into the room when he told said classmate to "go to hell," that he got sent to detention for "using vulgar language"). He got to his feet, fuming, "Do you really expect me to be so gullible?"
Claire's eyes widened, "N-no, no, of course not! Please, Xander, we just want to help—"
He laughed. "Help? Help?" He laughed again. "Yeah, right. I've met people like you before; saying that they just want to help mebut they actually just want to cause me so much pain," he growled, glaring at her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the zombies nearest the house glaring at his visitors as well.
"We're not like them!" She stood up as well, pleading for him to understand. "Please, Xander. We don't think you're dangerous at all!"
"Bullshit!"
"Hhhhrrrrrgh..." one of the zombies growled out.
Xander looked over at them, frowning curiously. "What?"
_:("):_
Sylar had stayed silent over the whole conversation. Even when Xander started cursing. But now...
Sylar frowned thoughtfully at Xander and the zombie at the door who had "growled."
"Hrrgh?" Xander asked. "What?"
Sylar blinked. Interesting...
The wheels in his head started turning. His fingers itched, wanting to rip open the other man's skull to find out how that interestingability worked... How he... ticked, as Sylar likes to say.
But he restrained himself. He tried to decipher what they were saying.
"Hrrrrrrrggghh...?" the zombie asked.
Xander shook his head, "Hrrargh... No."
"'No' what?" Claire asked.
Xander glared at her and she fell silent. He turned his attention back to the zombie, "Hrrrrgh..." he told it; apparently, he "turned off" his English.
"Hrr—" the zombie tried to say, but Xander cut him off, "Hrrargh! Hrrrrrrrrghh..." he told it firmly.
The zombie fell silent.
Xander turned back to a frowning Claire. "None of your business," he hissed, since it was apparent that she wanted to know what his and the zombie's conversation was about.
Claire opened her mouth to say something but closed it again, her eyes downcast. Finally, she said, "I-I'm sorry..."
"Sorry that you came here in the first place since you found out you couldn't lureme to come with you so that you could cageme?" he fumed, causing Claire look up at him again. She opened her mouth to deny it, but Xander wasn't done, "Sorry that you came here just so you could invade my solitude?Sorry"—he spat the word out like a bad taste—"that you came here for nothing? Sorrythat you would go back to whatever hellhole of a companyyou would go back to empty-handed? Sorrythat you wouldn't be able to see how my abilityworked?"
"Xander, please—"
"Go to hell!" he barked.
"Hrrrrrrrggghh...?" the zombie at the door repeated its earlier question.
Xander started breathing heavily, still fuming, but was able to give the zombie one word, both in "zombie" and in English: "Hrgh. Yes."
At that, the zombie at the door stepped back and let a zombie in a Spanish general's uniform inside the house. The Spanish zombie stepped up next to Xander, placing a rotten skeleton-hand on his shoulder, and said to him in accented English, "This is why you should never accept any visitors."
"I know, Juan," Xander told the zombie, almost like he was apologizing.
Juan the zombie's eyeballs rolled in their sockets when he looked up at Xander's visitors. He said in a commanding voice in both "zombie" and accented English: "Hrrrgh. Kill them."
At that, the zombies at the door half-shrieked, half-growled, "HRAAAAAAAAGH!" and crashed into the house, charging at Claire and Sylar.
Claire shrieked and fell back, hitting her back against Sylar, who had just got to his feet. Panic-stricken, she whirled around and desperately grabbed his shirt, burying her face into his chest and preparing herself for the worst, all the while screaming her lungs and vocal cords off. Meanwhile, Sylar had summoned his electricity once more and began to strike the nearest zombies as he dragged Claire with him towards the bed, which was quite far from the door and window, where a few zombies had started to climb into, not at all hurrying unlike the few zombies who had been at the door. The zombies who had climbed through the window would have been leering evilly if they still had lips.
Sylar pushed them back to get some time, as he tried to snap the blonde out of her fright while electrocuting some more zombies who were charging madly at them, "Claire. Claire!" The five last zombies who were at the door had their hair burned off and their eyes, torso, and limbs explode, leaving them armless, legless, blind, and blackened. "Claire! Come back to me!"
By now, Claire had stopped screaming and tears had started to fall down her rosy cheeks, her whole body trembling with fright. She looked up at Sylar, her grip on his shirt tightening. "What...?" she croaked.
"I need to help mehere!" he told her, mentally pushing back the zombies that had come too close to them.
"Wh-what...?"
"Your gun! Do you have a gun?" he asked frantically, electrocuting and pushing back more zombies.
"Y-yes..."
"Take it out! Now!" he barked. He didn't want to be so commanding, but more zombies were advancing towards them, reaching out to claw and bite their fresh food. He glanced at his left, saw three zombies about to tackle them from the air, and turned to face them to watch their electrocution more clearly.
Reluctantly, she let go of Sylar's shirt with one hand and used it to rummage in her bag for her gun. She took out her father's pistol, which she had sneaked out, and started to shoot at a nearby zombie with a surprisingly steady hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one zombie charge at Sylar from out of his peripheral vision and shot it squarely between the eyes, causing it to fall onto its back as she shot at its forehead twice more. Looking to her right, she pushed at a zombie that had grabbed her arm and shot at its solitary eye before shooting at its brain. Six shots,she thought. She looked behind her, let go of Sylar's shirt, and swiftly took out another pistol (which she had also sneaked out from her dad) before squarely shooting at two zombies in the forehead.
Sylar was awed at her precision. He never knew that she had so much practice with any guns. He looked over his shoulder and electrocuted a zombie that had reached for his collar. I guess it was a bad idea to turn my back at the window, he thought to himself, before eyeing the far corner; from there, no zombies would be able to attack them from behind, but they might be suffocated by all the zombies. Dammit, how many zombies are there in this rat hole! He sighed and reached behind him, swiftly taking out the gun he had brought in the long, black bag. His movement caught Claire's eye and she turned around to see what he had in his hand. Her eyes widened in awe.
"You have a shotgun?" she asked in admiration.
He raised an eyebrow at her. "Yeah." He cocked his gun and shot at one of the zombies that had started to charge at him. Its head was blown off, its brain flying out in bits, its eyes ricocheting from the walls, its jaw falling to the floor with its uncontrolled body falling after it.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Xander scream reverberated in Sylar's sensitive ears. Sylar looked at him over the now-advancing zombies' heads; he was staring in wide-eyed despair at the zombies Sylar had electrocuted, the fallen zombies Claire had shot, and the recently headshot zombie. Juan the zombie had his rotted arms wrapped firmly around Xander's waist, holding him back with grief etched on his decayed face.
Claire had shrieked as well. Sylar looked down at her after shooting another couple of zombies in the head. A zombie had wrapped its arms around Claire and started to neck her, though it was doing more biting than suckling, her blood dripping down her red top. Another zombie had raised her forearm and started to bite it off, dripping more blood onto her already-red shoes. She shot at the zombie biting at her neck, then the one at her arm, and they both fell to the floor, bloodless bullet holes on their foreheads and fresh blood dripping from their mouths. Claire wiped off the blood on her neck as she bent her gun-arm over her shoulder to shoot at an impatient screeching zombie that had charged at her from behind before it could reach her. It, too, fell on the floor with its double-dead comrades. Claire raised her eyes to Sylar's who had his eyebrows raised in wonder. She shrugged modestly but was biting down a smile.
Sylar chuckled, before pushing more zombies back with his mind and giving a zombie that had its arms flailing about wildly a headshot. He looked around and mentally counted off the double-dead zombies and the zombies left. Let's see... that's... 28 down, so that's...He consulted his mental calculator. Wow. That's a lot left...He shrugged and gave an approaching zombie a headshot.
"Well, how many are left?" Claire asked as she shot three more zombies in the head. 34
"Including the three you just shot?" Sylar responded, shooting three more zombies and mentally pushing back the others. "And the four I just checked off? 64 left."
"Wow." Claire blinked, then shot another zombie in its forehead. "63. That's a lot."
"I know." He gave a headshot to another approaching zombie. "62."
Claire kicked at one zombie in the stomach while whacking another's head with one pistol, then shot at their heads. "60." She looked over her shoulder at him, "Are we gonna keep counting off the remaining zombies until we reach zero?" she inquired, an eyebrow raised.
Sylar shrugged, smirking, "Probably," and shot the head of two more zombies. "58," he said before quickly reloading. He had just got to reloading 5 bullets when a couple of zombies charged at him. Without looking up, he roughly pushed them back with his mind as he continued to reload. When all 10 bullets were in, he cocked his gun again and shot at the two zombies that had been pushed to the floor with the force of his mental shove. "56," he said and grinned over at Claire, who rolled her eyes but was grinning as well.
A zombie grabbed Sylar by the collar, "Fuck!" he screeched before he got pushed onto the ground by the zombie. It and several more zombies started ripping off one of his beloved button-down shirts and clawing at his abdomen to get at his intestines. His screams of pain and agony reverberated through the whole bungalow, mingling with Xander's grief-stricken wails. And Claire actually complains about not feeling pain!
Roughly, Sylar kicked at the more pain-inflicting zombies and mentally pushed back at the others. He got up when they had fallen to the floor. Unfortunately, they quickly got to their feet again. Sylar groaned in frustration, "Oh, come on! Don't you evergive up?" and shot the head of the zombie that had grabbed his collar and electrocuted the rest.
"48 left," Sylar commented nonchalantly to Claire, looking over at her as he mentally pushed back more zombies. He raised an eyebrow at her expression, "Claire...?"
_:("):_
Claire was staring at Sylar's bloody, healing, but still exposed torso with her mouth slightly open and her eyes wide.
Oh. My.God,she thought, even as two words kept looping around her head: SoHotSoHotSoHotSoHoooooot... She shook her head to will these thoughts away. She looked up at his face and realized that she had been caught. She felt her blood rise in her face. "Sorry," she muttered, thankful that Sylar can't read minds. She looked over her shoulder, ignoring Sylar's smirk, and shot some zombies. "How many did you say were left?"
"48," Sylar repeated, still smirking. He looked over his shoulder and shot at a zombie.
"Make that 43, including yours," Claire told him.
"Forty-two," he said, shooting another zombie's head off.
A zombie had ripped off the back of Claire's shirt; she gasped in surprise, her eyes wide as the front of her top fell to the floor, exposing a hell of a lot of skin and underwear. "Oh crap," she said, then felt a tingling sensation at her back. She looked over her shoulder and found the zombie that had ripped off her shirt to be clawing at her sides and back, but since the clawing motions were consecutive, she couldn't heal. She glared at it and elbowed its head, knocking it down to floor, and shot it between its eye holes. She covered her clothed breasts with her left arm, half-hugging herself. "Forty-one," she heard Sylar say. She looked over at him and saw that his cheeks were a bright shade of red. She felt her cheeks flush as well.
"Forty," she looked at him pointedly, and he looked over at her with a raised eyebrow just as she shot a zombie in the head, still gazing into Sylar's eyes.
He smirked, "Forty," and nodded, ignoring the exposed skin beneath her neck. She smiled.
"Stop! Stop!" Xander commanded, and immediately, the zombies stopped in their tracks and looked back at him, still being held back by Juan. Claire and Sylar looked over the zombies' heads at Xander as well. Tears were streaming down his face and if Juan still had tear ducts, Claire was sure that he would be crying too, only, because he doesn't haveany, it was apparent that he was silently grieving as well. "Stop..." Xander begged, this time to Claire and Sylar, "stop," it came out as a croak, "stop..." he sobbed, and he lowered his head to let his dull, brown hair hide his tear-stained face as more tears strolled down his cheeks.
"We've stopped," Claire told him consolingly.
Xander shuddered under the pressure of grief. It was foreign to him. He had never grieved the loss of anyone before... Not even his parents... He didn't really love his father... He was just... sad. ...Sad that his father won't be able to see him grow up... Won't be able to be there for him... He should've grieved the death of his mother. ...The only person who had ever been there for him... But he had only felt sadness, as well...
But right then, when he witnessed the zombies—his zombies (well... sort of)—being electrocuted, burnt, blinded, decapitated, and shot... he felt grief. Not just the sadness that he felt for his father and mother, but true grief; loss... His only friends—they felt more like family to him—had been murdered before his very eyes... He couldn't take it...
Xander sobbed again, "Please... just stop..." he gasped out in between tears, "stop it..." a sob escaped his throat, "please..."
"We've stopped," Sylar told him, parroting Claire's words, but his tone was firm and not a hint of pity was laced in it.
Xander looked up at them, his tears blurring his sight. "Don't kill them... Don't kill any more... Please..."
"We won't," Sylar reassured firmly, "if you will let themnot kill us."
Silence...
"Alright," came his throaty croak of a reply. He looked at the zombies and nodded at them; they nodded back and silently filed out of the bungalow, heads hung low as if they, too, were silently grieving, and crawled back down their graves. He looked over his shoulder at Juan, who nodded, let him go and followed the other zombies into his own grave, which was just outside Xander's door, still silently grieving, himself. Xander looked over at his visitors. They were both blood-stained and breathing heavily. Xander noticed Claire topless. He blushed and averted his eyes to his blank, gray cement wall. "I'm sorry."
"We'resorry," Claire told him.
"Whichever," he said softly, only wanting them to go away so that he can have his solitude back; it was because of themthat 58 of his friends were gone...
Claire nodded and started to walk out of the house, but not before bidding him goodbye. Xander just nodded at their farewells and, when he heard the door close behind them, he slumped against the wall behind him, covering his face with both pale hands, and started to grieve again, his shoulders shuddering with his sobs and tears.
_:("):_
Claire and Sylar walked back to the Bridge in silence, both blushing profusely; Sylar had taken off his trench coat and was starting to dust it off, leaving his only clothing on his torso as his demolished-and-barely-recognizable black button-down, while Claire was still half-hugging herself, her dad's pistols in her bag and her free hand clutched its strap so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
Claire ignored the flames that kept burning hotter and hotter in her cheeks, her entire face as her grips tightened. The air was cool and breezy, as if there had not been any ungodly presences earlier. She felt herself shudder, not from the thought of the zombies, but because of the cool afternoon air; though she can't feel pain and the like, her body is still responding to it.
Suddenly, she felt something warm and big cover her shoulders, a comfortable weight resting on them. She stopped, startled, and looked over her shoulder. Sylar had put his trench coat on her shoulders, but had not taken his hands off her yet. His dark brown eyes were blank but a message was etched somewhere in them. Understanding, Claire let go of herself and her bag and slid her arms through the sleeves of Sylar's trench coat. She was surprised at its warmth, but perhaps it was just from sheer adrenaline that made it that way...
"Thanks..." she murmured, surprised by his sudden chivalry. She glanced sideways at him as she buttoned his coat up and clutched it tighter to herself to hide any more exposed skin. He simply shrugged and walked past her, striding back to the bridge—which was not yet visible—as he took off what was left of his shirt. Claire took a moment to admire the way his muscles moved as he took off and threw aside his shirt. She averted her eyes to her shoes, blushing redder than before, and jogged after him, looking at the trees near Sylar, but not directly at him.
When she had finally fallen in step beside him, she slowed her pace and drew the coat tighter around her with both hands.
A few moments of silence passed between them, only broken when they both heard the soft, silent, almost unmoving waves of the lake at the Bridge. They had arrived on it when Sylar said, "Keep it."
Claire looked up at him, startled once more, "E-Excuse me?" She wasn't sure she heard him clearly.
"Keep it," he repeated. "But by the next time we meet, I'm taking it back, alright?" She opened her mouth to respond, but he strode off towards the abandoned inn, and vanished from sight behind the clump of bushes and trees. She closed her mouth and ran after him, still gripping the coat tightly. When her car came into her line of sight, he wasn't there anymore.
Sighing, she walked towards her car, unlocking it, and as she slid onto the driver's seat and closed the door, she took the coat off, then her sling bag, throwing it onto the passenger's seat, and put the coat on once more. Turning on the engine, she drove back home, thinking about Sylar all the way.
_:("):_
Claire climbed into her window and stealthily went into her room. Depositing her bag onto the bed, she took off Sylar's trench coat once more and hung it in her closet, then took out a red shirt very similar to the one she wore to school that day; luckily, she had bought two of them before when she was in the shopping mall that weekend.
After flattening the creases with her palms, she slung her bag over her head and onto her shoulder again, and slowly climbed out of her window. Carefully, she climbed down the tree near her window and walked towards their front door as casually as she can.
When she had entered and closed the door behind her, she called, "Hey, mom!" Her mother, who was in the kitchen, fixing dinner, looked over her shoulder at her and smiled, "Hey, Claire. What took you?"
"Library," she stated simply as she half-jogged up the stairs.
"Dinner will be ready in around ten minutes!" Sandra called out to her when she was on the landing.
"Okay!" Claire called back and went inside her room, closing the door behind her before plopping herself face-first onto her bed, and sighed. She lifted her head and looked out of the window, at the half-visible sun preparing to set and casting a golden orange tint on the earth. She kicked off her bloody shoes, climbed on her bed and started rummaging through her bag. She took out Xander Shawntley's file and her dad's pistols before zipping her bag closed and jumping off her bed. She opened her door, and peered out the deserted hallway.
She tiptoed downstairs and, after checking to see that her mom was still too busy with dinner, entered her father's study. Hastily, she put the things she borrowed to their rightful places and exited the room, closing the door behind her. She padded up the steps three at a time and just opened her door when she heard her dad open the front door. Hastily, she closed her door behind her and ran towards the bed, diving onto it face-first and hugging the covers.
_:("):_
"Hello?" Claire greeted into her phone that night after another delicious dinner at the Bennet house.
"Hey," she heard Sylar's playful voice greet.
A small unconscious smile crept onto her lips. "So...?"
"Crash," he said simply.
"Ah." She nodded. Figures. "What'd she say?"
"Nothing much..."
"Hmm..."
"Hey, Claire?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you still going to... help...?"
"Of course," her tone implied how confused she was that he doubted her.
"Sorry."
She shrugged, "No biggie."
"...So... When next?"
"Umm..." she thought for a moment, then pulled her bag towards her and, after opening and unzipping it, she took out another red folder, opening it. "When are you free?"
"Any day."
"Oh. Right." She checked her schedule in her head. "How about... Saturday? Our science group and I are making a project after school so I have a reason to be out late. We—as in, our group and I—are meeting up at six, so..." she raised an eyebrow, "Is five o'clock okay?"
"Sure. Still the Bridge?"
She nodded, "Still the Bridge."
"Alright," he agreed. "See you then."
"You, too."
"...Good night, Claire-bear. ...By the way, that's what Crash told me to do."
She rolled her eyes. "That girl is crazy."
He chuckled.
She smiled, "Good night, Sylar." And she hung up.