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Chapter Nine
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Deadwalker.
Em frowns at the interruption—he's stiff, he'd be sore if he had any nerve endings left, and he's trying to sleep. What is it, Morgana?
I need a favor from you.
He can hear how that galls her, the bitterness she can't quite keep from getting past her teeth, that she should have to ask him for anything at all. Whatever this favor is, it's apparently important enough that she's willing to put aside both her anger and her pride.
Em almost doesn't want to know. But he asks anyway.
What is it?
She hesitates. That's unusual, and it doesn't help his nerves any.
At last she says, I need to speak to Arthur.
The words don't compute at first. Evidently, even in a world that's been turned upside down so many times Em doesn't know which way is up anymore, Morgana still has it in her to surprise him.
You need to what?
Arthur. I need to talk to him, and as you're the only mouthpiece I have at the moment—
Wait, wait, he interrupts, ice water curling in his stomach. Have you thought about this? I can barely string syllables together—not the best mouthpiece, even if I am all you've got. And then there's the issue of explaining how I'm communicating with you in the first place, or don't you think that might get a little messy? I have no idea how this telepathy thing works—like, are you a ghost? A figment of my imagination? Who knows? I don't.
As if you could imagine me, she says derisively.
That's not the point and you know it. He sighs. There's no way I could even try to explain it. It's too complicated, and I don't…I don't have the words. Arthur wouldn't accept them if I did.
She's quiet for a minute, long enough for wrenching guilt to settle heavy as a stone. Because she's only in this position because of him, and that's not something he'll ever be able to make right. But how exactly will getting himself decapitated help her?
Morgana speaks again, thoughtful.
How's your finger dexterity?
My what now?
She sighs impatiently. Your hands. How well do they work?
Better and better, he replies, unable to keep himself from sounding a little suspicious. Why the sudden interest in my health?
I told you, I need something from you. Do you have scrap paper lying around? Something to write with?
I could probably scrounge something up, yeah, but why?
You aren't that thick. Figure it out.
He has before she's even finished the sentence.
Are you insane? How will writing Arthur a letter make him want to take my head off any less?
You'll barely be involved, she insists. I'll dictate, you write, and then just…find a way to get it to him. Say you found it on the floor of that pharmacy, I don't care. I'll say I wrote it before I…
She trips over herself there, which gives Em an opening to point out the obvious.
Look, when I said my hands were working okay, I meant 'okay'. I didn't mean I'd be able to forge your handwriting without a hitch.
I'll teach you. While Arthur sleeps.
Em thinks his silence gets across pretty well what he thinks of that idea. Morgana switches tactics. When she speaks again there is steel in it; he's heard that tone from Arthur before, but somehow coming from Morgana it sends shivers chasing one another down his spine.
You owe me, she says coldly. Have you forgotten?
He swallows hard, remembering the sound her neck had made when it snapped. I haven't forgotten anything.
Then do this for me.
Em knows when he's beaten. He slumps.
What do you want me to say?
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It's been a week. Arthur can't drag this out any longer.
He wishes he could trust a deadwalker's word, wishes he could trust that Em didn't save his life just to hole him up in an airport for the remainder of it, but he can't. He needs to take matters into his own hands and get out while he still has time.
"I think we're running out of food," he remarks in the morning, trying to keep his voice casual. Em blinks and twists in his chair to look him in the eye.
"Allrrready?"
They've done this a few times now, run out of human sustenance and sent Em out to do the grocery shopping, as it were. Arthur doesn't know when the deadwalker's been eating and he doesn't want to think about it.
"Yes," he insists. "Getting your sorry arse into decent shape is hungry work. Hungry, thankless work."
Em snorts. "Get…fffat," he warns. Arthur glowers at him.
"I'm not going to get fat off of canned tomatoes and whatever else you can unearth from concession stands."
Em makes another disbelieving little noise, but he's already getting up, and Arthur wonders when exactly he got comfortable ordering Em around. A better question would be when he knew that Em would actually listen. Oh, he grumbles and gives Arthur looks that promise unpleasant things, but in the end he listens when it's important. Maybe that makes up for his terrible ability to follow sparring instructions.
He shuffles to the door, runs his fingers over that little carved dragon beside it, and starts easing himself down the steps. Arthur watches with his heart pounding. Em doesn't even close the door; honestly, it should be impossible for a zombie to be this trusting.
The thought is ridiculous and Arthur shakes it off. Trust has nothing to do with it. Deadwalker brains are barely functioning, able to provide only the bare basics of motor capability and vicious instinct. They don't have the capacity to predict possible outcomes. Em has no way of considering that Arthur might sneak out while he's gone, that's all.
He watches, jittery, as Em grows smaller and smaller in the distance. When he disappears into the airport Arthur gets to his feet.
The last of the canned foods are hidden under his seat; he pulls them out and sticks them into his jacket pockets. Does a quick check—machete, knife, arms and legs (he's been living with a zombie, it can't hurt to make sure)—and walks over to the door. He's struck by a sudden urge to look back at the inside of the tin can he's been residing in, the light beginning to pour in as the sun comes above the tree line, glinting off the wings of countless dragons—but he doesn't. He grits his teeth and gets off the plane and strides purposefully across the tarmac. He figures if he can skirt around the main building he'll be able to escape notice.
He doesn't think about what Em will do when he—when it gets back to find him gone. It won't matter. Arthur will be miles away by then, undoubtedly, because Em is the slowest deadwalker he has ever seen.
The corner of his mouth tugs up at that. Arthur shakes his head and walks faster. He's clearly losing his mind.
He's halfway to the building when he sees the first deadwalker. It startles him—he's got used to Em, with his slurred sentences and his attempts at civility; this one is moving in sharp jolts, its neck stretched to the sky like a hunting dog on the scent. Like an animal in search of prey. Arthur bolts behind the wheel of another grounded plane, heart pounding.
In seven days he's never once seen another deadwalker out here. This doesn't make sense.
Peering out from behind the wheel, he sees several more zombies have joined the first. They all have their heads tilted back, almost like they're sniffing for something—
A bolt of dread hits Arthur right in the gut. He brings his hand to his face and feels the last of a few rusty red-black flakes fall away.
Shit.
He grips the hilt of his machete hard, slows his breathing and tries to calm down. The plan hasn't changed, he tells himself. There's just going to be an extra step now. That step being: Fight your way through a crowd of deadwalkers without getting eaten. Straightforward enough.
Arthur closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, debating charging versus lingering—and then a shuffling step comes near to his hiding place and the choice is removed. He opens his eyes and swings.
Em stumbles backward, his hands held out like he's trying to calm a wild animal. Arthur lowers the machete and practically hisses in his outrage.
"Where the hell did you come from?"
Em throws his arms up in the air like he's the one who has any right to be irritated. Grumbling incoherently under his breath he grabs the machete blade with both hands and slices them open. His face doesn't register any pain, but it still makes Arthur's skin crawl.
Em smears the stuff all over Arthur's face and nods. Peering around the plane's wheel again, Arthur sees the miniature horde stumbling around in confusion. They've stopped sniffing the air, at least, and relief settles in him.
"Ssstupid…arse," Em growls. Arthur bristles.
"You said a few days!" he whispers furiously. "It's been a week!"
The stubborn set of Em's jaw doesn't change at all, but it doesn't matter. Arthur doesn't need his permission and he doesn't need any more of his help. He turns to storm off, but Em's fingers dig into his arm.
Very calmly, Arthur says, "I believe we've had a conversation about you touching me."
Em lets go and pushes past him.
"Fffollow," he mutters. "Be…deaaad."
Arthur looks at his back blankly. Em turns halfway and mimics an exaggerated zombie gait, and Arthur cottons on.
"You can't be serious."
Em rolls his eyes—actually rolls his eyes—and resumes his stagger toward the group.
Faced with a glaring lack of options Arthur follows, trying to copy the inane shuffling motion of Em's feet and occasionally grunting. This is ridiculous. He's disgracing every last one of his ancestors by doing this, but as they near the other deadwalkers—and then pass them—without incident, he's forced to admit that the charade is effective.
By the time they enter the building Em is making strange choking sounds low in his throat. It's not until Arthur looks him in the face and sees a glimmer of amusement there that he realizes it's laughter.
"You're a little shit," he informs Em, shoving him in the arm without thinking about it. Em's mouth stretches in an approximation of a grin.
He looks over Arthur's shoulder and the grin evaporates, replaced by soul-numbing terror.
"Rrrun," he croaks.
Arthur turns around instead.
The skeleton roars in his face.
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So apparently Arthur is actually an imbecile who can't comprehend the word run when it's being said in plain English. But yes, obviously, Em is the brainless one here.
Ignoring Arthur's earlier tetchiness about touching, Em grabs his arm and yanks as the boney lurches forward. Arthur wrenches himself from Em's grip and takes its head off with a swing of his blade; the skull hits the ground with a sickening crunch, followed by the rest of the corpse.
Arthur is staring down at the remains in triumph when the other roars begin to sound, echoing off the walls.
"Mmmove," Em hisses. "Move!"
At least Arthur finally listens.
They run.
Em's never run this fast without a human target in front of him. He's never had to. Heathrow is supposed to be their safe haven, dammit, but here he is, running anyway. Arthur is ahead of him and neither of them is looking back, but it doesn't matter because the intermittent roars are sort of giving the boneys away. Why should they care? This is their territory. They are the alphas here, and Em's just a stupid, stupid regular Joe zombie who had to get in between them and their prey.
Arthur takes a hard left and Em skids after; he doesn't have time to question where the hell they're going or if Arthur even knows where they're going. As long as it's in the opposite direction from the boneys, he's cool with that. He'll trust that Arthur has a better sense of direction than he does. He'll trust Arthur, period.
He doesn't really have a choice right now.
They end up in a supply room Em's never been inside of before, Arthur yanking him inside before slamming the door shut and bolting it. Immediately the boneys begin pounding on the other side, bellowing their fury. The door shakes on its hinges. Em doesn't know how long it can hold.
The lights have all gone out in this part of the building, making it nearly impossible to see, but Arthur is already half-dragging Em toward the back exit.
A shadow steps into the doorframe before they get there.
Arthur's machete is in the air instantly, but at the last second the figure registers and Em grabs his wrist.
"Waaait," he says.
"What the fuck?" Arthur demands, livid.
Will stands there with broom in hand, looking from Em to Arthur and then back again. Em steps hurriedly in front of the madman with the pointy objects.
"If he sounds the alarm," Arthur begins, but Em gestures sharply for him to shut up. He'd like to get out of this with his skin intact, yeah, but Will's the only friend he's ever had here. If Arthur needs to decapitate someone Em doesn't want it to be him.
He focuses on saying the name like he's never focused on a word before in his life.
"Willll," he says carefully. Will stares at him, blank. He tries again.
"Mmmove." He can hear Arthur fidgeting restlessly behind him, knows he's running out of time. "Please."
Something seems to flicker in Will's eyes then, but maybe it's just the terrible lighting.
He steps aside.
Em doesn't even have time to thank him, or to acknowledge the cavern of relief opening up inside of his chest, before Arthur has taken off running again. He needs to follow or be left behind.
They run through the airport. They run past dozens of zombies with flat eyes, none of them quick enough on the uptake to realize what they're seeing. They run until they reach the front doors and don't dare look back to find out if they were followed.
Arthur runs straight through them and doesn't stop. Em can't help glancing behind.
The entire Heathrow zombie community is staring at him, but they make no move to chase. Em sees one face that he recognizes—it's Security Guard Guy.
On automatic Em lifts a hand in an uncertain wave.
And to his disbelief, Security Guard Guy actually waves back.
That's the image that sticks in Em's mind as he hurtles after Arthur. Not the boneys, not the blank-faced crowd, not even Will moving aside. He remembers that one simple gesture and wonders if it means anything, or if he's just too optimistic for his own good.
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Someone is running. Make that two someones. He watches them go.
One of them turns around at the door. That one looks familiar, but his eyes are on the other. The blond with the blade. There is something, something coming into his mind when he sees him—
A laughing smile and blades clashing—
But he doesn't know what it is.
The one at the door lifts his arm. He thinks he recognizes this gesture. He thinks it's been made before, but he didn't know then what he was meant to do with it.
Now he thinks he does. It's awkward, but he manages to lift his arm in return. The one at the door turns around and runs away, runs after the other.
He lingers. Even after the others go their separate ways, he lingers.
Something is itching at the corners of his mind. Something—
Bright eyes and curly hair and freckles like constellations, a smile, a sob, a ring—
Someone.
Someone is missing.
He stands there as the sun goes down. He forgets to do his rounds. He forgets that he needs to eat. He forgets—
But he remembers other things.
He remembers…
