Another 12K+ monster chapter. Lucky you.
Feel free to replenish your mugs of tea as you sit back, immerse yourselves and enjoy.
10.
"Pewds, now!"
As the zombie is propelled aside, stunned from the blow on its ear by the swing of Cry's shovel, that's when Pewdie charges forward and buries the sharp end of his crowbar into the creature's eye socket. He lets it sink deep into the skull until he feels it pierce something spongy before he rips it back out, trailing blood and brain matter. The creature gives one last croak before it collapses to the ground and lies still.
"Nailed it," Pewdie gasps for breath and tries to wipe away the spots of blood dotting the front of his jacket and frowns when he stains it further instead. Scattered on the floor around them are three dead zombies with their heads dented inwards from the blow of Cry's shovel and their eyes reduced to bloody holes where Pewdie had stabbed his crowbar through.
"Good job, Pewds," Cry praises as he lowers his shovel. "Geez, you're a quick learner. You're getting pretty good at this."
"Of course I'm good," Pewdie grins, slowly releasing his grip on his crowbar. "Anyway, it was your idea that we do this co-op thing. It's done pretty well for us so far."
"You okay?" Cry asks, waving him over. "Here. Let me see your hands."
Pewdie holds out his bandaged hands and lets Cry examine the healing cuts underneath the wrapping. It's not long before the other man steps back, satisfied by what he's seen and points at Pewdie's weapon. "The duct tape isn't coming off, is it? We could put another layer on it if you want."
"Nope, it's fine," Pewdie says, trying to coolly twirl the crowbar with one hand but fails instead. The thin tool slips from his fingers and falls on the ground with a metallic clatter and he scrambles down to quickly snatch it back up, much to Cry's amusement.
"Heheh… Probably need to work on my gripping skills a little more," Pewdie laughs sheepishly, indicating the thick rolls of duct tape that Cry had wrapped around each end of the crowbar. Not only do they act as makeshift handgrips for easier handling but they also help protect Pewdie's bandaged hands from becoming injured again. Pewdie is glad that Cry had convinced him to keep the crowbar even though it took a lot of effort trying to pull it out of the dead zombie priest's head. He never did realise how effective of a weapon it can be, given enough practice.
"Give me some fives and a brofist, bro," he says, grinning, and extends an arm to offer Cry his open palm. Cry rolls his eyes, lightly slaps the bandaged hand and lays his own palm out for Pewdie to hit in return before they finish their celebratory move with a fist bump.
"If those hands start smarting, you should hang back and rest," Cry advises, withdrawing his fist and turning to continue their walk. Pewdie manages to catch the look of concern on the other man's face. "You should take it easy, man," Cry adds from over his shoulder.
Ever since they left the church two days ago, Pewdie notices that Cry keeps asking for his wellbeing. The other man continues to monitor the state of the cuts on Pewdie's hands and occasionally asks him how he's been doing lately. Pewdie doesn't blame him for his constant questions since he isn't quite sure about his own mental state as well. His first zombie kill had been a shock to him because it forced him into a battle that tested his physical strength and his will to live, his ability to react to danger as well as his own dumb luck. After stumbling away from the dead corpse, his mind had gone completely blank with shock and he was left feeling weak and vulnerable.
He never intended to break down in front of Cry in the first place. But when he sensed Cry's arms closing in around him with that blanket, Pewdie felt a desperate urge to reach out for him just to assure himself that he wasn't alone, that Cry was there and he was alive and safe from harm. Although his unstable state had caused him to spill out his fears for the other man to hear, once he had regained his composure after that rare moment of vulnerability, Pewdie felt a deep sense of shame and embarrassment for his behaviour and his irrational words during that fragile state of his. Despite this, he feels that their talk has brought them a little closer as they seemed to have reached a new level of understanding between themselves.
So they continued their journey towards town and had gradually fallen into a new routine. Pewdie's willingness to play a more active role in their partnership compelled Cry to ease him into getting used to killing zombies. It started out as a joint effort at first, only sneaking up and attacking when there are three to four undead creatures around, and Cry would stun the enemy while Pewdie finished it off with a killing blow. Eventually, they decided that this was a good tactic for them because Cry found that he doesn't use as much energy if they divided the workload between the two of them. They had encountered this trio of undead creatures just as they reached the outskirts of the town they're heading towards.
"Hold the phone, I need to listen to a call," Cry says light-heartedly, making Pewdie pause in his tracks after they walked a couple of paces away from the zombie corpses. Pewdie remembers Cry's excitement the first time he hears that the latter had finally caught an active transmission on one of the radio channels back in the church. He sees the other man crouch on the ground and dig through his backpack, pulling out their CB radio and switching it on. After watching Cry press a few channel buttons, the device emits a hiss of white noise before they both hear spoken words come through the speaker.
"…anyone out…fight the dead…too many of them…survivors out there…help come and meet…undown… go... radio… luck…"
"It's definitely the same message," Cry points out enthusiastically. It's nice to see the hope shining in his face, in his eyes. "The same one from yesterday, the day before and that first time in the church. An announcement put on loop, calling out for any survivors to come meet at sundown somewhere. At least, I think that's what it says. Still, the message is becoming clearer the more we get closer to town."
"Well, we shouldn't waste any more time then," says Pewdie eagerly, pointing up to the sun, which had already begun its descent, leaving behind a warm red-orange hue on the sky and clouds. "The sooner we reach it, the better. Come on, Cry. It's going to be dark soon. Wouldn't want to wander around town in this darkness, radio message or not. Those zombies do love partying at night."
"I used to party at night too," Cry says absent-mindedly, stuffing the radio back into his bag and gets up to continue walking. "Except that I partied at home with my videogames and occasionally my cat comes in and steals my bed."
"Wow. Well, I wanna party at your house too," Pewdie continues this talk because it's so, so rare that Cry mentions their video-gaming memories these days. The last time they talked about their past lives was on the day they lost Bluey after all. Cry must be in a really good mood if he's bringing this up now. "That way, I can steal your bed before your cat does," he adds mischievously.
"Pfft. Good luck with that," Cry says with a snort that's close to bursting into a full giggle.
They continue ambling down the path until they come to another stop several minutes later. The road they're on is blocked by a long barricade of cars which had smashed into a large lorry that's fallen onto its side, stretching from the road to the grassy plain around them. It does not seem possible to continue using this route unless they decide to manoeuvre their way through the wreckage and pass through the long queue of abandoned cars on the other side.
"This doesn't look very safe," Cry comments, eyeing warily at the vehicles. "I don't trust cars. We don't know if those things are really empty on the inside or not."
"That's true," Pewdie agrees with a nod. "They could be new homes for zombies."
"New homes for zombies?" Cry says in disbelief, shooting Pewdie a look of amusement. "Whatever happened to living in a house or running around in a city?"
"Well, if there are still survivors like us who decide to go into town, they've got to pass through those cars, you know?" Pewdie points out reasonably, even though he originally intended the whole thing to be a joke in the first place. "It makes sense why zombies would want to hang around there. We're fresh meat and we'd just walk straight into them. Or they could ambush us and rip us into pieces and feed us to their little zombie babies."
"Ugh, no," Cry says, visibly squirming at the image. "The idea of those things breeding is just too gross for me to consider. Don't ever bring that up ever again, Pewds. Let's just go find some other route into this place."
"Well, what about cutting through there?" Pewdie says, pointing to a retail park nearby. It consists of five square buildings with flat rooftops squatting together in a semi-circle located on the edge of the town a couple of hundred metres or so from the main road.
"I swear you have better eyesight than me," he hears Cry mutter as the other man passes him when they get off the road and change direction. "And I'm supposed to be the one wearing glasses here."
They jog closer towards the retail park, not speaking for a while before Pewdie suddenly says in a sharp tone, "Wait, stop." He can see the parking lot through the gaps between the large buildings and instantly spots them. Zombies. They're staggering around the area, snarling and moaning and waiting for the next batch of living people to become their next meal. If he and Cry are planning to cut through this retail park, they'll have to get through that parking lot infested with those creatures.
"How many?" Cry asks, having recognised the urgent tone in Pewdie's voice and is squinting towards the direction of Pewdie's gaze.
"A lot," Pewdie answers because it's definitely more than four zombies at least. The bad news is that these creatures are obviously awake, meaning that there is no chance for the two of them to sneak past them without alerting the creatures of their presence.
"Judging by the look on your face, I'm going to assume that we can't go stealth mode on them," Cry says, noting Pewdie's grim expression. "Okay, we've just got to find another way. Like, uh, if we can't get past them on the ground, then we could try… oh. Oh wait, what about that?"
Pewdie had already spotted whatever it is that Cry is pointing at. One of the shops of the retail park – a clothing store by the looks of it – seems to be undergoing partial renovation because the back of the building that is not facing the parking lot is covered by a scaffolding structure comprised of metal tubes and wooden scaffold boards. On the shop's first floor, they spot one of the large windows missing a glass panel, allowing them a possible way into the inside of the building.
"That could work, right?" Cry murmurs, glancing back at him with a smile.
"Thank fuck it's just a shop and not a creepy-ass asylum full of crazy people that we're climbing into just so we could get to the town next door," Pewdie comments with a sigh of relief.
He and Cry make their way there with minimal noise and find construction equipment and materials dumped around the scaffolding structure – a cement mixer, a faded yellow hard hat sitting on a mound of bricks, some shattered glass, a couple of dozen bags of dried cement, a toolbox or two. However, there doesn't seem to be any way of climbing onto the structure without the use of a ladder. After a minute or two of quick searching, they find nothing.
"I don't suppose we could just climb using the tubes holding this thing together, eh?" Cry huffs in exasperation. "Or maybe we could just jump and hope to reach that board over there." He motions towards a clear opening between two metal frames that he is sure is the place where a ladder should have been.
"Let me see if I could reach it," Pewdie says, crouching in preparation to jump. He springs from the concrete ground as high as he can, extending an arm into the air and finds that his fingers don't even brush the edge of that wooden board. When he lands back down and glares up at it, he's suddenly hit with a brilliant idea.
"Cry, I could boost you up," he says excitedly, averting his gaze towards the other man who blinks in surprise at the idea. "I could boost you up and you jump and climb on that board and then help me up. Come on, Cry. Let's do this." He waves the other man over.
"Don't be ridiculous, Pewds," says Cry, gently jostling him aside to squat on the concrete ground instead. He rests his back against the metal tubes that form one of the skeletal frames holding the scaffolding up and knits his fingers together to make a footrest for Pewdie to stand on. "Seriously, how can you support my weight when your hands are bandaged that?" he adds with a raised eyebrow. "Yeah, I thought so. Shut up and get over here. We're losing daylight."
"You don't need to point out my obvious disability," Pewdie whines with a pout. He plants his foot onto Cry's cupped hands and finds some handheld support on the scaffolding frame that Cry is leaning against. Pausing for a while, he lowers his gaze and meets Cry's watchful one. "Are you sure about this?" Pewdie can't help but ask.
"We're about to find out," Cry says dramatically in a gruff, Texan drawl. "Let's get on with it, Pewds."
"Here we go," Pewdie mutters and presses his foot down, feeling Cry's hands shake and sway from the strain. Once Cry steadies, he lifts his other leg up and places his foot onto the other man's shoulder. The scaffolding frame he's holding onto becomes a good support to heave himself upwards and soon enough, he's able to take his foot off of Cry's cupped hands when he transfers most of his weight onto the foot that's currently standing on Cry's shoulder. He suddenly hears the other man swear underneath his breath.
"Holy fuck – you're – heavy," Cry gasps and Pewdie feels the tension on the other's shoulder from his weight.
"Are you saying I'm fat?" Pewdie accuses in a flippant manner, pretending to feel offended. He finds it momentarily difficult to find some balance on Cry's unstable shoulder so he begins to climb back down.
"No, no – what are you doing?" Cry snaps in return, making him stop moving. "Just – keep fucking going. I'll be fine. Can you – ah, can you reach – it?"
"You probably need to stand up while I'm on your shoulders," Pewdie tells him, stepping back onto the shoulder. "Then I could probably reach it."
"Goddammit," Cry mutters, sounding as if he isn't looking forward to this next bit. "Okay. Just – let's get this over and done with."
For the next minute or two, Pewdie mutters a series of apologies as he tries to stand and balance on both of Cry's shoulders without tilting back and falling. He's aware that he can't see where he's stepping on because a displeased Cry lets out an irritated snap of "Ow, my ear!" when Pewdie feels his ankle knock against the side of the other's head, almost kicking his cap off.
"Alright, Cry," says Pewdie, having found a firm footing on top of both of Cry's shoulders. His gaze is directed upwards at the edge of the board that he aims to climb onto. "You can stand and lift me up now."
"Okay – hang – on," Cry grunts from under him and Pewdie can hear him grasping the frame he's leaning against with one hand while the other loosely grips Pewdie's ankle for support. He slowly and shakily stands at full height, lifting Pewdie higher into the air until the latter is able to grab the board with both arms. Scrabbling for purchase, he gets a good grip on the wood and carefully swings one leg up, feeling his boot hook onto the edge of the scaffold board.
"Any – time now – Pewds," Cry grunts, his voice stifled in his throat and Pewdie wastes no time digging his heel into the board and propels himself upwards, leg first, using all of his limb muscles. Although the effort strains his entire body, Pewdie puts everything he's got and scrambles onto the board. He lies on his side and gasps for breath, feeling his arms and legs burn from the exertion and the weight of his bag pressing down on his back. He can't believe that he actually made it.
"You okay?" he hears Cry's voice call from below him. Pewdie scrambles back up and peers over the edge, finding Cry looking up at him while massaging his shoulder from under his collar. Pewdie can see that the skin around that area had turned red and sore.
"Yeah, I'm alright," he replies, before lying on his stomach and extending his arms down for Cry to take. "Come on. I'll pull you up."
He watches as Cry bends his legs and launches himself into the air but his outstretched fingers don't even reach Pewdie's. After a few more tries, Cry stumbles backwards after he lands on the ground, panting, and shakes his head in defeat. It seems that they had underestimated just how high the scaffold board really is.
"It's no use. Damn board is too high. I can't reach you," Cry gasps, taking a step back. "Don't worry. I'll figure something out. Maybe I could put some things together and make like a ladder and climb up."
"Good idea," Pewdie praises, sitting back up on his haunches. He's pleased that he and Cry seem to be thinking on the same wavelength since they're considering the same kind of solution. It's something that's been apparent with them these days. He points over to the pile of building materials and says, "Use those cement bags. They look sturdy enough. Put them all together and climb onto them."
A few minutes later, Cry is clambering up a makeshift pyramid made up of many cement bags. When he reaches the peak, he grabs hold of Pewdie's outstretched arms and, with some combined effort, he pulls and lets himself be dragged upwards. Once he tumbles onto the board, he and Pewdie sit back together and catch their breath for a brief moment.
"Phew. We should work on that a little bit more. The whole boosting up thing," Cry pants, taking off his glasses to wipe the sweat off his face. "I'm alright," he adds when he spots Pewdie's concerned gaze. "Let's just get inside."
They walk along the length of the scaffold boards and reach the gap between the windows, climbing inside to find the interior of the shop floor draped in shadows. From what little sunlight is left coming from the windows, they can just about discern the display racks holding a variety of female clothing stacked behind a shop dummy or two. Large, colourful banners hang from the ceiling, fluttering slightly from the breeze outside. A display cart had fallen over onto its side, spilling out a cluttering pile of hair accessories and bottles of nail polish onto the floor. As always, it's silent and eerie in here but that doesn't mean that they're entirely safe yet.
"Come on," Cry murmurs, motioning over to the other side of the floor where they spot a flight of stairs spiralling down to the previous floor. A curve of small square windows are set alongside the steps and when Pewdie and Cry stop at one of them, they see that the windows provide a view of the parking lot outside.
"Zombies," Cry points out grimly, unconsciously tightening his hold on the strap of his shovel. "It still looks like we can't sneak past them on ground level."
"So we go higher," Pewdie suggests, tugging Cry to another flight of stairs leading up to the next floor. "Get to the roof. Maybe we'll find some way to get across the buildings."
"Let's hope so," says Cry.
Thankfully, they find a door on the highest floor which leads to the rooftop. It's bolted shut so Pewdie gets the privilege to pry the screws off the hinges with his crowbar. When his effort produces loud clanging noises that echo down the staircase, Cry shoots him a glare to counter his sheepish grin.
"Yeah, I should probably be a little quieter, I know," Pewdie says apologetically and pulls open the door.
They emerge to see a magnificent sunset above them and the horde of zombies below when they peer over one side of the flat rooftop they're on. Pewdie thinks he's never seen so many active zombies in one place so far, not counting that time during their first raid at that hardware store. He watches them totter together all over the parking lot, passing by abandoned vehicles, looking like a swarm of crawling bugs. When he retreats from the edge and casts his gaze around the rest of the rooftop, he immediately spots a stack of different sized wooden boards followed by a hand saw, a couple of cement bags, a toolbox and a bucket of nails. The rooftop of the next building isn't too far away on his left and some of those boards seem long enough to reach it.
It turns out Cry has the same idea as well.
"It looks like the construction workers haven't finished building this place," he surmises quietly, walking over to the collection of materials. "That's why there's this pile of stuff right here."
"How suspiciously convenient," Pewdie comments, pretending to stroke an imaginary beard before he crouches by one of the wooden boards, examining them further. The planks of wood seem thick enough to hold a grown man's weight. Pewdie takes hold of one end of the board and says, "Come on. Let's carry this to that end of the roof and see if we can make a bridge. If it works, we'll use it to get to the other buildings too."
"On three?" Cry says, going over to grab hold of the other end of the board. Once Pewdie finishes muttering their countdown, he pushes himself to his feet and lifts his end up with both hands, making sure that he coordinates his movements with Cry's. The board doesn't feel too heavy in his hands and they begin shuffling sideways together, shooting encouraging remarks at one another across the length of the wood. Once they reach their destination, it takes them some time and a little bit of cooperation to aim one end of the board towards the rooftop of the next building. Except that the damn thing turned out to be a little too short because it keeps missing its mark.
"Why did you pick this one?" Cry grumbles irritably, struggling to balance the wood in his hands.
"I thought this was the longest one," Pewdie grunts back, shaking a little from the exertion. "Look, let's just bring this back in and go get another one."
They set the plank of wood aside and trod back to the pile, selecting what they believe is the longest plank of the lot. Once more, they shuffle sideways to carry the board from one end of the roof onto the other and again they extend the plank outwards, reaching towards the next roof's edge. It's difficult work trying to lift and balance and aim at the same time but after a few minutes, they finally manage to set the wooden board down and create a bridge for them to cross.
They take a minute or two to rest, catching their breath and gazing at the makeshift bridge they just made, including the sheer drop down below into a narrow alleyway between the two buildings. Two staggering zombies had just wandered into that lane, probably attracted by the sounds of the board hitting the edge of the rooftop. Luckily, the creatures have yet to identify the source of the noise and are just snarling quietly on the spot, bumping lightly against the walls.
The more Pewdie stares, the more he realises what they're about to do; realises that they're a couple of storeys high and that the ground looks far away underneath them. He instantly feels his stomach twist with unease, his vision tilting slightly from the sensation of vertigo, and he quickly pulls away from the edge.
"I don't think I can do this," Pewdie murmurs quietly, taking another step back and swallowing his dizziness. "I don't know if I can trust this thing. I'm having doubts about this one, bro."
"We can't stop here now. We've got to do this," says Cry, trying to keep his voice down. "Don't worry, you'll be fine. The board's sturdy enough. See? It doesn't even move. We're lucky that these rooftops are flat and levelled."
When Pewdie still remains unconvinced by his words, he adds, "I'm not comfortable with crossing either but we don't really have much of a choice here, Pewds. Might as well carry on. If it makes you feel better, I'll hold onto the board so it doesn't shift anywhere. You just watch your step and whatever you do, don't look down. Okay?" He then reaches out and touches Pewdie's shoulder, "You can do this, buddy."
Cry's hand is warm and comforting and the contact does alleviate some of the uneasiness that Pewdie feels. He averts his gaze on the view before him, over the rest of the rooftops that they have to go across, knowing that he and Cry will have to work together to pick up and place the same plank on a new roof every time they reach a new building. He sighs in defeat.
"Alright," he says shakily, adjusting the straps of his backpack, feels for the crowbar to make sure it's tied securely against it, and puts one foot onto the board, climbing onto it. He feels his heart skip a beat when he sees how his path forward is flanked by nothingness and a long drop down. "Fuck. This is crazy. I must be crazy. Shut up, Pewds. Just do it. Okay, here we go."
He's surprised to find that Cry had been right about the wooden board being sturdy and stable because it doesn't so much wobble or sink under his weight. The only problem that Pewdie faces is that he has to maintain his balance on the board, inching himself forward by putting one foot after the other without any support to hold onto. His hands itch to grab onto something but there is nothing to reach for except thin air.
When he thinks he's almost halfway across, a moderate breeze suddenly rustles through him, pulling him out of his concentration. The sound of the breeze seems so loud in his ears that he freezes in his tracks, not daring to move because he's terrified at the idea that the wind might knock him off the board. Suddenly, he's aware that he's alone and vulnerable up here and that there is nowhere to run without slipping and falling to his death below. He is tempted – oh so tempted to glance down, but he fights against this urge, feels his limbs shake on the spot as he continues to stand still, feels his heart beat a pounding rhythm, accompanying the inevitable wave of panic that's rising in his chest.
"Pewds," he hears Cry's voice, spoken quietly from some distance behind him, float into his hearing. "Pewds, can you hear me? Don't try to look back. Just listen to my voice. You're doing great. Don't look down. Don't even think about it. Just focus on getting to the other side. Keep looking straight ahead. One foot after another. You're almost there, buddy. You can do it."
"I can do it," Pewdie mutters shakily, echoing Cry's encouraging words. "I'm almost there. Don't look down, Pewds. It's gonna be okay. Just keep going. Ha-ha. This is fucking crazy. Don't look down. Almost there. Almost there."
He coaxes himself to move again, hears Cry continue to quietly cheer him on from behind him and focuses on shuffling forward, ignoring the distant sounds of zombies snarling far below him as he concentrates on reaching the end of this makeshift bridge. Eventually, after what feels like years of not being able to breathe properly, he steps off the end of the board and stumbles slightly when he hits solid ground, his legs shaky and threatening to collapse from underneath him. The only thing that stops him from doing so is the thought that they've got three more rooftops to cross before night time approaches.
I did it, Pewdie thinks triumphantly, turning back to see Cry watching him carefully from the other rooftop. He lifts up a hand and waves, hoping that it is sufficient enough to tell the other man that he's alright and that's when it occurs to him just how far away Cry seems to be from the other side of their makeshift bridge. Pewdie can hardly believe that he had actually crossed that wooden board without even looking down.
He watches with his heart in his mouth as Cry mounts the bridge and begins to slowly shuffle across it, arms spread outwards to maintain his balance. Pewdie can see him breathing heavily and raggedly as he edges forward and Cry's gaze is firmly locked on him, lips fluttering as he quietly reassures himself not to look down.
"Almost there, Cry," Pewdie murmurs breathlessly, uncertain of whether the other can even hear him so he smiles encouragingly instead, lets it widen the closer Cry gets to him. When the other man is just a few paces away, Pewdie reaches out and Cry automatically grabs onto his forearm, wrapping his hand tightly around it for support. With one quick jump, he makes it to the roof and wobbles on the spot, almost falling onto Pewdie who quickly steadies him back on his feet.
"God, that was terrifying," Cry mutters, breathing long and hard; his hand still gripping hard onto Pewdie's forearm. "Come on. Let's quickly get across to that next rooftop. We've got to reach the last one over there before it gets too dark to see anything."
"Wow. Imagine having to walk across a plank of wood at night with just a flashlight," Pewdie says musingly, half-joking and half-serious about the subject.
"Yeah, I'd fall on the first step too," Cry replies with a shudder and crouches by the board. "Okay, partner. Time to be manly and haul this thing over to that side."
It takes them half an hour to repeat the same procedure of carrying and setting the wooden plank between two buildings to create the makeshift bridge for them to cross over. It is during one of the crossings that Cry accidentally glances down and sees just how far the ground beneath them really is. Pewdie notices the colour drain from his face, the realisation dawning in his eyes before he suddenly sways on the spot. For one heart-stopping second, Pewdie's afraid that Cry is going to tilt over and fall off the side of the board.
"Cry!" Pewdie whispers frantically, hoping the slight breeze he's feeling up here can carry his voice over to Cry's ears. "Cry, don't look down. Look here. Look at me. Yes, that's it. I'm here. Come over to me. Don't look down anymore. Keep your eyes on me. Just keep going, bro. That's it." He breathes a sigh of relief when Cry regains his composure and begins to shuffle forward towards him.
When they finally cross over to the last building of the retail park, the sun had already vanished from the horizon, leaving the sky above them dark and black. Only a small smattering of thin grey clouds float across that space, partially hiding the slit of a crescent moon and the twinkle of a single bright star.
By then, he and Cry are exhausted from the strain of carrying the wooden board across every rooftop, of walking and balancing on it with nothing to support their hands except their own will and their encouraging words to one another. They take several minutes just quietly resting for a moment, gazing up at the night sky; feeling the familiar sensation of camaraderie for each other, having bonded further from their collaborative experience.
"It might rain again, Cry," Pewdie says tiredly, pointing to the sky and the grey clouds. "Or it might not. We should probably get some rest inside. Might not be good for us out here. Zombies below us and everything."
"Yeah, I agree," says Cry, rummaging through his backpack for his flashlight before standing up and switching the light on. "I see a door right over there. I guess that's our way in."
Less than ten minutes later, Cry picks the lock on the door instead of letting Pewdie pry the screws off the hinges again. They greet a dark landing littered with footprints that have stained the walls inside and the stale odour of cigarette butts in the air. A flight of stairs leads down to the floor below.
"I wonder what kind of shop this is," Pewdie murmurs out, his voice echoing around the stairwell. He watches the way the beam of their flashlights bounce on the walls as they make their way downstairs.
"Another clothes shop maybe?" Cry says with a shrug in front of him. "Or a supermarket?"
"A supermarket would be bad though," Pewdie points out as they reach the landing and stop in front of a closed door. "There are always zombies in supermarkets. All the movies say so."
"Let's hope it isn't," Cry mutters, lowering his shovel from his shoulder so that he can grip it in his hand. "You ready?"
"No," says Pewdie, nervously tugging his crowbar out from where he strapped it against his backpack, finds the duct taped handgrip in his bandaged hand. He takes a deep breath to brace himself, watches Cry turn the doorknob and push it open. They slip through the door and shut it behind them, pausing on the spot to take some time to survey their surroundings while carefully listening out for any noise to alert them of any immediate danger nearby.
At first, Pewdie is confused by what he sees as he casts his beam of light over a display of wine glasses hanging from a wooden bracket suspended above a fancy marble kitchen counter. From what he can see from Cry's light, there's another kitchen counter that's an island type with two white stools tucked underneath it and a bowl of fruit placed in its centre. When Pewdie swings his light elsewhere, the beam shines from the wine bracket to a soft partition which separates this kitchen space from a bathroom decorated with pink and blue tiles. There's a little stand that holds a catalogue of some sort and when he scrutinises further, he can just make out a list of prices for a selection of bathroom sinks. That's when he figures out where they actually are.
"It's a furniture shop!" he and Cry murmur out at the same time, their voices cutting through the silence. Cry shoots him a knowing look from over his shoulder and a sheepish grin.
"Well, that's a first. I guess we could rest in here," he says, making sure to keep his voice quiet. Then he says a little more solemnly, "Check for zombies?"
The floor they're on is fairly large and they take no chances in scanning the place out, checking every nook and cranny for any signs of zombies while they make sure they don't stray too far away from one another. While they explore the floor, they pass an impressive array of stylish bathroom and kitchen furniture. It's a little strange that the place seems untouched by the chaotic events that happened outside. Nothing looks like it had been taken from its place, no cabinet or drawer had been searched and the only sign that people had been here last is an overflowing trashcan near a pair of escalators that lead to the floor below.
"No zombies," Pewdie reports, after peering behind a shower curtain when he reaches the last bathroom display. He then walks back over to Cry, allowing himself to relax. "I think we're okay for now. Phew. Wow, I'm fucking starving, Cry. Let's go eat at that table over there. Yeah, the pretty one that I'm shining my light on. Yes, that one."
"Okay, okay," says Cry with a good-natured giggle, letting Pewdie drag him through some kitchen/bathroom displays to reach the kitchen area in question.
It's in a beautifully simple and homey country style design consisting of wooden cabinets and shelves painted in a soft cream shade. There are plates stacked on a dish holder next to the steel sink and a pot of plastic plants set on the counter, next to what looks like an old-fashioned lantern. A couple of cookbooks are wedged underneath a cabinet and the table that Pewdie had been referring to sits in the middle of that kitchen area. It's a wooden, square structure shaded in brown and green colours which complement the blue mug and the small stack of brown plates set on its surface. Two matching chairs furnished with cushioned backrests are tucked neatly underneath it.
Cry comes over and picks up the lantern, examining it closely with his flashlight. "Hey, this one doesn't use gas," he points out, holding the object up for Pewdie to see. There's a battery compartment on its underside and luckily for them, they have a good supply of batteries catered for any kind of device.
They quietly eat one of their last packed meals on the table under the light of the lantern. They still have plenty of water to keep themselves going for another day or two but once their supply finishes, they need to find another source as soon as possible. Just as Cry scoops up the last spoonful of his meal, he leaves it in the Tupperware container and rummages into his bag instead, pulling out the CB radio and turning it on to quickly find the desired channel.
"This is fo… anyone alive out… don't fight… dead…" the radio hisses out the incoherent message. The voice is becoming clearer now, the words sounding more pronounced than before but the entire message is still incomplete, seeping out in chunks. "Too many… escape and keep away… if there… survivors… you need help come… meet… ga…"
Pewdie watches as Cry leans his ear closer to the radio, his eyebrows furrowed with concentration.
"… not there… radio tow… careful… good luck…"
When they hear the message for the second and third time, they don't have much luck trying to catch the rest of it. In the end, Cry shuts off the radio, puts it in his bag and sits back thoughtfully, ignoring his unfinished food.
"So let me try to figure out what we've heard so far," Pewdie murmurs, carefully manoeuvring his spoon with his bandaged hand. "I think what they said was: 'If there's anyone out there, like survivors, don't fight the dead people because there's too many of them. You should escape instead. If you need help and some food and shit, come and meet somewhere, not there but maybe at a radio tower. And for fuck's sake, be careful on the way so don't get killed or eaten or turned into a zombie. Good luck and Godspeed. Love and kiss-kiss, the messenger of this message.' Okay, how's that?"
Cry lets out a soft chuckle that Pewdie thinks sounds rather pleasing in his ears and says, "That sounds kind of legit when you say it like that. But come on, let's not jump to conclusions just yet. We need to make sure we know where we're going. So once we reach the middle of town, we'll be able to listen to the whole message in no time and then follow whatever instructions it says to get us to someplace safe."
"Whatever you say, Cry," says Pewdie, putting the lid back on his now-empty Tupperware container. Afterwards, he reaches across the table and steals Cry's spoon and puts the last scraps of the other man's food into his mouth.
"I can't believe you just did that," Cry says, blinking at Pewdie's unexpected act. But the corners of his lips are quirking upwards, as if to smile or to laugh.
Pewdie snorts, "Were you even going to eat that? You weren't, right? Admit it. You're too caught up in thinking about that radio that I had to stop you wasting perfectly good food. Did you know there are poor, starving children out there like in Africa or some shit who can't even afford to eat the stuff we have? What happens if we run out of it? You should be ashamed for wasting food, Cry."
"Ha-ha, yeah, fuck you too," Cry says, laughing.
"Oh ho. Snappity snoop. That ain't the kind of language you should use at the dining table, son," Pewdie mock-scolds, shaking his head disapprovingly. "You're a fucking disgrace."
"Yeah, yeah. That's enough. Time for bed," Cry waves off those somewhat familiar words with a smile, quickly clipping the lid of his empty Tupperware container shut and pushes it aside. He then rifles through his bag to take out a water bottle and his blanket which he uses to wrap around his shoulders. "Do you want to take the first watch? Or do you want to rest first?"
"I'm cool. Not the least bit sleepy," Pewdie says, taking out his own blanket. "I'll wake you up after a couple of hours."
"Okay then," says Cry, settling back against the cushioned backrest of his chair, stretching his legs out across the floor. He gulps down a few mouthfuls of water and then pushes the bottle towards Pewdie. "Here," he offers. "Better save the last two bottles we have for later."
Pewdie gratefully takes it, downing the rest of the water in one go. When he emerges, he finds Cry leaning back against his chair, wrapped up to the chin in his yellow blanket, gazing blankly at the table before him. There's eager anticipation in his expression. A glimmer of hope in his eyes.
"I've got a good feeling about this," he murmurs breathlessly and Pewdie isn't quite sure if Cry is speaking to him or just assuring himself. "About the radio message. That it's calling out for anyone who needs help. A really good feeling." He then lifts his head up, meets Pewdie's stare and his lips curl up into a smile. "What?" he asks, his voice shaking slightly with laughter. "Why are you looking at me like that? You think we're not going to make it?"
"Pffft. What are you talking about?" Pewdie snorts, casting the other man a look of incredulity. "Of course we're going to make it, Cry."
Because you're here with me, he adds quietly to himself.
"That's the spirit," says Cry, sounding satisfied as he dims the lantern on the table before leaning back his head and closing his eyes.
About two hours later, a bored Pewdie steals Cry's cap and wears it on his head and continues tossing and catching a plastic apple that he'd found earlier into the air. It had gotten to the point where he is sitting with his chair leaned back on two legs and his feet propped onto the table. Before him, Cry sleeps, slumped into his folded arms with the blanket over his shoulders.
It isn't long before Pewdie feels an urge to go to the bathroom and he curses for the inconvenient timing. He still has at least another hour until he wakes Cry up and take a break from keeping watch. Maybe he can wait just a little longer.
Except now his mind is too distracted from his surroundings, the plastic apple that he tosses keeps missing his jittery hand and he's lowered his feet back onto the floor, his leg bobbing up and down in restlessness. In the end, he thinks, fuck it. I'm waking Cry up right now. A man's gotta go do his thing when he needs to.
So he reaches across the table and shakes Cry awake and the other man stirs and lifts his head from his arms, his eyes squinting and his glasses comically askew.
"Mmm… Pew…?" Cry mumbles, pulling his glasses off to rub his face. "Whuh… what's happening? Is it my turn already?"
"Sort of," says Pewdie, as he impatiently drums his fingers onto the table. "Bro, I've got to go take a pee break right now. You okay just chilling here? Because I really need to go."
"Alright," Cry says sleepily with a yawn, sitting up and stretching his limbs. "Don't take too long. Make sure you check for zombies before you do anything. Wouldn't want to get your dick bitten off by accident."
"That's not funny," Pewdie mutters, lightly chucking the apple at Cry which hits him in the middle of the chest and ricochets back onto the table, knocking lightly against the dimmed lantern. He tugs his crowbar from his bag and gets up from the table. "I'll be right back."
"Wait, wait," Cry mumbles as he squints up at him. "You're not going outside to take a piss, are you? On the roof? Because that would be uncivilised."
"Fuck no, I'm not that kind of person," Pewdie almost reels back at what Cry is hinting at. "Although that does sound kind of fun. Maybe we should do that sometime."
"Ughhh… just go, will you?" Cry groans blearily, rubbing his groggy face again. "Toilets are near the escalators. Don't get lost now."
"On it," Pewdie gives a two-fingered salute, flicks on his flashlight and dashes off in search for the toilets. He takes a wrong turn and finds himself back at the door they first came through which turns out to be the emergency exit. There's even a conveniently placed fire alarm pull station and fire extinguisher mounted on the wall nearby.
Pewdie adjusts Cry's cap on his head, sighing exasperatedly for his terrible sense of direction before turning back to retrace his steps, passing the kitchen/bathroom displays until he reaches the other end of the floor. When he gets to the escalators, he spots the universal bathroom signs hanging from the ceiling and tiptoes down a corridor that leads to the public toilets.
The area he's in is pitch black and he realises just how alone he is armed with his flashlight and crowbar in hand. He stops in his tracks, casting the beam of his light into the toilets where it shines over cold marble tiles, dry porcelain sinks and eerie bathroom mirrors.
Okay, this is fucking creepy, Pewdie thinks. His heart begins to pound hard against his chest. Agitation claws its way up his throat. His breathing sounds loud in his ears. He stiffens when he thinks he hears a scraping noise echo from somewhere in the distance. Pewdie nervously gulps down his mounting fear.
Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all.
Cry is used to feeling tired to the point of exhaustion. It's one of those things that's par for the course when you're constantly vigilant and on the move. However, this is one of the rare times that he is properly exhausted that he just wants to sleep until the morning without forcing himself to wake up and run from danger.
When Pewdie shakes him awake to tell him he needed to take a toilet break, Cry lifts his head, noticing that it feels uncomfortably stiff and that his glasses are almost falling off his face. Half-asleep, he murmurs to Pewdie about being cautious and careful when alone and watches through squinting eyes as the other man leaves their kitchen area and heads towards the door which they had come from. Cry feels tempted to call out and tell him that he's going the wrong direction but he'd rather laugh at Pewdie's face once the other man returns to their kitchen table, pretending that he didn't get lost on the way.
Eventually, as he sits there idly toying with the plastic apple on the table, his eyes grow heavy and soon exhaustion takes over and he slumps back down, chin pressed onto his wrists and he assures himself that he just needs to rest his eyes for a minute or two.
A sudden noise pulls him back into consciousness and he thinks it sounds a little like his shovel blade scraping against the floor. Cry blinks and raises his head a little from his hands, peering at the other side of the table to see a dark shadow standing still, looking as if it had been caught doing something it shouldn't have.
Pewds? Cry frowns a little, wondering why Pewdie is being so secretive like this. He can't see the other man's features very well because the light is too dim so he reaches out his hand towards the lantern, trying to brighten it a little more.
However, the moment he makes a move, the shadow staggers a little and Cry catches a glimpse of a pair of frayed jeans stained with dots of blood that trail all the way up to a dirty cowboy styled belt buckle.
The last time he checked, Pewdie does not wear any of these items.
Instantly, Cry is fully awake and alert, alarmed by the thought that they must have missed something when they examined the entire floor. Where did this creature come from and how the hell did it wander all the way over here?
Cry remembers putting his shovel on the floor, underneath his chair somewhere and he silently pulls back his hand so that he can reach down to retrieve it. Except that he can't do that without taking his eyes off the dark figure and leaning down to the floor to search for it. Instead, he quickly thinks up a plan. He'll risk searching for his shovel but will have to do so while making as little noise as possible. However, in case he does happen to draw its attention onto him, Cry will have to kick the table over so that he's able to buy enough time to grope around for the shovel and defend himself before an attack.
So he shrugs off his blanket and shifts his legs underneath the table towards one side of his chair, realising with relief that there's still space for him to ease his way out without moving his seat. Not taking his eyes off the shadow, Cry puts his feet on the ground, slides out of his chair and slowly stands up.
And that's when something grabs him from behind.
Cry is so taken aback by the surprise attack that he doesn't yell out. He thrashes wildly in the arms that are grappling him by the shoulders, tries to squirm his head away because he's expecting a set of teeth to sink into his neck anytime, and then desperately swings a hard kick backwards onto its leg. When the heel of his boot connects with something solid, he hears a grunt of pain in his ear and the grip on his shoulders loosens, giving him a window of opportunity to escape. He rips himself free and turns, readying for another kick towards the kneecap so that the creature will buckle and crumble to the floor, becoming temporarily defenceless and open to attack.
I've got you now, motherfucker, Cry thinks; feeling the fear and rage and excitement rush through his form.
But he is stopped from doing anything more when something else grabs hold of him from behind, dragging him backwards, and he curses himself for his own stupidity for forgetting that there was already another one of these things in the kitchen area with him which he'd originally planned on killing first. Once more, he fights hard against it, tries to forcefully wriggle his way out of its arms and find some way to kick it down to the floor. At the same time, he feels around his belt for his Swiss army knife which he took to bringing it with him again and unsheathes it with his hand, intending to stab the creature in the eye in case his flailing kicks don't work.
He glimpses the shadow figure which he'd first attacked recover from his kick before it limps over to him frantically wrestling to break free from its companion's clutches. Its arms shoot out to seize him by the lapels, pulling him down, and something collides into his stomach hard, knocking the air out of him. Cry gasps in surprise, feeling his stomach explode in pain, his grip on his knife loosening and slipping out of his fingers to clatter onto the floor. The arms that are holding him let go and he collapses onto the ground, twitching and wheezing for breath, clutching the spot where he had been hit.
"–esus, fuck, Jim. Y'alright?" he hears a male voice float over his head.
"Yeah, 'm fine, Alistair. Just that my fucking leg still hurts," grumbles another male voice and Cry senses limping footsteps treading closer to him. "Thanks to this little shit," the voice adds with a heaving grunt.
And the pointed end of a boot rams into Cry's stomach for the second time and he buckles from the sharp blow, coughing and choking for breath. His eyes sting with tears and he sees dark spots blink across his vision, feels sharp pain sail through his form, paralysing him. He thinks he's close to throwing up or losing consciousness because he hasn't felt this much pain in ages. Just what the hell is going on?
When he opens his eyes and his vision focuses, he sees a man – a real, living, breathing man who wears a cowboy styled belt buckle – step over his curled up form and walk over to the table to adjust the lantern's glow, throwing the rest of the kitchen area into light. Cry glimpses a bearded jaw, a rugged pair of shoulders and the tired, wrinkled blue eyes of a man who appears older than his forty years. He casts a scrutinising glance at Cry and says over his paralysed figure, "Do you think he's one of Silva's boys?"
"Probably is," grunts his unseen companion.
Cry's mind finally clears a little and eventually, he finds himself becoming bewildered by this recent turn of events. He realises that he didn't just wrestle with a pair of undead zombies who had wandered close to him. He had lashed out against two living, breathing, talking men – the first human survivors whom he encounters for a long, long time. For the last couple of months, he and Pewdie had travelled around, feeling like they were the only two people left in the world. Now, they have finally come into contact with people.
"What's he got in there, Alistair?" asks the man named Jim and Cry is sure that this is the one who had landed the kick onto his stomach. "Lots of loot?"
Cry watches Alistair, the man with the belt buckle, drag his backpack closer, unzips it and begins to inspect the contents inside. Instantly, he feels his anger reawaken, tries to sit up despite feeling sore from the pain, and sharply snaps, "Hey! Don't you fucking touch that–!"
"What the hell? Stay down!" Cry feels a hand roughly grab onto the back of his collar, yanking him away from Alistair and he glances up and sees his handler's face. Sees wild red hair, lots of freckles and a one-day stubble. Cry is surprised to find him almost the same age as he is, if not a few years younger than him. The other man is glaring down at him through sleep-deprived eyes that's ringed with dark shadows and one corner of his lip is lifted upwards in a snarl like that of a displeased, ginger bulldog.
The outrage that Cry already feels at the realisation that these two people have come to steal his supplies further fuels his hatred for these two men, particularly towards the younger man, Jim. One look at the redheaded man standing above him had already made Cry hate him enough that he intends to crush his balls with his shovel the moment he finds an opportunity to break free from his clutches. So he fixes his most intimidating, defiant glare up at him, unable to stop himself from breathing heavily through his rage, from cursing inwardly in his head at the other man.
How dare you? Cry thinks furiously. How fucking dare you look at me like that? Who the fuck do you think you are? Stealing all my shit? You're all fucking dead. I am going to bash you up for kicking me in the gut, you stupid bastard. When I'm done with you, your friend's going to be next.
However, that thought of retaliation completely disappears when he feels something cold and metallic press onto the back of his neck. He freezes, unable to believe it at first.
It's only when he hears a click of a safety cap that he realises what it is.
Oh god, he thinks in horror. Oh god oh god oh fucking h–
"Don't think about doing anything," Jim warns, pressing what Cry is sure is a fucking gun harder onto his skin. "Or I'll blow your head off your fucking neck."
The warning leaves Cry momentarily speechless, caught between the fear and distress that's rising in his throat and the rage that's already simmering in his chest. On one hand, he's not sure what he's more terrified of – having a gun aimed at his face where he can see the trigger being pulled to end his life, or having it where he cannot see it and therefore no clue when it is he will die.
On the other, he's appalled that he's being threatened with a gun and is forced to stay still while he watches his and Pewdie's hard-earned supplies being taken away from him. He can't believe this crap. After all they've been through, he ends up getting ambushed and mugged in a fucking furniture shop. This isn't fair. This is bullshit. He isn't going to sit back and look helpless and weak in front of these two idiots. He wants to show them that he isn't someone to fuck around with.
"Jim, no," Cry hears Alistair scold from the table. Sees him stuffing the boxes of cookies from Cry's bag into his own and Cry unconsciously grits his teeth at the sight, wants to grab the boxes and shove it down their throats. "Don't waste your goddamn bullets," Alistair says. "And don't you dare kill him. We're not murderers."
"He damn well could've murdered me," Cry hears Jim mutter above him. The gun to his head hadn't so much shifted but Cry ignores that. Knows that fucking Jim doesn't have the guts to pull the goddamn trigger.
"What the hell–" Cry manages to growl quietly amidst his heavy, ragged, angry breathing. "The fuck are you guys doing? Those are our things."
"'Our things'?" says Jim and he bumps his foot against something that Cry can't see behind him which he guesses must be Pewdie's backpack. "So there's another one of you?"
The tone of interest in Jim's voice causes Cry to momentarily falter in his words. "Not anymore," he quickly says instead, hoping that his voice doesn't betray his lie. He's afraid that these two will hunt for Pewdie once they finish him off and he cannot let that happen. "I lost him a couple of hours ago," Cry continues on in a grim tone. "From those zombies outside. He's one of them now. I kept the bag. You've got no right to take those. Go get your own shit."
Alistair pauses for a moment, as if surprised by his words, and then shoots him a bewildered look. "You must be one of Silva's newer kids then," he murmurs and then sighs wearily. "Look son, I'm sorry about this," he continues apologetically. "And I'm sorry about what happened to your friend. But there are rules in this town. We fight for supplies. It used to be finders-keepers when it comes to raiding but things have been harder to get these days. So much harder that we've come to the point where we're just taking it from each other. We're all desperate, I know. But all of us have gotta live too. We got people – families to feed. So no hard feelings, kid. Consider yourself lucky we haven't killed you yet."
The explanation does nothing to reassure Cry but makes him angrier instead. He's so full of rage that he barely notices that his hands are shaking against his lap and that there's a gun pressed against the back of his head, ready to blow his brain apart. This is bullshit, he thinks instead. I don't care about any fucking rules. I'm not letting a couple of bandits jump me and nick all our shit. I am going to break your fucking faces, you sons of bitches.
"You're not breaking anything!" Jim suddenly snaps at him, yanking on the back of his collar and prods the barrel of the gun onto his skin. Cry tenses, realising that he had just muttered that threat aloud for the two men to hear. "If you so much move," Jim snarls. "I won't hesitate to kill you."
"Will you really?" Cry finds himself saying in a reckless sneer, despite the tension in his shoulders, despite the fact that his very life is on the line.
"What did you say?" Jim yells, sounding ready to break.
"Jim, no," Alistair says sharply, shooting a warning glare at the younger man. "Put the gun down."
"Yeah, and this guy will probably end up kicking me in the face," Jim shoots back, breathing almost heavily in rage as Cry is. "Damn it, I'm not taking no chances after everything that's happened to us. After Sandra and Steve got killed when we let that looter go out of sympathy. Or the time when those fucking bandits broke in and stole half of our supplies and Gracie couldn't even save her daughter from dying because there wasn't enough medicine. And Lily was already reaching her third birthday too, you know that? You don't even… not after..." his voice suddenly breaks and he suddenly sounds upset, full of hurt. "After Ben–"
"We've been through this before," Alistair says sadly even though he's giving the other man a stern look. "And yes, I know we shouldn't have let Ben near that goddamn housing estate. But just let it go, Jim. We've got the others to think about."
"You saw those things–" Jim grits out as he struggles to speak through his suddenly uneven breathing. "Those dead fuckers. All of them. Just jumped on him like a pack of wolves. He wasn't even around any of the houses. Just out on the main road. Stupid and careless like he always is. But he didn't deserve to get eaten alive like that. Torn into pieces. We couldn't even save him. I can't–"
"Jim," Alistair says softly. "This isn't the time."
"Maybe this is the time," Jim says and he seems to have forgotten that Cry is still sitting there, struck with newfound realisation because Cry remembers stepping outside their safe house to discover a group of zombies gorging on a man by the main road a couple of days ago. Dear lord. Could that have been the unfortunate Ben? Geez. He can just imagine how traumatic it is to witness your companion getting ripped into shreds and eaten by zombies. How that experience can tear you up bad from the inside.
"Jim," Cry hears Alistair say again, grimly this time. "No."
"You're always saying 'no'," snaps Jim and somehow he's withdrawing the gun from the back of Cry's neck to gesture at the air around him. "You don't want to talk about Ben. You don't want to get sad about it. But he was your nephew so I know you're even more upset about what happened to him than I am. So yes. Maybe this is the perfect time to talk about this."
"Jim, you're not thinking clearly again. You need to calm down," Alistair says, a note of anger apparent in his otherwise carefully chilled voice. Suddenly, Cry feels increasingly agitated because he feels Jim's fingers shaking where the latter is still gripping him by the back of his collar.
"I am fucking calm," Jim barks, sounding not-so-calm at all because his previous words seem to have no effect on Alistair. "I know I get a little nervous once in a while and–and I, I sometimes can't control my own feelings and–and fuck it. I'm calm, Alistair. So don't you tell me that I'm not! I'm just… Ben is–"
"Goddamn it. Don't go swinging that damn gun around, will you?" Alistair all but abandons his delving through Cry's bag and is motioning wildly for Jim to follow what he says.
"I'm not swinging anything around–!" Jim starts to say before the gun suddenly goes off in his hand.
The ensuing gunshot is so shockingly loud in his ears that Cry jumps a mile at the sound, unaware that he had let out a scream at the unexpected noise. He barely catches a glimpse of the kitchen area flashing red because for one terrifying second, he thinks he's been shot.
Now he's shaking violently in the aftermath, his body numb and incapable of moving from the shock, and he's whimpering and blabbering words which are incoherent and nonsensical under his breath. The blast had left his ears ringing a high-pitched ping which scrambles his thoughts and he finds himself unable to breathe properly. His breathing has become quick, shallow and erratic. All that anger, that rage and murderous intent which had simmered inside of him, all of that daring boldness, that bravado that he had possessed – all of that had somehow vanished, leaving him vulnerable to the absolute terror and panic that's quickly creeping into his bones, ready to overwhelm him with it.
Shitshitshitshitstopitstopitstopitstopitdon'tshoot medon'tkillmedon't– is what goes through his frenzied, frightened, panic-stricken mind and he isn't really sure if he's thinking it or snivelling it aloud. Pleasejustletmegoletmeoutofheredon'tshootmeplease.
"What…fucking hell…im…?" Alistair's voice goes in and out of focus amidst the high-pitched ringing in Cry's ears. "What…told you…holding that gun– god-fucking-dam...probably drawn every dead thing…attention….to us!"
"…was an accident!" Jim screeches. "I swear...didn't mean–!"
"This...like…housing estate...again!" Alistair is berating sharply and the fact that he doesn't sound as calm as before isn't helping the situation at all. "...flimsy trigger finger...you shot that car and drew the dead onto us... we couldn't shut...fucking car alarm!" Alistair roars, throwing his hands up in frustration.
"Damn it...told you...was an accident!" Jim says, his voice breaking in a frenzy and Cry's hearing finally begins to clear and it occurs to him that he's actually babbling out, "stop, stop, stop, stop, stop" over and over again without knowing it. Jim notices because he suddenly shouts, "And you! Shut the fuck up or I'll blow your fucking brains out!"
Cry flinches when he senses Jim point the gun at his head again and fights to keep his whimpering voice in his throat but fails. He's unable to listen to the rest of Alistair and Jim's heated exchange because he finds himself caught between two choices – to try to escape from their clutches now while they're distracted by their argument or to stay put and think of another plan. Except that he knows that he will die if he so much moves. Except that he knows that he will die the longer he stays here because something will eventually set Jim off and make him pull the trigger. Cry's inability to choose what to do in this unbearably stressful situation renders his mind to go completely blank like a computer freezing when too many programs are running at the same time. He's never felt so utterly helpless like this before – being unable to think, unable to act, unable to do anything except to wait for the moment when a bullet blasts his head apart.
And this – this is the worst thing that could happen. This is what scares the fuck out of him.
No, no, no, no, no, no – Cry feels his agitation and his distress rapidly climb as he hears Alistair and Jim's yells become increasingly hysterical and he can't focus on what they're saying, doesn't know when it's going to come to the part when they turn their attention to him and kill him. Don't do this now don't do this now please what are you saying I can't deal with this just let me go please, please, please, no, no–
"...He was going to move and kill us if we don't do it first!" he manages to catch what Jim is saying.
"I wasn't going to do anything!" Cry finds himself stupidly screaming aloud, unable to stand the tension in the air.
"Shut the fuck up!"
"Jim, drop the fucking gun!"
"Do as he says!"
"Say one more word and I swear to god I'll pull the trigger!"
"Jim, no!"
"Don't! Don't try to stop me!"
"If you lay one hand on that boy–"
"No, I didn't do anything!"
"I'm warning you, Jim!"
"Just stop it!"
"Alistair, no!"
"Jim, don't you fucking do it–!"
"I'm sorry."
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, please – Cry is freaking the fuck out because he doesn't know what's happening, whether Jim is ready to pull the trigger on him because Cry can't see can't lift his head can't move a muscle can't dodge a bullet if I can't move why can't I fight back I can't run can't hide oh shit why can't I do anything why can't I do something I don't know what to do I don't know what the fuck to do I'm just sitting here waiting to die oh god please I don't want this can't make myself do anything I'm scared he's gonna kill me shoot me Alistair shut up shut up don't set him off stop it I can't take this anymore fuck, fuck, make it all stop I don't like this I don't know what to do just stop just end this now just end this now just end this now–
And then the whole building suddenly erupts into the loud, continuous ringing sound of fire alarm bells, shattering the already tensed atmosphere, startling all three of them out of their wits. Alistair stumbles backwards and crashes into the table, making the plastic apple tumble off the edge. Jim yells, jumping a foot into the air and almost drops his gun. Cry chokes back another scream, thinks he's been shot for real this time, thinks that he's just had a heart attack.
"What the fuck?" Jim gasps, sounding frightened. His suddenly tiny voice is barely heard over the alarm bells.
"We've got to go," Alistair says, suddenly composed and gathers his and Cry's backpacks, hoisting them both on his broad shoulders. "Grab that bag you got there and let's get out of here before the horde comes and surrounds this damn building."
"But what about–" Jim says, motioning towards a petrified Cry.
"Forget him. Let's go!" Alistair yells sharply before he grabs the still limping Jim and they both take off without another backwards glance at him.
The fire alarm continues to ring after they leave and it's only about a couple of seconds later that Cry finally wills himself to move. He gasps for breath, whimpering and shaking and sobbing as he scrambles onto his shaky feet, cursing when he stumbles a little because he just wants to collapse and break into pieces, but the thought of a zombie horde coming after him forces him to focus on this new danger at hand. He quickly scans around the floor, snatches up the only things that are left behind – his shovel and Swiss army knife, and runs for his life.
(Oh my god. Phew. What.)
Notes time. This chapter - particularly Pewdie's bit - may seem a bit long but I wanted to emphasize on the teamwork they had going on as they try to get from point A to point B in addition to how well they're getting along after the church incident. (Damn, notice just how good they seem with each other now?) If you were sharp enough, you'd recognise that the boosting up and travelling across planks of wood are reminiscent of one of the games they both played. There are other gameplay references in here too but are much more subtle in nature so congrats if you got them.
As for Cry's bit, I made him react more with rage when in a situation like this because I imagine he would use his anger to put up a bold and brave front which then crumbles the moment he realises that the gun is actually real and will definitely kill him. Also, Cry's whimpering of "no, no, no, stop, stop, stop, please, stop" is pretty much inspired by his gameplay of the game, Imscared.
Alistair and Jim were a challenge to write because I really wanted to portray them as not entirely bad guys because there's a reason why they're stealing Cry and Pewds's things. Particularly Jim who isn't someone we should hate - even though we may feel that way because we're following Cry's perspective - we can't blame him for his behaviour since he's gone through a lot of trauma and is "taking no chances after everything that's happened".
Oh by the way. Cry meets people. Survivors like them. Hurrah. Or not?
Reviews of any kind - tell me what you liked about this monster chapter, dear readers - are always appreciated. See you next chapter then.