Francis wanted nothing more than to curl up in his armoire, with a good novella in one hand, a glass of well-aged Bordeaux in the other, and his favorite collections of Ravel and Daft Punk playing in the background. Instead, he was pressed into a wet, dirty, brick wall, holding a pair of hastily manufactured Molotovs, and he could hear the shrieks of the undead over the sounds of his labored breathing and pounding heart. The slapping of their limbs against the walls rang and their lower extremities made sick squelching noises as their feet and ankles became twisted, mangled ruin in their hurry.

It was much too dark for Francis.

Not even Bastille had frightened him so.

Those less-than-men - - - those monsters, those slaves to their need - - - sent his already addled mind reeling with panic. It made his chest tight with revulsion. He needed to be sick.

"Now?"

"Wait for it!" Arthur snapped.

Francis whined and ground his teeth, stoppering his throat with his tongue. He was going to be sick. They were getting closer; he could hear them. Like the feet of the Gestapo, he heard them coming. Mon deu.

"Now-?"

"I said wait!"

The keening cry of one of them pierced the air like a victorious roar, as if it knew they were there in the narrow passage. The others picked up the sound. The gurgling of torn throats and broken maws sent another surge through Francis. He saw movement in the dark.

"ANGLETERRE!"

"Volley!"

Both men heaved their arms and the bottles of cheap sherry created an arch of light above them. Francis briefly saw one of the corpses running toward them before it and its fellows were suddenly consumed by blossoms of rose-colored flame. They turned and ran, their footfalls sounding the same to the terrified Frenchman.

"They're gaining, Angleterre-!"

"Keep running, man! Don't look back and keep running! So, help me, God, I will not rescue you if you fall behind!" Arthur said.

The two men hurtled through the wet, dank dark of the tunnel. They refused to slow their pace, even when the inhuman shrieking at their backs no longer reached their ears. The tunnels continued in an endless maze. Francis was already disoriented, and he had no inkling of where under London he could possibly be. He snapped at Arthur.

"You had to stop to off those things! What was the point of all that, anyway? We were nearly eaten as a result! Again!"

"Oi!" Arthur huffed. "I bought us a nice bit of time with 'all that,' so I don't want to hear any lip from you, frog!"

Francis gave an indignant squawk: "Don't you pretend I haven't noticed! You've gotten us lost!"

"Lost! I-! I never-!" Arthur spluttered.

Francis skidded to a stop as they came to an intersection. "I adamantly refuse to go another meter of my own free will until you can adequately relate to me our exact location. And, sil vou plait, you tell me exactly where this tunnel to the docks is."

Arthur stopped short and threw a dirty look at the Frenchman. He flailed for a moment, making whining noises.

"Oh, sod me, Francis, I know it's only a little farther. I know it is!"

"You said that before we were ambushed by more of those rotting dogs!" Francis said. "You said that before the fucking rats! You said that before we stopped to light our little following on fire!"

"It is, Francis! And we made it through all those run-ins without a single scratch!" Arthur took a step farther down the tunnel. "C'mon, man, are you going to pull out the white flag when we've already come this far?"

Francis scowled, and Arthur could have sworn he heard the Frenchman growl. "I fully resent that. You still haven't answered my question: where the hell are we?"

"Under London! Somewhere between the docks and Parliament-"

"Anyone could have told me that!" Francis shrieked. "I'm willing to bet my whole kitchen that even one of those zombies would have given me better directions!"

Arthur glowered at Francis, rumbling filling his ears. "I'm doing my best, given the circumstances!"

Francis must have snarled, his lip pulled back to expose his teeth: "Your best might kill us! I refuse to go anywhere else with you - I'd rather be eaten alive!"

A blur flew from one of the other intersections, pushing Francis from his spot and dragging him into the dark of the adjacent tunnel.

Arthur stood there for a brief second in shock, the scream of terror jolting him to action. He drew his Enfield and charged after the hulking beast he'd glimpsed. He shot down the tunnel, gun blazing before him. The creature dropped Francis and turned on Arthur, long tongue slithering from jaws of sheer muscle and bone. It leapt toward the Britton with massive claws reaching. Arthur aimed true, lodging several bullets into where he assumed were its eyes. It shrieked and stumbled. It fell to slide through the muck of the tunnel to Arthur's feet. Slowly, he lowered his gun.

"…Francis?"

He was answered with a groan. He jogged down the tunnel to where the Frenchman lay. Francis sat up, cradling a severely mangled arm. He looked up at Arthur.

"…I take it back. I don't want to be eaten."

Arthur shook his head and helped Francis to stand, the pair limping down the tunnel away from the still-twitching carcass.