Stan's legs ached with cramps by the time Kenny's tantrum ended.

Neither he nor Ike dared to move the entire time, for fear of becoming the attention of Kenny's explosive aggression. Huddled by the single candle Ike had lit, now a midget stump of wax, Stan tried to focus on the candle as it melted in thick, languid drops. He didn't dare to speak. Not even to Ike, who was so white even his freckles were pale as Kenny stormed behind them. Ike pulled his legs close to his chest and curled into a ball. The flickering light revealed shadows in his arms, crevices of muscle and bone where flesh should be. His eyes were hollow and hungry, but strange, like a mannequin's gaze. It was painfully clear that Ike was deteriorating, in more ways than one.

But then Kenny gave the garage door one last kick, and every inch of him trembled as he gasped for air. Ripe sweat soaked his skin, dampening his hair a rich gold. He doubled over, collapsing onto his knees and hands. Every speck of the manic energy that had possessed Kenny was burned up and out, smoking in the air like the barrel of a gun, and he collapsed to the floor, defeated.

Stan stayed still as ice. He didn't dare move, unsure if Kenny might be playing dead to draw him near. Stan was always careful not to underestimate others.

"Stan." Kenny's voice was rough as gravel, and his breath harsh. "I gotta get out of here."

"Then go," Stan heard himself say. "Open the door. Get out."

"But…the zombies…"

"Kenny, get out now," A strange fury rang in Stan's ears. "I don't care. Leave."

Something flickered over Kenny's face, but before Stan could say anything, he turned and gripped the chain of the garage door. Gave it two violent tugs, reeling the door up just enough to slip under. Kenny glanced back at Stan, his handsome green eyes unreadable. Then he gave a final tug, releasing the chain and slipping under just in time for the garage door to slam shut behind him.

For some reason, hearing the metal crash choked Stan and he gasped for air, motion heaving through his lungs like the ocean. He didn't know what possessed him, some horrible crushing…emotion that ran through his veins white hot and left him dizzy enough to puke. The storage shed seemed infinitely darker without Kenny, quiet as a grave. Colder too, the air that leaked in when Kenny made his escape was brisk, and goosebumps prickled Stan's neck.

Beside him Ike released a rattling breath. He stared at Stan with wide eyes. Lips parted in shock, arms and legs curled into him like he was trying to become as small as possible. When he did speak, his voice shook like a leaf.

"He's gone."

Swallowing the pill in his throat, Stan nodded. "Yeah." He didn't know whether or not he should move closer to Ike, whether that would comfort the boy or cause him to flinch away. Still, some magnetic force pulled him, and he moved closer. Perhaps it was his own loneliness, growing achingly large with Kenny's departure. After all the time Stan had spent alone, he figured that such a loneliness was numbed over time. There was no way to he could have predicted it would burst forth so readily from the moment it was fed.

Ike let him draw near, remaining motionless. Wetness tracked down his cheeks and he sniffed occasionally. Suddenly a strange look rippled over Ike's face and he doubled over, hacking and coughing as a pale yellow liquid poured from his mouth.

Stan moved to Ike's side, taking the boy's shoulders and holding him up, letting him relax forward without falling into his own vomit. It was a good thing he did too, for Ike went limp the moment Stan took hold of him. Fear gripped Stan, and he set Ike down, trying to get a look at his face.

"Ike," he muttered as he lay Ike down, curled on his side like a child in case he vomited again. "Ike, can you hear me?"

Eyes closed, Ike nodded. Dribbles of yellow fluid were still on his lips, and the stink from the pool of vomit was terrible, acrid and bringing a sour taste to the back of Stan's tongue. He swallowed, willing his stomach not to follow the boy's lead. Ike gasped again, fingers clenched around nothing. Immediately Stan unzipped his beaten jacket and draped it over the boy, even though Ike was already wearing the fall coat Kyle had picked for him the day of the raid. Ike trembled as though he was stripped naked in a freezing blizzard, wind and snow cutting to the bone.

"Ike," said Stan, rubbing a hand over Ike's shoulder blades, so prominent they felt like dinner plates. "We have to leave here. We need to find Kyle."

"Kenny," mumbled Ike. "He was…a monster."

Stan closed his eyes. He did not know whether he believed the answer he gave or not. "Yeah."

"Leo's dead, and Kenny's gone," Ike's words held an eerie beat, as though they were still thoughts.

"I'm still here, Ike," Stan answered immediately. "I'm always gonna be here, you hear me?"

"I don't know that." The corners of Ike's lips turned down in a grimace and he sobbed. "First Kyle's gone, then Leo, then Kenny…"

"Kyle's still out there."

"We don't know that," said Ike, hardly a whisper.

"Yes we do," said Stan through clenched teeth. There was no other possibility he would consider. "He's out there, Ike. We gotta find him. Let's go."

Whether it was from Stan's prodding or his own will, Ike stirred. Slowly, he propped himself up with feeble arms and wiped the vomit from his chin. Shrugged off Stan's jacket and handed it back. Zipped his coat to the chin. Stood up, slowly. His jeans were rumpled around the leg, entirely too loose. It was scary to see.

"Christ," said Stan, shaking his head. "We gotta get you some food."

Despite the paleness of his face, Ike raised a brow. "Me? Have you seen yourself lately?" His voice flitted like a bird, and his eyes were still dull. His tone was disdainful. "You're a wreck."

Ignoring the jab, Stan slipped his jacket on, the thick leather weighing on his skin like a comforter. There was nothing of service in the room, just a heap of useless antiques and furniture. There was no food, as Stan realized that somewhere in the confusion his backpack went missing. Desperation seizing him, he patted his pockets only to find them flat. Stan turned to Ike.

"Check your pockets."

Confused, Ike did so. He pulled out the empty linings and pressed his lips in a thin line.

"Shit." Stan cursed aloud. He thought maybe Kyle would have packed something, that over-protective nurturing instinct wanting to make sure Ike was properly fed.

"There was a granola bar," said Ike. "I ate it already. It was bad."

"Bad?"

"Expired."

Then it was clear- all they could do was move on. Stan racked his brains, thinking off all the possible food sources in a great abandoned city.

"Here's the plan" said Stan, "We find a roof, climb it. When we're safe, we look for a grocery store or restaurant. Anyplace with stored food."

"Not Kyle?"

It pained Stan to say it. "Food has to be our first priority." When Ike turned away, Stan scrambled to correct himself. "We can't keep on the way we are, our bodies will give out on us. We're weak."

Ike agreed in the end, but still, he left Stan with a deeply uneasy feeling. He hardly looked Stan in the eye, surveyed the relics in the storage garage with something like he was peering down at a pile of maggots. A muscle jumped about his jaw. Slowly, Ike reached down and picked up a broken vase, its colour indiscernible from the candle light. His thumb circled over the smooth pottery, a precise movement. For a full second Stan wondered if he would throw it. Then, smooth faced, Ike replaced the broken piece back to the floor.

"Not sharp enough to be a weapon," muttered Ike. His head was still bowed as though he was addressing the floor.

Stan shook himself, returning the breath to his body. "Alright then, just leave it. Are you ready to go?"

"No."

Stan frowned, but before he could open his mouth, Ike replied. "But let's go. I'd rather die out in the sun than in some lady's dusty old locker."

So they left, taking great care to sidestep the pool of vomit left by Ike near the front. The candle they extinguished. It would be too difficult to keep alive while carrying it, and left unattended, it might start a fire. Stan held the door up for Ike, who wedged a crate beneath it to keep it up. They smuggled underneath like soldiers, and Stan was relieved to find that there were no zombies close by. Just a few old ones swaying precariously in the distance, threatening to fall over the moment a wind came. Kenny must have led them all away. Stan hoped that Kenny hadn't meant to, that he'd tried to get away as quickly as possible. But the terrible truth that sank in as Stan looked around the barren, silent streets, was that Kenny still rooted for their survival. Even after everything that happened.

"Look," said Ike, pointing to dark splotches on the asphalt as Stan's suspicions were confirmed. "Blood. Is it Kenny's?"

"Probably," Stan swallowed. "He probably, uh…" Stan made the cutting motion of a blade against his palms. "To make a scent."

The day was cool and grey, faded like a tossed out newspaper. Clouds stretched over the sky like pulled cotton. Stan and Ike walked alongside one another in silence for the most part. There was no need to scramble up the nearest building, as it seemed that Kenny's blood had enticed every zombie within a mile radius. Stan wondered if there was something in it that drew zombies like ravenous piranhas. The opposite of Tweak's repellent blood. In any case, it had helped more than Kenny could know. Stan wondered where he had gone. Perhaps they would find him with Kyle and be reunited. The thought was pleasant, Stan found. He hoped it was true.

Ike stopped walking suddenly, and for a moment Stan was confused. Then he followed the boy's darkening gaze down the alleyway, and the setting became familiar. Horribly familiar. The body was still there, crumpled and small, the face completely shredded and bloodied by the bullet's impact. A few closer steps revealed that the stomach was torn wide open, crudely, by undead fingers, blood so dark it looked black pooled inside. The smell gagged him, but Stan forced his eyes away. He couldn't let this be his last memory of Butters.

Ike's lip quivered, and Stan worried he might vomit again. With nothing left to throw up but stomach acid, Ike would retch and burn his throat. But with resolve, the boy clenched his fists in his pockets and swallowed. Carefully, Stan put his hand on Ike's shoulder and led him away. They exchanged no words, but Ike crept his hand to Stan's and held it tight, not looking at him.

"It's almost normal now," said Ike after they had walked a while. The sun, though dimmed by clouds, moved languidly through the sky. "It doesn't feel like he's dead. Just like he's on vacation or something. Like he'll be back."

"He won't be," muttered Stan.

"It's the same with all of them. I keep forgetting. I imagine all of them with Kyle, right now. Red, Craig, Leo… Like they just got separated from us for a bit. Like us and Kyle."

"But it's different, Ike. You have to understand that. They're not coming back." A prick ran down Stan's throat. "They're dead."

He waited for Ike to respond, but the boy didn't say anything. Instead, he tightened his hand around Stan's, the other shoved firmly in his coat pocket.

Eventually they stumbled across a ransacked grocery store in one of the strip mall areas. Massive and plainly erected, it had held up well during the years of apocalyptic activity. Still, the automatic doors were broken, forced permanently open. Shopping carts were strewn about the lot like cows in a meadow, some tipped over, a few broken beyond repair. Stan grabbed a decent cart and rolled it towards the entrance.

"That's optimistic," remarked Ike of the large cart as he followed Stan closely, watching warily for signs of danger.

Stan shrugged. "It's for you, actually. Hop in."

Ike rolled his eyes, but the gesture warmed Stan. He was so relieved just to hear Ike talk.

They passed through the entrance and into the supermarket. Chaotic echoes of shouting and fighting were everywhere, in the crushed food on the floor, the toppled shelves, the broken cash registers cleaned of money. The smells were strange and varied- rotting meat, mothballs, cleaner fluid, an unidentifiable sweetness that lingered in the air. Massive square glass windows lined the walls, lighting the store considerably, for which Stan was grateful. There were no sounds, which was eerie. To be inside a store utterly devoid of sound, even the retail hum of the electricity running through the lights, was like attending a funeral in a church. Quiet, very quiet, and haunted. Even without the obvious clatter of the undead, Stan knew better than to let his guard down. He expected to find at least one dead body in here.

"Is there a tools section?" asked Stan, squinting at the signs overhead each aisle. The words danced before him, meaningless, but Ike nodded. "Find a wrench, or a hammer. Something you can carry, that has leverage."

"Leverage?"

"I want you to feel like you could bash a skull open with it." Stan demonstrated, swinging with his free hand in a fist. "Do that while I find something to eat."

Looking less than excited, Ike swallowed and left. Splitting up left Stan with an uneasiness in his stomach too, but he knew it was necessary to instill the feeling in Ike. This way they were able to work quicker, cover more ground, and get more done. On a darker note, if they were ever attacked, splitting up was the best way to ensure the survival of at least one of them. Ike couldn't learn that clinging to him like a lost child was okay. Although it was certainly a habit that Kyle encouraged in him from a young age, Stan was sure. The only one you can rely on is you, and the sooner he learns that, the better off he'll be

Following his nose rather than the signs, Stan found the canned goods, cereals and breakfast bars. There was a measly selection left to choose from. A thick layer of dust coated the shelves, with crushed boxes and loose cereal scattered all over the floor. But a precious few remained intact. Ripping the cardboard open and sniffing inside, Stan sorted through what was bad, what was good, what was at least salvageable in a pinch, pausing every few seconds to shove a greedy mouthful of whatever he held at the moment down his throat. After going so long without, his stomach gurgled with excitement. He was surprised that there was food left at all. The infection must have spread through this city faster than starvation did. The undead don't care much for granola

Sudden footsteps seized Stan's heart, but it was only Ike. The small boy held a large metal hammer with a black handle, about the length of his forearm, out for Stan to see.

"How's this?"

Stan nodded. "That's perfect. You're not gonna get tired holding that?"

"I don't think so."

Stan motioned for Ike to come over. "Eat something. There's loads here."

Together they picked through the remaining goods, Ike nibbling on a granola bar all the while. His bites were worryingly small, but Stan refrained from saying anything. He supposed it was better for Ike to eat a little bit and get used to food again, than it was for him to stuff himself until he was sick. Something Stan remembered doing more than once, and regretting it every single time. You wind up puking everything back out, he remembered scornfully. What a waste.

"We should find you a bag," said Stan, breaking Ike's concentration as he surveyed the back of a rainbow coloured cereal box, faded from time. "You need to have something to carry things with."

"You've got a bag," said Ike absently, still reading.

"Well, you need one too. I can't carry it all."

Frowning, Ike held the cereal box in thought for a moment. Then he set it down and picked up a new box, some adult's bran cereal, and began to examine the nutritional contents there. His eyebrows furrowed hard in concentration, perhaps too hard. The whole gesture seemed forced.

"What if we get split up?" Stan asked, remembering to be gentle. "You won't have anything but your hammer."

Ike shrugged. He set the new box down. "We should probably take this one, it has iron in it."

Stan wrinkled his nose. "It has metal in it?"

"Iron, like the vitamin. It's good for you."

Stan pictured pouring a box of tiny iron nails into a cereal bowl, making tiny clinks as they rattled. He suppressed a shudder, imagining the scratch of metal down his throat.

"It's in the human blood," Ike continued. "Statistics say that one in six people have an iron deficiency. Women need more iron than men."

Unsure how to respond, Stan nodded. As he looked at Ike, he noticed the faraway gaze with which Ike recalled information, and how something of a twinkle sneaked behind his eyes. Not quite, but almost.

Stan and Ike crammed the backpack full of granola bars and sealed baggies of cereal. Lugging around bulky cereal boxes was just too impractical, so the boys chose from what was the least spoiled and salvaged those bits. In the end they wound up with a wonderful bounty, Stan's backpack weighing on his shoulders considerably more. Ike held one of the baggies in his hand, still nibbling absentmindedly at Stan's encouragement.

The silence between them was not as cold.

WELL HELLO THERE

It's been, what, ninety days since the last update? Aha, and you thought I was dead. Nope, not quite. I have one word for you all. University.

If you're still reading this, or reading it for the first time, please leave a review! It helps me considerably.

Thank you so much, and have a lovely day