Disclaimer: I forgot to mention in the first chapter, dear readers, that this story is rated T for language, violence and, sadly, character death. If this disturbs you, well… what didja expect from a zombie fic?

"So…"

"Yeah, so…"

Skittery struggled to think of something to say. He didn't want to sell with Specs today – he had his own reasons for this. Nevertheless, he didn't want to be rude. They were, after all, good friends. Close friends, one could say.

"Is that… is that a new bowler hat?"

Specs motioned to the hat in question. "What, this old thing? Nah, it's—"

The ground beneath them suddenly began to vibrate. It wasn't strong enough to be described as an earthquake, but it definitely could not be attributed to a nearby trolley. Specs reached out and grabbed Skittery's arm to maintain his balance. A woman screamed, a child fell. Some vegetables rolled out of a merchant's cart and were stomped upon by a frightened horse, knocking its policeman owner to the cobblestones.

"What's goin' on?" Skittery heard Mush cry out, afraid. Instantly, the tremor stopped.

Those who had fallen were cautiously standing upright again; everyone was looking at the sky, despite the convulsions coming from below the earth. Skittery couldn't help but notice that Specs hadn't let go of his arm yet. Jack Kelly wiped the sweat from his brow and squinted at the sun.

"Must've been a nearby trolley," he said.

"Thank ya kindly." Snitch tipped his hat to the customer and pocketed the two pennies hungrily. He looked to where Itey was standing on the opposite side of the street and called to him. "Itey! Hey, Itey – 'at guy bought two papes 'cuz o' my phony headline! What about you?"

"Not doin' so good," he answered, forlornly surveying the uninhabited area.

"Yeah, maybe we should move to a different spot; this place seems pretty dead." Itey nodded in agreement. "And maybe ya should learn how to sell," Snitch added under his breath. He adjusted his cap and they turned the corner together, when Snitch nearly tripped over an abandoned fruit cart.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I—" He looked around and his eyes lit up in realization. "There ain't nobody mannin' this! Let's take some, huh?"

Itey bit his lip. "I dunno, Snitch… what if he's just, y'know, takin' a leak somewhere. He could be back any sec, and I don't wanna have the bulls after me—"

"Aw, c'mon, there ain't no one around! 'S the quietest I've seen this place in a long while, come to think of it." He loaded his pockets with apples and tomatoes, biting into one or two and throwing the bad ones away. "Boy oh boy, this is great! What're ya waitin' for, Itey? We'll be eatin' good tonight. Maybe I can even gamble with a few of 'em… Racetrack'd probably like the tomatoes…"

But Itey wasn't paying attention. He was staring, transfixed, at a booted foot on the ground behind the cart. A booted foot that was presumably attached to a leg, attached to a person.

"I… er… uh… he…"

"This is why we don't let ya speak, Itey – ya don't make any damned sense. Hey, there's pears back here! We hit the gold mine, yessiree!"

"But… but… but…"

"I ain't had tomatoes in God knows how long. Say, you's Italian, maybe you and Race could whip us up some sauce, eh?" he laughed. Finally he stopped and glanced over at his speechless friend. Itey's face was flushed and trembling. Snitch narrowed his eyes. "Hey, Itey, you ain't gonna snitch on me, are ya? You gonna be a goody-two shoes and—"

But Snitch didn't get to finish that thought, because suddenly the booted foot was up and moving and so was the person connected to it. But the person didn't look like a person – he had sickly, graying skin and milky white eyes and a twisted, wide-open mouth and was stumbling toward them as if his bones couldn't bend and…

…and Itey couldn't quite watch as Snitch was dragged behind the cart, screaming for help and then silenced. So he ran.

David and Jack walked hand in hand down the street, selling papers with smiles on their faces.

Well, in David's mind they did.

In reality, he was lagging behind Jack's steady stride, carrying a full fifty papes and wondering why the road was so deserted. The last street they'd been down was sparse with people, and it seemed every new corner they took contained less and less. Since David had met Jack, he'd never seen the Cowboy sell less than thirty of the morning edition. Today he'd sold only five, and it looked like they had reached their limit. What was going on?

"What's goin' on, Dave?" Jack asked, a hint of anxiety in his voice. "Why ain't there any people around?"

David was secretly flattered that Jack assumed he would have the answer – that he would always have the answer for everything.

"Um, I dunno, Jack. I'm really confused – I've never seen the city like this before."

"There's gotta be a reason for this." Jack stopped so suddenly Dave nearly walked right into him. "It ain't supposed to rain, is it? Or is there some big to-do I don't know about that's got everybody in one spot?"

"Not that I know of. The sky's clear and kinda, y'know, pretty." Jack looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "And if there was an event going on, it'd be in the paper, right?" David added, cheeks tinged pink.

"Right." Jack adjusted his bandana and looked around. A tumbleweed rolled lazily by – an actual tumbleweed. That was the last straw.

"That's it!" he announced, throwing back his hair in annoyance. "We's takin' a lunch break."

Skittery lived his life by a few simple words: Kill the competition, sell the next edition. It didn't matter if the world was trembling beneath his feet; as long as he had copies of the World to sell, his business wasn't done for the day. The mantra repeated through his head now as he walked, his stick punctuating it every few beats.

He had informed Specs that he'd rather sell alone today, but still he knew the boy was not far – probably only a street or two down at the most. Things had gotten… a little funny, lately, between them, and he wasn't so sure he wanted to find out in what way they'd gotten funny exactly. Not just yet, at any rate.

Kill the competition… Kill the competition…

Ironic that Skittery lived for confrontation, yet he all he seemed to be doing lately was avoiding his best friend.

"'New Well Underground is… Making Life Hell for New York'," he called out to no one. Only a horse-drawn carriage – with no one driving, oddly enough – passed by. He was almost glad the streets were (strangely, eerily) empty because his headline adjustments were even embarrassing him. "'Well Ain't So Swell for People Who… Don't Feel Well.'"

Ugh. He was making himself sick. Maybe the guys were right, all those times they'd called him "morose 'n doltish". He'd never quite understood why they insisted on that nickname before now, but if he couldn't even take a simple caption and sell even one stinking pape, well…

"Maybe I should just give up," he muttered aloud. "I'se too stupid to do a damned thing right by anyone."

"Ya dumbass… ya dumbass! …Ya damned dumbass…"

"Alright, brain, I get the point!" Skittery shouted at himself, when he suddenly realized that the words were coming from another source. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Itey running toward him, panic-stricken and pale-faced. He didn't seem to be looking at Skittery and would've sailed right past him, had he not grabbed Itey by the shoulders and whirled him around.

"Hey, Itey, what're ya—"

"Ya dumbass, Snitch… ya God-damned dumbass! Why did ya… did ya…" His eyes were unfocused and he didn't appear to know where he was.

"Itey, what's wrong? Are ya okay?"

"I—Snitch is—dumbass—"

Skittery shook him a little, getting nervous himself. "What happened to Snitch? What're ya sayin'?"

Itey finally looked at Skittery, horror in his eyes. "He's dead! Some guy killed Snitch – killed him cold dead!"

Skittery probably wouldn't have been able to believe him if Itey hadn't then fainted away in his arms.

Dutchy was still stomping along bitterly, taking out his frustration on the soles of his shoes, when he became chillingly aware that he was alone.

In New York City. Completely alone.

He strained his ears for sound. No trolleys raking past, no clopping of hooves and clicking of wheels, no shouts of newsboys and salesman, no responding buyers and hagglers. Just the whistle of wind sweeping through alleyways, and a distant moaning that Dutchy couldn't place as anything recognizable, like one of pain or (dare he think it) arousal… no, it was just moaning, without any feeling attached.

He shivered in the sunlight.

Turning down the next street, he jumped back as if something bit him and hid behind the wall. He took in a deep breath, peered slowly past it and witnessed a truly horrible sight:

Skittery and Specs together, heads close and talking in hushed, secretive whispers. Dutchy scowled.

Sure, Skittery also happened to be propping up an unconscious Itey, and there was a look of alarm on both their faces rather than one traditional of romantic interludes, but they were together nonetheless, and it was driving Dutchy crazy. He was supposed to be the one by Specs's side. He was the one with glasses and stunningly magnificent blonde hair – a perfect complement to the chocolate-haired, bespectacled boy. Skittery couldn't even drag a comb through that ridiculous mop, for God's sake.

He had had enough of being ignored. Dutchy was going to go over there and tell them once and for all how he felt: that he belonged to Specs and Specs belong to him, and that's all there was to it.

But then someone had to go and rip his arm from his body, and Dutchy couldn't tell them a thing.