Alex was alone - Oh, dear God Lord in heaven Jesus Christ almighty - he was alone. He was alone, in the middle of the night, in some dead stranger's rundown kitchen, with zombies prowling outside. He hid his face in against his knees as he tried to keep quiet. There were tears in his eyes, and he couldn't stop himself from shedding a few. They rolled thickly down his cheeks; he clamped his hand over his mouth to keep himself from being too loud. He couldn't let the monsters outside know where he was. Even still. He was going to die. This is it. This is the end. His name won't go down in history because there will be no history anymore. Everything he ever worked for is pointless now. Everything's over. This dirty kitchen floor will be his resting place; and if that didn't match his life perfectly, then nothing would.

He didn't even have a gun anymore. He stupidly dropped it when that man swung his bat at him. There was nothing Alexander could do except wait for a zombie to come find him. Eliza always joked that he wouldn't survive a month without her. Who knew she was absolutely right?

Oh, Eliza. There was the bright side to this, he supposed. Now he got to see his sweet girl once more. And his kids. Would they all share a heaven? Are they watching him now? What would they say?

It's okay to let go now, Daddy.

Alex swallowed hard, his heart clenching as he imagined meeting his kids once more. His little Angie would squeal with joy and run into his arms. Philip, the poor boy, would cry; unable to hold back his emotions at seeing his father once more. And Eliza? Eliza would kiss him one more time, praise him for making it so far. Just a week or two. Is that considered far into the apocalypse? Would she be proud? He hoped so. Otherwise, what was he even trying for?

Despite it all, Jefferson would probably be fine. Whether James is alive or not doesn't matter. Jefferson's strong, healthy, smart, resourceful - as much as Alex hated to admit it. He'd survive this apocalypse without breaking a sweat; while Alexander is left miles behind, hiding in the corner.

Alex let out a sharp sob, unable to muffle it with his fingers. There's a sudden banging from the front door. Alex was never very fond of door-to-door salesmen, but he briefly considers letting this one in. The banging gets louder and louder, until it's the only thing Alex can hear. A small whine escapes him. His hand slips under his shirt, under his binder, and his nails dig into his skin. What's it matter now? He's going to die, so it doesn't matter.

Hush. A voice said in his ears; paradoxically nonexistent and right beside him. A ghost of arms wrap around him, sending the hairs on the back of his neck upright. His nails halt their attack; his sobs quiet. He knows this voice.

"...Eliza…?" Alex whispered, his voice no more than a broken cry.

Not yet, love. The voice tells him. You can't die yet.

And then the ghost is gone, leaving him alone once more, zombies still pounding outside. He opens his eyes, furiously wiping away tears. He chewed on his lip, his eyes darting out to look outside the window, up at the sky. The moon tried its hardest to be seen from behind the thick clouds. Alex could only catch the smallest of glimpses at its gorgeous shine. But it was enough.

Out of nowhere, a new emotion sparked deep inside him. It clawed itself deep from inside his chest, slicing through the dark thoughts that suffocated him. He took a deep breath, gaining power from this intense force.

And what was it that gave him the strength to stand up and crack his knuckles? What was strong enough to encourage him to kick open the door to the garage; to sift through the random house's junk; to find an axe among a pile of rakes and skateboards? What could possibly be so persistent to change the mind of Alexander Hamilton?

Spite.

When all else fails, always resort to spite.

Alex lets out a growl as he steps up to the backdoor, which was still slid open since Jefferson's retreat. The night air is cold, the trees in the yard sway with the wind. There is no moon; clouds hide any light from his eyes. In the distance, he can hear the growls and shuffling of his enemy.

Quickly, he decides which way is the highway; then he tightens his grip on his axe, and runs. As he disappears into the night, the zombies just managed to break down the front door. By the time they made it into the kitchen, Alex had already jumped the first fence and was gone.

At first, his only obstacles are the fences separating lawns. It slows him down, having to climb one after the other, but he'd rather take this route than be out in the open on the streets. He's not sure he can outrun a horde of zombies; sprinting for miles and miles to the highway. His adrenaline would give up at some point. His binder would become too tight. His spite would run dry. At least with this route, he stood a chance. He doesn't think the zombies are smart enough to climb over the tall fences, or strong enough to break through the metal ones. He jumps down from a particularly tall wooden fence, stumbling a bit. Curse his short stature. Thomas must've gone through these backyards easily. That tall ass motherfucker. Or did he take his chances, sprinting down the street? He's got long legs, he'd probably would've been fine. Asshole.

Alex climbed onto an abandoned dog's house at the other side of the yard, using it to climb back up over the next fence. A deep growl made him pause before he climbed over. Standing on the roof of the dog house, he looked over the fence to see a zombie child tripping over it's own broken feet. Alex ducked back down behind the fence, squatting low to the roof he was on. He chewed his lip and thought.

He had an axe. There's a zombie. Axe plus zombie equals fight. But this was a little kid zombie. Are they harder to fight? If not physically, then morally? Pip used to play a video game - what was it? - Minecraft? The little kid zombies in that game were faster than the adult ones, but they had less health. Maybe he should think of this as a video game? He had to remind himself that this wasn't a human child. This was a zombie. A monster. Something bad that needed to be killed. It wasn't his fault. He had to get past the zombie, and the only way to do so is to fight.

The child growled and stumbled against the wooden fence, shaking it a bit. Alex's fingers tightened on his axe. Or maybe he shouldn't think about it at all. No thinking, just doing. Like on the rooftops in New York. He didn't pause there; he just let his body take over. Now it's probably time to do the same. Don't think about being a (zombie) child murderer. Just be a (zombie) child murderer.

Alex used one hand to help hurtle himself over the fence, while the other gripped his axe, ready to swing. The zombie kid twisted around, spit falling from it's lips. It was missing an eye and it's chubby cheeks were scraped up. It's hair was absolutely filthy, and it looked like it had just rolled round in the sewer. Alex almost felt bad for it. But then it lunged at him and all concerns for what used to be a child dissipated.

Alex backed up, keeping some distance between himself and the kid. It crashes to the ground where he just stood, sprawling on all fours. Alex glanced at his axe, making sure it was facing the right way, before grit his teeth and started swinging.

The zombie let out the most terrifying, disgusting noise. It shrieked like a howler monkey on acid; snarling and spitting, but unable to move as Alex kept hitting it over and over. The axe got stuck on its shoulder blade, making a sickening chunk sound on impact. Alex yanked the axe out and then aimed for the zombie's head, realizing that he was missing the important parts. The kid's screaming halted as the axe broke through its skull.

There was a silent, horrifying moment, where the kid looked up at Alex. They didn't scream, they didn't cry. But they reached for him, gently; a small, scared whine escaping their lips. Alex couldn't look away as the blood slowly dripped down their face and the light faded from their eyes. When they laid their head down in the dirt, body awkwardly twisted, Alex could see the kid they used to be. His heart clenched painfully and his stomach ached. He swallowed back bile as he pulled his axe out of the kid's face; blood and grey matter flinging everywhere.

Alex stared at their dead body for just a moment, before he forced his feet to keep moving. He had father to go. This was only the beginning.

By taking the backyards, he hasn't run into too many zombies. Most of which he gave the same treatment as the child. Some others, he just avoided entirely. He lost count how many zombies he beat the shit out of after the twelth or so. When he reached the last back yard and there was just the open stretch of road before him, Alex felt like a changed man.

His hair stuck to his face with sweat and his clothes were soaked in zombie blood; ripped and unrecognizable. He staggered forward, breathing heavily.

Just as he thought he was safe, a deep growl came from behind him. Alex whipped around, automatically swinging his axe. The zombie's eye took the hit; the axe sinking deep into its skull. Alex kicked the zombie's body, dislodging it from the axe. The zombie's skull ripped, grossly revealing the mess of bone and brain tissue inside it. Alex looked around and saw no other threats. He let out a soft sigh, allowing himself to relax a little.

He did it. He made it out of the town. Now he just had to find that southern prick and give him a piece of his mind. Alex spotted the couples' truck easily, it was one of the only cars on the road. Sitting next to it was two figures. Alex was a genius, but he didn't need to be one to figure out who it was.

"HEY FUCKFACE!" Alex shouted when he caught sight of Jefferson sitting on the floor, James kneeling in front of him. The man's back was to him, he twisted around to see the angry immigrant trying to pick the best path through the debris. Jefferson faced forward once more, messing with something in front of him before James helped him stand up.

"Were you bit?" James called before Alex got too close; reaching for his gun on the ground.

Alex glared at him, replying loudly, "No! No thanks to you!"

He thought he heard Jefferson mutter something like, "You look it." But Alex elected to ignore that in order to verbally beat the shit out of him instead.

"What the fuck happened back there!?" Alex shouted, stomping the rest of the way up to them. He almost tripped getting onto the highway and his clothes were torn; but his eyes were alive with fury and energy. He stopped right in front of Jefferson, spitting mad. "Explain yourself!"

James rubbed his head, saying, "She wasn't actually pregnant. She had a pumpkin up her shirt and when y'all got far enough away, she whipped it out and smashed it on my head. They just wanted the bus."

The story was so bizarre, it snapped Alex out of his anger for a minute. "She hit you with a pumpkin?"

James gestured to the destroyed gourd at their feet. Bits of pumpkin were smeared around the pavement, looking like a jack-o-lantern had a bad night. "It hurt."

Jefferson went to see if James has a bump, but the shorter man swatted his hands away. Alex shook his head, deciding to ignore the fact that James lost a fight with a pumpkin. He turned to Jefferson and pointed at him, "I meant you! What the fuck!? What happened to that High School Musical we're-all-in-this-together kumbaya my lord bullshit!?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Jefferson said, crossing his arms.

Alex threw his hands in the air, shouting, "You just left me!"

"I thought you were following." Jefferson shrugged, "Not my fault you don't know when to run."

"Bull. Shit." Alex jabbed a finger at Jefferson's chest, "Did you really think you could get rid of me like that?!"

"No, then it'd be easy." Jefferson sneered, looking down at Alex.

James waved them off, interrupting the rumbles of a fight in the making, "Regardless of who left who, we need to get out of here. You can argue on the road. I'm going to see if their truck works, you guys keep look out."

James stepped over to the truck that the couple left. Alex watched as he fiddled with the handle, satisfied when the door popped open; unlocked. Jefferson sighed and crossed his arms. Alex undid his hair and redid it, gathering all the stray hairs that flew away during the night. Jefferson watched him quietly. After a moment, the taller man spoke.

"That sucked." Jefferson grumbled, absentmindedly rubbing his leg. "I'm never going to be nice to someone ever again."

"Oh, so nothing's changing." Alex commented brightly, "Good to know, I'll alert the press."

Ignoring him, Jefferson shook his head, muttering, "I should've fuckin' known it was fake. Did you hear them? Fuckin' white ass heteros." He flung his arm over his eyes dramatically, mocking, "I love you soooo muuuuch!"

Alex felt himself grin, holding back a laugh at the obnoxious behavior. He just had to join in.

"No!" Alex said, clasping his hands together, and giving a deep gasp, "It is I, who loves you so much!"

The two looked at each other, keeping a straight face for just a second before they both burst into childish giggles. Jefferson said between his laughter, "Right!? How fucking Shakespearean can you get!? No one talks like that!"
"I bet they rehearsed it!" Alex grinned, tears of laughter forming in his eyes, "They were just waiting for the opportunity to use it!"

"God strike me dead if I ever say something as ridiculous as that." Jefferson sighed, running a hand over his face. He was still smiling, and Alex found all his frustrations from earlier wash away. Jefferson had this way about him that strangely affected Alex's mood. It was probably just the joy of making fun of a mutual enemy. That always brings people together.

"You have said things inexplicably worse than that to both your wife and myself. And once to an exceptionally good bowl of mac-n-cheese." James deadpanned from the truck before Jefferson could reply, "I remember specific quotes. Now shut up and get in."

They climbed into the couple's rusty truck. There's no back seat; all three of them forced to sit in the front. Alex has to sit in the middle, since he's the smallest. Jefferson elbows him when he shifts too close. His axe was awkwardly shoved on the ground by their feet. The radio works, but there's nothing but static on every station. James tells him the radio stations went down only a week into the apocalypse. The window on the passenger's side jams halfway down. And, of course, they have next to no supplies.

But they keep going, keep progressing, heading north, to a better place; always driving, always moving forward.

Tell me what you think!