Summary: This is how they save the world.
See first chapter for warnings.
OOOO
Sky Blue: End
"We will cry and bleed and lust and love, and we will cure death. We will be the cure. Because we want it."
—Isaac Marion, Warm Bodies
XXXX
They shuffled him off to the captain's briefing room, posting a guard at the door so the curious people couldn't mob him for stories of his miraculous appearance. As much as Travis wanted to see his friends and family, he was kind of grateful for the isolation. He wanted to lay everything out for the captain first, before he went spreading stories to everyone else.
He'd been given a washcloth, which he happily used to wipe his face, and something to eat, and now he was just waiting.
Jonelle came in a few minutes after he was sequestered away, medical bag in hand. She paused in the doorway, looking at him—not even sneering, as was her wont, just looking.
And then her face got sort of pinched at the edges and she said gruffly, "I see you made it back in one piece," which was extremely alarming because her voice was kind of tight and Travis didn't know how to deal with this kind of emotional display from her.
Apparently she didn't know how to deal with it either, because the next thing she said was, "Shut up, don't say anything stupid, I have five different sedatives in my bag," and Travis relaxed.
The door opened again while Jonelle was checking him over, and the captain entered, flanked by his top lieutenants, including Crowl. Sutton gave him a little smile, holding the door open, and said, "I think there's someone who'd like to see you," and in stepped—
"Randi!" Travis jumped to his feet, Jonelle's blood pressure cuff dangling from his arm. He leapt across the room, gathering her up in a huge hug, and she sniffled against his shoulder, hugging him like she was trying to break his ribs.
"You're okay?" he asked, then—"Of course you're okay, obviously, god, I'm so glad, I wasn't sure if you'd made it back or not—"
"I'm fine," she said, her words blending with his in an excited rush. "I walked home, it was the weirdest thing, the corpses didn't even act like I was there."
"It was the goo," he said sagely. "I saw you, right at the end. You were covered in corpse-blood, right? Yeah, it acts like some sort of…I don't know, it masks our scent or something, they don't even notice you're in the middle of them."
Randi pulled back, gave him an appraising look. "Is that how you survived a week?" she asked, wiping her eyes.
"I think we'd all like an answer to that question, Marks," Sutton said, already switching into Captain mode. "Why don't you sit down and tell us?"
Travis looked around the room, at the captain, Crowl, Jonelle, Kate and Amy. He looked at Randi, gestured to the table; hesitantly, she sat. (Crowl looked like he wanted to argue, but the captain shut that down with a look.)
Travis resumed his seat, sitting back as Jonelle went back to taking his blood pressure. "Well, it's kind of a long story. See, it started with this corpse I'd seen around the city…"
XXXX
I need you.
I sit, cold and empty with shaking hands, and I can't let you go. Can't let you just walk away. I need you, need your fire, your warmth, your life. I will never hurt you, but I need what you can give.
Because I have experienced warmth, and being cold again is worse than I ever realized.
I will hold on, for you. But without you, I don't know how long I can hold on.
I need you, and I can't let you go. I won't.
I rise from the bed, venture into the hall, the lobby, out the front doors. My steps are unerring, my path unwavering. I know where you have gone. We all know of the city behind the wall.
I don't know what I will do when I arrive, but that is something to worry about later. First I must get there.
They are outside again, the doctor, and the others; the girl in the flowered dress, the black man and the white. They have never paid me much attention—I am another one of them, uninteresting. But today, they turn as I step into the street, four pairs of eyes fixated on me.
It is strange, to be the object of such intense scrutiny. I understand your discomfort a little better now.
I step forward, into the street, and they swarm around me, touching. It is strange and unusual, and I find myself flinching from their touch. They lay their hands, all but the doctor, and they all murmur the same word, a low, pleased rumble.
"Wwwarm…"
I am not warm. You are warm—I am cold, so cold, all the way down, your warmth leeched from me. Can't they feel the chill inside of me?
I pull back from their grasping hands, step back until there is distance between me and them. They linger, hands reaching, but do not come any closer. Slowly, I move around them.
The doctor steps into my path, hand reaching, though she does not come close enough to touch. "Wwwarm," she purrs, looking as satisfied as someone dead can look.
I step around her outstretched hand. "No," I correct. "N-not me. Him."
"No," she says, just as certainly. "Wwwarm. H—ere." And she holds her hand in front of my chest, where the dull throbbing ache is most strongly centered.
She is wrong. I am so cold, cold like I cannot remember—even before I met you, I did not feel like this.
Or maybe I did, and I simply didn't realize it. Being so warm makes the chill all the colder.
The doctor moves, points to the side. "Go," she says, smiling. "T-to himmm."
I do not need to look to know where she is pointing.
I can still feel their eyes on me as I walk down the streets, unblinking gazes fixed on my back. I do not look behind me.
I need you. I cannot hold on without you.
I do not want to hold on without you.
My eyes fixed unerringly on my goal, I walk towards the city behind the wall.
XXXX
"Bullshit."
Travis glared at Crowl, clenched his jaw. "Why the fuck would I make something like this up?"
"Maybe you went insane out there, all alone," Crowl sneers. "Maybe you started to sympathize with them."
Travis ignored him (it was difficult, but he managed), turned his attention to the only person who really mattered. "Captain, I swear, everything I said is true. It really happened."
Sutton's face was flat, hands clasped on the table in front of him. "They ruined the world, Travis," he said softly, the sort of tone someone would use talking to a child.
Travis lifted his chin. "I know that, sir. But maybe we can fix it."
"There's no cure for being a corpse," Jonelle snapped, and Travis was proud he didn't flinch. (Jonelle was scary, okay.) "People tried, for a long time until they couldn't, and there's no way to bring them back."
"I'm not saying we have to bring them back," he protested. "I'm not saying we can! I'm just saying that maybe there's more to this than we thought!"
"Because corpses have brains," Kate said sarcastically. "Because they can think and feel."
"He saved me, dammit!" Travis shouted, "He saved my life! A corpse shouldn't do that, but he did!"
"Maybe he was freshly infected," Amy offered. "Or, not fresh, but…not as far gone."
Travis scoffed. "Trust me, if you'd seen the state of his suit, you'd know Wes was infected a long time ago."
The sudden silence in the room startled him, made him shift uneasily, looking from face to gobsmacked face.
"What?"
"Wes?" Crowl growled disbelievingly. "You named it?"
And that, right there, was when Travis knew he'd lost them.
Things went downhill fast. Travis tried to get them to listen, to actually hear what he was saying. They refused. Eventually, he was led out by Kate and Amy, ordered to be locked in his room with a guard on the door until they could figure out what to do. As they marched him out, he heard Jonelle say she'd try to find someone with any kind of therapy background in the city. He tried to look back, to see the captain's face at that suggestion, but all he could see was Randi, watching him with wide eyes. He wished he could say something to reassure her.
Home was a big silver trailer, parked in an empty patch of parking lot they hadn't found much other use for. He used to share it with Paekman, which had been…interesting, sharing something the size of a Winnebago with another person. Still, they'd made it work.
Now it was just him. As the door shut behind him, he looked around, feeling an odd moment of disorientation, as though this weren't really his home.
Then everything snapped into place, and he sighed.
Sure enough, when he checked a few minutes later, there was a guy standing at the door—not someone Travis recognized, though he offered a stiff, polite nod to Travis. He also had his hand on the butt of his gun, so Travis nodded back and closed the door. The only window big enough to fit through was in the bedroom—another guard was standing there, too, but she didn't nod, just stared blandly at him until he closed the blinds.
Sighing again, he sat on the end of the bed and dropped his face in his hands.
He'd had a plan. It had seemed to rock-solid at the time.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
XXXX
The sun is rising as I approach your city, but it does not warm my skin. I pause. From here I can see all the way down the street, can see the wall that rises up and up and up, the gate barred tight, surrounding you and yours, protecting you from—
From us, and those like me.
If you are there, maybe you will see me, or you will be told, and you will come out. Maybe I can tell you how much I need you, can find the words to make you understand. Maybe you won't leave again.
If not…
Then maybe one of yours will shoot me, will end me.
I do not think I would mind too much.
I am tired of being a cold dead thing. If I cannot have you, I don't think I want to keep going.
I start walking.
XXXX
The first thing he did was take a shower, which was the best thing ever. And climbing into fresh, clean clothes after being in the same outfit for a week was heaven.
Sadly, he didn't get to enjoy the luxury for long.
Jonelle stopped by in the middle of the night. She gave him a boot for his ankle and a pair of crutches. She also brought with her one of the teachers, a guy named Van Waals who'd apparently been a marriage counselor before the world went to shit. He was the closest thing they had to a therapist, so Travis had to sit with him for an hour listening to the old man ramble on. He himself didn't say much, and when Van Waals left, he heard the guy telling Jonelle, "He's being rather uncooperative."
Money came by a little while later with a tray of food, since everything he'd had in his fridge had been scrounged after the settlement thought he was dead. His brother didn't say anything, didn't ask any questions about why he was under guard—he just wrapped Travis in a fierce hug and said, "Good to have you back, brother," and Travis closed his eyes and wished he was so pleased to be back.
But eventually, Money left and Travis ate the food and there was nothing left to do but try and get some sleep.
He thought he'd just lay awake, ruminating on his utter failure, but he must have fallen asleep, because he was woken by a heavy thump! from outside. He snapped awake, groping for his gun, but they'd taken that so there was nothing to grab.
Another thump!, and then his front door opened. Travis had a wild thought that someone—maybe Crowl—was coming to assassinate him for his story. Crowl would be the kind of guy who'd be pissed enough to kill if he had to stop shooting corpses. He looked wildly around for something to defend himself with.
Then Randi stuck her head in the doorway and said, "Come on, Travis, hurry!" and Travis was rather glad he didn't have a chance to grab something to hit her with.
"Randi?" He followed her out into the trailer, where she shoved a backpack at him.
"It's got all the canned food I have," she told him, peering out the door. "It's not a lot—I didn't have time to get more."
"Randi, what's going on?"
"Your corpse is here. The one in the suit." Travis's stomach dropped. Randi gestured and slipped out. Wordlessly, Travis slipped on the backpack and followed.
"Lookout spotted him a few minutes ago," she continued, leading the way towards the motor pool. "He's just walking toward the wall."
Travis's throat went tight. "Have they—"
"No. He's not in range." She shot him a warning glance. "Yet."
Travis quickened his pace.
It was just starting to get light out, which meant the majority of people were still in bed. They stuck to the shadows and corners, and once Randi had to jump out and divert someone heading right for them, but otherwise they made it unaccosted.
Travis's bike was in the back of the lot, parked behind two jeeps, tucked here when he was whisked to the conference room probably because it was closer than his trailer.
Travis swung his leg over the seat, gripped the handlebars, and looked at Randi.
She pulled her gun from her waistband, held it out. "Take this. And an extra mag, too, just in case." As he accepted it, she looked toward the front gate. "Give me two minutes. I'll have the gate open by then."
There were so many things he wanted to say, so many things he didn't have the words or the time for, but all he could manage was, "Why are you helping me?"
Randi paused, turned back to him. "I saw you taken, Travis," she said softly. "I saw that corpse lead you away. I thought…I thought you were already gone." Her lips wobbled alarmingly; thankfully, she didn't cry. "But then you came back, a week later, completely untouched, and I…"
She bit her lip, gathered her thoughts. "If you had escaped somehow, cut your way home through a zillion corpses like Crowl thinks, then you—you wouldn't have made up some stupid story, you would have just said that. So the fact that you're here, right now…" She sighed, shrugged a little. "Maybe there's some truth to your story after all. And I…I want to believe there's more to all of this than what we think we know."
Travis was legitimately concerned that his heart was about to swell right out of his chest. Around the lump in his throat, all he could think to say was, "Thank you," with as much sincerity as he could inject.
She gave him a small smile and nodded. "Two minutes."
And then she was gone, and Travis wondered how he'd gotten so lucky, to have a friend like her.
He counted, keeping an eye out for anyone approaching the motor pool and an ear out for any shots from the wall. So far so good.
The motor pool was fairly close to the front gate, and no one was expecting an escape attempt. Times like these, everyone was more worried about keeping the corpses out, not keeping people in. After all, who would want to go out when there were confirmed sightings of corpses in the area?
It was the easiest thing in the world.
As he approached the gate, a few guards shouted, and a couple of them raised their guns—but he wasn't a corpse, so they hesitated to shoot.
And then Travis was past them, zipping through the open gate and out into the street.
XXXX
The gates swing open, and I pause, watching. Is this you, I wonder, or is it yours, coming out to defend your city.
Either way, I will not be disappointed.
From the gate comes a vehicle; I watch it approach, tilt my head to study the figure on the back.
When I recognize you, I smile, and there is an uplifting in my chest. You are here. You came.
The vehicle slides to a stop in front of me, and you look back at the gate. "What the hell, Wes?"
"Tra—vis."
"Yeah, hi, we can hug it out later." You glare at me, and your eyes blaze, I can almost feel the heat of your regard. "What are you even doing here?"
I open my mouth.
"No, nevermind, we don't have time. Get on the bike."
There are shouts from the wall, and people come out of the gate. You curse, pull a gun out. "This was not how it was supposed to go," you mutter, then give me another glare. "On the bike. Swing your leg over the seat, just like mine."
I study your legs, try to configure it in my head. I am…uncertain how to accomplish this. Stairs were difficult. This is…
"Any time now, Wes!" you call, shooting at the men from the city. I am…confused. Why are you shooting at yours? But there is no time to ask, so I shuffle up to the—the bike and do as you ask.
It is—not easy. But urgency adds fluidity to my motions, and the men are getting closer, shouting your name. I must steady myself on your shoulders (the heat of your skin sinking into mine once more, and you don't pause except to say, "That's right, buddy, just like that,") and then I manage to get my leg over the seat and settle myself behind you.
"Perfect." You holster the gun and do something that makes the bike rumble. "Now hang on."
Hang on? To what?
"Hang on to me, Wes, we gotta go."
Oh.
Carefully, I wrap my arms around your waist. The bike rumbles again, then shoots off down the street, away from the men from the city.
As we ride, I gently tighten my grip, resting my head against your back.
Even though the clothing, I can feel your heat through the places we touch, and I feel warm again.
I close my eyes and smile.
XXXX
Travis drove for over an hour, winding through tiny alleys and side streets. He didn't really think Sutton would send people in immediate pursuit—there were so many more things to do than chase after one guy, and it seemed like a waste of manpower. But he couldn't guarantee that, and there was no way Travis would lead people like Crowl back to Wes's hotel. Crowl would come in and slaughter every corpse he could see, and he wouldn't give a damn if there was an actual thinking person inside the dead body.
He couldn't risk Wes. He couldn't risk any of them until he figured this out and showed everyone the truth.
He wasn't…entirely certain what exactly that truth was, just yet, or how he was going to get the proof he needed. But he was determined to find out.
When he was certain no one was following him, he took the bike back to the hotel. The bike was loud in the silence of the street—every corpse in the vicinity turned to look at him; the elderly couple in front of the hardware store, the little cluster in front of the hotel, the dark-skinned woman standing in the doorway of the empty restaurant across the street. Travis very bravely did not reach for his gun, though the urge was there. But they weren't making a move towards him.
No one took a single step towards him.
He turned the bike off, and the silence of a dead city enveloped him, pressing in bands against his chest until it was hard to breathe.
No, wait, that was just Wes.
He shifted, trying to dislodge the corpse's arms around him. "Wes, buddy, could you maybe—"
Then he froze, because he felt something familiar, a soft tickling on the back of his neck. Not the sharp tingling he got whenever someone was watching him, but—
There. A barely-there caress, like a gentle breeze on his skin.
Travis swallowed, twisted on the seat until he was facing Wes. "Wes," he whispered, and even that seemed too loud. "Are you breathing?"
Wes blinked, frowned. If he was breathing, Travis couldn't tell just by looking.
"Don't bite me, okay?" he murmured, bringing his hand up in front of Wes's nose and mouth. Wes merely blinked again.
And Travis felt the tiniest, shallowest puff of air against his fingertips.
"Holy fuck."
Travis pulled back, ran his hands over his face. This couldn't be happening. It was one thing to find a corpse that could think and maybe feel, but this? This was…
Wes had not been breathing a week ago, or even a few days ago! Travis had been there, had stood right there and washed Wes's shoulder bite and there had been no sign of movement, no expansion in that scarred torso indicating breath—
Travis's eyes flew open.
Scars.
"Come on." He climbed off the bike, nearly falling in his haste, and helped Wes off. Then he grabbed Wes's hand and started toward the hotel, veering a circle around the other corpses. "I need to check something out."
When he was a kid, he used to watch these horror movies where the dead came back to life. Zombies, they were called.
(The newscasters used the zombie word, back when this first started. After a while they just stopped. Travis figured it was because zombies sounded too sci-fi. Easier to just call them what they were: corpses.)
In the movies, the zombies would have injuries, huge gaping wounds and ugly holes that never sealed up.
Why would a corpse have scars?
In Wes's hotel room, Travis pushed Wes towards the bed. "Sit," he ordered, and Wes obediently sank onto the end of the bed. With fingers that suddenly felt clumsy (the shock of realization, maybe) he started unbuttoning Wes's jacket and shirt.
The corpse in the hall, the one that attacked him. He'd been more like the zombies of old, with a big gaping wound in his neck that hadn't ever closed up, but Wes—Wes had scars, actual scars, which meant some kind of healing process, but why would a corpse need to heal?
Unless…
Too far gone, Wes had said, so maybe there were, like, levels of deadness. And corpses like Wes were just a little bit…less dead than the corpse in the hall.
A little less dead. A little more alive.
Almost afraid of what he'd find, he tugged Wes's clothes off his shoulder.
And then he stared.
It wasn't healed, not in three days. But it was healing, a dark black-ish scab covering the bite Wes had received. A scab.
Why would a corpse have scars?
Like this, he could see it, the shallow movement of Wes's chest as he breathed. Breathed, and holy fuck, Wes was breathing.
"Lay down?" he asked, pushing gently at Wes's good shoulder. "Just. Let me check one more thing?"
Without protest, Wes lay back, his eyes never leaving Travis. Travis swallowed and crawled up on the bed, lying beside him. The corpse (is he even a corpse anymore, if he's breathing?) craned his head, trying to continue watching him, but Travis just patted his chest and murmured, "Shh."
Looking extremely disgruntled, Wes laid his head on the bed. Travis, on the other hand, was feeling apprehensive and nervous and kind of excited. It was a disgusting riot of emotion and he kind of thought he was about to throw up.
Biting his lip, he laid his own head down in the center of Wes's chest.
And he waited.
Aaand…he waited.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was completely wrong, or maybe Wes just hadn't gotten there yet—
Th-thump.
Travis closed his eyes, and he waited. It took a long time, longer than any normal human would ever be able to survive between heartbeats, probably, but it did come again.
Th-thump.
Wes's heart was beating.
Travis could feel tears in his eyes. It took everything he had not to let them fall.
"There's no cure for being a corpse," Jonelle had said, but the proof was right here.
Th-thump.
Wes had a heartbeat, and he was breathing, and his wounds were scabbing over, and none of that had been true a week ago (except maybe the scabbing thing).
Maybe there was a way to fix this after all.
Maybe they could fix everything.
XXXX
I could stay like this forever.
XXXX
This changed things. If Wes was somehow becoming alive again, then Travis needed to bring that out as much as possible, as quickly as possible. He didn't know if Sutton would rally men to find him, but if he did, then Travis didn't have a lot of time.
He needed to have Wes as human as possible, needed to give the captain incontrovertible proof of his claims.
"Wes," he said, sitting up. "Wes, I need you to listen."
Slowly, Wes sat up as well, watching him with a concerned frown. Travis took a breath.
Maybe this was going to sound as absurd to Wes as it did to him—but the evidence was in Wes's beating heart.
"Wes," he said, as calmly as he could despite the way his own heart threatened to jump out of his chest. "I think you're becoming human again."
Wes gave Travis that typical blank-faced stare.
Travis didn't let that deter him. "And I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. You're breathing and your heart is beating and I don't know why or how—"
He would have gone on, but Wes made a wheezy little sound in his throat, and Travis stopped abruptly, afraid the guy was, like, choking on his new-found breath or something.
Then Wes made the sound again, and Travis saw the amusement in the blonde's eyes, and he realized that Wes was laughing. Awesome.
"What's so funny?"
"Y-you," Wes said, and even better, he was laughing at Travis. Wonderful.
"Oh, well I'm glad you think it's so funny, I'll have you know it's a perfectly valid theory—"
"No." Wes cut him off gently, poking him lightly in the chest. "It'sss—you. Why or hhhow."
Travis blinked. "Oh." Well. That was… that was the sort of thing to make a man a little emotional, when all was said and done.
"Okay." Travis took a breath, ran his hands through his hair. "Okay, then. We need to—we need to bring it out more, to make you more human. Do you understand?"
Wes blinked at him, frowned ever so slightly. "M-make…me…hhhuman?"
"Yes." Travis reached out, tugged Wes's shirt back into place and started doing up the buttons. No need for Wes to walk around with his chest all exposed, it probably wouldn't do his newfound circulation any good. (What color would Wes bleed now?) "I need to show my people what's going on here. I need to make them believe me. And that's not gonna work if you're more corpse than man."
But Wes simply frowned again and repeated, "Make mmme human."
"Yes, Wes," Travis said, semi-patiently.
Abruptly, Wes stood, pulling from Travis's grasp. He moved to the doorway, pausing long enough to look back at Travis, a clear invitation. Baffled, Travis stood; Wes disappeared down the hall.
Travis caught up to him in the lobby, long enough to catch Wes's sleeve in his fingertips. "Wes," he hissed, eyeing the corpses outside warily, "Where are you going?"
But Wes tugged gently from his grasp and strode outside. Travis lingered in the doorway, watching as Wes walked right up to the woman in doctor's coat.
He couldn't hear them talking—mostly they just sounded sort of like they were grunting and moaning at each other, from this distance—but they must have been communicating somehow. Maybe the moaning was their way of communicating. Travis tried not to be nervous when the lady doctor turned to stare at him, her gaze as sharp as Wes's had ever been. Travis smiled nervously and waved his fingers.
As Wes talked(?) with the doctor, the others drifted closer, a little group of corpses whose eyes were fixed on Travis or Wes. Travis's fingers itched for his gun, but he resolutely kept his hands at his sides. They hadn't attacked him yet. They hadn't attacked him before, either. Maybe they only attacked if they were hungry, when they turned lethal and ravenous. Maybe, the rest of the time, they were like Wes, just sort of drifting along until something came along to change everything up.
Wes turned from the doctor, crossing the distance between them. It was funny—if any of the other corpses had come at him like that, Travis would have flinched back, probably would have reached for his gun. But with Wes, there was no fear.
He hadn't been afraid of Wes pretty much from the start.
(Oh Marks, he thought with more than a little amusement, you have fallen so far down the rabbit hole.)
"Th-em," Wes said, more of a statement than a question.
Travis peered around Wes's shoulder at the little cluster of corpses. "What about them?"
"Mmmake them hu-man t-too."
Startled, Travis looked at Wes. "Wes, buddy, I can't…" If the Captain was going to rally the troops and sweep the city to find him, Travis had days, if that. It took Wes a week to get where he was. There was no way Travis could do for them what he'd done for Wes. He wasn't even sure what he'd done for Wes, he sure as hell couldn't replicate it!
But Wes stared implacably at him, and in his eyes…in his eyes was a painful yearning, and Travis ached because he'd felt that same emotion long before the world ended.
He looked over Wes's shoulder again, really looked, and saw a group of desperate, lonely people, watching him with that same aching desire in their eyes.
He'd always had a soft spot for strays.
Travis sighed, shoulders slumping. "Fine," he grumbled, "but I don't even know what I'm doing."
The way Wes lit up, though, from the inside out, made that seem like no problem at all.
XXXX
There are nine of us, in the end, standing in the lobby of the hotel. The doctor stands on one side of the loose circle we've made; you stand next to me on the other. The rest stand between us, the black man and the black woman, the two old ones from the hardware store, the white man and the girl in the flowered dress.
They are all staring at you, watching. Waiting.
You swallow. "I don't…" You shift on your feet, fidget, such a human thing to do. The dead are still, even when we are moving.
You look at me, eyes wide. "I don't know what to do."
I know what you must do.
"N-ames."
The doctor's eyes move to me. The others don't turn their gazes from you. (They can see it, can feel it, the warmth of your body, your heart, your life, running through your veins. They cannot have it. They can share it, in these moments, but what you have given is mine, tingling through my fingertips. I will not allow them to take it.)
You blink. "What?"
I look around the circle. "N-ame. Them."
We don't have names. We lost them, when we lost ourselves, we died and everything we were vanished. I cannot explain how important names are, to you who has never lost your name. But it is something the dead do not have—the day you named me, you separated me from the rest, gave me something that could be mine, something every human has. Something to hold on to.
"You hold on like your life depends on it."
Name them, and they will have something to hold on to.
XXXX
Name them.
Okay. Travis could do that.
He looked around the room, at these patiently waiting faces, and took a breath. "Okay. Names." This shouldn't be that hard, right? Humans loved naming things—babies, animals, inanimate objects. Travis named Wes after an old teacher. This should be easy enough.
So of course, now that the pressure was on, Travis couldn't think of a single name.
He took a small breath, stepping into the circle and moving around the ring, studying the faces around him. They stared back, waiting, and he had nothing.
He paused in front of the doctor, biting his lip as he looked her up and down, waiting for inspiration to strike. On the pocket of her stained lab coat was an embroidered, stylized M, the logo for some clinic years ago, still legible after all this time.
And just like that, he had it.
"Emma," he said, and smiled softly. "Dr. Emma."
She smiled at him, not with her mouth but with her eyes, and after that, it was easy.
The old couple became Mr. and Mrs. Dumont, after the hardware store they sat in front of. (Travis couldn't help it, he was a romantic at heart).
The girl in the flowered dress and the white guy at her side became Peter and Dakota. Travis was never going to tell them that they were named after a couple of springer spaniels that used to live next door to one of his foster homes. But seriously, they both had curly brown hair and big brown eyes and it wasn't like naming things was his forte, okay.
Clyde was a buddy he'd had in high school, great guy with a friendly smile. The black man in front of him wasn't smiling, but Travis figured that was because he was a corpse—the smiling would come. Probably.
Then there was Rozelle, who had been one of his favorite foster sisters, fierce and sweet and loyal and the best person he'd ever known. She'd moved away when he was still in high school, and he never heard from her again—he simply assumed she'd died at some point during the apocalypse, just like everyone else who hadn't survived in the walled settlement. Travis didn't think she'd mind giving her name for a cause like this.
He took his place beside Wes, looking at the group once more.
Then he chuckled. "This is like rehab," he said, gesturing. A group of people standing in a circle with a doctor at one end. "Or, like, therapy. Human-therapy." And he chuckled again, though the others just stared blankly at him.
Wow. Tough crowd. This was gonna be fun.
XXXX
Names have power. By naming us, you have given us something we did not have before. Suddenly, we have gone from dead things to something with meaning. I watch the realization ripple around the circle, as the full impact of this sinks in.
You have turned us from mere corpses into people, and that is worth more than you will ever realize. Names have power, and the power in naming us is that we have something to hold onto. Something to keep us from fading too far away.
By naming them, they are already so much farther than they were, so much more.
At my side, you shift from foot to foot, sigh noisily. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do, man," you whisper, casting uneasy glances around the circle.
You don't understand. You don't need to do anything. I was struck the first time I saw you, your eyes moving through me like lightning. You did not have to do anything to change me; simply being near you, your warmth, your vibrant energy, your life was enough.
I think we have forgotten what it is to be human, and you are so very human. I stand by your side and I start to remember; you touch me and I am warm once more.
You do not have to do anything to be enough.
"Come on, Wes." You reach out, tugging at my sleeve. "Gimme a hint here. What should I do?"
You are so earnest. And you wish to help. You want to help us, when you have every reason to prefer us dead (deader than we are).
You are incredible, and my heart aches for it.
"T-touch." The words come easier than they did in the beginning, the more that I use them. Or perhaps it is as you say—I am becoming human, more than I was, and so I am able to speak. (The dead have no voice, no need for words.) I nod toward the circle. "T—ouch them."
"Touch them," you repeat, looking at the circle of patiently waiting dead. "Okay. I guess that's what we're doing then." You take a breath, rub your hands together, and step into the circle.
You stop in front of Dakota, reach out and slowly take her hands, and I watch the awe fill her face as your warmth sinks into her skin.
We have been cold for so long, and you are so warm, and it is the most amazing thing for you to share it with us.
XXXX
The rest of the day was very strange. Considering Travis had spent a good chunk of his life living in a bona-fide zombie apocalypse, that was saying something.
It wasn't even like they really did anything that weird. Mostly Travis walked around the circle of corpses a lot, touching their hands or arms, and talked at them. Mostly they stared at him, which was incredibly unnerving when Wes did it and was thousand times more unnerving when seven more pairs of eyes were doing it.
Still, he felt he'd made some progress. By the time he called it a night, most of the group was talking back at him. They were like Wes, back at the beginning, stumbling over very small words and very short sentences. Still. It was something.
He didn't know if it would be enough.
"I think Dr. Emma is a little more…" He waved a hand as he stepped into Wes's hotel room. (A corpse with a hotel room, a corpse who called a hotel room home. That should have been his first clue.) "I don't know. Just more, I guess."
It was in the way she watched him. The doctor just seemed a lot more there than the others. Not quite as far as Wes was, but then again, Travis had been taken by Wes a week ago. That was a lot more time for Wes to relearn how to be human.
Travis flopped back onto the bed with a sigh, sneezing twice as dust irritated his nose. "What do you think?"
Wes carefully closed the broken door—all the way, and Travis realized that Wes had never done that before. Corpses couldn't work doorknobs, and Wes had never fully closed the door.
Travis idly wondered if it was because Wes could work doorknobs now, or if it was because Travis, who could work doorknobs, was here.
Wes didn't say anything as he settled on the end of the bed, watching him. Travis hadn't really expected anything less. Let's just say that conversational skills were not one of Wes's strong suits.
He sighed heavily, staring at the ceiling. "I'm afraid we won't have enough time," he muttered, feeling a cold knot of unease in his stomach. If only he had time. Give him a week, and he'd have his little group so much closer to being human. Look how far Wes had come in a week! Give him enough time, and he could convert them all, walk them triumphant back to the settlement and show everyone the truth.
But he didn't think he had that much time. Oh, it was just a gut feeling, but trusting his gut had kept him alive when others weren't. They were coming for him.
He could pretend it was because he'd taken Jason's motorcycle—it was a nice bike, and it worked, so they'd want to retrieve it if they could.
But he knew it wasn't about the bike.
It was because he was potentially dangerous.
He could imagine all too clearly how it would go. They'd all sit down, the captain, Kate and Amy, his top lieutenants, Jonelle for her medical advice, and Crowl, because he was the one who always suggested what no one else wanted to suggest. By now they'd no doubt declared him insane—after all, corpses who weren't really corpses? That was just crazy talk.
And crazy people were unpredictable.
The most dangerous people were the ones you couldn't predict. If any of them thought for one instant that he would do something reckless and dangerous, like sneak a corpse into the settlement to prove his theory…well, they wouldn't let that happen. They would make sure that couldn't happen.
Oh, yes, they were coming for him. It was just a question of when.
He needed time, and that was just the one thing he didn't have.
Oh well. There was nothing for it but to do what he could and hope it all worked out. That was pretty much the way he'd lived his life, and it seemed to be alright so far.
With a great big groan, Travis pulled himself into a sitting position. "Why'd everything have to get so complicated?" he muttered, rubbing his face. It was easier a week ago, when his biggest worry was not getting eaten. Now corpses were becoming human and he was totally being hunted by his own people and he missed how it was before.
Okay, he amended silently, glancing at Wes. He didn't exactly miss how it was before. What he missed was the simplicity of that life. He knew what to do, knew who his enemies were and who his friends were. Point and shoot, that was his life. Now…
He wouldn't change it, but man, things were easier back then.
"Hey, Wes?" He leaned over, bumped Wes's shoulder gently. "Of all the corpses who could have kidnapped me, I'm glad it was you."
And as Wes turned to look at him, face a subtle play of emotion, Travis smiled at him.
It might have been easier before, but this—this was so much better.
XXXX
You smile, and I ache. It is similar to the hunger; for so long it has been inside me, a gnawing need, the only way to satiate it to sink my teeth into someone else. This, oh, it is very close, a desire to consume you, to swallow you whole, to take you into myself and never let you go.
I do not want to hurt you, but I want you.
Have I ever felt this way before?
she leans in with a smile, hand cupping my cheek, and murmurs, "I love you," as she presses her lips to mine
Memories. Slight and ephemeral, never carrying enough context to understand. Why that memory? Why this moment? Is this love, this aching need inside of me? I don't know. I don't remember enough to recognize the feeling, to know if I even ever felt it.
I have often cursed my death, of everything I had taken from me when my life stopped, but I have never regretted it as much as now. If only I could remember, if only I could understand—
Is the clue in the motion? It spoke of affection, of fondness. I reach out, slide my hand across your cheek, stubble scraping my palm. (another flash of memory, dragging the razor along my jaw, leaving smooth skin behind, and I think, absurdly, you haven't shaved today)
My touch startles you. You pause, eyes wide, so close I can see each subtle movement of thought in your eyes.
"Wes?"
I lean in.
Your breath hitches, your heart rate increases. Are you afraid? I know the scent of your fear, this is not quite the same. I pause, give you a chance to pull away—but you don't move.
I close the distance between us, gently press my lips against yours. You are soft and warm and taste like nothing I can remember—I have eaten people, but that is less about taste, little more than blood and meat sliding past my tongue. This is so very different.
I could do this for a long time and be happy.
Slowly, you pull away, studying me. "What was that for?" you ask curiously. But not displeased.
I blink.
You laugh, a soft explosion of air that brushes across my face. "Well," you say brightly, hands coming up to wrap around the back of my neck, "Let me just say I am not showing this to the others."
And you lean in.
XXXX
Maybe he really had gone crazy, Travis thought, tilting his head to better fit against Wes's mouth. It was like kissing a wet board—Wes just sat there, unresponsive, but Travis was pretty sure that was just because Wes had no idea what he was doing. After all, Wes did kiss him first.
Kissing a man who'd been a corpse a week ago. Maybe he had gone crazy.
Travis could live with that.
XXXX
I am walking in a field. I am confused how I got here—I was in the hotel room, in a city, but there are no buildings visible, nothing but tall grass for miles.
The grass rustles, brushing my knees as I move, and abruptly I realize that someone is holding both of my hands. I look to my left—you are there, smiling at the sky. You are holding my hand, but don't seem to notice I'm there.
I look to my right, and pause. The woman is staring right at me, dark hair and blue eyes and gentle smile, a perfect replica from the flashes of memory.
"What is this?" I ask, and my own voice startles me. It is clear, fluid, no stuttering or hesitation, as though I never forgot how to speak.
The woman laughs, a perfect, beautiful sound chiming through the air. She waves her free hand at the space around us. "This? This is a dream. This is the future. This is hope."
I frown at her. "I don't understand."
"I know." Her smile is sweet, sympathetic. "But you will. Someday."
I stare. "Who are you?"
Her smile never wavers. She reaches out, presses her hand flat on my chest. Against her palm, I can feel the steady thud of my heart.
(it aches)
"Oh darling," she sighs, "I'm right here. I am always right here."
"That's not an answer."
"Yes, well." She shrugs, her smile turning coy, mischievous. "Dreams never give you what you want. Sometimes, though, you get something better."
"Better?" I frown again, looking at her hand on my chest. "Like what?"
She laughs once more, bringing her hand up, cupping my face the same way she'd once done in my memory. "I told you," she chides gently. "Hope."
As she leans in, I close my eyes—
"Come on, Wes, wakey wakey."
I blink, disoriented to find you leaning over me, your hand curled around me cheek. You beam when you see me, patting my face gently. "So you sleep now too, huh? That's awesome. Jonelle's mind is gonna be blown."
You step back. I sit up slowly, staring. A dream, the woman said, and now I understand. Like a nightmare, but so much less fearsome. How strange.
"Whhhat?" I ask, and the word is slow and clumsy. For a moment, I miss the clarity of the dream, when thoughts came easily and I didn't need to struggle for words.
But in the dream, you did not smile at me as you are smiling now. I would rather have this than a thousand words.
"The sun is up and we've got a lot of work to do," you say cheerfully, grasping my hand and pulling me to my feet. When I am upright, you don't release my hand. "Can't spend all day dilly-dallying. Let's go!"
I let you pull me from the room. You hold my hand the entire time.
XXXX
They came just after noon.
Travis had been hoping for one more day. Even just one more day would have made a world of difference. But he heard the trucks rumbling down the road, and he knew he'd run out of time.
He ushered his little corpse group away from the windows, peeking through the faded drapes. Two jeeps and a truck sat idling at the end of the road. As he watched, the engines went silent, and people spilled out into the street. How did they—
The bike. He'd forgotten about it, just left it in the middle of the street, so they'd drawn the (rightful) conclusion that he must be somewhere nearby.
Travis cursed his stupidity, counting the people he could see. At least two dozen people, but he knew the capacity of those trucks—there could be as many as thirty people outside. There was the captain, standing in front of the lead jeep, Kate and Amy flanking him, ever faithful. Jonelle was there, med kit in hand and a hard look on her face, and Randi was hanging on the edge of the crowd, holding her gun like she wasn't ready to use it. Crowl was there too, strutting like a cocky peacock, issuing orders for people to sweep the buildings. Travis cursed again.
He couldn't run, not without leaving his group behind. And there was no way he could get all of these corpses out without getting found, not without taking some casualties. They weren't in hunting mode—these guys were slow, and ungainly, and they'd never be able to outrun a bunch of determined humans on the hunt.
He couldn't let his people get to this building. He couldn't.
He made a split-second decision and checked his gun. He'd wasted most of his bullets shooting cover yesterday, making his great escape, but he had a few. Not that he planned to use it. It was the principle of the thing, really; in this post-apocalyptic world, he just felt better with a weapon on him at all times.
God, he really hoped he wouldn't have to use it.
He recognized every one of those people out there. There was Randi, and the captain, and John fucking Crowl. People he grew up with, fought beside, loved. They were his family.
He looked to his left, Wes at the other window, watching the men and women pile out of the jeeps. His face was as blank as ever, but Travis could see how tightly Wes was clutching the drapes.
He couldn't let them destroy all of this. Not before they knew. Not before they understood.
"I'm gonna go talk to them." He shoved his gun the back of his jeans and strode towards the door. Wes darted after him, grabbing his arm and pulling him to a stop, and this close, Travis could see something in those icy eyes. Not quite fear, but close enough.
Wes was so close, more than halfway there. If Travis didn't stop them, they'd come in shooting, and they would lose everything.
He put on his best smile. "It's okay, baby. I'm just gonna talk to them. You can watch from the doorway."
Wes didn't look assured. Travis didn't expect he would. But he slowly released Travis's arm, mouth tight, and when Travis moved for the front door again he followed like a shadow, the sharp weight of his gaze prickly on the back of Travis's neck.
He smirked, just for a second. This was almost familiar.
"Okay." He turned, gave Wes a reassuring smile. "Okay. Wish me luck."
He strode out before Wes could say anything, hands held out at his sides, calling, "Don't shoot! It's just me! I'm unarmed! Don't shoot!"
XXXX
You're gone. I watch you walk out the door and just like that, you're gone, out of reach and more distant than the mere feet separating us.
My hands clench at my sides, my stomach twists, and I can't stop watching you, reassuring myself you're still alright. What is this? Is this fear?
(it's horrible)
Please be okay.
I think, Good luck, and never take my eyes off you.
XXXX
Guns came up as he emerged. Travis wished he could say he was surprised. "I'm unarmed," he called again, hands held high above his head. "Don't shoot."
A couple of people lowered their weapons. Most of them, however, kept their guns right where they were.
The captain stepped forward, face twisted, and there was just enough space between them that Travis couldn't tell if Cap was angry or upset or what. "Marks," he called, voice tight, and that was easier to read except there were so many emotions in the captain's voice that Travis couldn't separate them all out.
Travis smiled and tried not to show how nervous he was, how his stomach was twisting and churning. Everyone was inside the hotel—Wes was inside the hotel. If Travis couldn't convince his people, then his entire group would be wiped out.
"Hey, Cap!" he called cheerfully. "Jonelle, Randi, Crowl. How's it going?"
"Get outta the way, Marks," Crowl growled, and some people were having doubts about pointing their weapons at him, Travis could tell, because he was one of them. But Crowl, his hands were rock-steady. Bastard.
Travis continued smiling, though he did fold down his fingers so just the middle digits were sticking up. "Not gonna happen, buddy."
Randi bit her lip and ducked her head, probably to keep from laughing. Well, at least someone appreciated his humor. After spending so much time with Wes and his group, Travis almost forgot what it was like to be considered funny.
The captain made a face, his, 'God why are you so stubborn?' look. This was not a look exclusively for Travis, though he was proud to say he got it the lion's share of it most of the time.
"What are you doing, Travis?" the captain asked plaintively. "Why are you protecting them?"
Travis let out a breath. "I'm gonna put my hands down, okay? And I'm still unarmed, so I'd really appreciate it if none of you shot me." Slowly, he brought his hands down. "That means you, Crowl. Get your finger off that trigger."
Crowl didn't take his finger off the trigger, because he was a complete and utter bastard. But most of the others did, pointed their guns at the ground and watched him with confusion and trepidation written on every inch of their faces.
When his hands were at his sides, the captain sighed and asked again, "Why are you protecting them?"
"Because they need it," Travis replied, and it was as simple as that. That was the way it worked. Protect yourself. Then protect anyone who couldn't protect themselves. Wes had spent so long being an invincible, undead machine that he wouldn't know the first thing about protecting himself. The others were less human that Wes, but that just meant they'd have even less of an idea than Wes did.
If Travis was the only thing between his people and the slaughter of his group, then he wasn't going to budge.
XXXX
Fear is an awful, insidious thing, twisting through my limbs and curling around my spine, leaving a bitter, sharp taste in the back of my throat. It makes me cold all over again, and the throbbing ache of my heart goes faster, threatening to burst right out of my chest.
You are so small out there, small and alone and facing so many, and there is nothing I can do.
A hand touches my arm. I turn, and the doctor nods solemnly at me. The others are here as well, standing so not to be seen through the windows, watching the scene unfold outside.
There is a solidarity here. It does not ease the fear inside of me—but there is a comfort, in seeing a similar fear in their faces, their eyes.
We do not want you to die.
I do not want you to die.
Please do not die.
I stand at the window and clutch the drapes, watching, and my fear is bitter and cold.
XXXX
"We were wrong." Travis waved a hand at the desolate city around them. "Captain, we were wrong about everything."
"They're monsters, Marks," Sutton said, short and flat. "They eat people. These corpses you're protecting, they might have eaten someone you care about. And you still want to protect them?"
"I know that!" Travis snapped, gesticulating wildly in his agitation. "Do you think I don't know that? You lost your wife, Cap. I lost my best friend. We've all lost people. But that doesn't mean we keep making the same mistakes over and over again. We can end this!"
"Get out of the way and we will," Crowl growled.
"You're. Not. Listening." Travis turned, beseeching, to the captain, who was really the only one who mattered. Even men like Crowl would follow their leader's orders. "Captain, please. They're not what we thought. They're different."
"They eat people," Sutton retorted, not looking swayed in the slightest.
"Yeah, well, so would you, if you didn't have a choice," Travis snapped back. "I'm telling you, Cap, they're changing. A corpse saved me, and that—that sparked something in him, and now he's not really a corpse anymore. If we can fix them—"
Crowl scoffed. "Fix them. First he doesn't want to shoot them, now he wants to fix them. Captain, just let me go in there and take care of this."
He wasn't changing Sutton's mind. Words alone weren't doing it. And Travis could see the captain actually thinking about Crowl's suggestion.
If Crowl went in the hotel, he would shoot every corpse on sight. Travis couldn't let that happen.
"I have proof."
That made Sutton's eyes snap to him once more. Travis swallowed, and tried to ignore the unease curling in his belly.
"I have proof, Captain. I can show you. They're not what we thought."
Sutton didn't say Yes, go show me your proof Travis so I can be wowed.
But he didn't say no, either.
Travis took a breath and moved toward the hotel.
XXXX
I meet you at the door of the hotel. You smile unconvincingly and say, "It's going great."
I find that I do not believe you.
You glance at the crowd of people in the street. "Okay. So. I need you to come out with me, Wes."
Fear is sharp and bitter and cold, and it rises up in my throat. I take a small step back. "No. They'll sh-shoot."
"They won't." You smile once more, and your eyes are tight at the corners. "I won't let them."
I do not want to get shot. I know how humans are, they always shoot. (You did not shoot, but you are different. You are special.)
"Please, Wes." You hold out your hand. "Do you trust me?"
I look at your hand.
Then I look around, at the corpses in the lobby, and the crowd of humans outside. This is a culmination, a build-up of everything that started from the first moment I saw you (blue eyes blue as the sky shining bright)
Do I trust you?
Do I have a choice?
Slowly, I slide my hand into yours and step into the light.
XXXX
Guns came up as soon as Wes stepped into the street, all those lowered weapons snapping upright at the sight of the enemy. Travis gave Wes's hand a quick squeeze, not sure if he was trying to give Wes comfort or take it for himself. His other hand came up, and he took a big breath, trying to puff himself up, to block as much of Wes as he could.
"No, no, don't shoot! I keep telling you, he's not like that!"
Wes stuck close to his back, quiet and tense. He certainly wasn't making any move to present himself as a target. Still, Travis was terribly grateful the captain put his hand up, stalling itchy trigger fingers.
"This is Wes," he said, continuing to keep himself between Wes and the others. "He saved my life because he liked my eyes."
"That's 'cuz you got the whole bedroom eyes thing going on," Randi called, and titters went through the group. Travis flashed her a grateful smile—beautiful girl, cracking jokes to try and relieve some of the tension. Tense, scared people had twitchy trigger fingers; people who were laughing were less likely to shoot.
He coaxed Wes a couple of steps further into the street, still keeping his body between Wes and all those guns. "He saved me, Cap," he said, staring at the captain, willing Sutton to believe him. "He saved my life, and it…I don't know, it started something. Not just in him, in others too. They're changing. They're different."
"You can't know that, Travis," Sutton said, and he sounded tired, like he was done arguing. Like he was resigning himself. Travis felt a twinge of panic.
"He's breathing!"
Stunned silence met his exclamation—even Crowl's gun dropped an inch in shock. Travis pressed his advantage.
"He's breathing, Captain. And he's got a heartbeat, and his wounds heal, just like a living person's. He wasn't doing that a week ago." Except maybe the healing thing, but Travis wasn't going to mention that right this second.
"That's not possible." Jonelle pushed her way to the front of the crowd, staring at Travis—at Wes hidden behind him. "You can't cure being dead!"
"Yeah, well, looks like I managed," Travis snapped. He looked at Sutton again—Sutton, who had been standing there silently, face blank, no indication of what he was thinking. Travis took a step forward. "Captain. I know we lost people we care about. And I know it's not—it's not how any of us thought this would go. But please. We can fix this." He took another step forward, as though proximity would make the captain listen better, would allow Sutton to hear what he was saying.
He took another step, and it was just enough to expose Wes.
Crowl took his shot.
Travis knew his mistake the instant he took that step, and he was already moving before Crowl finished pulling the trigger. Bullets traveled thousands of feet per second, but Travis had a shorter distance to go—by the time the bullet reached them, Travis was in front of Wes, and instead of going through Wes, it tore right through Travis's shoulder instead.
The impact sent him staggering back, colliding into Wes. Wes's cold arms wrapped around him, kept him from falling, but Travis was a bit more preoccupied by sudden, white-hot pain radiating from his arm. When he looked down, through the spots in his vision, he could see blood staining his shirt.
"You fucking bastard," he shouted, slumping against Wes. "I fucking told you not to shoot me!"
And then his legs sort of gave out.
For a not-so-dead corpse who couldn't really manage stairs a few days ago, Wes was surprisingly gentle when he lowered Travis to the ground. He looked at the wound in Travis's shoulder, hands fluttering uncertainly, and considering he'd learned pretty much all of his facial expressions in the past week or so, Wes was looking rather frantic.
"Hey." Travis tried to reach up, lift his hand, but even his good arm seemed to be attached to lead weights. He tried to smile instead—that was marginally more successful. "Hey, it's gonna be okay."
And then Wes looked at him, and his eyes—
Oh.
Wes's eyes were bright blue, as clear and pure and cloudless as the sky.
"Blue," he whispered, raising one shaky hand to touch Wes's cheek, and it was a Herculean feat but suddenly nothing else seemed as important. "Sky blue."
He got it now.
That was what he saw as he sank into unconsciousness, eyes as bright and clear as the blue sky above.
XXXX
No no no!
Travis!
XXXX
This was what happened, as related to Travis by Randi later:
Travis went down, and Jonelle was already moving forward, medical kit in hand. The captain was turning to shut Crowl down for taking the shot, and then a sound tore the air apart.
It was the cry of every mother who'd lost her child, of every child lost and alone while monsters crept in the dark. It was husbands and wives losing one another, siblings being torn apart from each other. It was the sound of agony, of grief, of pain that never ended.
It was a cry they all knew, and it stopped them in their tracks.
The corpse Travis had named Wes was kneeling over the wounded man, clutching him and screaming wordless loss.
For just a moment, that sound resonated in the hearts of every human nearby, and they could only stand there, memories of their own loss brought to the surface in stark relief.
All except one. John Crowl, who was cold and cruel and never let anything so paltry as loss affect him, moved forward, gun up to shoot the corpse that had made himself an easy target.
Randi was there first. She stepped out of the group, put herself in front of Travis and Wes, protecting them with her body, her own weapon aimed at Crowl's chest with trembling hands.
("Beautiful girl," Travis crowed when she told him the story, "I think I love you," and Randi rolled her eyes and smacked him gently, a smile tugging at her lips.)
"I can't let you do that," she said, and there was a warning in her voice and her finger was on the trigger.
That snapped the rest of them into action. Captain Sutton stepped forward, waving a hand for Crowl to stand down—not that Crowl listened. "What do you think you're doing, Fletcher?" he snapped, "Get out of the way."
Randi swallowed and shifted her stance, bracing herself. "I can't do that, sir."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because he's crying, sir." She never took her eyes off Crowl, who still hadn't lowered his weapon. "Corpses don't cry. You said that, sir. I'm not going to let you shoot an unarmed man."
And the captain looked past her and saw, not a ravenous corpse looming over his next meal, but a heartbroken man kneeling over a still, bloody body. It was a scene the captain had witnessed so many times, too many times to count.
Corpses don't cry, or think, or feel. But Wes wasn't quite a corpse anymore.
"Move," Jonelle ordered, shoving past Crowl and Captain Sutton. "And put that down, you're going to shoot someone," she snapped over her shoulder, striding across the street without fear. As she approached, Wes lifted his head, teeth bared in a snarl, and wet streaks cut tracks down his face. Jonelle knelt in front of him, smiling, and, gentler than anyone who knew her would expect, said, "It's okay, I'm a doctor." She pulled on a pair of gloves. "I can keep him alive."
Movement from the hotel had the walled city's people bringing their weapons up. Out of the shadows stepped another corpse in a tattered lab coat, hands by her head.
"I. Can. Help," Dr. Emma said, slowly, clearly. She knelt across from Jonelle, on the other side of Travis's prone body, and told the doctor, "I can—help."
Jonelle nodded. "Okay." She pulled a pair of gloves out of her bag. "Hold out your hands, I'll help you get these on."
Captain Sutton stood there, watching a corpse help his doctor try to save the lives of one of his men. As they fought for Travis's life, more figures emerged from the hotel: Dakota, in her faded flower dress, Peter trailing behind her; the Dumonts, stepping out together, holding hands; Clyde and Rozelle standing behind Wes, arms crossed, twin forces.
Captain Sutton looked at them, at these corpses-that-weren't, and he saw something he'd never noticed before.
He saw people.
"Put it down," he ordered softly, though most of his people had, by this time, already done so. When Crowl didn't, Sutton reached out and, without looking away from the tableau in front of him, put his hands over Crowl's. "Put it down. It's over."
This was how they saved the world.
XXXX
I don't remember how it started. War, maybe, or disease, or a weapon so terrible it should never have been conceived in the first place.
Maybe we just forgot, and our hearts grew cold and hollow inside our chests until there was nothing left. Maybe our hearts died first, and the rest of our bodies followed suit.
I suppose it doesn't matter anymore. What's past is past. Now it's time to look towards the future.
I don't remember how it started, but I know how it ends.
It ends with love. With two men who refuse to give up, even after death. It ends with sincerity and trust and faith, a complete willingness to take a chance even when all the facts point to the opposite.
It ends with love, and from there, the world can grow.
You've told me you always came up here, sat on the top of the wall and looked out, remembering the city as it used to be. I prefer to look in, watching the tiny pocket of humanity, of life, still going strong. Even now, I hunger for it—but it's a different kind of hunger, softer, warmer, less ravenous. If I reach out with my hands instead of my teeth…
Well, then it might just be possible to grasp it.
"Hey, Wes."
Smiling is still unfamiliar, strange, but I'm getting used to the slow shift of muscles, the gentle upturn of lips. I turn, and you're standing there, arm in a sling, eyes bright and a matching smile on your face.
"Travis," I say slowly, carefully, making sure to get it all right, the sharp beginning and the smooth glide of the rest of the letters. Saying your name is one of my favorite things. "You're up."
It's meant to be a question, but inflection is difficult. You say, "Yup, I made a break for it," and sit, legs swinging over the edge.
I try again. "Should you…be up?" You were shot. It's been so long since I was injured like that, but I know what bullets can do, how they tear flesh, make you dead, red red blood shining like jewels—
"What?" You blink, then laugh. "Oh, no, I'm fine, I was joking. Believe me, I don't want to get on Jonelle's bad side by sneaking out. She released me, it's all good." You lean back on your good arm. "Whatcha doin'?"
"Watching." I look out again, at the tiny bustle of people, of life. "It's—beautiful."
I'm not sure if you'll understand—you, who spent so much time looking out, who never lost the feeling of being alive and thus never had cause to miss it.
But you look down at this tiny, thriving city, and you say, "Yeah, it is," and I think maybe you do understand after all.
XXXX
For all the progress he'd made in the short time they'd been together, there were some aspects of being a corpse Wes had yet to get over. For instance, Wes was still way too capable of sitting in silence for hours at a time, but Travis had never had that patience. After just a few minutes, he fidgeted, adjusted his sling, and blurted, "Can I show you something?"
Wes turned, looked at him, and said, "Alright." His face was mostly blank, which was completely typical, but Travis was getting good at reading him. He carried his emotions in his eyes, and Travis could so clearly see the curiosity inside him.
(It was right in front of us this whole time, he thought, a swirl of regret and horror in his chest, one he thought would become much too familiar in the future, feelings that already kept him up at night and probably wouldn't go away from a long, long time. We were so blind for so long.)
"Come on." He climbed to his feet, grinned and beckoned Wes up. "I think you're going to like it."
As they made their way down the wall and through the walled city, Travis could see the occasional look thrown Wes's way, wary and hostile. It wasn't like he didn't expect that to happen, wasn't like he hadn't known this would be a long, hard journey. Every single person in this town had lost someone they loved to the corpses. Now they were inviting the dead inside. Some people wouldn't ever accept it.
But some people would; even as he walked, he could see changes, the dead integrating with the living. He saw Rozelle and Clyde kneeling on the ground, gently petting Randi's dog, Dr. Emma trailing behind Jonelle in the medical tent, Sutton leading Mr. and Mrs. Dumont on a tour of the city, Peter and Dakota surrounded by curious children. And there were others, too, beyond his little group, coaxed inside the walls while he was confined to his bed. Humans and corpses working together, talking, learning how to live together.
How to live again.
It wasn't much, but it was a start.
"Here." He rounded a corner, stopped so Wes could catch up. "What do you think?"
It was the garden, half a city block's worth of churned dirt and bright green sprouts. Travis didn't work here much—he had a black thumb and was summarily banished to places his skills could be put to better use. But if there was one place in this settlement he thought Wes would love…
Wes made a small sound, kneeling beside the garden. Slowly, he reached out, pressing the dirt lightly with his fingertips. Travis didn't know what Wes felt, but all of a sudden Wes uttered a tiny little, "Oh," and plunged his fingers down deep, and his face didn't change all that much but Travis could almost feel the delight oozing out of him, and he grinned. Damn, he was good.
"One of the rules is that everybody pulls their weight," he explained, rocking on his heels. "Everyone helps out. So…do you wanna work here?"
Wes froze, then turned, mouth open in a soundless question. Travis nodded encouragingly. "Yeah. My brother, Money, he's willing to show you the ropes. If you want."
For a long minute, Wes just sat there, staring at him with that blank corpse-face, eyes shining with emotion but nothing reaching the rest of his face.
And then—then he smiled, and it was the most vibrant, the brightest Travis had yet seen the other man. It was a smile that transformed him, made him radiant, glowing with—
with life.
Travis swallowed against the sudden surge of emotion in his throat and nodded. "I'll, uh, I'll go get Money, then." Wes nodded, turned back to the garden before him, but Travis didn't move right away, watching him.
(this was how they saved the world)
As Wes let fresh soil trail over his fingers, Travis turned his face up and smiled into the blue, blue sky.
OOOO
Warm Bodies is one of my top five movies of all time. I love it, I adore the writing and the story and the characters, and if there is one thing I am capable of it is turning everything I love into a Wesvis AU.
I actually started this like two years ago, but really started working on it maybe six months ago. I don't normally write in first-person POV, and I'm not sure I will again, but I feel it works in this story, showing the viewpoint and internal monologue of a character that doesn't speak a ton through the story. Plus, it was a good way to differentiate between Travis narrating and Wes narrating.
In the end, this turned out pretty much how I envisioned it, though much, much longer than anticipated. I really enjoyed writing this, and I really like how it turned out, and I hope you did too! Let me know what you thought. Comments, reviews, and constructive criticism are always welcome.
Until next time~!