Chapter Text
To survive on your own in the apocalypse, you don’t need much. Since food is hard to come by these days, I’ve had to look past morals and start utilizing my surroundings. Should be easy given how little I care about morals. In my current vicinity are nothing but empty bullet casings, trees for miles in every direction, my motorcycle, and dozens of zombie corpses. I’ve tried eating the bark off of trees, and I found that nothing good comes of it. And the leaves are dry and crispy by this point in the year, mid October. Only thing worth salvaging is the corpses that seem recently turned.
Being a Medical Doctor, and everything, I know at what temperatures deadly bacteria die, all I gotta do is build a fire. Given that the forest I’m in is made up of dry leaves and drier branches, I do what every fire-safety professional would do. I mount my motorcycle and drive it in circles, round and round one particular clearing, until enough brush has been pushed aside to prevent a spreading forest fire. I don’t have any water to put the fire out when I’m done, so I have to pour dirt on it and let it die the old-fashioned way. I fill my bucket with dirt, forthright. I happened to learn a thing or two from my last camp-fire incident. Never start a fire without an immediate out.
My favorite part is where I sort through each and every corpse. First, I go through all their pockets, taking anything of value, mostly cigarettes, matches, and bullets. On one of the bodies, though, I find a badge. It indicates that this zombie once was a person. It’s an even harder fact to swallow once I realize that their corpse is the freshest. I limp back to my clearing, dragging the body behind me, and begin to build the fire.
I used to really enjoy cooking. Before everything turned rotten, it was something I was really good at. Now, it’s simply a monotonous survival skill. An important one, given how many people I used to treat for getting food poisoning from their own undercooked culinary attempts. There is no way any of those idiots made it through the first wave. I barely made it through the first wave.
After building a fire and skewering the meat, I sit on the cold ground and study the corpse’s badge. It’s funny. They used to work at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. I start to feel nauseous. I don’t recognize the face or the name, but then again, I only knew about 5 people there. Trinity Marveaux. Worked in the pediatric department. Explains why I didn’t know her. I wouldn’t be caught dead there. Though, I guess she was. That’s where it hit first, anyways. Children.
It started with the children, most parents were too busy to notice how absent their children were. It wasn’t all children. It seemed almost random. Except when it hit Rachel. Cuddy took it personally. Cuddy was one of the last in that damn hospital to turn. When she was gone, all hell broke loose. At that point, being a hospital was equivalent to that of the White House. And we had just lost our president. Princeton-Plainsboro was the last operating hospital in the entire state, somehow. Good-bye, New Jersey. I’m pretty sure we all went our separate ways after that. I did, at least.
By the time the flesh is cooked to perfection, my nausea subsided. The nausea was replaced by grief, but at least I could eat and mourn at the same time. I bet the others stuck together. The sentimental idiots. They’re probably all dead by now. At least Cameron, that self-sacrificing lunatic. Not Chase, though, that kid would do anything it takes to survive. Foreman was probably the first of them to go, if not, the last. He would’ve either been over confident and led them straight to some hoard, or he would’ve let someone else take lead and fought ‘til the bitter end. 13 is probably still out there; Taub is cold and dead in some ditch, if not cold and dead walking around aimlessly; Alvie is definitely dead out there, and if not, I want him on my team because he probably goes ham on those zombies and it’s really been taking a toll on my leg. Wilson’s probably dead.
In the distance a twig snaps. Immediately I pour the dirt on the fire, smothering it instantly. I don’t have enough bullets to fight off another hoard, so I can’t risk it, even if it is just a person. I pack the remaining thigh in the plastic lunch box I have clinging onto the outside of my backpack, and limp over to my motorcycle. A couple of weeks ago I got so desperate for firewood, I ended up burning my cane. What I wouldn’t give for a single vicodin tablet.
I start revving up my motorcycle, when it starts sputtering. A very convenient time to run out of gas. In the middle of the woods where a hoard might be on its way. I have to make a decision right here and now, I can try pushing my motorcycle and find a ditch big enough to lie with 600 lbs of steel, I can wait here and pray to Yahweh that the twig was only snapped by a deer, or I can start limping into the woods and hope the hoard doesn’t know I’m here.
I start making my way to the trees as fast as I can. Immediately, I found the biggest fallen branch around to use as a make-shift cane. It snaps about 6 steps in and I resort to just clinging to the trees when they’re close enough. I start to hear engines, like maybe a car or another motorcycle. I am simultaneously filled with dread and hope. Dread that it’s some cretin who wants to try and steal this old man’s lunch. Hope that it’s someone I know. Also, dread that it’s someone I know. Maybe it’s just some hapless passerby who has extra gasoline and is in need of some medical services. Perhaps we could exchange. Their goods, for my services. I knew being a Doctor would come in handy at some point in my life! If only those dumbass lawyers could see me now. Probably sucking on mud, shaking in fear because they’re unsure of which leaves are okay to wipe their asses with.
The motor is a lot clearer now, it’s definitely a motorcycle. I try limping from tree to tree faster, but the noise keeps getting louder and louder. Except when It stops completely. They must’ve found my camp. My abandoned motorcycle. They’re probably noticing how much smoke is coming off the still smoldering embers right about now.
“I know you’re out there!” Called a voice from the clearing.
Idiot. Do you want all the zombies to hoard around you all at once? Shout a little louder why don’t you.
It’s only then that I realized what I heard. I would recognize that annoying accent anywhere, the only Aussie in all of New Jersey who’s absent minded enough to shout bloody murder in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. Dr. Robert Chase.
“House! I know it’s you! You left your stupid, rundown motorcycle out here!” Chase shouted, stupidly.
“Why don’t you shout a little louder!? I don’t quite think all of New Jersey heard you, yet!” I called back, intelligently.
“House!” Chase shouted, a bit more glee in his tone, “It’s me! Chase!”
“I know that, moron!” I shout, making my way back towards my camp, slowly. “There’s only two blonde idiots that I know are stupid enough to signal all nearby stampedes that it’s dinnertime!”
“Well, just get over here and I won’t have to shout!”
“What you think I’m doing, moron!” He’s quiet from here on out. Until I finally reach the clearing.