Work Text:
April 3rd, 2019
“–and reports say–stay in–not outside–they're everywhere!–oh, God– c r r k–”
April 4th, 2019
An abandoned radio clicked through channels, battery not yet dead from when its owner had run, leaving music playing through the speakers.
Static screamed through the speakers, voices from the darkness. The TV on the mantle flickered on, a New York City news station playing on low volume.
“Breaking news,” a tired-looking blonde woman said, "Reports of what seem to be the undead have taken over Eastern Europe, spreading quickly to the West. Distress signals have flared throughout the world as citizens beg for rescue."
“That's right, Jamie," an older, balding man spoke as the camera switched to him, “The president has not yet made a statement to the people of Europe and beyond, but–”
“Hold on, James," Jamie interrupted, camera abruptly switching to a still-settling two-shot, "We're getting news from a contact in California."
Both anchors paused, Jamie's hand halfway lifted to her ear. Their eyes widened simultaneously, meeting gazes in horror.
“Folks," James's voice shook, "We're getting a call from Bradley Rickson, California."
The live didn't switch in time to hide Jamie begin to cry.
It loaded slowly, much to the nerves of people across the city. The live came on, the cameraman's hand clearly shaking. A brown-haired, tan man appeared, face ashen.
“Thanks, James and Jamie," he spoke, voice shaking, “I'm Bradley Rickson, here reporting live from Los Angeles, California, where–where calls are rapidly coming in, reporting–reporting hordes of… of their d-dead and rotting neighbors, families, friends, coworkers–it's, it's bad–th-the hordes have reportedly taken over the northern cities, towns, fields–rapidly coming towards the south, as well as expanding to neighboring states.”
Bradley looked away from the camera, peering behind him. If it was possible, his face paled even more.
“Oh, God.” he whispered, “ I-I see them. They're in LA, I–oh, God!”
The camera clattered to the ground, cracks appearing through the screen. It stayed on just long enough to hear the cameraman's feet pounding away from Bradley's agonized scream.
April 9th, 2019
The streets of Northern Carolina were quiet. It wasn't the calm before the storm, but the silence in the wake. Two days after the California takeover, the infection had fully spread throughout the United States, climbed up to Canada and down to Mexico, and had left the world in shock. Only a few locations remained unaffected, but settlements fell by the hour.
Three boys walk quietly through the street, one with black hair, clearly young, clung to the hand of a tall boy in a red hoodie. The final boy had brown hair, dyed sporadically in a rainbow of green, blue, and yellow. He stood in front of the other two, holding a spy glass in his hands like a bat.
“Uhm, Parrot, do you even know where we're going?” The boy with the black hair, rainbow bandana flowing in the wind, spoke quietly, though his voice still rang through the street like a gunshot.
“No,” the one with the spyglass, Parrot, admitted, “But if we stayed in school we would’ve been eaten for sure.”
“Well… yeah, but now we're in the open.”
“Spoke, bro,” red hoodie cut in, “Did you not hear the literal clawing at the door? It was windows or death, dude.”
“Uhh… nope!”
“Dude, are you serious?”
“What?”
“Lock the hell in, bro!”
“Bro, I–”
Parrot sighed. "Would you two shut up, bro, God.”
“My bad.”
“Sorry, bro.”
They chorused, turning to each other with matching grins.
Suddenly, Parrot stopped. Spoke bumped into his back, his linked hands with the boy in the red hoodie falling apart as he stumbled.
“Whoa, Parr, you good?” he asked, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him lightly.
Red hoodie stepped up beside Parrot, staring out at the houses nearby.
“...I don’t see anything,” he said, “What’re you staring at?”
Parrot stood silent, still, staring out the window of a tall building, dried hydranthas crumpled in the outdoor garden beds.
“We need to run,” Parrot whispered, stumbling backwards, “Now. Go. Go!”
Parrot grabbed both of their hands, turning around and sprinting faster than he had ever ran before.
Their feet pounded on the cracking road, lurching around random cars and furniture. Behind them, a crackling SCREECH echoed through the neighborhood. A moment of silence, two, three, four, before - E E A A K.
Hundreds.
Coming down on them like a wave, sound pouring into every bone in their bodies, shaking the very ground they stood on.
Red hoodie let go of Parrot’s hand to jump over a tire, stuck hard in the muddy ground.
It should have been fine. He was an active kid, he was strong, hell, he liked to do parkour in his free time, but–
But life’s not always fair. If life was fair, he wouldn’t have tripped. If life was fair, he wouldn’t have cried out in pain when he landed wrong. If life was fair, Parrot wouldn’t have had to drag a screaming Spoke away from his brother– best friend. If life was fair, he wouldn’t have to–
“Mapicc! No, please, no, please, Mapicc, no!”
…life isn’t fair.