Chapter Text
Nick slammed the door, breaking some unlucky rotter's fingers. The room smelt sour, and stale, almost like rotten flesh but without that fruity undertone. Nick set Troy down against the wall and looked around. It was hard to see, even with the flashlight, particles were flying around, disturbed for the first time in what could be a year or just a couple of months.
Nick wiped his finger across the stove with a layer of dust on top. He disregarded it and wiped it on his jeans. He found himself on the other side of the kitchen in no time, the door was wide open, but the exit was blocked by a pile of the dead.
Milky white eyes followed Nick back to Troy, teeth chewing on air. Nick sat across from the other, studying his face. Troy regularly cut his hair with a knife, so it was choppy in all the wrong places, Nick offered many times to help him, but Troy had always refused. He was more relaxed, but there was still that sadist aura about him, even in his unconscious state.
Something grabbed at Nick's sleeve. He grabbed his knife, driving it deep into a rotter's skull. Blood sprayed out, and Nick spits out some blood. His body slowed, and his vision blurred. Not much time to sleep at the end of the world. He flashed his flashlight at the pile of rotters, two were standing, moving towards him.
Nick shimmied towards a metal counter, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a monopoly piece. He kissed it goodbye and threw it to the wall. It wasn't anything special or anything, just some random trinket he kept in his pocket. He crawled to the walking dead opposite of where he threw and stabbed it at the base of its skull.
The rotter that was closer to the piece got close to Troy, too close to him. Nick ran, and slammed it into the wall, breaking its nose, and stabbing its brain. The only sound heard was Nick's heavy breathing, and the dead wanting in from the other side of the closed door. The words Troy spoke only thirty minutes before echoed in his head. Of course, he stopped hating him and disliking him. There were no grudges allowed in the apocalypse, those were a luxury.
... and maybe Nick even started to indulge in some hypotheticals, but it could never happen. Troy grew up on a ranch, raised by none other than Jerimiah Otto himself. With no outside opinions wavering his thought process since third grade. There was no way he would even consider himself to be one of liking the same gender.
Troy moaned, and shuffled to his feet. He stayed silent, pink dusting at his cheeks.
Nick broke the silence, "we need to get out of here." before the door breaks down, he's surprised it hasn't cracked yet. Troy nodded, and they both got to work on moving the dead bodies out of the way, any of them that looked suspicious–they stabbed. They walked up a spiral set out stairs, and reached the entrance again.