Chapter Text
The oil yard has been your home for all of twenty minutes when you hear the truck pull in. There are zombies everywhere; attracted to the clanking of the factory machines that run even without assistance; and their growling has become the soundtrack for your day as you climbed around the building.
Climbing’s always been your thing; it’s about the height, you assume. You’ve never been the tallest, so being higher than everyone else; fire-escapes, trees, ladders – it’s almost as if they call to you. You know it’s stupid to think that way, but it’s easy to duck into a window alcove as the vehicle pulls in across the yard, barely making a single Z turn around.
There’s a group – maybe five of them, you’re not sure. They heft guns, pointing about the factory and talking amongst themselves. For a while, you watch; waiting for them to leave so you can find somewhere to hide out for the night. It’s always been easier to do that when no one knows you’re around; when no one can see you climb up the side of a building and get curious.
But they’re not leaving – instead, they’re hefting guns and running towards the machines. Carefully, you crawl to the edge of the alcove, watching them kill. A few of them are swift and graceful with it; like the girl with red hair and a leather jacket, or the black woman who doesn’t even seem worried to be amongst the dead. The older man with greying hair is a little more clunky; like he’s having fun with it, like he’s just enjoying the ride. Then there’s the man with the gun. You don’t take too much interest – never have with guns – but there’s just something about the way he shoots; about how he never misses, about the perfectly centred bullet holes.
You watch as they aim for the fuel; the gunman heads up the fire escape, shooting down Zs in his way as he goes, and the older man runs for the fuel. There’s a lot of fighting; a lot of gunshots, and you relax now, leaning your head against the wall as you realise how long this will be. You can’t move yet; just watch the boy shoot perfect shots with his back ramrod straight. Just watch the red-haired girl hit her silver bat into zombies’ faces.
Then it goes wrong – you can sense it. They get the fuel all right; and three of them make it back to the truck; a man waiting inside the whole time. They fill up easy enough, before looking back for the other – for the black-haired boy with the gun. You frown, watching as they begin to panic. You don’t hear the gunshots, so maybe-
“I’m out of ammo!” he yells, you can hear him. He’s near to you – near enough that you could reach him; you could climb along, but-
Why would you do that? You don’t know these people.
They scramble to figure out a plan; there’s zombies all around, growling up at the gunman. You huff, straightening now.
“Fuck it,” you breathe. He’s going to die if you don’t.
It’s quick; gut-reaction of swinging from bar to pole to fire-escape; like you’re born for it, which you were, really. It’s as easy as breathing, as letting the air into your lungs and exhaling it back out. It’s a choice that you make, swiftly jumping from place to place. Your foot connects with a zombie’s head at one point, but you don’t add it to your count – not until it’s dead.
Then you climb up; swinging your legs over the metal guards when you reach the same level as him on the metal catwalk.
He stares at you for a moment, and you register a lot about him; hair – black like a raven, eyes – a green blue that reminds you of the sea, skin – white like a ghost. For a second, you stare and swallow and pretend you’re not lost for words. Then you shove the moment away; you are never lost for words.
“Hey, stranger,” you greet, quirking up the edges of your lips. The man – boy? You can’t tell his age – narrows his eyes at you for a moment before he nods.
“Hi,” he replies.
“Need some help?” He glances down at his gun – a sniper rifle, you think – before looking back to you and nodding.
“Sure,” he says. “I’m out, do you have any clips?” You snort, pulling out the Dao blades that are strapped to your shoulders; identical swords with thin blades, slicing through the air.
“I don’t fight with guns,” you shrug. He raises his eyebrows.
“None at all?” You gesture towards yourself; the katana strapped to your back under the sheath for the Dao swords; the machete at your hip, the knives around your calves.
“None at all.”
“So what’s the plan then?” You’re about two stories up, at least, and jumping is out of the option – you’d probably break your legs. Besides, he doesn’t look like the free running type.
“Head down the catwalk, get to the level below,” you tell him, pointing one of the blades to the blocked off ladder at the end. “From there we can jump to the ground, fight our way out. How does that sound?” He nods, hefting his gun in one hand and pulling out a knife with the other.
“How would you have done it if I weren’t here?” he asks as you follow him along the walkway. There’s a smile tugging at your lips over the question.
“Jump to the fire escape, climb down, probably. Or maybe up, go along the roof and come back down on the other side – I think there’s a drain pipe I could use to slide down.” He quirks an eyebrow at you, looking over his shoulder and you feel your mouth go dry. Not now, y/n, you tell yourself. Later, when you’re on your own again.
At the ladder, you and he look at each other for about a second before you jump. There’s a clang where your boots land on the metal, but then there’s just that of the zombies, howling. Your blades slice through their heads like butter; your body moving in sync with itself, perfect balance, perfect technique – it’s like dancing, and God have you missed doing that in the living room with your sisters. It feels like that again; only sickly, with darkness clouding the edges of your vision instead of tinted with gold.
Then the man’s there, with you, piking one Z and going along to the next. You call for him to follow, and he does as you swing your legs over the side and jump to the ground. The hoard of zombies surrounds you, but there’s something about fighting back to back with a person – covered by yourself and them; blades cutting through the air, then skin, bone, brain. You’re spattered with blood but it still feels beautiful, in your head – like magic.
“Come on,” he tells you, tugging at your arm, and you’re running. You follow him, sprinting away from the hoard, aiming for the truck. Everyone’s already on board, engine running, and he climbs on first. The girl with red hair takes his gun and he jumps up, immediately turning to you. He holds out his hand, the truck pulling away, and for a split second you wonder if you should follow – if you’d do better on your own. But there are Zs behind you, and in front of you is a cute boy with eyes like the sea, and so you chuck your blades into the bed of the truck, and grab his hand.
You jump up onto the back of the truck, and he pulls you in, the vehicle skidding away and kicking up dust into the zombies’ eyes.
For a moment, you sit there, crouched and breathing heavily. You’re a climber, not a runner. You were not made for marathons.
Then, you sit up, pressing yourself against the side of the truck, and reaching for your blades, sheathing them. The red head and the older man are with you; eyeing you as if you’re about to pike them and steal their ride.
You remember the zombies, replaying the fight and counting how many you took out. You’re good with remembering; good with knowing your kills; replaying events how they happened. It’s a gift, you suppose – or maybe just a photographic memory.
“What’s your name?” the red head asks. You pause in your counting for a moment, scrunching up your nose in thought.
“Hold on,” you mutter, wincing as you remember. “I’m counting.”
“Counting what?” she asks. You’ve got the count and you add it onto your total from that morning.
“Kills,” you reply. “Something to keep me sane.” You look over to her, before looking to the boy with the gun. He’s surprised and you sit up, glancing at the others. “What?”
“You count your kills?” he asks. You nod. “I do the same.” The corners of your lips quirk up, and you exhale a smile.
“How many are you at?”
“Nine thousand, three hundred and twelve,” he says.
“Damn,” you huff. “Nine thousand, two hundred and forty four.” The man grins; cracks a real smile, all toothy and bright and you wonder how he can look so hard on the outside and then melt into something so beautiful and happy.
“Oh Lord,” the older man sighs. “There’s two of ‘em.”
“Don’t tell me your name is your kill goal, too?” the red head asks. You frown.
“No,” you reply. “But I change my name with every group I’m with – so maybe that’s just as strange.” It’s a precaution, you tell yourself every time you make up a new name. It’s a safety measure; something to keep people from finding you, from looking for you and succeeding. “What’s the goal?”
“Ten thousand,” he replies. “Ten Kay.” 10k. You swallow. It’s an odd name, but he’s odd; with his gun and his goggles perched on the top of his head; the camouflage shirt and scarf.
“I’m Addy, and this is Doc,” the red head says. “What name are you going with this time?” You pause, racking your brain.
“Ever had a Charlie before?” you question, looking around the group. They’re silent before nodding.
“A long time ago, yeah,” Addy replies.
“Sore subject,” you nod. “I’ll go with something else then. Jessie?” They shrug and you nod, looking to 10k who seems to be studying you. You reach out your hand, Jesus, y/n, what are you doing?
“Nice to save your ass, 10k,” you say, and he shakes your hand. “I’m Jessie.” The smile on his face – half happy, half smirking, makes you glad you left your hiding place to help keep him alive.