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i. Washington, DC
It starts with darkness.
The TV has been on non-stop, bathing their living room in eerie shades of blue as they try to go on with their daily activities amidst the chaos of rapidly spreading disease. The endless stream of screaming and shooting, soldiers yelling orders and mothers crying for lost children gives Jack headaches, so they keep the news channel on mute, gallons of blood and vomit flowing soundlessly inbetween flickers of static. Brock keeps his eyes glued to the screen, oddly fascinated by it all, years of army service, Black Ops and peacekeeping missions in third world countries leaving him apparently desensitised to the grime and gore.
Jack is in the kitchen, humming along to the radio as he busies himself with pots and pans when it all goes down. The lights go out and a screech of sirens pierces the air, and the lazy evening mood is ruined by a clatter of utensils being thrown in the sink and a piercing white glow of a flashlight cutting through the heavy darkness that seems to have invaded their home all at once.
Brock peels himself off the couch and makes his way into the bedroom to retrieve the go-bags Jack packed in preparation. He can’t help but grab a few things here and there, a photo album and an old t-shirt, a few books that they definitely will not have room for. Maybe it’s the circumstances of his less-than-ideal childhood resulting in a tendency to get too attached to little things like that, or maybe he is becoming a sentimental bastard after all, but suddenly those scraps of this life they built together seem more important than ever.
By the time he’s done Jack is already outside, food and medicine and weapons loaded neatly into the back of the truck, pacing as he makes phone call after phone call to ensure that every single one of his too many sisters is being looked after.
A pack of cigarettes and his favorite aviators grabbed off a table in the hallway, a fleeting kiss to a scarred jaw and a quick squeeze to Jack’s hand over the gear shift, and they’re driving off into the night.
A road trip like any other, Brock reassures himself as the city falls and the last glimpse of their home disappears into the overwhelming darkness.
ii. Maryland
Wet spatter of something gray and foul lands on Brock’s face as he unloads bullet after bullet into yet another zombie, the flurry of movement surrounding him blurring into a hellish mess of twisted limbs and hungry groans. Pieces of rotten flesh explode in mid-air and hit the asphalt with a sickening splat as he reloads and aims, refusing to let fear overtake him.
Killing is simple. Killing things that already died once, even more so.
One after another, they fall to the ground in a pile of ruptured brains and spilled guts, failing to reach Brock where he’s standing with his back against the car. He picks them off like a sniper would, methodically making his way through the wave of walkers spilling over from the small town, roused by the rumble of engine along the main road.
They had to stop to refuel, and Brock offered to provide cover while Jack fills canister after canister with gasoline, luck smiling down on them as they found a gas station undisturbed by looters.
Aim, shoot, kill.
Bones crunch and teeth clatter, the stench of rotten meat wafting closer and closer with the gentle summer breeze, and Brock keeps a steady rhythm. Steadfastly ignoring the scrape of feet dragging along pavement and the squelch of slippery tissue falling apart with every movement, gray skin and gnarled fingers advancing entirely too close for comfort, he holds his ground, undisturbed by the half-circle of decomposing bodies growing tighter and tighter around him.
That is, until he loses sight of Jack.
One moment, Jack is there, crouched behind a fuel pump.
The next, he isn’t.
There’s a roar and a sound of something clattering to the ground coming from inside the gas station shop, and Brock’s heartbeat picks up as panic envelops him. He schools his breathing into submission, wills his hands to stop shaking. Reminds himself that he can’t abandon his post if they’re to have any chance of making it out of here alive.
The last of the zombies collapses with a desperate growl, twitching as the grey matter of its brain seeps out through a ruptured eye socket, and as if on cue Jack comes running out of the shop, covered head to toe in a spray of rusty red blood, Bowie knife clutched in one hand and a plastic bag full of groceries in the other, grinning ear to ear.
They climb into the truck and Jack presses candy bars and cigarettes into Brock’s hands, kissing him stupid.
“Don’t you ever fucking do stupid shit like that again, ya hear me, Jackie?” Brock mutters as they come apart for air, chiding Jack with a half-hearted smack up the head, the delighted hum as he bites into chocolate betraying the fact that he holds no real offence.
Jack can’t help but kiss him again.
iii. Pennsylvania
“I miss your cooking” Brock mumbles around a mouthful of stew, though it comes out resembling the incoherent jumble of sounds the undead make.
“Manners”, Jack chides with a smirk as he stirs the pot hanging over a fire pit, entirely too content as they make camp in an abandoned trailer park.
Rolling his eyes, Brock swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Said I missed your cooking.”
“This is my cooking now. Eat it or starve.”
Despite the grim warning, Jack turns towards Brock with a fond smile, hand splaying on Brock’s knee and squeezing reassuringly. They’ve been eating well, all things considered, Jack’s culinary skill making an array of canned foods surprisingly palatable. Giving the pot one final stir, Jack takes Brock’s mess tin out of his hands and ladles another helping of stew into it.
They eat in silence, sparks crackling and insects buzzing around them, moon shining bright above the flat line of the horizon.
“This really ain’t bad, you know” Brock remarks between mouthfuls. “Ain’t home cooking though” he adds, oddly wistful.
“Home is here now. With you.” Jack replies in that philosophical way of his that Brock still doesn’t quite understand, after all those years. All he can do is move his lawn chair closer to Jack’s, cosy up beside the fire and bask in the rare moment of peace.
“I want proper dinner as soon as we’re there though. Gonna go kill us a deer and you can make it into steaks. Maybe pick some mushrooms for sauce. Do they have mushrooms in Montana, Jackie?”
Jack huffs an exasperated laugh. “And that’s why I’m not letting you go out in the wild on your own.”
He gets an uncoordinated kick to the shin and a jab in the ribs in return, Brock feigning offence as he repeats the question, “Do they have the goddamn mushrooms or not?”
“They do. I’ll see what can be done once we get there. Now eat your stew” Jack answers, and the night falls silent around them once again.
iv. Ohio
“Take this, you ugly bastards!” Brock yells as he stands in the back of the pickup, somehow managing to keep his balance as he throws Molotov cocktails at the hoard of surprisingly agile walkers chasing them, Jack driving as fast as the worn engine will let him.
Despite the potholes Brock’s aim is still very decent, and soon there’s a sickly smell of burning flesh as fire spreads from creature to creature, rotting bodies writhing in agony left behind in the distance as they drive on.
When they’re far enough not to worry about any remaining undead catching up with them, Jack stops at the side of the road. He gets out of the cab and sits on the bed of the truck next to Brock, running his hand through windswept black hair.
“Can’t believe that fucking worked” he mutters as he traces his fingers around the shell of Brock's ear and along the neck, down to his arm, inspecting for damage from the burning fabric of the Molotovs.
“Told you so.”
“You’re fucking crazy.”
“I know.” Brock flashes a toothy grin as he stops Jack’s fussing, closing his hand around his husband’s calloused palm.
“Absolutely batshit insane.”
“You love me though.”
“I do.”
v. Indiana
The day is sunny, and light bounces off the shard of mirror Jack is trying to position upright, straight razor and a bar of soap at the ready. The glare hits Brock right in the eye, his aviators not helping much, and he pushes himself up from the tattered sofa, stalking along to where Jack is struggling with his grooming. There’s a few mumbled curses, the mirror finally positioned right, followed by a slam of fist against the counter when the faucet refuses to spring a single drop of water.
“Leave it, Jackie” Brock mutters as he wraps his arms around Jack’s waist, resting his cheek along his husband’s back. “I like you like this. Rugged and handsome. Brave and strong and a damn good shot.”
“There’s a difference between rugged and ratty.”
“Yeah, and rugged is what you are. Suits you well. Baddest bastard in town” Brock purrs as his fingers sneak beneath the hem of Jack’s sweater, tracing the trail of coarse hair disappearing into his jeans.
“Baddest isn’t even a proper word. And just ‘cos you have a gun fetish and low standards for personal hygiene don’t mean I have to put up with any of that.”
“Aw, Jackie, yer so fucking mean to me.” Brock whines as he struggles to undo Jack’s belt buckle. “Don't worry, I like it though.”
vi. Illinois
Sometimes the living are more vicious than the dead.
They join a group of survivors in the suburbs of Chicago, offering physical work and a good portion of their supplies in return for a place in the compound. There’s a few houses fenced off with razor wire, a vegetable garden and an enclosure for livestock, a narrow stream running along the back of the camp. It’s easy to fall into the rhythm of daily tasks, the semblance of normalcy entirely too enticing.
The days are getting shorter and Brock makes his way towards the murmuring water, eager to wash off the grime of the day’s work chopping firewood before the sun sets. He strips his clothes off and wades into the stream, instantly feeling the chilling bite on his skin. He stands still, knee-deep amongst the ripples of water, trying to get used to the cold, when it all happens in the blink of an eye.
A man emerges from between the trees and shrubbery nestled along the water. He’s one of theirs, so Brock doesn’t think much of it, not until the man is in the water next to him. He’s taller, bulky but oddly agile for his size, and a vice-like grasp on his neck pushes Brock face first into the water.
The freezing cold is like pinpricks inside his nose and down his throat, and he struggles as much as his sore muscle will allow, water threatening to fill his lungs. He is pulled back to the surface, and he sputters and coughs, only to be plunged into the stream once again, meaty fingers at the back of his neck tightening mercilessly. By the time he is allowed to come back up for air his vision blackens and his head spins, and he can only thrash helplessly as he is dragged onto the shore.
He falls into a crumpled heap when the hand at his nape lets go, fingers bracing in the dirt so that he doesn’t fall flat against the ground. He hunches forward and with a hacking cough he spits out water from his lungs, only for a hand in his hair to tug him upright, for blunt, dirty fingernails to hook themselves in the corner of his mouth.
He’s still dizzy, eyes refusing to focus properly in the fading light of the setting sun flickering inbetween the trees, but he can make out the man lifting his flannel shirt with his other hand, reaching for the zipper of his trousers. Brock closes his eyes, knowing that he won’t be able to struggle.
A single gunshot pierces the air and spit-slick fingers leave his mouth as the man falls to the ground.
Jack is by his side instantly, checking for injuries and helping him get dressed, hands still bloody from where he must have been preparing the meat from the animals they slaughtered earlier that day.
They don’t say a word as Jack helps Brock climb into the truck, as he presses a kiss to wet hair and goes back to the camp.
There’s a distant echo of gunshot, and Brock knows Jack will be twelve bullets short. One for each unlucky bastard that chose to stay in the compound that day. Somehow, he doesn’t mind. Still dazed, he stares out of the windshield as the shots echo one by one, and thinks about love.
vii. Wisconsin
“Hey Jackie” Brock whispers in that tone of his that’s nothing but trouble, roguish smirk obvious in his voice as they lie on quilts piled on bales of hay in a deserted barn, moon shining through the cracks in the crumbling roof.
All he gets in ways of a reply is a mumbled hmmm, Jack’s face tucked against his chest, arms wrapping tighter around his waist. Jack’s hair has grown longer and Brock tugs gently on the messy strands, trying to wake Jack from his slumber.
“Look what I found today” Brock grins triumphantly as he produces a bottle of lube from somewhere in the mess of blankets. It looks intact, plastic film still on, the purple packaging sticking out like a sore thumb amidst their bleak, colourless surroundings.
Jack takes one look at the bottle and rolls his eyes, exasperated smile gracing his lips. “ ’S that what you went after when I sent you to check if the pharmacy was still any good?” he mumbles as he burrows into Brock’s side once again.
“There was fuck all left there anyway” Brock huffs, offended by the suggestion of him not doing his part in keeping them both alive and relatively unharmed. “Besides, can’t blame a man for missing his husband” he whispers as his hands leave Jack’s hair and steadily creep lower.
“Not tonight. You smell like barnyard and walker guts and I’m probably not much better.”
“C’mon, Jackie, don’t be like that” Brock pouts, but Jack’s resolve doesn’t break.
“Be a gentleman and wash undead mush off your fingers before you stick them in me. Then we’ll talk.”
In the darkness of the night, hay prickling at his back through the quilt and Jack snoring softly against his chest, Brock curses himself for not checking the pharmacy for baby wipes.
viii. Minnesota
“Assuming we survive this” Brock muses as he cleans rancid flesh off the stock of a gun he used to cave in the brains of a particularly stubborn walker, “I wanna get a dog.”
He’s fully expecting to be laughed at, or maybe to get a “Where the fuck would I find you one?” in reply, but instead Jack just asks “What kind?”
“Dunno, pitbull or something? A big, mean beast to keep your dumb ass safe.”
It was a close call that day, Jack narrowly escaping the scrape of an unhinged jaw and some seriously nasty fingernails. Brock doesn’t dare take his gaze off his gun for a even a moment, the split second of the walker reaching out, its veined hand closing around nothing as Jack drops to the ground and kicks its feet from underneath it repeating on loop behind his eyelids as soon as he dares blink.
“Got you to keep me safe” Jack states, and Brock desperately wishes that was enough.
ix. North Dakota
In the dead of winter, Brock howls like a starving wolf.
He drools against the leather of the belt clutched between his teeth as Jack hacks at his left elbow with a hunting knife, resolutely refusing to meet Brock’s tear-filled eyes. Working as fast as possible, Jack cuts through layers of muscle, eventually getting to the bone, sawing at it with the serrated edge of the blade.
Not even the mix of morphine and whiskey is enough to stop Brock from crying out, and Jack’s pace grows frantic as he works to remove the bitten limb before infection spreads through the veins.
Finally, the arm falls to the ground with a dull thud, and Jack heats the blade over the fire. The smell of burning flesh chokes him as he cauterises the wound and eventually Brock passes out, the pain proving too much. Jack catches him before he hits the frozen ground, cradles him in his arms, finally letting himself cry.
x. Montana
In the dark, they hold each other.
Brock's breathing is uneven, rasping, thick like the layer of dust covering the interior of the cabin. The flickering flames on the fireplace threaten to die as a gust of wind howls down the chimney, and Jack extracts himself from the tangle of blankets to add a log to the pile of blackened wood.
Brock shivers at the loss of body heat, but he’s too tired to protest, limbs heavy and head fuzzy as the sickness slowly takes hold. Jack lays back down on the mattress he dragged downstairs from the loft and placed by the fire, enveloping Brock in the shelter of his arms despite the clammy sweat and sickly rotten-sweet smell clinging to Brock's skin, reminding of the inevitable.
Hands roam and bodies writhe, and Brock kisses Jack anywhere but on the lips, trembling with exertion as he struggles against borrowed time. Embers reflect off sweat-slick skin and Jack’s hands are fire against slowly decomposing flesh as they rut against each other, too much and not enough all at once, unable to tell desperation from desire.
Between the tremors and cramps wracking his body, the sore muscle and aching skin, and the bliss of his orgasm Brock doesn’t even notice as Jack sinks his teeth into the meat of his shoulder.
Only when they’re lying side by side, Brock’s chest still rising and falling at an entirely too quick a pace and Jack quiet and still, lost in thought, does Brock realize. He turns towards Jack, wants to run his fingers along hollow cheeks and overgrown stubble and familiar scars one last time, and there it is. Faint droplets of red smear on Jack's bottom lip, and he traces his tongue through the gore, entirely unbothered.
Brock’s hand stills in mid-air, hovering above Jack’s face.
“Fuck did you do, Jackie?” he asks, less angry than he'd like to.
“Wherever you go, I go” Jack answers like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and Brock doesn’t know if he doesn’t have the strength to argue, or if he simply doesn’t want to.
His eyelids feel heavy like they’re made of lead, and maybe it’s just his fever rising or Jack feels so pleasantly warm, and it’s entirely too easy to slip into sleep.
Last embers on the fireplace flicker and die, and it all ends in darkness.