Chapter Text
Mark isn’t quite sure how long he’s been dead.
Or, half-dead. Mostly dead. Three and four quarters dead? From a clinical standpoint, he is certainly not alive.
He breathes, he walks, he thinks. There’s clothes on his back and hair on his head, and all of his limbs are mostly intact.
That being said, the mop of black fringe matted against his forehead is greasy and sticking out at unkept angles, there’s an odd sort of limp he’s begun to develop, and deep beneath his dirt-caked, cherry-red jumper is a heart with no pulse.
Mark Lee is living dead—along with a good majority of the planet’s population. Everyone looks as terrible as him.
Actually, scratch that. Mark takes pride in the way his eyes haven’t gone completely bloodshot, how he still has two full sets of teeth, and that his favorite pair of Converse are still semi-sunshine-yellow. Just yesterday he passed by a man with a detached cheekbone, a trail of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of an exposed sole. There are definitely those worse off than him.
He walks—or, rather, drags his feet in an awkward sort of stumble—past the food court, across a Nordstrom and towards some wannabe-vintage record shop. The local mall has become an undead wonderland, the sweet abode to a herd of grunts and groans in lazy unison. Albeit a little disheveled, it’s not bad. There’s still some functioning electricity thanks to a copious amount of New York solar panels, along with the occasional whir of AC. Not that they need it, though.
He’s developed a sort of routine, unsure of when exactly it began, and it gives Mark a sort of existential dread that the most exciting part of the days he can’t even keep track of is when he trudges into this tacky vinyl store. It smells like cinnamon coated with a heavy layer of vent dust, warm and ancient and just a little gross. There’s a dim glow surrounding the space, a hazy amber that softens the occasional blood spatter. It’s his own private safe haven, a makeshift bedroom lined up with a colorful array of Queen and Bon Iver and Blink182. Lately, he’s taken a liking to Springsteen.
Mark wonders, absentmindedly flicking through the pages of a discarded tabloid— was Kim Kardashian still alive?— if his life will ever change. It already had, drastically, he was a walking corpse for Christ’s Sake, but his past is nothing he can remember nor regret. Sometimes he wonders how he died. There’s a constellation of scars and not-completely-healed wounds across his abdomen, purple and red and pink swirled together like expired paint, plus the signature bruised knuckles and congealed busted lip. Nothing quite compares to his dark circles, though, ever present and heavy like rockstar eyeliner. Because of that alone, Mark would like to attribute his passing to stress. Cause of death: STAT 101 Final Exam.
He could be a math whiz. No one said otherwise.
This often leads into a question of how exactly the world ended. The plague? Nukes? A galactic radioactive outbreak sent from the cosmos? Mark has no clue, but thinks the idea of mass alien-induced poisoning would be pretty cool. He’s still waiting for the day he finds out he can glow in the dark.
Instead, he is left inevitably to deal with his greasy hair and cannibalistic cravings, stuck in an endless, rotten limbo. The apocalypse is like spoiled birthday cake and ants in your pillowcase, your most disappointing dream and a really bad thumb splinter rolled up into one.
The hunger is certainly the worst part of it all. It’s not like Mark enjoys flesh for breakfast, and he especially does not love tearing into the major arteries of any living creature for fun and confetti. He does still have somewhat of a moral compass intact, but, then again, a guy’s gotta eat. Shoulder meat is a hidden delicacy.
His best friend isn’t someone Mark has actually, properly communicated with, but they sometimes sit together and share a knowing, glazed over look. Maybe a groan or two. His name is Johnny, as indicated by a roughly faded-out name tag attached to a Starbucks apron, and there’s always a bit of blood in his hair. He’s tall, all wiry limbs, but his posture is a little terrible and he sort of looks like he belongs in the Italian mafia. Mark thinks he’s a great guy.
Today, they sit, knees haphazardly knocking together in front of a Cinnabon that smells more like rotten banana peels than sugar icing. Mark stares at Johnny, and Johnny stares back, ragged breaths combining past chapped lips.
“ Hun-gry ,”
Mark’s voice is shaky and coarse with lack of vitality, but Johnny comprehends past the stutter and nods, a guttural hum signaling agreement. He silently wishes he could still be satiated by nothing but twisted cinnamon sticks.
❦
Meanwhile, somewhere out in whimsy Brooklyn heat and smog, Yuta Nakamoto is running from—what exactly is he running from?
It seems like he’s always been running, worn out leather kicks scuffed by dust and dirt with a BPM rocket high. He doesn’t stop, no, hardly ever.
But he has to, or else he’s gonna go into some gruesome form of cardiac arrest, so he heaves himself over a bike rack and catches his breath through greedy gasps and bent knees.
It’s an attempt made all in vain, however, because Yuta is going to die in the next twenty-five minutes.
He doesn’t know this, of course. Not yet.
Life beyond the realm of unfair deaths and sickly infection is glamorous in a chaotic sort of way. He can have whatever he wants, do whatever too, whether it be living off creamsicle sodas for a week straight or hijacking abandoned Cadillacs. He stays away from any form of organized civilization, remains on the prowl with a bubblegum pink skateboard and a katana. The trailer park king, bleached hair and long downcast lashes.
It’s an awfully humid August, a glimmering wave of heat fogging up his vision and distorting the sky. The streets are unsurprisingly deserted, a treasure cove of abandonment lining every corner. He’s on a mission, a shopping trip of sorts, and the anticipation of it all sends a sugar-and-spice-coated adrenaline rush up his spine.
He’s a little excited, and the light reflects a sparkle off the whites of his smiling teeth. Devilish.
Yuta maneuvers and sneaks himself around towards one of the side entrances of the mall, tugging a out a bobby pin to fiddle with a padlock. It takes a bit of effort, and he curses under his breath amidst the process, but it does eventually give a little click , thus opening up the rabbit’s gates into a new wonderland.
He’s Alice, curious and reckless and very blonde, off and in with a beeline towards the jewelers. He’s been itching for some Swarovski, a nice, dangling little earring or two—something to compliment the absolute badassery of his bloody denim jeans and citrus chewing gum. It’s a very lovely plan of his, something that’ll swell him with a secret sort of pride for a few days after, but this is the apocalypse and the Queen of Hearts is still beheading fools.
What Yuta doesn’t expect when he rounds the first corner is a mass of zombies, tearing up what looks like to be a Sephora employee from limb to limb, the messy squelch of intestines blending with the sound of his sneakers skidding to a halt. He vaguely wonders what it would be like to be the last person on Earth wearing Viva La Juicy Noir.
A bony hand grabs at his shoulder from behind, yanking him in for a bite, and Yuta snaps out of his primadonna daydream to aim a kick at the kneecaps and jab at its skull with the sheath of his sword.
Right. Back to running.
He makes a quick dash past the group, a few stragglers noticing the movement and trailing after his pulse, crossing another corner only to be entirely trapped. Yuta breathes heavy through his nose, hands tight around his katana with a grip that turns his knuckles white. The smell is a telltale kind of rancid.
“For fuck’s sake.”
Another herd, feasting at a struggling band of surviving employees, a few handful of them attempting to fight back. It’s pure chaos and fresh blood, and Yuta has to blink a few times before deciding what to do. Escape seems like the best option, but, shit, he really wanted those crystals. Damn it all to Hell.
It’s not easy. He is significantly outnumbered, the unhinged jaws lurch after him, knocking him against walls and usurping his balance. Yuta yells as the sharp edge of glass collides with his skin, a broken window having resulted from the ongoing barrage of living against dead. It was going to scar. He swipes and slashes in a few kills, absolutely ruining his outfit, and scrambles past a random kiosk to duck underneath and collect himself.
Mark is apart of the crowd. Guts trickle down his chin in a satisfied dribble. He needed lunch.
Johnny has busied himself with the brains of a bearded fellow, and Mark inwardly curses in envy—that was the best part. He had better save him some for later (or else there would be no joint Cinnabon groaning for at least a day. Or two. Whatever he could manage to keep track of).
When he turns, Mark swears his heart stops. Then he promptly remembers he has no functioning pulse. He sees a boy huddled up behind a shelf, long sand-bleached hair, the expanse of his arms exposed through a muscle tank plastered with the design of a band he identifies as Guns N’ Roses. He’s shaking a little. His cheek is bleeding.
Mark stares at him, big brown eyes wide and shiny with sickness, entranced as the chords of Cupid’s harp fill his head. Instead of tearing into his open wound, he wonders if it was possible that he was experiencing some kind of divine intervention—an angel instead of aliens. Yuta looks back, whips his head around more or less terrified, breath caught back in anticipation. There’s a long pause. Death doesn’t come.
Then, he reaches out, offering his hand slow and unsteady.