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Grian's leg is broken. That's the only thing that he's truly aware of as he staggers through the desecrated wastelands of the city he once called home.
He's alone again, walking and walking without any destination in mind; just needing to get as far away as he can. Everything aches, from the destroyed bone of his right calf, to the long cut running up his side, to the hefty backpack that he continues to haul around; needlessly filled with enough supplies for three people.
Distantly, he wonders if he should get rid of Scar and Mumbo's things now. It's not like they would be using them anymore, after all.
The thought brings tears to his eyes as he continues to hobble along, panting and shaking as he traverses ruined streets and demolished infrastructure. Everything is broken here, destroyed by the outbreak and the plagues of zombies that it brought with it, and Grian wonders if he’s broken too.
The groans of the undead ring faintly in his ears, far enough away that they aren't an immediate concern, but still close enough to set his nerves on edge. Even without them posing a threat, he never wants to see those awful, awful creatures again- he's seen too many people bitten, he's lost people too many times.
... Scar had been the first one of them to go down. Although- Taurtis was the first person that Grian watched succumb to a bite.
It had been hard to watch- seeing his first partner rot before his very eyes. It was fast, faster than Grian ever could have expected, but it looked far from painless nonetheless. Taurtis had been screaming in agony, writhing and begging for Grian to run, but all that the man could do was stare as he was changed, wishing that he could kiss him one last time.
He never got that final, storybook kiss. In fact, Grian had been the one to shoot and kill him, in the end.
He had been alone for a long time after that, wandering aimlessly and hopelessly through city streets, visiting all of the places that he used to love. Maybe some part of him was hoping to get bitten then. Maybe the part of him that made him stay, despite the roaring zombie population of the city he lived in - the city that it all began in - wanted to be able to join Taurtis.
Maybe he should be grateful then, that Mumbo and Scar found him after only a few short weeks.
The three of them had become inseparable almost immediately, after their first night spent around a campfire, staying up to get to know each other. Mumbo had admitted to him, later, that he and Scar had suggested it because they were afraid Grian would run off while they slept. At the same time, Grian admitted that he was glad they had suggested it, because he was far too afraid to sleep.
It had been wonderful, a short glimpse of peace between the chaos of the apocalypse, and the man can't help but look back on it fondly. Hearing the voices of other people after being alone for so long was like breaking the surface tension of a tsunami; like finally quenching your thirst after spending months walking circles in a desert. Grian had actually managed to fall asleep, that first night, lulled by the soothing sound of his new acquaintances' voices.
He didn't know what they would become, at that point, but it was the start of something special, nonetheless.
It's a shame it didn't last, Grian cringes at the thought, stumbling over a jagged rock in the middle of the road. He overbalances, thrown off by blood-loss and the mist of his own thoughts, and falls bodily to the ground.
The cut up his side screams, hot to the touch and leaking. He reaches to it - pushing past the throbbing of his entire body, of his broken leg - and presses his palm against the sweat-soaked skin. He's sure he would be able to see muscle, if he took the time to properly examine the wound, but he hasn't been able to stop, marching constantly since Scar slashed him so badly; since that very first moment that Mumbo screamed at him to run—
It must be infected, he thinks, as pus leaks over his shaking fingers. It can't be anything else.
With a deep inhale, Grian tries to get his arms under himself. He needs to get up, needs to keep going. He can't give up here, not yet, or else Mumbo's sacrifice would have been for nothing.
The reminder of his lover's end is a painful one, and Grian finds himself curling up a little tighter instead of getting up like he should.
Scar had been the one to go down first, unable to kill a zombified past ally that the trio had stumbled across on their journey. He had raised his gun to the woman with shaking hands, pupils nothing but pinpricks against the teary greens of his eyes. Mumbo and Grian were taking down the second zombie, trusting that Scar would be able to handle the first, but-
They were mistaken.
They had just managed to kill the second when Scar screamed, something blood-curdling and ringing. The pair had whipped around, to watch as Scar's gun - covered in silly little stickers that he had drawn himself, when they had broken into the children's wing of a hospital to look for supplies - fell haphazardly to the floor.
The zombie they had left him to kill - a woman that he had grown up with, once upon a time - was latched on to him, her teeth dug into his neck.
Grian recalls Mumbo's shriek, something hellbent and agonising, before the man was running forward and slamming the heel of his gun down heavily on the zombie's temple. She fell to the ground, and Grian watched as Mumbo shot her thrice, driven by adrenaline and the desperate need to protect his lovers, but the damage was already done.
Grian had crept towards Scar as Mumbo finished her off, delicately laying a hand on his partner’s shoulder as he called his name. It felt as if the word echoed as he spoke, as though it travelled for miles and miles, reaching the ears of anyone within an hour’s walk to them. That made it all the more painful when Scar didn't respond with anything akin to recognition, a sickly looking blackness already creeping through his veins, shining through his pale, translucent skin. He looked strained; low, pained groans breaking from his cracked lips as he leaned into Grian's touch.
The sickness was written all over his face, etched into every line and crease, and Grian couldn't help but think the man looked decrepit. He looked like he had aged forty years in minutes, skin grey and sagging, sitting unnaturally against his bones. The progress of zombification was fast, faster than Grian had ever seen in any of the shitty movies he used to watch with his sister before all of this, and he knew, even then, that it was already too late.
Grian remembers how much he was quivering as he called the man’s name again. "Scar?" He had asked, and that was all it took for the man to pounce at him, pulling his hunting knife from the pouch against his leg and slashing down Grian's side.
He screamed, a horrible, burning pain hitting him all at once as he stumbled backwards, tripping over a jagged chunk of rubble. Grian thinks that’s probably the moment that his leg broke too, but he can barely remember the specifics. Everything became a blur as Scar spat and growled at him, teeth gnashing as he lurched forward, aiming for any bit of uncovered skin.
Grian doesn’t know how long they laid there, with Scar pinning him to the ground, infection creeping through his veins, but eventually he was pulled off of him. Heart pounding, blood boiling, Grian stared up from where he had been tossed into the mud and debris, and he saw Mumbo.
Mumbo stood between Scar and Grian, his arms raised, his pistol now aimed at Scar. The man - the zombie - did nothing but snap and snarl at the threat, all curled lips and blackened veins.
It felt surreal then, in a way that waking up from a dream where you had no idea you were asleep does; like he was seeing something that could be normal, if not for the small, dawning detail that he was watching his lovers pitted against each other, each aiming to kill.
They did not pause for long, and Grian barely had time to gather his bearings before Scar was moving, darting forward with such speed that Grian could barely track him. He let out a monstrous cry, charging at Mumbo without a speck of himself left.
It was awful, seeing the way that the man had already turned; the way that he had already been changed. It had gone so quickly… it felt like their time together should have only just begun, yet it was already over. The long days spent travelling together, the quiet night spent sleeping by each other's side, it was all over.
Mumbo seemed to be grappling with the same thing, eyes wide as he stared at the man that they both loved so much. He looked so conflicted, terrified at the possibility of having to hurt Scar, like he wanted to run away and hide; to spend hours slaving over an alternative plan that gave them their happy ending. He looked like wanted to do anything but face the awful conclusion before them.
But… it was all going too fast to think, to sit down and come up with another plan, and, the moment that the zombie was in his face, Grian knew that Mumbo wasn’t thinking anymore.
Grian still wasn’t sure where Mumbo came from before all of this, (and now, lying in the rubble clutching at his side, all alone in the world once again, he hates that he will never find out), but he knows that it was nowhere good.
The man's reflexes were almost unnatural, and his skill in a fight couldn't be one that had only developed during the few years of the apocalypse. He was almost like a soldier - someone rigid and trained; someone who had spent many years learning all the specifics of the human body. All the best ways to hurt; to kill.
All the most effective means of murder.
Grian had been kept awake by the thought many times, staring blankly into the dark sky above him with his lovers snoring at his sides and mourning for the life that his partner must have been deprived of. He had lost so much sleep over the idea of Mumbo, young and frail and afraid, being forced to learn to wield a gun, or heft an axe.
He hated that idea - he still hates that idea - but in that moment, he had never been more grateful for the man’s proficiencies.
Because Mumbo's arm had instinctively snapped out as the zombie jumped at him, his forearm catching the undead under its jaw as it dove to bite him. He pushed it away cleanly, muscles straining at the force of the thrust, and sent it sprawling on the ground. Grian thinks that he made a relieved noise at that point, trying desperately to haul himself off of the ground while blood poured from the wound in his side.
Then, with the zombie momentarily stunned and prone on the ground, Mumbo raised his gun again.
His hands shook, his aim unsteady as he stared down at Scar, and the relief in Grian's gut was remarkably short-lived. In that instant, they both knew what would happen next; they both knew how this was going to end. Grian watched, helpless, as tears collected in Mumbo's eyes and blurred his vision.
He knew, in that moment, that Mumbo couldn't kill Scar, even if it wasn't really him anymore. He wouldn't.
There was no way out, not as Mumbo levelled his gun at the zombie sprawled on the ground. Not for both of them, at least.
The taller man had peered over his shoulder for a moment, meeting Grian's eyes for just a second as Grian finally managed to haul himself to his feet, unsteadily shifting to put most of his weight on his good leg.
"Stay alive," Mumbo had commanded, before dropping his gun - something battered yet cared for, glinting in the sunlight - and charging at the zombie that they once loved.
Grian shudders as he remembers the way that Mumbo had cried out as he wrapped his arms around it, the zombie's teeth sinking into his shoulder as he kept it pinned for as long as he could.
He wanted to beg for Mumbo to come with him, he wanted to yell that he'd find an antidote- that Mumbo doesn't have to leave him alone. It's too late for Scar, but- but surely-
Then Mumbo yelled again, in a way that Grian had never heard before.
“Get the fuck out of here!” He had screeched as the zombie clawed at him; as the blackness began to creep up his uncovered arms. The words were breathy and reverberating, something that felt as though it was clawing up Grian’s spine and echoing through his bones.
The zombie snarled in unison, a horrendous hissing, biting noise, and then Grian was spinning on his heel, hauling his rucksack higher onto his back and limping away as quickly as he could manage.
It was how he ended up here, collapsed on the ground in the middle of the street. He had walked for days, desperate to get away from that place; too terrified to see those oh-so-familiar faces again, zombified and inhuman.
His eyes flutter and he sighs, mind running over those events again and again. The pus of his wound has not stopped seeping, and Grian thinks that he might've torn the injury open again as he fell. He thinks that the heat beneath him might be blood, puddled and warm.
He doesn't want to die here, he doesn't want to fail the one thing that Mumbo asked him to do. His dying wish.
Being alone like this, abandoned by all of those that he loved, is something that he never wanted to experience again. But he's tired. Too tired to look for company... too broken to care for anyone that he might meet.
Grian hopes that his lovers aren't hurting anymore, as his eyes finally fall shut. He hopes that they're somewhere better.