Chapter Text
It's a cold day today.
Yesterday it was a pleasant 70 degrees, with the sun shining and a cool breeze whistling through shattered windows and vacant streets. Today is much the opposite: it's 35 degrees out, and that's being generous. A few years ago, Grian would've complained about waking up this morning in his tank top and shorts with ice-cold fingers and toes, but he's long past that point now. Everyone is; this wild, unpredictable weather has been the new normal, especially now that the radiation from the nuclear war has really sunk its tendrils into the atmosphere.
No, he didn't complain when he woke up shivering. Instead, he’d just stumbled out of his rickety bed and pulled on the layers of clothes he keeps a few steps away for days like these. All this to say, though, he really could've done without the wind.
"Christ,” Cleo bites out, teeth chattering as she pulls her jacket closer to her body. “This wind is awful.”
“Think there's a hurricane coming,” Etho murmurs, voice muffled by the thick, furry hood of his jacket.
Grian sighs, brushing past them. He crouches on the edge of the rooftop, distinctly ignoring the way his every feather quivers in protest as the wind whips through his wings. “All the more reason for a supply run,” he laments, and is not pouting. He's 28 years old, he definitely doesn't pout.
For as much as he doesn't complain about the stupid weather anymore, the desire to curl up in bed and do absolutely nothing when it's this bitter outside hasn't gone away. His every bone is aching for the warmth of his blanket pile.
This is what the three of them get for being complacent yesterday. It was the first warm day in a week or so, and they'd spent much of the day lazing around outside, soaking in the sunshine while they could. Who knows— maybe they wouldn't have had to leave their beds this morning at all if they'd just taken care of their diminished first aid and food stock yesterday.
But that's neither here nor there, and Grian can't really bring himself to regret it. He'd ended the day with the sun still singing on his skin, his freckles speckled dark against his red cheeks, and it was everything. These cold spells have a way of spreading their frost past skin and bone, until it crystallizes and crackles over your very soul. They'd all needed that chance to thaw their bruised, numb hearts.
A quick scan of the street below them tells Grian it's desolate. This block of the city usually is— most people aren't willing to fight the three of them for whatever supplies are left to scrounge up in the few buildings they've yet to raid.
Truthfully, they're going to have to encroach on someone's territory soon, especially if they can't find someone with a supply shipment coming in from out of town. It goes like this: they ask for a cut of a shipment, and give an offer in return— warm, high quality clothes, loaded weapons, things of that sort. Usually, their offers are declined with a few flowery, unnecessary words; to which Etho adorns his darkest clothes and his quietest steps and infiltrates a base or two, just for intel. Shipment locations, times, dates. And then… well. The three of them have some fun, and usually a nice meal after.
But they haven’t caught word of a shipment for a couple of months now, so it's back to the tried and true looting and scooting for the three of them.
“It looks clear. Want me to fly the perimeter?” Grian glances over his shoulder first at Cleo, then at Etho.
“Honestly? I sorta want to get this over with,” Etho says, a little sheepish as he shifts his mask further up over his nose.
Grian snickers into the back of his glove.
Cleo shifts forward then, hovering over Grian's head. The sleeve of her jacket scratches against his hood when she reaches out to point somewhere left. “That supermarket on the east side. We haven't cleared it, have we?”
Grian turns on his heel and peeks around Cleo’s leg to look at Etho, who shakes his head. And then he hums, and that can only ever mean one thing.
“There's a ‘but,’” Cleo sighs.
"But,” Etho drawls, predictably. “It's reinfected. Or it was. Uh, according to Gem’s last scout, anyway.”
“She scouted three days ago,” Grian deadpans. How much did Etho really think would've changed since then?
Etho holds his arms up, placating and defeated. “Hey. You never know, Grian.”
Grian raises his eyebrows, but otherwise doesn't dignify that with a response.
“Welp!” Cleo starts with a grin. “Enough standing around. Place won't raid itself!
Her hand claps him hard on the shoulder; she must have underestimated her own strength, because it immediately sends him teetering on the precipice of the building. And oh, Grian has an idea. It takes everything in him to not giggle maniacally, but he can’t hold back the grin that spreads on his lips as he tumbles head over heels right off the roof.
The world spins with him for a moment; the air in free-fall feels more like frozen daggers digging into his skin, even past his layers of clothes. He spreads his wings as far as they go, until the wind catches beneath them and the ground isn't rushing toward him anymore.
Above him, Cleo screams in shock, long and horrified. Etho yells Grian’s name, too, from somewhere behind her as she throws herself to her knees to lean over the side, and—
Grian is looking up at her, wings beating as he hovers. They make silent eye contact for one, two, three, four seconds, where Grian’s lips just keep curling up and up, and there’s a tsunami building in his throat. Her eye twitches in something like incredulity.
“I fucking hate you.”
And the dam breaks until he’s cackling, barely able to see even the shape of Cleo’s fluffy red hair for the tears of joy in his eyes. Another body leans over— Etho of course— and he just keeps laughing, loud and unabashed. Etho smiles so wide his eyes crinkle.
“He’s a prankster, this guy.”
Cleo points a finger in Grian's face, stern despite the mirth in their voice as they threaten, “This isn’t over. I’ll get you when you least expect it.”
Grian is too busy giggling to agree with Etho when he suggests they get a move on before Cleo actually kills somebody. He follows them regardless, cheeks aching and lips chapped.
“Oh, this place is crawling,” Cleo hisses as she peeks over a chunk of concrete and into the windows of the supermarket.
A particularly sharp yowl from an undead sends her crouching right back down so fast she stumbles on her heels, careening back into Etho a little. He steadies her with one hand without so much as a glance, listening intently to the cacophony of gargles and groans. He’s always had a strangely uncanny ability to pinpoint a dozen things from their noises alone. Personally, for Grian, a zombie is a zombie is a zombie; what’s it matter about the species or whatever? They’re all going to have to die just the same.
Etho starts with his murmuring; something something, well there are least 15— something something, can’t just rush it something…
Grian is in the middle of stifling a yawn when Cleo, savior of his sanity, groans quietly in annoyance. Because as endearing as Etho can be— which is very, by the way— Grian and Cleo really like rushing things. On Grian’s part, it’s not because he’s impulsive; if anything, he couldn’t be further from it. He loves his plans and his strings and his knowledge. But they’ve been through a hundred situations exactly like this before, and the plan they sit here and come up with is going to be entirely identical to the plan they used those other hundred times.
He gives Etho a gentle nudge. “Etho, the horse is dead, dude. Let’s go.”
Etho glares at the two of them, but it gets weaker and weaker the longer he stares at the deranged, euphoric grin on Cleo’s face. He chances a glance at Grian, maybe in the hopes that his logical brain will win the fight for control. He just starts wiggling his eyebrows and bouncing on the balls of his feet, matching Cleo’s sharp-toothed smile perfectly. And Etho, bless his heart, shifts between the two of them with a gaze of utter despair. Resigned, he rises to his feet, hands on his hips.
Cleo and Grian share a knowing look, though; they can tell when Etho hides his smiles behind that mask of his. He’s not inconspicuous in the slightest, and he revels in a little bit of mayhem the same as the two of them.
Grian stands, and Cleo follows. The three of them nod at each other, ready to move silently— if these particular infected are irradiated, they'll have to be quiet and cautious. The cataracts from the radiation leave them blind, but their ears work perfectly fine.
Not for the first time, Grian wonders what it must be like further from the bombsites. If he hadn't moved out here, maybe he would've known; he's not sure how many nuclear bombs were dropped in the end, but to his knowledge, his old town is unscathed by radiation. Or who knows: maybe if he never came here, things would have ended differently entirely.
There are things he'll never know, but that doesn't make it easier to live with.
They creep forward in perfect step with one another. He frees his blade from its sheath; next to him, Etho and Cleo do the same. No matter what kind of zombie is waiting for them inside, guns would probably be better, but ammunition is gold anymore, especially with that whole supply drought ordeal. They're still a solid five meters from the door when the first zombie lets out a cry, sharp and strangled, and then there's footsteps, pounding in an uneven gait against cracked linoleum.
“We got a live one!” Cleo shouts, regripping the handle of their blade just as the glass window before them shatters.
“They're young,” Etho calls over the dreadful grating screech of the zombie. “Move quick.”
Thank God they're young, Grian thinks. The older ones move slower, but they're harder to kill without guns. If all of them are like this, it'll be a workout, but maybe it—
The thing is hardly a meter away from Etho when he spots the blister on its neck, a telltale sign of radiation. It's oozing dangerously from behind a jagged cluster of bone that the infection has spurted, jutting out of its collarbone. From where Etho is standing, knife ready, he can't see what Grian sees: melted skin and violent, bloody blisters.
His wings flare out behind him, feathers bristling as he cries out, “Irradiated!” And then, he moves without really thinking; it only takes him a few seconds to draw a knife from a sheath on his thigh. The moment he's got a hold on it, he flings it.
It sinks into the flesh of the zombie's neck, missing the calcified mass by centimeters; the zombie misses Etho by the same margin. Under the impact, it sprawls to the ground, blood bubbling along Grian's blade still firmly lodged in its skin. He heaves a relieved breath the second it's down, holding his head in his free hand. His heart is still pounding wildly, a waterfall in his ears.
Etho by no means would have died if he had missed that throw, but the radiation burns from those things are hell to deal with. Especially when you're working with limited medical supplies.
“Okay!” Cleo strains out, voice high-pitched. She nudges the still-spasming corpse at her feet with the toe of her shoe, careful to only make contact with the thick growth of bone marring the edge of its neck. Its head lolls enough that Grian can retrieve his knife without touching anything he shouldn't. “That was fun.”
And then Etho turns his gaze to Grian, who is still crouched down next to the thing, in the process of freeing his knife. When Grian glances up at him briefly, the corners of his eyes are crinkled and his hands are quivering. Little by little, he regains executive control of his body.
“Thanks for the save.”
Grian grins back, and tips his head toward the supermarket; there's a lot more clambering going on in there than there was a couple of minutes ago. “Pay it forward, would ya?” he teases, and flexes his fingers. The thrum of terror has dissipated from them, so all he has left to shake out is the warm buzz of amusement.
Etho nods easily. Quickly, Grian wipes the worst of the blood from his blade using a clump of vegetation that's started tearing its way past the asphalt parking lot so he can resheathe it. He doesn't know who reaches out first, only that Etho's hand is in his, holding firm as he pulls Grian up.
Now, Grian will be the first to say it, because he's never been afraid to toot his own horn here and there: they make a great team, despite the growing pains they suffered through the first year of their friendship. By now though— almost three years deep into this team— the kinks have worked themselves out.
They make quick work of the market, mostly by taking their enemies on as they come. They fight in tandem, with practiced ease.
When Grian's wings let him dart barely out of reach of a zombie’s torn nails, Cleo notices immediately, and her dagger digs into its temple. Cleo's leg swings out to topple another zombie to the ground, and without a breath, Etho’s sword finds a home in its gut. Two zombies pinch Etho into a tough spot, and Grian is there in an instant, gripping one of them by a rough horn-like jut of bone protruding from its skull and slitting its throat from behind.
Together, they have no weak spots. It's this fact that makes them so fearsome to the people on this side of the city. But caring for one another is why they're so good at doing what they do: surviving, that is. Because they're a group of survivors, sure, but that's not the first word Grian would describe them as, oddly enough. Instead, it's something fonder. Brighter.
It takes twenty minutes for them to claw their way through the horde of zombies, but they come out on the other side alive. Sweaty, shaky, and torn, but alive nonetheless. And the evidence of their carnage remains at their feet: twenty-three or so zombies, practically swimming in their own blood. They're dead, but the shutdown of their bodies enables the infection to take an even tighter hold on them. In the silence, Grian can hear the crackling and groaning as their bones expand. Some of them even have new spurs protruding from their skin, ossifying now-worthless muscle, blood seeping from the bases of the bone. He wrinkles his nose. These people took well to the infection, apparently, with this crazy growth rate.
Next to him, Cleo takes a shuddering breath. It's the first human noise he's heard in at least ten minutes, and he turns to her curiously. Her brows pinch together as she stares down at one of the zombies; it wears a ghastly expression as bone unfurls along its face like thorn-riddled vines. It's a little strange to see the grief so plainly on her face, warring there unabashedly. It's not that she keeps her emotions close to her chest, it's just that profound sadness isn't typically on the list.
“I'm glad they don't feel any of this,” she sighs pensively. Etho hums in solemn agreement.
Grian’s ears ring as he forces his wings to sit smoother against his back, even as they twitch against his efforts. His gaze darts back to the zombie at her feet, takes in its expression, forever frozen in all its agony. “Right,” he says, licking his lips. And like the mantra it is, the words fall from his tongue effortlessly: “They're not human anymore. Just shells.”
He hates having to step over their broken, bone-barbed bodies. He hates the way his shoes squish and slip in the blood pooling along the floor. But it's the apocalypse, and none of that useless hatred is getting them anywhere. So Grian strides on, taking to the partially-stocked shelves.
Strangely enough, he can tell by the crudely written dates and the vaguely-intact states of the food on the shelves that these are from a supply drop of some kind. It's common practice now for drops to be inconspicuously left in places like these, all in an effort to counteract people like him, Etho, and Cleo— vultures, they're called, like it's even an insult really. If he had to harbor a guess, the remnants of the people who were meant to pick this stuff up are scattered on the floor now, a grotesque amalgamation of too-thick blood and mangled bone.
No wonder they were young. It must not have been long ago that they turned, then. The annoying part about this, he thinks to himself as he starts shoveling cans and packages into his bags, is that someone had the audacity to make a delivery like this in their streets in the first place. He's really hoping it doesn't spell trouble, but honestly, trouble seems to be the only word in the apocalyptic dictionary.
They sweep the building in ten minutes tops, reconvening just outside with their bags stuffed.
“You see the expiration dates on these things? Someone's been playing with our toys,” Grian huffs the moment he's in earshot of them, utterly affronted.
Cleo shrugs, gesturing to the mass of zombies sitting right in the doorway. “Hey, they're ossifying quick, though. Place’ll be nothing but bone-spikes soon enough.” They grin, pleased. “Karma is one beautiful, beautiful woman.”
Grian can't help but snicker. They're right. He gives it a month tops before you'd need a jackhammer to burrow through that doorway.
He listens from the side as Cleo and Etho banter on the walk back home, taking stock of their injuries. There's nothing major; a few cuts from sharp bones and bruises from collisions here and there. Mostly, they're walking away with some pretty nasty tears in their clothes, but it's nothing Etho can't fix up.
It's a good job they didn't rack up a million injuries. Part of the purpose of this run was to scrounge up medical supplies of any kind— they're sorely lacking— and they've come up with exactly nothing. He'll never complain about food, especially when it's sort of fresh… ish. But this does mean their scavenging isn't over just yet. They've got a long week or so ahead of them, desperately trying to find supplies without having to kill too many rogue survivors in the process. If Etho’s right and there's a hurricane on the way, the week will be even longer.
Of course, he doesn't need to break the peace Etho and Cleo have goofed their way into. They most certainly know this without Grian having to tell them, so he keeps his mouth shut, content to watch them bounce off each other.
Grian changes right away once they're back at their bunker, more than a little sick of the pungent smell of blood— not that changing will do much anyway. The smell clings to his nose anymore, chases him around with a sense of urgency.
He has to throw on two sweaters to achieve the warmth he'd had with his jacket and shawl, but it's worth it to feel a little cleaner, even if there's blood matted in his hair and stuck stubbornly to his skin. But God, when it's this cold out and he's this exhausted, he doesn't have it in him to go bathe. His legs ache in protest just thinking about it. He does, however, take one of their few clean rags to at least wipe himself down and clean his (thankfully miniscule) wounds.
By the time he's rejoined Cleo and Etho in their little common area, they're both right back to work. Cleo has taken it upon herself to start cataloging their haul from the day and organizing it in their storage room, humming intermittently while she works. Etho is sitting on their rickety couch, already wielding his needle and thread, going to town on a particularly tattered shirt of Cleo's. On the coffee table in front of him, there's a massive pile, clearly in the queue.
Cross-legged, Grian sits himself in the chair opposite Etho, tossing his own clothes into the to-sew pile as he fishes out his needle too. Etho looks up at him, and doesn't stop his smooth, methodical rhythm of stitching. Show off.
“Hey. You need anything today?” Etho asks, gaze skirting to the needle in Grian’s hand. He knows better than to use the help word when he asks; something about that makes Grian feel like his insides are bundled in sheep's wool.
His sewing will never be as good as Etho's, which he's begrudgingly come to terms with. But he does get the privilege of having the guy show him the ropes, even if he can be a pretty awful teacher from time to time. Or really, he's a fine teacher, so long as Grian genuinely tunes out every word he speaks and just… watches his hands move. That's the only part that means anything in an Etho sewing lecture, he discovered very quickly. The guy talks himself into circles.
“I'm alright,” he answers, and it isn't a lie. He can passably stitch up a rip in his clothes on his own, thanks to Etho. But his gaze lingers on Etho's hands anyway, watching as his needle moves so easily. The soft line of tremors in his hands is noticeable, even from here, but that's nothing new. And he’s utterly undeterred by them as always, despite the fact that Grian can't help but think they might be worse than before. He tries not to worry too much, though; Etho is more than capable of taking care of himself, and out of the three of them, he's the most inclined to actually ask for help if he needs it.
Grian’s own stitching is significantly more hesitant and jerky than Etho's, and it makes a lot less sturdy of a repair job to boot. Everything he makes and fixes is shoddy at best, but he sews anyway. Sometimes, he'll glance up at Etho’s trembling hands as they elegantly pull a tear together until Grian can't even tell there was anything there in the first place. He would feel inferior about it if there was room in his chest for anything but this overwhelming endearment.
And when Grian gets frustrated at his own clumsiness, Etho just chuckles at him, giving him a pointer or two with barely a sidelong glance. Cleo isn't bothering with the humming anymore, and has instead taken to singing various songs at the top of her lungs, without singing a single one in full.
Really, it's incredibly obnoxious, the way these two fit so well in the aching gaps between his ribs where loss has dug its claws in. They ought to be planning out their next runs, trying to figure out any possible way to get a hold of some new drop-related information. It's the apocalypse, and the list of things to do is arduous and infinite.
But there's organizing and sewing to do, too. So he lets the ever-present song of grief that haunts him fade into the jaunty, obscure pop-rock song that Cleo is certainly butchering. He stabs himself with his needle and bites out a few bouts of unpleasant words that make Etho’s eyes light up while he bubbles with laughter.
Yeah, maybe this is alright. Grian can worry about the rest of it tomorrow. It's the apocalypse, and all they have is time.