Chapter Text
The end of the world arrived on a Tuesday, which was fitting, as Tuesdays have always been the middle children of the week—unremarkable, tedious, and generally prone to disappointment.
Yingxing was currently under the hood of a car that looked less like a vehicle and more like a collection of rust held together by spite and duct tape. He was a boy composed of ninety percent grease, ten percent raw artistic fury, and zero percent patience.
“Pass me the 10mm socket,” he grunted, holding a hand out without looking.
Dan Feng, leaning against the garage wall with the kind of effortless, statuesque grace that usually required a pedestal and a museum plaque, did not pass the socket. Dan Feng was the student council president, the captain of the swim team, and possessed a face that made traffic stop. He was also currently staring out the window with an expression of mild distaste, as if he’d found a fly in his soup.
“Yingxing,” Dan Feng said. His voice was cool, like the underside of a pillow. “The neighbor, Mrs. Gable, is eating the mailman.”
Yingxing cranked a bolt. “Don't be metaphorical. She’s a gossip, we know this.”
“No. She is engaging in actual cannibalism. On the hydrangeas. It’s terrible for the soil pH.”
Yingxing finally pulled his head out of the engine block. He wiped a streak of oil across his forehead, missing his eye by an inch, and joined his boyfriend at the window.
Outside, the suburban afternoon was bathed in golden sunlight. Birds were singing. And Mrs. Gable, a woman whose previous greatest act of violence was aggressively pruning her petunias, was indeed gnawing on the forearm of a postal worker who seemed remarkably resigned to his fate. Further down the street, the track team was sprinting, though for once they weren’t chasing a time; they were being chased by the glee club, who looked significantly less gleeful and significantly more hungry.
“Huh,” Yingxing said. “That’s not something you see every day.”
“We have a chemistry test in fourth period,” Dan Feng noted, checking his watch. “I assume this constitutes an excusable absence?”
“Dan Feng, looking at that,” Yingxing pointed a wrench at a teenager currently tackling a golden retriever, “I think the education system just got suspended indefinitely.”
They watched for another moment. The mailman stopped twitching. Mrs. Gable stood up, wiped her mouth, and began shambling toward Yingxing’s garage with the coordination of a toddler learning to walk on ice.
“Zombie,” Yingxing declared.
“Infected,” Dan Feng corrected. “Zombie implies voodoo or supernatural resurrection. This is clearly viral.”
“Pedant. Grab the bat.”
“I am not grabbing the bat. It’s aluminum. It dents."
“Grab the heavy bat, you high-maintenance princess!”
The garage door rattled as Mrs. Gable threw herself against it. She hissed, a sound like a radiator blowing a gasket.
Yingxing looked at his car. Then he looked at Dan Feng. “The transmission is slippery in second gear, and the brakes are... let’s call them ‘theoretical.’”
Dan Feng sighed, a tragic sound. He walked over to the tool rack, bypassed the aluminum bat, and picked up a heavy iron crowbar. He weighed it in his hand with a terrifying familiarity. “I will drive. You navigate. If you get blood on my varsity jacket, I will leave you behind.”
“Love you too,” Yingxing grinned, sharp and wolfish.
They rolled the garage door up.
The sunlight hit them, and so did the smell—a mix of copper and unwashed gym socks. Mrs. Gable lunged. She was fast for a woman with a hip replacement.
Yingxing didn’t hesitate. He swung a massive pipe wrench with the practiced ease of a man who hated percussion instruments but loved the sound of impact. There was a wet THWACK, distinct and final. Mrs. Gable folded like cheap laundry.
“My mother liked her,” Dan Feng observed, stepping over the body without breaking stride. He swung the crowbar in a clean, elegant arc, removing the head of a shambling jogger who had gotten too close. It was a beautiful swing. Minimum effort, maximum kinetic transfer.
“Your mother likes everyone who tells her she looks young,” Yingxing scoffed. He scrambled over the hood of the car—a vintage monstrosity he’d named The Indestructible II after The Indestructible I had caught fire—and slid into the passenger seat.
Dan Feng took the driver's side. He adjusted the mirror. He checked the rearview. He adjusted the seat.
“Drive the car!” Yingxing screamed, watching three members of the chess club shamble around the corner, their eyes milky white and their teeth clicking.
“Safety first,” Dan Feng said, fastening his seatbelt. “Click it or ticket, Yingxing. The apocalypse is no excuse for negligence.”
The engine roared to life—a sound like a dragon gargling gravel. Yingxing had modified the exhaust, mostly to annoy the neighbors, a decision that now paid off as the sonic boom momentarily stunned the approaching horde.
Dan Feng threw the car into reverse. He didn’t just back out; he executed a tactical withdrawal. The tires squealed, smoking against the asphalt as he spun the wheel with one hand, his expression bored. He clipped a trash can, sending it flying into a zombie wearing a mascot costume.
“Ten points,” Yingxing cheered.
“We need supplies,” Dan Feng said, accelerating down the street. He drove like he swam: fluid, powerful, and terrifyingly efficient. “The grocery store will be a riot zone. The pharmacy is a better bet. Antibiotics, bandages, protein bars.”
“And snacks,” Yingxing added, hanging out the window to smack a reaching hand with his wrench. “If the world is ending, I’m not eating kale chips.”
“We are getting nutrient-dense sustenance. And perhaps some hair ties. My hair is going to be a problem.”
Yingxing looked at his boyfriend. Dan Feng was splattered with a singular drop of dark blood on his cheekbone. It looked like high-fashion makeup. He was gripping the steering wheel of a rusting muscle car while the suburbs burned around them.
Yingxing felt a surge of affection so strong it was almost nauseating. Or maybe that was just the smell of the burning post office they were passing.
“You know,” Yingxing shouted over the roar of the engine and the distant screams of the populace. “I think we’re going to be good at this!”
Dan Feng drifted around a corner, narrowly missing a burning sedan. “At survival?”
“No. Well, yes. But I meant being the main characters.”
Dan Feng allowed himself a very small, very rare smirk. “Check the glove compartment. I believe I left a chocolate bar in there.”
“You hate chocolate.”
“I was saving it for you.”
Yingxing opened the compartment. There was the chocolate. And a jagged, sharpened screwdriver.
“Resourceful,” Yingxing said, unwrapping the candy.
“Eat up,” Dan Feng said, flooring the gas as they headed toward the highway. “It’s going to be a long Tuesday.”