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“Fiddleford, pick up the pace! We’re nearly there!” Ford called out as he walked briskly down the dense forest path.
“Christ, lemme catch my dang breath!” Fiddleford replied as he leaned against a nearby redwood for support. After taking some deep breaths and a drink from his canteen, he continued on the uphill trek towards his friend.
It had been just shy of a week since he had arrived in Gravity Falls after receiving an excited invitation from his best friend and old college roommate, Stanford Pines. They were set to start work on a secretive project, one that would change the course of history if they were to succeed. But before they began their work, Ford had decided to take the week to show Fiddleford the “sights” around the town he’d be calling home for the foreseeable future.
Upon Fiddleford’s arrival in town, they had taken a couple of days to get his room in the attic situated as they caught up on what they had been up to over their past few years apart. They had gone into town so that Ford could show him around the more mundane areas of the small town. Ford had even taken him to dinner at the small diner in town.
That morning, Ford had woken him up bright and early and said that he had plans for a “nice, leisurely hike” so that Fiddleford could get better acquainted with the local wildlife. That leisurely hike however had turned out to be a full day affair. That was exhausting enough, not to mention that the “local wildlife” was anything but normal.
In just one day, he had been shown a colony of small bearded men (which Ford had not so lovingly called “gnomes”), a duck with its face on its stomach, and something called a “hawktopus” which Ford had dismissed when asked what it was by saying it was “too idiotic to talk about”.
Their foray into the intimidating forest to visit with all of these odd creatures had taken the better part of the day and the sun was now setting over the horizon. When Fiddleford had mentioned the impending darkness, Ford had said it was perfect timing for them to meet the last creature on his list as it was best spotted at night.
These critters were apparently campfires with legs that Ford had named “Scampfires”. (Fiddleford couldn’t help but laugh at the fact that Stanford Pines, a man who scoffed at every southern-ism that came out of his mouth, was apparently so fond of wordplay that he named creatures borderline puns.)
The “leisurely hike” (if you could call the tail end of an over ten mile circuit through the wilderness that) had been relatively uneventful for the better part of an hour. Fiddleford had stopped paying too much attention to what was in front of him after Ford had informed him that they were in the general direction of “home.” It was nice to simply listen to the sounds of nature and walk with his friend who led the way as he described different things about the environment around them.
Fiddleford was so comfortable in fact that he didn’t notice when Ford suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, which caused him to walk right into him.
“Agh–sorry! Why’d ya stop? Did we make it?” Fiddleford asked.
There was no reply from Ford.
In fact, it hardly appeared as though he realized Fiddleford was even there. He stared ahead at the horizon and seemed to be focused on where the full moon had slowly begun to rise. Hesitantly, Fiddleford reached out to tap his shoulder, which caused his friend to visibly jump.
“Stanford? What’s wrong? Did we make it?” Fiddleford repeated as he adjusted the knapsack on his shoulders. Ford turned to look at him and in an instant the carefree atmosphere that Fiddleford had been living in dissipated–Ford looked terrified.
His friend cleared his throat, and looked Fiddleford in the eye.
“Fiddleford, please tell me; what is today's date?” He asked as he glanced back towards the moon.
Fiddleford thought he knew him well enough to know this wasn’t some sort of joke, and based on everything he had seen so far today, it was hard not to begin to worry where this line of questioning would lead.
“W-Well, I believe it’s the fourth? The uh…the fourth of August, that is. Why d’ya ask?” He replied as his question seemingly fell on deaf ears.
Ford's face darkened as he internally pieced something together that was completely lost on Fiddleford. Ford’s focus returned to the ever rising moon once more. All of this only added to Fiddleford's palpable unease. He never could handle silence, so he tried to speak one more time.
“Stanford, what’s wrong? Ya look about as nervous as a cat locked in a room full of rockin’ chairs!”
Stanford stared at the sky for just a moment longer and then finally spoke.
“I believe I have made a…slight miscalculation.” He turned to look at Fiddleford, his eyebrows almost touching with concern.
“We need to head back to the cabin. Now.” Ford hurriedly walked in a new direction and gestured for Fiddleford to follow.
“Now wait a darn minute–what’s goin on? An’ what about those campfire critters ya were gonna show me?” Fiddleford said as he jogged to catch up with Ford.
“Forget about them, we can see them at a later date. In my…eagerness to get out the door this morning, I seem to have neglected to check the calendar–such a foolish mistake…” Ford trailed off and he started walking even faster down a hill.
“N-now hold on! Why do we have ta get back so fast? Ya mind cluein’ me in on what’s got ya so spooked?” Fiddleford asked as he picked up his pace as well.
He tried his best to keep himself calm. Stanford wasn’t a man that scared easily, so whatever was going on must be…horrifying.
“Right, of course. My apologies, Fiddleford. You see when I first moved to the area, I began to notice a pattern. Once every month, on the full moon-“ he paused a moment to point at the rising celestial body behind them and then continued, “- the dead began to rise from unmarked graves. In short, we need to get home before–“
Ford was abruptly cut off as the ground beneath their feet began to shake. Fiddleford almost immediately lost his footing on the uneven earth; his feet slipped and he fell backwards. He felt sharp rocks and twigs dig into the skin of his hands when he landed. He made some undignified noise at the pain and winced as he slipped and tried to unsteadily get back on his feet.
All pain was immediately forgotten however once he saw a green, rotting hand burst through the ground mere inches away from his feet. His stomach churned as the smell of decay reached his nose, and he let out a broken yelp as he scrambled to get back up. Suddenly, he felt a hand grab his arm. He struggled to pull away and tried to look at what had grabbed him and–oh thank god, it was just Stanford.
“Fiddleford, are you alright?! Come, we need to hurry before things get worse.” He said, helping Fiddleford back to his feet.
“What the hell is that thing?!” Fiddleford asked as he gave the creature he had thankfully evaded a wide berth. Without answering, Ford pointed in a direction opposite the way they had come. Fiddleford put foot to earth towards where his friend pointed and ran, with Ford following close behind.
“That was a zombie, and that is the reason we have to get home as fast as possible…that one is only the beginning.” Stanford replied breathlessly as his footsteps thundered along behind Fiddleford. Ford may have been in better shape in terms of endurance, but terror was a wonderful motivator that not only allowed him to keep his manic pace but even keep ahead of Ford.
Fiddleford didn’t have time to ask what Ford meant before out of the forest on all sides erupted the shambling masses of the undead. An entire hoard of them. Their limbs were bent at awkward angles, and the stench of decay permeated the air as more appeared. The creatures groaned and made other sounds that were far too close to human speech for his comfort. Fiddleford ran a bit faster as another shot of adrenaline entered his blood.
The pair ran down an incline as fast as their legs would carry them and dodged around zombies as they grasped at their flesh. They jumped over new limbs as they burst out from underneath the earth. Fiddleford's throat and lungs burned from overexertion, and all he could hear was their thundering footsteps, his heartbeat, and the unearthly groans of the undead as they closed in around them.
Eventually, the trees thinned and they could see the distant lights of the cabin. They were now in the home stretch with salvation in sight. Fiddleford used the remainder of his strength to run just that little bit faster; he wanted to get this nightmare over with as fast as he could with several inches of pine wood between him and the monstrosities that surrounded them.
But then, Fiddleford’s heart skipped a beat and he ground to a halt, when he heard Stanford scream behind him.
He whipped his head around, and his blood ran cold. From where he stood he could see that Stanford had been grabbed. His friend was currently trying to wrestle his way out of an undead monster's vice-like grip.
Fiddleford couldn't move, his feet were rooted in place with pure terror. MOVE!!! You have to help him! Stop standing here and HELP HIM!!! His mind raced, he didn't know what to do, or how to help. It took all of his willpower just to finally find his voice.
“St-Stanford!!”
Ford glanced over at him, not willing to let the creature out of his sight for more than a second. His hands visibly shook with the amount of force it took to keep the zombie at arms length. He looked at Fiddleford once more, his eyes wide and filled with fear.
“F-Fiddleford, don’t worry, I-I've got this! But you, you need to run!” Stanford shouted, shoving the zombie as far away from himself as his strength would allow before he turned on his heel to run towards the house. Stanford made it a few feet before his foot slipped on the loose, uneven gravel. He fell forward with the zombie close behind him.
Stanford rolled over just as the grotesque creature all but tackled him, and grabbed at its neck to force its gnashing teeth away from his face. After a moment, he turned his gaze to where Fiddleford was still frozen; he was just standing there, several feet away from his best friend unable to move– to help.
Stanford's eyes flitted around wildly as he looked at how the zombies were closing in around them both. Fiddleford could almost watch as the gears turned in his head before Stanford’s eyes found him again, his jaw set and his expression unreadable.
“Fiddleford, I need you to listen to me very carefully–” he shoved the zombie a few inches away, his arm shaking with the momentous effort with an expression that suggested his resolve was ready to give out at any moment. He continued, his voice unnaturally calm, “In that bag you offered to carry earlier is my journal. I need you to go home, lock all of the doors, turn to page thirty two and follow the instructions to the letter. Do you understand?!”
“B-but what a-about-”
“Fiddleford, GO! The faster you brew the cure, the faster this can all be over with!” Stanford urged, his eyes desperate. Fiddleford felt like he was missing some key information, he couldn't see how Ford would make it out of this alive if he didn't help him right then and there. He knew he had to make a stand; he willed his feet to move and started to make his way back up the gravel hill to his friend. Stanford attempted to say something but Fiddleford couldn’t hear him with the roar of newfound courage in his ears. If I could pull the zombie off, we’d both be able to run. I just need to–
Fiddleford’s heroic thoughts were cut sickeningly short; he watched in horror as Stanford's hand slipped from its position on the creature and the zombie bit down on his palm full force. He let out an agonized scream, and Fiddleford watched in mounting horror. Like some dark magic the veins in Ford's arm darkened, and his skin turned a hauntingly pale shade. His friend looked at Fiddleford, his fearful eyes turning from a familiar brown to a sickly shade of light green with his entire sclera following suit. He opened his mouth, and in a final pained cry, he screamed;
“RUN!”
Fiddleford turned on his heel and did as he was told, putting as much distance as he could between the hoard of the undead and himself. He narrowly avoided the half-dozen zombies that had gotten too close during his pause.
Stanford had seemed calm while giving him instructions, so surely he had a plan, surely things would be okay– they had to be okay.
Fiddleford’s feet thundered up the short set of steps to the porch. He burst his way through the front door and slammed it shut, locking it behind him. He reached over and turned the light off, which bathed the entryway in darkness.
He wanted to collapse right there, sit down and give up. Fiddleford was hyperventilating; he could hear how his heartbeat was pounding in his ears–from exhaustion or from fear, he didn't know. The only thing he knew for certain was that he had been given instructions, and he was going to do his best. He was going to help.
Lock the doors.
He pushed away from the door, dropping the knapsack, and made his way through the house. There were four exterior doors to the cabin that he knew of; he ran through the maze of hallways, finding and locking each and every one and turned off any and all lights for good measure. Once he was done, he hurried back to the entryway, and went over the list of instructions Stanford had given him before he… No. Fiddleford couldn't go down that train of thought, he'd send himself into a spiral.
Lock the doors, grab the journal, turn to page thirty two.
He ran across the room and fell to his knees where he had dropped the knapsack. He frantically unzipped it, turned it over, and let its contents spill out across the floor. Various hiking supplies, food, Stanford's house keys, and other odds and ends tumbled their way out of the bag, followed by a red leather bound book. He grabbed it, adjusted himself so he was in the thin sliver of unnaturally bright moonlight, and started thumbing through the pages– only to find that none of them were numbered.
“Why’d ya give me a damn page number then?!” He said under his breath, regretting it as soon as he spoke. Stanford could be dead or worse, and here he was complaining.
The undead creatures outside made themselves known, groaning and thumping against the walls of the house. It didn’t sound like they were trying to find him, more like they were passing by. As long as he stayed quiet, they might not try to get in. He bit back the anxious noise that wanted to escape his throat and focused on flipping through the pages of the journal, counting them as he went.
He flipped past creatures of every shape and size, a few of which they had encountered earlier that day, and many that they hadn’t (which, after tonight, Fiddleford frankly hoped to never encounter.) He kept turning pages, eyes skimming the contents, and counting: 27… 28… 29…
He turned the page one more time, and saw it. There, in big bold letters scrawled across the top of page number 30:
The Undead
Known for their pale skin and bad attitudes, these creatures are often mistaken for teenagers. Beware Gravity Falls’ nefarious zombies!
Underneath, there was a picture of a zombie that looked hastily scribbled, nowhere near the clean look of the earlier drawings in the journal. At the bottom in red ink, the words “Extremely Dangerous!!!” were written.
Fiddleford hastily read the rest of the page, and the neighboring one, hoping for something–anything that could help. “...since they bite new victims when they rise each month, I have seen a zombie mailman, a zombie cop, and a zombie Boy Scout. What if their numbers continue to increase? Must stop them at all costs. Their skulls are unbreakable, I cannot find a single weakness.”
Frustrated, and growing increasingly worried, he turned to the next page. Page thirty two, follow the instructions to the letter. He started to read, when he heard it; footsteps… groaning…
Something was on the porch.
The thin sliver of fading light that had been coming through the diamond shaped window had been blocked off by something. Fiddleford’s stomach dropped. He silently tried to back away from the door, grabbing the journal as he went. The words that he had just read were extremely fresh in his mind: no weaknesses.
His best course of action would of course be to hide–hide and wait until they were gone. He knew he didn’t stand a chance, especially by himself. Fiddleford’s heart rate quickened once more as he tried to control his breathing.
Be quiet.
He hid behind the door frame of the next room, praying to god that whatever was outside didn’t see him, and focused on keeping his breathing steady.
Breathe in…
He heard the creature grab the door handle and try to turn it.
Breathe out…
He saw the light get completely blocked off as the creature pressed its face against the door window.
Breathe in…
He could smell the faint stench of the rotting corpses outside, and gagged.
Breathe out…
Then the creature did something entirely unexpected– it knocked on the door. Three short knocks, like a mailman waiting for you to sign for a delivery. As that last knock met the pine wood of the door, Fiddleford knew he was done for. The creatures were going to get in and they were going to kill him, just like Stanford. He was a goner. Not even a week into his stay and he was already going to die. He thought about his family and he prayed the creature would leave him alone. He knew he could never forgive himself if he abandoned them.
Everything felt eerily still, terrifyingly quiet. It knocked again, and then… it spoke.
“Fiddleford? Are you in there? It’s me!” Stanford said from the other side of the door.
Fiddleford could hardly breathe he was so relieved. Stanford was okay, he was alive! Fiddleford hurried to get back on his feet and made his way over to the door.
“Christ, Stanford, ya gave me a heart attack! I thought for sure you were one of those things. I...I thought you were gone.” He said as he reached the door, his voice hushed.
Fiddleford reached for the door handle and was about to unlock it when he…paused. Something about this…it didn’t feel right. The hair still stood stock straight on the back of his neck, like he was some prey animal being hunted. He’d been hunting long enough through the foothills of his hometown with his father to know what it was like when something you didn’t want looking at you, was doing exactly that.
Fiddleford slowly looked up at the window on the door, and his heart stopped when he saw two blank, dead eyes staring back at him.
“Oh good lord!” Fiddleford exclaimed, taking a step away from the door as his heart thundered away in his chest. “Y-yer not…St-Stanford?!”
“I assure you, it’s me. You saw one of them bite me, correct?” Stanford said, leaning his head against the door. Fiddleford thought back to the journal entry he had just read, and came to a realization. They had turned Stanford into one of them. He… sounded fairly normal (if a bit gravelly), and if it weren't for the way that he looked, Fiddleford might not have been able to tell there was anything wrong. After a very long pause, Fiddleford spoke, his voice small and shaky.
“S-so what? Yer one of them zombies now?” He asked, mind racing. Could they fix this?! Was it permanent?! Stanford merely hummed an affirmative response from the other side of the door. Fiddleford stood there, wringing his hands and trying to think. After a moment, a single word that Stanford had said earlier stuck out to him. He walked back over to where he had left the journal, not fully letting his eyes off the door.
“Earlier… ya said there was a cure? Ya said ‘The faster ya get the cure, the faster this’ll be over with’, right?” Fiddleford opened the journal back up and turned to the page he had been on, squinting in the dim light to read what it said. Stanford had suggested the cure before he had been bitten. He knew he wouldn't make it.
“Yes, the ‘Cure’. Page thirty two of my journal, it's a simple recipe.” Stanford said, drifting off at the end of his sentence, as if lost in thought. Fiddleford skimmed the ‘simple’ list of ingredients, some of which sounded self explanatory. Cinnamon, salt–but the others listed were not something a human should ever consume. If Stanford even counted as a human at all right now.
“Newts blood… Paint thinner? Formaldehyde?!! And yer s’posed ta drink this?” Fiddleford exclaimed, half wondering if this was some sort of joke, and knowing deep down that it wasn't.
“Yes, to preserve the body before the zombification starts rotting it from the inside out.” Stanford said, as if it was the most casual thing in the world.
“Stanford, don't talk about yerself like yer some kinda specimen in a lab! ‘Preserve the body’, fer Christ's sake...” Fiddleford said as exasperation and annoyance overshadowed his fear for the briefest moment.
“Yes, right, my apologies.” Stanford said, seemingly lost in thought once more. After a minute of silence, he spoke up again. “Fiddleford, you have my journal, correct?”
“... well, yeah? Why, is there somethin’ else I have to know?”
“No, no, I was wondering if you could write down some notes for me? Unless you’d rather pass me my journal.” Stanford didn't wait for a response before he continued, “One of the first things I noticed after I was turned is that the other zombies seemingly walked right past me, as if I were invisible to their senses now! It is truly fascinating. I’m thinking it has to do with their sense of smell… or maybe that they can sense body heat? I do feel quite cold now, that must be it…”
Fiddleford stopped dead in his tracks from where he was analyzing the ingredients list, and stared at the door incredulously.
“Seriously?! Now of all times is when ya go into research mode?!”
“Fiddleford, this is incredibly valuable information! Now, where was I? Right, senses. My eyesight has gotten much worse in the past several minutes, and I doubt it is much different for them, so I assume they use their other senses while moving around. Another interesting feeling is that, as it turns out, an intense and overwhelming craving for human brains occurs mere moments after turning. Fiddleford are you writing this down?”
Fiddleford's blood ran cold. Stanford seemed so upbeat, so like his normal giddy researcher self, that Fiddleford had momentarily forgotten that he was currently one of those bloodthirsty monsters. His friend was his standard science focused self, but with a craving for human flesh.
And Fiddleford was the only human around for miles.
His mouth went dry as terror washed over him in full force once again. He had to get this cure made, now.
“Fiddleford? I asked if you were writing this down?” Stanford repeated, leaning over and peering through the window once more. Fiddleford jumped and picked the journal back up, standing straight.
“Y-yeah I… I got it, wrote it all down right here.” Fiddleford lied through his teeth. Anything he could do to keep Stanford outside and passive while he made this cure, the better. “Stanford, do ya have all these ingredients handy?”
“Yes, I made sure to keep all of the ingredients on hand in case a situation like this ever arose!” Stanford almost sounded excited, like he was somehow happy to be prepared for this. Fiddleford allowed himself a small sigh of relief that this would all be over soon.
“Alright, good, now let’s see…. Where do ya keep yer formaldehyde?” Fiddleford said, making a mental note of the ingredients list, and setting the journal on the stairs.
“Oh, no need to trouble yourself. Here, just let me inside for efficiency’s sake and I’ll go and fetch everything for you. How does that sound?”
Fiddleford felt his heart leap into his throat and his pulse quicken. He’s not even trying to be subtle, is he?! Fiddleford's hands shook with anxiety, despite how much he tried to keep them still. He channeled the nervous energy into tapping his fingers together, and tried his best to keep his voice from stuttering while he spoke.
“I’d rather ‘fetch’ ’em myself, Stanford. An’ ya said ya can’t see very well right now. S-so I figure it’s best that I just go ahead and collect everything on my own.” Fiddleford said, swallowing dryly before continuing. “Besides, I don’t wanna risk any zombies gettin’ into the house, or else we’re both toast! N-now, where’s the formaldehyde?”
Stanford let out a gruff, almost disappointed sounding sigh, and leaned back against the door, moving away from the window once more.
“Right, of course. It’s in the kitchen pantry, at the very bottom.” He said, sounding upset. Fiddleford chose to believe he was upset about his condition, and not what Fiddleford had assumed his intentions were. Fiddleford made his way into the kitchen, rummaging around in the faint light that the window provided to find the formaldehyde. Sure enough, there it was right on the bottom shelf.
Only he’d keep a deadly chemical on the shelf right next to his oatmeal. Fiddleford thought as he grabbed the oversized bottle and set it onto the table. He walked to the cupboards and searched through them until he found a large mixing bowl, measuring cups, the salt- and finally, the cinnamon.
Just as Fiddleford had set everything down on the table, he nearly jumped out of his skin as he heard Stanford bang on the door.
“Fiddleford! Come quickly!”
Fiddleford raced back to the entryway, panic seizing his heart once more. Sure, he was a zombie right now, but Stanford was still Fiddleford’s best friend. What if something else went wrong while he was in the other room?!
“Ford?! W-what’s wrong?!”
"Oh— nothing! My apologies, I have simply made a discovery!"
Fiddleford halted in his panic, appalled at Ford's nonchalance. He opened his mouth to respond, but didn't get the chance as Ford was already on another scientific spiel.
"My theory about body heat seems to be correct! Its almost like a new set of eyes instead of my own, I could see you moving in the kitchen through the walls! Not clearly of course, but I could see you."
Fiddleford had heard enough. He was trying to focus on curing his friend, and Stanford's talk about how inhuman he currently was did nothing to help him focus— in fact, it… scared him. His heart thundered away in his chest, and he took a step away from the door.
"N-Now Stanford, now's really n-not the t-time to…" he trailed off unable to keep his voice from shaking. His usual nervous stutter was amplified by the adrenaline and fear coursing through his veins. He opened his mouth to continue, but Stanford seemingly took the pause as invitation to finish his thought
"Although… there's a possibility that it wasn't your body heat, it could be your heart-rate? Just now, Its… Its almost as if I can feel your heart-rate increasing the longer I talk. Are you frightened, Fiddleford?"
Fiddleford screwed his eyes shut, backing away from the door another step. He swallowed dryly, composing himself. He focused on making sure his voice was steady, no matter how much his hands shook and his heart hammered against his ribcage.
"Course not, Stanford. And that sure is an interestin' observation. I'll just go ahead and write it in this here book for ya..." Fiddleford said, now acutely aware he was being observed, watched like prey. He shakily grabbed the journal off the stairs, and slowly walked back towards the kitchen.
"Now, I'll be in the kitchen makin' that cure, j-just stay right there. Don't move." Fiddleford said, voice as level as he could make it. Whether he was convincing or not, he didn't know. But for his sake, and for his friend's sake, he prayed that he was.
If Ford responded, Fiddleford couldn't hear it over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He walked back to the kitchen, his pace quickening as he went. He stumbled, bumping into the counter, his legs feeling like jelly. Panic clawed at his throat, and breathing became a difficult task.
Frantically, he threw down the journal and grabbed the table in front of him, no longer trusting himself not to collapse right there. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to slow his breathing. If you don't calm down, you can't make the cure. That ain't him, you need to focus on the task at hand. You're both dead if you don't make the cure.
Calm. Down.
After a moment, and several deep breaths, he opened his eyes again and grabbed the journal, propping it open under the now bright moonlight streaming in through the window. His hands still shook as he grabbed the measuring cups, unable to keep them steady. Slowly, and carefully, he opened the formaldehyde container, and poured.
The air in the room was immediately filled with a sickly sweet chemical scent, and Fiddleford's eyes and throat burned. He chastised himself for not wearing protective equipment, but it was a little too late now. He had to keep going. As he poured the cup of formaldehyde into the bowl, he scanned the list of ingredients once more, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach he realized; he didn't have everything.
Taking a step back from the table and scanning the room, his mind raced. Paint thinner was likely to be in the hallway storage closet— but newts blood? He had no clue where that could be. His gaze frantically darted around the room, and he started searching through cupboards. Because of the strange location of the formaldehyde, he didn't doubt that the newts blood was nearby. After a solid minute of searching, his eyes landed on the fridge.
Fiddleford hastily crossed the room, opening the fridge and scanning. There was a jar of eyeballs, what looked like a brain, a carton of milk, eggs… but no sign of—
And then his eyes landed on it. In the back of the fridge, inside of a plastic juice pitcher, was a dark, red, viscous liquid. Fiddleford grabbed it, and— sure enough, written on the side was a relatively recent date and the words "newt blood". In a less dire situation, Fiddleford would have laughed at his friend's odd way of organizing. But as of now, he was just happy to have the newts blood at all.
After setting the pitcher on the table and closing the fridge, he quickly made his way out of the kitchen, hoping to pass through the entryway and into the hall without incident— but Fiddleford was never that lucky. He was just past the stairs when he heard it. A soft tap at the door, and his friend's familiar voice.
"Fiddleford?" Stanford asked, in a soft tone that was a stark contrast to his earlier cadence. Fiddleford paused dead in his tracks, swallowing dryly before replying.
"What is it, Stanford?"
"Could….could you please open up the door? I'd…I'd like to come inside now, please..."
Fiddleford's heart leapt into his throat, and he took another step towards the hallway, wanting so badly to run—to get away from Ford. Seemingly sensing his hesitation, Stanford continued.
"Fiddleford, please? I….I'm hungry…I need to eat something… please?" Stanford sounded small, and weak… almost pathetic. Fiddleford might've felt sorry for him, if his colleague's earlier words weren't echoing in his mind.
An intense and overwhelming craving for human brains.
Fiddleford took another step away from the door.
"N-now Stanford, it's… It'll all be alright. I promise, we can get ya some food a-after yer cured."
The door handle rattled.
"Fiddleford, please! I'm starving, I…" Fords voice had started to rise, growing frantic and pleading. The door handle stopped rattling, and for a moment, the world was quiet. The only sounds to be heard were the groans of the undead, and Fiddleford's shallow, scared breaths. Then, so quietly that he was almost undetectable, Stanford continued.
"Fiddleford, I feel like I'm dying."
Fiddleford didn't like anything that was happening. He hated the zombies, he hated that his friend was turned into one of them, he hated that he had to make a cure for someone he was sure wasn't going to willingly take it. But most of all…
He hated how sincere Stanford sounded.
Fiddleford took another step back from the door, hoping that his friend could no longer see him.
"I'm sorry, Stanford. I'll go ahead and hurry up with this cure. Then… a- and then you'll be right as rain, I promise." Fiddleford said, unable to hide his fear.
He barely had the chance to finish his sentence before there was an aggressive, forceful pounding against the door. The small window rattled, and the door shook from the force.
"FIDDLEFORD, LET ME IN! PLEASE?!—I-IT HURTS—I NEED YOU TO LET ME IN! UNLOCK THE DOOR, LET ME IN!!! OPEN THE DOOR—NOW! LET. ME. IN!"
Stanford's voice screamed from the other side of the door—so loud that it sounded like it hurt. Every word that he shouted was accompanied by a guttural growling sound, resonating deep within his throat. He punctuated every syllable with another slam of his fists against the door—his fingernails scraping loudly against the pine wood.
Fiddleford turned tail and bolted out of the room, his heart going a mile a minute. He ran down the hallway—ran until his friends terrifying screams were just a faint echo. He ran, like a scared rabbit escaping a rabid fox. Panicked and terrified tears stung at his eyes as his mind raced. He…he didn't even know if the cure would still work. Was Ford too far gone?
He pushed the thought as far away as he could. Stanford had trusted him, and if he gave up now, there would be no chance of either of their survival. Ford had become a shell of himself, but if Fiddleford didn't have at least a drop of hope that he could still be saved… he might as well lie down right there and accept his fate.
He turned a corner and saw the faint outline of a door—the storage closet. Wrenching it open, he clicked on the light and started his search. He shoved items off of shelves, not caring for the mess (or sound) he was making. All he cared about was finding that final ingredient, the last puzzle piece that could bring Stanford back. Finally, after he had cleared most of the contents from the closet, he found the faded green canister of mineral spirits—the paint thinner.
Clutching the container in his hands like it was a lifeline, Fiddleford carefully stepped out of the small mountain he had created, and turned to make his way back to the kitchen. His heart felt as if it would flap right out of his chest and his blood pounded in his ears. He slowly and quietly made his way down the hallway. Something felt…different. It felt wrong. The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up, a cold chill spilled down his spine.
It was only a moment later that he realized it:
Stanford had gone quiet.
Fiddleford's pulse quickened, and his breath caught in his throat. He had grown up in the foothills of Tennessee, right next to the Appalachian mountains. His entire childhood had been littered with various superstitions, ghost stories, and folklore about the area. Many of these had proven themselves to be based in fact, every rule he was taught having a reason. Don't look at the trees too long. If you hear something call your name—no you didn't. Don't whistle in the woods.
And, most importantly, if the forest has gone quiet, there's something nearby…watching… waiting…listening…
Hunting.
Fiddleford took a deep breath, and focused on walking lightly—trying to make as little sound as possible. The less noise he made, the better.
But how much did noise really matter, if he was being watched through the walls?
Fiddleford pushed the thought to the back of his mind with the rest, and continued. Every second, every new step he took felt like he was walking into a trap. Like he was about to get attacked at any moment.
Eventually, after an agonizingly long stretch of hallway that seemed double the length it had been previously, he reached the entryway. Taking a deep breath, and bracing himself for an attack, he walked through the door.
The room was silent. There was no movement from the door, no sound that indicated anything was there. Fiddleford kept his head on a swivel, an unsettling anticipation creeping up his spine, making his hair stand on end. He listened carefully as he passed the door, but…there was no sound. Nothing blocking the light from the window, no sign of Stanford whatsoever. Rather than feel comforted, the pit of dread in his stomach only grew.
Fiddleford sped up, the kitchen feeling like the only safe place in this godforsaken house. But then, he heard it. The doorknob was rattling, quietly, almost imperceptibly. He stopped moving, and a split second later, the rattling stopped. Fiddleford took a few steps forward, listening, and the rattling started again. It didn't sound like someone was trying to turn the handle… it… it almost sounded like…
Someone was trying to pick the lock.
Stanford was trying to pick the lock. And given his delicate precision, Fiddleford deducted that his friend did not want to be heard.
He did his best to give no indication he had heard him, and hurried back into the kitchen. Setting the canister of paint thinner next to the rest of the ingredients, he read through the measurements carefully, holding his breath in an attempt to shield himself from the formaldehyde fumes filling the air.
One cup formaldehyde, one teaspoon salt, two teaspoons paint thinner, one quart newt's blood, and a pinch of cinnamon.
Fiddleford grabbed the measuring spoons, hurriedly measuring out the salt and the paint thinner, dumping them into the mixing bowl. He glanced over his shoulder at the door— still closed, still locked. He was still safe. But for how much longer? Fiddleford choked out the air he was holding, his lungs burning, and took another deep breath, holding it again. His eyes stung from the fumes, but he pressed on.
He turned back to the ingredients, grabbing the large glass measuring cup and the pitcher of blood. He knelt down until the quart line on the measuring cup was eye level, and began to pour.
The consistency of the cold blood made his stomach churn. It drizzled from the mouth of the pitcher like a thick syrup, small clumps of semi solid clots falling into the cup in chunks. Fiddleford choked, gagging at the sight of it. For a moment, he was thankful that all he could smell was formaldehyde and paint thinner. He watched as slowly, disgustingly, the measuring cup filled with the viscous liquid.
After an agonizing minute, the liquid reached the line and he stopped pouring, the blood trailing off of the pitcher in a thick strand. He was almost there, he just had to mix this into the potion, add the cinnamon, and then everything would be—
Fiddleford stopped dead in his tracks, his heart leaping into his throat and his blood ran cold as he heard a deafening crash from the entryway.
He whipped his head around, fear tying his stomach in a knot. Stanford had broken the small window on the door, and was reaching his arm through, trying to unlock it from the inside. Fiddleford, for the second time that night, was rooted in place from sheer terror. Stanford reached, clawed at the inside of the door trying to get to the handle— but he couldn't reach. His fingertips grazed the handle, but his arm was simply too short to touch the lock.
Stanford's face was pressed against the hole in the door, the shards of glass scraping at his pale skin. He showed no reaction— in fact, all he did was let out inhuman growls as he tried and failed to unlock the door, growing more frantic the longer he couldn't reach. His fingernails scraping against the door, and leaving dark, bloody smears in their wake.
Fiddleford's mind raced. He needed to hurry. They were running out of time.
Forcing himself to focus, Fiddleford wrenched open the nearby drawers until he found a rubber spatula. With shaking hands, he picked up the measuring cup and began to pour the viscous blood into the chemical concoction, scraping the sides of the glass to make sure every last drop made it into the bowl. He glanced over his shoulder— Stanford was still trying the lock. He still had time. Fiddleford hastily uncapped the small jar of cinnamon, grabbing a sizable pinch and sprinkling it into the bowl, mixing as he went.
The potion thinned out as he mixed it together, becoming a much more drinkable texture. Giving it one final stir, he was satisfied that it was finished. Fiddleford set the mixing bowl on the counter and turned to look at the door and his stomach dropped.
Stanford wasn't there.
There was a clattering outside of the kitchen window, and Fiddleford barely had time to turn his head before he saw a pair of blank, dead eyes staring back at him through the glass.
And then the window shattered, fragments of glass flying in every direction as Ford tumbled through. Fiddleford opened his eyes— when did he close them?!— just in time to see Stanford fall off of the kitchen table.
Fiddleford stumbled backwards, adrenaline and fear coursing through his veins. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to run. RUN! Its not safe—HE'S not safe! Get away- RUN!
Fiddleford scrambled into the entryway and watched as Stanford got to his feet, hunching over unnaturally. His face was gaunt, sunken in, with scrapes all over his skin from the broken glass. His trench-coat was torn and dirty, with small bloodstains where his hands had touched it.
A growl resonated from deep within Stanford's chest, and he lunged forward, reaching for Fiddleford
Fiddleford barely managed to dodge the attack, backing himself into the stairs. His gaze shifted to the kitchen, where the cure still sat on the counter.
Stanford reached out again and clawed at Fiddleford, who swiftly managed to dodge his friend once more. Fiddleford doubled back towards the kitchen, but Ford grabbed onto the collar of his shirt, trying to pull him back, the growl that rolled out of him the most inhuman sounding yet.
Fiddleford somehow ripped out of his friend's death grip, and made a mad dash. His feet slipped on the shards of broken glass and he nearly fell over as he reached the table.
He heard a growl that sounded way too close for comfort, and turned around just in time to see Stanford's twisted face before he was tackled to the ground.
He barely managed to catch Ford before he bit him, his arms struggling under the thrashing weight of his friend. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, this final spike of adrenaline revving through his veins.
Fiddleford was able to gather what little strength he had and somehow forced Stanford off of him, shoving his gnashing teeth as far away from his face as he could manage. He scrambled backward, kicking as hard as he could into Fords sternum. Ford made a punched out sound and fell backward as Fiddleford got back on his feet.
Ford made an attempt to stand back up, reaching once again for Fiddleford—but he wasn't coordinated enough. Ford fell, landing onto his stomach in the minefield of broken window debris. As fast as he could, Fiddleford slammed his boot into Ford's back, pinning him to the ground. He used all this strength to grab at and restrain the clawing arms, pinning them against Ford's spine with an iron grip.
Frantically, Fiddleford scanned the room for something, anything he could use to restrain his friend. After a moment, his eyes landed on the phone. The phone had fallen off of the hook during their scuffle, its dull yellow shine slightly swinging as a beacon in the dark. Shifting himself, he reached his foot out to pull the receiver closer. It took a few tries, but eventually he was able to drag it within arms reach and rip it from the wall.
Quickly, and carefully, Fiddleford wound the phone cord around his friends wrists, making sure he couldn't free himself, and tied the cord into as tight of a knot as it would go. Stanford writhed, doing his best to free himself from the cord, but it held strong. Fiddleford took a deep breath, and carefully stood up. Stanford thrashed, the plastic phone base clattering on the ground as he rolled onto his back, but due to his lack of coordination, the knot remained in place.
Fiddleford rushed over to the table and picked up the nearly empty blood pitcher. He quickly rinsed it out in the sink, unsure if any residue would interfere with the potency of the cure. After it was mostly cleaned of its contents, he grabbed the mixing bowl, and poured the concoction into the pitcher—making the world's worst kool-aid in existence. He knew that Ford was too far gone to take the potion willingly; drastic measures would have to be taken.
Fiddleford crossed the kitchen, glass crunching under his feet as he went. His heart thundered in his chest as he knelt down next to his friend. Stanford still remained on his back, hands tied underneath him. As Fiddleford approached, Stanford thrashed violently, gnashing his teeth like a rabid animal.
Fiddleford carefully grabbed his friend's shoulders and lifted him into a sitting position, barely avoiding Ford's attempts to bite him. He braced himself, shook off his nerves, and grabbed Ford's jaw, tilting his head back and forcing his mouth open.
Fiddleford poured the potion down Fords throat. The viscous liquid quickly filled his mouth, dripping out of the corners and down his chin. Once his mouth was completely full, Fiddleford forced his jaw shut, waiting for him to swallow. Stanford's face was screwed into a disgusted grimace, and Fiddleford felt guilt take its place in his gut. He had been treating his friend like a bloodthirsty monster, and for all intents and purposes he was, but underneath that he was still Fiddleford's best friend.
After a painfully long moment, Stanford finally swallowed the potion.
Fiddleford paused, hesitating for the briefest moment. He…didn't know how much of this potion Stanford was meant to take. The journal didn't have a dose written down anywhere, just the instructions on how to make it. Just… keep giving it to him until something happens, his mind helpfully supplied. Deciding that was the best course of action, he wrenched Ford's jaw open once more, and poured more of the disgusting concoction down his throat.
And so this cycle continued. Pour… wait… repeat. It wasn't until nearly the entirety of the pitcher was emptied that something finally happened.
Stanford squeezed his eyes shut as he swallowed a final mouthful, a choking, sputtering noise coming from his throat. Fiddleford nearly dropped the pitcher in shock, and took a step backward as Ford jolted forward and started coughing. Between coughs, every breath he took was shallow and sounded painful.
After nearly a minute of coughing and sputtering, Ford let out a small, wordless noise of agony, and fell forward, fully unconscious.
Fiddleford held his breath and waited as his anxiety grew with every passing moment that his friend remained still. His thoughts spiraled. Did I give him enough? What if I gave him too much?! Did I mess up the recipe? Was I too late?! Is… could he be… Fiddleford squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the thought away, wishing he knew a way to delete it permanently. His hands started to shake, and he nearly dropped the pitcher. He composed himself long enough to set it down on the counter before he started wringing his hands together, fidgeting and twitching.
Stanford remained unconscious.
Fiddleford's breath quickened, and before he knew it he was fully hyperventilating. His nerves were shot, he had been in fight or flight for……well, he didn't even know how long. An hour? Maybe three? He slowly lowered himself onto the floor, his legs feeling like they would give out if he stayed on them another second. He worked his shaking hand up to the nape of his neck and started nervously pulling at his hair, the controlled pain grounding him.
He felt exhausted. Stretched too thin. As the adrenaline left his system, he felt all of the aches and pains he had accumulated over the past several hours make themselves known.
Then, out of the corner of his vision, he saw Stanford move.
Fiddleford's head shot up, and he watched his friend with bated breath. For a moment he thought he had just imagined it… but then he saw Stanford's shoulders tense, and heard him draw in a shaky breath. Slowly, he raised his head, and looked at Fiddleford with his familiar brown eyes.
-~v~^~v~-
Acid.
That was the first conscious thought Ford had as the world came back into focus. His throat burned like he had guzzled a half gallon of corrosive chemicals, and he could feel every inch of it in excruciating detail. He sucked in a breath, and his lungs ached, like the simple act of breathing was far too much to ask for. His head felt cold, and heavy. He opened his eyes, and the world was blurry. All he could see were vague shapes.
God, his arms hurt.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to move in order to alleviate the pain but found that he couldn't. He tried again, pulling his arms, but they would not budge. Confused, he looked over his shoulder, trying to see what had him in such a vice-like grip. Something was wrong, he knew it. But he couldn't focus, couldn't remember what had happened. He flexed his wrists as panic started to overtake his mind.
He was trapped.
"Wh…what happened?" he croaked out, his throat burning with the effort. He swallowed, a sour taste enveloping his entire mouth. His heart jumped into his throat as he heard a voice.
"S-sorry- ya kept tryin' ta bite me."
Stanford whipped his head in the direction of the person speaking… he knew that voice… that familiar accent. He squinted as the world slowly came back into focus. He made an educated guess.
"Fiddleford? W-what—" Stanford winced, his raw throat aching. He sputtered out a dry cough. Moses, he was thirsty. He tried to move his arms, but the restraints on his wrists held tight.
"Oh— Christ, I'm sorry! H-Here, lemme help ya." The familiar voice of his best friend said, rushing over and working at the knots behind his back. He looked at the room in front of him as Fiddleford worked. They were in the kitchen—it was an absolute mess! Broken glass everywhere, chairs knocked onto their side—and it was dark, not a single light was on.
His thoughts raced, trying to piece together what was happening. He knew he had all the puzzle pieces, he just couldn't remember the specifics…
Finally, Fiddleford finished unraveling his wrists. Stanford rolled his shoulders, trying to work the knot out of his aching muscles. His hands felt oddly tingly, and he started massaging his wrist absentmindedly, trying to get some feeling back. Unfortunately, the first thing he felt was a sharp, stinging pain in his fingertips.
He sucked in a pained hiss, bringing his gaze down from where he had been staring into space to his hands— and his heart nearly stopped. He heard a gasp behind him, and in the corner of his vision, saw Fiddleford run into the kitchen and start opening cupboards, rummaging around. But Stanford kept staring at his hands.
His fingertips and nails were grotesque. Cracked, bloody, and raw. Both of his hands (and especially his knuckles) were covered in small nicks and cuts, some of which oozed blood slowly. But what really drew his attention, was the large and nasty bite mark on his right palm.
Bite.
Rotting flesh, a zombies death grip. A monster, mere inches from his face. A sharp, painful feeling in his hand. His best friend's terrified expression.
He had been bitten.
He knew he had made it back to the house. He…remembered following Fiddleford, speaking to him through the door. Fiddleford had started brewing the cure and…the waves of hunger he’d been feeling had started feeling even more insistent. His stomach ached, almost as if it was eating him from the inside out. He remembered the pain; so overwhelming that he could barely stand as he slouched against the door, the wood grain of the door scratching along his face.
Things became more…hazy after that. The feeling of death compounding as he slammed his fists against the door. He was convinced he was dying, that he needed to get inside and fulfill the animalistic urge to feed, no matter the price.
Everything after that was black. He had no memory of getting into the house, but here he found himself bloodied and bruised on his kitchen floor.
Fiddleford's word's echoed in his mind.
Sorry, ya kept tryin' ta bite me.
Bite.
He felt nauseous. He had tried to kill his best friend.
He barely had time to grab the small kitchen trash can next to him before he started dry heaving into it.
Moses, he had tried to eat his best friend. Distantly, he heard Fiddleford's worried voice as he coughed and sputtered into the trash bin. He tasted the disgusting aftertaste of the potion in the back of his throat, and then again as it came back up.
His throat burned as he puked up the entire contents of his stomach, which as it turns out, wasn't much. Even after there was nothing else left, he dry heaved and coughed, unable to stop the nausea. Finally, he set the now disgusting trash can back on the ground, and wiped at his mouth with a shaky hand.
"A-are ya okay?!" Fiddleford asked as he stared down at Stanford, fidgeting with the first aid kit in his hands.
Stanford glanced up at Fiddleford, unable to look him in the eye. He kept his hand pressed against his mouth, not trusting himself not to throw up once more.
"I-I…" Stanford said, before swallowing dryly. His throat ached, and the taste of bile in his mouth made him want to gag. He paused, before continuing. "Could I have some water?"
Fiddleford looked mildly taken aback at the request, but quickly nodded, and grabbed a glass from the draining board. He shook out an errant piece of glass, rinsed it, and finally filled it from the tap before he held it out to him.
Stanford grabbed the glass, muttering thanks, before he drank. The cool water helped his throat immensely, washing away the awful taste in his mouth, and before he knew it he had drained the entire glass. He reached up and set it on the counter, still doing his best not to look at Fiddleford. He couldn't handle the shame and disgusted feelings as they settled themselves within his gut.
Fiddleford said nothing and simply knelt in front of Ford, throwing open the lid to the first aid kit. He rummaged around for a moment, before grabbing the antiseptic wipes. Wordlessly, he held his hand out, waiting. Stanford obliged, holding out the hand with the bite mark.
Fiddleford went to work, cleaning the wounds, taking extra care around the bite. Stanford winced as the alcohol disinfected the wound. He was just thankful that none of the injuries looked as if they would need stitches.
"Did… did the zombies move on?" he finally said, watching as Fiddleford wound a bandage around his hand.
Fiddleford nodded. "I believe so. Most of em' walked past the cabin once it was dark, you were the only one that stuck around, thank god." Fiddleford ripped the bandage with his teeth, tucking the loose end in and making sure it was secure. Stanford merely hummed a response, holding out his other hand.
"So… how much do ya remember? Ya looked mighty confused when ya woke up." Fiddleford said as he started to disinfect the cuts on Ford's other hand.
"… enough." Stanford replied, looking off to the side and feeling a fresh wave of disgust wash over himself.
"Th-the uh, last thing I clearly remember…is pounding on the door."
Fiddleford made a small sound in reply. "Well, m-maybe its better off that way. Lord knows I'd prefer to forget all this," his friend said, tossing the antiseptic wipes to the side before grabbing another roll of bandages.
"Fiddleford, I'm…the word sorry barely covers it. I should've realized what day it was, I-I should have been prepared. You should have never been put into this situation in the first place!" Stanford said, rambling. He didn't know what to do or what he could say. Fiddleford just continued wrapping the bandages.
"Ya knew you were gonna get bit, right? Ya told me to make the cure before all this mess happened."
"I…yes. Given the dire situation, I thought it was the best course of action. Take the fall, give you an out. I knew you'd be able to do it, you're brilliant, I just… I didn't realize how unpleasant it'd be. For both of us."
Fiddleford let out a humorless laugh, pulling the bandage tight and securing it against Fords wrist.
"Unpleasant is puttin' it a tad lightly there, Stanford."
Ford couldn't think of a response, so he simply nodded and examined the bandages on his hands. Fiddleford quietly put the rest of the supplies back into the first aid kit and stood up.
"Thank you, Fiddleford… and, I am sorry, truly."
Fiddleford stared down at Ford, an gave him a small, tired smile.
"It's… it's fine, Stanford. Now, go take care of yerself. Ya have some cuts on your face, and ya seem a mite exhausted. While its true enough that ya usually look some type of tired, I can't imagine being a zombie felt very nice." Fiddleford held out a hand and Stanford gladly took it. Once Ford had his legs underneath himself, Fiddleford gave him a small pat on the shoulder, and walked hastily out of the room.
Ford looked around the chaos that was now his kitchen once more. The window was completely shattered; he'd no doubt have to chase gnomes out in the morning. The floor was covered with razor sharp shards of glass, the entryway was as well. If he didn't clean this up, they'd no doubt have an accident.
Ford took a few steps forward, making his way to where the broom was stored in the pantry before he had to catch himself on the doorframe, his legs feeling like jelly. He closed his eyes, his head spinning. Maybe…maybe Fiddleford was right. Stanford looked at the stairs, and decided that they weren't worth the risk. He stumbled his way to the parlor, bracing himself against the walls as he went.
As soon as he made it, he collapsed onto the couch, his body feeling like lead. He only managed to kick off his boots, before falling into a pained, fitful, restless sleep. Upstairs, Fiddleford was much the same. He sat on his bed, eyes wide and terrified. He had locked and barricaded the door with a chair. Anytime he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of the nights horrific events. Eventually, he managed to fall asleep, too exhausted to stay alert.
The next day, neither man would speak about the previous night.
They spent the day doing repairs and cleaning up the damage. Ford chased out a gang of gnomes and Fiddleford cleaned up bloodstains. Neither of them would be able to forget about that night with the zombies, no matter how much they wanted to or tried.
They began work on their project, the entire reason Fiddleford had come out to the middle of nowhere to begin with. And life…life would continue, as was expected.
They were scientists, after all.