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To think once upon a time she had refused to wear anything but heels. Even in the damn near military-issue boots now adorning her feet, this amount of walking was enough to kill anyone.
“Ironic,” Nigel wheezed beside her. Emily glared at him - she had not realised she had spoken her thoughts out loud.
“What?”
“Are we not walking to avoid being killed?”
A fair point. Suffice it to say, neither of them would have picked the other as their first choice to accompany them through the apocalypse. Not by a long shot.
Yet through some godforsaken chain of unfortunate events, that was precisely the situation Nigel and Emily found themselves in. Less than ideal companionship, however, was the very least of their problems.
New York was a veritable wasteland - as was the rest of the world, the last radios having shut off three months before. It was typical that just as Emily was adjusting to consuming preserved foods scavenged from abandoned bodegas, said supply would run shorter and shorter.
It really would have been more convenient if the apocalypse had been of the nuclear variety. Then, at least, they would have died immediately. Or the contaminated water would have offered a swift opportunity for exit.
But, no. Zombies. It had to be zombies. Zombies who, despite only seemingly biologically requiring a few bites now and then to survive, were overwhelmingly savages given to gorging themselves on living beings - humans and otherwise - at any given opportunity. Unfairly enough, it was those who managed to escape with only the slight requisite bite that found themselves inevitably recruited into the ranks of the undead by the following day.
And if all this wasn’t enough, they could only transport food and water by carrying it on their backs. Neither of the duo was particularly cut out for long-term survival, but this was a fact which went unspoken by silent mutual agreement. Not that they had much to live for, in any case. Nigel’s family had disowned him long ago, and Emily’s was a continent away, cleaved apart by the great expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, facing - or having faced - an unknown but likely grim fate.
Thus they had each other, and that would have to be enough.
It would have been nice if they had more ammunition than two measly handguns, though.
***
They were used to fending off the undead. But as they made their way up 75th Street - or what had once been 75th Street - they encountered a threat of a very different kind.
Nigel had appreciated Emily’s valiant attempts to defend him from the three burly (and very much human) men who had set upon them, but it was losing battle, physicality-wise.
And so it was with mutual terror that they found themselves backed into a corner, taken hostage, facing the barrel of a gun, being calmly informed of their future purpose. Specifically, as sacrifices. If any undead were to come their way, it would be Nigel and Emily who would be offered up, prisoners to be thrown to the wolves in lieu of their captors.
Nigel had never seen Emily cry before, and realised somewhere along the way he had come to think of her like a sister. Having surrendered their weapons, he was at least permitted to embrace her.
***
Both parties to said embrace stiffened not five minutes later, when an inhuman growl echoed from behind them. Emily buried her face in Nigel’s shoulder, and Nigel closed his eyes, awaiting whatever horrific event was to imminently befall them.
But the screams which rang out were not their own. When silence reigned once more, they dared to open their eyes. Only to see:
An enormous dog - an enormous, zombified dog - chewing merrily on the leg of the largest captor.
Nigel gasped. “Is that - “
“ - Patricia?” Emily breathed.
The owner of the name looked up, and while her eyes were customarily clouded, they did not appear threatening. Not imminently so, anyway.
“What the fuck?” Emily said.
“Indeed,” Nigel muttered. Then, bending down very slowly and maintaining eye contact with the canine throughout, said quietly, “I’m not going to shoot, Patricia. I just need this.”
Patricia growled - her condition making it uncoordinated and staccato, the dog equivalent of an undead human’s groan - but did not attack when Nigel picked up two of the guns now lying on the floor, handing one to the redhead.
This was welcome.
What was less welcome was her subsequent moving towards them. Emily tensed. But Patricia did not bite, but rather stumbled round them in the manner of a dazed sheepdog.
“Is she trying to herd us?”
As if she had heard them, the dog began to trot away, but turned as if expecting -
“ - I think she wants us to follow her,” Nigel whispered.
“To where?” Emily sounded faintly hysterical. “It’s got to be a trap!”
Nigel rubbed his head with his free hand. “One, where else are we going? Two, she didn’t attack us. Yet. Three, she might attack us if we don’t follow. And by attack, I mean bite.”
“Bloody hell.”
***
They really ought to have expected their destination. It was, nonetheless, hardly a surprise that it quickly became apparent that Patricia was taking them to the Priestly townhouse.
“Why?” Emily muttered.
“Well, it’s her home, isn’t it?” Nigel replied, equally under his breath.
What neither of them gave voice to was speculation about what they might find when they arrived there. What had happened to the residents of the house after the virus’ breakout and subsequent collapse of society was unknown to them, but if Patricia was in the state she was, it could not be anything good.
That the residents in question might not be there was not even a possibility. Nigel knew Miranda would never have abandoned her dog. Not willingly, anyway.
***
The front door was - predictably - open, and they ascended the steps to the townhouse with trembling legs. Once inside, the smell of dried blood assailed them, and Emily did not need to look at Nigel to know his stomach was performing similar convolutions, identical backflips.
Patricia stopped at the entrance to the den, before moving into the room. Emily instinctively reached out to grip Nigel’s hand as they peered inside.
***
Human or not, all creatures were drawn to warmth, and so the fact the fireplace was blazing was no surprise.
It was also no surprise that the occupants of the room were no longer human. All were ghoulishly pale-greyish skinned, slumped together in a slumbering pile of intertwined limbs.
What was a surprise was that there were four of them - five, counting Patricia.
“Did you - know?” Emily whispered.
“No,” Nigel said. “No, I didn’t. Oh, Six.”
For Caroline and Cassidy were being cradled by Miranda, and Miranda was being held by Andy.
Andy, who - ever vigilant, even undead - cracked her glassy eyes open and alighted on her two ex-colleagues standing petrified in the doorway.
Whose hands tightened on their handguns. One zombie was hard enough to fend off. Four - five - would be nigh on impossible, particularly given all bar Patricia were displaying the raised veins which denoted an impending need to feed. But with the element of surprise, with ammunition…perhaps…
***
Nigel looked at the figure of the older woman who had - before this had all happened, before Emily - been his only true friend. Emily looked at the younger one, the only person who had ever offered her kindness with no expectation of reciprocity.
They both looked at the girls, somehow - against all odds - seeming innocent in their sleep, nestled in the adults’ arms. Miranda stirred, instinctively burrowing her cheek into Andy's chest. Her eyes opened, and she stared - an odd, longing sort of look that neither Nigel or Emily could fully interpret, although it was unquestionably directed at them. While the hunger was apparent, the expression was not an exclusively hungry one - under any other circumstance, it might have been described as yearning, or even affectionate. There was a slight shift of movement, as if she was making to get up, stretching out a hand towards the doorway in a parody of invitation, before Andy laid one of her own hands on her arm, stilling her again.
“I - I can’t,” Emily said quietly. “Shoot, I mean.”
“Neither can I,” Nigel murmured. “Neither can I.”
Andy could not have properly comprehended their words. The power of extended speech was no longer one she possessed, merely monosyllabic grunts. But a grunt was enough.
“Go,” came the croak.
That was a first. Mercy from one who ought to have lost all ability to bestow such a thing.
They took it.
****
But as they stood on the steps of the townhouse, then sat, neither willing to move, somehow, staring into the desolation down the street, doubt - or perhaps madness - began to set in.
“They looked happy, at least.” Nigel was the first to break the somber silence. “As happy as you can get nowadays. Even if hungry.”
“A family,” Emily murmured. “Did you ever want children, Nigel?”
“No. The closest thing I had was being a sort of godfather to - “ he jerked his thumb over his shoulder behind them.
“They were - are, I suppose - terrors. But as the years went by, I almost came to see them like nieces. Insane nieces. You know - Miranda - she put me down as one of the people on the list who would look after them if she ever - ”
Nigel smiled, and it was melancholy. “Me too.”
“What do we do now?”
Silence fell over the air once more. Speech seemed unimportant, somehow. It merely constituted a distraction from the absolute nothingness. Both pretended not to see the other’s gaze sliding back towards the door. Both pretended not to be totally preoccupied with the thoughts of what had occurred inside the house. For a time, at least. Then:
“We could - “
“ - you’re certain?”
A nod. Another nod.
It did not feel like the end as they rose to their feet, wordlessly re-ascending the steps of the property. It rather felt like coming home.
As they stepped over the threshold, quietly walking through the foyer, both were aware they were heading towards the dusk of their lives as they knew it. This did not matter; it was quite alright. The sunrise would come around soon, and gently, they were sure of it.
Even though it would be the first each sees through cloudy eyes, at least they would share the altered view with a family.
FIN