Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Quiet guitar strums. The endless hum of a broken telephone pole. Quieting steam from a crashed car.

Things Ren has heard on his walk today.

One, from himself; one, from the middle point of a road he wandered down;

One, caused by an undead trapped in the driver’s seat, cognitively unaware that all it has to do is unbuckle the seatbelt it’s trapped in. But it’s not a person anymore— whoever it was before has been thrown to the wind, their soul wandering limbo because whoever they knew in life is also gone.

Nobody to remember; nobody to celebrate.

People always wonder what will be left when you’re gone.

Who will keep you alive when your body is cold in the ground? Will they keep your pictures hung up on their walls, even after generations have passed and nobody knows your name, your voice? It’s questions that keep people up at night, tossing and turning while the city they’re in seems to be on their hundredth cup of coffee within the hour.

Ren never thought much of himself in the legacy department— sure, he’s been a good man. He’s a musician, a volunteer. The embodiment of what people wish to be.

But what good is a musician when the only audience left is the ceaselessly groaning undead?

What good is a guitar with a broken string and a dented body because Ren had to defend himself from an all-too-curious undead?

Ren fidgets with the burnt cigarette butt between his fingers, kneeling next to the edge of what was once a busy highway. Cars pile on top of each other at the bottom, like a litter of kittens fighting off the chilly December wind. He can still make out some of the car models, the colour— though, rust has infected the paint as rapidly as its drivers were inflicted with bites, scratches and a disease that has no cure.

“Martyn! I found some cars down here. They could have some supplies in their trunks, if we’re lucky,” Ren calls out. A head of blonde hair peeks out from a distant ambulance, its siren still dimly flashing, but its call silenced. He zips up his bag as he jogs over to Ren, leaning over the ledge.

“Yeah, couple of the trunks are still reachable. We’ll have to be careful, though. You’ve seen what’s in those cars,” Martyn mutters. He glances around the concrete borders of the highway, seeing an eventual ramp downwards. Ren follows suit, stomping out the cigarette in his hand as Martyn walks along the yellow and white lines.

Ren met Martyn in a forest on the edge of London.

Both of them were running from the same things, and after trapping themselves in an abandoned fire watch tower, they managed to find a shotgun and enough bullets to get back to the city. Ren still finds himself checking his ankles for any semblance of a broken-off hand attached to it, threatening to puncture his skin.

Ever since, he’s stuck to Martyn’s hip like glue. They protect each other, and in return, they continue to live on borrowed time— both of them.

“Here. Keep an eye out, those Ambushers could be hiding under any of these cars. There’s an RV down the way we’ll have to check too.”

“Yeah. Maybe we’ll find something other than canned food for once— the things I would do for something sweet…”

Martyn chuckles, shaking his head. “Maybe that RV was coming back from a camping trip, yeah? They could have some chocolate inside, if we’re lucky.”

The thought alone makes Ren’s mouth water. He ushers Martyn along, his eyes scanning for movement— one hand on his pistol, the other on Martyn’s lower back. Ready to pull him away, ready to keep him to his hip and shield him.

Even if it means he gets turned in the process.

The cars themselves have long-since grown vines and grass over their abandoned metal carcasses. Some have hoses in the gas nozzle, one has a tipped-over canister of gas— and a pool of blood next to it. The picture solves itself, in a way; Ren knows now to especially check near that car. There’s a semi truck teetering over the edge of the highway, the driver’s cab completely disconnected from the trailer— the trailer itself, broken into and left to hang lifelessly.

Then— the RV.

“An old one too. I’ll check around the vehicle, you try to get inside, yeah?” Martyn suggests.

Ren feels a dread pool in his gut, but he reasons with himself— Martyn is capable of stabbing and shooting. He was the one who threw the shotgun over his shoulder and didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger; he had a hunting knife on him before he met Ren.

But— something feels off.

The wind shakes the RV as Ren steps inside. He takes a breath, letting it steady itself— he’s seen too many people fall while searching for food, medical supplies, the like— before he continues on. The cupboards are hanging open, canned food rolling around the floor as he grabs and searches the labels.

Soup, beans, vegetables, some fruits (a rare find, he’ll say)— his eyes catch on something colourful, tucked underneath the cans and fruits.

Expired chocolate bars. Ren debates if it’s worth taking them, for a moment; at the very least, the sell-by date could be wrong and he’d have chocolate for the first time in, fuck, ten years? He remembers how often he’d beg for something sweet while shopping with his parents, how they’d always decline him at first before he’d be surprised by the aforementioned sweet after they’d gotten home.

His grip tightens on the packaging for a moment. He never got to see his parents when the world fell apart. He doesn’t know where they would be, by now— if they even made it after the first night. Ren takes a shaky breath, swallowing back the ache in his throat before he sniffs, piling cans into his bag before stepping outside.

“I found some more cans, and some expired chocolate, if you want to try and see if it’s any—”

Growling approaches his right ear, and he jerks back, knife thrown out from its pocket as he slices the undead down, stabbing its skull. He curses, shaking his knife of the blood.

“Martyn? Martyn, are you—”

“Yeah, sorry! I’m on the roof.”

Ren looks up, a breath of relief escaping him. Martyn’s shotgun is aimed at where the undead once stood, now lowering as he climbs down, landing on his feet.

“I wanted to take a stealthy approach, but your method was faster,” Martyn grins. “Now, you said you found chocolate?”

“Yeah, I…” Ren trails off when he looks behind Martyn’s shoulder, eyes widening. “Martyn. We have to go.”

“But the ramp’s exit is right there, we shouldn’t—” he cuts himself off, cursing before Ren is pulling him along, his hand white-knuckling Martyn’s wrist. It’s a horde— neither of them shot anything, right? These things only happen if you cause too much sound, but—

Ren sees the semi truck’s trailer crumpled into the ground. He curses.

“We can’t stay here long, Martyn, come on.” Ren feels a resistance against his hand. “Martyn!”

“No. We’re getting that supplies. A horde won’t stop us.”

“We’re two people and that’s dozens of undead! Half of them could be Crawlers or Ambushers, and we wouldn’t know until one of us is getting our flesh torn off by them!”

“We aren’t weak, Ren, we have guns and we might as well use them now! They were attracted by the noise already, and the worst thing that could happen is—”

An undead sinks its teeth into Martyn’s shoulder. His screams deafen the gunshot as Ren pulls him back, carrying him in his arms. The horde had gotten only a few feet away from them, and all it took was one distraction.

All it took was one argument.

Martyn curses as they reach a safety point, his shoulder bleeding lazily as Ren tries to wrap it in gauze and clean it. His hands shake as Martyn tries to catch his breath.

“Fuck. Fuck!” Martyn yells. His eyes widen as he looks at the obvious bite, breath punched out of him. “What do we do? Ren, I— there isn’t a cure and there’s no way of cutting it off—”

“We’ll find a cure. Or something to stave off the infection. You’re not dying just yet,” Ren cuts in. His lip threatens to tremble as he studies the wound.

There’s no way to cure it— cauterising it does nothing. If it was his arm, it would be a gruesome solution. The only thing they can do is sit in silence for a moment, blood staining Martyn’s shirt and hand and the gauze; blood that Ren scrubs off and finds himself staring at in unabashed horror.

The infection turns anybody, no matter if you’re the healthiest person alive, within a week.

It begins like a typical illness— fever, chills, a headache and a coughing fit that makes it impossible to talk. The skin grows paler and more sickly as the infection continues to take hold, consuming every organ slowly, draining the light out of anybody’s eyes. The final day before turning is the most painful— the stomach and immune system cramping and hurting every part of your body before you become a husk.

Whether you regain some skill, like stealth or agility, is at random.

Whether you’re a wandering husk or taken out the moment you turn is up to whoever is left alive that you know that’s willing to end your suffering like a horse with a broken leg.

Ren doesn’t know if he can stomach raising a gun to Martyn.

Martyn is a dying dog. If it was a better world with a chance that Ren wouldn’t lose the man who’s kept him sane for a decade, Ren would sacrifice his whole soul to make that true.

He fishes out a bottle of pills, pouring out a couple before placing them in Martyn’s palm.

“Take these. Just some antibiotics, they won’t cure anything, but,” Ren shrugs. “I’m sure the pain isn’t incurable.”

Martyn swallows them dry— his head already beginning to slowly pound louder and louder, like a jackhammer to his skull. Like a group of miners carving out the parts of his brain that make him human.

“I want you to shoot me, when I turn,” Martyn whispers, staring at the ground, “and don’t hesitate. I won’t be in here—” he taps his head— “anymore, but knowing I could hurt you, turn you into what I’ll become—” he chokes on his words, shaking his head.

Ren puts his hand on Martyn’s knee, giving it an assuring squeeze.

“I’ll try my best.”

“And, when you do, put me near that fire watch tower. The sunsets there were really pretty.”

A couple days pass in the warehouse they’re hiding in.

The infection worked faster on Martyn than others. Ren hugs his knees as a distant banging and quiet groans echo down the hall. His pistol sits at his feet, as does his knife. There’s only two options left— there’s no cure, no reversing time to save Martyn.

One argument. Their first argument, too.

And Ren cost Martyn his life, his consciousness.

He swallows a sob that threatens to bubble up his throat, his eyes blurring with tears. He scrubs them away with his sleeve as he grabs his knife, standing outside the locked door where Martyn has been for a week now. He can see him through the broken screen on the door, specks of unwashed blonde hair poking through as he tries to claw at Ren.

Ren takes a shaky breath, tightening his grip on the knife.

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes out, tears slipping down his cheeks.

His blade plunges into a skull of sunsets and quiet laughter;

of sweet kisses and promises to make it out of London;

of “I love you” and “stay safe, come back alive”;

of a decade of sanity down the drain and a decade of a body’s warmth against his own.

Ren crumbles to his feet, the body— no, Martyn— crumpling with a thud to the floor. He sobs into his hands, a scream tearing from his throat until it feels raw and animalistic. He punches the door until his hand hurts and all he can do is apologise to the body behind it.

He runs out of tears to shed eventually. He unlocks the door and sees the dried pool of blood around Martyn’s head, his knife stuck inside.

He removes it and throws it away.

Carrying Martyn to the fire watch tower takes days. It wasn’t an easy place to escape from, but the remnants of that night are still there a decade later— empty shotgun shells, emptied cans of food, husks returning to the earth. He places Martyn down in the patch of wildflowers and grass as he digs a grave with his bare hands.

“When I’m gone, I want to be facing the sunset. It’s a big ask, but I trust you. And I love you. Don’t forget that.”

Ren lays him down carefully, cradling his head and seeing empty blue eyes half-opened, staring into space. He tucks his hair away from his eyes, removing his headband from his medium-length hair— he never liked wearing it up— as well as the golden band around his ring finger.

Ren tries to get the best image of Martyn’s face before he starts covering him with disturbed dirt and grass. He pats it down like you would tucking someone in with a blanket, still warm from the dryer, before scrubbing his hands of any dirt. The wooden stake is two loose branches tied together with grass and cattail stems.

Ren carves his name into the branch, as prominent as he can make it with Martyn’s knife. He plunges it into the ground, a flash of Martyn’s skull recoiling the same way the grass does at the disturbance, at the entrance of something sharp and deadly.

He stares at his hands as he steps back, and the stickiness of blood and dirt flash in his mind. He wants to remove his hands from his arms, in any way thinkable— he’s committed sins greater than man. He’s harmed hundreds, maybe thousands, since this all began.

He harmed the man he promised to marry when, one day, all of this would end.

Ren grabs the golden chain around his neck, hands shaky as he slides Martyn’s wedding band around it before putting it back on. He ties his headband to the strap on his bag, collecting wildflowers from nearby before carefully tying them to the wooden stake, underneath his name:

Martyn Woodhurst
My Heart and Soul Burn Out With You

There’s no point in staying in London anymore.

The only reason Ren stuck around this wasteland was because Martyn was searching still— then, when they would eventually get their answers, they’d find a boat along the Channel and sail off somewhere. Wherever the wind would take them, Martyn would say.

“Maybe we’ll tour the world, see what we couldn’t before. It’ll be like a honeymoon, only free and nobody to bother us.”

Ren searches the banks of the Channel before finding a sailboat with enough gas to carry him somewhere far away. But to never come back. If he ever wanted to visit Martyn, he’d have to search for gasoline for a boat—

And, maybe, this is what he deserves.

Exile from his lover’s grave, from his home and what he’s known from the moment he opened his eyes in this world. It’s the punishment for a sinning man— something unthinkable, something so isolating he’ll go mad and forget who he was before this.

That was his fate from the beginning, he thinks.

He revs the engine of the sailboat, steering and clearing the way of the bridges blocking his way out. The waters are oddly calm despite the gales that normally pass through around this time of year— maybe those were manmade from decades of pollution. Maybe it’s an off-year.

It’s been an off-year for ten years, though.

The end of the year is approaching, according to the mental calendar Ren has. Martyn wanted to celebrate the New Year with the sparkling juice he found in a shop once, storing it away until the leaf would turn over;

until the summer would warm his face and make his freckles appear;

until he would bring Ren to a beach and swim in the clear waters of the Atlantic;

until he would laugh and bathe in the sunlight after so many months of rain and snow.

Ren scrubs his eyes and face. He grips the ring around his neck as he lets the boat float with the tides, sinking into the chair as he sighs. It’s been a long week— he doesn’t know what day of the week it is, if he’ll be honest, he’s had other things occupying his mind than worrying about whether it’s the beginning or end of the week.

He sees the sunset on the horizon when he looks up from his hands, watching the sun sink into the ocean before nightfall plagues his vision. He doesn’t know which way he’s going, where he’ll end up— but he made a promise to Martyn before all of this.

“I’ll explore the world for you. Every sunset I see, I know you’re there with me, in spirit.”

Ren finds the bed in the cabin underneath the boat, settling in the uncomfortable mattress and pillows as the boat rocks against the waves. He never thought himself a sailing man, but he never thought himself a man surviving the apocalypse— a man having to take his lover’s life because he failed.

He failed Martyn. It’s something he won’t allow himself to forget.

He failed.

Rest is quick on its feet that night. It evades Ren like a prisoner evades searchlights, like a deer evades a hunter. He tosses and turns before he rises from the bed, instead sitting back in the captain’s chair and staring off into the open blue void ahead of him.

Whichever way he ends up, wherever he finds land— it’ll be the first time in ten years that he doesn’t have Martyn beside him.

The East Coast is, as expected, freezing.

His boat got stuck on a sandbank, and Ren simply left it there. The gas was empty, he couldn’t use it anyways. The best case scenario now is finding a car or another vehicle that isn’t empty on gas and still works.

Things he can’t find in the apocalypse.

There’s endless skyscrapers and apartment buildings left to rot as he walks through Boston. At least, that’s where he assumes he is— there was a few signs around indicating it, but he wouldn’t be surprised if that was to fool someone.

London has its own signs like that, for some odd reason or another.

Ren sneaks between alleyways, stopping when he hears some undead before hurrying along. Finding shelter that he can deem safe is his first priority— he has enough food, taken from that warehouse and from what Martyn left him in his bag. But, without shelter, there’s no safe way to open the cans and eat, no safe way to rest without having a weapon attached to his waist.

The first place he finds that isn’t surrounded by the undead is an apartment building. He’s sure there’s plenty inside the complex itself, but whether there’s survivors inside is another question. He’s run into a few in the past ten years; some families, others on their own. Usually, they’ve been understanding.

Sometimes, he gets a gun pointed between his eyes and chased away from an entire block in the city.

He finds the unused entrance, cursing under his breath when he resists his push. It takes his body weight to push the door open, stumbling inside and seeing the lobby. Abandoned, the secretary desk has scattered papers and a phone still giving out a dead line ring.

He puts the phone back on the line, turning the sound off.

The silence is enough to make him wonder if there’s Ambushers or Crawlers inside— each corner is a gamble on his life. Each turn could mean an attack from an undead.

Each turn could mean all of this was in vain.

One door in particular is seemingly untouched by any undead, somehow.

The lock is broken on the outside, the batteries long dead and the peep-hole covered up. Ren grabs the silver doorknob, carefully turning it before pushing the door open, the creaking impossibly loud from the hinges. The first sight that greets him is an oddly clean apartment, with only the windows covered up in the common room and the kitchen. The balcony, on the other hand, is completely fenced off— electric fencing too, he’ll note.

He’s glad he didn’t try using the balconies as an entrance.

He closes the door, eyes scanning before they fall on an abandoned knife on the couch. It’s well cared for, still in the pocket and recently sharpened— he feels an etching in the handle, noticing a speck of gold on it: “i”.

He hears a gun cock behind him, turning slowly with his hands raised.

Wild brown eyes study him like he’s an undead, but somehow completely conscious and not infected (read: a human seeing another human for the first time in a decade). Their brown hair is unkempt and their clothes layered on top of each other, pieces of body armour protecting the vulnerable parts— the parts that the undead love the most.

Ren takes a shaky breath, swallowing as the person circles him— he notices the same golden “i” on their shirt that was on the knife. It’s safe to assume that the owner of the knife is the one aiming a gun at him, currently. They meet his eyes again, but their voice is almost incoherent— as if it hasn’t been used in the ten years since the world fell apart.

The first words Impulse ever says to him, as he aims a gun at Ren, is a simple, kind:

“Who the fuck are you?”

Chapter Text

“Ten years since. I haven’t searched for Tango or Skizz in so long; I almost want to just for the sake of of it now. To have something to look for, I guess. Something to do. You run out of books after a while, even after rereading them all.

It isn’t fun when you know how every story in the entire world ends.”

The doorknob has rusted over. Even after he’s turned it over and over again, the bronze has withered into that decaying metal. Every time he touches it, his hand smells of metal now.

Impulse takes it as a sign that Skizz has visited recently— at least, within the past week or so.

When the world ended, when the phone lines went out— all Impulse had to rely on, a tug of hope, was a letter taped to Skizz’s front door, from the man himself. The first year or so was consistent: one of them would leave a note, quick or slow, and the other would leave the response where they found the last letter.

Rinse, repeat— that was their routine.

Until recently, in the tenth year. Impulse had left a letter and, to his surprise, it was still there a week later. Skizz hadn’t been home when, to put it plainly, shit hit the fan. He’d been travelling around in the Midwest; a little backpacking trip with some old friends of his. Impulse couldn’t find the time to take off work, so his only updates about the trip were through Skizz’s texts.

Those stopped the moment that the cell towers all went down.

Somehow, with a vehicle or on foot or, hell, a horse, Skizz found his way home briefly. Whoever he’s been travelling with— Impulse doesn’t know their names, only the obscure nicknames Skizz calls them— likes to move more often than they like staying in one place. Not that Impulse would mind much, if they had trusted Skizz in letting him tag along.

But, according to one of Skizz’s old letters:

“One more person is too much weight. We’d be slowed down even more than we already are, and we’re travelling with a wounded person.”

Impulse stopped pressing the issue after that. Even if it only made him miss Skizz more, even if he prayed nightly for the letter to come at a time when he was going to look for it— he hasn’t heard the man’s voice in so long now that he’s terrified of forgetting it.

He’s forgotten his own in the process.

See, when you end up accidentally self-isolating because the world ended and the only person you could rely on is somewhere across the country and you can’t exactly reach them— you tend to forget that you need to speak so you don’t go crazy.

Impulse thinks he reached that edge and swan-dived off it five years ago.

The door gives way with an obnoxious creak, the hinges squealing like pigs in a slaughterhouse. He stops for a moment to listen for any angered groans or shuffling feet, moving into the home away from home.

Vines and abandoned house plants have long consumed the rotting furniture, reaching to the broken curtain rod and blinds for more sunlight and, maybe, a droplet of rain. The windows have long covered themselves in blankets and pillows of dust on their sills and seals— Skizz always kept things tidy; lived in, but tidy.

Impulse steps over the tipped-over coffee table, studying the small dining room— Skizz’s birthday decorations still hang half-taped on the roof. Before he went on his trip, he, Tango and Impulse celebrated his birthday, with Zed joining them through a video call. When Impulse first decided to risk seeing his best friend’s undead body, he found the cake rotting away on the dining table.

Pitching that thing was the first time in a long time that anything felt normal.

Impulse finally stops at the bedroom door, still sealed off (and yes, Impulse has broken into that room to make sure Skizz wasn’t inside— undead or otherwise). His eyes catch on yellowed paper taped on the centre of the wooden door, and he scrambles to tear it off, some of the finish coming off with the clear tape.

His hands shake as he rips the flesh of the envelope open, showing the innards of a neatly folded paper inside, his name written on the top of it.

“To Impulse.”

Impulse swallows back the lump building in his throat. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself for one of two options:

One, Skizz is alive and well and simply got distracted with surviving;

Or two, this is from whoever Skizz was with, and it’s informing him that, after all of this, Skizz finally succumbed to this new world in one way or another.

He shakes his head, letting those thoughts go to the back of his mind as he unfolds the paper, sinking against the nearby wall as his knees tuck into his chest:

“Impulse.

I’m sorry it’s been a while. A couple things happened since my last letter, and you deserve to know all of it.

I ran out of paper, first of all—”

Impulse can’t control the giggle that escapes his throat. Of course, he thinks— in a world where paper would be abundant, Skizz runs out of it.

“Second of all, I’ve lost some people. Too many to count. I nearly went out with them, but what made me survive is the simple fact that, well, who would break the news to you if I was turned, or worse?

I’ve been on my own for a while now. Everyone I’ve mentioned in my letters— well, things broke apart after losing who we lost. Clebert was one of them. You two would’ve gotten along pretty well, I think. You both had the same humour, and her laugh always sounded like yours.

But, that’s besides the point. It’s been too long, and I can’t leave you dragging on like a dog on a short leash.”

Impulse straightens. What is he implying? What’s he trying to say, because if it’s what he thinks it is, then—

“This’ll be the last letter. I can’t leave you wondering if I’m still breathing. But it’s not because I’ve given up, or because I think you don’t read these— I know you do— it’s simply because I’m not coming back to that apartment. Too many memories hang around that place, and I know you’ve probably left too, so there isn’t much of a point of clinging to the past.

After we lost Tango, it’s too painful walking into that place and seeing the last place both of us heard Tango’s voice.”

Impulse scrubs his eyes, choking back a sob. His eyebrow furrows, knitted into some form of anger and desperation that this is some kind of weird joke.

“I love you, you know that. And I know you’re too damn determined sometimes. You’ll take this as a challenge to find me, and I welcome you to it. But, please Impulse, if things get too dangerous, if you get hurt just for me—

Let me go. I don’t want to find out that you got turned or worse because you were looking for me.

I’m sorry. I love you.”

The letter ends there.

Impulse wants to scream, if he still had the vocal strength to. He can only punch the wall behind him, as hard as he can muster (which isn’t much, admittedly) before he hides his face in his hands, the letter discarded to his side. Everything, after every letter and inkling of hope—

This is it?

This?

He shakes his head. Maybe he is headstrong and probably stupid for this, but he can’t go the rest of his life never seeing Skizz again. He can’t remember the last time he hasn’t had Skizz in his life— and that’s a testament itself. Impulse grabs the letter and folds it back up, scrubbing his eyes with his sleeve as he tucks it away in his bag. He looks around the apartment, thinking.

If neither of them are returning, then—

His bag is much heavier after gathering the important things, but it’s not a long walk to his apartment. Impulse ducks between alleyways to avoid the larger groups, taking out the loner undead as silently as he can— they like making a lot of noise, despite being mindless and only able to produce an ugly groaning.

His apartment complex had been cleared out by him personally. After making sure he had no neighbours left, whether they fled or didn’t make it out in the first place, cleaning up was his next task— after searching for Tango and only finding an empty apartment and Skizz’s first letter about the news.

Impulse stops at the foot of the stairway to his apartment.

Footsteps— and not an undead, but human.

He could’ve sworn Boston was discarded after the first couple of years of attempted military intervention, that whoever was left here would just be left to fend for themselves. After most of the soldiers had been mauled, that is.

Impulse grabs his pistol from its holster, edging up the steps as he quietly pushes his door open. Long, dark brown hair and scanning blue eyes, some unkempt scruff around his jawline and a torn-up red flannel with other layers and patches covering his weak points.

He snakes around the kitchen island, his hand running over the countertop as he takes one step after another. Slowly, he raises his gun, cocking it.

Two hands raise in surrender as the person slowly turns, eyes and face steady. Expressionless, but not enough for Impulse to not notice his exhaustion.

He stops to meet his eyes.

“Who the fuck are you?”

He swallows nervously, shaking his head.

“Ren. My name is Ren. I didn’t know someone still lived here. I just got to, uh…”

“Boston. What are you doing in my house.”

“Like I said, I— sorry, is your voice okay?”

Impulse curses, hand hovering over his throat. That much talking was enough for his voice to waver, to sound like a groaning door or a croaking frog. He clears his throat, instead relying on writing things down on the back of Skizz’s letter (he wouldn’t do this normally, but this is a unique situation. Skizz would understand.)

“Where did you come from?”

Ren scans over the words. “London. I got here by boat. I swear, I didn’t know you lived here, I can leave and find another place—”

“Every other apartment has an undead or a dead person inside. Wouldn’t recommend.”

Ren blinks, his hands now lowered and resting at his sides.

“Right. Then where should I—?”

“You can stay here, I guess. Keep your distance, is all.”

Ren nods silently, finding a seat somewhere as Impulse lifts his bag off his shoulders. He grabbed photos and other keepsakes from Skizz’s apartment— things Skizz left behind in the rush he was in. He grabs out the water bottle he refills (with boiled sea water. He’s not going to drink from a broken sink faucet, especially considering how the sewers probably have undead in them), and takes a long drink.

“I have some supplies, if you need any.” Ren offers up his entire bag. Probably a dumb decision, Impulse couldn’t help but think. Offering up his entire bag like Impulse couldn’t take it and bolt?

Well. They both have guns. It wouldn’t end well either way, he supposes. He’s seen how other people are in these situations— how desperation overrides morality. He hesitantly opens the bag, half-expecting there to be a loaded weapon inside, but he only finds an abundance of actual food and proper water.

He gives a look, and Ren tilts his head.

“I was with someone for the past ten years. He, ah, got turned recently. Whatever he had in his bag, I took with me.”

Impulse hums. There isn’t room to judge— the dead can’t eat or drink. He’s sure whoever Ren was with wouldn’t mind either, considering. He reaches in for a water bottle and a thing of chocolates; funnily enough, that was the one thing that vanished first. Chocolate isn’t really nutritional in survival situations, but there’s massive bags of it. Anything works, he reasons. Even if it’s something you could eat endless handfuls of before you feel sick.

They sit in silence for a while, and Impulse keeps his knife and weapon nearby. Even with a peace offering, he has no reason to trust Ren completely. He did break into his apartment, first of all.

“Sorry if my question earlier was rude,” Ren says quietly. “Your voice just sounded rough, and I was worried—”

That I was infected, Impulse finishes.

“Anyways. It still stands. Is your voice okay? I mean, surely you’ve spoken to other people since this began, right?”

Impulse averts his gaze. It’s a weird question from a complete stranger— what does this “Ren” know about him anyways? Why is he assuming things about him?

“Sorry, sorry, that was— yeah, that was a little rude. I’ll keep quiet.”

Impulse taps his pen against his knee, writing out his answer.

“Haven’t seen anyone in ten years. You’re the first human I’ve seen since this began.”

Ren’s mouth falls open, words escaping him. Impulse knew to expect that— the questions, he can see them forming in Ren’s mind. How didn’t he go crazy, how is he still sane— the many questions he’s asked himself late at night, when the only sound for miles was the groans of the undead or the whistling of an incoming storm.

A wooden board rattles, and Impulse sighs. Speaking of.

“Nor’easter. Big storm of snow and rain coming in. We’ll be stuck here for a while.”

Ren nods, rising to check the wooden board before Impulse beats him to it. He checks the nails, hammering them back in with the butt of his pistol and steadying the wood. He slips away to check the other windows, leaving Ren on his own.

Impulse is back out before Ren can look at anything important, or even think to make an escape with anything important. He settles back on the couch, tossing Ren a blanket and a pillow, then pointing to the lounge chair nearby.

“That’s your bed. I plan on leaving this place once this storm rolls over.”

A silent question hangs in the air. Impulse wouldn’t really blame Ren if he stayed here. It’s a nice apartment— roomy, for one person. It served him well for over a decade and then some. But, the question still hangs, like a fog hovering over a bog.

“Yeah, I’ll come with. I don’t really like being alone. I haven’t been for a decade, so it’s weird.”

Lucky bastard, Impulse bitterly thinks.

He can’t fathom being with someone else for a decade. Maybe his voice wouldn’t be completely gone, maybe he wouldn’t have spent so many nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if an undead would break in and he’d be turned before he’d realised what was happening.

“Alright. We’ll leave after the snow clears out.”

Ren nods. It’ll be a long week or so.

Impulse stayed up that entire evening. A part of his mind, fucked up from isolation and maybe too many vivid nightmares of being infected and turned into a mindless undead, was convinced that Ren would rob and murder him. Would hurt him.

So, there he is, sitting up with a pistol in hand, aiming at the ground but ready to turn its barrel to Ren if he even gives any indication he’s plotting against Impulse.

It’s a stupid thought, Impulse knows this— of course he does. But, when the first person you meet in a decade broke into your house, you tend to have a little bit of distrust in them. Even as they rest in your lounge chair, huddled against a pillow and blanket and quietly snoring.

Ren’s supplies was decent, at least.

Plenty of ammunition, munition— things Impulse will be happy to share, so long as Ren doesn’t prove himself to be a backstabber the second they leave this building. The wind howls against the boarded-up windows and the fence surrounding his balcony, rain and snow pelting itself against the glass. He’s amazed it hasn’t shattered one of his windows just yet.

Maybe he shouldn’t think that. It might just happen now.

He peeks through the wooden boards to see the undead standing, getting soaked by rain and snow and blown over by the wind. Impulse supposes that, if your muscle and skin and clothes have all rotted away, there isn’t much holding you to the ground. He can only watch from the safety of the apartment—

CRASH!

The wind was suddenly stronger, and suddenly glass nearly launched itself into his eyes.

The sound of the window breaking startled Ren out of bed, eyes adjusting as Impulse curses.

The sound of the window breaking alerted every undead within a two-mile radius.

The sound of the window breaking made the Crawlers approach at lightning speed.

Impulse cocks his pistol, unloading as more undead piled into the balcony and, subsequently, clawed at the boards and broken window. Ren stands near him, unloading bullets all the same into the growing horde on the balcony. Impulse hears creaking under their feet, and it’s only in the blink of an eye does the balcony floor collapse, sending them towards the streets.

Impulse huffs, studying the site before Ren touches his shoulder.

“We can’t stay here. The sound will draw more of them here, and if those Crawlers get in—”

Impulse nods, catching his breath. It feels impossible to, and part of him begins to panic that the glass managed to impale him somewhere, that he’s bleeding out—

He doesn’t remember ending up outside, or in a working car. Impulse thinks he’s blacked out, from whatever sent him into a panic or whatever happened. The storm is still raging on, even as Ren puts the wipers on full blast. Some undead are rammed by the front of their car, much to Impulse’s disdain for the noise.

They eventually stop for the night, hiding in the car. Ren turns the engine off, turning to Impulse.

“Are you okay? You weren’t responding, and I couldn’t just wait.”

“What—” his throat feels like razors— “what happened?”

“More undead started coming in, so I just grabbed our bags and you and ran out. I didn’t leave anything behind that would be useful, or is important to you. Your hand got sliced by some glass, but I’ve patched that up.” Ren studies him, eyes softening in a way that makes Impulse feel weak, small, helpless— like a fawn hiding in tall grass.

“Are you alright?”

“I’ll be—” he swallows back the pain— “fine.”

Ren nods, grabbing water from his bag. Impulse drinks it like he’s been in a desert for days. He supposes they were going to leave the apartment anyway, this is just— a diverted route.

Another fun adventure, Skizz would say.

Impulse leans back in the seat, thinking. They have a car now, meaning for now things will be easier to get to. They can store more things, so maybe if they find a store somewhere, they can get some medical supplies— or even a pharmacy, he knows a couple—

“You’re thinking too loud,” Ren smiles. “Get some rest. I knew someone who would always be thinking and it kept me up because he never settled down.”

Impulse, if his good hand wasn’t injured enough, would’ve punched Ren in the shoulder right then and there. He decides not to, of course; not because his hand hurts and needs stitches probably. Definitely not. He moves the seat back, the rain pattering down on the moon-roof and the windows.

“We’ll be going as soon as the sun comes up. I don’t want to stay under a bridge long,” Ren hums. “Besides, I think I know of a town nearby— or, if this map is correct, anyway. We can go there and see if we can find some more people.”

Impulse hums, giving a quick thumbs up. He’s tired, really, and whether he’s up when Ren starts driving or if they’re on the road already, he doesn’t care. He turns to face the window, just in case something happens and he needs to break out of the car or break into the car. Somehow.

Ren shuffles beside him, and for a moment, Impulse finds himself not as tense as usual. He waits until he hears quiet snoring to grab the journal in his bag, digging for a pen before quietly clicking it.

“Met someone new this week. His name is Ren, from London. He somehow found a boat and sailed here— I don’t know why, what he’s looking for or how he managed to leave London. That city had been the first to fall to these things next to NYC, then it was my city of Boston.

He’s nice, I suppose. I don’t fully trust him yet, but he did save my life. I guess I panicked when the undead started storming my apartment, and when I came to I was in a car with him, under a bridge. I used to have panic attacks a lot before all this; that was the first one in a long, long time.

I just hope things go more smoothly now. Maybe we’ll find one of those military-run communities. Even though I’ve been alone for so long now, I don’t think I could go back to that. Not like how it was, anyways.

As for my voice, I don’t think it’ll heal as quickly as I thought it would. I guess disuse really does wear down on your vocal cords. And your mental state, I guess. We’re waiting until sunrise to start moving again, but I’m keeping watch. Even if I’m exhausted. If anything sneaks up on us and we’re both snoring, it’ll be over before we get a chance to—”

When Impulse opens his eyes again, the car is moving and his journal is in his lap. There’s a long pen line across the page where he stopped writing.

“Oh, good morning,” Ren smiles. “We’re near Hartford, I think? I’ve seen some signs that there’s a community there still, so maybe we’ll refuel and get more supplies there.”

Impulse looks ahead.

It’s the first time in ten years that he’s seen much of anywhere else, except Boston.

Somehow, though, it feels like he’s been born into a completely new reality. A new world where he isn’t alone anymore.

And, somehow, a man from London who is all too cheerful was the solution he needed.

“Skizz,” Impulse mumbles. Ren looks over, brief confusion on his face. Impulse clears his throat, hand hovering over it. “Hartford. Where Skizz is. Last time I heard.”

“Oh, yeah, we can look for them there, if that’s where you heard he was last.”

Impulse wonders if, maybe, Ren was the key.

Maybe this won’t end up terribly after all.