Chapter Text
You think, deep down, that you always knew you would live to see the end of the world. You would like to call it a calculated judgment based on swaths of information. Scientifically-predicted doomsdays, social tensions, economic disasters, and religious murmurings could all be blamed for your suspicions. But at the end of the day, you can’t call it any more than a gut feeling.
Still, you never really spent much time speculating how exactly the world would end. If covering payments for school is an uphill battle, then crafting a social life alongside paramedic training is a battle up a steep mountain face, and fending off approaches from your family is scaling a ninety-degree cliff in the pouring rain. Armageddon comes up in conversation sometimes, because the idea of an apocalypse is something of a joke among your peers – maybe as a coping mechanism more than an actual source of comedy or intellectual debate. You’ve always shrugged and offered some generic answer: climate change, nuclear war, natural catastrophes, a new pandemic. Anything to keep the inquisitive eyes of your friends from lingering on you for too long, or expecting too much of you.
(It’s not that you can’t muster up a better description, but you would rather not set their expectations too high. You don’t know if you like them yet, and you’ve been burned enough times that you won’t dive headfirst into any friendship until you know it’s not a lost cause. Call it cynicism, or call it experience. You pretend not to care if it means you haven’t made any real friends at college after seven months of classes.)
Occasionally, someone will bring up magic. They’ll mention the Rebirth in 1912, or the rumors that the Spanish Flu had some magical origin. Then someone who reads an unhealthy amount of news articles will remind them that no sorcerer reanimates as much as a rat these days without either earning a life sentence or turning themselves inside-out. The old ways are gone and forgotten with all records destroyed or locked away, their research restricted to the rampant studies of your university ‘friends’ who can tell you all about the days of daemons and ghosts and people who can call lightning from the sky.
That’s all you know, because that’s all that mattered. Until now.
You wake up in the witching hour to hear helicopters and planes overhead and an obnoxiously-loud emergency alert coming from your phone. The attached message announces a citywide stay-at-home order starting in one hour. According to a quick Google search, the state capital barely two hundred kilometers west has been attacked by something supernatural. The National Guard has been called in. Reports claim that everything is under control, but you must stay indoors. You don’t believe them, and you try to stay awake; the melatonin in your system and the weeks of insufficient sleep disagree with you. You doze off while sitting upright in your bed, only starting awake an hour later when your glasses tumble from your face and land in your lap.
Alarms are blaring outside as the phone gives you one final message: Martial law is in effect. Stay indoors. Internet and roaming data are both gone. Sounds of panic and mayhem in your apartment building, both above and below you, tell you that nobody is following orders.
The minutes after that are a blur. You open the door of your one-room apartment to see your neighbors, none of whom you’ve said a word to, tearing down the hallway and screaming at each other to move faster. There is a need in your gut to join them; you are training to be a paramedic for a reason, and you need to try and reduce the chance of harm. But there is no way to merge with the crowd without being trampled, so you back into your home to try and prepare for the worst. You throw on the nearest clothes - your student paramedic uniform and a faded bomber jacket - and jam a backpack with as many useful necessities as you can carry. Phone charger, phone, flashlight, a few packages of dry food, second pair of glasses, water bottle, lighter, first aid kit. Then you pry open the single dingy window of your apartment before throwing your door open again and beckoning as many people as possible to squeeze their way out of your window; you’re on the first floor, so the drop is only two feet or so.
At least that will help reduce the chances of a stampede. But when you try to ask your neighbors what exactly is happening, it falls on deaf ears.
Finally, when your floor appears to be empty enough, you close your apartment door, squeeze your way out the window, and land in a crouch in the building’s backyard. Crisis averted.
Then you turn your head towards the main residential street and see an image out of a horror movie.
Sirens blare, gunshots ricochet through the dawn, smoke pours from every possible corner, cars pile in a desperate bid to escape, and there is no direction or motive in the crowds of panicked civilians who scatter like ants when they see the chaos and what stands before them. Because wandering freely through the mayhem and crawling up from the earth are monsters beyond anything you have ever seen before. Massive, hulking, humanoid shapes with gray skin, batlike faces, and draconic horns, charging through city streets and buildings with lumbering yet purposeful strides. They tear through civilians and military personnel alike with a feral glee, jagged teeth and vicious claws shredding skin like paper. The bodies are left in the streets, uninteresting to the monsters as soon as they stop twitching. Moments later, the dead begin to stir and rise to their feet, missing chunks of their necks or bellies, following the lead of their killers with shuffling gates and wordless cries.
The sight causes your blurred vision to snap into focus, and you suck in a sharp lungful of smoky air that stinks of burning rubber and spilled blood. You have to try and help. You can pull people to safety. You can–
The world rushes back into place and pulls you out of your dissociation with a rumbling that starts beneath your feet. Clutching the straps of your backpack, you stumble a step back as the flowerbeds to your right suddenly open up. A long gray arm emerges first, then a second, followed by the snarling head and sinewy upper body of one of the monsters. It sees you immediately, nostrils flaring as it regards you, then its jaws open to show rows of teeth and let out a horrible, shrill shriek.
You forget your paramedic training. You stamp down every instinct telling you that you have to stay and do whatever you can. Your boots twist the singed grass underfoot as you turn your back to the heart of the mayhem and run for your life.
It’s another Rebirth. It has to be.
Of course this is not a complete mystery to you; your history major ‘friends’ have told you that similar things have happened before. Monsters that come from the earth, called by some unseen and unknown entity, to try and reclaim the world for themselves. But as you tear through the park between your apartment building and your school campus, nearly stumbling twice in your efforts to put distance between yourself and the main residential streets of the city, you can’t remember any of it to save your life. What kills them? What stops them? How were they defeated before? How will you survive?
You hardly even know why you’re running towards the college campus. It’s a weekend; maybe there will be less people in the campus itself and you can lay low. It’s right across an intersection from a mall that was half-emptied during the pandemic; you could hide there instead if too many other people had the same idea. There should be food in the college itself. Maybe there will be other paramedic trainees who had the same idea. Maybe there will be others holed up in the nearby student housing; you can offer them first aid.
Maybe you’re just running because you’re scared. The multitool in your pocket, something you were so proud of yourself for buying only a few weeks ago and have kept on your person during every late-night walk since, feels like a joke now.
Your apartment building and campus are separated only by one residential street and a large, ill-kept park that you can navigate fairly well when it isn’t so dark out. Even the paths are densely framed by trees and trimmed bushes, and the dawn light is too dim to make anything out too clearly. You narrowly miss crashing into a crooked bench and several narrow saplings, and occasional glances over your shoulder feels as dangerous as running blindly. The focus you need just to keep moving in a straight line is too much for you to consider that an attack might come from another direction until the moment you hear a very, very loud rustling to your left.
You don’t even have time to look before you’re attacked by a person lunging from the bushes to grab at your ankles and pull you to the ground. Your cry of alarm is cut off by a grunt as you hit the earth, barely having time to shield your face with your forearms. The hand around your ankle pulls and you kick on instinct, your boot striking something that feels like a shoulder. The impact is enough to free your leg; you scramble backwards before pulling yourself to your feet, just in time to watch your attacker stand at the same time.
It’s not one of the monsters, but one of their victims. The heavyset man’s throat and shoulder have been ripped away, and you can make out his spinal cord in the early light, slick with blood. Most rustling from behind you starts you out of your transfixed horror as another one - a woman with her entire chest and collar carved to ribbons - pulls herself from the bush on the other side. A couple, maybe. Or family members. It’s hard to tell when their faces are drained of blood and all you can make out clearly is the yellow light from their eyes.
You’ve seen zombie movies. And you aren’t naive. But you’re certified in first aid and CPR. You’re in college so you can save lives. Maybe storybook rules don’t apply here, and they can be… helped. Somehow.
“Can… Can you understand me?” You take a careful step back, keeping your back to both of them. “I’m a paramedic in training. I can help you.”
The man takes a step forward, gnashing his teeth and reaching an arm out. You take another step back. “I can’t help you unless you tell me you need help.”
The woman tilts her head at you, almost like she is considering your request, before her jaw flops open and she lets out a horrible, hissing moan. Black blood pools from her mouth and drips down around her gums and lips.
One more try; you bend your knees just in case you need to run, reaching into your pocket for your multitool. “I said, I can’t help you unless you tell me y–”
The man lunges for you, and you barely stumble out of his reach and turn on your heel to run. The woman shrieks in wordless rage and follows you, and any movie that told you zombies could not run were goddamn liars. She’s sprinting after you, hissing and snarling all the way, and your lungs are burning from the running you did before. You are mere meters away from leaping back into the treeline to try and hide when you feel a hand snag the back of your hair and pull, hard.
The action completely throws you off-balance and you fall onto your side, multitool flying from your hand. This time, you are unable to get away before your attacker lands on top of you, knocking the air from your lungs as she tries to claw at your face with her nails. You can’t kick her from this angle, she’s too heavy to throw off, and when you lift your hands to shield your face, she yanks them aside and lunges for your throat, and you’re actually going to die here–
BANG
The sound is deafening.
The zombie falls off of you, black blood spraying from a wound on her neck. It does not immediately stop her, though; she manages to get her arms and knees under her body, furiously trying to crawl back to her prey, when another bullet catches her directly between the eyes. The gleam fades from her eyes and her body goes limp.
Behind her, the other zombie is catching up to you, mouth stretched open in the facsimile of a scream. A third shot rings out; the same black blood spurts from his forehead as he falls like a stone, collapsing mid-run. He does not get up.
Your heart is thundering in your chest as you sit up, on the verge of hyperventilating, lifting a hand to your neck to make sure everything is still intact. Only then, accompanied by a dawning realization, do you think to turn to look behind you.
It’s not a cop, or a student. Standing on the edge of the treeline is a tall, masculine figure with a smoking revolver in his gloved hand. His heavy brown coat, wide-brimmed hat, and the bandana pulled up to cover the lower half of his face make him look like something out of a movie. You’re more focused on the second revolver holstered at his hip and the rifle is slung over his shoulder.
His gaze sweeps the path behind you, clearly looking for signs of movement, before he lowers his gaze to regard you. You try to speak, maybe something resembling gratitude, when you’re distracted by the glint of your multitool in the grass next to you. Still brimming with adrenaline, you lunge for it, only for a heavy boot to land on top of it before you can snatch it up.
“Easy now,” he says in a deep, southern drawl slightly muffled by the mask. His voice is rough and thick, like muddy gravel or clotted blood. The accent certainly explains his getup. “Need t’make sure it didn’t hurt you first.”
You force yourself to meet his gaze. He looks you up and down like he’s studying you, assessing you for something. Lowering your hand from your neck, you let him stare you down, but keep a careful eye on the gun in his hand.
After several seconds he narrows his eyes, but seems to find whatever he’s looking for. The nonchalance with which he then spins his revolver and holsters it on his hip is chilling; where does someone get such good aim? What kind of person is armed to the teeth the moment the city is attacked? Instead of answering any of the questions springing to your mind, he gives you one instead: “You a doctor?”
You shake your head, throat still dry and heartbeat still roaring in your ears. He sighs, and says more firmly: “Use your words. You’re in a uniform; are you medical?”
Easier said than done, but you manage to choke out: “... Paramedic. In training.”
He tilts his head. “Got an escape plan, doc?”
Doc. You’ve heard that nickname here and there, but never from a stranger. You know he just saved your life, but the question still sets you on edge. “You don’t need to know where I’m going.”
“I’d like t’know if I jus’ wasted my bullets there. Besides, it’s the end of the world. Humor an old man.”
He doesn’t sound that old, but you relent. He has a point; if he wanted to hurt you, he could have sat back and watched the monsters tear your throat out. “I’m… going to the townhouses up on North Street right now. To try and lay low until this is over.”
He grunts, unimpressed. “It’ll be teeming. Bad choice.” His foot does not move from your multitool.
“The college is that way, too.”
“That’s a worse choice.”
Despite your muscles groaning in protest, you manage to stand. He has at least twenty centimeters on you. “Even with the tunnel system?”
The masked man pauses, seeming a little surprised. You pull your coat more tightly around your chest, brushing some of the grass from it. “There’s tunnels under the campus,” you explain. “For maintenance vehicles and winter terms. It’s, um, not exactly a maze, but they connect all the buildings. It might be safe for a few days.”
For a moment, the masked man is unreadable as he stares down at you. He stands eerily still, almost like he is not breathing, and the air almost seems colder around him. Maybe you hit your head the first time you fell, but you could swear he is staring right through you. Then, slowly, he lifts his boot from your multitool. “Y’need to plan longer’n that. This won’t pass anytime soon.”
You scoop up the tool, wiping it on your cargo pants before shoving it into your pocket. “The military will be here soon–”
“They won’t be enough,” he retorts with an icy certainty.
“You don’t know that.”
“I’ve seen this before, doc.”
The intensity of his presence seems to worsen as you return to your full height and stare up at him. You’re no stranger to people trying to scare you, but the masked man reports his opinion as calmly as if he were remarking on the weather, despite the dire tone. He talks to you like you’re an old friend and a vicious business rival all at once; it’s theatrical and intense, making you dizzy. “That’s impossible. This… this is a Rebirth, isn’t it? Like the thing that happened in Europe, before World War One. There hasn’t been one since.”
“It’s warmin’ up to be a Rebirth, yes.” The masked man does not acknowledge the rest of your rebuttal. “So I’d get inside while y’still have your wits. You’ll be needed if - ‘n it’s a big if - people learn how t’survive this.”
You open your mouth to protest, only to shut it with a click. He is right; you need to prepare for the worst, and the worst-case scenario is that this takes weeks to solve (but of course there are worse possibilities, you just can’t bear to consider them just yet). You may be no help now, but after the monsters are full of bullets, you’ll be helping the survivors. “You’re right,” you let out a heavy breath. “... thank you. For saving me.”
He grunts again. “Don’t get bit.”
“What?”
“The curse that wakes the dead. It spreads through saliva. So don’t get bit.” He rests a hand on the grip of his revolver. “That’d be plenty thanks.”
You nod quickly, swallowing back your hundreds of questions. His ‘advice’ explains his initial assessment of you, at least. There is safety in numbers, and even if this guy is just a trigger-happy maniac with a few too many history books on his shelf, he is clearly more than capable of protecting himself. But everything about him, save his oddly polite tone, sets you on edge. You know to trust your gut, and your gut tells you that lingering is unwise. Clutching the straps of your backpack, you turn away from the masked man and start a light jog out of the park, conserving your energy in case of an emergency.
You feel his eyes on your back as you follow the path to what you hope to be your sanctuary.