Chapter Text
Chapter One - No Such Thing As A Friendly Face
"Find the city," Brett grumbles. "Get through the city. But no one said how."
He's having a crappy day, to say the least. He's out of food and drinking water and it seems like the city he's in has been picked over pretty well. It's cold - winter is approaching - and, yeah. His situation pretty much couldn't get worse.
He thinks he's heading in the right direction, but it's not like he'd know, really, because he doesn't have a map. All he has to go on is Tom's vague directions, which, two months after being given them in the middle of a firefight, he can't exactly remember very well.
For example: does he take a left or a right onto Station Street? Fucked if he knows. "Follow the tram line," Tom said, but the tram line runs both ways. Brett would love to believe that this is one of those times where specifics don't matter, but frankly, he's not that lucky.
What's freaking him out the most? The distinct LACK of zombies. He figured a city this size would be overrun with the bastards, but even though there are zombie corpses everywhere, he's yet to see one of them shambling towards him.
He hopes whatever company is here turns out friendly, on the off chance he runs across them. Then again, he hasn't met friendly people in a while, so getting his hopes up might be stupid.
He looks down the tram track. Sighs. Spins in a circle to look back the way he came. He's got no clue. At least there aren't any zombies. For now.
He heads left on the tram track. When he does, he looks up, notices that the sun is beginning to go down, and feels nervous. He's got no food and water, nothing to make a fire with, and he can't even begin to remember how he ended up in this situation being as hungry and worn out as he is.
He has to find somewhere to bunk down for the night. It's looking like that won't be so easy.
He sees a 7-11 on the corner of the next block he passes and hesitates. He knows he shouldn't look, not without a weapon, but he'll starve to death if he doesn't find something pretty soon. He's already feeling shaky and sick.
The window is smashed. He climbs in, takes a look around cautiously. Nothing in terms of zombies - plenty of corpses - but a few cans and jars are intact.
He's heading straight for a shelf when he hears it - the shuffle, the groaning, hissing, guttural noises of a zombie, pretty fucking close to him.
He legs it. He doesn't have a weapon so the only option, really, is to get the fuck out; he's seen plenty of people die because they thought they could fight the zombies hand-to-hand, apparently forgetting that the fucking things are thirsty for flesh and blood and also impossible to kill unless you cause trauma to their brains.
He makes it out onto the street, and fuck - they're everywhere, and for some reason, they're all young and wearing bikinis and that's a whole new level of body horror, seeing what would normally be some really hot chicks in bikinis coming at him with their jaws gnashing hungrily and their flesh falling from their bodies. That's fucked up.
He's reaching for a piece of pipe on the road when one of the zombies drops dead right in front of him, an arrow piercing its skull. The three around it go down as well. Brett's shaking like a leaf, barely clinging to the length of pipe, as the zombies drop all around him, like dominoes.
The whole thing takes less than two minutes. It's silent.
He turns around to see where the arrows came from - and sees a bat swinging towards him, feels it impact his skull, and he's out before he hits the ground.
~*~
He comes to with his head throbbing viciously.
He gives it a moment, then opens his eyes hazily. The world swims for a few seconds before adjusting; he's lying on the pavement, on his side, in what he soon realises is the recovery position. Even as he sits up, he realises he's not in the same area that he was in.
Dread floods him. Not only is the knock on the head and his changed location probably a rather large red flag that he's in danger, he also doesn't know how to orient himself from here.
He starts to stand up, hears a slight clicking noise to his right, and a voice saying lowly, "Easy."
He turns around, slowly, and there's a kid standing behind him. Kid? Guy? He's not really all that sure. It's hard to tell in this light. Either way, the person is aiming a crossbow at him, steady as a rock, and watching him warily.
"Hi," he says weakly.
The kid circles around so he's standing in front of him, kneels down. He puts a bottle of water on the ground and rolls it towards Brett with his foot.
"What's this?" Brett asks reluctantly.
"What's it look like?" the kid says. He sounds kind of growly, voice low-pitched, which Brett supposes is meant to be intimidating. If he's honest, it's working pretty well. Although that could be the crossbow.
"Thanks," he says, and drinks. The kid watches him, still as a statue, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. "You hit me pretty hard."
"Not as hard as I could have."
Brett blinks. The kid's right; his head isn't throbbing as badly as it has after some lacrosse injuries, and he's now realising that he was in the recovery position when he woke up - because the kid put him there, in that position, and obviously hung around.
"Crossbow," he says dumbly.
The kid arches an eyebrow. "Good job," he says. "Glad we've got that sorted."
"You killed those zombies, didn't you?" Brett asks. "Why?"
"Because they were gonna eat you?"
"Did you have to knock me out?" Brett groans.
The kid shrugs, doesn't give him a proper answer, so Brett tries again. "You've been following me all day, haven't you?" he asks. "Stalking is illegal, you know."
"It's the zombie apocalypse," the kid says. "Nothing is illegal anymore."
He's got a good point. Law fell to the wayside right after the marshal version of it was enacted and people lost their shit. "So why the love tap?" he asks, pointing at the abandoned baseball bat. "Seems kind of extreme."
The kid edges a little closer to him. "Had to make sure you weren't packing," he says.
Brett rubs the back of his head. "I'm not," he says.
"Uh huh," the kid snorts derisively. "That's what they all say. Where're the rest of your group? You can't have come here alone."
"I did."
The kid narrows his eyes. Brett can't pin his age - he's broad and muscular, but he's also barely 5'5", and while there's a hint of scruff on his cheeks and jaw, his face is young. His eyes are bright, intelligent, alert - a piercing sky blue in colour.
"What're you doing here?" the kid asks bluntly.
"Passing through," Brett says uneasily. "Just trying to get somewhere."
"Where?" Okay, so the kid clearly doesn't trust him. Brett can't exactly say he's surprised. Or that he even blames him, really. There are no good people left.
"It's a place called Oakridge," Brett says slowly. "Have you heard of it?"
The kid doesn't answer him for a moment, then finally shakes his head warily.
"Supposedly it's a camp for survivors," Brett says. "They take people in. I'm looking for a few buddies of mine and I think they might've gone that way."
He's surprised to see that the kid is looking less and less wary of him and more and more interested in what he's saying - but he hasn't lowered the fucking crossbow even an inch - and where the fuck did a teenager get a crossbow, seriously - and that he's taken a few tiny steps closer.
"How long have you been on your own?" Brett asks.
"None of your business," the kid fires back. "How'd you get separated from your friends?"
"A herd," Brett says. "I was with a few other people, but they..."
The kid cocks his head sideways. "Did they turn?"
"I guess you could say that," Brett says. "Although they turned on each other and me before they got bitten and killed. I was the only one who made it out I think. I've been on my own since then, just trying to find my way to Oakridge. This seemed like the most direct path through."
The kid stares at him - and stares, and stares, and Brett's getting uncomfortable. Finally, he says, "This was the fastest way through. The military collapsed most of the tunnels out of the city. You can get in, but you can't get out - unless you go back the way you came and circle around."
"That would take weeks," Brett argues. "Winter will be here by then."
The kid shrugs. "I didn't say it would be easy," he says.
Brett rubs his face. He's starving and cold already; going back when he's this exhausted is a bad idea. But he can't see any feasible way of just waiting the winter out either; last year, winter killed almost a quarter of the survivors in their group.
"Ugh," the kid says, and Brett looks up to see him rolling his eyes. "Okay, what's your deal?" he asks flatly. "Where's your food? Your pack? Supplies? Seriously, where are you hiding it all?"
"I don't have anything," Brett replies. "Sorry to disappoint."
"You didn't," the kid says snippily. "Although it's kind of fucked up that you've survived this long by winging it." He starts to lower the crossbow, then says, "I have three knives and two handguns on me - if you attack me I will fucking kill you, I swear to God," and then swings his bag off his back.
Brett watches him uneasily, and he's downright blown away when the kid produces a small package and a can. "Here," he says, clearly still irritated. "Take this."
He slides them across the ground, and Brett catches them with his foot, then picks them up. "What's this?"
"Food, idiot," the kid snaps. "You're welcome by the way." He shoulders his pack again. "Head south," he says brusquely. "There's a tunnel out of the city. It'll take you a few days to trek there but it's the fastest way I know of. Stay low during the day. Move at night. I'm not the only person in this city."
"Hey," Brett calls.
The kid turns back to him.
"Where's your group?" Brett asks. Because seriously, this kid's young. There's no way he could've made it this far on his own.
"I don't have one," the kid says. "Not that it's any of your business."
"Why didn't you kill me?" Brett demands.
For the first time, some of the harshness falls away from the kid's face, and he looks kind of lost and uncertain. "You didn't give me a reason to," he says quietly.
Fuck. Brett's been okay on his own till now, but seeing another person has made him realise just how lonely he is. How much he wants company. And he doubts this guy could be bad news to have around; he's a walking arsenal if what he says is true, and he's clearly got the hunting skills to track and kill large animals, judging by the pack of dried meat in his hands.
"You wanna come with me?" Brett asks.
"What?" the kid asks flatly.
"To Oakridge. You wanna come with me? How come you haven't left the city before now? You know the way out-"
"I'm waiting for someone," the kid says. He sighs, rubs his face irritably, then says, "if you really don't know the way out, I can show you how to get there in the morning. But it's too late to go that far now."
"That... would be good, actually," Brett says. He feels kind of embarrassed about it, but he's not gonna let his pride get in the way. "So... will we just meet back here in the morning, then?"
The kid looks him over again. "You got anything to make a fire with?"
"No," Brett says.
"Of course you don't," the kid snipes. "Follow me. And remember, I'll kill you if you give me a reason to."
~*~
So this is the strangest day Brett's had for a while.
First he nearly gets attacked and killed by a group of walkers wearing nothing more than bikinis. Then he's rescued by this kid, only to get knocked out a few seconds later and wake up with no idea where he is. And then he finds out that the kid apparently followed him, though Brett's not sure why.
He follows the kid back - gold light paints the derelict city like swathes of colour right off a brush, as if their world is nothing more than a canvas, a depiction of some alternate reality in which survival has been reduced to its most basic components - food, water, and warmth.
Brett hasn't had any of those in varying different time periods. The last of his water he drank almost a whole day ago; he drank the bottle the kid gave him, but he's still parched, feeling sick and weak and his head is throbbing viciously. He's not about to ask for more, though; he's already struggling to keep up and his new companion looks pretty irritated about that. It's only when Brett notices the sun dipping quickly that he thinks maybe the approaching darkness is the reason, and not really to do with him as such.
Although he wouldn't rule that out. He keeps pace determinedly, following the kid down alleyways and cobbled backstreets and through open arcades. They never take a main road. In fact, Brett's beginning to think that the kid probably diverged from his original pathway to find Brett on the tram tracks, right in the heart of the city, on a large, three-lane road.
Just as Brett's getting the idea that he might be seeing the last rays of light from the sun, the kid takes a sudden, sharp, right-handed turn and bounds effortlessly up a set of stairs. He takes out keys - Brett hasn't seen keys in so long he thinks he's hallucinating - and unlocks the door to one of the little townhouses lining the street.
Brett follows him up hesitantly, swallowing. The kid arches an eyebrow at him, then stands back and holds the door open. The apartment's on a street so narrow Brett wonders if cars could even fit down here before; still, it seems safe, and it's close to a lot of different places.
"Thanks," he murmurs as he steps inside. There's no entryway; stepping through the front door leads him straight into a living room, which is currently, blessedly warm with the heat of a low-burning fire. The kid shuts the door behind him and strides in.
"You hungry?"
He barely realises he's being spoken to until the kid snaps, "Hey. Asshole," to get his attention, and Brett looks up.
"Huh?"
"Are you hungry?" the kid repeats.He still looks pretty pissed off, but Brett supposes he's probably ruined this kid's whole day - it didn't seem to be in his plans to pick up a random stranger off the streets. Brett wonders why he did it; he was clearly out looking for supplies, if the overstuffed bag on his back is an indication. He didn't need to intervene, and he didn't need to stick around, either, but he did.
"Starving," Brett says.
"Okay." The kid puts his crossbow in the corner of the room. "Turn around," he demands. "Face the wall."
Brett obeys, because what else is he gonna do? He doesn't have any weapons and he's weak from hunger and thirst. He was kind of hoping the kid would offer him food - why else would he ask Brett if he's hungry?
He feels the kid's hands on him, patting him down. "Thought you frisked me before?" Brett asks.
"I'm a thorough kind of guy."
"Yeah, I can tell."
The kid seems satisfied, backs off, holsters his gun again, and says, "I've got deer or canned beans. Which do you want?" Then he stands back and looks at Brett expectantly. His eyes are startlingly clear - Brett hasn't seen anyone this focussed in a really, really long time.
"You're feeding me?" Brett asks hopefully.
The kid gives him a long look. "You're pale," he says finally. "Shaking. Couldn't keep up with me on the way back, don't hear most of what I say, and even though you said you're starving, you're all squishy around your stomach. You need to eat."
He's smart, Brett's gotta give him that. "Deer," he says. "Where'd you learn all that?"
"Nowhere. Sit down before you fall down."
Brett sits on a cushion near the fire and watches as the kid leaves the room, returning with some of the deer - how'd he catch a deer anyway? - and a few cans. "Eat as much as you want," he mutters as he passes the deer to Brett. "I've got plenty and you look like shit."
He's sitting in front of a fire, feeling warm for the first time in months, in real human company for the first time in almost two months, and he's actually eating something. This is definitely a turn for the better.
He hopes this doesn't take a turn for the worst; it easily could, and Brett's heard horror stories like that. The kid doesn't seem mentally unstable - a little testy, sure, but who isn't now? - but he's packing a veritable arsenal of weaponry and he's alone, clearly, which Brett thought was bullshit at first, and he has to wonder about that. Why is the kid alone? Who would leave someone this young to their own devices? He can't imagine the kid left his group; it would be dangerously stupid.
He doesn't even care that the kid has spent most of their time together eyeing him distrustfully. They'd walked what Brett thinks must be more than two miles to get back here - and Brett has to say, he's impressed. Because the kid has, apparently, managed to fortify one of the tiny little townhouses that function as very, very small apartments. Looking at it from the outside, you'd never know it was inhabited.
The apartment itself is sort of nice, really. Brett assumes that this used to be the living room, but now it's got a large queen-sized bed in it, along with a small table in the corner and the area for the fire, which is built inside some kind of contraption designed to prevent it from burning through the floor.
Kid might be alone, he thinks, but he must be smart, because I don't know any adult who could build something like that. So he has the skills to hunt and scavenge, he's handy with the crossbow, and he can make a fire easily. And he's still alive. That's a pretty big indication to Brett that this kid is smart - he knows stuff.
Brett eyes the bed sleepily. It looks comfortable, warm. He hasn't slept in a bed for months. It looks comfortable, warm. He hasn't slept in a bed for months. He's tired, and he's sore, and he's still feeling pretty shaky and weak - he wishes there was more water available. The kid might have some, but if he does, he's not letting on.
The kid sees him looking. "I'll give you a blanket," he mutters. "There's a roll-out bed in the next room."
"Did you do all this?"
"Just the fire pit. The rest was here when I found it."
There's a long pause. Then Brett says, "Are you here on your own?"
He's surprised when the kid nods. He didn't think he'd get an honest answer out of him. "Jesus," he murmurs. "How long?" So the kid is on his own. Brett kind of figured, what with the fact that his decision to take Brett in was made quickly, with apparently no thought given to any other person, but... alone? He can't be older than sixteen.
"More than a year," the kid says. "I stopped counting."
"Why didn't you try to find people?" Brett asks. It seems like a reasonable question; he doesn't know anyone who's survived alone for very long, let alone a teenager. This one even seems healthy, if not very happy. He's clearly not starving and he's got two healthy spots of colour in his cheeks. He just can't fathom why this kid would've thought being alone was a better option than seeking out people.
"People suck," the kid says simply.
"True that," Brett murmurs. "Hey, listen. Thanks for not killing me today, and for the food. You didn't have to do that."
"Yeah, well, you don't seem that bad," the kid mutters.
Brett smiles. Yeah, he's sort of prickly, but the discovery of someone who doesn't want to kill him on sight and pillage him for everything he's got is still so novel that he doesn't mind how snappy and irritable this kid is. And really - he's feeding Brett, and food in the apocalypse is basically the only currency worth anything. That and medicine. He can't be as aggressive as he seems to be if he's willing to share.
"My name's Brett," he says.
The kid looks up at him, seeming surprised. He's quiet for a moment, taking Brett in, then says quietly, "I'm Liam."
Liam. Liam's got bright, crystal clear, blue eyes, surrounded by a fan of stupidly long, dark gold lashes, an almost totally symmetrical face - Brett's photographer friends would have had a field day with him - and a small, slightly upturned nose. Cute, verging on being handsome, almost, and Brett absolutely did not just think that.
"Hi, Liam. Thanks for not killing me."
Liam gives him the smallest smile Brett's ever seen, like his muscles have forgotten the movement. Brett supposes they have; Liam's been without people longer than Brett has.
"How old are you?" he asks.
"Seventeen," Liam says.
Fuck. Liam's a little older than Brett had initially thought, but that means Liam was probably only fifteen, maybe sixteen, when he ended up on his own. No wonder he's so prickly and aggressive, Brett thinks. It was the only way to keep people away from him.
"You?" Liam asks, almost like he's forgotten how to talk. He seems to be warming up to the idea of Brett in his space; he's a little less shifty, and he's more forthcoming with answers now. Brett has the sudden realisation that Liam doesn't have to engage him - he's more than done enough for Brett today just by saving him, let alone feeding him. But Liam's talking to him, even if it is softly and awkwardly.
"Twenty one."
"Thought you were older," Liam says.
"I get that a lot. Guess it's 'cause I'm tall." He holds up the package of dried meat. "Guess I should give this back, right?"
Liam shakes his head. "Keep it," he says. "You'll probably need it for the road."
"What about you?"
"I've got plenty," Liam says. "Do you want some more water?"
Brett sighs. "Yes. Please."
Liam stands up, goes to the bed, and drags a bag out from underneath it, producing a water bottle from inside. He tosses it to Brett. "Let me know if you want more," he says. "I use the snow. Melt it and stuff. Purify it." He's speaking in short sentences, like he doesn't remember how to use longer ones, or like he wants to be irritated but can't quite bring himself to be. Brett watches him sit back down and put a pot over the fire before pouring some water into it.
Brett surveys Liam for a moment. He looks worn out - but doesn't everyone these days? - but not starved or underfed like a lot of people do. His eyes are startlingly blue.
"Where're you getting it all from?" Brett wonders.
"I go hunting," Liam says. "The trick is getting to game before the zombies do."
"And how do you do that?" Brett asks.
There's a long pause, like Liam's torn between telling him the truth and telling him to mind his own damn business. Brett doesn't push him; he's warm and thinks he might even be safe for the immediate future, and he isn't curious enough to jeopardise that.
Eventually, Liam must decide that giving up hunting knowledge probably won't damage his chances of survival, because he says, "I use the zombies."
"Huh?" Brett asks. "How?"
"They know where living things are better than we do," Liam says. "They're like, hardwired to find living things to snack on. So I find a set of tracks and follow them till I see a few zombies going the same way. If I stay far enough behind I can take out the game first, stop it running away, then the zombies before they eat it."
"That's really smart," Brett says. "Where'd you learn that?"
"Old friend," Liam says, and Brett knows - just by his tone, and the way he doesn't elaborate, that the old friend is probably not alive anymore.
Liam stands up. "We should sleep," he says shortly. "It's a pretty long hike out to the tunnel tomorrow. I'll get you some blankets and stuff." As he stands up, he motions at the water bottle. "Drink some more water," he mutters. "You still look like shit."
Brett sits, waiting, until Liam reappears with a fold-out bed piled with blankets and, holy crap, a pillow. He falls down onto it gratefully and says, "I'm sleeping in here so you can kill me if I do something suspicious, aren't I?"
"Yep," Liam says. "Night."