Kill him already, he’s not Marco anymore-!
Modified the second idea, sorry”
Zombie Apocalypse AU Drabble
He knew it was him.
The flickering neon light which clung onto dear life from the ceiling by a single power cord, as if executed by hanging, had initially insufficiently illuminated his face and Jean approached his boyfriend with tears of relief in his eyes.
The truth is, it had been three weeks since the mass outbreak. The authorities had brushed off the hordes of infections as a “dangerous flu virus”, but the truth as far more gruesome. Eventually, what began as coughing and retching turned into the hungry growls and inhuman garbles of the infected.
Jean had stayed smart from day one. Once the first attack had happened (Mr. Kirschstein was not gullible enough to believe a man’s leg being bitten off by a coughing, sickly-pale-looking fellow was just a “drug overdose”, “random violence” and “complete coincidence”) he was stocking up on food, barricading the house, stocking up on ammunition and leaving his boyfriend text messages to come home ASAP.
The last Jean ever heard from his boyfriend was a single text message at 10 PM that day.
From: Marco (bae)
not feelin great. popped round 2 the hospital for flu shot. quarantine
Jean wasn’t really sure what Marco meant. But going onto the streets after dark with people’s legs being bitten off really didn’t seem like a very good idea. He decided to check up on his boyfriend the next day.
But that night made all the difference. When Jean Kirschstein woke up the next day, there was mayhem on the streets. People wandering around aimlessly with lifeless, bloodshot eyes; uninfected people dismembered and cannibalized on the streets; an entire city - and country - in chaos. Jean left Marco hundreds of missed calls and voicemail messages. But not a single reponse came.
It took him two weeks to get to the building. Two weeks of ploughing through thousands of undead, two weeks of blood and horror, two weeks of no sleep and eating canned meat and his own fear. But there wasn’t anything that Jean Kirschstein wouldn’t do to make sure Marco was still alright. To make sure he was being hospitalized and treated…
Of course his happy fantasies were blown asunder as soon as Jean saw the actual hospital building. It was empty. A bloodbath had happened there - windows were shattered, doors had been unhinged and used as weapons, medical equipment lay on the streets and on the rubber floor of the revolving door.
But love makes you foolish. And Jean Kirschstein still believed.
Adrenaline coursed through his body and all the hair on the back of his neck stood stark erect as the man walked through the littered, bloody, tiled floor of the hospital, occasional hisses from short-fusing power cords and broken lights making him jump. There were some zombie bodies strewn on the floor, still quivering, some still making moaning noises, and Jean passed by them with his gun aimed right at their faces always checking whether it wasn’t him.
The steel door labelled Quarantine was on the first floor. A series of A4 pieces of paper had lead him up the stairs, past the infectious disease ward, and straight to where Marco’s last, mysterious text had directed him to. The hinges groaned as if they hadn’t been oiled for years - and that probably the case - and Jean grimaced at how much noise he was making, the man always being wary of every footstep he took in case it would alert the ears of an infected.
And thus he was in the quarantine room. Metal hospital beds stood stacked one next to the other, and there were corpses on every single one of them. The makeshift morgue made Jean swallow hard, cold sweatbeads rolling down his forehead out of fear that one of the bodies would jerk upright and jump at his throat.
And at the end of the long, once-white hospital room full of deceased zombies, on the faintly green anti-slip linoleum flooring sat a man.
He knew it was him.
"Marco," Jean uttered the first word he had spoken since the apocalypse began. The tone was hushed and yet spoke more than most singing voices during the most emotional ballads. Tears of relief welled up in the corners of Jean’s eyes and then streamed down his face as Jean dropped the fully unlocked-and-loaded Glock onto the floor, the clink of metal echoing off the walls, and ran to embrace the man he loved.
And then he stopped dead in his tracks, about five feet away, as the swinging, unhinged neon light overhead revealing the half of Marco’s face that had been concealed in the shade.
The once-tan skin was sickly pale and covered in open, seething sores; the flesh around his right eye was missing, revealing muscle tissue and bones; whileas the right half of his lips had been torn off somehow, revealing all of his teeth and rotting gums in an unsightly, devilish grin.
"Marco," Jean repeated, this time the whisper filled with the excruciating agony of a man whose heart had just been shattered.
Marco was starved and Jean could tell. Surrounded by corpses of the undead, the malnourished zombie violently whiffed Jean’s scent with his nose, slowly turned its head at Jean and instinctively opened its mouth, making primal chomping gestures. Slowly, foot by foot, Marco stood up; meanwhile, foot by foot, Jean moved away, tears still swimming down his cheeks.
Marco approached his boyfriend, the steps he took feeble, like a child’s just upon learning how to walk. Meanwhile, his boyfriend approached the Glock that lay sadly on the floor, a relic of times before Jean found out.
With loud hurrs, the zombie boyfriend approached Jean, the steps becoming more desperate, while Jean shook his head in disbelief as he picked the pistol up off the ground and aimed it at Marco.
"Please… just give me a sign… Marco… Tell me that’s still you!…" with a cracking voice, he pleaded, taking a few more steps back, wanting to give Marco time.
But all Jean got in response was huffing and grunting, as well as a pair of pale hands outstretching in Jean’s direction and grasping hungrily.
"Marco… if you come closer… I’ll… have to shoot."
The chocolate-brown eyes that once looked at him every morning with unconditional love now stared at him hungrily, with tiny pupils instead of how they had always been slightly dilated.
Jean, this isn’t Marco anymore.
He is infected. Just like the thousands you had to kill to get here.
Jean was almost running backwards now, the gun still aimed right at Marco’s face. Or rather, what remained of it.
"One word, Marco… One word would be enough!" Jean cried out, voice completely broken by the huge lump in his throat, eyes stinging.
That’s when the zombie charged. It was a matter of instinct, what happened next. The past weeks had sharpened Jean’s senses so much, he acted upon whatever primal impulse he felt.
And the trigger was pulled. And the Glock fired.
And Marco Bodt fell, frothing at the mouth.
Don’t you fucking dare go up to his body, Jean Kirschstein.
And Jean did exactly that. He walked differently now. Everything about Jean Kirschstein was different in literally one moment.
Half of him was gone.
As Jean knelt by the body of what was once his boyfriend, the exposed, fleshy jaw of Marco Bodt slacked open, his head drooped to the side as if it were trying to face Jean, and just barely audibly, the bloody, sticky tongue of the zombie collided with the top of his mouth and his vocal chords wheezed out the most quietest and last sound they’d produce.