Zombie fic! Part Seven (The Finale)

[triedunture]

Title: The Rampant Disease
Pairing: H/W
Warnings: blood and gore, horror and ickiness (sometimes bordering on silly), character death!
Summary: Uh. It's like...have you ever seen Thriller? It's kind of like that. But with doctors.

<><><>

Wilson forced his brain to stay in doctor mode. “When did you get bitten, honey?” he asked the little girl, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice.

Lindsey lifted one thin shoulder in a small shrug. She lowered her eyes to her lap and kept them fastened on her hands.

“Sweetie,” Wilson said, the edge of panic creeping into his tone, “you have to tell me. It’s very important.”

Very gently, very slowly, he took hold of her chin and lifted her face until her gaze met his again.

“Who bit you?” he asked.

Foreman, who was rushing by with a roll of bandages in his hands, stopped at the sight of Wilson kneeling on the floor, speaking quietly to the child. Wilson saw him standing behind Lindsey’s shoulder with one eyebrow raised in question.

“My mom,” Lindsey mumbled. “She was…” Her sea-green eyes fell again, and she fidgeted her hands in her lap.

Wilson looked up at Foreman, the question clear on his face.

Foreman shook his head and made a slicing motion across his neck with the edge of his hand. Wilson closed his eyes and let out a sigh. So the girl’s mother was dead twice over.

“She’s been here with us for nearly a week,” Foreman said, pointing to the girl.

“Am I going to die?” Lindsey asked, glancing between the two doctors.

“No, no, you’re going to be fine.” Wilson wrapped his arms around her and let her press her cheek against his chest. “Everything’s going to be fine,” he whispered to her dark hair.

Foreman blinked. “You mean she’s…?”

“Go get Whitner,” Wilson ordered him, still holding the girl as if she would disappear if he didn’t. “And find House. Where is…?” He looked around the bustling cafeteria, but he couldn’t spot the lanky figure. “House?” he called.

The chains on the hallway doors rattled and Wilson looked over his shoulder to see Nurse Barbara locking it up again. She looked up at his shout.

“He just left,” she said with a shrug. In her free hand, she still held the newfound shotgun. “He said to wait for his directions.”

“Son of a…” Wilson gave the girl one last squeeze and scrambled to his feet. “Hold on,” he told her. “I’ve got to—”

Whitner skidded to a stop in front of him, blocking his path to the door. “Foreman said this kid’s been bitten?” she said breathlessly. By the wild look in her eyes, she apparently hadn’t heard the whole story. She held her weapon tightly in her lap.

“Yeah but—” Wilson glanced at the shut door. What the hell was House doing?

Foreman caught up with the female doctor, panting for breath. “You didn’t let me finish,” he snapped at her. “Wilson, tell her!”

“House is gone,” Wilson said instead, trying to push past the two doctors. House couldn’t have gotten far, he assured himself. He frantically looked around for his fire axe.

“Who cares about House?” Foreman snorted, holding him by the elbows. “This kid’s immune!”

Whitner looked down at Lindsey sitting on the floor as if she hadn’t noticed Lindsey there before. “Seriously?” she exclaimed.

“Yes!” Wilson shouted, throwing off Foreman’s hold. “But House doesn’t know that! And now he’s gone off alone, thinking he’s going to turn into a zombie!”

Foreman held up a hand to silence Wilson. “Wait, House was bitten?”

Whitner hissed out a breath of air. “The bastard’s probably got some suicidal stunt planned.”

“I need to find him,” Wilson said, locating the axe on the ground and grabbing it. “You two, get Lindsey to the lab and make that serum as fast as—”

There was a sudden crackling noise, loud and echoing, that made everyone jump in surprise. It was followed by two thumps and a chuckle.

“Is this thing on?” a voice boomed over the PA system. “It better be, because I just pulled a Moses through a sea of zombies to get to the nearest nurses’ station.”

“House?” Wilson looked up at the loudspeakers attached to the ceiling, his brow furrowed.

“I’m betting some idiot is trying to talk back to me,” House grumbled. “Just a reminder: this thing only works one way.”

Wilson rolled his eyes, muttering a few choice words about House’s own intelligence under his breath.

“This message is for all living and breathing beings still trapped within the walls of PPTH,” House continued in a mocking Public Service Announcement voice. “Follow the nurse with the big gun. She’s going to get you down to the first floor and, hopefully, out the front door. I’m going to cover you with,” he dragged out the last word, and Wilson could hear the click click click of an iPod being scrolled through, “the best classic rock hits to get you through the workday.”

“He’s going to broadcast music over the PA system?” Foreman frowned in confusion.

Whitner clapped her hands once, her mouth curving into a smile. “The noise will confuse the zombies,” she cried. “They won’t be able to hear us coming. Brilliant!”

“Get ready, people with pulses,” House said. “This first song goes out to James from oncology.” There was a long pause, followed by a low screech of feedback. Every person in the room was frozen, faces upturned towards the sound.

Finally, House’s voice returned, low and hesitant. “Sorry we’ll never…have that talk, Jimmy.” There was a burst of moaning on House’s end, and then one last warning:

“Now go.”

House’s voice was replaced by a pounding beat. Stomp, stomp, clap. Stomp, stomp, clap.

“I hope this works!” Whitner shouted over Queen.

The small crowd of displaced patients and employees began moving towards the front doors, armed with meager weapons of every shape.

We will, we will rock you.

Nurse Barbara shouted instructions as she ushered them into the hallway. “Come on, let’s go, keep together, slow and steady.”

Foreman shook Wilson by the shoulder, waking him from the frozen shock of hearing House’s last words. “We have to leave,” Foreman said. “Everyone’s going.” He grabbed a spear from the floor.

“I’m not leaving without House,” Wilson said. Lindsey stood at his side, her small hands clutching at his pink scrubs.

Whitner studied his solemn face for a moment. “I’ll go with you to the lab. I can still make the serum,” she said. “But how will you get it to House before…?”

“I’ll figure it out.” Wilson dodged a man pushing past him. “We’re running out of time. Let’s go.” He grasped Lindsey’s wrist in his right hand, reserving his left for the axe. “Stay close to me, sweetheart,” he told her.

You’ve got blood on your face
A big disgrace

Foreman led them out of the cafeteria, following the group of survivors. “House still has the elevator key,” he said. “We’ll have to take the stairs.”

They moved towards the stairs en masse, dodging zombies when they could, bludgeoning them into submission when they couldn’t. House had been right; the loud music helped mask their footsteps. The zombies gathered around the loudspeakers, trying to find the source of the sounds. They moaned in confusion at the devices, and were easy to dispatch while so distracted.

Wilson came upon one such creature around a corner. “Shut your eyes,” he directed Lindsey before decapitating it. The girl kept her face pressed into his pant leg until the moaning stopped. Then they moved on.

It was slow going, especially considering the elderly patients in the group. Foreman moved to help an old woman to the stairwell, but she batted him away.

“I can walk on my own,” she said with a scowl.

“Hey…” a voice called to Wilson. He looked back to see Whitner in her wheelchair, sitting at the top of the stairs. “This gal ain’t so lucky,” she said grudgingly.

Wilson turned his axe over to Lindsey. “Can you hang onto this? Is it too heavy?”

The little girl staggered under the weight, but held it firmly. “I’ve got it,” she panted.

Together, Foreman and Wilson were able to carry Whitner, chair and all, down the first flight of steps. Wilson gasped at the pain flaring in his ankle and his ribs, but he kept going. Without the researcher, he had no hope of making the serum that would save House’s life.

“Zombies on your six,” Whitner warned Wilson once they reached the floor.

Wilson dropped the wheels to the ground and grabbed his weapon from Lindsey. The entire entourage, young and old, sick and healthy, was engaged in battling a crowd of the undead.

The old woman who’d refused Foreman’s help was currently bashing in a zombie’s skull with a brick. The nurse was proving to be an excellent marksman, keeping a steady pace after each headshot. She paused to reload, not noticing three zombies coming up behind her.

“Barbara!” Wilson shouted. “They’re coming for you, Barbara!”

The woman quickly whirled and took care of two of them with a single shot before finishing off the third. She gave Wilson a small salute in thanks.

Over the loudspeakers, the Bee Gees’ Staying Alive began to blast at full volume.

“I hate House’s sense of humor,” Foreman muttered as he hefted his spear.

“I like it; it’s got a nice beat,” Whitner cackled, jamming her improvised shovel weapon into another’s throat.

Wilson and Foreman joined the fray with a yell. A few feet to the left, a surgeon screamed as a zombie bit him. Wilson moved towards him, but the man was overpowered before Wilson could help.

“Lindsey,” Wilson called over his shoulder as he beheaded another zombie, “how are you doing?”

The girl was curled into a ball on Whitner’s lap, her face hidden against the woman’s neck. She waved her hand to show she’d heard, but didn’t move otherwise.

Feel the city breakin’ and everybody’s shakin’
And we’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive

“Where’s the nearest lab?” Wilson called over the racket.

“There’s one on this floor,” Whitner shouted back. “It’ll have to do. Come on.” She began wheeling down the hall, carrying Lindsey as well.

Wilson looked around at the carnage around him, both human and zombie bodies strewn at his feet. Barbara’s shotgun chambered with a reassuring shh shht sound.

“I’m taking these people downstairs,” the nurse told him. “I’ll try to kill as many of these monsters as I can. Good luck.”

“Thank you.” Wilson turned to Foreman, marveling at how much black fluid was streaked across his coat. “Ready?”

Foreman sighed and shook his head. “Look, I want to find House, but these people need help too.” He set his mouth in a grim line. “Sorry. But I’m responsible for the bigger group.”

Wilson blinked once, but nodded. “I understand. Be careful.”

“You too,” Foreman called, bringing up the rear as the crowd sped down the next flight of stairs. The Bee Gees played on.

Wilson followed his remaining allies to the laboratory at the end of the hall. After some creative jiggering with the doorknob, the door slid open and they entered the room.

It had remained untouched by the chaos of the past few days, since the door had been shut. All of the equipment was laid out as if it were a normal day at work.

Wilson grabbed a clean syringe from a nearby rack. “Sit down here, honey,” he told Lindsey, pushing a tall stool in her direction.

“I’m afraid of needles,” she said slowly, eyeing the one in his hand.

Wilson took a deep breath. “You know what we’ll have to do then?”

“What?” she asked, slipping onto the seat.

Wilson grabbed her arm and slid the needle home without preamble.

“Hey!” Lindsey said, more in shock than pain.

“Is it going smoothly?” Whitner asked, rummaging around in some cabinets.

Wilson clipped a collection bag into place and watched the bright red blood flowing into it. “Yeah, we’re good,” he said, flashing a thumbs up.

“I’ll need to run it through the synthesizer,” Whitner murmured to herself, wheeling around and booting up various machines. “I’ll need at least a pint of blood, and depending on how long it takes to isolate her unique antibody, we should have the serum soon.”

“Good,” Wilson said. “I just need to get House.”

Whitner pushed her sweaty bangs out of her eyes. “Go find him. Hopefully, by the time you track him down, I’ll be done here.”

Wilson looked between her and the girl. “You sure you’ll be fine alone?”

She raised an eyebrow and motioned to her shovel, leaning against the wall. “I’m sure.”

Wilson licked his lips. “Whitner, just to be safe,” he said, “can you make two doses?”

“Yes, of course.” She waved him away. “Now get out of here.”

Not needing to be told again, Wilson grabbed the axe and left the lab. His first instinct was to go downstairs; it would have been smart of House to get closer to safety. But House wasn’t thinking about his own safety. He was thinking of the best way to get himself killed.

Wilson eyed the staircase. House was somewhere on the upper levels, he could feel it. Drawing in a deep breath, he began running up the steps, his sprained foot complaining all the way.

The heart of the horde, that’s where House would be. And that’s where Wilson was heading.

He climbed and climbed until he heard it: the droning, rumbling wheeze of a hundred undead. He had reached the top floor. There was no turning back. The Bee Gees faded away slowly.

Wilson’s hands felt sweaty against the smooth wooden handle of his axe. He hefted it in his hands and tried to calm his racing heart. Thriller began play loudly over the intercoms and Wilson gave a short laugh.

“After I save House’s life,” he said, “I’m going to kill him.”

Without giving himself the chance to think about backing down, he spun around the corner, facing a limitless sea of zombies head-on. At the sight of fresh meat, the creatures screeched and moved towards him, shuffling slowly on their unsteady feet.

“I don’t have time for this,” Wilson growled at the huge horde. “So let’s make this quick, okay ugly?”

The nearest zombie moaned at him. Wilson killed it in one blow.

“Whoa, not bad,” he mumbled to himself. “But let’s not get cocky, Jimmy.” He readied his axe once more. “Just aim for the outfield.”

Thwack, breathe, thwack, breathe. Wilson fell into a painful rhythm, his cracked ribs aching with every swing. More distressing was the pile of corpses rising all around him. Soon, he thought, the headless bodies would reach the ceiling and he’d never be able to find House.

“Time for something new,” he grunted, decapitating one last zombie. “I was never any good at track and field but…” And he broke into a run, pushing his way through the seething masses.

The slow-moving zombies didn’t have time to respond to his quick escape. As soon as one realized its prey was right there, Wilson had already run by, ducking under its arms.

Michael Jackson was singing with abandon, and suddenly Wilson heard it, not booming over the loudspeakers, but nearby, more tinny. He swiveled his head around until he saw the nurses’ station. Just as he thought, there was House’s iPod, hooked up to a portable speaker, and playing into the PA system microphone.

“House!” Wilson shouted, elbowing his way past more groaning monsters. “Are you still here?”

There was no answer, but he did see a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye. House’s scrubs?

Wilson wasted no time in chasing the figure into one of the therapy rooms. Sure enough, it was House’s pale blue shirt, but House wasn’t in it. Instead, the shirt was clutched in the hand of one of the zombies, a man missing half his greenish skin.

“You bastards,” Wilson cried, striking the creature in the head with no finesse at all. “What did you do to him!?”

A hollow knocking sound broke through the insufferable moaning, and Wilson turned. “House?” he called, looking around the zombie-infested room. He couldn’t see another living thing.

“In here, you idiot!” House’s voice called, muffled and metallic. Wilson furrowed his brow and looked around again, pausing to dispatch a zombie that got too close.

“Where?” he asked louder.

There was a clang of metal on metal, and Wilson jumped in surprise as the door of the hypobaric chamber at his side popped open. House stuck his head out and looked around the room.

“Are you crazy?” he yelled upon seeing the massive crowd of zombies. “Get your ass in here!”

Faced with a growing number of foes in the small room, Wilson had no other option but to drop his axe to the floor and crawl into the torpedo-shaped tube of steel as fast as he could. It was a tight fit for two full-grown men, but he squeezed next to House just as the other doctor slammed the door shut.

The first thing House did was smack Wilson upside the head.

“Ow!” the oncologist yelped.

“What the hell?” House continued shouting. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you with the others on the ground floor?”

“I came to save you,” Wilson said petulantly, rubbing the back of his head. “You’re welcome.”

“The last thing I need,” House growled, “is for you to save me.”

Wilson opened his mouth to retort, but he caught his first glimpse of House close up, face to face, their noses mere inches away.

“You look like hell,” he blurted out. In the short time since he’d last seen House, the virus had taken its toll. There were dark circles under House’s blue eyes, and a sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead. Wilson looked down at House’s shirtless body; bruises were forming on his skin.

“I’ve had better days,” House grimaced. He took a sudden, sharp breath and his body seemed to tighten, his eyes squeezing shut. A hiss of pain escaped through his clenched teeth.

Wilson touched his shoulder tentatively, an awkward movement in such a small space. “Are you…?”

House gasped for breath. “You know that breakthrough pain I sometimes get in my leg?” he asked. Wilson nodded. “It feels like that,” House said haltingly, “except all over.”

Wilson slipped his arms around House’s neck, cradling his head against his chest, letting him ride out the pain. “I’m getting you out of here,” he murmured into House’s hair. “We found an immune subject, for real this time. Whitner’s making the serum right now.”

House panted against his neck. “You lying to me?” he asked in a low voice.

Wilson shook his head and held House closer.

House sighed. “I don’t know if I can…walk,” he said, his breathing becoming more labored.

“I’ll carry you,” Wilson answered, fighting the tightness in his throat.

“What about a weapon?” House pressed. “How do you plan to get by the nasties?”

“I…I don’t know,” Wilson stuttered. “I’ll think of something. We’ll make it, I promise.”

House tilted his head back. “Wilson.” When Wilson didn’t meet his eyes, he grabbed his chin and forced his head back up. “Listen to me,” House whispered. “My organs are shutting down. I can’t…I’m useless to you out there.”

Wilson kept shaking his head, trying to focus on the gray metal enclosing them like a coffin. Trying not to focus on the wetness sliding down his cheek. “No, we’ll be fine,” he said.

Outside the chamber, the zombies moaned loudly, scratching their fingernails against the metal siding in the vain hope of getting to their prey.

“You have to leave me here,” House continued quietly. “It’s okay. I want you to go.”

“Shut. Your fucking. Mouth,” Wilson hissed and pressed forward, sealing his lips to House’s. Wilson swallowed the wail of protest and delved deeper, kissing him thoroughly despite scratching stubble, savoring even the stale taste of House’s mouth, thick with illness.

In the tiny space inside the chamber, Wilson could feel the length of their bodies aligning, even as House tried to push him away. House’s skin was warm and clammy beneath his hands as they roved possessively across his back. He could feel their hearts hammering against each other.

Wilson felt no guilt in overpowering the sick man, or in his moan of contentment.

Finally, House managed to wedge his hands between their chests and shove Wilson back an inch or two. The rage on House’s pale face was evident, but Wilson couldn’t hide his smug eyes.

“You…” House began.

“You listen to me,” Wilson interrupted, poking a fingertip into House’s chest to emphasize his point. “I’m not leaving without you. So unless you want to spend eternity trapped in here, undead with me forever, you will get off your cross and let me give you the fucking cure!”

House raised his eyes up to the ceiling of the chamber and sighed heavily. “Fine. But if we live through this, I’m going to kill you.”

“Same here,” Wilson snarled. “Now use the brain God gave you and think of a way out of here that doesn’t involve losing body parts.”

With a huff of impatience, House raised a hand to his sweaty brow. “I had a plan,” he said, “but…it didn’t really work out.”

“What?”

“See those oxygen tanks?” House pointed through the porthole window in the side of the chamber. “I opened all their valves, and they’re leaking slowly.”

“Okay…” Wilson gave an abbreviated shrug. “I don’t see where you’re going with this.”

“Well, I was going to go up in a blaze of glory,” House sighed. He fished around in the pocket of his scrub pants and produced a cigarette lighter.

“You were going to…blow yourself up?” Wilson gasped.

“Along with about a hundred zombies,” House said brightly. “But alas,” he shook the empty lighter, “I couldn’t get one spark out of this thing. Damn nurses and their poorly-stocked handbags.”

“Hence the diving into the nearest hypobaric chamber?” Wilson supplied.

“Yep,” House said, popping his mouth on the P. “That’s as far as this God-given brain got. Sorry.” He winced as another spasm of pain wracked his body.

Wilson peered out of the round window, eyes flicking around the room. “I’ve got an idea,” he said.

Minutes later, House was leaning against the outer wall of the chamber, keeping the zombies at bay with the fire axe, while Wilson frantically searched the supply cabinets.

“Find anything?” House shouted over his shoulder. “My arms feel like they’re going to fall off.”

“Give me one more—” Wilson stopped and gave a cry of joy. “Yes! Got it.” He pulled out the bottle of rubbing alcohol and uncapped it. Taking hold of his shirt sleeve, he pulled until the fabric tore. Wilson twisted the patch of pink material and shoved it into the open container.

“Nice little Molotov cocktail you got there, comrade,” House grunted, swinging weakly at a zombie to keep it at a distance. “But what are you going to light it with?”

“You know the physical therapist who’s always trying to have lunch with me?” Wilson asked, reaching back into the cupboard. “She believes in aromatherapy.” With a flourish, he produced a pack of scented candles and a box of matches. He held the box up to his ear and shook, grinning at the clattering sound inside. “Thank you, Jennifer.”

“Hell, if this works, you can marry Jennifer,” House threw back. “Now let’s light it up.”

“Got the key?” Wilson asked, striking a match and burning the tip of the long wick of fabric.

House nodded. “You ready to run for your life?” he retorted.

“It’s only a few feet to the elevator,” Wilson said, moving to House’s left side. He wrapped one arm around House’s waist, the homemade bomb burning in his other hand. “Lean on me,” he ordered.

Together they took off through the crowd of zombies, waving axe or fire if the creatures approached. The final chorus of Thriller was blasting through the floor.

“Almost there,” Wilson said through gritted teeth. The strange three-legged race ended with both men falling into the waiting maintenance elevator.

“Throw it!” House shouted, reaching up to shove the key into the slot.

Wilson chucked the flaming bottle right over the head of an oncoming zombie. The alcohol hit one of the oxygen tanks and exploded, silencing the iPod forever.

“Get us out of here!” Wilson yelled as another tank caught fire. The second explosion rocked through the floor, and Wilson could see zombies engulfed in flames, their limbs burning and falling to pieces.

House slapped a button, and the metal doors slammed shut on a zombie’s arm. There was a horrible cracking sound, and the appendage snapped off and fell to the floor, twitching.

As more tanks began to detonate in a chain reaction, Wilson hit the button for the eighth floor. “We need to get back to Whitner before the whole place blows.”

“Wilson.” House breathed in heavily. “I have to tell you…”

“What?” Wilson looked up, alarmed at the prospect of more bad news.

House placed his hand over Wilson’s battered palm where it lay on the floor. “That was hot,” he said with a smirk.

Wilson fought the heat the threatened to creep up his neck to his face. “Thanks,” he said.

The elevator arrived at the eighth floor, and the doors opened with a happy chime. The two men struggled to their feet and stepped over the undead arm. Supporting each others’ weight, they limped down the hall.

“You sure there’s going to be enough serum for the both of us?” House asked.

“Yeah,” Wilson said, giving him a small smile. “It’s all taken care of. We just have to—” He pushed open the laboratory door. “Oh god.”

The room was in shambles: tables were overturned, equipment was smashed, and blood was smeared on the floor. Small handprints in red.

“Oh god,” Wilson repeated. “Lindsey? Whitner!?”

A low moan came from behind a long counter strewn with microscopes. Wilson took the fire axe from House’s grip.

Leaving House leaning against a table, Wilson slowly rounded the counter, axe at the ready. There, on the floor, was Whitner, surrounded by dozens of zombies and their severed heads.

Her shovel was still in her hand. Her wheelchair, a few feet away on its side. Her legs, curled uselessly on the ground. Her eyes, wide and unseeing.

Her torso, ripped open.

“Wilson…” she wheezed, blood bubbling over her lips.

He rushed to her side, discarding his weapon on the floor. “Hold on, Whitner. You’re going to be fine,” he babbled, looking around wildly for something to stop the bleeding.

“Bull…shit,” she croaked. Her left hand flopped against the tile. “Too…many. The girl…”

“Lindsey?” Wilson whispered.

“Safe…” Whitner breathed, and then closed her eyes. Her fingers uncurled and the shovel fell from her hand.

Wilson picked up her wrist and felt for a pulse, but couldn’t find one.

“I’m sorry,” House said quietly from behind him.

“This is all my fault,” Wilson said, smoothing her hair, matted with blood, away from her face. “I left her here alone.”

“Not alone,” House insisted. “The girl, the one who’s immune. We have to find her.”

“Yeah.” Wilson nodded, his face blank. “But first, I have to do something for Whitner.” He reached out and took her shovel, holding it reverently in his hands. He rose to his feet and placed the sharpened edge of the shovel against her white throat.

House limped forward a few steps, grunting with pain. “You don’t want me to do it?” he offered.

“No,” Wilson said in a dead voice. “I’ve got this one.” He leaned forward with all his strength and shut his eyes at the sound of her neck snapping.

There was a light touch from behind: House’s hands, running up his arms. They stopped at Wilson’s shaking shoulders and both men stood there a moment, saying nothing.

“Help,” a small voice called into the silence. Then pounding. “Help me!”

“Lindsey?” Wilson’s head snapped up.

“Over here,” House said, shoving away a table that was blocking a cabinet door.

“Don’t let her see—” Wilson began, rushing forward to open the little closet. There, sitting in the darkness, was the little girl. Wilson forced a smile. “Are you hurt, sweetheart?”

“N-no,” she said with a shake of her head. “I’m fine.” Wilson carefully pulled her out and held her in his arms, facing away from the other side of the room where the bodies lay.

House sighed, then gasped as another wave of pain struck his body. He leaned against a busted chair and ran a hand through his hair. “Without Whitner’s know-how, I’m not sure if we can make the serum,” he said.

Wilson hesitated before perching Lindsey on one hip and wrapping a hand around House’s bare bicep. “She’s carrying the cure,” he said softly. “We need to get her out of here, no matter what. If this disease spreads, people will need her.”

“Dr. Wilson?” Lindsey spoke against his neck. “Dr. Whitner gave me something before she said goodbye.”

The child fished around in the pocket of her ragged hospital gown and finally displayed two capped syringes.

Wilson stared at the needles for a moment before covering his mouth and stifling a choked sob. “Thank god,” he said, shutting his eyes against the tears.

“Come on,” House said gently, a tone that Wilson had never witnessed from his friend before. “I’ll shoot you if you—”

A loud explosion rocked the building, and they were all thrown to the floor.

“What was that?” Lindsey yelled, clapping her hands over her ears.

“The fire must be spreading,” House said, pushing himself off the floor with a cry of pain. “There are a million flammable things in this hospital. We have to bust out of here before the whole place goes up in flames.” He grabbed the two syringes from the ground and held them tightly.

“The elevator!” Wilson shouted, supporting House with one arm and holding Lindsey with the other. Smoke was already pouring through the halls, choking them with the acrid smell. It was so thick, Wilson had to navigate by memory instead of sight, and pray that no zombies attacked their weapon-less party.

Kicking the severed arm into the hall, Wilson jabbed a button and the elevator doors closed. He pressed the button for the ground floor, and the elevator descended. Another explosion roared above them. Wilson set Lindsey on her feet.

“Come on, I’ll inject you,” Wilson said, taking a needle from House’s hand and reaching for his elbow.

“In case you haven’t caught on yet,” House panted against his shoulder, “I’m in love with you.”

“Yeah.” Wilson grinned. “I figured that out.” He pressed the needle into House’s vein and pushed the plunger. “Okay?” he questioned, pulling the spent syringe free.

“Can’t tell yet. Everything hurts. Here, your turn.” He took Wilson’s arm and copied his actions. “Don’t you have anything to say while we’re cheating death?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“I thought we were going to wait until this was all over,” Wilson said with a smirk, “before we…talked.”

House withdrew the needle from Wilson’s arm, his grin widening. “I hope you know I’m going to talk to you all day.”

“Uh, guys?” Lindsey said. “We’re here.” The elevator dinged.

“Okay, honey. We’re almost done.” Wilson picked her up again. “It’s just a few feet to the…”

The doors opened.

“Oh crap,” House muttered.

It seemed the remaining zombies had been flushed out of the upper levels by the conflagration and had congregated in the lobby. Some were still on fire, lurching around and burning everything they touched.

“I didn’t bring a weapon,” Wilson whispered. “We’ll never make it…”

“This would be a great time to say ‘I love you too, House,’” House said as the horde drew closer.

Just then, a zombie’s head exploded.

“All right!” a voice whooped. “Point and shoot, just like Duck Hunt!” The zombie fell, revealing the figure behind it.

“Foreman?” House and Wilson exclaimed in unison.

“You came back?”

“You’re alive?”

Foreman took aim and dispatched another zombie. “You guys going to sit in the elevator all day, or would you like to take advantage of my timely heroics?”

“The timely one!” House said, limping into the lobby on his own.

“House, your leg?” Wilson asked, following quickly, Lindsey safe in his arms.

House threw him a smirk. “Feels great.”

Foreman cleared them a path to the front door, hitting zombies with the butt of the shotgun at times, blowing them away at others. Finally, at the glass doors, he turned and steadied it against his shoulder.

“Run fast,” he warned as he squeezed the trigger.

An oxygen tank in the hallway ignited and a fireball swept through the first floor. Wilson grabbed House’s arm and ran towards the parking lot, cradling the little girl against his chest and feeling the heat of the explosion at his back.

Foreman sprinted next to him. “Get down!” he yelled just as the whole hospital fell behind them. Wilson threw himself onto the asphalt, dragging House and Lindsey with him. He held them against his body as a searing hot blast of air blew over them, followed by a thick cloud of dust.

After what seemed like an eternity, the loud roar of crumbling concrete ceased and Wilson looked up. PPTH was nothing more than a smoldering pile of rubble.

They were covered in dust from head to toe. Lindsey was coughing violently, Foreman was scrubbing at his face, and House was rubbing his eyes.

“Wow,” House said, trying to speak past the grime that coated his lips. “I can’t believe we made—”

Wilson leaned forward with a small whimper and slammed his mouth over House’s, silencing him effectively. They remained that way, kissing despite the dirt, cupping each others’ faces in their hands like they couldn’t let go.

When he finally pulled away, Wilson leaned his forehead against House’s. “I love you too, House,” he whispered. “Of course I love you too.”

House grinned. “I might still be contagious,” he pointed out.

“Don’t care,” Wilson said, leaning in for more.

“Hate to interrupt,” Foreman broke in, “but we have company.”

Wilson looked up to see a handful of confused and dusty police officers coming towards them.

“All of you, uh, hands in the air,” one called, groping for his gun.

“Yeah, right,” House said.

Wilson soon found himself hauled into the backseat of an unlocked police cruiser with House beside him. Lindsey jumped into the passenger seat and Foreman slid into the driver’s side. He yanked away a panel from under the steering wheel and fiddled with some wires.

“Come on, come on,” House chanted, watching the cops’ slow approach. “You don’t have a criminal record for nothing!”

The engine roared to life, and Foreman pumped his fist in the air. “Hold tight,” he said as he put the car in gear. With a squeal of tires, they sped out of the parking lot, knocking over some wooden barricades.

Foreman was laughing his head off. A few blocks later, he slowed to stop at a red light. “I just stole a cop car!” he said, still in hysterics.

“Who cares?” House said. “We defeated the zombie menace and saved New Jersey. We’re heroes!”

Wilson glanced out the window at the electronics store on the corner. “Uh, House?”

“Will they give us medals?” Lindsey asked, twisted around in her seat.

House nodded firmly. “They sure will, kid. And plenty of money.”

“House?” Wilson tried again.

“’I killed the zombies.’ There is no better pick-up line,” Foreman said with a smug smile. “Hey, anyone want to stop for some food?”

“Yeah, I’m starving. Let’s stop at that joint with the—”

“House!” Wilson snapped, grabbing him by the arm.

“What?” House followed his gaze to the storefront window. A handful of televisions were all broadcasting the same thing. “Oh,” House said. “A horror movie. That’s creepy.”

“No…” Wilson opened the door and slowly got out of the car.

“Hey!” House called, slipping out of the car as well. Foreman and Lindsey followed, leaving the car to idle on the empty street.

“Not a movie,” Wilson murmured, pressing a hand against the glass window.

The same image flickered on the screens: people shuffling slowly, their rotting skin peeling from their faces, their moaning echoing through the streets. In the background, flush against the evening sky, stood the Empire State building.

“Holy…” Foreman whispered.

“Get back in the car,” House said. “We’ve got some work to do.”






The End…?


lolz, nope. Continue to the epilogue.

Comments

[narfistic.livejournal.com]

Oh, this is the one I fell in love with. Still one of my favourites. Very well executed multi-parter with a very satisfying conclusion, keeping in tone with both the zombie genre and the slash-romance genre.

NICE!

[huttan.livejournal.com]

Yay i love the story and the ending! I was like 'omg, house is gonna die, oh wait.. now wilson is gonna die' or.., 'this author is probably one of those really angsty ones and will kill all the main slash characters' >x) But u arent! you made one of those good happy endings <3 :D I would have wanted more chapters but... oh,.. wait.. *scrolls up* omg epilogue!! >xD BRB