triedunture | Happy Fake Birfday to me!

$triedunture: (\o/)$

It's my Fake Birthday! Presents for all!

Aaaaaand because it's MY Fake Birthday, it's a trio of zombie themed ficlets! Enjoy.

1. Bertie and Jeeves

It was Jeeves who barricaded the door.

There are only a handful of survivors now: Anatole, who was saved by Bertie's own hand, plucking him from the grasp of a dozen growling undead, despite Jeeves' shouts that the young master should remain in safety ('Tell me, Jeeves, if Anatole dies, will life be worth living? Who else can make such succulent food from canned rations?'); a saucy parlourmaid who had used the poker from the fireplace to fight her way back inside the manor house; a spry young stable boy who had made a quick dash of it; and of course, Bertie and Jeeves themselves.

Jeeves says he thinks he knows what they are.

'I have heard of similar tales during my travels to the tropics during fishing season, sir,' he says, ripping a length of his immaculate white shirtsleeve to form a makeshift bandage. The parlourmaid is bleeding from a head wound she sustained while falling on the stairs during her incredible escape.

'What are they, Jeeves?' Bertie asks, clutching his own crude weapon, a battered frying pan that Anatole, now unconscious in a dead faint, was just bemoaning the new-found use of.

Jeeves knots the white shirtsleeve securely round the maid's head. She tracks his fingertip as ordered when Jeeves moves it left to right in front of her eyes. 'You should be fine, Miss. Keep pressure on that bandage, now.' He turns to Bertie to answer his question. 'They are the undead, sir. Most disturbing indeed.'

Bertie gulps back a hysterical laugh. Most disturbing? He just watched Florence Craye be torn limb from limb; Tuppy Glossop was chased down and eaten like so much steak and kidney pie; his own Aunt Agatha, perhaps not the most loving and deserving aunt, but not even the most cruel of aunts deserved to have her skull cracked open like an egg. And all Jeeves can say is 'Most disturbing.'

'Jeeves, please tell me you know a way to stop these foul beasts,' Bertie whispers.

Jeeves regains his feet, standing at his full, considerable height and pacing the perimeter of the manor library. He tests a few of the decorations and thingummies that line the ancient walls. Some of the maces and shields are just for show, bolted there for aestheticism's sake. But Jeeves' nimble fingers finally alight upon the gleaming hilt of a broadsword; it comes loose from its moorings with a strong jerk of the valet's bare arm.

He tests the blade in the air, a metallic whoosh not unlike the propeller's of an aeroplane. It sings. Bertie clears his throat. 'Jeeves?' he prompts.

Jeeves' eyes shine dangerously in the flickering candlelight. 'We go for the head, sir,' he says.

2. Tony and Steve

The disease has already spread through most of North America by the time Steve begins to cough. There had been rumors that it was airborne, so Tony had locked down the armor's seals and turned on the air filtration system, prepared to stay in his tin can until the whole thing blew over. Except it didn't blow over. And then Steve is coughing up black bile.

"Guess the Super Soldier Serum held it at bay for longer than normal," Captain America wheezes, his hands on his leather-clad knees as he tries to regain his breath.

Iron Man holds his shaking frame, one metal gauntlet wrapped around his waist, and one on his shoulder: an attempt to keep Steve from jarring his insides with the painful coughs. But it doesn't matter; his organs are liquefying.

Tony looks around them, at the smoldering ruins of Midtown. The buildings stand unlit and empty, just like the husks of headless bodies on the street. He and Steve had been in the thick of it for too long, trying to take back New York from the horde. They could be the last living things in Manhattan; the armor isn't picking up any other signs of life. Even the rats have turned into horrible monsters, feeding on flesh and marching mindlessly onward to find more.

Now that the island is empty, Tony knows the horde, humans, rats, pigeons, even Hank's ants, will lumber in a groaning, frothing mass toward Jersey. Upstate. Brooklyn. It will all fall.

And now Steve will too.

"I can fly you to DC," Iron Man says. "SHIELD might have an antidote by now. They might be able to--"

"Tony." Steve turns his head enough to meet his masked gaze. "There isn't going to be an antidote. Not for me. It's time for this old soldier to fade away."

"No." Tony's still running data streams inside his helmet, looking for some variable he might have missed, some chance, some thin sliver of hope he can grab. "There's still time. It might not have affected brain tissue yet. I can still save you." He clutches at shivering muscles harder than before.

"Stop it." Steve's authoritative voice wavers somewhat, and he falls to one knee in the middle of 8th Ave, where the asphalt is covered in rotting flesh. "You need to get out of here. Get to the tunnel. Close it off before--" Another wrenching cough wracks his body, and the foul-smelling black liquid drips from his lips again.

"It's too late for the tunnel," Tony says quietly. "They must be through already."

Steve is shuddering with the control is takes to speak. "Go. Now."

"I'm not leaving you behind."

"There's nothing else you can do for me!" Steve shouts, falling to both knees now, arms locked around his torso, his body spasming into a tight ball on the filthy street. "Leave!"

The hushed pfffsst of the armor's seals make Cap's head snap up, his eyes wide. Tony removes the helmet and stares at Steve, through his real eyes, for the first time in weeks.

"Bastard," Steve whispers.

Tony sits beside him on the ground, his armor, his only protection, falling away in chunks to reveal nothing more than the skin-tight flight suit. His bare hand works Cap's bright red glove from his gnarled hand, their fingers lacing together in a painful grip.

"Yeah," Tony says, "I know."

And they sit there, watching the sunset light up the glass walls of the empty skyscrapers, until there is no more sound in New York, not even the sound of breathing.

3. Holmes and Watson

'What do you mean, you foresaw this?' Watson exclaimed as he and Holmes ducked down a poorly lit London alleyway. 'Even you could not have foreseen the dead coming to life!'

'When all other explanations are eliminated, whatever remains, however improbable, must be...' Holmes replied blandly, grabbing his friend's arm to lead him right instead of the aborted left. 'Quickly, now. How's the war wound?'

'Aching like hellfire, but I'll be damned if I stop now. Holmes, it ate our client.'

'Yes, that will make pocketing the fee much more difficult,' Holmes muttered. 'You do have your old service revolver on you, Watson?'

'Certainly, as you directed,' Watson puffed as they sprinted down a straightaway. An eerie moaning echoed off the rain-slicked bricks.

'I would kindly ask you to ready it now.' Holmes stopped at a stack of wooden crates and, as agile as an acrobat, leapt to the top of them. He turned to offer the good doctor a helping hand up as well. 'Come on, come on, I'm fairly sure they can't climb.'

'Fairly sure?' Watson raised a worried eyebrow while simultaneously loading his gun.

'Well, I've only seen one in my life, and it was a dark night in Tibet. Ah, here we are.' Holmes lowered his voice. 'Stand absolutely still until I give the word. Then, shoot for its forehead. I am counting on your aim, Watson, to be as true as yourself.'

'Forehead. Right.'

The creature that scraped and stumbled into view was as grotesque as any leper Watson had studied in his medical texts. Its flesh hung from its bleached bones in black, maggot-ridden chunks, its arms suspended in front of it like a sleepwalker. Truly a walking corpse. And yet, that horrible moan that emanated from the remnants of its throat; Watson fought the urge to clap his hands over his ears to muffle the noise.

Holmes leaned close in the dark and said directly into his ear, 'Now, Watson.'

Happy Fake Birthday, everyone! :D

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