Archive of Our Own

The air tasted wrong.

Grian frowned, turning his face to the sky and wrinkling his nose. It was a heavy, bulging gray, clouds filling every inch of the sky with their impossibly gigantic bulk. A storm was coming. But, of course, Grian had known that for a while. Months of living in the woods had trained those senses keenly. 

But this undefinable wrongness was something… else. Something that Grian, for the life of him, could not place.

It made him nervous. It was his job to know things about the woods; not knowing could be fatal. 

He shifted his heavy backpack, fiddling with the straps around his waist. It was already perfectly adjusted, of course, but he needed something to fiddle with. Something to occupy him. 

Worrying about a feeling wasn’t going to get him anywhere, especially considering that he still had several miles to hike.

Taking a swig of his water, Grian started forward again, keeping his eyes focused on the ‘trail’. It was little more than a natural clearing in the thick underbrush of the old-growth forest, cut through by decades of wildlife trampling the soft, mossy plants underfoot. Even still, it was more than what Grian was used to – he didn’t exactly stick to the planned park service trails. That would be rather counterproductive to his job. 

He tried to keep his focus on navigation, pouring over his paper map and compass more than was honestly necessary, but he couldn’t stop his mind wandering. 

He could have dismissed the feeling as his ever-present anxiety, save for the fact that, well… something was wrong.

A few days ago, he had made his way over to the supply drop off cache that had been his lifeline to the outside world for the past few months, and yet he had found it strangely empty. And when he had tried to contact the nearby firewatch towers over the radio, he had been met with nothing but static. 

Hell, he had even hiked to those damn towers – he really hadn’t wanted to, since he hadn’t gotten on with the lookouts very well, even in their brief interactions – but when he got there, they were completely empty. Not only that, but they had clearly left in a hurry. Things were in disarray, clothes covering the floor, personal effects lying on the radio desk, totally untouched. 

Even that wouldn’t be so unusual – firewatch towers had to be evacuated all the time, after all – except there was no fire. Grian had stared out those windows for what felt like hours, scanning the dark skies for even the faintest trace of smoke, but… nothing.

Of course there was nothing. It had been a particularly wet fall. It would’ve been an honest-to-god miracle if there was a forest fire, especially one that would necessitate such a thorough evacuation. 

So Grian was alone. 

He was used to that, of course. Being alone was part of the job description. Being a wildlife behaviorist with a rapidly-shrinking grant meant that he was working by himself on the field far more often than he had company. 

But this was different. Before, he had always had the reassurance of someone supporting him, that there was always the park rangers or the firewatch lookouts or… or someone there. 

But now? Grian wasn’t so sure. 

Because they were supposed to be able to contact him in case of an emergency – he certainly carried a short-wave radio on him. But even he could admit that he often found himself in the deepest, darkest places of the woods, squatting in underbrush for hours on end while squinting through a pair of binoculars, his only company the sick and dying deer he was taking notes on. Too far away to be reached, even with the strongest of signals. 

And normally, that wasn’t a problem. But this hardly qualified as ‘normal’. 

It was one hell of a miracle that the storm hadn’t broken by the time that Grian finally reached the ranger station. It had been a long, long journey coming – Grian had nearly run out of food, the edible mushrooms he had foraged not doing much to satiate his hunger in an uncooked state. His mouth began to water at the prospect of buying some crisps – or chips, he supposed, he was in America – from the vending machine he knew for a fact was there. Honestly, he would even be content with one of those nasty protein bars that he usually flat-out refused to eat, despite their practicality. 

But, honestly, what he wanted more than anything was just to… see someone. Anyone. He wasn’t much of a ‘people person’ – he certainly would be in the wrong profession if he was – but this whole situation had him feeling desperate for any form of connection. 

So when he saw that the windows of the ranger station were dark, parking lot nearly empty, his heart sank. He glanced at his sport watch – it was getting late in the afternoon, but not so late that they should already be closed. 

Whatever emergency had called the lookouts away from the towers had clearly affected the ranger station too. Honestly, Grian should have expected this; and yet, he couldn’t help the heaviness that settled deep into his chest. 

Well. At least there was a payphone. 

Grian exhaled slowly through his nose, eyeing the two cars that were still parked in the lot. One was clearly belonged to a ranger, emblazoned with both the signature green stripe and also a healthy serving of mud. 

The other was his own car – the cheapest thing he could find with four-wheel drive and an engine that functioned at least most of the time. It was exactly how he remembered it; wheels caked in mud, crinkled sunshade sitting sadly in the window, conservation bumper stickers slightly crooked on the bumper. 

He could hop right in and head down the mountain, but he would really prefer to get in contact with a ranger first. Hell, he wouldn’t even mind calling up his supervisor at the university, even though he would absolutely get his ass chewed out for abandoning his post early, regardless of any extenuating circumstances. 

He just… wanted to hear from someone. At least before he started that long, lonely drive through the switchbacks, the only company the ever-dwindling light of the stars. 

So Grian approached the payphone, letting out a deep sigh as he unbuckled his pack and shrugged it off his shoulders. He was used to carrying the heavy weight, but it was always still a relief to get it off. 

He was just about to unhook the phone when something caught his eye. 

At first, he thought the glitter was from the paltry sunlight reflecting off of water seeping out from under the door. His brow furrowed, turning to examine it – and then he realized that wasn’t it at all. 

Glass. The ground in front of the station was absolutely covered in broken glass. 

The heavy dread in his chest suddenly seized up, heart starting to pound with a newfound anxiety. 

What on earth had happened here?

Payphone forgotten, Grian approached the mess, wide-eyed as he took in the scene. 

He can’t believe he hadn’t noticed before. The entire glass door had been smashed apart, jagged bits of debris still carelessly clinging onto the frame like jagged teeth. 

The station beyond was dark, silent save for the low hiss of TV static playing from the CRTV monitor crouched in the corner of the room, the watching eye of the camera having been blinded by someone ripping it down from the wall itself. 

Unthinkingly, Grian stepped past the doorframe, eyes wide as he took in the scene. It was a mess. The floor was covered in debris, all manner of camping gear piled haphazardly on the tile. Posters advertising the beauty of the surrounding area were torn apart by what looked like… well, with what looked like claw marks. 

Grian’s mouth went dry. Had a wild animal gotten in here? Grian honestly had a hard time picturing a black bear being so aggressive, and yet no other animal in this area even could tear up a place this badly. 

He should leave. He needed to leave. But he felt frozen with a sort of morbid curiosity. 

So, he instead made his way deeper into the darkened space.

“Hello?” He called, then winced at the sound of his voice. God, he sounded awful. He hadn’t spoken out loud since… well, since he had tried to call out to anyone on the radio from the firewatch towers, and that had been several days ago.

He cleared his throat and tried again. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

Silence. Except for… what sounded like scratching. Nails against the floor. 

Grian’s heart hammered. His supervisor had encouraged him to get a gun permit now that he was in America, bring a hunting rifle with him on his field excavations in case he needed to defend himself from any wild animals. Grian had refused. He wasn’t so much opposed to the idea of killing animals – he wasn’t even a vegetarian – but the idea of being the one actually doing the killing turned his stomach. 

Logically, he knew he was being hypocritical. And yet the idea of it – of pulling that trigger, viscera and blood blossoming from the deadened flesh of a creature that was alive scant moments before – it was enough to turn his stomach.  

He was regretting it now. Just a bit.

Grian leaned down, grabbing what looked like a stainless steel tent stake from the messy floor. It wasn’t much, but ‘not much’ was still better than ‘nothing’. 

“Hello?” He called again, though he couldn’t seem to get his voice much higher than a whisper. 

The scratching stopped. Grian gripped the stake hard enough that his fingers turned white. 

And then something came into view. 

He should have been relieved to see that it wasn’t an animal at all – should have been relieved to see the figure turning the corner around a tall shelf absolutely covered in travel brochures. 

But for some reason, his heart only started to pound faster. 

“Hi, hello?” Grian called again, straightening up. “Do you know – do you know what’s going on here? I’ve been in the woods for a few months now, and there was a whole thing with my supply cache not getting restocked, and the people at the firewatch towers – sorry, I’m rambling, haven’t talked to anyone in a while.” Grian laughed nervously. “But this place is totally trashed and – sorry, is one of those cars out there yours? Are you a ranger?”

No reply. Grian swallowed heavily. 

And then they started to move towards him. 

Grian unconsciously took a step back. His instincts were screaming at him to run, but… he had to stay, had to know what the hell was going on. 

As they approached, Grian noticed that there was something… wrong. Something wrong with them. 

Their gate was unsteady, stumbling. Each movement felt uncoordinated, the limbs themselves taking on a twisted life of their own – spasms wracked their form, and they looked ready to keel over at any moment. 

And yet they continued to lurch forward, unbothered by any of the debris that littered the floor. In fact, when they stumbled on a discarded flyer, their sneaker squeaking painfully across the linoleum, they remained completely silent. Not even a noise of surprise passed their lips. 

Grian’s breath was starting to get heavy. They must be… they must be hurt, somehow. Hurt or intoxicated. He needed to stay to make sure they were fine, get them help. 

And yet, his mind kept wandering back to the deer. 

The deer he had been tailing for the better part of several months now. The ones who were wrong. 

There was a currently unknown sickness running rampant through the northeastern United States, primarily affecting deer and other Cervidae. And the way this person was moving felt somehow the same.

The same jerky, uncoordinated limbs – the same mindless, unshakable determination of movement. A single-mindedness evident both in the direct path they always took – regardless of what or who was in their way. 

But that was ridiculous. There had been no signs that the disease was even capable of spreading to humans, let alone that it produced the same set of symptoms. 

And yet, the image of deer muzzles coated in the blood of their fellows, hollow eyes seeming to stare impossibly at Grian’s bivouacs, would not leave his mind. 

So when they spoke, Grian nearly jumped out of his skin, the sudden noise sending his heart racing ever faster. 

“I… I’m sorry, what was that?” Grian managed after a moment. He hadn’t been able to hear them over the roaring in his ears. 

“Muh…” they groaned, voice clearly raspy with disuse. “Aba, fuh…”

“What?” Grian swallowed. 

They continued to babble, picking their way towards Grian at an agonizingly slow pace. He honestly couldn’t tell if they were actually speaking in nonsense syllables or if he was just so anxious that he could no longer pick out actual words. 

But regardless, he refused to move. Refused to give into his instincts that were telling him to run, refused to indulge in his selfish desires. Because whatever was happening with this person, they were clearly in need of help. 

And then they stepped into the dying light of the outside, stepped past the threshold of the darkness. 

They were… they were. Grian’s brain almost refused to process anything about them. 

Hands, skeletal. Reaching towards him. Dark coloration around the nails. Pale skin, shrunken from dehydration. Peeling. Peeling off. Open lesions, leaking something – not blood, not pus, some unnamable dark fluid. As Grian watched, a drop of it splattered against the linoleum. The tiny noise filled the space like a gunshot. 

And when he dragged his gaze upward, actually got a real look at them, he saw. 

Lips drawn back. Teeth bared. An animalistic snarl, and yet… there was no malice. No emotion at all. 

Just hunger.

They lunged forward, all pretense of slow movement peeled away in an instant as they threw their body at Grian. 

He shrieked, trying to backpedal – but his ankle caught against the detritus on the floor, and he was sent tumbling to the ground. 

They were on him in an instant, wrapping clammy, leaking hands around his biceps as they fully collapsed on top of him. 

Grian screamed again, instinctively pushing his hands against their shoulders. They barely seemed to process the touch, instead wordlessly screeching as they gnashed their teeth, dark spittle spraying over Grian’s face. 

Were they – were they trying to bite him?

The thought sent Grian into even more of a panic, and he thrashed violently against their hold. Something was wrong, something was very, very wrong, and he needed them off now – 

“Stop, stop it!” He shrieked, turning his head away so their spittle wouldn’t fall into his mouth as he spoke. Even though he was practically screaming, he could barely hear his own words over the incessant roaring of blood in his ears, the terrified rabbit-quick heartbeat that drowned out all other feelings save for fear. 

They weren’t going to stop. They were trying to kill him, or hurt him, or – hell, it felt like they were trying to eat him. 

Something caught his eye. A sharp glint in the darkness. 

The tent stake! He must have dropped it when he was knocked over. He could use it to – to what? Threaten them? Stab them? Grian wasn’t sure. But he didn’t have much of a choice.

He braced his arm against their neck, letting out a gasp as they lurched forward, propelled by the momentum of letting their shoulders go. If they were affected at all by the sudden lack of oxygen as Grian pressed hard on their throat, they didn’t show it. Their bloodshot eyes never strayed from his face, teeth never once ceasing their silent gnashing. 

Grian flailed wildly with his newly-freed arm, the tips of his fingers barely brushing against the stake. He wasn’t close enough. He wasn’t close enough to grab it. 

Newfound panic surged through him, and he tried again desperately, straining against the weight crushing him. The person wasn’t huge, but the angle they were at was pressing down hard on his diaphragm, making him feel lightheaded against the strain. 

Cool metal once again brushed against his fingertips, just as a wet glob of saliva dripped onto his face. It smelled rancid – rotting meat mixed with the deep smell of damp earth. Grian had to hold back a retch, disgust and panic swirling into a horrible cocktail of feeling. He needed to grab the stake, needed to, needed to –

And then his fingers closed around the metal. 

With a wordless cry, he plunged the stake into his assailant’s shoulder, the rod sinking into their flesh far, far easier than he would have assumed. The rotten skin burst open under the pressure, black liquid splurting out from the point of contact and spraying over Grian’s face.

They didn’t even flinch.

So Grian drew the stake back, driving it into their shoulder again and again, over and over; it stuck their neck, their chest, their face, their eye –

And it was as if a spell had been lifted. 

They screamed, a bloody, raw sound, reeling back with their hands flailing uselessly. Grian scrambled away, instincts taking over as he scooted along the dirty linoleum floor. He had to run, he had to get out before they attacked again.

But whatever vendetta they had possessed no longer seemed to phase them. Instead, they fell back, entire body twitching as their one good eye rolled wildly about. 

Grian panted. It was horrific – the way they writhed about, limbs pounding against the floor. Grian had the wild thought that they looked almost like a child throwing a temper tantrum. 

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. 

A stillness fell over the empty ranger station, the only sound Grian’s own labored breaths. 

He had… he had killed someone. 

The thought felt strange. Like he hadn’t been the one to think it. He couldn’t have been, after all. Grian wasn’t the kind of person to kill someone. Didn’t live that kind of life. For god’s sake, he barely interacted with anyone at all. 

And yet, there they lay. The stillness of death holding them in place with a horrible, final grip. 

Grian turned away. Without thinking, he took his glasses off, cleaning the lenses on his shirt. When he pulled them away, he noticed that the stain wasn’t black at all – but a very, very dark red. 

Blood. Right. That made sense. He must be covered in the stuff. 

When Grian stood, he half-expected to tumble over again, that his legs would be too shaky to hold him. But he made his way over to the water fountain, then began to methodically rinse off his face and hands. 

The liquid swirling down the drain honestly didn’t look like blood – the red was too dark, almost purple. More like a deep, ugly bruise, like a pomegranate burst open and left to rot, more like the fat liver from a torn open corpse of a deer. 

Grian turned his head and threw up – and that was when the tears finally came.

Scar was getting hungry. 

That wasn’t shocking. Of course he was getting hungry. It had been a long, long time since he had a proper meal. He had owned a decent amount of non-perishables – they were cheap, after all. But he wasn’t exactly a doomsday prepper. 

They were probably rather self-satisfied. Scar scrunched his nose in annoyance. All nice and stocked up with canned beans and peaches, enough to last for a good forty years. God, he would kill for a full can of peaches right now. 

But no. His cupboard remained stubbornly empty. No miraculous peaches in sight. Just spiderwebs. 

He let out a huff, closing the door and staring morosely at the peeling paint. 

Were those doomsday preppers happy? Were they relieved that the apocalypse had finally come, in all its disgusting glory? Were they lauding it above the rest of them?

Probably not. Scar had a hard time imagining anyone as feeling joy. 

He turned on his heel, making a beeline for his window. He had originally taped over it with cardboard, but when he learned that the zombies were dumb as a box of rocks and didn’t seem to understand how to peek into a third-story window, he took down the cover. Let in a little natural light. God knows he needed any shred of something to brighten his space. 

Aside from Jellie, of course. But she was surely getting hungry too, and that thought was more than he could bear right now. 

He slid the glass pane open, carefully climbing out onto the shuddering, rusty fire escape. As expected, his old injury didn’t take kindly to the movement – Scar had to bite his lip hard to keep himself from crying out in pain as his knee screamed at him. 

But he managed not to make too much noise, though he could hardly prevent the precarious warble of creaking metal. Once he wasn’t in any immediate danger of tumbling off, glanced about to see if he had attracted any attention. 

The brick-lined roads were silent, save for the rustle of the beautiful gold and red leaves of the trees. It felt unfair, somehow, that this October still remain so beautiful.

The windows of the quaint shops lining the streets were all dark, a good number of them shattered open, their contents spilling into the road like guts trailing from an open wound. A few of them were boarded up; Scar honestly couldn’t remember if they had been like that before the apocalypse, a natural casualty of the new Wal-Mart down the road, or if it was a sign of someone’s last-ditch attempt at creating a safe haven. 

Ironically enough, the apocalypse had hardly affected how much he went outside. 

Satisfied with his scan, Scar began to make his way up to the roof, moving as quickly as he could without making too much noise. It didn’t take long for him to get up, and he made a beeline towards his own little slice of heaven. 

A tacky beach umbrella, complete with matching towel and sunchair. A cooler – though it had been long since empty, the craft beers that Scar had once enjoyed quickly guzzled as a way to cope. And, of course, the only thing that could ever get him to truly relax. 

His bow. 

Scar settled into his chair, sighing deeply as he leaned back. The bow lay heavy in his lap, the painted aluminum glittering a brilliant orange and blue in the lowering sun. The only imperfections on the otherwise perfectly cared for mechanisms were narrow, carefully dug-out scratches in the paint. Twenty-four of them, to be exact, arranged in neat, tiny tallies, right next to the scope he had lovingly attached. 

His bow hadn’t always been a source of comfort. In fact, when it was first gifted to him, he hated it. 

He had still been in the hospital when Cub, his trainer and best friend, had presented it to him. Scar hadn’t known what to think at first – he had never done archery in his life, and hadn’t even expressed an interest in it. 

Cub had needed to explain it to him. Scar’s injury meant that he was never, ever going to swim again. It was a miracle that he was going to be able to walk. So Cub had insisted that Scar try it out. Something to keep him active, keep him competitive, keep him from… well, falling into the deep pit of depression that he had buried himself in. 

Scar hadn’t wanted to hear it. To him, the bow just represented his lost shot at the Olympics, his failure to live up to his dreams, the thousand other things that he was berating himself over. 

But Cub was nothing if not stubborn. So, eventually, Scar picked up the bow. 

God, he hoped Cub was okay. Scar liked to imagine he was – the man was certainly tenacious. But they would probably never see each other again. 

A rustle of movement caught Scar’s eye, and he sat up, instinctively honing in on the source. 

It was hard to tell from this distance, but maybe…

Scar grabbed his quiver and binoculars from the roof, slinging the quiver over his shoulder as he peered through the curved glass. 

The movement was coming from one of the abandoned shops – an old-fashioned corner store, from the looks of it. The window was busted open, and it looked like something – or some one – was crouched down next to a knocked-over shelf, rummaging through the debris. 

Scar’s heart began beating faster, adrenaline pumping through him as he watched. He instinctively stroked his finger over the vane of an arrow, the plastic bending slightly under his touch. 

The figure moved closer to the golden shine of the sun, and Scar held his breath. He wanted very, very badly to get another notch on his bow, a victory to take his mind off his numerous problems. 

And then it stepped fully into view. 

He should’ve been used to the sight of them by now. Skin hanging loose and sallow, veins dark with rot and gait unsteady, shambling. Once-human face pale with the stillness of death. 

And yet, his stomach still turned, sight repulsive enough that Scar had to force himself not to look away from his scope.

But his hands had no such hesitation. In a well-practiced motion, Scar pulled an arrow out of his quiver, notching it and drawing the string taut. His bow was steady – unmoving, even with his breaths. 

The zombie continued shambling aimlessly, stumbling out of the hollowed-out store and into the autumn sunlight.

Scar exhaled slowly, feeling the familiar rush of blood as he began to concentrate on his heartbeat – holding, holding, waiting for just the right moment between the steady thumps –

He released. 

The arrow whizzed through the air, a glint of silver in the golden sunlight – but only for a moment. 

And then the zombie stumbled back as the arrow struck true, a splatter of rot-dark blood spraying from its now ruined eye. 

For a moment, Scar was worried that it hadn’t flown far enough, that the wound was superficial. 

And then the zombie suddenly collapsed, a puppet with its strings cut. 

Scar let out a little victory whoop – though kept it quiet. He didn’t need a swarm, after all. 

The sudden rush of adrenaline passed through him in a flood, and by the time he managed to get his knife to carve another tally into his bow, his hands were shaking. A sharp contrast to steadfast poise he had held a scant few seconds ago. 

But it didn’t matter. He had won. And that, at least for a little while, would keep him steady enough.

The morning was far too beautiful for the night that had come before it. 

The storm had passed through, rough enough that the shattered door of the ranger station had let in a good amount of water on the ground, but nothing worse than that. And now the air felt fresh and clean, the earth damp with the promise of renewal. 

Grian dumped the last of the snacks into his trunk. He had, in fact, bought a few snacks from the vending machine – and then he had used a big rock to smash the glass face open, grabbing everything that was left. 

Which had definitely been stupid. But he was hungry, damnit. Besides, he figured that of the two crimes he committed last night, a little snack theft was hardly the main issue. 

He shook his head. He was not thinking about it. 

He climbed into his car, making a face at the dusty smell. He cranked the windows down – unsurprising, considering how long it had been – but it was well worth it. 

The car rumbled in protest as he turned the key. Grian tensed up. Despite all the practical skills that he had learned in order to get this job, vehicle maintenance was not one of them. If the car refused to start, he was well and truly fucked. 

But after a moment of belligerence, the car finally spluttered to life, the sound of the engine going from a pained groan to a… less pained groan. 

Grian breathed a sigh of relief, letting his head thunk against the back of his seat. One less thing to worry about. 

As he peeled out of his parking space, his hand instinctively flew to the radio and turned it on. 

Static. Grian grimaced, turning it off.

Not that he was surprised. He rarely got any kind of signal this high up. 

He began to make his way through the winding mountain road. He considered pulling out his map, but honestly he didn’t need it. 

One of the most strange and striking views of this area was, strangely, the road itself. It acted as a dividing line between where the forest had been heavily logged, leaving only slender new-growth trees and a paltry excuse for ground cover in the form of dead pine needles padding the ground with their sharp edges. 

It could not have been more different from the magnificent sight of the old growth on the other side of the road. Ancient trees sat fat and wise, their twisting branches covered in years worth of scars. The ground was covered in all manner of growth, ferns and moss turning the ground the kind of vivid green that almost felt unreal. 

The only thing disrupting the picturesque landscape was the ugly red Xs spray painted onto the trunks of most of the trees. 

Grian breathed through his nose, keeping his eyes firmly locked on the road ahead of him. He couldn’t think about it right now. 

Unfortunately for him, if he wasn’t thinking about the rage-inducing lumber industry, his mind naturally wandered back to, well… everything else. 

He hadn’t made a phone call. He should have, of course. Should have dialed the number to the university, to his fellow coworkers – hell, even to his mum. 

But he didn’t. Because he was a coward. 

He knew, logically, that he had killed that person in self-defense. That they had clearly been trying to hurt him or… or something worse.

But it didn’t feel like self-defense. It felt like he had killed someone who was very, very sick rather than getting them help. It felt like he had repeatedly stabbed a person, slicing open their neck, destroying their eye, cutting open the delicate flesh that held precious life –

Grian slammed on the brakes.

He squeezed his eyes shut, resting his forehead on the steering wheel as he breathed deeply through his nose. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. 

After a moment, his hand found the radio again, once again trying for the knob. 

Static again. Of course. 

Actually… he still had some tapes, didn’t he? 

He opened up the glove compartment, rummaging through the messy pile of unopened snacks and various bits of camping equipment that had been shoved in haphazardly. After a moment, his hand finally brushed against a familiar plastic edge. 

He pulled it out, popping the cassette out of the casing and peering at the peeling label. Mix #4. Not terribly specific, but… 

Grian sighed, pushing it into the slot and cranking up the music. It wasn’t… it wasn’t terribly relaxing music, but anything was a welcome distraction at this point.

He was about to start the car again when he noticed that he had knocked something onto the seat beside him. It was a car ornament – a tacky hula-dancing girl, complete with the inaccurate lei and too-short skirt. 

Except her head had been ripped off, replaced instead by one of a blankly-staring deer. 

Grian laughed incredulously, picking up the strange figurine. It had been a long, long time since he had seen this thing. A gag gift from one of his coworkers – Pearl. She seemed sweet enough at first, but as Grian quickly learned, she was a very, very strange person.

She had given Grian this ornament as a gag gift just before the university’s holiday break. Grian had been so embarrassed at the time that he could hardly get a single word out, being too busy spluttering and trying not to pass out from the sudden rush of blood that came from his intense blush. 

But now, looking at this strange thing, he could only laugh. 

He placed the deer-girl on his dash, watching her antlered head wobble back and forth as he did so. 

What he wouldn’t give to talk to Pearl right now. He should have… he should have tried to call her. 

But it was too late for that now. He would just have to wait until he got back in town. 

Grian eased off the break, allowing himself to begin rolling down the mountain road once again. The crooning sound of Joy Division filled the small space, deer-girl dancing dutifully to the unfitting sound. 

Soon. He could talk to her soon.

Scar had seen far, far worse in the past month, and yet, the sight of a dead parakeet was doing something unpleasant to his stomach. 

It wasn’t even graphic. The bird was relatively intact; blue and black feathers ruffled, certainly, neck bent at just the wrong angle, but at a glance, Scar might’ve even thought it was sleeping. 

It wasn’t, of course. It was dead. Had never stood a chance, really. 

Jellie was clearly not sharing Scar’s dilemma. She was sitting proudly over her kill, licking her paws as if to clean herself of the guilt. 

Not that she had any guilt. Not that she deserved it, either. She was just doing what she was born to do. What she hadn’t been able to do until recently, when Scar let her leave the apartment to scavenge for herself. It wasn’t something he liked the idea of – she had been an indoor cat her whole life – but he was very much out of cat food. The alternative would just be letting her starve. 

Scar picked up the offering gingerly, heart pounding in his chest. It was… it was probably clean, right? There were certainly no wild parakeets in the Pacific Northwest; this bird had been a pet. Just like the dog. Just like Jellie. 

This wasn’t for her. She would’ve eaten it already if it was. This was for him. 

He had to throw this bird away. He had to… he didn’t know. He couldn’t exactly go outside to hold a proper burial. It was too big to flush down the toilet, and Scar was not risking one of the few still-working amenities on a bird. 

He definitely could not eat it. 

His stomach growled in protest, despite it also tying itself into knots at the very idea. 

There was nothing to eat! Not really. It would be a pointless cruelty. More importantly, a risk to his already-failing health. 

And yet.

Scar dropped the bird. Jellie gave him a look over where she was still grooming herself, but Scar couldn’t bring himself to care in the moment. He just had to turn away. 

He couldn’t eat the bird. He could not eat that bird. 

And yet.

“But that’s the thing, right?” Grian huffed, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “I know it’s not exactly my area of expertise, but it’s just… the similarities bother me, you know? I go out to study the behavior of this new prion disease we’re seeing in North American ungulates, and then suddenly this person attacks me, displaying almost all the same symptoms. And that’s the problem, right? Because the other TSEs we’ve seen in animals aren’t usually transmissible to humans. But what if this one was?” 

The deer-girl, unsurprisingly, didn’t respond. 

“I know. I hear your point. But lots of our diseases are transmitted from animals, right? And while hunting for game is certainly less popular than hunting for sport, there are definitely still people who eat the deer they shoot. So isn’t it possible that the park ranger had eaten some infected meat? And that was why they were, you know… so sick?”

As he turned a tight corner, the deer-girl bobbled unhelpfully. 

“What’s bothering me is why, well… I don’t know. Why no one noticed. Because I can’t imagine that level of cognitive decline could happen rapidly. Surely if they were having that much trouble, they would have gone to the hospital. Or at the very least, they would be home, right? Not still working at the ranger station. Unless…” Grian leaned back in his chair. “Maybe there was a rapid evacuation – the firewatch towers were empty, after all – and they got left behind, somehow. And they were too sick to drive themselves, and…”

Grian trailed off, throat going dry. He had started this one-sided conversation to try and let out some of the thoughts that were swirling unpleasantly in his brain. And it had worked - at least for a little bit. But of course, it had taken him down yet another path that he didn’t want to go. 

He allowed his gaze to linger off the road for a moment. He was close to the nearest town, now. Elkbed – a quaint little place nestled at the bottom of the mountain. It would be even quieter now that it was the off-season, most people coming to this mountain during the winter for skiing. 

Soon, he would be back among people. It was a thought that should be reassuring – and yet, Grian could feel nothing but the heavy weight of dread in his chest. 

“That’s the thing, right?” He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “It’s like… I’m imagining the worst-case scenario right now. I’m thinking about… about what I just experienced, and I’m thinking about my job. And in my mind, I’m wondering if these two are connected – if there really has been some kind of human-animal transmission. And that’s the nightmare scenario. I’m not an epidemiologist, but the idea of finding this new, inevitably fatal disease in animals, and thinking about that being passed to humans… it’s a scary thought.”

The deer-girl stared at him, her dark, unblinking eyes reflecting the light of the late morning sun. 

“I guess we won’t know for sure unless we do tests. And if we need to do tests, we need to go to the university. So there’s no real reason to keep worrying about it, at least not until we get there.”

It was a ridiculous thing to say, of course. Grian had never, ever been good at controlling his worrying. His worrying pervaded every facet of his life, colored every interaction with other people, stayed with him when he woke up in the morning and when he fell asleep at night. 

It was one of the reasons he took this job in the first place. The worrying didn’t stop when he was away from people, but it felt more… muted. Quieted by the ever-present sounds of the woods, pale in comparison to the awe-inspiring life that bloomed all around him. 

But now, of course, the worrying was back with a vengeance. How could it not be? 

Grian was startled out of his thoughts by a sudden flurry of movement, a dark figure sprinting onto the road. He instinctively slammed on the breaks, swerving the car wildly. 

He barely managed to avoid hitting a tree, his already slow speed aiding him as he pulled the car to a stop.

His ears were ringing – hands shivering violently where they rested on the steering wheel. The music in his ears sounded distant, the sound of his heavy breathing overriding every other noise. 

After a moment, he managed to force himself to turn around. A deer was standing in the middle of the road, eyes wide. 

Grian’s stomach sank. It was one of the deer infected with the unknown TSE; it was by far the worst case that Grian had seen as of yet. 

It was emaciated save for an unnaturally bloated stomach, and its skin hung off of its form in loose folds. Grime was smeared across its limbs, and Grian wasn’t sure if it was just mud or… something else. 

Worst of all, the deer had huge lesions across its back and face, some of which continuously dripped a dark, putrid liquid. 

Grian’s stomach flipped, but he couldn’t force himself to look away. 

The deer locked eyes with him for an unnaturally long moment. Grian had experienced special moments with wildlife before – quiet moments of silent recognition, acknowledgement of a kindred spirit. 

This was nothing like those moments. The deer’s eyes held… nothing. Not fear, not anger, not joy. Just an ever-consuming hunger. 

For a moment, Grian’s heart skyrocketed – was the deer going to attack him, just like the park ranger? Was this infection – if it even was the same thing – advancing to a state of total aggression? 

But then the deer turned its head, casually continuing across the road. Somehow, Grian could hear its hoofbeats against the asphalt, the jerky scraping of splintering keratin as it dragged its legs determinedly against the road. No apparent regard for its own well-being. 

Grian wasn’t sure how long he just sat there, watching the deer disappear into the forest – how long he sat there even when it had long left his view. All he knew was that when he finally gathered himself enough to put the car in reverse and continue his journey, he couldn’t bring himself to look at the little deer-girl that had been his companion.

Despite everything, it took Grian actually arriving at Elkbed to consider the idea that he may have gone completely mad. 

He moved as though in a dream – limbs slow and useless, head floating far above his body, bobbing like a little red balloon. It was hard to bring himself to focus on anything, eyes sliding off every object like water. 

The entrance to Elkbed was blocked. It was blocked by a gargantuan pile of cars, the behemoth mountain of twisted metal and broken glass jutting into the calm night sky. 

The entrance to the Elkbed was blocked by sandbags. Sandbags piled meticulously high, as if to ward off a dam – though the river was on the other side of town. The canvas of the bags almost made it look like a brick wall, one that had been erected long ago, though Grian knew for a fact that it hadn’t been there when he had last been to this town.

The entrance to Elkbed was blocked by bodies. 

Unmoving, twisted limbs. Hands resting on the walls, fingers outstretched, broken, torn out of sockets and elongated with a horrible desperation. 

Grian couldn’t see how many. Too many. 

He unlocked the car, stumbling as he stepped out. They didn’t look real. Didn’t even look like props in a movie. More like a painting. The scene was too perfectly set, the hands almost like trees jutting into a dark skyline. Bodies melded together, flesh turned to paint strokes, rot turned into color. 

Or perhaps it just looked like that because of the tears running down his face. When did that happen?

Grian touched his cheeks numbly. He wasn’t much of a crier. It was strange of him to cry at all, let alone twice in as many days. 

But everything was different now, wasn’t it? Sickness turned people’s skin to rot and hearts to hate, bodies lined the streets, and Grian cried. 

The most frustrating thing was how useless it made him feel. He shouldn’t be sitting here crying. He should be driving away, finding a way into the town, hell, anything except just sitting on the ground, hot tears rolling down his face as he sobbed. 

But he couldn’t stop himself. So he just stayed there, all thoughts of a plan out of his reach. Nothing except for the sting of his tears and the gnawing dread that came from the knowledge that this was no dream at all.

Scar was going to die here. 

It felt good to admit that. Admit that for all his bravado, for all his pride at being a zombie-killer, he was going to die stuck on this stupid-ass roof. 

He leaned back into his tacky beach chair, the plastic straps digging into his back. They were harsh against his skin, even through the tactical armor that he was very rarely without – in his mind, he could feel every shift against the bone itself, like it was whittling it away, cutting through flesh to split open his skeleton and fill him with sweet marrow. 

Which was ridiculous, of course. If anything, it was his own body rebelling against himself. Bone losing enough padding that every movement, every gentle press, was painful. The thought wasn’t exactly reassuring. 

What was reassuring, however, was the rustle of movement. 

Movement meant a potential kill – another potential victory in the face of crushing defeat.

Scar sat up, once more hauling his bow up to his face. 

It had always been heavy – even being made of the lightest possible alloys, it was still large and metal. And yet, every passing day made it feel heavier in his hands. 

Scar tried to ignore it, scanning the empty street for the flutter of movement he had caught out of the corner of his eye. 

It didn’t take him long. 

A figure was approaching his stretch of road, moving quickly towards the center of town. On instinct, Scar pulled out an arrow, notching his bow and beginning to line up his shot. 

And then he paused. 

What stood out immediately was the bright red spot against the dull gray street. A sweater. A bright red sweater – as though the zombie had died in the middle of a Christmas party. 

What stood out after that was the backpack. 

Scar had never seen a zombie carry… well, anything. And yet, this one was wearing what had to be the biggest damn backpack he had ever seen in his life. In fact, it was almost comically large, especially considering that the zombie itself seemed to be rather short. It was also carrying a walking stick, of all things. It looked like a natural tree branch that had been lovingly sanded and stained; around the tip of the stick was brightly-colored hempen cord, wrapped tightly around the stick and creating a wrist strap that the figure had threaded their hand through. 

And then Scar saw his face. 

Through the scope, he could clearly see the soft cheeks, smudged with dirt but very much a healthy shade of peach pink. Dark eyes peering over wire-rimmed glasses, dirty blond hair, plush lips set in a frightened grimace. 

It was a person. A real, living person. 

Scar was so shocked that for a moment he just stared dumbly. He hadn’t seen another human being in… he had no idea how long. Since the TV channels had turned to static. Since the initial massacre of that horrible first day, maybe. But here one was, looking for all the world like a mildly confused tourist. 

And then he realized his bow was still taut. He quickly un-notched his arrow, hurriedly shoving it into his quiver before standing as fast as his aching legs would allow. 

“Hey!” He shouted, then winced at the sound of his voice. God, it had been a while since he had talked. “Hey, hey! Up here!” 

Without the aid of the scope, it was a little harder to see the figure; even still, he could still see the full-body jump he did at the noise. More hilariously, he could even hear the loud shriek of surprise. 

Scar waved his hands wildly, trying to catch the figure’s attention. It took a moment, but he thought that he saw him finally glance up to Scar’s apartment roof. 

His suspicions were confirmed when he saw a tentative return wave. 

Scar almost hopped in delight. This was real, this was – he was actually talking to another person! Well. Maybe not talking. Not yet. 

“Over here!” He shouted, gesturing as best he could for the figure to approach. 

It took him a moment, but the figure did indeed begin to head over to Scar, carefully picking his way through the detritus-littered streets. 

Scar kept waving – he must’ve looked crazy, but honestly, he couldn’t care. He was grinning from ear to ear, hard enough that his face muscles actually started to ache. 

And that’s when he noticed the flickering movement of a shadow inching closer.  

Once Grian had gotten his initial shock of fright, relief flooded his veins. 

It was a person. A living, breathing person – one who looked to be in control of their faculties. Who hadn’t been infected with the horrible disease that had been haunting Grian. 

The man was standing on top of a roof, waving and shouting indiscernibly. Even if Grian couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, the message was clear. Come to me.

Grian gripped his walking stick a little tighter, beginning to move through the ruined town streets. Adrenaline was still making him a little lightheaded, and the world felt sharp and bright – every twitch of movement had him glancing over wildly, his harrowing journey into Elkbed still burning in his mind’s eye. 

Which was why it was surprising that he didn’t immediately notice the second figure.

In fact, what tipped him off wasn’t even seeing the damn thing – no, it was the sudden note of alarm in the man’s shouts. Grian glanced up at him, confused for a moment. Had he changed his mind?

It took him a second to realize that the man’s gestures had changed course. No longer was he signaling for Grian to come for him; now he was pointing at something behind. 

Grian whipped his head around, throat closing as he saw what the man was trying to point out. 

It was another person. Not like the one who was now calling Grian to him – no. She was like the park ranger. Skin a mottled mess of blackened, rotting flesh, pustules blooming in hideous bouquets around deep lesions. Gait stumbling and mindless, muscle contraction almost seeming involuntary. Instinctual, like the slither of an esophagus. 

Grian froze. 

He needed to… he needed to do something. Every part of his brain was screaming at him that this disease clearly caused unnatural aggression, that he had barely escaped with his life the first time. He needed to run, or to fight. 

But he couldn’t help the niggling thought in his brain. The thought that told him that this was clearly a person. A sick, sick person. Someone who badly needed help – or at the very least, pity. 

So he just stood there dumbly as she approached him. She was wearing a nightgown, pale chiffon fluttering in the cold autumn breeze. She didn’t even shiver, as though every remaining muscle reflex aimed at pursuing him. 

And then an arrow struck her in the face. 

For a second, Grian was convinced that her flesh had split open, sprouting a hideous steel stamen, flesh and bone the delicate, terrible petals of her ruined face. But then she stumbled back, eyes widening for just a moment before she completely collapsed. 

Grian didn’t move an inch. Just kept staring at her, even as blackened blood began to pool under her shattered skull. 

“Oi!” 

Grian startled, turning back to the noise. The man was still standing on the roof, holding a mighty metal bow aloft. 

Grian’s heart quickened. The man had just saved his life, probably – at the cost of someone else’s. But it was hard to feel ungrateful. 

Trying to ignore the corpse behind him, Grian once more began to head towards him, eyebrow raising as the man put down the bow and started moving to the side of the roof. 

“Hurry!” The man shouted. “With all this noise, more will be coming soon.” 

More? Grian’s stomach churned, and he dared a glance behind him. The street remained silent, but the promise had him on edge nevertheless. 

“Go to the fire exit – I’ll lower the ladder for you.” The man swung down onto the rusty metal stairs, wincing visibly at the impact. 

Was he hurt? Grian examined him closer.

He was handsome, with a sharp jaw and close-cropped brown hair, nicely complimenting his tan skin. He was wearing what Grian could only describe as some kind of tactical gear, emblazoned with an orange and blue symbol that Grian didn’t recognize at all. He was rather slender – no. Not slender. Skinny. The kind of skinny that only came from a gnawing hunger, the kind of skinny that Grian associated with a failed ecosystem, of starving animals, of collapse. 

Grian swallowed thickly. Clearly, even the healthy were not faring well. 

True to his word, the man made it to the bottom of the stairs, unhatching the ladder and lowering it to him with a painful screech of metal. 

“Hurry, hurry.” The man muttered, though Grian couldn’t tell if he was talking to Grian or himself. 

He didn’t bother asking. He slung his arm through the loop on his walking stick, beginning to ascend the unstable-feeling rungs of the ladder. As he climbed, he noticed that red-brown dust was flecking onto his palms, and he crinkled his nose in distaste. It wasn’t exactly filling him with confidence that it would hold up. 

There was a sudden jostle of movement, and before Grian could even discern the source, he was being hauled up the ladder by his backpack.

He squeaked in surprise, limbs flailing as he struggled to get enough support to, well… support himself. 

There was no need, however. The man successfully yanked him all the way to the top, dumping him unceremoniously onto the base of the fire escape. 

It took Grian a moment to catch his breath, the shock having knocked the wind right out of him. But as soon as he did, he sat up, leveling the meanest glare he could muster at the man; he wasn’t even looking at Grian, instead busying himself with once again raising the fire escape ladder. 

“Excuse me.” Grian hissed. “I don’t appreciate being manhandled, thank you very much.” 

The man raised an eyebrow, but didn’t immediately respond, continuing to focus on his task. 

“I said–”

“I heard you just fine.” The man laughed, leaning back as he finally finished. “But I think you would appreciate being zombie chow even less.” 

Grian blanched. “Zombie…?”

“Yeah. Look.”

The man gestured behind Grian, and Grian let his gaze dutifully follow the arc of the motion. 

His stomach dropped. 

Where there had once been an empty street, a dozen shambling figures now approached, creeping out from previously unseen corners. Their movements, while still slow and jittery, absolutely held a kind of fierce determination. Each and every one of them was making a beeline to the newfound pair. 

“C’mon.” The man clicked his tongue. “I don't think any of them are good jumpers, but you never know – maybe one of these suckers used to be an NBA player.” 

Before Grian could ask any questions, the man began to ascend the rickety fire escape, each step causing a slight poof of dirty red particles. 

Grian wrinkled his nose, but nevertheless dragged himself to his feet, following the man up the stairs. 

Despite the very obvious dangers it posed, Grian could barely think about the stairs at all. Instead, his mind was running over what the man had called them. 

Zombies. Zombies. But that didn’t make any sense. Zombies weren’t – they weren’t real. The subjects of folklore and bad American movies. The paradox of the walking dead, a reanimated corpse. Flesh that was filled with enough hate that it refused to rest. 

The past few days had certainly been filled with horrors untold, each worse than the last. Even his own venture into taking another’s life had been overshadowed by that awful trek into the town, wandering through the desolated field of wretched corpses. 

But putting that label on it – calling them zombies – still felt strange. Still made it feel unreal. 

They finally made it to the roof itself, the man clambering onto the rough shingles with clear difficulty. Grian eyed his movements; there were no obvious signs of injury, but he favored one of his legs. 

Even still, the man seemed to relax as he finally made it onto the roof. He leaned back, stretching out and letting out a long, satisfied sigh. 

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he laughed, gesturing grandly to what seemed to be nothing more than a cheap plastic beach chair and matching umbrella. Aside from the gigantic, menacing bow, of course. “Mi casa es su casa.” 

“I… sorry, you live up here?” Grian asked, unable to take his eyes off the weapon. 

“Oh, no, no. Way too cold. I have an apartment a few stairs down. Rest of the residents are all either dead or turned, so honestly, I’ve got this whole place to myself. But this is where the magic happens.” 

His words were accompanied by a cheesy hand wave and grin wide enough to make Grian’s cheeks ache in sympathy. 

“The magic?” 

“Well, sure. Scar, protector of Elkbed and hero of 717 Pinecrest Boulevard, at your service.” 

The man – Scar, apparently, though Grian wasn’t convinced that was his actual name – struck some kind of pose. It seemed like a reference to something, but he honestly didn’t recognize it in the slightest. 

He held the pose for an awkwardly long moment as Grian continued staring at him, dumbstruck. 

“Err, they do applaud where you’re from, right?” Scar laughed, a twinge of nervousness in his voice. 

“So you fancy yourself some kind of hero?” Grian asked, completely ignoring the question. “Because you sit up here and kill people?”

Scar furrowed his brows in annoyance, though thankfully dropped the pose. “ Zombies. Not people.” 

“Well, that’s the other thing I was thinking about.” Grian folded his arms. “Zombies aren’t real.”

“Excuse me?” 

“I feel like it was a pretty clear statement. Zombies aren’t real. They were made up by – well, I’m not sure, but they’re fairy tales! The subjects of bad movies.” 

“Uh, then what the hell are those?” Scar gestured to the ground, where a small crowd had now gathered around the base of the fire escape. “Cause they’re sure as hell not a hallucination.” 

“They’re sick people. They’re sick, and they need help.” 

“Ugh! Okay. Let’s just agree to disagree, okay?”

Grian felt like the matter of whether or not zombies were real was important enough to actually come to a resolution, but he didn’t feel like arguing with a man who had a very, very big bow. 

So instead, he just gripped his walking stick a little tighter. “Fine.” 

Scar’s shoulders sagged, clearly relieved that Grian was dropping it. “Alright. Alright. Can we get back to the point where you’re grateful for me saving your sorry ass?” 

Grian scowled. “How could I be ungrateful, when my ‘rescuer’ has such a charming disposition?” 

“You’d be grumpy too, if you were me.” Scar folded his arms. “First real, living person I’ve seen in a month, and you accuse me of being a murderer ‘cause I’m just trying to rescue some poor, hapless English tourist.” 

Grian opened his mouth to snap back, then froze as the full implications of Scar’s words washed over him. “A month?”

“Yeah. Been stuck in this apartment the whole time.” Scar exhaled slowly. “Honestly, I feel like it’s really been longer. Once the lockdown order came through, everyone shut themselves away. Most social interaction I’d get were watching people practically tear each other apart trying to stock up on supplies. But then of course, once one of those fuckers got in… It turned into a real bloodbath. Town cleared up practically overnight. And now I’m not getting any radio, any TV – nothing. So honestly, if you have any information about how things are going, I’d love to hear it.” 

Grian stared at him. What Scar was saying… it didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel right. An entire town falling apart at the seams, with no outside contact, no help coming – it shouldn’t be possible in the twentieth century. And yet, the evidence was plain, even to him. The bodies outside the makeshift town walls, the empty, destroyed streets, even Scar’s emaciated form. 

“Hey. You okay?” Scar’s voice sounded distant, and Grian struggled to even process his words. “Just – here, try to sit down.”

Grian numbly allowed himself to be walked over to the cheap plastic beach chair, strong hands pushing him down gently. Grian’s legs hung over the edge, and he stared at the sickly green grass stains soaked into his jeans. 

“Do you know if this – whatever you want to call it. This sickness. Is it just here? Or has it spread worldwide?” 

“Uh… well, last I heard, it started up here in the Pacific Northwest and has spread throughout California, the Midwest, Canada… but that was a while ago. Honestly, if you’ve been out, you know more than me.” 

Grian shook his head, pressing his thumbnail into his pointer finger hard enough to ache. “I’ve been in the woods.” 

“Oh. To try and get away from everything?”

“No. I’ve been there for months and months. I didn’t… I had no idea anything was wrong until a supply cache drop-off didn’t happen. And now there are people attacking me, and bodies piled up outside town walls that didn’t exist just a little bit ago, and you’re the only person I’ve spoken to, and…”

A firm hand grasped Grian’s shoulder, and he allowed his words to trail off, instead biting his lip hard enough to sting. 

“Hey. Hey, it’s alright. Let’s go inside, okay? Get out of the cold.” 

Grian just nodded, allowing himself to once more be led down onto the unstable fire exit. They descended a few floors, before stopping in front of a window that Scar unlatched, sliding inside with a bit of difficulty. 

After a moment, Grian followed suit. 

Considering the state of the exterior, the apartment itself was actually rather nice. Grian wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t a beautifully decorated interior, decorated with dark wood furniture, plush-looking couches, and plenty of lush foliage. The most impressive feature, however, was pressed against the back wall. A giant floor-to-ceiling glass case stood over, dominating the apartment with dozens upon dozens of glittering golden trophies. 

Grian eyed it curiously, but was steered away to settle down into a lush loveseat. Almost without thinking, he began to unbuckle his pack, shoulders sagging with relief as he was finally released from the heavy weight. 

Scar settled across from him. Grian hadn’t realized that he had taken his bow and quiver with him, and he was once more drawn to the intricate system of pulleys and strings that made up the bow itself. Now that he looked, however, what was most striking was a series of tallies that had been scratched into the paint. 

It didn’t exactly take a genius to figure out what the tallies were for. 

“You know, I don’t think I ever caught your name.” Scar shot him a wide grin, and Grian got the impression that he was being buttered up. It was a mildly unsettling feeling. 

“Grian.” He replied shortly. “Just Grian is fine.”

“Not a nickname guy?” Scar mused. “Well, Grian, I would offer you some food or coffee or something, but the best I can do is dubious tap water. Fresh out of everything else.” 

Without another word, Grian leaned over, unzipping one of the many, many pouches on his pack and pulling out a granola bar. Scar’s laid-back demeanor vanished in an instant, deep green eyes widening as he stared ravenously at the bright colorful packaging. 

Grian tossed it to him. For someone who was clearly talented with marksmanship, Scar fumbled surprisingly hard, even dropping the granola bar on the couch at one point. 

Grian chose not to comment, instead just appraising Scar. “You looked like you needed it more than me.” 

Scar didn’t respond – which was fair, considering that he had torn open the package and was now devouring it with a fervor.

“Y’know, I usually hate these things. But holy shit, this is the best tasting thing I think I’ve ever had.” Scar said through a mouthful of granola. 

“They say hunger is the best spice.”

“That’s stupid. Tabasco is the best spice.” 

“I don’t think… nevermind.” Grian laughed, shaking his head. 

Despite being somewhat irritating, Scar clearly had some kind of calming effect on Grian. It might’ve just been the relief of seeing another person, but Grian honestly doubted it – end of the world or not, he still had social anxiety. 

The pair of them fell into silence as Scar continued chewing through the granola. Grian glanced over his shoulder back towards the trophy case. The metal glimmered, casting lights across the plaster walls of the apartment. 

“Impressive, huh?” Scar said, smacking his lips obnoxiously as he finished. 

“So, are you a competitive archer? You definitely don’t strike me as a hunter.” 

“Nah. It’s just a hobby. Those are all for swimming.” 

“Oh. I see.” That was a little surprising – as far as he knew, Elkbed didn’t have any swimming pools. 

The silence dragged on, and this time, it was no longer comfortable. Grian drummed his fingers against his knees nervously. 

“And what about you, huh?” 

“Huh?” Grian replied stupidly, then cringed. God, could he be much more awkward?

“Are you a hunter? Come across the ol’ pond for a taste of that nice and lax American gun laws?”

Oh. Grian laughed again. “God, no. I’m a scientist.”

Scar raised an eyebrow. It had a comical effect, considering that there were still crumbs of granola around his mouth. “Really?”

“Yeah. Not all of us work in labs. Well, we do, but a lot of us also do field work.” 

“So what are you studying out here?” Scar tapped his chin. “Sounds like you’re a long way from home.”

“Well, I have lived here for a few years now, but I suppose you have a point.” Grian interlaced his fingers. “If you’re really curious, I’m here to study deer.”

“No deer in England?”

“I think there are deer all over the world.” Grian laughed. “But I’m here because of a new disease that’s been observed in the wild. A prion disease that affects mostly the frontal lobe.”

Scar furrowed his brow. “And that means…?”

“Er, it’s… it’s basically a disease that hijacks your body’s mechanics and causes them to make dummy proteins. These proteins cause blockages, more or less, and disrupt normal function.”

“Okay, one more time please?”

Grian sighed. “The disease attacks the brain, and it damages areas that are important for… well, any kind of high-level activity. So these deer start become antisocial, even aggressive – they stop eating their normal diet, and will even attack one another and try to, well… to eat each other.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. It’s a very new disease, hasn’t even been given a proper name yet. In the lab, it’s just TSE-88. Literally just the type of disease and the year we discovered it.” 

“Okay, forget about the name, we can workshop it later.” Scar waved his hands dismissively, clearly missing Grian’s confused “We?” 

“What I’m trying to say is that doesn’t it sound awfully familiar?” 

“TSE-88?”

“Yes! It sounds almost exactly like, y’know – the zombie virus?” 

“Not a virus.” Grian corrected. 

“Zombie bacteria, then!”

“Not a bacteria, either. Misfolded protein.” 

“Mis- okay, whatever it is. The plague.”  Scar huffed. “The sickness that is making all these damn zombies. Don’t you think it sounds like almost the exact same symptoms?” 

“I…” Grian sighed. “Yes. I did have that thought. But there’s no way to prove it without rigorous testing, not to mention solid proof of first infection. And besides, there is no evidence of any kind of prion disease, let alone this specific one, can pass from animal to human.”

“But it could be!” Scar fluttered his hands. Bizarrely, with every passing word, he seemed to be getting more and more excited. “This could be incredible!” 

Grian blinked. “And why exactly would that be incredible?” 

“Because you could cure it, of course!”

Grian blanched, the surprise of Scar’s statement catching him off guard enough that he couldn’t even formulate a response. 

Apparently, Scar had taken Grian’s silence as approval; he leaned forward, grinning from ear to ear. 

“Think about it. If I could get you someplace you can run your tests, use some equipment, all that good stuff, we could be heroes. Imagine!” 

“I… Scar, we’ve barely just met.” Grian laughed incredulously. 

“So you’d rather go out there alone? No weapons, no plan?” 

The words in Grian’s throat died, a shiver running down his spine. Scar’s hands were warm, even through the archery gloves. Grian could feel the strength in those hands, rough edges of calluses scraping against Grian’s soft palm. 

It had been so long. So, so long since another person had touched him – aside from the awful, awful encounter in the ranger station. But this touch had no trace of ill intent, no trace of anything save for a genuine joy. 

But that joy was misplaced. 

Grian was a scientist – he had, indeed, been studying the new TSE disease that he suspected had moved from deer to humans. 

But he was an animal behaviorist. Even if prion diseases did have a cure – which they absolutely did not, and Grian had no idea if such a thing had even been attempted – Grian was not a person who could make it. 

And yet. Scar’s hands were warm, and strong, and just a scant few minutes ago they had almost certainly saved his life. 

And even though Grian could already tell Scar was going to grate on his nerves with his braggadocious and argumentative nature, the thought of being alone again had his throat growing tight. 

And Scar was right. Getting to Elkbed had been the plan. And now he was here, and everything was far, far worse than he could have ever dreamed. Where would he go? He had no idea if he would ever make it back to England; hell, his odds of getting back to Eugene and the university weren’t great if he was all by himself. 

So he didn’t voice any of his concerns, any of the truths that he knew would crush Scar and make him unlikely to want to accompany him anywhere. Instead, he just inhaled slowly, mind turning over his next words very carefully. 

“I… I can’t make any promises. Especially since I have no idea how bad things are out there.”

“Oh, sure.” Scar let go of his hand to wave dismissively, and Grian felt his skin tingle with the absence. “No guarantees, of course. But we ought to try, don’t you think? And think of the story it would make! Me, escorting you across the country, battling zombies at every turn, you, the meek scientist–”

“The what?” Grian tried to butt in, but Scar just kept rambling. 

“–could pick up a couple of other ragtag figures along the way, all that good stuff. And then, at the end of it all, we get to be the big-time heroes.” 

Grian gritted his teeth, finally bringing himself to pull his hands away. “This isn’t a movie, Scar.” 

“Oh, I know that. I’m just… it all seems so perfect, doesn’t it?” 

Scar certainly seemed to think so. Grian wasn’t so sure. He turned his gaze away from Scar, eyes settling on his backpack. 

The little deer girl hung from a zipper, cord wrapped tight around her neck, looking for all the world like a bright red noose. Her shiny black eyes stared back at him, with enough depth that Grian almost felt as though she were actually looking. 

Grian didn’t know how he was going to get his deception past Scar once they actually made it to the university. Didn’t know how he would react once he found out. 

But what choice did he have? 

So he just turned his gaze back to Scar, fixing him with a level stare. 

“Perfect indeed.”