Chapter Text
Chris walked home, desk leg in hand, as his boots clacked against the ground. Moxxie and Millie had walked with him until they had to turn onto different streets, leaving him to walk alone down the street, watching as multiple houses passed him by. He didn’t mind being alone. Hell, more often than not, he was used to it. Surviving by himself, living by himself, being by himself was nothing new. And hey, it wasn’t like he was defenseless. Even without the desk leg, he was more than capable of killing someone with just his hands, Rabid or otherwise.
The low sun cast an eerie glow on the deserted street, illuminating the still houses and vacant and blood stained lawns. The silence was palpable, broken only by the occasional sigh that the fallen angel puffed out. Chris had swiftly grown accustomed to this new normal, where every shadow could conceal danger, and every sound could herald a threat.
Speaking of the Rabid, he saw one about ten yards in front of him, mindlessly shambling about before clocking in on the whistle that the fallen angel loosed to catch its attention. The Rabid began to run in Chris’ direction, the boy’s grip tightening around the desk leg. Five yards. Three yards. One yard. Twelve feet. Six feet. As the undead drew closer, Chris ran forward, swinging his makeshift weapon mid-sprint and cracking the Rabid in the face, causing it to fall and hit the ground where he brought the desk leg down on its head, doing away with its vitality before continuing onward, eventually turning onto his street, walking down to his house with little more than a hitch.
The adrenaline rush from the encounter lingered, making his heart pound in his chest. He took a moment to steady his breathing, looking around the quiet neighborhood. The houses stood like silent sentinels, their darkened windows hiding untold stories of despair and abandonment. Chris couldn't help but wonder how many of his former neighbors had survived, how many had succumbed to the plague that turned loved ones into monsters.
As he entered his home, he looked around. It was pristine. Nothing had been turned over, nor had anything been broken. After all, living emancipated from your family and in your own home helped keep it relatively untouched. The house was a stark contrast to the chaos outside, a small oasis of order amidst the apocalypse. He made his way upstairs, trashing the desk leg as he walked into his room.
He lifted his shirt over his head, pulling it off as he looked in the mirror, observing specifically the scars that littered his torso in its entirety before looking away and grabbing the embellishment of the necklace that hung from his neck, gently kissing the amethyst gem in the center. Each scar told a story, a testament to the abuse he had struggled against and survived through. While most were from before yesterday, he was more than certain that there would be more due to the animalistic turn the world was taking.
Chris sighed, the weight of the past thirty-six hours pressing down on him. He remembered the first hours of the outbreak, the panic, the confusion, the desperate scramble for safety. He hadn’t lost much, but he knew the people around him not only lost their lives, but the ones that survived lost their way of life in easily the most unprecedented way possible. He looked down and began to undo his pants, pulling them down and kicking them off to the side before doing the same with his underwear, doing away with the garment before standing there for but a moment, nude to the world before making his way around the room, collecting clothes and adorning them, opting to go with his punk clothes before grabbing his makeshift spear off of the wall as well as stuffing clothes into a duffel bag.
The room was filled with remnants of his old life. Posters of bands he used to love, now faded and peeling; books that he had read and reread, offering an escape from the harsh reality outside. He touched each item with a sense of reverence, as if saying goodbye to a part of himself. Soon he made his way downstairs and out of his home before making his way back to the school.
Chris was the first to make it back, opting to perch atop a car in the parking lot, sitting criss-cross atop the vehicle with his polearm across his lap. He sat there, calmly meditating and actively blocking out the sounds around him, hoping to forget the world’s sudden turn for the worst, even if only for a moment. The cool metal of the car beneath him was oddly comforting, grounding him in the present.
He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing, letting the tension in his muscles slowly dissipate. The silence was a double-edged sword, offering both solace and a reminder of the omnipresent danger. All was silent until Loona and Vortex arrived, their Hyundai Sonata pulling into the lot and parking beside the car Chris sat on. The fallen angel opened his eyes and greeted them with a silent nod, the two nodding back.
Loona’s eyes were puffy and looked irritated, evidence of recent tears. Chris wondered what she had seen, what she had lost. Vortex, seemingly always the stoic one, placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, offering silent support. They exchanged no words, but the bond between them was enough to not need words for a conversation.
They sat there, watching as Millie and Moxxie returned, the former holding a battleax across her shoulders and the latter carrying a crossbow in his hands, a few bolts clipped onto the underbarrel. The two of them waved, and Loona, Vortex, and Chris waved back politely. They joined Chris atop the roof of the car, waiting for the others to arrive.
As Ozzie walked over to them, Chris watched the forlorn look on his face and the blood-stained sword in his hands. Chris shuffled forward before dropping onto the ground and walking towards the rooster. “What happened?” he asked in a gentle voice, the rooster looking up at him before looking back down.
“One of them… the Rabid… got my dad,” he said forlornly, his shoulders hiking up slightly as he began to cry, causing the fallen angel to move closer, his arms wrapping around Ozzie as he hugged the rooster, not only to comfort him but also to muffle his cries to keep the Rabid from being alerted to their presence but more so the former than the latter, after all, Chris wasn’t so horrible to show no empathy for a boy who’d killed his own parent who, given the display of abject sadness, was a good father.
The group watched in silence, A few griefs resurfacing, Millie’s especially, as she remembered how hard she cried to Moxxie after she’d gone to her home to retrieve her belongings. In this world, loss was going to be a constant companion, and each death would serve as a stark reminder of their fragile existence. The comfort they offered Ozzie was a small balm to their collective emotional wounds.
About ten minutes after Ozzie had calmed down, Blitz, Barbie, Stolas, and Fizz showed up, their mom driving the Ford Explorer they arrived in. They clambered out of the SUV, and Ozzie immediately sought comfort in Fizz, while Blitz asked the one question they were all thinking.
“Anyone got any ideas where to go from here?”
