Archive of Our Own

The ringing in his ears was back. It only seemed to get louder as Sunday stared at the television in the corner of his office.

His hands moved autonomously as the sense of dread sank deeper into his gut. Simple instructions echoed in his mind, a remnant of his youth. Pack your briefcase. Put on your jacket. Unlock the safe beneath your desk. Pick up the pistol. 

Sunday’s hands shook as he gripped the gun, clicking the safety off. His apartment was only a block down. Maybe he could make it. Robin’s plane should have landed over an hour ago, chances were she was there already. 

I hope she still has the spare key.

The office door clicked shut behind him, the television still playing the emergency broadcast.

“-INSIDE YOUR HOME. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY BROADCAST. ALL CITIZENS OF PENACONY REMAIN INSIDE AND LOCK YOUR DOORS. DO NOT EXIT YOUR HOUSE, DO NOT MAKE PHYSICAL CONTACT WITH ANYONE, AND DO NOT LET ANYTHING INSIDE YOUR HOME. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY BROADCAST. ALL CITIZENS-”

~~~

Chaos was the only thing that could describe the state of the city streets. People crammed into every inch of available space, trying desperately not to lose their grip on their loved ones. Screams erupted from further down the road, followed by artillery gunfire. Sunday pressed himself against the glass wall of his office building as a wave of terrified pedestrians ran further into the heart of the city, away from the gunfire. If he could just make it to the alley across the street, he would be able to access a maintenance door to his apartment building. If only he weren’t shaking like a leaf.

Seeing a break in the crowd, Sunday raced forward, pushing through the writhing mass of scared people with every step. Just then, a woman ran into him, knocking them both to the ground. His briefcase flew from his hand, disappearing into the crowd. So much for all that paperwork. There was no way he was getting that back.

As he struggled to get up amidst the panic, a warm liquid splattered across his face. The woman let out a horrible scream as a man with bloodshot eyes bit into her neck, bursting her carotid artery. Sunday froze, watching in horror as the man chewed through her skin, tearing into her flesh with a bloodthirsty hunger that brought the taste of bile up to his mouth. 

He scrambled for purchase on the blood-slick concrete, clumsily rising up and making a break for the alley. Heart pounding, Sunday ran down the grimy backstreet, skidding to a halt in front of the maintenance door. A bloody hand fumbled with his keys, desperately searching for the one that would open the steel door.

As he struggled, a guttural growl sounded from the alleyway behind him. Sunday turned, fear eclipsing his heart, as he stared at the bloody man from before, stumbling towards him. The man’s intestines dragged on the ground beneath him, and his arm swayed loosely outside of its socket, torn ligaments barely connecting it to the shoulder. With every step, Sunday felt his own death creep closer. 

Robin. She was waiting upstairs. He couldn’t let her be alone in this world. Abandoning the keys in the lock, Sunday raised the gun, glued to his hands with the blood of a woman whose name he did not know, and slowly squeezed the trigger. 

The man stumbled back with the force of the bullet through his chest. Sunday breathed a brief sigh of relief, before the man raised his head, continuing towards him. The air was punched from his throat, panic filling his lungs. How did that not kill him? 

Sunday shot again, but his shaking hands caused him to miss. A third bullet embedded into the man's head, above his eyebrow. Tears welled up in Sunday’s eyes as the man finally collapsed to the ground. Biting back a sob, he turned back to the maintenance door, finally pulling it open and racing inside. As he slammed the door shut behind him, Sunday slid to the floor, allowing himself a moment to adjust. Tears cut sharp lines through the blood on his cheeks. Sunday hastily shoved the keys back in his pocket, quickly replacing jingling metal for the rosary that hung around his neck.

His breathing steadied as he prayed, counting the beads with each line he whispered.

When he finally looked up to inspect his surroundings, his eyes had adjusted to the dimly lit room. Emergency lights barely illuminated the boiler room, but what he noticed first was the silence. Clearly the power was down, likely due to the chaos that awaited him just outside. The chaos that he would have to brave soon, if he wanted to eat for much longer. Sunday racked his brain to remember if he even had anything left in his fridge.

Robin. He would be reunited with her soon. They would figure out this mess together. That was all he could allow himself to think about. Food could come later. 

Climb the emergency stairs. Keep your hand on the trigger. Don’t let your guard down.

~~~

The door to the 20th floor opened with a creak. The long hallway was nearly as quiet as it was empty, but a faint sob caught Sunday’s attention. Staring down the barrel of his pistol, he slowly crept towards the noise. A woman sat slumped against the wall, head in her hands. She looked up in fear as Sunday stepped closer.

“Please, don’t shoot! I’m not one of those things,” her voice shook as she spoke. Lowering his gun, Sunday sighed, recognizing her as his neighbour’s girlfriend. 

“Are you hurt?” She simply raised her crudely bandaged arm in response. “Alright, come with me.”

As Sunday unlocked his front door, he paused, fear swelling in his throat. She was going to be there. She was going to be safe.

Absolute silence met his ears.

Sunday rushed through the apartment, tearing doors open, searching under beds, tossing clothes out of closets. She wasn’t there. Robin wasn’t there?

Shit.

Tears blurring his vision once again, Sunday slumped to the floor, all the adrenaline that had been keeping him going vanishing as his bones turned to mush. 

“Um, are you alright?”

His neck snapped back as he looked up at the girl sitting on his couch. He had almost forgotten she was there. “My sister. I was expecting her to be here by now.”

“I’m sure she’ll be here soon, we just have to wait here where it’s safe,” The girl smiled down at him, a bead of sweat dripping down her face. “The military will clear out those creatures soon.”

Sunday nodded slowly, before something caught his attention. He crawled over to the big window, and took in the grotesque scene in the streets below. 

Most of the crowd had dissipated by now, the mass panic replaced by nothing but bodies. So many civilians lay in the streets, piled atop each other not unlike that which was depicted in the medieval two-paneled painting that had drawn so much emotion out of Sunday at a recent art exhibit that it had made him nearly vomit. From this height, Sunday couldn’t make out the details, but the stench of blood reached even here, wafting in through his window. He slammed it shut, drawing the curtains closed, trying his best to block out the city’s bleak atmosphere.

Crucifixion and Last Judgement. The diptych’s name popped into his mind, conjuring religious imagery of what felt, in hindsight, almost like a bad omen.

The girl behind him coughed, bringing him back to reality. She looked worse than before, her cheeks hollow and her face tinged with grey.

“May I ask what happened to you?” Sunday picked up a blanket from the basket under a side table and draped it over her shoulders.

“Percy came home covered in blood. He yelled at me to lock the doors. He’s never yelled at me like that before, so of course I listened, but then he collapsed. I tried to clean up his wounds the best I could, but 911 wouldn’t pick up, and he died right in front of me,” The girl choked back a sob. “Then, it was the most awful thing, he woke back up. He attacked me, bit my arm. I managed to kick him off me and lock the bedroom door so he couldn’t get to me any more. I cleaned my arm up the best I could, and then went out into the hallway to get help. I couldn’t stop crying, and that's when you found me.”

Sunday looked down solemnly. “He was a good man. I’m very sorry you went through that.” Perhaps his words were stiff, but he never had been good at consoling people. That was always Robin’s thing. “Why don’t you get some rest, I will make us something to eat.” The girl nodded, curling in on herself beneath his blanket. 

Her laboured breathing, steadying as she drifted into unconsciousness, provided a backdrop as Sunday methodically washed himself of the dried blood. He twitched in discomfort as he picked at his skin. Even after scrubbing himself raw, the sensation of the dead woman’s blood still remained. Clutching his rosary between his fingers, he slowly made his way back to the kitchen.

Just as he had suspected, there wasn’t much in the way of food in his apartment. He risked opening the fridge, but that was nearly empty aside from a few sauce bottles. Sunday groaned, he was supposed to go grocery shopping after work. Outside of Robin’s visits, he mostly ate at the office, thanks to the complimentary lunches that Oak LLC so graciously offered its employees. If he hadn’t pushed for the lunch program so hard, maybe he would have more food in his fridge right now. Stop it. That was a good thing you did. Suffer to save the masses.

There was a lonely can of tomato soup at the back of the cupboard, however, and after a brief dilemma over his dislike of that particular brand, Sunday decided that it was better than nothing. While he searched for a match to light his stove with, it dawned on him that the girl’s breathing had faded out. Frozen in place, Sunday listened closely, hoping to hear her once more. 

The couch creaked, signaling that she had awoken, and Sunday sighed in relief. “I hope you like tomato soup, that seems to be all I have at the moment.” 

She didn’t respond.

Sunday turned around, and was faced with the haggard-looking girl, slowly walking into the kitchen. Her face was shrouded in darkness, backlit by the light seeping in between the living room curtains. The noise that came out of her throat was inhuman, a raspy groan that made Sunday’s hair stand on end. 

She lunged at him, teeth gnashing. He kicked her back, blindly grasping at the counter behind him for some sort of weapon. His fingers closed on the handle of a knife, pulling it out of the block and swinging it at her as she closed in on him once more.

The blade of the knife sank into the side of her head with a sickening noise. Blood dribbled down her chin as she fell still, her corpse slumping over him.

 I didn’t even ask for her name.

~~~

Early morning sunlight filtered in through the gauzy curtains that Robin had helped him pick out when he first moved into his apartment. Sunday’s eyes fluttered open as he tried to remember where exactly he was. This sure didn’t feel like his comfy bed.

He slowly sat up from his spot on the floor in front of the window, bones creaking in disagreement. Right, Robin. She wasn’t here yet. Did he really stay up all night waiting for her?

Sunday vaguely remembered dragging the girl’s body out to the balcony. Looking down at his hands, once again covered in dried blood, he sighed.

Take another shower. Scrub the blood from under your fingernails. Cry. Change into fresh clothes. Wait. Cook the can of soup. Force yourself to eat it. Wipe the tears away. 

Wait for Robin to open the front door.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Light some candles, so you can see. Listen as the gunfire in the streets dies out. 

No one is left.

Wait.

Find a stale packet of crackers. Eat it.

Wait some more.

She’ll be here soon.

~~~

On the tenth day, Sunday gave up. 

He had watched the city fall, sitting in front of his living room window. Plumes of smoke rose in the distance, marking where the military had tried and failed to protect Penacony. 

He had watched the scavengers gather, flocks of crows that perched on the telephone lines, waiting, watching just as he did. 

He had watched as the dead wandered through the streets, aimlessly searching for food, as the crows feasted on their rotting flesh.

He had watched as survivors charged into the city streets, desperate for freedom, only for their attempts to turn into a bloody last stand. Their corpses rose, joining the parade of the damned as they marched without purpose.

He had watched, growing more numb by each sunrise, as Penacony became the one place he would never find Robin. No matter how hard he searched, he realized, it would be truly hopeless.

In his careful, methodical voice, he gave himself yet another list of tasks to follow. Pack up your clothes. Find your first aid kit. Gather up whatever food is left.

On the third day, Sunday had braved the silent hallway, using the keys from the pocket of the corpse on his balcony to unlock his neighbours apartment. Percy had hit the door repeatedly while he was in the apartment, but the locked bedroom door had held. The cupboards had revealed a fortune of canned goods. Sunday had collected everything and silently made his way back to his apartment before resuming his vigil on the floor.

Now, days later, he packed those cans away into a backpack. He resigned himself to making two trips – there was no way he was carrying it all once. Perhaps I should have spent my old life working out, instead of poring over Bibles day and night.

Sunday smacked his face. What was he thinking? Sure, the situation was bad, and this looked pretty close to the rapture, but he couldn’t go abandoning his faith all of a sudden.

The rapture, huh. Now that he really let himself ponder the thought, it made sense. But did that mean his God had abandoned him? 

After everything he had sacrificed for his faith. 

Or perhaps it was a test. If he stayed true to his God, he would be rewarded. He would find Robin.

The door to the parking garage stood in front of him, mocking him with its cold steel. 

Or I’ll die trying.

~~~

As he hauled the last of his belongings into the back of his car, he lamented how his adoptive father had insisted he choose an older, more run down vehicle as a sign of humility.

He may have been right, but who knows if this thing will make it all the way there?

Where was he even going? Where would Robin go?

She wouldn’t still be in the city. 

Home. That's where she would be.

It startled him to realize he still thought of Gopher Wood’s mansion as home. They hadn’t lived there for nearly seven years, having been practically tossed to the curb as a test of their strength the moment they had turned eighteen. Gopher Wood had always expected the best of the two of them, but he had pushed Sunday dutifully toward connection to his God. It was harsh, but it had always been for the best. And it kept their father’s eye focused on him, rather than Robin. 

And so that is where he would go. 

The mansion was nestled off the main highway, about an eleven hour drive from Penacony. Gopher Wood had always previously taken a private plane to reach the city, and only made the trip when necessary. Sunday hadn’t needed to make the trip by car since he first moved to Penacony. Robin surely would have immediately set off for their childhood home upon seeing the state of the city. Why didn’t I think of this sooner? He could have been there days ago. 

Eleven hours. Then he would see Robin.

Hope rejuvenated him for the first time since he had watched the emergency broadcast informing the public of the risen dead.

Sunday pressed the rosary beads to his lips as he started his car. Pulling around to the gate of the carpark, he slammed on the breaks as the scene in front of him registered in his brain.

The metal gate of the underground parking lot was difficult to see against the mass of the undead cramming up against it. From what little he could see, the streets were still filled with the decomposing creatures. The smell wafted through the vents of his car, making his throat fill with bile as he closed as many of the little vents as he could reach. Sunday shut the car off quickly, watching as the gate creaked beneath the weight of the dead. 

It must have been an hour that he sat there, watching. The dead only stared back.

They seemed to forget he was there after a while, but the crowd hardly thinned out at all. Sunday had all but decided to go back upstairs and wait for another day when the building shook.

The ringing in his ears came back.

It must have been an explosion down the street. Gunfire followed, and slowly but surely, the dead turned their heads. The crowd began to move towards the noise, and Sunday saw his chance. The second the mass of creatures moved far enough away, he leapt out of his car. Filled with adrenaline, Sunday dashed up to the gate, unlocking the chain to free the mechanism before yanking on the manual pulley system. With an awful grinding noise that made him wince, the gate finally began to move.

Another explosion sounded. He could faintly hear a woman screaming in pain. God will forgive me for leaving those people to fend for themselves. He will understand. As Sunday got back in the car and slammed on the gas, tearing out onto the street, he was overcome with the distinct feeling that leaving the people behind him to die was something that he would be pleading for forgiveness over for the rest of his life. 

The street was mostly empty, the majority of the dead having been drawn towards the noise. He swerved around the few stragglers, not daring to look back at the scene behind him. As he finally reached the bridge that led to the main highway, he could see that the road in front of him was filled with cars. There was a tall chain link fence that looked to have been hastily erected to keep the city safe. It was half collapsed, what little still stood creaking against the wind.

Biting back his fear, Sunday turned into the wrong lane, driving over the fence with a bump as he did so. 

The empty lane confirmed his suspicions. While the road away from Penacony was packed to the brim with now-empty cars, the highway to enter was desolate. 

His knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel, daring to glance into the rearview mirror. The city behind him was framed with smoke. His home was nothing more than a tomb for those who had once lived there. 

~~~

It took three hours for Sunday’s car to nearly run out of gas. It took another 25 minutes before he saw a sign for an upcoming gas station. Nervously glancing at the fuel gauge, he prayed that he could at least get near the station before he ran out completely. 

The seconds ticked by, and Sunday whispered a prayer. Perhaps his God would take pity on him. His narrow escape from Penacony had surely been a sign that he was meant to see this search through to the end. I am going to make it.

As he tapped on the metre, hoping that by some miracle the gauge would readjust and notice that there was still some gas left, he lost focus on the road.

It was in this split second that a limping, crooked man appeared in the middle of the lane. Sunday noticed too late, and swerved to avoid him, and instead drove straight into the gas station sign post with a sickening crunch.

~~~

“Sunday, come play in the garden with me!”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He and Robin sat in the mud, making cakes and pies and such. Their fingers squelched in the dirt as children’s laughter filled the air.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Sunday held Robin’s hand as she dragged him through the bushes, in search of the prettiest bug they could find. The leaves and branches scratched at his skin, but he could put his discomfort aside for Robin. Her grin made it all worth it.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

They came to a screeching halt in a small clearing. Robin pulled him over to the base of the tall oak tree where they had spent so much of their childhood. Ever since their mother had passed away, the tree had been a sort of comfort, a reminder of her voice.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Tell me a story, Sunday. The one about the dove.”

“I don’t have my books with me, Robin.”

“Make it up! It’s more fun that way.”

“Um.. okay. Once upon a time…”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“The little dove flew over the big city, searching for a place to call home.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“All it wanted was a safe place to build its nest.”

Tap.

“When it finally found itself in the big safe tree, it began to sing a happy song.”

Tap.

“What did the song sound like?”

“Hm… I’m not sure. You’re better at that sort of thing. Could you sing something?”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Sunday! Robin! Get back inside at once.”

Tap.

“You’re filthy. I thought I told you to not play in the mud.”

Tap.

“Get out of my sight. I don’t want to see the two of you until morning.

Tap.

“But Father-”

“Don’t argue. Go.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

~~~

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Sunday slowly opened his eyes. Every part of him was in pain. He laid over the inflated airbags, a plume of smoke coming from under the hood of his car.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He turned his neck with a wince. The man who had been standing in the road, who Sunday could now see was long dead, was standing at his window, hitting the glass with a bloody hand. He couldn’t even bring himself to react. 

This is how I die. Oh Robin, please stay safe. I’m so sorry. 

Sunday closed his eyes again, listening to the rhythmic tapping as he slowly drifted back to the verge of unconsciousness.

With a thunk, the tapping stopped abruptly. His eyes were too heavy to open. Perhaps it was gone.

“Gallagher! There’s someone in this one!”

“Leave it alone, Misha. It’s probably just one of the dead ones. No point in putting yourself in danger.”

“I think he’s breathing. Why would this schmuck be trying to get in if he was dead?”

Sunday could make out the noise of someone wrestling with his trunk, and the click as it opened.

“We can’t leave him, Gallagher,” the door handle opened with a click. “What if he’s alive?”

Something hard poked Sunday’s shoulder. He groaned, trying his best to pull away from the attacker.

“Hey mister, are you okay? Looks like you crashed pretty bad.”

Sunday’s eyes fluttered open. Beside him stood a boy with soft blue hair, a worried expression painted across his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but he could only cough. That dreaded ringing was back.

“Gallagher, he’s alive. Help me pull him out.”

A scruffy man with brown hair groaned as he walked around to the car door, reaching inside to effortlessly drag Sunday from his would-be tomb. He whimpered in pain as the man laid him in the bed of a truck. 

“Did ya get bit? I’m not bandaging you up if you’re just going to die in a few hours anyways,” Sunday slowly shook his head in response. “Alright, I’ll give you a look-over then.”

As the man checked him for wounds, Sunday stared up at the afternoon sun. It beamed down on his face, holding him in its warm embrace. He could almost imagine that Robin was with him, singing with her lovely voice as he dozed off in the grass under the old oak tree. 

He gasped in pain as the man lifted up his pant leg, snapping out of his memories.

“This looks bad. Dislocated, maybe? I’m no doctor, but I’ll try to pop it back in place. You probably shouldn’t walk on it for a while.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks as the man dug through a suitcase, procuring a rag and shoving it in Sunday’s mouth.

“This is gonna hurt real bad. Stay quiet.” While the man – Gallagher? Was that what the boy called him – frowned at his leg, the teenager climbed into the bed of the truck and took Sunday’s hand in his own. He sniffled as the boy began to hum a familiar tune.

He could taste the blood in his mouth as he dug his teeth into the rag. Gallagher popped his leg back in place with the ease of someone much better suited to the end of the world than himself.

The world fell to black, Robin’s melody lulling him into a restless sleep.

~~~

When Sunday came to, Gallagher was hauling Sunday’s backpack out of the back of his totaled car. “So birdie, where were you headed in such a rush?”

Sunday flushed crimson at the pet name. “West. I’m looking for my sister.”

Gallagher laughed. “Not much in the way of civilization left in the west. We came from Dreamflux Reef. I think you’d have better luck in Penacony. Heard the military has that place locked down tight.”

“I just left. The streets are filled with the dead. It’s horrible. I almost didn’t make it out,” Sunday paused, remembering the corpse still laying on his balcony. “We can’t go back there.”

“We?” Gallagher smirked. “You save one broken bird and he sticks to you like glue.” Sunday glared daggers at him.

“Be nice!” The blue haired boy ran around from the front of the truck, holding a broomstick with one end sharpened into a point. “I’m Misha. It’s really nice to meet you, mister! Too bad it wasn’t under better circumstances.”

“I’m Sunday. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you both for bandaging me up.”

“Gallagher,” the scruffy man extended a hand to Sunday. “Glad you’re awake. Misha was starting to get worried.”

“You’re coming with us, right, mister Sunday?” Misha leaned on the side of the truck as he spoke. “You can’t go anywhere by yourself with that leg.”

“I need to head west. My father’s house is just off the highway, around eight hours from here. That’s where my sister will be. You two are welcome to come with me, it should be safe there. Tall walls and a strong gate,” Sunday sighed. “And you’re right, I can’t make it there myself.”

“You’re absolutely sure it’s safe? How do you know your sister is even there?” 

“It’s safe, Gallagher. It has to be. It’s the only place I can think of that she would go.”

“Alright then, birdie. Misha, help me get his shit in the truck.”

~~~

The truck shook as they drove over the bumpy dirt road. Sunday was curled up on the back seat, trying his best to not jostle his leg. After assessing Gallagher's paper map together, the scruffy man had suggested that they take the back roads to get to Sunday's childhood home. Sunday had protested at first, arguing that it would add days to their journey, but Gallagher had insisted that it was too dangerous to take the highway. It was apparently blocked up by hundreds of cars near Dreamflux Reef, and swarming with the dead.

And so here they were. Beat up pickup truck, collection of dated CDs playing at a volume that made Sunday's ears ring, and a pair of terrible singers. As they drove, Misha paused between songs to explain his and Gallagher's life story to Sunday.

He learned that Misha was Gallagher's nephew, and that he had been taking care of him for the better part of a decade. Misha had been working part-time as a bellhop at a local hotel for six months before the world had fallen apart.

In turn, Sunday spoke of his stuffy office job, his faith, and most importantly, his sister. As he spoke, he rolled the beads of his rosary between his fingers. He met Gallagher's gaze through the rearview mirror, cold red eyes softening as he spoke of Robin.

Misha changed the album, and his sister’s angelic voice filled the cab of Gallagher’s truck.

~~~

Sunday listened to Gallagher's long sigh as they pulled into the driveway of a farmhouse. They had planned to find somewhere to spend the night hours ago, but there hadn't been any houses for kilometres. The moonless night shrouded the trip in darkness as they carefully got out of the truck.

Brandishing a flashlight and a makeshift crutch, Sunday resolved himself to stay behind his new allies, lest his injured leg cause him to get in the way. He watched carefully as Gallagher swung the farmhouse door open, revealing the house’s hungry maw.

Gallagher gripped his machete tighter as he banged loudly on the door. Sunday tensed as they waited silently, listening for any movement within. When only the rustling of the wind in the trees responded, Gallagher began to walk inside.

Almost as methodically as Sunday's habitual lists, Gallagher searched each room. Sunday had almost decided that the house was entirely empty when they opened the ensuite bathroom door. 

Sunday couldn't stop himself from retching. Before then, in the porcelain tub, sat a man missing half his face. A rifle lay in his lap. The undead creature lifted its arm, halfheartedly groaning at them. Gallagher’s machete sliced through its skull before Sunday had fully processed the scene in front of them.

Gallagher closed the bathroom door, a solemn look on his face. “All clear.”

“What do we do about him? We can’t just leave him there!” Misha’s voice quivered as he spoke. He looked about as ill as Sunday felt. “Should we bury him?”

“No point in worrying about it right now. We can burn his body in the morning,” Gallagher said. “Right now–”

“Burn his body? He needs a proper burial,” Sunday frowned. “Souls can’t get into heaven without one.”

“Heaven? Birdie, he killed himself. He isn’t getting into your heaven whether you bury him or not.”

Sunday bristled. “We are not leaving him like this.”

“And who’s going to dig the grave? Not you, with your clipped wings.” Gallagher took a step closer to Sunday as he spoke.

“Don’t you try me. I will not let a poor man be cast aside by God for our actions.”

“You can’t be serious, birdie. I don’t for a second think you seriously–”

“Stop fighting you two!” Misha yelped. He pushed between the adults, a fed up expression on his face. “Can we just eat something? And then sleep? Arguing won’t fill our stomachs.”

Misha barely managed to keep Gallagher and Sunday away from each other’s throats as he herded them downstairs. “Gallagher, go get our stuff from the truck. Mister Sunday, see if there’s anything we can eat in the kitchen.”

“What about the food in my bag,” Sunday asked. “Surely there’s enough for us to eat without having to resort to theft.” Again.

“How long will it last us though? Might as well gather what we can before we’re dying of starvation. If you’d prefer, you can carry the packs from the car,” Misha shot back. The look on his face was almost terrifying.

Sunday begrudgingly listened, albeit a little put out to be bossed around by a teenager. Gallagher on the other hand seemed used to Misha being in charge, obediently walking out of the house to his truck. He’s like a dog. Barking incessantly until leashed. 

I always preferred cats.

~~~

By the time Sunday had finished searching the kitchen, Misha had covered up all the windows with sheets and barricaded the doors. Gallagher sat in front of the fireplace, working diligently on coaxing a flame to catch. Sunday winced as he stepped into the living room, the pain in his leg nearly unbearable. Whatever painkillers Misha and Gallagher had made him take while he was delirious had clearly worn off. 

“Did you find anything good?” Misha asked with a grin.

“Do you like chili? That seems to be all this guy ate.”

Misha laughed. “I’ll go heat some up. You look like you need a break.”

Sunday gave Misha a thankful smile, slumping on the couch with a groan.

“So what exactly did you do at your fancy office job?” 

“Senior manager. My father is the CEO, but I’ve taken over most of his work. He’s too busy with the Church to come out to Penacony most of the time, but I don’t mind the extra workload.”

“So you do all the work while he plays golf with his church friends? Sounds like a great guy.” 

Sunday shook his head. “It’s not like that. He does important work.”

“I don’t doubt it, birdie,” Gallagher said with a smirk.

“What do you do then that’s so important?” Sunday shot back. “Did you do, I mean.”

“Security detail. Moonlit as a bartender. I make a mean Bloody Mary. If we get our hands on some alcohol, I’ll make you a drink so good you become even more religious.”

“We’ll see about that.” Sunday almost smiled. “I’m not much of a drinker. My sister always had more of a taste for that stuff than me.”

“What’s your plan if you can’t find her, anyways?” Gallagher’s change in tone instantly turned Sunday’s expression sour. “What happens then?”

“That won’t happen.”

“Birdie,” Gallagher sighed. “What if she’s already dead?”

“She isn’t. How dare you?” Sunday coughed as Gallagher lit a cigarette. “And don’t light that awful thing in here.”

“A man’s gotta be allowed his vices. Just because you lived your entire life in a gilded cage doesn’t mean I haveta water myself down for you.” 

Arms crossed, Sunday sighed in exasperation. “You’re insufferable.”

“Don’t I try, darling.”

“Gallagher, stop antagonizing him. Food’s ready. Come help me carry it.” Misha’s hand on Sunday’s shoulder stopped him from rising to hit the mangey mutt with his crutch, with a strength unfitting of the small-statured teen.

And so they sat at the beat up couch, eating chili that glued Sunday’s mouth shut. Better than nothing, perhaps, and I will eat whatever the Lord provides, but still. Gallagher had laughed when Sunday had brought up the idea of saying grace. At Misha’s look, warning to not start a fight, he had compromised by whispering to himself, but it still stung. 

Mouth full of chili, Gallagher gestured wildly. “–And so that’s how I managed to score the best motorcycle in the country. For free!”

“Free?” Sunday scoffed. “Nothing’s free.”

“You’d think that with all yer religious mumbo jumbo, you’d know how to appreciate a good thing.” He scraped the last of the chili out of his bowl. Sunday grimaced as Gallagher wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Isn’t that your thing? Gifts from God?”

“My father taught me to be humble. To show my appreciation to the Lord by living below my means. To never accept something for which I couldn’t pay the price.”

“Didn’t you say he lived in a mansion, Mister Sunday?” Misha’s tone was polite, but Sunday could sense the critical undertones.

“Sounds like a damn hypocrite to me,” Gallagher guffawed. “And let me guess, you feel guilty accepting our help, even though you would be dead by now otherwise.”

Sunday’s silence spoke louder than any rebuttal he could conjure.

Gallagher’s tone softened. “That man really did a number on you, huh.”

After an uncomfortable pause, Misha rose from his seat, hands on his hips. “Let’s sleep here. I don’t want to be anywhere near that bathroom.”

“Fine by me. Birdie, you just sit tight. I’ll go see what this guy’s got for blankets.” As Gallagher rose from the couch, Sunday turned his face, hiding his bitter scowl behind his hand.

A blanket was draped over his shoulders. A gentle hand took away his empty bowl. The tension in the room had shifted, and in turn Misha and Gallagher chose to not poke the bear. Sunday stared into the fire as he slowly let his hackles down, focusing on the swirling flames as his anger subsided.

He is cruel, but I suppose the question isn’t entirely unwarrented. Here I am, practically dragging a couple of people to whom I owe my life into the unknown. He has a right to be skeptical, the hound is only trying to keep Misha safe. If it were me and Robin, I would be quick to draw weapons too.

As sleep slowly dragged Sunday’s eyelids shut, he listened halfheartedly to the whispering of his allies.

“Misha, are you sure about him?”

“He just cares about his sister.”

“What if he’s leading us to some death trap? I don’t trust him.”

“Gallagher! We rescued him from that wreck, and he clearly feels indebted to us, he practically said it himself.”

“I’m just saying. I promised your dad I would keep you safe. With this shitshow the world has become, I can’t take any risks.”

“Please, Gallagher, trust me on this one. He’s a good person underneath all the ice, and if you can’t see that then maybe those cigarettes really are damaging your brain.”

“Fine. But if he does anything at all to endanger you, I’m throwing him to the wolves.”

~~~

“Birdie, wake up. It’s almost noon.”

Sunday opened his eyes with a start. Gallagher was crouching in front of him, holding out a half eaten can of peaches.

“Eat up. I’m gonna go see if I can siphon gas out of the cars around here. Looks like there’s a couple houses a ways up the road, so you and Misha can hold down the fort while I’m gone.”

He took the can out of Gallagher’s hand slowly. Peace offering accepted. As Gallagher moved the hutch that barricaded the front door, Sunday slowly looked around the room. In the daylight, it seemed much sadder. Pictures of a man – presumably the one in the tub upstairs – and an old woman hung on the walls. A dusty urn sat on the mantle. Sunday couldn’t help but knit together the story in his head. The man’s wife died recently, leaving him all alone when the world fell. He must have been bit – how else would he have come back from the dead? – and chose to end his own life rather than turn into one of those creatures. But he had done it wrong, missed the part of the brain that controlled the undead urges, and had reawoken, all alone in his empty house.

He heard a thump behind him. Misha, seemingly over his fears of the dead man in the light of day, had dragged the corpse out of the bathroom and down the stairs. The smell overpowered the sweet peaches in Sunday’s hand, and he set the can down on the coffee table as Misha strained to drag the body to the door.

“Do you need some help?”

“No,” Misha grunted. “Not with that leg of yours. I’ll be fine, I’m stronger than I look.”

Sunday rose from his seat, picking up his crutch from where it leaned against the couch. “Let me at least get the door for you.”

They stood with their backs to the farmhouse. Misha poured a cupful of cooking oil over the corpse. He looked solemnly at the body as he tossed a lit match onto it.

“Gallagher was right, he won’t go to heaven, at least not according to the holy book. But God can be forgiving, and I will do my best to ease his journey.”

Misha stayed silent as Sunday flipped through a worn Bible, reciting passage after passage, until his voice tapered off. I didn’t do this for my neighbour, or his girlfriend. Why now? Why do I feel so strongly about this?

“Mister Sunday?”

Is there even a point to all this? If God is truly looking after His children, why am I still on this earth? If I am to consider this the rapture, have I been left behind? Has He –

“Sunday.” Misha’s warm hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present. “Let’s go inside.”

He took a longing glance at the tall oak tree at the end of the driveway before turning to follow Misha back to the farmhouse.

~~~

Sunday had taken up reading the collection of sappy novels from the bookshelf. They couldn’t leave until Gallagher returned, and the hound seemed to be taking his sweet time. He looked up at Misha, who sat on the couch, cleaning the gore off of the dead man’s rifle.

“Are you seriously planning on using that?”

Misha hung his head. “Gallagher hasn’t taught me to shoot one yet. He’d have my head if he knew I was touching this thing. Can it be our secret?”

“You know,” Sunday said, “I could show you. Just in case something happens.” What am I doing? “It might be good for you to know how, in case those creatures attack us.”

Teaching a kid to shoot a gun isn’t in the holy book, is it.

Misha, as it turned out, was a wonderful listener, and a very fast learner. Sunday showed him how to load and unload the rifle, where the safety was, and all of the rules he had once been taught. Gopher Wood had taken him hunting once, and he had taken every word to heart.

“Never point it at a person. Killing a fellow man is the greatest sin you could commit.” 

“Does the Bible say if killing the reanimated dead is alright?”

“Shush. These are extenuating circumstances.” Sunday readjusted the teen’s hands on the gun. “Promise me you won’t hurt anyone with this.”

“Don’t worry, Mister Sunday, me and Gallagher aren’t as bloodthirsty as you seem to think we are.”

“I never said–”

“It’s alright, you didn’t need to. I see the way you look at him, but truth be told, he couldn’t hurt a fly. He does what he needs to do to keep us safe, but I’m not sure he could actually bring himself to pull the trigger,” Misha said. “He acts tough, but he cares more than he lets on.”

Sunday lowered his head, flushing with embarrassment. This kid really sees through everyone, huh.

“For what it’s worth, I think he’s coming around on you.”

“You remind me a lot of my sister, Misha,” Sunday’s voice was soft. “You both have big hearts.”

Misha scooted closer to him as his eyes filled with mist. “I can’t wait to meet her, Mister Sunday.”

Sunday smiled, watching the magazine click in place as Misha loaded the gun as per the older man’s instructions. The noise of a vehicle stopping in front of the house filled the room.

“Gallagher!” Misha pushed the rifle and box of bullets under the couch. “I was almost starting to worry.” 

Misha pushed the hutch away from the door, and flung it open with a smile on his face.

Click.

He was met with the muzzle of a pistol, pointed directly at his head.

~~~

The small woman with long ratty hair tied up in pigtails perched on the hutch, staring at Sunday and Misha down the barrel of her gun with a manic glint in her eye. She had forced them to kneel – or sit awkwardly, in Sunday’s case – on the living room floor, firing a warning shot into the ceiling when Sunday had protested.

“This is a nice place you’ve got here. Isolated, clearly full of food, what more could a person want?” The woman’s laugh was cruel.

“Please, ma’am, you don’t need to do this,” Sunday’s voice shook. “Just walk away, no one needs to get hurt.”

“Need? I think this is the only thing I do need to do.” 

“Please –”

“A girl’s gotta eat, somehow. You know, this is the last house on my route, every single other one was empty. No food, water, bullets. Bet I can guess who cleared them all out.” She jumped down from the hutch, pressing the gun into Sunday’s cheek. “You and your little friend, hmm?”

“With this leg of mine? It wasn’t us. Please just leave us alone.”

“Ha! You were bit, weren’t you! Borrowed time, chicken wing boy.”

“Listen to me, miss,” Misha spoke fast, urgency compelling the woman to turn towards him. “I’m sure you’re a good person. You know this isn't right. We can–”

The woman’s shoe collided with his skull. Misha crumpled to the floor. 

“I hate a Goody Two-Shoes.” She looked over at Sunday, assessing how much of a threat he was. A swift kick to his bandaged leg made him double over in pain. “Stay down. I don’t even need to kill you, you’re as good as dead already.”

Stars swam across his vision as he watched the brunette begin to rifle through their bags. She picked up his pistol, checking the magazine briefly before sliding it into the holster on her belt. Can after can of their food disappeared into her backpack, their lifeline vanishing with every passing moment.

The woman grabbed Misha by the legs, dragging the unconscious boy into the brighter part of the room. As she dug through his pockets, he began to stir. Sunday cried out as she pressed a hunting knife against his neck.

“You’re stubborn, kid,” blood pearled on the blade as she crouched over Misha. “But that won’t save you in a world like this.”

Sunday’s fingers curled around the barrel of Misha’s still loaded rifle.

The gunshot echoed through the house as the woman’s head exploded, blood splattering the teen beneath her. Sunday’s ears rung.

The door swung open, a man with dark blue and white hair running in. Noticing the rifle, the crossbow fell from his grasp. The man slowly raised his hands in submission, glancing wildly between the dead woman and Sunday.

“H-hey, no need to go pointing that at me, I never even liked her anyway.” The man spoke quickly, voice shaking as he recognized the danger in Sunday’s sharp gaze. “I’ll be out of your hair before you can blink. I won’t even take the stuff she stole! How’s that for a deal?”

The bullet tore through the man’s chest, and he crumpled to the floor.

~~~

By the time Misha’s neck stopped bleeding, Sunday was drained. The cut had been very shallow, barely through more than a few layers of skin, but the angel still wept. I should have acted faster.

Misha rubbed Sunday’s shoulder in condolence. He stayed quiet, lest the cut tear, but Sunday knew he was thankful nonetheless. They sat in silence, the blood of their assailants soaking the wooden floor, until Gallagher finally pulled into the driveway.

The hound raced in, terror in his eyes as he took in the scene. Gallagher stepped over dead bodies, wrapping his arms around the shaking pair on the floor. Red eyes darted from body to body, to the rifle beside Sunday, to the hastily bandaged neck of his nephew. Sunday explained what happened through tears, choking on the words as he spoke. 

“Thank you, birdie, for protecting him. I don’t know what I would do with myself if he died.”

Sunday nodded, looking into Gallagher’s eyes with a teary smile.

“Can’t lose your escort to your sister, I get it.” Gallagher said in a joking tone, but his sad eyes spoke a slightly different tale.

Sunday paused. Robin hadn’t even crossed his mind until now. “It’s not just that anymore,” he shook his head. “I…”

What could he even say? An admission of weakness wasn’t in his nature. But I do care. More than I have cared for many people I once considered close to me.

“It’s ok, angel. I get it.” Gallagher leaned his chin on his fist. “You’re starting to care about us, aren’t you?”

Sunday opened his mouth to protest, before stopping, his attention drawn by movement behind them. How… 

The man who had laid dead by the door was slowly standing up, empty eyes turning towards the trio. 

Gallagher jumped up as Sunday stared in horror. His machete sliced through the dead man’s skull before the pieces of the puzzle clicked together in Sunday’s mind.

“He wasn’t bit. I shot him.”

“Maybe something got to him before you did, birdie.”

“No.” Sunday scrambled over to the man, checking his flesh for bites. “There’s nothing. Why did he come back?”

Gallagher crouched beside him, rolling the body over to check his back. “You get bit, you turn. His bite must just be hidden.”

“Listen to me, you dog, he wasn’t bit. I think…”

“Spit it out, birdie.”

“What if anyone who dies comes back? Without getting bit. Think about it, it makes sense. I mean, how did this even start anyways?”

“Shit.”

“It could have been some sort of biological warfare. Some disease that infects us, lays dormant until we die. How else could it have spread so quickly?”

“Shit!” Gallagher clasped a hand over his mouth, staring up to the ceiling. “Birdie, I hope to God you’re wrong about this. Are you sure he isn’t bitten?”

Misha coughed, his voice straining as he spoke quietly. “M-maybe that means there’s a cure though.”

“Mish’, we’ll be hard-pressed to find a doctor who could even make one in this mess.” Gallagher sighed. “I don’t want you worrying about it.”

“But–”

Sunday rose on unsteady feet. “Gallagher’s right. There’s nothing we can do about it, even if my theory is correct.” He watched as strong arms picked up the corpses, carrying them out of the house one by one. “Misha, do you want to sleep in a real bed tonight? It’s safer for you upstairs.”

~~~

They sat side by side on the couch, staring into the fireplace. Sunday noted how Gallagher smelled of shampoo, not an unwelcome scent after the rotting corpses of the outside world. The farmhouse didn’t have running water, but they had found a well on the property, and none of them were in any position to turn down a cold bath.

Misha had refused to go to sleep until he had re-bandaged Sunday’s leg, insisting that it was the least he could do in exchange for saving his life. The boy now snored away in a bedroom upstairs, the furthest one from the bathroom in which they had found the house’s original owner.

“One more day here. How’s that sound, birdie?”

Sunday pulled the blanket firmly around his shoulders with a shiver. They had agreed to leave the fireplace empty tonight, lest the smoke draw any more unwanted visitors. “One more day.”

“How are ya doing, anyways? You looked pretty shaken up earlier,” said Gallagher, scooting closer to Sunday. “Never took you as the type to be able to pull the trigger.”

“Misha reminds me too much of my sister.” Too much for my own morals to stand in my way. “The man didn’t seem like a threat. He wanted me to let him go, promised to leave us alone.”

“You did the right thing, angel. Who knows if he would have attacked you the second you turned around.”

“My chances of passing God’s test seem more fleeting than ever.”

“C’mon. You saved the kid. Your God has to take that into consideration when you reach the pearly gates.”

“Gallagher…” Sunday whispered, lowering his eyes. “Thank you.”

The hound turned to the angel, hand resting on his shoulder in reassurance. “For what it’s worth, you’re a good person. No one could blame you for saving a life.”

Sunday stared up into soft red eyes. He felt something stir in his gut, something he thought had been long since beaten out of him.

Overtaken by emotion and impulsion, he curled his fingers into Gallagher’s hair and leaned in, pressing their lips together gently. 

Gallagher jolted in surprise, causing Sunday to pull back. His cheeks turned red, wings fluttering as apologies began to pour from his mouth. Large fingers tangled through his hair as he spoke, pulling him back in. 

Sunday melted into this second kiss, letting Gallagher silence him. The hound kissed like a starved man, pushing and pulling and practically begging for more. His tongue pressed against the seam of Sunday’s lips, and desperation overtook them both. He let Gallagher shift them so he was laying comfortably on the couch, the larger man looming over him. 

Gallagher licked into Sunday’s mouth with reckless abandon. Fire and passion coursing through his veins, Sunday let himself fall from grace.

When they finally parted for air, Gallagher leaned his head into Sunday’s neck. Stubble scratched soft skin as the older man panted. He wrapped his arms around the angel’s waist, holding him tightly as he pressed soft kisses into even softer skin. Sunday couldn’t hold back his whimper, twitching in Gallagher’s firm hold.

“Birdie…” Gallagher moaned into his neck. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

Breathless, Sunday clutched at his shirt. “Show me.”

In an instant, Gallagher was tugging at clothes, pressing his lips into any free inch of skin he could reach. Sunday was swallowed by a tidal wave, helpless against the push and pull of desire.

It felt good.

Any guilt Sunday might have felt flew out the window when Gallagher’s hands caressed his chest, fingers running along the thin surgical scars. He couldn’t quite recall exactly when his shirt had landed on the floor, but as the hound’s lips closed around his nipple, Sunday found he couldn’t bring himself to care. He found the buttons of Gallagher’s shirt, unbuttoning them with shaky fingers as the scruffy man drew noises out of him that he didn’t know he was capable of making.

Sunday, in a brief moment of confidence, flipped them over. His leg screamed in disagreement, but the adrenaline coursing through him was enough to make him disregard the pain. 

The man who lay bare before him was beautiful. Truly nothing could compare to the want that settled in Sunday’s gut. He ran his fingers over tough skin, dark curls, long-healed scars, until he reached the waistband of Gallagher’s pants. One knee on the couch, and the injured foot planted firmly on the floor, Sunday shimmied back far enough to unbutton the jeans. He leaned down, only hesitating for but a second before running his tongue over Gallagher’s cock, straining against his boxers.

“Fuck, angel, you sure?” Gallagher groaned, staring at Sunday with pure lust. 

“Shut up.” Sunday tugged his boxers down. “Disobedient dogs don’t get treats.”

Gallagher’s dick sprung up from the offending underwear, a bead of precum forming on the tip. Sunday, a bit out of his element, resorted to leaving kitten licks up the shaft. It twitched against his cheek, practically begging Sunday to take it in his mouth. As he wrapped his lips around the red tip, Gallagher’s hands found their place in his hair, desperately tugging him downwards. Sunday scowled up at him as he pressed the smaller man down on his cock. The appendage lay heavy on his tongue, a weight that Sunday hated to admit was almost comforting. 

He tried his best to take back control, but as Gallagher filled his throat, he couldn’t help but listen to the part of his brain that screamed for him to just let himself be swept away. Sunday blinked up at Gallagher through the tears that were starting to bead up against soft eyelashes, his gaze meeting that of the man before him. 

Gallagher twitched, fingers pulling at soft grey locks. “Shit birdie, I’m–” he cut off as Sunday sunk down onto his cock as far as his throat would allow him. With a groan, he spilled into the angel’s mouth, watching in silent delight as Sunday choked, losing the battle against himself as he pulled off Gallagher. He tried to swallow as much as he could, but a mixture of drool and cum still dribbled down his chin.

Sunday sat up, a defiant look in his eyes as he gazed down at the mess he had created. Gallagher’s chest rose and fell, heavy breathing proof of his good work. The semen left a taste in his mouth, but not one Sunday particularly disliked. His throat stung as he coughed.

Gallagher stroked his thigh, calloused fingers running up his leg and along the waistband of his pants. Sunday barely had time to wipe the semen from his lips before Gallagher had flipped them, his back landing against the armrest of the couch. Greedy hands slid his pants off, groping the skin of his thigh, caressing his calf, pushing his good leg up over Gallagher’s shoulder. He dove between Sunday’s soft thighs like a man starved, running his tongue along the wet patch of Sunday’s briefs. 

Sunday whimpered into his hand as Gallagher lapped at the fabric. Rough fingers found their way under the hem of his underwear, running along the seam of his leg. His lips found Sunday’s clit, and sucked hard. Sunday squirmed against Gallagher’s mouth, he wanted more. He needed more. 

A thumb pressed between his folds, teasing. Gallagher rose up, pushing his leg up further as he leaned in to kiss Sunday with wet lips. He shuddered as he thought of their fluids mixing between their tongues. Gallagher’s free hand slid down under his briefs, fingers tracing over his swollen clit before pressing deep inside of him. Sunday couldn’t hold back his moan. Thick fingers thrust inside him in a way that just felt so good. He grabbed Gallagher by the hair, pulling him deeper into their kiss. 

Just as he was getting used to the intrusion, the hound pulled away completely. Sunday barely had time to argue before his underwear was being tossed behind them. 

His tongue bore into hot flesh, carving deep into his soul, drawing out noises that Sunday would deny for the rest of their lives. He shook as Gallagher filled him with his tongue, fingers following close behind. His cunt stretched around them, with a slight burn that drew out a shaky moan. Sunday felt a warmth begin to gather in the pit of his stomach as Gallagher wrapped his lips around his clit and sucked.

Perhaps Sunday had been worshipping the wrong god.

As he drew close to his climax, fingers in Gallagher’s hair, he pulled away again. Sunday tried to hold the man down, but his strength failed him, and Gallagher slipped away. He glared up at him, face cherry red.

“Asshole,” said Sunday. “Come back.”

Gallagher laughed. “Do you have protection, birdie? Hell of a time to go at it raw.”

“Can’t you have some tact?” He shook his head. “No. Do you?”

“I’ll check. Stay put, angel.” Gallagher stood up, leaving Sunday bare and wanting, spread like an exquisite flower in bloom. 

Sunday mourned the loss, hands drifting slowly down his body. When Gallagher returned, he had sunk two fingers deep inside of himself, writhing as he tried to recreate the feeling of the hound’s touch. Gallagher stood back for a moment, watching with a cocky grin on his face, before he kneeled back on the couch.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, aren’t ya,” Gallagher brushed Sunday’s hands aside as he spoke. “Just gorgeous.”

Sunday let a moan fall from his lips, watching with hungry eyes as Gallagher rolled the condom onto his dick. He pressed the tip against Sunday’s folds, teasing him with shallow thrusts. Sunday pulled him down for a heated kiss.

They grinded against each other slowly, savouring the moment. Sunday whined into Gallagher’s mouth when he pressed against him particularly roughly. Finally, he wrapped his good leg around the larger man’s waist and pulled him even closer. 

Taking the hint, Gallagher finally lined up his cock with Sunday’s hole and pressed inside. 

“O-oh fuck,” Sunday shuddered. 

“Swearing? How unbecoming,” Gallagher nipped at Sunday’s ear, a grin on his lips. “If I knew this would be all it would take for you to drop the high and mighty act, I would have fucked you on day one.”

Sunday wiggled his hips against Gallagher’s in defiance. “Shut up and move already. Asshole.”

The breath left his lungs as Gallagher thrust into him hard. He clutched the hound’s back as they fell into a steady rhythm, nails digging into tanned skin whenever Gallagher hit the sweet spot. Sunday’s head lolled back while he listened to skin slap against skin in a primal dance of lust.

A hand snaked up, gently circling his neck. Sunday bit his lip and nodded ever so slightly. Gallagher pressed against the angel’s throat, cutting off his air in a way that made him absolutely drip. Drool rolled down his slack jaw and his mind went fuzzy.

The pressure of each thrust intensified, harder, faster, deeper, and Sunday loved every second of it. Gallagher whined Sunday’s name in a chant of pure need. 

When Gallagher sunk his teeth into Sunday’s sensitive cervical wing, he lost all control. His cunt tightened around the hound as he came. Gallagher continued to piston into him as he orgasmed, gentle fingers in his hair a stark juxtaposition to the teeth still digging into his wing.

Finally he pulled out, only to pick Sunday up and flip him so he lay on his stomach on the couch. His mind was too fuzzy to truly appreciate how gentle Gallagher was, taking care to not hurt his leg any further. When Sunday was arranged in a position he was happy with, Gallagher lifted the angel’s hips and resumed thrusting into him, faster than before.

He chased his release, using Sunday as one might a toy. Teeth embedded in the back of his neck made him shake uncontrollably. Tears – of which Sunday could not tell whether they were of joy, lust, or the far away recognition of lost purity – streaked down his cheeks. Distantly, Sunday felt the condom fill up, and Gallagher’s hips pressed against his own for the final time.

They lay there, unmoving, for what could have been minutes or hours. When Gallagher finally pulled himself from Sunday’s hole, they both let out a shaky moan.

He passed Sunday the water bottle from the side table, holding it to his lips as the angel drank slowly.

“So, biting kink during the apocalypse, eh?” Gallagher snickered. “Do those freaks out there do it for you too?” 

A throw pillow collided with Gallagher’s face. “Get off of me, you dog.”

Sunday’s combative nature only seemed to make Gallagher more intent on keeping the smaller man trapped beneath him. He struggled for a moment, before giving up and tucking his head into the crook of Gallagher’s neck.

His mind swirled, realization of what he had just done striking him like an axe. Gopher Wood would skin him alive if he ever found out that Sunday had laid with a man, one so unholy nonetheless. He reached for the beads around his neck, pressing them to his lips in silent prayer.

Through all the heinous acts I have committed in the past few days, I fear the final nail has come and gone. Lord, if you’re even still listening, please allow me to repent. I have strayed, but I will return to the path. I swear to you.

Although, Sunday lamented, I may never get this dirty hound out of my mind.

~~~

Sunday leaned against the downstairs bathroom counter, wiping himself clean with a rag so graciously offered to him by Gallagher. The man had seemed to almost pout as Sunday had squirmed out from beneath him, watching with longing eyes as he had scampered off to scrub himself of the impure marks. 

Unwilling to face the hound again, Sunday tiptoed upstairs, finding his way in the dark to the master bedroom. He curled into himself under the covers, scratching at his bare skin in a futile attempt to rid himself of the phantoms of Gallagher’s touch. 

The bed creaked under Gallagher’s weight as he joined Sunday. He curled further in on himself, hugging his knees to his chest, while he listened to the hound pull the sheets over himself. He stayed a respectful distance from Sunday, clearly noticing that something was wrong.

They sat in silence for what might have been moments or hours before Gallagher finally spoke.

“You, okay, birdie?” he sighed. “I wasn’t too rough on ya, was I?”

Sunday shook his head silently against the pillow, though he knew Gallagher could not see him.

“Was that your first time? I’m sorry Sunday, I should have been gentler on you.”

Even if I explained it to you, you wouldn’t understand.

“Birdie?”

Sunday closed his teary eyes, letting himself fall into a restless slumber.

~~~

Robin stood at the top of the stairs, hiding behind the banister.

“Go to your room, child! Nothing waits for you down here.” Gopher Wood shouted up at her.

Sunday cried as he was dragged by his hair, roughly tossed into a linen closet.

He couldn’t understand what he had done, every rule set in place he had followed with precision. 

“Stay in there until you are ready to admit your sins.”

Sunday wrapped his hands around his knees, curling into the fetal position at the bottom of the dark closet. He felt tears roll down his cheeks, losing the war against his tidal wave of emotions.

All he had done was make a friend. The boy who delivered the newspapers had sat on one side of the wrought iron gate, while Sunday had sat on the other. 

The boy had smiled and laughed, his joyous nature infecting Sunday wholeheartedly. While Robin attended her lengthy music lessons, he had snuck outside to read stories with the boy.

He brought books that fascinated Sunday, magic and ghouls and all the things that Gopher Wood had forbidden. The boy held his hand through the iron bars, standing his ground when Sunday’s adoptive father had discovered them.

From that day forward, Robin was the only other child Sunday was allowed to see.

~~~

He awoke with a start, reaching blindly into the blankets for Gallagher’s comforting presence. His hands came up empty, only finding a cold pillow. 

Misha burst into the bedroom holding his broomstick, rifle slung over his shoulder. “We have to go, right now.”

Sunday leapt up, grabbing his crutch. He paused, realizing someone had dressed him while he slept.

“C’mon, mister Sunday,” Misha spoke with urgency. “We’ll have to go out the back door.”

They raced down the stairs, and Sunday realized why the teen was in such a rush. 

A window was shattered, a decomposing arm reaching through. Gallagher struggled to hold the front door closed against the fingers stretching through the gap. Grabbing two of their packs, Misha raced past Sunday, dragging the heavy bookshelf away from the back door.

“Misha, get Sunday to the truck. I’ll be right behind you,” Gallagher groaned, rapidly losing the battle against the crowd of the dead pressing up against the front of the farmhouse. 

Everything seemed to move in slow motion as Sunday paused in the doorway, turning back to make sure Gallagher was alright. The hound clutched a small battery operated alarm clock, twisting the knob to set it for only a handful of seconds. He watched as Gallagher leapt away from the door, snatching up the remaining bags as he moved.

The piercing noise of the clock cut through the air as Gallagher pushed him out the back door, the dead pouring into the room behind them. The creatures piled onto the screaming clock, enamoured by the high pitched noise.

Gallagher held his hand tightly as they stumbled outside. With a heavy thunk, Misha’s broomstick impaled a rotting man in their way. They moved around the house cautiously, putting down the handful of stragglers who hadn’t yet joined the writhing mass inside of the farmhouse. Gallagher tossed the supplies he carried into the covered back of the truck.

“Who’s got the keys?” the hound shouted.

“I do!” Misha called, already standing on the driver’s side running board, door wide open. “Help Sunday up!”

A gunshot rang out, a corpse that had nearly reached the vehicle crumpling to the ground. Misha looked up from the scope of the rifle with a furrowed brow, a hint of a prideful smile dancing across his face before he swung himself into the cab. 

Strong arms lifted Sunday off his feet, practically tossing him into the backseat of the pickup. Gallagher jumped into the passenger seat, barely closing the door before Misha slammed on the gas, tearing down the long driveway. 

“Nice shot,” Gallagher barked out a laugh. “Where the hell did you learn that?”

Misha’s grin was halfhearted, the boy clearly shaken despite his pride. “Here and there. Beginners' luck, maybe.”

“Beginners’ luck, my ass. You’re holding out on me, kid.”

Sunday peered out the back windshield as they drove. He couldn’t hold the tears back as he watched the distant swarm of the dead engulf the farmhouse, the sweet night before a fading memory against the horrors of the new dawn. 

Once more, Crucifixion and Last Judgment manifested itself in his mind. 

Gallagher leaned back in his seat, reaching a hand back to rub Sunday’s knee in reassurance. Hesitantly, he reached out as well, fingers brushing against Gallagher’s callouses for a fleeting moment.

“What happened? I thought the area was clear last night,” Misha looked up, eyeing Sunday in the mirror with a questioning stare. Sunday jerked his hand away from Gallagher’s.

“They must’ve heard the gunfire, took their sweet ass time finding the place,” said the brunette, turning back to face the road.

“Did we manage to grab everything?”

“Eyes on the road, Mish’. Think so, at least all the important stuff,” Gallagher pulled the paper map out of the glovebox. “Turn here, it looks like a shorter trip than the main road.”

“Kay. Jeez, Gallagher, didn’t you fill this thing up? The tank's half empty.”

“Misha, signal, dammit.”

“It’s the fucking apocalypse, who needs a turn signal? Not like the dead are gonna pull me over.”

“Who the hell taught you to talk like that? Use the damn signal.”

“You did, old man,” Misha laughed, turning up the stereo.

Sunday leaned against the car door, a small smile on his face as he listened to the pair bicker over the music. Gallagher leaned over, pulling a handful of granola bars out of the backpack at Sunday’s feet. As he passed them around, his fingers brushed over Sunday’s once more, making the angel's cheeks flush.

Misha grinned at them. “You two flirt worse than middle schoolers. Go on a date already.”

“Okay, that’s it,” Gallagher clapped his hand over Misha’s mouth. “Pull over. You’re done, my turn to drive.”

Misha’s laughter filled the cab of the truck.

~~~

The trio sat on the concrete, warming their hands over a small fire. Empty chili cans scattered the ground beside them. Tendrils of smoke wafted from Gallagher’s cigarette, causing Sunday to crinkle his nose at the smell.

“Close your eyes, Mister Sunday,” said Misha, a mischievous tilt to his voice. As Sunday followed his instructions, he felt something being pressed into his hands. 

“Spoils of war,” Misha laughed. “You earned it, for saving me and all.”

Sunday’s eyes blinked open, his brow furrowing as he looked at the item he held. A gun holster? Oh. I see.

The girl who had attacked them had worn the same one on her belt. 

“Thank you, Misha,” Sunday said hesitantly, “But I’m not sure that it’s respectful to steal from the dead.”

Gallagher barked out a laugh. “She tried to kill you, angel! Besides, you can’t just have a pistol loose in your backpack. What if you need to shoot something?”

He sighed in defeat. “Just until I am able to obtain one in a legal way.”

“If you say so, Mister Sunday.” The teen yawned, stretching his arms above his head. “‘Night, guys.” Misha patted Gallagher on the shoulder, waving to Sunday as he climbed into the passenger seat of the truck to sleep.

Sunday waved back, before returning his gaze to the crackling fire. 

“We should get there soon, birdie.” Gallagher leaned back, staring up at the starry night sky. 

“You were right, what you said the other day.”

“Huh? Said a lot of stuff, you’re gonna haveta be more specific.”

“About throwing me to the wolves.”

“Shit, you heard that?” Gallagher scratched his head. “Don’t think that way anymore, birdie. You got nothin’ to worry about.”

“I’m not a good person. I left a lot of people to die. Two more died by my own hands.”

“That’s just part of life, at this point–”

“I showed Misha how to shoot that rifle.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Gallagher grinned. “Kid’s tough, but he’s a damn awful liar.”

“What if Robin really is dead, and I really am leading you to a death trap?”

“It ain’t a death trap if you have no idea what’s coming, angel.”

“But–” Sunday was cut off by Gallagher’s lips. He melted into the kiss instinctively, fingertips brushing along stubble, before he caught himself and pulled away.

“Sorry, birdie.”

“It was a one time thing, Gallagher. Desperation, let’s call it.”

“Uh huh. If you say so, angel.”

Sunday pushed Gallagher’s lingering hands off of him. “Not everyone’s alright with being damned, hound.”

Hurt flashed across Gallagher’s eyes for a fleeting moment. “Birdie–”

“I’m not built for loving. If you’re expecting anything more, you might as well leave me for the wolves right this second.”

Gallagher turned his head away, the fire casting long shadows over his face. “I don’t know if anyone’s built for loving. I sure as hell ain’t either.”

“Desperation. We’re both lonely men, that’s all it was,” Sunday scoffed. “A severe lapse in judgement.”

“Sure.” Gallagher looked as though he wanted to say more, but resigned himself to silently staring into the fire.

Sunday poked at the empty can beside him, listening to the soft chirping of crickets. The awkward silence gnawed at his heart, swallowing him whole.

After a long while, Gallagher stood up. “Maybe I’m still desperate, angel. Desperate enough to want someone who’s had his heart beaten out of him.”

Sunday looked up with mournful eyes. The leather holster in his hands seemed to suddenly weigh nearly as much as his heavy heart.

“I can see it on your face, Sunday. Someone hurt you real bad. You hide behind your religion, scared shitless that the hand that hit you will come back, but it won’t. It’s just us sinners left in this world, angel, and all I want is to keep you safe.” Gallagher flicked his cigarette into the fire before walking back to the truck. “When you realize that desperation is what keeps us human, I’ll be right here waiting.”

~~~

They were almost at Sunday’s childhood home when the truck broke down. Gallagher stood in front of the vehicle, shouting profanities as he peered into the engine.

“What’s wrong with it?” Misha’s voice was filled with worry.

“Looks like the alternator’s shot. Probably needs a whole replacement,” Gallagher groaned. “She's not going anywhere.”

“I don't see any other vehicles around that we could use. Maybe we should walk?” Sunday winced as he spoke, thinking of his still aching leg. “We're only 12 kilometers away, it would just take a couple hours.”

“You’re right, Sunday, but I hate to leave her behind. I practically built this damn truck from scratch,” the hood slammed shut as Gallagher walked back to where Sunday and Misha stood. “We’ll have to come back for her when we can.”

“Walking it is then,” the teen stretched his back before opening the tailgate to pull out their things.

The sun brushed the treetops as they walked. Sunday’s leg grew heavy, until he was nearly dragging it against the concrete. He was nearly about to ask them to give him a short break when Misha froze in his tracks. 

“Do you hear that?”

They stood deadly still, listening.

The murmur of the wind.

A flock of birds flew overhead.

The sound of the ocean.

The ocean? We’re hundreds of miles away from the coastline.

Gallagher sprinted up the road, stopping at the crest of the hill. As Sunday trudged up behind him, he understood.

On the road ahead of them, between him and Robin, was a swarm of the dead. Hundreds of the things wandered aimlessly, filling every inch of the highway. 

Shit.

There was no way they would make it through.

Quick as lightning, Gallagher herded Sunday and Misha back down the road they had just walked. He led them to the treeline, machete in hand.

“Sunday, you grew up here – do you know the woods well?” The hound’s voice was a scratchy whisper, but it rang in Sunday’s ears nonetheless.

“Not as well as I’d like to. Father rarely let us wander outside of the property,” he replied, a tinge of guilt in his voice. 

“Enough to get us there?”

“Maybe,” Sunday paused, memories flooding back. “Yes. There’s a trail system, if we can find it, it will lead us to the estate.”

Sunday, barely 12, struggled to keep up to Gopher Wood.

“Why couldn’t Robin come with us?”

“Your sister isn’t special like you. Sunday, you are not dissimilar to a chunk of clay, ready to transform into a beautiful creation.”

The trees were beginning to all look the same. Gallagher kept glancing behind them in an uncharacteristically nervous manner. It was all Sunday could do to keep his crutch from catching on every tree root he stumbled over. 

Amber light dappled the forest floor as they walked, the crisp evening wind whistling past them. The babbling creek at the bottom of the valley called to them, urging Misha and Gallagher to stop, fill their water bottles with the clean water. Sunday felt a heavy weight in the back of his throat as he realized they would be walking well into the night. 

Small hands struggled to hoist a gun far too large for its wielder. He could feel Gopher Wood’s hand placed firmly on his back, but it was far from reassuring. 

His adoptive father leaned down, a wide smile on his face as he spoke softly into Sunday’s ear. “Shoot it, boy. Make me proud.”

Sunday stared down the barrel of the gun at the doe on the other side of the valley. He had a clear shot at it, and yet he hesitated. It was a beautiful creature, sleek fur and soft eyes.

He lowered the gun.

“Father, I can’t –”

The rifle was torn from his hands. A loud crack ripped through the air, spooking a flock of birds out of their resting place in the trees above them.

The doe crumpled to the ground.

Misha’s flashlight turned on with a soft click. The nighttime shadows bent and twisted around them, fleeing as the teen’s comforting light swept over them. 

Each crack of a branch beneath Gallagher’s machete made Sunday twitch. The path they walked was barely more than a game trail, carved by generations of animals determined to outrun their predators. 

He drew his gun, clicking the safety off with quivering fingers.

Tears drew long lines down his cheeks. Sunday pressed his palms against his ears in the hopes of stopping the ringing that had plagued him since the first gunshot. 

He felt numb as Gopher Wood pressed the gun into his chest, pointing silently at a grouse that sat on the side of the trail ahead of them. 

Sunday shook his head, trying to pass the gun back, but his father’s cold grip on his shoulder made him pause.

The barrel of the gun rose up slowly. Sorry, Sunday thought to himself as he squeezed the trigger.

Recoil shot through his shoulder as the bird exploded into a flapping mess on the ground. The bullet, too high of a caliber for a creature as small as a grouse, had torn the poor thing to pieces. Instantaneous, perhaps, but cruel. Sunday squeezed his eyes shut as he was pushed towards the bird, unwilling to witness the damage he had dealt to the innocent creature. 

“Mister Sunday, are you alright?” Misha’s hand on his shoulder made Sunday jump, forcing him out of his memories.

He took a deep breath before nodding. “I just don’t remember these woods particularly fondly.”

“I wish I could say we could set up camp and hunker down for the night,” Gallagher sighed, “but it’s safer if we keep moving. We can’t be that far away at this point.”

“We–” Sunday was cut off by Misha pushing ahead of him.

“That looks like a road!” the teen pushed through the foliage as he stepped off the game trail.

Sure enough, the old dirt road lay behind the trees. 

Sunday walked beside his father’s quad, his cold hands buried in his pockets. The dirt road was muddy, but Gopher Wood insisted that there was no room on the vehicle for him. 

“The deer takes up too much space, boy. Walking will do you good,” he had said to Sunday with a shake of his head. “You’re too soft. Be grateful I’m not making you carry the deer yourself.”

When the mansion was just in sight, Gopher Wood had slammed on the breaks. 

A hunting hound, a large black beast, stood in the center of the road. In its mouth was a songbird, a pretty little thing with its neck snapped in half. Sunday could only stare as blood dripped down the poor bird’s feathers. 

He recognized the dog, through the grey of its muzzle and matted fur. It had once been one of Gopher Wood’s hunting dogs, a friendly pup who had accompanied Sunday and Robin on many an adventure around the estate, back when they had first arrived. Now, however, it seemed to not recognize him. It snarled around its prey, staring at them with hollow, hungry eyes. 

The click of Gopher Wood’s gun made Sunday whip his head around. 

His father pointed the rifle at the dog, a frown on his face. Sunday moved without thinking, shoving the barrel of the gun upwards, away from his old friend. 

The gunshot echoed in his ears. A smile danced across Sunday’s lips as he watched the old hound race away into the trees. His victory was short-lived, stars flying as the butt of the gun collided with the back of his head.

Sunday rubbed his temple with the back of his hand, careful to keep the cold steel of his pistol away from his skin. 

The flashlight’s beam sliced through the darkness, illuminating the road ahead of them. He could see the moon hanging high above them in the sky, a heavenly beacon for the trio to follow blindly. 

“So tell us more about your sister, Mister Sunday!” Misha said, a cheerful tone to his voice. Sunday was sure he only wanted to lighten the mood, but who was he to turn down an opportunity to sing Robin’s praises?

“She’s a wonderful musician. When we were little, we would sit side by side at the piano, playing for hours. She’s the reason I ever played, really. I would have given it up years ago if it weren’t for her.” 

“I can’t wait to meet her,” said Misha.

The words seemed to tumble out of Sunday’s mouth in an unstoppable cascade. “She was always stronger than me. When I would get the two of us in trouble, she would always try to protect me. Though, I always thought I was protecting her. She never took to our father’s teachings, but that never mattered to me. Even when she was travelling, Robin always made sure to stay in touch. We’ve never gone longer than a few days without speaking to each other, I truly feel lost without her guidance.” He took a deep breath, staring blankly down the road. “She used to tell everyone we met that we had twin telepathy, but she didn’t know the difference between telepathy and telekinesis.”

He blinked away the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. Gallagher’s arm slid around his shoulders in a comforting gesture that Sunday refused to admit he appreciated. 

“Don’t cry, birdie,” the hound’s voice was soft. “You’ll see her soon.”

Sunday let his cervical wing brush lightly against Gallagher’s head. 

~~~

By the time that the tall walls that surrounded the estate came into view, Sunday felt as if his legs would soon fall off. He slid his pistol back into the holster on his hip.

Stolen goods. If father could see me right now… What did Misha call it? Spoils of war? He may have been joking, but I suppose part of that rings true. 

I killed two human beings. Living breathing people. Lord forgive me, I have no clue how I could even begin to repent. 

But, Sunday thought, I find myself worrying less and less. 

Perhaps I have adapted to this new world faster than I ever dreamed I would.

Perhaps father was right about me.

Perhaps- 

“Sunday!” Gallagher’s shout broke through the silence of the night, shattering the deprecating fog in Sunday's mind. He looked up just in time to see Gallagher leap towards him, shoving him out of the way just as the rotting fingers of a corpse hidden amidst the darkness closed around the air where he had just been.

Pain shot up his bad leg as he tumbled into the underbrush, landing not so neatly in a scraggly rosebush. Above him, Gallagher wrestled with the reanimated corpse. He scrambled out of the way as the hound too fell into the bush, dead teeth gnashing inches anyway from his face.

Sunday fumbled with his holster, watching through the dim moonlight as Gallagher held the creature at arm's length. Both their eyes darted to the side, caught by the reflection of Misha’s flashlight across the blade of Gallagher’s machete. The weapon lay in the dirt, just out of the hound’s reach.

Dragging himself forward, Sunday reached for the machete’s handle. He turned back around just in time to watch a large rock be brought down on the corpse's skull.

The corpse fell still as Gallagher bashed its head in three more times.

“You took too long,” he grunted, wiping blood splatter off his jaw.

“Are you okay!?” The panic in Misha’s voice was evident, his knuckles white as he clutched his broomstick close to his chest. 

“I’m fine,” Gallagher snatched the machete out of Sunday’s hand. Miffed, he reached out to grab the hound’s shoulder, only to be shrugged off. 

Sunday glared back at him, a dark silhouette framed by the LED flashlight’s beam. 

“Is that it?” Misha pointed at the stone walls. 

“Yes. There should be a gate somewhere around here,” Sunday adjusted the straps of his backpack. “If we follow the wall far enough we’ll find it.”

He took the lead, one hand tracing the outline of the rosary beneath his shirt.

As they walked the perimeter of the estate, Misha began to hum a familiar song, one that Robin had once performed for crowds of nearly fifty thousand people. 

A song that brought him back to their teenage years, when they would sit side by side at the piano. He had helped her write that song, hadn’t he? Or rather, he had helped her with the bridge. Robin rarely needed his help, she was a wonderful songwriter on her own, although this particular tune had stumped her. Their father had reprimanded him for it, though they had continued to work in secret until Robin had decided that it was perfect. 

Even years later, it was still his favourite of all her songs. 

Misha swung the flashlight along the path in front of them in a wide arc. A few metres ahead, the wall cut off sharply, the path turning with the corner of the estate. 

A cracking noise sounded from the woods beside them. Sunday watched in horror as a group of the dead tumbled from the underbrush. There must have been more than a dozen, too many for him to count in his panic. 

“Move!” Gallagher barked, all but shoving Misha and Sunday around the corner. 

Before them, a second swarm of the dead stood beside the wall, reaching desperately upwards in an almost pitiful attempt to get to the other side. Sunday thought of the diptych, empty eye sockets and screaming faces of the damned burned into his mind. The nearest corpse slowly turned to look at them, a low grumble falling from its decaying lips.

Misha skidded to a halt, tumbling to the ground as he overshot his momentum. 

The handle of Sunday’s pistol was cold against his shaking fingers as he whipped it out of the holster. Behind him, Gallagher’s machete made contact with what sounded like a skull. 

Sunday took a deep breath as he pulled the trigger. A corpse, the nearest to Misha, flailed backwards at the gunshot to its neck. A second bullet embedded itself in the thing’s skull, killing it. 

All he could hear was gunfire and the roar of blood in his ears as he fired shot after shot into the crowd of the dead. 

Click.

Click-click-click. 

Sunday scowled, sticking his empty pistol back into his pocket. Out of options – and bullets – he brandished his crutch as a weapon. Misha scrambled behind him and Gallagher as they backed up against the cold stone wall. 

Tears welled up in his eyes. Is this how it ends? Please, Lord, don’t let it all be for naught.

~~~

Robin sat at his bedside, tipping spoonful after spoonful of hot soup into his mouth. 

He had fallen down the stairs, a nasty tumble that had broken his wrist and left angry red welts down his back. 

“You need to be more careful, Sunday. I won't always be here to nurse you back to health.”

“Will you sing for me?”

“Maybe in a bit. Tell me again how it happened?”

He turned his head to stare blankly out the window. “The stairs, Robin. I fell.”

“...and?” 

“Tripped.”

Robin sighed, placing the bowl of soup down on the nightstand. “Sunday, listen. You can talk to me! I’m your sister, I care about you. What really happened?”

“Can you sing our song? Please.”

“Did he hit you again?”

“Robin, please.”

“I’ve told you a million times, I’ll help you get out of here. I’ve been saving money for years, I have more than enough to get us an apartment in the city. We could leave tonight, he wouldn’t even know until we’re long gone.”

“I can’t leave. I owe it to him to help with the business. Besides, he’s housed us for so many years, it would be ungrateful of me to leave now.”

Whatever she said next he couldn't quite recall. The pain drowned out his surroundings as he drifted off into a restless slumber. 

~~~

A spray of bullets exploded into the crowd of the dead before them. Sunday squeezed his eyes tightly shut as the sound of a machine gun rattled his eardrums.

“GET ON THE GROUND,” a woman's voice shouted from atop the wall behind them. She fired relentlessly into the swarm with the ease of a trained soldier.

He could feel Gallagher’s strong arms wrap around him as the larger man pulled them into the dirt, shielding them with his own body.

Finally, the gunfire ceased. Sunday peeked over a muscled shoulder to see a pile of bodies, illuminated by the beam of Misha’s forgotten flashlight.

A few seconds passed, and a small access door, some twenty feet further down the path, clicked open. The woman pushed through the ivy that had grown over the exit, machine gun raised, pointed directly at them.

“Stand up, where I can see you. And drop your weapons!”

As Sunday rose, his ears ringing with the echoes of gunfire, he could hear the woman gasp, her gun falling to the ground.

“Sunday?” Her voice was timid, a soft tone that he hadn’t heard from her since they were small children, hiding in a closet from an angry father.

The weight of his sister barreled into him at full speed, shaking arms desperately clutching around him as if he were going to disappear if she let go of him for even a second.

Sunday choked back tears, burying his face in Robin's shoulder.

“I thought you were dead,” she sobbed. “I listened to the radio broadcasts and thought you couldn’t possibly have made it out.”

Gallagher cleared his throat from behind them. “Touching reunion, but can we do it somewhere safer? The gunfire is gonna draw more of the freaks.”

“Y-yeah,” Robin wiped her face on her sleeve. “C’mon, we can talk inside.”

~~~

The heavy front doors closed behind them with a loud clunk. The foyer before them was dark, lit only by the beams of their flashlights. Behind them, Robin slid a thick metal rod through the handles of the doors, effectively locking them in. Where she had found such a thing eluded him, but Robin had always been especially resourceful. Perhaps torn straight out of the guest house walls. Sunday certainly wouldn’t put it past her. 

She led them to the kitchen, passing by dozens of boarded up windows as they walked.

It’s eerie, seeing my childhood home in this state. If I didn’t know the place like the back of my hand I would be terrified.

“Fucking hell, this place is straight out of a horror movie,” evidently, Gallagher seemed to think so as well.

Robin laughed. “You should have seen it when I got here. Our adoptive father practically tore the place apart, I’ve spent the better part of my time back here cleaning up his mess.”

“Is he here?” Sunday furrowed his brow. “I can’t believe he’s letting you carry around that gun.”

Robin stopped in her tracks. Turning to Gallagher and Misha, she spoke softly. “Why don’t you two go make yourselves some food? You must be starving.” Robin gestured down the hall. Gallagher nodded solemnly, practically dragging Misha away.

A chill creeped down his spine. 

“He left, Sunday. I have no idea where he is.”

“He didn’t wait?” 

“Of course he didn’t. You know him.”

He shook his head. “He always said he would wait for us if anything like this happened. Remember his survivalist phase? He’ll be back.”

“Sunday,”

“He’ll be back!”

“Sunday.” Robin grabbed his shoulders. “He’s not coming back. This place was cleared out when I got here. He didn’t leave a damn thing.”

“That doesn’t mean shit, Robin!”

“Yes it does! If he was coming back he wouldn’t have left the place in disarray. I didn’t even have to break in, the door was unlocked.”

“Maybe he was planning on coming back, but got stuck somewhere. Maybe something went wrong. We need to go out there first thing and start looking for him. He wouldn’t abandon us!”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“We owe it to him, for all he did for us.”

“Sunday,” Robin practically snarled. “That man isn’t coming back. For all he put you through, I hope he got ripped apart by those things.” Sunday inhaled sharply as she spoke, glaring daggers through her teary eyes. “The safe is cleared out. The helicopter is gone. Every damn crumb of food that I know for a fact was here vanished. I know he fucked you up real bad and this is very hard to take in, but you will die out there if you try to find him. I only just got you back, I am not going to lose you again.”

“No. I have to go,” Sunday turned on his heel, voice shaking.

Robin grabbed him. “Please don’t go. You know as well as I do that he won’t want to be found.”

Sunday let out a sob as he crumpled to the floor, quivering like a leaf. His sister sank down with him. 

The pair sat on the floor for what felt like hours, crying harder than Sunday felt he ever had in his life.

When his tears dried up, and sobs turned to sniffles, Robin helped him stand, leading him to the kitchen with promises of water. She sat him in the breakfast nook and handed him a cold glass of water. 

“Drink, Sunday. You look like shit.”

“When did my dear sister get so crass?” he weakly raised an eyebrow at her. “Last I saw of you, you were all sunshine and rainbows.”

“Maybe I picked it up from a friend. Maybe you haven’t seen me in far too long,” She punched his shoulder lightly. “Or maybe it’s the end of the world and our shitbag father isn’t here to beat it out of me.”

“I’m glad you’re alright. I prayed for you every day we were apart.”

Gallagher chose a fine moment to walk over with bowls of unidentified canned soup. 

“Oh, right,” Sunday turned crimson. “I forgot to introduce you. Robin, this is Gallagher, and the kid hiding behind him is Misha. They’re the only reason I made it here in one piece.”

“Barely,” Gallagher barked. “Poor guy can’t seem to stop running into trouble. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, miss, Sunday speaks very highly of you.” Misha peeked out from behind Gallagher, whispering something to him. The hound laughed. “I don’t mean to be rude, but Misha here desperately needs to know if you’re really the same Robin as the singer.”

“Are you fans?” Robin grinned. “Sorry if I seem different off-stage. My brother brings out the worst in me.”

“Your brother failed to mention that you were famous, despite this kid playing your CDs on repeat the entire drive out here.”

“Sounds like him. It’s truly wonderful to meet you, Misha. I can tell we’re going to be great friends.”

A terrified smile on his face, Misha timidly stepped out from Gallagher’s protective shadow. “Thank you so very much for the hospitality, Miss Robin.”

“Do you have a spare room that this one could use?” Gallagher scratched his head. “Or a couch we could crash on? This one is long past his bedtime.”

Robin nodded. “There's more spare rooms in this place than I can count. Come with me, Misha, I'll show you.” She glanced knowingly between Sunday and Gallagher, a cheeky smile dancing across her lips.

Sunday dropped his spoon into his empty bowl with a clatter.

Gallagher and Sunday sat alone at the table, silence slowly becoming deafening.

“Can I -” 

“Would you -” Gallagher laughed gruffly. “You go first, birdie.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot, Sunday.”

“Why stick with me for so long? I've put you both in so much danger on our way here,” Sunday sighed. “Any sane man would leave me behind.”

The hound chuckled softly. “I s’pose you grew on me.”

“Is it that simple?”

“Can ya promise me something, Sunday? Watch over him for me.”

“Who, Misha?” Sunday balked. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Just… if a dead one gets me, keep him safe for me. I need you to promise me that.”

He inhaled deeply before responding. “Of course I would, Gallagher. You know I would.”

“If -”

“Don’t talk like that. You aren’t going anywhere. As long as I am here, so are the two of you.”

“Sure, birdie.”

~~~

Sunday led Gallagher through the halls of his childhood home. Framed portraits of long dead men stared down at them through the darkness.

In the pitch black of the night, he found himself struggling to remember which doors led where. Each room that had once been an easily recognizable door now led to a different unfamiliar setting.

Finally, he swung open a door that creaked in an ever so familiar way. A chill went down Sunday’s spine as he realized where they were.

“My father’s study,” his arm fell to his side, eyes staring blankly into the haunting darkness.

He shivered as Gallagher slid cold fingers around his waist. The hound whispered into his ear. “Bad memories?”

“Yes.” Sunday sighed. “I can’t believe he would just leave.”

“We don’t have to stay.”

“You can go, if you’d like,” Sunday’s gaze hardened, an anger of his youth he had long forgotten boiling up in the back of his throat. “I would like to stay for a moment.”

“Are you gonna do something rash? I’ll stay with ya.”

“He…” Sunday trailed off, struggling to put his words together. “He wasn’t the kindest man, as I am starting to realize. Seeing how you and Misha interact is enlightening.”

“You could stick it to him. Do something you know he would hate,” Gallagher paused a moment, thinking. “You could wreck the room. Tear up all his paperwork.”

“Gallagher…” Sunday’s voice was soft. 

“Yeah, Sunday?”

Sunday spun in Gallagher’s arms, grabbing his collar to drag the larger man forward.

They stumbled into the study, the heavy wood doors closing with an all too familiar clunk. Gallagher, ever quick to pick up on his cues, wasted no time pressing Sunday against the familiar wood.

Sunday's thighs shook in anticipation as the brunette caged him in with muscular arms. He bit back a whine, watching sharply as Gallagher leaned in closer and closer still, chapped lips a hair-width away from his own. 

He could feel his willpower crumbling with every painfully long second. Sunday slowly closed his eyes in preparation for the inevitable meeting of their lips. Instead, he pressed up into a calloused hand.

“Now now, birdie, I thought you said there was nothing between us,” Gallagher practically purred, soaking in the clear victory. “What did you say? A fluke? Desperation?”

A glare that once would have sent a dozen employees scrambling now only brought a chuckle to his foe’s lips.

His foul, ghastly lips.

Ugh, his lips.

… And my traitorous mind.

Sunday stuck his tongue out, licking along Gallagher's palm in a last ditch effort to fight his urges.

A mistake.

Faster than Sunday could comprehend, the man twisted his hand so as to grip his jaw, a thumb pressing into his mouth to hold down the offending tongue. 

He choked on the intrusion slightly, barely adjusting to the sensation before his head was tilted up to look directly into Gallagher's eyes. He couldn't hold back the whimper that slipped out of him this time. A second hand came up to press into his chest, pushing him firmly back against the door. He reached up lamely to grasp at Gallagher's shirt, a failed attempt to ground himself.

“You sure about this?”

Sunday nodded with urgency as he salivated around Gallagher’s thumb. His hands snaked down with a boldness that even he didn’t expect for himself, and began fumbling with the hound’s belt. 

Gallagher groaned, freeing Sunday’s mouth to slam their lips together in desperation. As he parted his mouth, meeting Gallagher’s tongue with his own, all of Sunday’s qualms about the hound seemed to melt away, leaving the only thought in his mind that of lust. Strong hands grabbed the backs of his thighs. Sunday yelped into the brunette’s mouth as he was lifted off the ground suddenly. He wrapped his legs around Gallagher’s waist, hands tangling in messy hair. 

They stood there for what felt like hours, bruised lips pressing messily into bruised lips. With every movement, Sunday could feel Gallagher’s erection press against him. 

Finally, they broke apart, a string of saliva stretching between their lips. The hound buried his face in Sunday’s neck, teeth nipping at his skin. Kisses burned brands of desire into his throat, a red hot promise of devotion. He moaned in appreciation as Gallagher unbuttoned his shirt. Chapped lips sucked hard on his collarbone, red marks blooming across his skin. 

He wasn’t sure if he was tugging on Gallagher’s hair to make him stop or to prevent him from ever ceasing. 

“Ugh, let me down,” Sunday groaned after a beat, wiggling out of the hound’s grip. He pushed Gallagher away with a finger to the chest. Bathed in moonlight, Sunday slowly slid his pants over his hips, golden eyes locked with the red of Gallagher’s. He stepped over the pile of fabric beneath him, taking the hound’s hands in his own and guiding them to the waistband of his underwear. 

He leaned against Gallagher’s chest as the larger man traced his calloused fingers along where fabric met skin. Teasing along Sunday’s skin agonizingly slow, he breathed heavily into silver feathers. 

“Sunday…” Something inside Gallagher must have snapped, for he grabbed Sunday’s hips with a brutal grip as he walked them over to Gopher Wood’s mahogany desk. 

Sunday barely managed to sweep the mess of stationery off the top of the desk before Gallagher all but slammed him into the wood. Cheek pressed against the cold surface, he moaned as his underwear was tugged down his hips with reckless abandon. 

His wings fluttered around his cheeks, a soft veil over the blush that had surely spread over his entire body. Out of the corner of his eye, Sunday spotted his rosary, familiar beads draped over deep red wood. He tangled the necklace between his fingers, a silent prayer forming on his lips 

Sunday gasped as a pair of fingers bullied between his folds, his prayer instantly forgotten. Gallagher leaned over him to press warm kisses against his back as he stretched his angel open.

Between the burn of Gallagher’s fingers inside of him, and the corner of the desk jamming into his skin with every movement, Sunday barely noticed the tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. 

As quickly as it started, Gallagher pulled away. Sunday wiggled his hips, in part out of frustration over the terrible empty feeling, and in part to goad Gallagher into coming back. His forehead hit the desk with a thump, a whine of frustration slipping from soft lips. 

A reassuring hand rubbed circles into his hip as his needy sobs filled the temporary silence. Just as he contemplated shoving Gallagher to the ground and taking matters into his own hands, he heard the rustle of fabric and the tear of a foil packet from behind him. As wet as he was, the intrusion still burned as Gallagher pressed into him.

Lord save me.

The hound set a brutal and unforgiving pace from the start. Sunday supposed, through tears, that it was simply in his nature. And who was he to deny Gallagher what he so clearly needed? 

As if reading his mind, the hound somehow pounded into him with greater strength than before. The desk creaked underneath them, the old wood protesting their sacrilege. Sunday moaned into his arm, drool dripping down his chin. Pain suddenly shot through his scalp as Gallagher tangled a hand into his hair, yanking Sunday backwards.

Gallagher slid a hand around Sunday’s throat, holding the angel against his chest as he thrust into him. His vision was blurry as he stared up into crimson eyes, tears streaming down red cheeks. Sunday couldn't help but whine when Gallagher hit an angle that felt oh so good.

He was acutely aware of the rosary that hung around his neck, beads bouncing against his skin with every unforgiving thrust. They seemed to burn into his skin, a reminder of the values he had surely left behind. Doubt began to creep into Sunday’s mind, what would his father think? Copulation atop his desk, with a man as foul as Gallagher. Surely Gopher Wood would have his head if he could see them. 

He slipped as Gallagher let go of his neck, barely catching himself against the surface of the desk. A large hand pressed into his lower back as the hound slowed his pace to shallow thrusts that seemed more teasing than pleasurable. 

All too soon, Gallagher pulled out. The heat in Sunday’s groin slowly melted away as he lay draped over his father’s desk, cloudy frustration forming in his mind. 

He readied himself to yell at the hound, scream at him to leave. Or perhaps to stay, to fuck him harder, reach so deep inside of him that he would forget the world just outside the mansion. But as the words formed in his mouth, Gallagher grabbed his legs, dragging him across the desk as he flipped Sunday over onto his back.

The look in the hound’s eyes could only be described as adoration. Heavy, lustful pants fell from Gallagher’s lips as he stared at the meal laid out before him. Sunday’s words caught in his throat as he stared up at the man above him.

Oh.

Large, calloused hands dragged over his skin. Tracing over each rib, sliding over his throat as he swallowed in anticipation. Teasing over his chest, pressing against his stomach, slipping back between wet folds.

Sunday moaned as the hound leaned over him, pressing gentle kisses against his skin as he spread the angel open. Sparks shot through his body, a chorus of want in Gallagher’s wake. Lips finally pressed against lips, spit and tears mixing in their needy mouths.

The tip of Gallagher’s cock slid against his clit. Through heavy pants, Sunday stared into Gallagher’s eyes. A sticky hand braced against his hip as the hound moved to push back inside of him, only to be stopped by a foot planted firmly on his chest. 

“Take it off.”

“What?” Gallagher cocked his head, flabbergasted. 

Sunday sat up, wrapping a slender hand around the hound’s dick. “I said take it off,” he hooked a finger under the latex, tugging with urgency. “Now.”

Gallagher groaned, rutting into Sunday’s hand. “You sure, birdie?”

“Do you want me to change my mind, dog?” he let go, leaning back onto the desk. He slipped his now empty hand between his legs, spreading himself open for Gallagher to see with uncertain fingers. 

Oh my Lord, what am I doing? He found himself unable to control his own desires. Without thinking, Sunday wiggled his hips at the hound, knees falling open even wider as he did so. 

“Fuck.” Gallagher’s face was cast in shadow, but Sunday suspected that if it had been bright in the room, the man would have been flushed red. Out of his line of sight, Gallagher moved to remove the offending condom. 

Hot fingers dug into his hips, dragging him down the desk to press against the hound. He quivered in anticipation as he wrapped his legs around the hound’s waist. Gallagher leaned over him, resting his head against Sunday’s chest. His cunt pulsated at the weight of the hound’s bare cock resting on his lower belly. It practically drooled, pre-cum dripping onto his cold skin.

“You’re almost too much for me,” Gallagher’s voice was barely a whisper, but Sunday could hear him loud and clear. “I don’t know if I could live without you, my dove. Not after I’ve had a taste.”

A snappy comeback caught in his throat as Gallagher slowly – finally – pressed inside him. Just like that, everything else in the room faded away. A total eclipse of the world around him, and all that remained was Gallagher’s crimson eyes, staring into his soul.

It feels like he’s reaching all the way to my heart.

Gallagher slid out of him until only the tip of his cock remained inside of the angel. Sunday locked his ankles together behind the hound's back, using them as leverage to pull him back in. Fingertips dug into his hips as Gallagher slammed back into him, sending stars swimming across his vision.

Before long, Sunday completely succumbed to the hound’s whims. He lay there, a puddle of moans and whines as the hound relentlessly pounded into him. Gallagher, seemingly indecisive, kept switching from standing up to gain more leverage as he rutted into Sunday, and leaning over the desk, to more easily press kisses into soft skin.

He could barely comprehend anything more than the sensation of skin on skin when the hound moved his legs to rest atop his large shoulders. The already brutal pace quickened with the new angle. 

“Please, please please please,” the words spilled out of Sunday's mouth before he could stop himself. “Please, Gallagher, I need you, don't stop.”

The roar of blood in his ears drowned out his lover's chuckle. 

“More,” he groaned, as Gallagher sank his teeth into shaking feathers.

“Don't stop,” he whined through tears when the hound’s fingers found his clit.

“Gallagher,” he screamed, cunt squeezing involuntarily around the cock inside of him. Words tumbled out of his mouth before he could think them through, though perhaps he would have said them regardless. “I love you.”

Gallagher choked, slamming into Sunday with such force that the desk moved. His orgasm rocked through both their sweaty bodies, hot fluid burning Sunday’s insides. He continued to rut into Sunday, albeit slower now, though the thumb on his clit quickened.

“I love you,” Sunday whined, his tone breathy and desperate. “Gallagher, Gallagher please, I love you.”

It felt good to say it. 

So good.

Gallagher’s mouth closed around his neck as he came, tears running down his cheeks, sweat dripping over red marks which would surely fade to deep purple bruises by the time the sun hung high in the sky. His love lay over top of him, a reassuring weight as the reality of their actions set in.

The first ray of sunlight shone through the window, reflecting off of the metal of his rosary, and Sunday decided that everything would be okay.

~~~

No hot water. He hadn't had a chance to ask Robin about their fuel situation, but surely the backup generator would still work if they refilled the gas tank. For now though, even cold water was a welcome addition to his life.

He stood under the shower head as icy water ran down his skin, taking an apocalypse’s worth of dirt with it. He turned to where Gallagher stood, still fully clothed.

“It’s nice, you know. A shower would do you good.”

“I-” Gallagher shook his head. “I'm coming. Just, don't be frightened.”

Sunday laughed. “You can't be that dirty.”

Hesitantly, Gallagher shrugged his shirt off, and then his tattered pants. It took Sunday a moment too long to register what was happening.

The tears pooling in the corners of the brunette’s eyes were his first cue. Dried blood crusted around a wound on Gallagher’s back. 

Perhaps Sunday was not so medically inclined, but he swore he could see each individual tooth imprint.

~~~

He stared out of the window of his new apartment, gazing upon the cityscape before them. Most of his belongings had fit in only a handful of bags, so the room was dreadfully empty, echoing as Robin spoke.

“I'll help you get some furniture this week.”

“He's still letting me work for him. Even after all this.”

“Do you want to?”

“I don't know,” Sunday sighed. “I don't know. Yes? He’s still our father.”

“You don't have to. I can find you a better job, one with a boss that respects you.”

“No, it’s fine.” Sunday smiled down at the bustling streets. “He can't possibly stay mad for too long. I'll rise back up in the ranks soon enough.”

“Sunday,” 

“Robin, really. It's fine. It's bad enough that I moved out, leaving the company completely would devastate him.”

“You're better off without him.”

Sunday shook his head, turning to face her. “He made me what I am, I can't forget that. Maybe you weren't there to see it, but he cares about us.”

“Sunday, I'm sorry. You know I had to leave when I did.”

“I know.”

“I wish I didn't have to leave you behind.”

“I know, Robin. It's alright,” Sunday wiped at his eyes. “I can do the rest myself. Thank you for helping me.”

“Are you-”

“I'm fine. I'll be fine,” he picked up a cardboard box, one half full of books he had cherished as a child. Sappy romances, fairytales, books that once had made him long for a happier life. “Could you please drop these off at a charity shop on your way? I don't believe I'll be needing these anymore.”

Robin nodded sadly, pursing her lips at the sight of the novels. 

“Thank you, Robin. For everything.”

~~~

Sunday stared at his reflection in the mirror, his soft grey curls hanging damply around his cheekbones. Hollow eyes stared back at him, circles so dark one might think he had two black eyes. He splashed icy water onto his face in a hopeless attempt to revert his face to its usual effortless beauty.

Instead, the life only seemed to drain out of his face more. 

Robin had barely been able to drag him away from Gallagher’s bedside. The little time he had managed to spend away from his bedside was consumed by oppressive thoughts, stifled only by his lists. Cook some food. Force it down your throat. Stop pacing. Clean Gallagher’s machete. Sweep the kitchen. Sort through the remaining supplies. Wash your face. He executed the simple tasks numbly, barely present in his own mind.

It had barely been ten hours since the man had revealed the infected bite on his back, but he had already taken a turn for the worse. Now that he was out of the room, Sunday dreaded reentering, seeing the sweat drenched down his lover’s face, empty eyes and haggard breath.

He didn’t know how he would bear it. If he even could. Misha sat with him now, a mess of tears and whispered memories. The poor boy had suffered so much loss already, Gallagher’s passing would surely break him.

But perhaps Gallagher will still recover. Sunday had yet to see it happen, but surely it was possible. They had antibiotics, it may just be enough to help him pull through. 

Perhaps my Lord will take mercy on a kind soul such as he.

With every passing minute, Sunday found himself losing hope.

Shaking hands turned the doorknob to Gallagher’s deathbed, hesitating before the door could swing all the way open. It was difficult to make himself face such a painful scene. 

Misha was hunched over the bed, holding Gallagher’s hand in his own. The sickly man looked over at Sunday, hovering in the door, and slowly reached out, beckoning him inside. Tears threatened to fall as he stepped closer.

He knelt at the bedside, clutching a cold hand between his own, rosary binding their fingers together. Misha leaned closer to him, a comforting warmth against all the grey.

Perhaps they sat like that for ten minutes, perhaps it was another ten hours. Sunday’s knees burned, but he stubbornly refused to rise from his vigil.

Gallagher at least granted him the peace of grieving in silence, slipping in and out of consciousness. 

Misha vanished from the room at a point that Sunday had not noticed, suddenly reentering with soup, though he scurried off as quickly as he had come. He too could hardly bear the pain, it seemed. Sunday slowly stretched out his shoulders as he uncurled himself from his post, rustling Gallagher awake to spoon warm soup into his mouth. 

Crimson eyes stared up into gold. Finally, Gallagher spoke, his voice raspy with disuse.

“Will you take care of him?”

Sunday could only stare back. His eyes were a breathtaking shade of red, truly. How had he never looked this closely before? 

“Sunday.”

He blinked, shaking off his melancholy. “Yes?”

“Take care of him. Don’t let him die like this.”

“Of course –”

“Please. I made a promise, and now look at me. I failed him,” Gallagher sighed.

“You didn’t fail him. You didn’t fail anyone. Neither of us would be alive right now if it weren’t for you.”

“Thank you.”

“Something about you changed me, Gallagher. I believed I was incapable of loving someone this way for so many years,” Sunday lowered his voice to a whisper. “I don’t know if I could love someone else like this. I’m terrified, Love, of what you’ve done to me.”

“Pass me my bag, birdie.”

Sunday furrowed his eyebrows in confusion as he followed the dying man’s instructions. Gallagher gingerly took the backpack, reaching into a pocket. From inside he pulled out a necklace chain, a silver ring hanging off the bottom. 

“A friend gave this to me a long time ago,” Gallagher coughed, taking a long time to catch his breath before speaking again. “It was a promise, a guarantee that he would always be by my side. I want you to have it.” 

“Gallagher,”

“Please,” he pressed the chain into Sunday’s hand. “It’s the only thing I’m still able to do for you. Let me have this one.”

“Okay,” Sunday’s composure finally shattered. “Okay.”

They lay there, Gallagher’s slowly beating heart a soothing melody in Sunday’s ear, until laboured breaths evened as the hound drifted off to sleep. 

~~~

He nearly tripped over Misha as he crept out of the room. The boy was curled up against the wall next to the door, arms wrapped around his knees. He looked like he had been crying.

It was easy for Sunday to forget just how young Misha really was, what with how the boy carried himself. After a moment’s pause, he slid down the wall to sit beside him, side by side against the scuffed wallpaper. 

“Are you alright?”

Misha laughed flatly. “That’s a stupid question.”

Sunday laid his head in his hands. “Are you surviving, then?”

“What else is there to do?” Misha wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “We live and we fight and we die. That’s just what we have to do now. None of us have the choice. Give us a week and we’ll be back out there, searching for food again. I don’t know how we’re going to live without him, but we just don’t have the option to grieve the way we used to.”

Sunday was at a loss for words, electing instead to rub his thumb over the smooth metal of the ring on his necklace. 

“I’ve lost people before. My grandpa, for one. My parents are dead. All my friends are probably dead too.”

“Back in Penacony, there was this woman. My neighbour. She stayed with me right at the beginning, but not for long. She had been bit before I had run into her. She passed away quietly, and didn't seem to be in much pain. Maybe it’ll be that way for Gallagher.”

“Did you see him?” Misha’s eyes welled with tears again. “Didn’t you get a good look at him? He’s suffering. Fighting it for us, because he’s stubborn, but he’s in pain.”

Silence filled the hallway. 

The grandfather clock at the end of the hall ticked louder and louder with each passing second. Misha silently pulled a pocket watch out, comparing it to the carved wooden beast. He smiled sadly before sliding the watch back into his pocket.

“I don’t think I can do it. It should be me, but I can’t.”

Sunday looked up, confused.

“Kill him, I mean. The second time. I can’t see him like that.”

“Misha –”

“I can’t, Sunday.” He looked up with wild eyes, filled with an indescribable pain. “It needs to be you. He wouldn’t want me to do it anyways. He thinks it would damage me, or something. He’s right. I’m not strong enough. I think I’ll regret it someday, but I won't be able to do it.”

“I’m not so sure I will be able to do it, either.”

“You can. You’re strong, I’ve seen you. Resilient,” Misha stood up with arms crossed protectively across his chest. “Please, Sunday.”

The hopeless look that Misha gave Sunday was intrinsically Gallagher, through and through. 

Sunday’s heart shattered into a million pieces all over again. This time, he didn’t know if he would be able to pick them all up. He nodded silently, sealing Gallagher’s fate with a single motion. 

I do not want to believe that Gallagher will turn into one of those creatures, and yet here I sit, promising that I will stop what cannot be true. It’s cruel, of both me and God, for this horrible fate. 

I have condemned him.

Misha closed the door to Gallagher’s room behind him with a click, leaving Sunday alone in the cold hallway.

The grandfather clock chimes, loud and nostalgic.

~~~

He was pretending. He cares so much more than he will ever show me.

Sunday watched as Misha walked past him in the hallway. He had spent hours talking at Gallagher’s bedside, words muffled through the heavy wood door. There was a fire in his eyes now, however, that burned with a pain perhaps too familiar to the boy.

He slowly stood up from his place on the floor, back screaming in disagreement. The doorknob was cold beneath his hand, a chilly reminder of what was to come.

Gallagher lay on the bed, asleep. Sweat beaded on his sweltering forehead, shining under the afternoon sun as he took shallow, pained breaths. He looked like a distant shadow of his usual self. Sunday barely recognized him.

Perhaps it will be a mercy.

He instantly recoiled at the thought, horrified at himself for even allowing the idea to surface.

But there Gallagher lay, a shell of the man he had fallen in love with. The fever had decimated his body in a matter of hours, already having changed him so much since Sunday last entered the room.

The air felt heavy, oppressive like a tomb. It weighed endlessly on his shoulders as he sat down. 

“I thought I was unlovable, before you. My father drilled that into me. I thought it just wasn't in my nature,” he slid slender fingers into Gallagher’s grasp. “But you showed me that I was wrong. You made me feel desperate, you made me want like I never have before, not in my entire life.”

Gallagher’s raspy breaths echoed in his ears.

“I never would have found Robin if I hadn’t met you and Misha. I would be dead if it weren’t for you. For goodness sake, I’ll probably be dead regardless. I don’t know how I will survive without you there by my side,” he rose from his seat, pain filling his voice. “If it weren’t for Misha and Robin, I know I wouldn’t be able to keep going. But I have to, for them.”

The sun hung low in the afternoon sky. He could see it through the window, casting golden light across the estate grounds. Misha was out there now, carrying his stick as he walked.

“I don’t know if the Lord will forgive me, once this is all done. When the dead return to their rest, and I am left all alone again,” Sunday lowered his voice. “I don’t know if I will forgive myself. The things I have done…” 

Misha was not carrying his staff, he could see that now. The boy had chosen a shady corner of the yard, beneath a tall oak tree that brought back oh so many childhood memories. The blade of Misha’s shovel struck deep into the earth beneath the golden sun.

Sunday walked over to the window in silence. It took him several minutes to realize why the boy was digging. Tears streamed down his face as he watched, knowing in his heart that nothing he could say to Misha would make him lay down his shovel.

Robin eventually joined Misha in the yard. He was much too far away to hear their words, but it didn’t matter, their embrace said all that needed to be heard. He watched as Robin walked back towards the potting shed, returning with a second shovel. 

Only as his sister began to help dig his lover’s grave did he turn away from the window.

~~~

The truck creaked beneath Gallagher’s weight as he leaned back in the bed of his loyal pickup. Red eyes stared up at the stars above, a protective blanket over the broken world. 

Behind him, his dear Misha slept, safe inside his truck. 

The machete in his hands weighed his soul down, though he knew it was the burden he had to carry to keep them safe. Tendrils of smoke rose from the embers of their fire, framing the twinkling stars ever so beautifully. 

A lifetime ago, he had worked a big city gig at an art exhibition, standing guard for hours in front of paintings not so dissimilar to the view that hung above him now. 

He recalled a man who had stood in front of a particular painting for so long, directly across from his post. Silver hair and a closed-off stance, a glimpse of piercing eyes that Gallagher could not quite recall. 

The man had seemed shaken when he had finally walked away from the painting, leaving Gallagher without a subject to gaze upon. Instead, he finally looked at the masterpiece that had captivated someone who seemed to carry a story as meaningful as the artwork around them. 

He squinted to read the plaque. Crucifixion and Last Judgement. A biblical piece. 

Silver hair caught the corner of his eye, drawing his attention to the stranger as he disappeared into the crowd.

Gallagher sighed as he ignored the urge to follow the man’s alluring presence. He had a job to do, he couldn’t very well leave his post.

Perhaps in another life, one with fewer missed opportunities, he would have chased the stranger down, asked for his number, taken him on a date.

Perhaps they would have laid beneath this very same blanket of stars, hand in hand, and all would have been well.

In another life, the world would not end, and would not leave the sinners to die alone.

Above him, the heavens peered down, a looming presence above their tiny safety net among the hellscape that was left after the storm. The stars seemed almost foreboding now, no longer protective, fading back into their vast and uncaring nature.

The groan of a wandering corpse stirred him from his thoughts. He jumped down from the truck, machete slicing clean through its head before he even had time to think. 

When the sun rose, the pair would continue their journey back to Penacony, where it would be safe. Where Misha would have a chance to survive. A place where his hands would not need to be stained with blood.

For now, however, he would remain at his post, a dutiful guard dog, now, and for forevermore.

~~~

Gallagher lay still on the bed. The room was entirely silent, broken only by Sunday’s panicked gasps for air.

He pressed his ear to Gallagher’s chest, desperately hoping the familiar heartbeat would return. Sunday had cried far more in the last handful of weeks than he was used to, and yet he still found it in himself to sob heartbroken wails against his lover’s cooling skin.

Sunday cried until his throat was sore, until his tears dried up, until his frail body shivered. He cried for a man who had been all but dead for far too long, a man who had saved him from this very same fate. 

He didn’t even know when it had happened, he realized. In all his disarray, he had never thought to ask. 

Gallagher wouldn’t have told me, regardless.

Shame and regret coursed through him. I should have noticed sooner. How did I let this happen to him?

The last ray of sunlight dipped beneath the far off mountains, leaving the room dim.

Sunday sniffled as he reached for the gun that had been left at the bedside. As he sat up, he could feel large cold fingers tangle in his hair. He gasped, both in surprise and sadness, as Gallagher – or the undead creature with his face – pulled himself up, using Sunday as leverage. 

He recoiled in fear, pain shooting through his scalp as he ripped himself from his lover’s grip. As he leapt back, the gun fell off the nightstand, skittering across the wood floor, landing far out of Sunday’s reach. Palms hit hard wood as he scrambled after it, desperately reaching for his last salvation.

Gallagher followed, far swifter than he expected the recently deceased to be. Cold, dead fingers grasped for his warm flesh, desperate for another taste. He turned, palm catching the corpse’s head barely in time to stop him from sinking his teeth into soft skin. 

Hungry eyes bore down on Sunday as his fingers clutched the dead flesh of his love’s face. They lay there, locked in a deadly embrace – dead fingers reaching for warm skin, and slender hands against a cold, lifeless head.

Seven years of tribulation.

If this was to be considered the rapture, Sunday hadn’t even lasted one. No matter how devout of a follower Sunday had been, his punishment from straying was nigh, and at the hands of his love, no less.

His love. His. 

Sunday thought back to those ten days he spent wasting away in his apartment. It felt like a lifetime ago. If I had wasted away to nothing, waited for Robin there, perhaps Gallagher would not have been bit. 

Perhaps I am the cause.

Gallagher’s eyes, that had once seen him laid bare, now saw only his sweet flesh. The eyes that had once burned through his cold guard, that had once picked him to pieces and found the love he had tried so hard to keep pressed deep down. The eyes of the man he had fallen so devastatingly deeply for. The eyes, not of an enemy, but of someone he had perhaps all too quickly grown entirely unable to live without.

Sunday reached out with weak fingers, grasping for the pistol that lay just out of his grasp. Teeth strained inches away from his face, teeth that yearned to sink into his neck once more. 

Fingertips brushed against the cold metal of the gun’s barrel.

The angel felt his hold on the hellhound slip.