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The world ended 333 days ago.
Jeff would have found significance in the fact that it is this day of all days that a new face arrives at the barricade, but Jeff has been dead for two months so no one says anything at all about the date when the roar of a motorbike approaching cuts through the silence at the boundary. There isn’t much time for words anyway as Warblers mobilize to take position up and down the wall that forms the last line of defense between the wasteland and Dalton. Fort Dalton, actually, as that’s what they’ve been calling it for the last six months. The name had been all Trent, back before he was turned and Thad put two right between his eyes.
Sebastian’s place on the perimeter puts a former freshman on his right, but Nick is on his left so he doesn’t worry too much about it. Nick’s good in a fight. The new arrival looks like a loner anyway, just one person on a bike out in the dust. The undead don’t ride motorcycles so there isn’t likely to be heavy fighting today, or maybe any fighting at all. Which is a little bit of a disappointment if Sebastian’s being honest. He’s been spoiling for a fight these past few days, the once spacious corridors of the main campus feeling smaller and smaller with every passing hour.
He’s far enough down the line that he doesn’t get a very good look at the newcomer, but it’s pretty clear after a few tense minutes that he doesn’t pose a threat. Already the Warblers closer in are standing down and the smaller side gate is being opened. A moment later there’s another coughing engine sputter and the bike starts back up and disappears inside. The gate closes again and then the all-clear whistle cuts through the air. Sebastian lets the rifle drop from his shoulder and heaves a sigh, part relief and part disappointment. It’s hard to keep up the level of tension necessary for survival these days even knowing the false peacefulness of the past few weeks is just that – false.
It’s made him apathetic though, this nothingness since the last big attack that took a third of their numbers and then ended almost as soon as it began. He can’t seem to care as much these days, and it’s only base survival instinct that keeps him caring at all. So he doesn’t go down to the main courtyard to lay eyes on the new arrival, waving Nick off when the boy tries to coax him into coming along. Instead he wanders back into the dorm building deciding he might as well catch a few more hours of sleep. Everyone else is bound to be up and buzzing for a while at least.
His dorm is dark, no surprise there, as they hardly ever bother running the generators on this side of the building. It’s more important to save the fuel for things like cooking and boiling water over in the main hall. He’s got a flashlight attached to the top of his gun and it’s enough to get him into the room and keep him from tripping over the clothes and other items scattered on the floor as he crosses to his bed.
He drops the rifle on what used to be a school desk and is now mostly a munitions pile. He pulls the .22 he keeps at the small of his back out of his waistband and tucks it under his pillow before lying down. It’s not smart to be too far from a weapon these days. He doesn’t even kick off his boots before he’s asleep.
When he wakes up it’s still the same inky dark as always, but his internal clock tells him he’s gotten about 6 hours. That’s a lot these days, so he must have been tired. It also means he’s missed dinner, and right on cue his stomach growls loudly. Time to go forage.
It isn’t until he’s back in the hallway, .22 tucked in tight against his spine and the rifle a comforting weight on its strap around his shoulder, that he remembers the motorbike and its rider. The building is quiet except for the snores he can hear behind a few of the doors, but someone’s bound to be on watch up at the observatory and can fill him in. Curiosity outweighs hunger so he detours from his path to the kitchens to take the winding stairs two at a time up to the platform where Dalton boys used to study the stars and now study the landscape for possible threats.
When he hits the open air of the rooftop room he can feel the first chill of winter in the wind and wishes idly for the sweatshirt left back in his dorm. It won’t be long until they’ll have to start using the generators for heat too and he’s not sure how long they can stretch their fuel supplies. It’s just one more worry to add to the pile, and less important than the fact that as far as he can see the observatory deck is empty, which means someone is skipping out on their watch. These few quiet weeks have obviously put some of the boys too at ease.
He’s about to head back inside to search out the shirker and give them an earful when movement against the western wall of the roof catches his eye. Turns out he’s not so alone after all as a body emerges from the shadows.
It must be the newcomer, because the boy’s face is unfamiliar to Sebastian and he knows everyone they still have left by sight at least. The stranger is handsome, broad shoulders, square jaw, golden hair swept away from his face. He looks hard too, ruggedly good-looking and battle ready. There is vigilance and sleeplessness both in his expression, which speaks more clearly to his fighting experience than even the gun in his hand or the knife at his hip. He’s wearing dark camouflage pants and an olive green shirt, both of which scream actual military issue unlike most of what the boys around Dalton wear. He’s even got dogtags around his neck, though Sebastian can’t tell from here what they say.
The boy’s drawn down on Sebastian already, gun held loose but sure and pointing just low and left of Sebastian’s heart. The position makes his intention clear, I don’t want to shoot you, but I will.
Sebastian thinks briefly about seeing just how quick the stranger is. It’s testament to his own stir-crazy mind that he actually considers going for the rifle just because he wonders if he might be faster. It’s stupid though, they take enough casualties fighting the dead, no need to add to their enemy’s numbers needlessly. Instead he raises his hands in the universal sign for ‘unarmed’ and halts his approach until the other boy seems satisfied that Sebastian isn’t a threat and lowers the gun, tucking it into the holster at his side.
There is a moment when neither of them moves. It’s been so long since Sebastian has practiced any niceties that he’s actually stunned to realize he’s forgotten how simple things like introductions are supposed to go. It brings up a memory from only a year ago – but what feels like a lifetime – of meeting another handsome boy, and the way the easy smile, the flirty tone, the words to use, had come so easily then. He smiles now without meaning too, wondering if in a different life he might have met this boy at some club, if he might have tried a pick up line. If it might have worked.
The smile breaks the tension at least, and the boy approaches with a hand out. Sebastian takes his hand, feels callouses that match his own and a firm grip.
“Hunter Clarington,” the boy says by way of introduction. It’s an odd enough name that Sebastian thinks it might even be his real one.
“Sebastian Smythe,” he returns with another smile. Hunter grins back and Sebastian is suddenly remembering the appeal of trading even just words with a handsome boy. “What brings you to Dalton?” he adds, genuinely curious but mostly to get Hunter talking again so he can hear his voice.
“Oh you know, just taking in the scenery,” Hunter says drily, “Heard Ohio was beautiful this time of year, what with the changing seasons and shambling corpses and all that.”
Sebastian laughs, realizes he hasn’t laughed in a while and that he’s missed it. “Sure, of course. If there’s one thing we’re known for it’s our undead. Well, that and football.”
Hunter smiles at the shared joke, turns to lean up against the wall and sighs. “God, I miss football,” he says wistfully, “You play?”
“Nah,” Sebastian shakes his head and steps closer so that they are resting along the wall nearly hip to hip, “Lacrosse was my game.”
“Never was too good at that one,” Hunter admits, “Not really the sport of choice at military school you know?”
“Prep school boy all the way, so I’ll have to take your word for it,” Sebastian confesses.
Hunter turns and gives him a long once over that warms Sebastian down to his toes. It’s been a long time since anyone has looked at him as anything other than a brother-in-arms.
“Prep school huh?” Hunter asks when his eyes have finished their journey, “You wear a uniform and everything?”
“And everything,” Sebastian confirms. “Pretty sure I’ve still got the jacket and tie somewhere in the dorms.”
“Maybe you’ll have to show me sometime,” Hunter says casually, though the look he is giving Sebastian is anything but casual.
“I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours,” Sebastian teases giving Hunter a once over of his own.
Hunter laughs and spreads his arms wide. “This is about all that’s left I’m afraid. Dress blues aren’t really all that practical for cross-country zombie hunting.” He gives a little spin for effect, and his clothes may not be fancy but they fit him well and Sebastian feels a spike of lust hit his gut.
It all might have been the wonderful start to something hot and sticky and oh so needed, but Sebastian’s eyes catch on the back of Hunter’s bicep as he finishes his spin and reality comes crashing back down. Before Hunter even comes to a stop Sebastian’s got his rifle in his hands and has a bead right on the center of Hunter’s forehead.
Hunter looks surprised at first, the flirty grin he’d been wearing falling from his face so fast it would be funny if this weren’t suddenly deadly serious. It’s only the fact that Sebastian can still feel the heated curl of attraction in his chest that’s kept his finger off the trigger so far, and he really hopes he doesn’t end up regretting that.
Hunter doesn’t say anything, just puts his hands out low as if trying to reassure Sebastian that he’s harmless. Sebastian doesn’t want to shoot him, which makes him just a little slower, a little more trusting. It’s what makes him hesitate just long enough for Hunter to move, pulling his own gun smoothly from his side until he’s got it trained dead center on Sebastian’s chest. Sebastian figures that answers the question about which of them is faster.
The next few seconds are a tense standoff. It’s quickly clear that neither of them wants to be the first to fire, but Sebastian knows his duty, knows he has to care more about his friends, his brothers, downstairs than about the boy in front of him. It’s bad enough he was distracted by the prospect of flirting, that he didn’t even think to wonder why a brand new arrival would have been left alone on watch. He can stop being a fool now at least he thinks, and inches his finger toward the trigger.
Hunter is good though, maybe military school trained him well or maybe just who-knows-how-long out on the road, so he reads the movement, reacts in kind.
“Sebastian,” Hunter says, voice calm and clear and finger steady a hairsbreadth above the trigger of his own gun, “Let me explain.”
“Nothing to explain,” Sebastian responds, his own voice cold, “You’ve got a bite mark, which means it’s only a matter of time before you turn.”
“It’s not that simple,” Hunter rationalizes, starting to slowly step to his right, circling slowly until he’s got his back to the wall.
“Yeah it fucking is,” Sebastian cuts in, his own movements mirroring Hunter’s. He’s angry, at Hunter for being infected, at the world for falling apart around him, at the universe for dangling yet another thing he can’t have in front of him. “You get bit, you get put down. No exceptions.”
“I’m an exception,” Hunter insists.
“Why, because you’ve got a pretty face?” Sebastian spits, even though he knows they both know the only reason Hunter is still standing so far is exactly because of that pretty face.
“No,” Hunter says. He steps forward suddenly and lowers his gun, the motion so unexpected that Sebastian actually pulls the trigger. The shot misses, Hunter no longer in the space Sebastian was aiming. Sebastian is sure this is the end, that Hunter is going to kill him now. At least his shot might alert the others.
Hunter doesn’t shoot though, or pull his knife, or anything. He’s close enough to kiss, and Sebastian should be using these extra few seconds to pull the .22 but he can’t seem to move, can only watch as Hunter pulls up the sleeve of his shirt further, turning to show Sebastian the raised bite mark high up near his shoulder. The bite mark so old that it’s mostly scar tissue.
“I’m an exception,” he says with a quiet sincerity, “Because I’m immune.”