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Living is Just a Waste of Death, part III
Title: Living is Just a Waste of Death, part III
Fandom: P!atd + FOB slash
Pairing/s: Brendon/Jon, a touch of Pete/Patrick if you squint.
Rating: R, for gore, swearing, disturbing imagery and slashy-ness.
Summary: As the zombies somehow get smarter, the places left to run for the boys is rapidly narrowing. Jon teeters on the edge of heroism and insanity, and our heroes make a plucky young friend.
Notes: Earlier chapters: ONE | TWO. For my patd_100 Jon Walker claim, if they ever start accepting anyone's posts again...prompt #024 - choices. And don't forget, if you still want to download the soundtrack for this fic, it's in a .zip file over at my journal HERE. Oh, and I'll be leaving to visit family for the holidays for the next ten days, until Jan 2nd. So there probably won't be any new updates on this fic until then, unless I can find enough time to sit at the computer and write up the next chapter. Have a nice holiday, everyone!



It was the deafening bang that woke everyone up. The whole base was sleeping soundly, and so when the gunshot went off it was like a sonic blast. Pete almost fell out of bed from where he'd been snuggled up against Jon, Brendon on his other side with his arms wrapped around his lover. Brendon's eyes snapped open, and he sat bolt upright. The same thought all occurred to them at once, and Jon whispered "Let's go check on Spencer and Patrick, guys," his voice still thick and husky with sleep.

They made their way down the metal hallway, the floor icy under their bare feet, as bunk doors opened all around them and curious survivors stepped out, rubbing their eyes and asking questions. None of them answered any however, and it was with a trembling hand that Pete pushed open Spencer and Patrick's door. Patrick was hunched over Spencer's bed, throwing the sheets apart in a frantic search for him. "Spencer?! SPENCER!" he was crying out, his voice sounding as though he was near tears. When Pete's head started whipping around, he stood up and fixed them all with a panicked look. "I was fast asleep, I didn't even hear him get up...I'm so sorry guys, I'm so sorry..."

Jon went into the hallway, looking around, and caught sight of a bathroom door a few feet away. "I'm going to go check in there," he said to Brendon, who nodded and went to go comfort Patrick. A few moments later, Jon backed out of the bathroom and said, "...I found him, guys."

His voice sounded strange, unreadable. That alone was enough to bring everyone running, because strong, stoic Jon just didn't sound that shaken up. Ever. Brendon gasped softly upon reaching the bathroom first, stumbling back and putting a shaking hand over his eyes. "Oh, god," he whispered, and Patrick and Pete really didn't want to look after that. But of course, they did.

Spencer was splayed out across the cold tiled floor, a gun lying a few inches away from his limp hand and his head resting in a pool of thick, blackish blood. His clear blue eyes were wide open, a contented smile frozen onto his lifeless face. The hall and bathroom were silent, until Lindy came bustling up behind Jon and gasped. Brendon was rushing for one of the toilets, retching.

"Oh, god," Lindy whispered, much as Brendon had. "Oh, no. I'm so sorry, boys."

Jon took a step forward and picked up the gun that Spencer had shot himself with, opening the clip and checking to see if it was still loaded. Upon seeing that it was, he nodded grimly and aimed it at Spencer's bloody head. Pete rushed at him, grabbing his arm. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"I'm not going to take a chance on the hope that dying from a shot to the head is enough to keep you from turning into one of those things," Jon said easily, so easily it was eerie. "I'm going to paint the walls with his brains, and you know he'd thank me for it, Pete. You know he would."

Pete opened his mouth, about to say something, but then Spencer twitched. And hacked. Then fell still and silent again.

They all stared.

"...Shit," Lindy said quietly. Then, louder, "Someone go find Dr. Leiber, damnit! This boy isn't dead!"

A moment later, Dr. Leiber was rushing into the bathroom with his black medical kit, and Jon finally lowered the gun. "Someone help me lift him onto this stretcher. Very carefully," the tall, slender, balding man said nervously. "He's not dead, but he will be very soon if I can't perform a miracle." Pete helped him lift Spencer onto the makeshift military stretcher that he had, and a moment later they were wheeling him off to the infirmary for some...Jesus, emergency spontaneous brain surgery, he thought weakly. He turned away as Dr. Leiber started cleaning off his scalpels and shaved off Spencer's hair very carefully.

Lindy followed Brendon, Jon and Patrick, chewing on her lower lip. When the immense crash from the front gates outside game though, she laughed out loud. Slowly, they all turned to look at her. She was backing up, out of the infirmary, a sick smile spreading over her lips that suddenly looked paler than anyone had noticed before. "They're coming. Kill me, but it's too late for you meatsacks anyway," she hissed viciously, and no one was surprised when Jon's hand shot out, his 9MM in hand, and fired off a shot that splattered her brains all over the metal wall behind her.

"I aim to please," he said with a shrug, his voice nonchalant, but Brendon could see the fear in his eyes.

"Bitch sold us out," Pete whispered, his voice awed. "She must have only been dead for a day or two. How long have you guys been at this base?" he directed the question to the pale, shaking Dr. Leiber, who shook his head.

"O-only about three days."

"Shit. Lindy must have died of a heart attack or something, I couldn't see any damage on her."

"How about we stop theorizing about this shit and figure out what to do about the fucking zombie army that's breaking into the base, huh?" Jon broke in, checking the clip in his gun. "I'm half-empty."

"T-the gun room is on the second level," a terrified-looking young girl of about thirteen whispered to all of them, staring at the decimated final corpse of Lindy on the floor. Jon whirled around and shot her a look.

"Who are you?"

"Lucy." She pointed to Lindy. "She was my mom."

Brendon looked like he was about to cry again, but Jon aimed his gun at her. "How about that, huh? Did your mom make you just like her after she started rotting, Lucy-girl?"

"No!" Brown eyes huge, Lucy backed away from Jon, shaking all over. "I swear, I thought she was alive! She never said...I mean, it's stupid to think that she would have, but...I'm not a zombie, I swear. Have the doc look at me, if you want."

"For god's sake, put the gun down, Jon," Pete said, leaning down and beckoning to Lucy. He pressed his ear to her chest and heard a clear heartbeat, and stood up. "Her heart is beating. Her heart is beating, Jon."

Jon lowered his gun, and they all turned together at the sound of another crash. "Shit," Jon swore softly. "All right, we need to make a plan or something. I know I'm not going to just fucking stand here waiting for those things to come cannibal-rape me or what the fuck ever. You." He gestured with his gun in the direction of Dr. Leiber, which made the older man flinch visibly. "You keep operating on Spencer."

Pete opened his mouth. "Jon," he said quietly. "With Lindy gone and one of us being a child...and Spencer being indisposed, there are only twelve of us left to fight. And it sounds like there could be dozens of those things breaking in. Maybe hundreds. Maybe we should just run."

"Hey." Lucy broke in, pouting in a gesture that was oddly normal. "I could fight. Just gimmie a gun."

Jon gave her a knowing look. "Not today, kid." He paused then, looking right into Pete's eyes. And later, Pete would know that he'd seen exactly what Jon knew then that he had to do. Brendon could feel it too, and he took a step forward and put a hand against Jon's arm. Jon looked down at him, and then leaned over to kiss the top of his head. "You're right," he answered Pete finally. "But the zombies are more than likely to have the base surrounded. There's no way Dr. Leiber could finish operating on Spencer with enough time left over for all of you to escape...not without some sort of buffer between you and the zombies." He turned, taking Brendon's upper arms into both hands. "Brendon. Please don't give up. No matter where I am, I love you."

Brendon's eyes went wide, but before he could say anything, Jon was letting go of him and booting open the door to the infirmary, slamming it shut behind him as he entered the hallway and throwing an open-palmed hand down on the SECURE button next to it that locked the door for good. There was another exit in the back of the room, and a window they could escape out of once Spencer could be moved, and no other way for the zombies to get in other than the one Jon had just eliminated. It was like fate - the second he did this, hundreds of zombies poured into the metal hallway. The stench was overpowering, and Jon grabbed the black-and-chrome 39MM AK-47 that was mounted on the wall, hopefully not just for decoration. He checked the clip as they neared, and then watched as the horde paused in front of him. Soft hunks of rotting flesh were falling loosely to the floor, slick with pus and intestinal fluid suddenly. For a moment, Jon and the zombies just watched each other.

Jon released the charging handle on the gun, his index finger slowly pushing the firing setting to 'automatic'. The click was as loud as if he'd actually shot the gun already in the silent hallway.

And then he said "'Sup, zombies?"

He was still shooting when they swarmed him, laughing insanely. They didn't give him a chance to save his last round for himself though, and Brendon could feel every lashing of pain in his body when he was finally buried under the writhing, maggoty horde of rot.

++++




In the infirmary, no one could stop Brendon's screaming. He was clawing wildly at the solid metal door, shrieking and sobbing as if he was losing his mind. "JON! JON!" he wailed, finally collapsing against the door in a weeping, drained heap of raw agony. Dr. Leiber was struggling to concentrate, carefully working with the few tools they'd been able to find. Pete and Lucy went to try and comfort Brendon, and the rest of the survivors huddled in a corner, whispering and awed by the immensity of Brendon's pain. Pete knelt down next to Brendon, feeling the anguish rising off his skin as clearly as the passion he'd felt that night they'd all lain tangled up in each other, in their bed. There was no doubt in his mind that Jon and Brendon were soulmates anymore, even though he'd never really believed in that kind of thing. The moment Jon had rushed out of the infirmary, Pete had felt an enormous chunk of Brendon going with him, being pulled out as though Jon had reached into his chest with his fist. What was sobbing on the floor was only half of Brendon, maybe less.

He was the one person Pete wouldn't have faulted for suicide, in that moment. He couldn't even begin to imagine what Brendon must have been suffering. Lucy whimpered softly, her dark brown curls limp and sweaty around her pale, young face. Reaching out, she touched Brendon's shoulder. "He was...he was very brave," she whispered helplessly, clearly swallowing tears. "Braver than I've ever seen anyone be. He saved all of us."

Brendon didn't respond. His eyes were clouding over, taking on this eerily dead look, almost like one of the zombies. Pete still wasn't quite processing that Jon was dead. Jon...their violent, tender Jon. Jon, who had driven the car for him even when he was tired himself, who had turned his gun on a little girl just to protect the rest of them. Jon, whose mad laughter had been audible even through the door, as the undead had overtaken he and his suicide mission. Jon, who was only twenty-one and whose back had arched for him in bed. Pete didn't even realize he was crying too, until he was. Oddly enough, Brendon wasn't anymore. He was slumped limply against the door, his eyes wide. And then.

Machine-gun fire from outside. Another burst of crazed laughing, and a very familiar voice. "What is up, cocksuckers? You like that?! I THOUGHT YOU WOULD!"

Brendon blinked, suddenly coming to life again. "Jon?" he whispered, and the hope in his voice broke Pete's heart. If Jon was still moving and talking out there, he was more than likely a zombie himself. But then...why would he be shooting at them? Some sort of trick? There was no way Jon could have survived that swarm, with only the gun that had been mounted on the wall outside. Was there? How many clips had been in that gun? And just how much of a badass was Jon Walker? Despite himself, Pete felt a wild surge of hope.

Dr. Leiber had turned his head, his eyes huge. "Holy god," he whispered, pausing in his operation. "Is that boy still alive out there?"

"Shut up," Pete hissed at him, pressing his ear to the cold metal door. None of them noticed Lucy picking up Jon's Browning 9MM pistol from the floor and slipping out the rear exit, not even the remaining survivors. Some had fallen asleep, some were crying quietly. Pete and Brendon knelt there until their legs were sore, then numb. Then, about an hour later, the door slid open.

Lucy was standing there, soaked in blood. She had one of Jon's arms slung over her slender shoulders, and was bracing him up. Jon was finally unconscious, a long, deep gash running from behind his right ear and down the side of his neck, all the way down to his chest. His hair was matted in blood and filth, and it looked like he had a serious head wound. His nose was clearly broken, and if the sickening crunch when Lucy moved forward was any indication, some ribs were too. He was covered in contusions and gashes, bleeding heavily from his chest and stomach where the zombies had tried to claw through his flesh and pull out his intestines. Both eyes had been pummeled black by rotting fists, and from the way his left leg was twisted oddly it looked like he'd at least sprained it. But he was alive.

Dr. Leiber stared in awe. "That boy..." he started weakly, "...By all rights and means, he should be very much dead right now."

Brendon had collapsed again, weeping all but hysterically, and Pete helped Lucy lay Jon down on a spare stretcher from the wall. Lucy herself was fairly fucked up, her face and arms bleeding, half of her long, pretty hair ripped from her scalp. But she smiled at Pete through bloody teeth, one of which was chipped, broken at the front of her mouth. It made her look kind of like an elf or something, Pete thought. "The hall's clear," she said. Pete closed his eyes.

"Do you have any idea how fucking stupid what you just did was?"

"Mmhm," Lucy nodded, undisturbed. "But Jon can't be the only stupid one around here. Besides, what the hell else were we supposed to do? Just let him die out there alone? If he had to die, I figured it could at least be with someone. Not you or Brendon, he wouldn't have wanted that. But heroes should never die alone, I read that in a book somewhere."

Brendon was going for a first-aid kit, undressing Jon very carefully and cleaning his wounds. While crying.

"How did you two manage to clear the hall, with two guns?"

"There were only about a hundred zombies, I think. Jon had an AK...I think that's what it's called. I read the name on it once when I was passing it in the hall. AK-57 or something."

"You mean an AK-47?"

"Sure, why not?" Lucy continued. "Anyway, it had a big clip and he'd already taken out almost half of 'em, if you can believe it. Your friend, or whatever he is, is really tough. When I went out there, he was punching one, if you can believe it. Like, killing it by punching it's head in. Didn't want to waste ammo, I guess. I don't know how to shoot or anything, but I've seen it on TV...just pull the trigger, right? So I started shooting at any of 'em who got close enough." Her voice was so childish, soft and young, and what she was saying was entirely disturbing to hear spoken like that. Pete reached out, running a hand over her ruined hair.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "But that was insane. No more of that shit, Lucy-girl."

"I make no promises, and I tell no lies," she grinned bloodily at him again, and he went to get her some water. "We can't stay here much longer though," she added once she'd finished drinking it from the paper cup. "Jon and I cleared the hall, but more are coming. Once they realize that their friends didn't kill us in here, they'll send in the fucking calvary."

"Watch your mouth," Pete admonished her, knowing she was right. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Turned thirteen three months ago."

"Jesus."

"Has nothing to do with anything anymore," Lucy said bitterly, and Pete shut up. Dr. Leiber finally stepped back from Spencer.

"I've done all I can," he announced. "The rest is in God's hands. If he makes it through the night, he'll live."

The whole time, throughout everything, Patrick had been curled up in a corner with his knees pulled up to his chest. Pete had approached him twice, and both times he'd whispered that he just needed to be alone. Understanding that he still felt guilty for not having woken up when Spencer left their room, Pete had done so. But now, he went and sat next to him as Dr. Leiber checked Lucy and Jon over.

"I don't want to talk," Patrick whispered to him, leaning against him. "Please just tell me that Spencer is going to be okay."

"Dr. Leiber says that if he lives through the night, he'll be fine." Pete put an arm around Patrick's shoulders, and felt him start to cry. Soon, they all slept, drained. Very few of them dreamt of anything.




++++




When Pete woke up the next morning, he had an insane cramp in his thigh. But the hallway was empty, from what he could hear. He glanced over at the stretcher Spencer was still lying on, and experienced an immense rush of relief when he saw that his chest was rising and falling in what seemed to be sleep. A few feet away, Brendon and Lucy had curled up against Jon on his cot, one on either side. Even battered and unconscious, Jon still seemed to provide everyone with a sense of security, and Pete had to struggle with his own sudden desire to try and join them. Next to him, Patrick stirred. They'd both just crashed on the floor, wrapped up in each other. Oddly enough, Jon was the first to speak.

"What time is it?" he whispered, startling both Pete and Patrick. "Does either of you have a working watch?" his voice was hoarse, as though he'd been screaming for too long or had been punched in the throat or something. He looked even worse now, if that was possible - one eye was completely swollen shut and his face was literally just this purplish, pulpy mess of cuts and bruises. Leaning over the edge of the cot carefully as not to disturb Lucy and Brendon, he spat out a loose chunk of tooth.

Patrick glanced down at his wrist. "My watch stopped at 12:17 PM," he said apologetically, not having realized this before. Lucy mumbled something in her sleep and clutched Jon a little tighter, and Pete nearly cried to see how Jon cringed in pain at the pressure on his broken ribs but didn't say anything or push her away. He would have made a good father, he thought. He and Patrick struggled to their feet and tiptoed around the cold infirmary, waking everyone up. Dr. Leiber informed them that the base had three vans left - enough for all fourteen of them to escape in. They agreed to split up into two groups of six and one of four, with Jon, Pete, Patrick, Lucy, Brendon and an older woman named Mary in one van. Spencer would ride in another with Dr. Leiber so that he could keep him stabilized, and so on. As soon as the plans were made, they all gathered up as many spare clothes and nonperishable food as they could from the mess hall and made their way off the base.

They got about ten minutes down the Maryland street in a line of three vans, before the zombie snipers shot out the tires of the one Spencer and Dr. Leiber were in.

"Zombie snipers? What the fuck?!" Pete swore violently, nearly swerving off the road as his head shot up to see the undead creatures lined up across the roof of the base, waving rotting hands cheerfully at them and aiming their sniper rifles. Apparently Lindy had been smuggling them weapons for a while, because they were all well-armed. "Shit!"

Jon groaned when Pete swerved the van, his already-injured head smacking against the window. "Lucy-girl. Let me see that pistol of mine that you took. I'm going to teach you how to shoot it."

Lucy handed it to him eagerly, and watched him as they sat in the backseat together and he showed her the basics of aiming and shooting. "Just point it where I tell you, and pull the trigger when I say so." Pete stopped the van as soon as Spencer and Dr. Leiber's shuddered to a halt in the middle of the street with all the tires blown out.

"Pete," Brendon said suddenly. "This is a military vehicle, right? Check the glove compartment, I bet there are binoculars or something in there. You can at least see what they're doing up there."

Brendon was right, and Pete pulled them from the compartment a moment later and focused them on one of the roofs. The zombies were lined across every one, from the base to every building on the residential streets - basically, they were fucking surrounded. And yet, the entire street was very quiet and very still. Not even the birds were cawing. The sunlight was sharp and bright. And then Pete saw. "Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me."

"What?" Brendon sat up a little, from where he'd been twisted around in the front seat watching Jon teach Lucy how to shoot. Patrick had his face pressed against the window in the back, and Pete handed Brendon the binoculars. Brendon took them, and a moment later he whispered "Oh, fuck me."

"Do I even want to ask?" Jon's voice was still raspy.

"That one that just shot out Leiber's tires? Is making himself a nice sturdy-looking Molotov up there."

"A cocktail?"

"Natch."

"Who the fuck is this dude, fuckin' zombie McGuyver?"

"Jon, we have to bail."

"Why? They'll just shoot out our tires and swarm us if we try. Besides, we can't leave Spencer behind." None of them had bothered to wake up Mary, who was sleeping on a heap of shirts behind Jon and Lucy's seat. For a long moment, there was a pause.

Pete said, "I think we're fucked, guys."

"Oh, hell no." Brendon turned his head to shoot him a glare. "The hell I am. I did not get attacked by my ex-bandmate-turned zombie, escape from Jersey alive, which is a miracle in and of itself, get my ass dragged to a fucking military base and listen to the love of my life be a goddamn idiot..." he glared at Jon too. "...To give up here on a fucking road, just because these things have us outnumbered. I am filthy and tired and thirsty and my hair must look like shit right now, but you're a goddamn fool if you think I plan to die today, Pete Wentz."

Jon smiled at him wearily. "That's my baby."

"LOOK!" Lucy screamed, pointing out the window. The zombie with the Molotov was raising his grayish arm, and then he chucked the cocktail directly at Dr. Leiber's van.

Jon, Pete, Brendon and Lucy all made wild grabs for the doors to try and do something, but Patrick cried out, "NO, you guys! Those things all have guns up there, they'll fucking kill you!"

"They're going to kill--" Pete's words were drowned out by the immense BOOM that shook the street underneath them. When the smoke cleared, all that was left of the van was a smoking mess of hot, twisted metal and blood smeared across the street. Shards of glass glinted in the bright sun like diamonds. Apparently the zombie had known just where to throw - he'd hit the gas tank of the van on the first try. The remnants of someone's arm were scattered across the pavement, it wasn't until Pete recognized the blue shirtsleeve that he realize that it was Spencer's. A sickened lurch in his stomach almost made him throw up. After all they'd been through trying to keep him alive...Spencer was gone.

This was where Jon's penchant for bravado came in. He was so scared he felt like he might cry, but instead he reached behind where Mary had woken up and was looking around with bleary terror. Smiling grimly as his fingers closed around the sleek black Glock 18 that was there, he lifted it with an injured hand. "Let's get out of the car, guys."

"Let's not." Brendon's voice surprised everyone, especially since he was pushing Pete out of the way to climb into the driver's seat. "No more suicide missions for you, baby," he added sternly, glaring over his shoulder at Jon. "As soon as we're all safe again, you and I are going to have a little talk about this apparent death wish of yours."

"Hey, I--" Jon started to say, but a split-second later a pair of mottled arms burst through the back window and grabbed Lucy. They dragged the screaming thirteen-year-old out into the street, the zombie that had nabbed her grabbing her by the face for a sickening kiss as another staggered up behind her and punched a blackish fist through her back. Lucy's shrieking finally died off as the zombie latched onto her tongue with it's teeth and pulled back, chewing greedily on the thick, wet flesh. Brendon, Mary, Jon, Pete and Patrick all watched, frozen with horror from the car as they ambled away and she lay there, bleeding and very still in the street. A moment later, she rose again.

Struggling to her feet with a gaping wound in her back and a ragged strip of flesh where her tongue should have been, Lucy smiled at all of them. Jon aimed his gun, and Pete almost whimpered when he remembered what she'd said to him in the infirmary.

Heroes should never die alone.

There was no one else in the street with her.

Jon pulled the trigger.




++++




With some insanely risky driving, Brendon managed to avoid the hail of bullets as they sped down the street a few minutes later. The other van wasn't so lucky - it's tires were shot out and it was swarmed by zombies descending from the rooftops about fifteen minutes in. Mary took a bullet to the head through the window right before they were clear of the line of undead snipers, and Jon opened the back door and kicked her body out. He perched himself there, shooting at any zombies who shot or got too close as Brendon whipped the van recklessly down the residential streets. By the time their gas gave out, they'd made it clear of them it seemed. The van however, was in bad shape - all of the windows shattered, gas on E, one of the tires reduced to ragged strips from gunfire. On top of all that, it was dark now.

They ended up crashing at another hotel - barricading all of the windows with some sheet metal that Jon found in the boiler room of the place, pushing the heavy dresser against the door so that if anything tried to break in, they'd hear it. They were down to Jon, Brendon, Patrick and Pete now - four, when they'd started out with fourteen. But it felt good to rest, Pete thought as they took turns in the shower and he crawled into bed with Patrick with his hair still damp. Brendon was turning on the television in the corner, blinking and startled when he actually got a broadcast.

"Stay in your homes ladies and gentleman, do NOT go outside. I repeat, it is NOT safe to go outside at this current time. The mutants are rapidly reproducing and should be considered both sentient and dangerous..." it was some news report, an old one that was being played on a loop apparently.

"Where is this being broadcast from?" Brendon wondered aloud. "Someone's got to be playing this tape at a station somewhere."

Patrick rolled over, already having crashed the second he'd gotten into bed. Pete put a protective hand against the curve of his hip, visible through the blanket. "Let's just go to sleep, Brendon. We can figure it out in the morning, but right now I'm crashing."

Brendon nodded, turning off the TV as Jon came out of the bathroom, toweling his damp hair dry. He was only in his sweatpants, and both Pete and Brendon nearly whimpered at the deep bruises and lacerations across his chest and stomach - it was amazing that he was able to shower himself off, at all. Technically, he probably should have still been unconscious. Brendon pulled back the covers for him, helping him into bed and fighting back the quiver of his lower lip. "My battle-scarred baby," he said quietly, leaning over to kiss a blackish bruise on Jon's shoulder very tenderly. Jon winced, but smiled.

"I know, I'm hella ugly right now."

"You're beautiful. But so help me god, if you ever pull any shit like that again, I will tear you apart, lover." Brendon kissed the tip of Jon's broken nose, as if he could heal it like that. Jon grinned, rolling over to rest his head on Brendon's skinny chest. Usually they slept the other way around, with Brendon curled up in Jon's arms. Pete reached out to turn off the light.

"Where are we going to go tomorrow, Pete? How much longer can we run like this?" Brendon whispered to him in the dark. The entire room was throbbing with an ache for Spencer. None of them had talked about it yet.

"I don't know, Brendon. I'll think of something."

Their sleep was fitful, and interrupted in the middle of the night by the phone ringing. Snapping awake, Pete was the first to grab it. "...Hello?"

"Giiiiiiiive usssssss...."

Pete closed his eyes. "Jesus. Please tell me the zombies aren't calling us. I'm not having phone sex with this one, I don't fucking care." He could hear some shuffling around on the other end as Brendon and Patrick woke up. When another voice came, it sounded like it belonged to one with less-decayed vocal cords.

"Give us Jonathan Walker."

"Sure. Want some wine to go with him? I hear he goes great with Merlot," Pete said, fighting back the surge of incredible fear rising in his chest.

"Give us Jonathan Walker, and you all live."

"What's it saying, Pete?" Brendon hissed at him, and he shushed him. But it was too late, the phone clicked dead. Pete glanced over at Jon, still sleeping and probably in incredible pain. He hung up the phone, and Brendon gave him an expectant look.

"Didn't say anything. Just some moaning and mumbling and shit. Probably just trying to scare us," Pete said, not sure why he was lying. Brendon relaxed, snuggling back down under the covers with Jon. Pete however, got no sleep for the rest of the night.

To be continued!