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Some mornings, Miyuki can still pretend everything’s normal. When he’s making tea at sunrise, when the curtains are drawn, he can shut his eyes, hear the whistling of the kettle, and picture himself… before.
Before everyone fell asleep.
It had been a warm day. Pleasant, even. Miyuki had just called for a slider, Sawamura had begun his windup. And then suddenly, everyone on the field, everyone watching the scrimmage from behind the fences, went still, lay down on the dirt, on the grass, on the pavement.
They shut their eyes. They went to sleep.
Everyone, that is, except for Miyuki himself, Coach Kataoka, and a handful of others.
That was two months ago.
Their group was bigger, at first.
Things… happened. Miyuki tries not to think about it too much.
(Nabe, curled up in the corner of the cafeteria. A kitchen knife. Blood.)
Miyuki thinks about other things, utilitarian things. Where the next closest convenience store is that they haven’t raided. How many batteries they have left for the hot plate that’s been their saving grace. How to make their limited diet more interesting.
He leaves the killing to Kataoka, at least for now. He’s larger, and doesn’t hesitate.
Miyuki knows, rationally, that the sleepwalkers aren’t people anymore. They’re dead bodies, bodies of those unlucky enough to fall asleep outside, exposed to the elements while they slept, unable to wake.
They die, and then they get up, and they’re not people.
Still, Miyuki would rather not. It might be different, he rationalizes, if the first sleepwalker he encountered hadn’t been Kuramochi.
(“Stand lookout,” Kataoka had said, gently turning Miyuki away from Kuramochi, shuffling like a ragdoll with pieces of his flesh missing, where the sun had burned them away.
“Keep watch,” he reminded him, and Miyuki kept a very stern watch on the wall in front of him, trying hard not to think about the crack of a metal bat, the crunch of bone.
They buried him, or what was left of him, in the dirt outside of the dorms. Miyuki thinks they may have buried half of his soul there, too. It certainly feels that way.)
The teakettle’s whistle breaks him from his thoughts, and he carefully spoons tea leaves into two mugs.
He watches the tea brew, the slow swirl of the loose leaves in the bottoms of the mugs. The steam is billowing up into his face. It almost feels nice.
Miyuki turns away from the tea, taking in the sight of Kataoka’s apartment. It serves as their base, now.
Seidou has too many bodies. It was a school day, after all.
Miyuki bites the inside of his cheek, choking back the panic that seems to rear its head at random.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kataoka emerge from the bedroom, rubbing his eyes. He ambles into the kitchen and moves to take his mug from the counter, reaching around Miyuki.
Miyuki leans against his chest, curling his fingers into the hem of his t-shirt. Kataoka stills, for a moment, then pulls Miyuki into a firm embrace. The hot, bubbling panic, climbing up Miyuki’s throat like vomit, begins to recede.
It had been strange, at first, the breakdown of their dynamic as coach and player. Now, Miyuki doesn’t think either of them could have survived if it didn’t metamorphose into whatever this is.
“We need to find me more tampons,” Miyuki says softly, voice muffled. “And I want to see if we can find more bottled water. We still have enough, but I’d feel better if we had more.”
“We’ll need to find a new source,” Kataoka replies, palm splayed between Miyuki’s shoulder blades, a warm reassuring pressure. “The convenience store down the block is running out.”
“Yeah, I heard they’re really behind on shelving.” It’s a joke, but it rings hollow.
----
They’ve cleared the immediate area around Kataoka’s apartment of sleepwalkers. Most of them aren’t aggressive, just slack jawed and vacant, standing still or shuffling aimlessly.
Still. No reason to risk it. Kataoka has become skilled at dispatching them with minimal gore.
It does make their progress through the ruined streets somewhat less unsettling. Only somewhat, because there are still sleepwalkers trapped in the cars, rotting and dying for the second time.
The Lawson’s, on the corner a block away, was full when they started taking from it. The backup generator ran for almost a month, so the perishables were still good. Those cases are empty now, and Miyuki is tired of reinventing instant ramen and packaged onigiri. He never thought he’d miss the painstaking ritual of chopping vegetables.
Kataoka lingers outside while he gives the Lawson’s another check, just in case they missed anything. Miyuki stares hard at the aisle where the tampons were, as if hard enough staring could will some more Super Pluses into existence.
“No luck. We’ve cleaned it out.”
Kataoka makes no reply. Miyuki shrugs, and makes his way back outside.
Where he’s met with the sight of Kataoka collapsed on the sidewalk.
Miyuki’s heart plummets to his feet. His hands are numb, fumbling as they turn Kataoka over onto his back. He shifts Kataoka’s head into his lap and tries not to panic.
His eyelids are fluttering, thin, rasping breaths struggling in his throat. Miyuki swallows down bile, mind flashing back to when they found Ochiai in the same state. A week later, when they all went to bed, he didn’t wake up.
“Kataoka,” Miyuki tries, voice coming out squeaky. “Kataoka.” There, much more confident.
“He’s dying.” A voice comes from somewhere over Miyuki’s shoulder. Miyuki’s head whips around. There’s a man standing there, not that much older than himself, wearing a tattered Waseda University pullover.
Miyuki scrambles for the baseball bat - only to discover that the man has that too, casually bracing it against the pavement.
“Don’t look so scared, I’m not ambushing you. Just passing through. I’m a scout.” Miyuki must still look baffled, because he elaborates. “There’s a group that’s formed on the Waseda campus. Mostly students, a few professors. They sent me out to look for more survivors.”
Miyuki stares.
“Can you talk, or am I just wasting my breath?”
“I can talk,” Miyuki snaps.
“Oh, good. The name’s Tsuji. Anyways, he’s dying. Everyone over a certain age that survived the first wave is dying.”
“I know. You don’t have to explain it to me.” Miyuki bites the inside of his cheek, in the same indent that’s been forming there lately. He hadn’t actually known that. “Was there something you needed?”
Tsuji runs his hand through his greasy, box-dye blonde hair. “I mean, my assignment is to bring survivors back to base camp. But you seem a little occupied. What were you looking for out here, anyway?”
Kataoka groans, head lolling to the side. Miyuki’s throat is tight when he replies, “Tampons.”
“Wha- oh.” He gives him another once over, and Miyuki’s skin crawls when his eyes linger on his chest. “My bad, ma’am.”
“I’m a guy.” Miyuki bites the words out, eyes narrowing. He hopes the unspoken fuck you translates.
“Sure,” Tsuji gives him a placating grin, like one might give a child throwing a tantrum. “Like I said, I’m supposed to bring you back to base camp. Leave ol’ scruffy there and we can get going.”
Miyuki carefully settles Kataoka’s head down on the cement. His eyes have opened again, and he’s staring up at Miyuki dazedly. He smiles, flooded with relief, then stands, squaring his shoulders and giving Tsuji a glare.
“Well I have my own base camp, thanks.” Miyuki extends his hand. “And that bat’s ours.”
There’s a tense moment before Tsuji shrugs and tosses it over.
“Suit yourself. It’s your grave, my friend.”
Miyuki watches him go, until the green of his sweatshirt disappears on the horizon, until Kataoka is sitting up and standing under his own power again.
“Miyuki.” Kataoka sounds so tired, and it’s barely noon.
“There’s a 7-11 two blocks out, I think.”
“Miyuki.”
“What? We need to get moving-”
“He was right, you know.” Miyuki takes a shuddering breath, closing his eyes against the upwelling of tears. “If it gets worse, you need to be prepared to-”
“No.” Miyuki hisses, grip tightening on the bat. “No, don’t ask it, I- no.”
“At least consider moving on to Waseda before it happens, then. I was awake long enough to hear that.”
And Miyuki wishes he hadn’t been, wishes he could lie and say that it was just a drifter, nothing important to say.
“I can’t.” Miyuki swallows hard around the lump in his throat and turns around, shoving the bat back into Kataoka’s hands. “Let’s go home.”