Chapter Text
Jon released a heavy sigh, his fingers combing through the unruly tangle of wiry black locks that framed his face. His hair had never been a testament to neatness before the incident, but now it was an overgrown mess. Salt-and-pepper streaks of grey snaked their way to the front and it was heavy with grease.
The disarray made him self-conscious, he found himself in the small flat, awkwardly threading his fingers through his hair, battling the knots and wincing in pain when he pulled too hard.
Tim’s small, weathered apartment served as a meagre sanctuary in the midst of the post-apocalyptic chaos. The layout was straightforward – a main dining and kitchen area seamlessly merged into a worn-out lounge. In the corner, a solitary bedroom held a semblance of privacy, claimed by Sasha, as she was “The only girl amongst you boys” she had claimed. No one really argued with that so the rest of the group had improvised sleeping arrangements – Tim took the couch, Martin squeezed in at one end, and Jon resigned himself to the floor with a small blanket and pillow. And of course, there was the bathroom a filthy box with barely enough room for one person.
They would have to move soon; Jon knew that. However, he hesitated to be the one to bring it up. The others, particularly Tim, already harboured a deep mistrust of him. Jon didn't need to Know to sense Tim's scepticism and wariness. It was evident in the way Tim kept Sasha close whenever Jon was in the room. Tim had even made a point of insisting that Jon sleep on the kitchen floor, away from the couch. He pulled together some bullshit excuse about it being overcrowded with the three of them in the tiny lounge room, but Jon saw through the thinly veiled pretext. It was a deliberate attempt to keep Jon at a distance, a visible manifestation of the mistrust that lingered within the confines of their home.
If Jon brought up the pressing issue of the creatures seeming to multiply within the past week, it would inevitably lead to a fight. Tim would accuse him of trying to sabotage them, of working for one of the groups outside, of attempting to get them killed. Jon couldn’t handle another argument, and Sasha or Martin weren’t particularly helpful either. Sasha seemed to always side with Tim, even when he was being rash. Martin, on the other hand, preferred not to take sides, often sitting in silence. When pressed he would spit out radically helpful statements like, “You guys both make excellent points,” or “What would I know? I don’t leave the flat as often as you two.”
Jon rolled his eyes. As darkness fell, the makeshift blinds they had put up, crafted from butcher's paper, blocked out the remaining light. Rising from his spot on the couch, Jon made his way to the fridge. Though it no longer functioned, it served as their food storage, keeping ants at bay. Martin stood over the gas stove, boiling tea for everyone— one of their last tea bags. Jon wasn’t sure if Martin would survive without them.
He pushed past Martin, knocking his back only slightly to get to the fridge, Jon swung it open. "Black Beans," the can read. Great, they had one can of black beans left. Someone would have to skip dinner tonight, and Jon had a feeling it would be him. He sighed loudly, and Martin mumbled something meekly about the tea being done. Honestly, Jon was surprised Martin was still alive; lasting three months in an apocalyptic world was impressive for someone as utterly useless as Martin. To be honest, though, it wasn’t like Martin did much for them anyway. Just like in the archives, he left the brunt of the work for Sasha, Tim, and himself. Martin just clung around like a parasite, eating food and taking up space.
As Jon contemplated the dwindling food supplies, Tim emerged from Sasha's room, his gaze locking onto Jon's. Tim swiftly crossed the room, coming to an abrupt halt to loom over Jon. His tone dripped with sarcasm as he remarked, "Oh, trying to eat all the food before the rest of us can?"
Jon felt his jaw tighten, every fibre of his being urging him to snap back. Instead, he placed the tin beside Martin on the counter, taking a moment to mentally compose himself. With deliberate calmness, he responded, "No." A brief pause lingered in the air. "I doubt this lone can will suffice for all of us. I'll forgo dinner tonight."
Martin's posture stiffened noticeably, his words laced with concern. "Jon, you skipped yesterday."
"It's fine," Jon replied tersely, choosing to move away from the tension. He moved towards the wooden dining table, taking a seat to distance himself. Tim just stared at Jon.
Attempting to shift the atmosphere, Martin's voice held a forced cheerfulness. "I've prepared some tea." His smile seemed strained, a clear attempt to diffuse the mounting anger radiating from Tim.
"Thanks, Marto," Tim responded, visibly easing as he reached for his mug. "I'll fetch Sasha," he added, making his way back towards the bedroom, leaving Jon and Martin in a momentary reprieve from the brewing storm.
“You know, you shouldn’t have to skip dinner every night just to avoid conflict,” Martin said, startling Jon a little, it almost sounded like he was concerned. Jon didn’t know why he cared, he certainly didn’t care for Martin. Martin looked at him for a long moment, waiting for Jon to respond.
“Uh huh,” Jon mumbled dismissively.
Martin sighed, as if frustrated by Jon's lack of engagement, and handed him a cup of tea. He then proceeded to the bedroom, distributing cups to Sasha and Tim along with the black beans. The muffled sounds of laughter reached Jon from the bedroom as the three of them chatted.
Jon closed his eyes, fully aware that his presence wasn’t exactly welcomed. Yet, he couldn't deny his value to the group. His ability to navigate danger during supply runs and his agility set him apart, even if it didn't make him particularly liked. He lay down in his makeshift bed, attempting to find sleep amid the dim surroundings.
A guttural growl echoed from outside, a stark reminder that their time in this place was running out. They would have to move soon.
——
"You think we should feed him to those things?" Tim's voice carried a teasing edge, drawing a grin from Sasha. Martin's demeanour noticeably stiffened, but he continued to quietly sip his tea, avoiding direct eye contact.
"Martin, he's joking," Sasha interjected, giving Martin a light nudge that brought a hint of colour to his cheeks.
"I know," Martin replied softly, his gaze lingering on his tea.
Tim's smirk widened, his eyes gleaming mischievously. "Come on, Marto. You can't tell me you haven't entertained the thought. I mean, Mr. Grumpy Pants here isn't exactly a joy to be around."
Martin sighed, looking somewhat pensive. "I just think we shouldn't rush to judgment. We don't truly understand what's weighing on him. We’ve only known him for a year, after all. You and Sasha have a history that goes back further."
Tim cut in with a hint of impatience, "Yes, Marto, I get it. 'He might be missing his family.'" He mocked.
Martin hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "He's in a foreign environment, surrounded by colleagues he barely knows. It's unsettling, to say the least."
Sasha's tone was matter-of-fact. "Still doesn't excuse his behaviour. Even when he was our boss, his demeanour left much to be desired. Though I have to admit, he’s always been kind to me. I think he respects competence."
Tim feigned offence, "And you're implying I'm not competent?" Sasha rolled her eyes, her brown curls cascading over her shoulder in a dismissive gesture.
"Regardless," Sasha continued, "he's never exactly been warm toward you, Martin."
Tim chimed in, echoing the sentiment. "Seriously, Marto, the guy's got a chip on his shoulder. Unwarranted hostility if you ask me."
Martin looked down, tapping his fingers nervously against his mug. "I believe he's just overwhelmed... perhaps frightened. I mean look at us, we aren’t exactly being welcoming to him either,”
Sasha paused, sharing a silent exchange with Tim. After a moment, she conceded, deciding to drop the conversation, "You have a point, Martin. At least he always contributes,”
Tim nodded in reluctant agreement. "True. If you're going to be a prick, might as well be useful enough to stick around."
The room fell into a momentary silence, each lost in their thoughts, before Tim interrupted again, clearly not wanting to drop the conversation. “I don’t understand why he’s such a dick to you, doesn’t it affect you?”
Martin looked around the room, considering his words carefully. “I know he’s a prick,” he began, surprising both Tim and Sasha. “And I know he’s especially prickly with me,” he continued.
“But after Jane Prentiss stalked me at my house when I went back to the archives after being missing for two weeks,” Martin paused, searching for the right words. “He genuinely cared, I think. And when Jane Prentiss finally attacked the archives, we had a moment, a genuine connection. It's hard to put into words, but in those moments, he treated me as an equal. He was kind, and he genuinely cared about me. I know it sounds crazy, but he does have actual emotions and feelings, guys,” he added with a hint of humour.
Martin sighed, struggling to articulate the complex mix of emotions he had experienced. “But seriously, in those instances, he wasn't the distant boss or the prickly coworker. He was someone who cared, someone who had the capacity to connect. I think he builds these walls around him to protect himself or something—maybe he’s insecure, I don’t know. But there's more to Jon than meets the eye, and in those moments, I saw a glimpse of that. Maybe if I just keep doing what I’m doing, he’ll warm up?”
Tim raised an eyebrow, a hint of scepticism still present on his face. Sasha, however, seemed to be contemplating Martin's words, her expression thoughtful.
“Yeah I guess,” Sasha smiled, placing a hand on Martin's knee, “But don’t put up with his shit.”
The three of them sat in silence for a beat before Martin piped up, “More tea?”
—— one week later ——
After a night of fitful sleep, Jon awoke to the groans and shuffling sounds echoing through Tim's small flat. It was a constant reminder of the world outside—the world now overrun by those things. The city, once teeming with life, had become a desolate landscape where the dead feasted on the living.
Today, Jon decided, would be the day he confronted the group about their safety. The flat was no longer a haven; the growing hordes outside made it clear that they needed to move and find a new place, and if no one else was going to bring it up he would.
As the group gathered in the cramped living room, Sasha, Tim, and Martin exchanged weary glances. Jon took a deep breath, his eyes locking on Tim.
"We can't stay here any longer," Jon began, his voice steady but filled with urgency. "The city is swarming with those things, and I swear, I've been seeing... variations of them. Different, weirder versions that don't make any sense."
Tim raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched across his face. "Weirder versions? Jon, they're already zombies. How much weirder can they get?"
Jon hesitated, his gaze distant as he recounted a recent encounter. "Sasha! You saw that one at the grocery store, it wasn’t normal…”
~
The grocery store loomed ahead, its doors hanging off their hinges, and shattered glass scattered across the pavement. Jon and Sasha approached cautiously, keeping an eye out for any signs of movement within the darkened interior. The once-familiar aisles now felt like a maze of potential dangers. There was no food at the flat anymore and it was pivotal that the pair came back with enough to last the week at least. Sasha gripped a makeshift weapon—a metal pipe salvaged from an abandoned construction site—as Jon clutched a backpack, ready to fill it with whatever supplies they could scavenge. The air inside was thick with the stench of decay and the distant moans of unseen creatures. Flickering fluorescent lights cast eerie shadows across the shelves, playing tricks on their already anxious minds. Jon tried to set his nerves aside, he’d done this before and they’d been fine, but with more of those creatures roaming the streets it seemed that with every outing he was living on borrowed time.
As they moved deeper into the store, Jon's eyes darted nervously from aisle to aisle. The oppressive silence was shattered by the occasional clatter of a toppled display or the distant shuffle of unseen footsteps. “I’ll check out canned stuff, you find water,” he whispered to Sasha and she nodded silently walking to the other end of the store.
Jon moved cautiously down the dimly lit aisles, the uneven creaks of the worn linoleum floor amplifying the eerie stillness. The shelves on either side were filled with remnants of a time when people shopped for groceries without fear of the dead. His fingers traced along the dusty cans of food, eyes scanning for anything that could sustain them. The rhythmic tap of Sasha's footsteps echoed faintly in the distance as she navigated the maze of the grocery store. The flickering fluorescent lights overhead cast eerie shadows that danced along the edges of Jon's vision. His senses were on high alert, the dread building with every step. Jon's breath caught as he reached for a can of black beans, his fingers brushing against the cold metal. The tension in the air intensified, and a shiver ran down his spine. He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to find a lurking threat.
But there was nothing.
He threw a few tins into his bag, being careful not to drop any.
Jon eyed the lone tin of canned pineapple perched on the top shelf. It seemed to mock him, an unreachable prize in the dimly lit aisle. He grimaced at the thought of the sickly sweet taste but recalled Tim's inexplicable fondness for canned pineapple.
His fingers grazed the cold metal of the shelf as he attempted to jump for the tantalising can. The tips of his shoes barely left the floor, and the tin remained stubbornly out of reach. Jon's frustration simmered beneath the surface, his determination mounting.
He took a step back, eyes locked on the coveted can. The distant moans of the undead outside seemed to grow louder, a constant reminder that time was of the essence. He couldn't afford to waste any more moments in this forsaken grocery store.
Jon squared his shoulders, drawing on a reserve of strength. In one swift motion, he leapt upward, fingers extending toward the prize. The tin teetered on the edge, his heart pounding in anticipation.
Gravity seemed to defy him as the can threaten to slip away. Jon's sigh of frustration lingered in the air as he prepared for one last attempt. With a final surge of energy, he leapt once more, fingertips brushing the bottom of the can. Success. The tin wobbled in his grasp before settling securely in his hand. Jon clutched the victory, a mix of relief and triumph washing over him as he punched the air in celebration.
Thud.
The can dropped out of his hand, creating a resounding noise.
A distant moan echoed through the store. Jon's heart quickened, and he clenched the can in his hand. He strained his ears, trying to discern the source of the sound. Seconds stretched into an agonising eternity. The suspense hung thick in the air, a palpable force that pressed down on Jon's shoulders. He spun around, looking for Sasha, but she was out of sight, and so was the creature. Then, a sudden rustle from the adjacent aisle sent a jolt of fear through him. He turned, eyes widening as a figure emerged—its movements erratic.
Jon's breath caught in his throat, the disorienting dance of shadows intensifying. The thing looked at him and smiled? No, that couldn’t be. Zombies don’t smile. But it did. It stared at him, bearing a grin much too wide for its face. Jon blinked, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. Colours bled into one another, and the floor seemed to tilt beneath him. Panic set in as the world twisted into a nightmarish kaleidoscope, all while the thing smiled wickedly. The shelves next to him warped and turned.
"Sasha!" he called out, his voice strained. "What's happening?" Jon muttered. The world around him seemed to melt, colours bleeding into one another in a chaotic dance. He wanted to laugh, was he high? The zombie, its form now contorted in impossible angles, advanced toward Jon. The world altered around him, making it difficult to discern left from right.
"Sasha!" Jon shouted again, this was it he was going to die alone in a pathetic grocery store. He stumbled backward, the shelves closing in on him like a sinister embrace. The canned pineapple he had triumphantly secured now felt like a heavy anchor, a symbol of his vulnerability in this surreal nightmare. The floor and ceiling merged into a disorienting dance, a twisted waltz that left him gasping for air.
He didn’t want it to end like this, he didn’t want to die. God he had so much more to do.
The creature let out a distorted scream as it crept closer to Jon. Its smile stretched impossibly wide, a haunting distortion that fuelled Jon's rising terror. The fluorescent lights flickered, casting eerie shadows that danced with the macabre rhythm of the encounter. His breaths came in shallow gasps, and his movements were unsteady, a disjointed dance with the encroaching nightmare. The world around him warped and twisted, a distorted reality that seemed to revel in his fear. It’s cold breath now on his face, Jon closed his eyes ready to succumb to what -
SMACK.
The creature crumpled to the floor. Sasha, pipe in hand, stood behind it, her breath heavy with a mix of fear and relief. Her dark skin damp with sweat, her eyes wide with shock.
As the zombie lay motionless, a morbid tableau of violence, Jon found himself gasping for breath. His hands, still trembling from the surreal encounter, steadied against a shelf. The air hung heavy with the aftermath, Sasha's gaze remained unwavering, a silent acknowledgment of the shared terror they had just endured. In the dim light, the beaten-in skull of the zombie formed a macabre canvas.
"We need to get out of here," Sasha declared, her voice slicing through the lingering tension like a knife. The urgency in her words mirrored the collective understanding that the grocery store was no longer safe. Together, they gathered what supplies they could salvage and ran.
~
“There was something really wrong with that zombie Tim.”