Work Text:
The end of the world doesn't happen quickly. By the time any of them begin to think that something's wrong, the apocalypse had been on going for 5 hours.
Choco Bibi and Drip Soup are sitting around a table, Bibi typing an essay on a computer and Soup making notes while watching a lecture. Master Swordsman himself is doing his weekly deep clean around his Gumdo studio, humming to himself as he goes. It’s a little routine they have on Thursday evenings, the day which he closes the studio on to get his things in order before the usual weekend student crowd. Despite being pretty far from the city center (a compromise he had to make for a cheaper lease) his studio is fairly popular.
In between their busy university schedules, Bibi, Soup, Tempest and Mori would drop in occasionally to hang out when the studio wasn’t busy. Most of the time, they’d spend an afternoon doing their work on the foldable table MSM had bought specifically for them years back, when he’d first met Bibi in their first year as an undergraduate. MSM would do chores around the studio like he was doing now, or bug them (mostly Bibi), or boot up a video game to play together. Each slow afternoon was filled with casual conversation and quiet laughter, warmth bleeding into the corners of his home to tide him over to the next hang out. He’d barely been aware of the emptiness in his life before it was flushed out by four idiots barrelling into his life.
The five of them would typically end the day with some dinner before returning to their college dorms, either Drip Soup’s cooking or BBQ from Tempest’s favourite down the street. Right now, only the three of them are in the studio, Tempest and Mori having left a few hours ago to visit the library. Their bags and computers were still here, the visit initially intended to be quick, instead quickly proving to be otherwise. As the minutes ticked by, the gnawing feeling in Master Swordsman’s stomach only grew.
“Man, where are they? They should’ve been back an hour ago.” Bibi comments aloud, not for the first time. They flip through tabs on their computer half-heartedly, attention on the clock more than anything else. The first two hours could be reasonably brushed off as them getting distracted with a detour, but at this point Master Swordsman was ready to sprint down the street hollering his friends’ names. Neither were responding to messages in the group chat or calls, which had never happened before.
Soup maintained that they were both adults who could take care of themselves, especially if they were travelling together. Both might have accidentally left their phones on silent mode since they’d left in the middle of a study session, and it wasn't as if none of them had never been distracted in the middle of an errand before. Still, he agreed. Another thirty minutes of waiting and they’d go out to look for them.
Though, should they really wait longer? If their friends were in trouble, as unlikely as it were, searching for them sooner could be the difference between life and death--
“THUNK.”
The three of them snap their heads simultaneously to the front door. A strange suspense strings the room as they watch the entrance expectantly.
“Is that them?” Soup wonders aloud.
“The door’s open,” Bibi mutters offhandedly.
The moment stretches awkwardly long, till it's clear that no one they were familiar with was at the door. Maybe a stray animal or a branch shaken by the wind. With a quick glance at each other, they share a shrug, going back to angrily tapping on their phone and mulling over their notes respectively.
Alright, he's made up his mind. Master Swordsman clears his throat, “Well, I’m done with my clean up if y’all wanna go and-”
“thunk”
“-look for the two of t-“
“thunk!”
“-hem, alright, what the hell is making that noise?”
A figure stands on the other side of the door, or more accurately, leans on his door. The door is frosted for privacy of his students, so Master Swordsman only sees the vague silhouette of a hunched body, extending into the flushed press of a forehead against glass. The person shifts as he’s approaching to open the door, skull connecting with glass with another dull thud. It pauses for a moment, before repeating the movement sluggishly, hitting the door in syncopated rhythm.
Weird, weird, weird, he thinks, but he couldn’t just turn the person away if they actually needed help. If they didn’t, well, a martial arts school was a poor choice to rob.
“...There’s someone at the door,” he calls out, “I think they need help?”
A non-committal hum.
He cracks the door open, careful to make his movements slow. Through the small slit, he sees the stranger, hunched at an uncomfortable angle. Her dirtied clothes catch his eye, torn and sporting patches of what looks like fresh blood. Light scrapes pepper her arms, blood already clotting against the cool air. A fresh wave of alarm spikes through him, accompanied by white-hot anger at the image her state paints.
“Miss! Are you alright? Who did this to you?”
Slowly as to not startle her, he pries the door incrementally open, careful to watch the way her head jolts as its stability against the door is shifted. When he’s sure she can stand herself, he opens the door wider to offer a steady arm, which she clasps on to instantly. In that split second, he’s taken aback by how strong her grip is, unexpectedly so when her arms are so pale and thin.
She cranes her head upwards and the curtain of her hair parts. He balks.
The left half of her face is torn and pulverised, bits of bone white slicked red peeking from beneath the gore. Her right eye — her left is completely missing from its shallow socket — is glazed over like a dead fish’s, sweeping without focus across his face. Spittle and mucus smear on her chin, glistening sickly. The hand around his bicep is deathly cold.
It’s instinct that makes his kick land on her — it? The monster’s? — torso, pushing the creature back just as it lunges forward with its jaw unhinged. It rips thin claw marks down his arm as it falls backwards, head splitting with a crack on the steps.
“Oh my god,” He breathes. He watches as the body slowly puts its arms under itself, pushing up from the ground with no indication it was in pain at all, despite its leaking head. As it rises, the extra weight causes its broken arms to slip along the pooling blood on the concrete, crashing back onto the pavement and spilling more gore. It repeats this motion mindlessly. Horror ices his veins.
“What-?” “Bro, is everything okay?” He hears movement from inside.
Fuck no. He tears his eyes from the creature on the ground, only to spot more of the same down the street. Before his rising panic locks him out of all competence, he leaps to shut the door, fingers fumbling with the lock. He’s rambling as he does, “Oh my god, there’s- there’s freaking zombies out there! Holy shit!”
Bibi and Soup surround him instantly, eyes on his arm which is steadily leaking blood, a cocktail of confusion, fear and concern clear on their faces. “There’s a dead body on my doorstep! Oh my god, I-!”
“Calm down, man, deep breaths, dead… body? Zombies?” Drip Soup places a firm hand on his shoulder and pulls him away from the door. He runs a hand down his back, soothing, “What are you talking about, man?” Despite his skepticism, he’s alert, danger apparent from the wound on Master Swordsman’s arm.
“Zombies,” he repeats harshly.
Choco Bibi goes back into the studio, where there are clear windows facing the street. They peek through the blinds, inhaling sharply at whatever they see.
“Holy fuck,” They breathe. “He’s not lying. Soup, get something to block the door. Something heavy. MSM, we need to... wash that arm.”
Drip Soup jerks and darts his eyes towards Bibi, incredulity clear on his face. Bibi doesn’t elaborate, only stares out the window for a few more seconds before springing into action. "Now!"
They come back to the door where the two of them are by, checking the lock and reaching for the light switch. He catches the moment Soup’s disbelief melts into fear. Minutes ago unthinkable, it was startlingly easy to understand the concept of a zombie apocalypse — years of movies and fictional stories afforded familiarity to what had just happened and what should happen from now.
‘Shit’, Soup mouths silently, iris full in the dark as he makes eye contact with Master Swordsman again. As fast as it had settled, the fear on his face steels into grim determination. He passes him to Bibi and disappears quickly from his field of vision, in search of an item to use for a barricade. Still in a daze, Master Swordsman lets himself be guided. Beads of blood splash on his bamboo mats as he stumbles over his feet across the studio. Man, he thinks absently, and I’d just cleaned those.
Bibi pulls his arm into the industrial metal sink in the back, twisting the faucet into a steady stream as he goes to check the lock on the back door. Master Swordsman traces the cool water as it swirls down the drain, tendrils of faint pink slowly tampering into clear water once more.
“What the fuck just happened?” He whispers. His wound is shallow and thin, but long. He finds himself tilting his arm left and right, surveying along those red lines for signs of, oh, god, infection. The area where he was grabbed is starting to swell into a bruise, though it looks no different from a normal one. But, oh, what should he be looking out for? Is his skin looking more yellow than usual, and is the edge of the scratch a tinge purple or was that the light? He flashes back to that woman - only mere seconds he saw her - the way her veins bulged, what did they look like exactly, were they like—
“I’m going to grab a first-aid kit for you,” Bibi squeezes his shoulder as they slip past.
That kid could always keep their head screwed on straight if it concerned the wellbeing of a friend. MSM is grateful for that. His rising panic slows to a simmer.
Drip Soup reappears with a box, which he pushes against the back door. Somehow, he’d also found time to tie one of the wooden training swords around his waist.
“The doors open outwards, Soup,” He croaks.
Soup gives a shrug, “At least they’ll have to climb over”, reaching over him to shut the tap. He pats the area around the wound dry with paper towels that Bibi has returned with, the two of them clumsily fussing over his arm with their limited first-aid knowledge. The one amongst them who had actual experience was, T- …oh…
“Tempest and Mori. That’s why they haven’t responded. They’re…”
The fingers around his bicep falter in their ministrations as the thought on all their minds is spoken. As if wounded, Drip Soup lets out a ragged breath. Master Swordsman regrets speaking at all.
“Most likely,” Bibi spits, “But we can’t think of that now. We need a plan ourselves.”
Another thing that playing lots of video games has taught them - how to compartmentalise. Bibi is right, of course, but he can’t help the tightness in his lungs or the way his eyes begin to water. His friends are gone forever. How did this happen? How? He’d heard their laughter just hours ago...
Warm hands settle on his shoulders as he shakes, grief and adrenaline crash and terror ripping into him in quick succession, soft assurances barely registering in his ears. He curls, bodily hunched over his metal sinks as hot tears stream down his cheeks. Fuck, he should've been there, shouldn't he? They must've been terrified when they... ...
If they'd searched for them earlier, would they all be safe in his dojo together?
It feels like hours have passed by the time his tears dry up, leaving him feeling drained. Drip Soup has tucked his face into his the nook of his shoulder, the boy trembling but otherwise still. Bibi grips his other hand tightly, a rare look of uncertainty clear on their face as he chews at their lips. They’re so young. A pang of pain shoots through his heart again. He decidedly does not think about Tempest and Mori again. No, he has to be strong. For them.
It takes effort to speak, and when he does, his voice is raw and dry.
“What’s the game plan?”