Chapter Text
The few moments after Harry truly wakes up are full of firsts. Somewhat fitting, he’ll think later, given the new world he was born into the second his eyes opened.
It’s the first time waking in a warm hospital (the places are usually so damn cold). The first time not hearing the blip of a heart monitor to welcome him back to the land of the living, and the first time being completely and utterly alone, no nurses walking past his door or popping in to check on him. He would almost be grateful for that one if it hadn’t given him a strange sense of foreboding.
Cautiously he sits up, wincing at the lance of pain that shoots through his side. His breath hisses through his teeth as he automatically presses a hand to his wound over the flimsy hospital gown. `He can feel a large bandage taped to his skin underneath it, and briefly remembers the agony that had come with the bullet slamming into his gut. Sighing, he swings his legs off the side of the bed, the tiles strangely warm beneath his feet.
The air conditioning must have been out for far longer than he’d first expected. Everything is unsettlingly quiet and it surrounds him, slipping into him, and tying his stomach into a knot of anxiety.
Harry’s legs complain as soon as he stands, not used to taking his weight after lying so long unused. He nearly collapses after taking just one step, and has to cling to the bedframe to keep from falling to the floor. He quells the instinct to call for help; whatever has caused this eerie silence to settle over the hospital might still be out there and he isn’t keen on alerting them to his presence. Gritting his teeth, he wills himself to straighten back up and try again. This time he’s able to shuffle forwards a few steps before there’s a slight tug, a pinprick of pain in the back of his hand.
There’s an IV still connected, the tube stretched out behind him, tethering him to the drip that’s long since run dry.
Harry narrows his eyes. He would have thought it would have been replaced as soon as it ran out. The only conclusion he can come to is that there is no one left to do so. A chill runs through him and he yanks the needle out of his hand, ignoring the small spurt of blood that follows. Absently wiping the blood away on the hospital gown, he takes a few more experimental steps until he’s certain he can walk pretty well on his own.
There’s an extra layer to the silence now, a lingering uneasiness in the back of his mind. His fears can’t be true.
I stopped Valentine, killed him before he had the chance to- the explosion!
That had to be it. Valentine himself might not have lived to release his virus, but the explosion could have triggered its release.
“Shit,” Harry breathes out, eyes closing in defeat. None of them had known exactly what the virus would do, but there was no question it was something terrible, considering Valentine’s goal had, essentially, been to wipe out humanity.
Its release would at least account for the lack of activity in the hospital, but the thought is far from comforting. Another realization is right on its heels. He has no idea what he’ll find waiting for him on the other side of that door.
Suddenly wary, he takes a half-step away from it, narrowing his eyes. The instinct to find out everything he can about a situation before heading into it is hardwired into him by now. He turns his back on the door temporarily, crossing the room to the window on the opposite side. He’s high enough up that he’ll be able to get a decent view of the city, at least.
There’s a thin layer of dust and grime over the glass and Harry has to rub it away before he can properly see through it. The view takes his breath away.
It looks like something out of a disaster movie. A thin stream of white smoke threads its way into the sky in the distance. Every visible shop front is boarded up. Sunlight glints off the shattered glass scattered on the pavement from broken windows, a mark presumably left behind by looters. Cars with doors half-open stand abandoned in the street below his window.
Here and there a few figures move, lurching and stumbling as if they’re hurt. From this height Harry can’t see exactly what’s wrong with them, and he wonders if they’re infected by the virus, shut out and left to die by those as yet untouched.
He breathes in deeply through his nose and takes a step back from the window, turning so he doesn’t have to look anymore. The fact that he doesn’t know what’s happened itches at him, but the only way to get answers is to go out there and find them. Warily, he eyes the door again. He’s going to have to leave eventually, but he’d rather feel more prepared than he currently does.
The hospital room might have seemed useless to most people but Harry’s used to improvisation. His first order of business is to find something to drink. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s gotten any form of hydration, but the way his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth suggests that it’s been quite some time.
To his surprise, the water in the bathroom turns on. That means the power is still working, though he suspects it’s from a generator. Apparently, air conditioning had not been a priority for the backup system. Strange, he thinks, that anyone would have disconnected him from his heart monitor. Surely the generator would have fed it? The clear stream of water distracts him from his thoughts, reminds him of how dry his throat is.
He sticks his head under the faucet and drinks straight from that, slurping it down greedily for as long as he can before he has to pull back and take a breath. Once he feels a little stronger he straightens up, switching the faucet off and heading back into the main room. He can’t resist taking another peek out the window, narrowing his eyes again as he watches the strange movements of the people below.
The way they move is disquieting; there’s something unnatural about it, and a shudder runs down his spine. With the image of them burned in his mind he turns back to the bed, ripping at the sheets until he’s torn free a section large enough that he can tie it around the back of his head, drape it over his mouth. It’s not as good as a surgical mask, but the makeshift bandanna will work until he can find one. Useless, perhaps. If the disease is airborne he would have spent hours breathing it in already, but it makes him feel at least a little better so he keeps it.
He doesn’t feel complete without a weapon, but anything he might have had is more than likely buried in the rubble of Valentine’s lair. His fingers automatically touch his wrist and he feels an ache of longing when he finds it bare. Even his watch would have been better than nothing . Something catches his attention, a glint in the corner of his eye, light reflecting off metal.
“You’re getting slow, Hart,” he mutters under his breath. Perhaps that can be forgiven, what with being in a coma, but he can’t afford to get sloppy, not now. Not when he’s all on his own.
He unhooks the drip bag from the IV stand, tossing it to one side carelessly. The rest of the tubes follow it until he has a decent weapon. Decent enough to knock someone out should he find himself assaulted, at the very least. It’s heavier than he expected but he can wheel it when necessary. He sucks in one last deep breath, cloth adhering to his mouth.
Time to find out what happened while he was out.
He closes one hand around the door handle and tightens the other around the metal stand in preparation. Carefully he eases the door open an inch, pausing to listen. When there’s nothing but silence he edges it open a bit more and finds his path blocked. A filing cabinet lies on its side in front of the door, effectively preventing anything from getting in, papers scattered on the ground around it. It was clear that someone had been trying to protect him, had dragged it there purposefully, and Harry’s brow furrows. Whoever it was hadn’t stuck around to see how he’d fared after.
Moving it could very well prove too much for him, weak as he still is, and besides there is plenty of room between it and the top of the door. He steps up onto it, wincing as the adhesive on the bandage pulls at his skin. The metal groans under his weight and he quickly steps down to the other side, turning back to the doorway to grab the IV stand. It’s a bit of a strain to maneuver it through the gap, especially with as much as it weighs. He curses as the base bangs into the filing cabinet, the clash of metal ringing through the empty hallways.
Something snarls in response. Harry freezes, cursing himself for already being so careless. The IV stand, however, decides that it hasn’t quite done enough damage. The rolling base falls away, clattering onto the file cabinet before skidding backwards and clanging onto the floor, leaving Harry with what amounts to a long metal rod topped with two hooks. He winces as the sound echoes down the hallways, the snarling growing louder. Hefting his new weapon up, he cautiously slides forwards a few steps, eyes darting around for the source of the sound.
For a minute or two there’s nothing. He begins to wonder if it was all in his imagination, some trick of the hallways twisting the metallic screech into something more sinister. Then he sees it. A shambling, lumbering figure just like the people he’d spotted outside comes lurching around the corner, growling low in her throat.
She was a nurse, it seems, from the blood-stained scrubs she’s dressed in and the surgical mask that hangs from her neck. Harry doesn’t know what she is now. Automatically he takes a step backwards, suddenly grateful for the cloth he’s wrapped over his mouth. There’s no doubt in his mind that something is very, very wrong with this woman.
Her ankle is broken, unnaturally twisted, but she pays it no attention, limping forward steadily. She snarls again when she spots him, mouth opening and closing, snapping at nothing. Her hands stretch out and reach for him, grabbing empty air as he takes another few steps back.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he warns her, holding the IV stand up meaningfully. He’s not exactly a stranger to killing civilians, but he’d rather give her the chance to surrender before blindly striking out.
If she hears him, she ignores him. Her pace is slow, but steady. As she draws nearer, her snarls grow louder; Harry suspects he’s only imagining the tinge of desperation he hears in them. Whatever sickness she has seems to have turned her into a mindless machine and, for whatever reason, he is the focus of her attention.
He takes another half-step back but she doesn’t waver, keeps coming for him. “Don’t make me do this,” he says through gritted teeth, leveling the blunt end of the rod at her stomach. He doesn’t know if he has enough strength to skewer her, but he can probably hurt her enough to force her to stop. Harry can’t risk getting sick, not when there are still so many questions to be answered. Kingsman is going to need him. That much is clear even from what little he knows. “Please,” he tries to say as she takes another, lurching step towards him. It comes out as more of a whisper, one she isn’t likely to have heard over her own snarling.
There’s nothing for it. He has to stop her somehow. “Forgive me.” He grips the rod with both hands like a baseball bat, sweeping it low and hitting her right in her busted ankle. The momentum carries the rod into her other foot and he hears the distinct crack of bone. She collapses, the shriek of pain he’s expecting strangely absent.
Her new position doesn’t seem to disturb her in the least. She takes to clawing at the linoleum, hauling herself across the floor towards him.
Harry’s brow furrows, grip tightening around his improvised weapon. There’s no point in killing her now that she’s incapacitated, but an uneasy feeling stirs in his gut. He’s never seen anybody act like this before and he wonders just what it was Valentine had managed to whip up in his lab. He moves back far enough that it will take her a minute or two to reach him given her slow pace, crouching down so he’s more at her level. “What happened to you?” he asks.
Her only answer is an empty click of teeth.
His eyes flick down to the ID badge hanging from her scrubs, the small square of laminated plastic dragging on the ground. It reads ‘Jeanette Simmons,’ and he looks her in the eyes, gaze focused. “Jeanette, I want you to tell me what’s going on.”
There’s nothing, no flash of recognition, no slowing in her quest to reach him; her eyes stay as flat and dead as they had been previously.
Harry straightens up, mind whirling in confusion. Whatever this sickness is it seems to have stripped her of most, if not all, cognitive function. That’s not a fate he wants to share. He moves to one side of the hallway, determined to skirt around her and get the hell out of there. If he can get to Kingsman he has a better chance of surviving, a better chance of righting the wrong he’s committed.
Her head follows him as he steps past it, careful to avoid her snapping teeth and grasping fingers. It’s only then that he spots it, the right leg of her scrubs bunched up around her knee from her steady slide over the tiles. A red, angry mark halfway down her calf, dried blood crusted around the wound.
Glancing back over his shoulder he takes in her gaping mouth, still vainly trying to reach him, and it clicks into place. Don’t get bitten . With that in mind he moves on cautiously, ears straining to hear beyond the frustrated growls from the nurse behind him. He pauses at the edge of the hallway, not knowing what could be waiting for him around the corner.
Slowly, he sticks out the metal rod, banging it a few times against the floor before pulling it back to his side. He tenses his muscles in preparation for a fight. He counts off thirty seconds, peeking out when there doesn’t seem to be any sign of life.
The corridor is empty save for a limp figure sprawled on the floor about halfway along it. Swallowing down the instinct to call out a greeting, Harry approaches him warily. He stops a few feet away, studying him.
He’s slumped against the wall, sitting in a pool of blood that Harry suspects is his own given the gaping wound in his neck. Curious, Harry leans forward to inspect it. It looks jagged, careless.
The man lets out a raspy groan and Harry jerks back. He’d been sure this guy was dead with a hole like that in the side of his neck. The rod slips out of his grip in his surprise and the man’s head jerks towards the sound. He spots Harry and his mouth opens, jaw stretching awkwardly as if it’s his first time trying the movement.
Another dry moan has Harry snatching his weapon back up, holding it in front of him defensively. “Can you speak?” he asks, doubting it. The nurse hadn’t seemed capable of speech and she hadn’t had a chunk taken out of her vocal cords.
Sure enough he only snaps at Harry, one arm twitching as if he wants to reach out for him but can’t quite figure out how his limbs work.
Harry lingers for a few seconds, eyes fixed on the terrible wound in his neck, wondering how he could possibly have survived it. And yet he must be alive because he’s moving, rocking towards him with those same terrible moans periodically dripping from his lips.
It would be cruel to leave him here like this. Sick and injured, unable to move properly. The metal rod seems a lot heavier than it did seconds before. Harry lets out a slow breath, gripping it in both hands. Wordlessly he braces his feet against the floor and lifts the rod, driving it forward with as much strength as he can muster. He ignores a burst of pain that shoots through him as he strains his wound.
The metal buries itself in the man’s stomach with a sickening squelch. He lets out an equally sickening gurgle but there isn’t the slump that Harry expected, the slow trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth that comes with internal wounds. In fact, he doesn’t seem to be affected in the least. His hand finally gains a shaky sort of stability and, instead of reaching for the pole sticking out of his abdomen, he swipes at Harry.
Harry’s stomach drops. He’d skewered him and the man didn’t even acknowledge it. He seems just as indifferent about his wound as the woman had about her broken ankles. Suspicion creeps in on Harry and he reaches up to yank off his makeshift mask. Eager to prove to himself that what he’s thinking is ridiculous, Harry waves one hand in front of him. He waits until the man’s mouth is open and closing in on him before shoving it in, tying the cloth off around the back of the man’s head.
The man moans around the gag, teeth working at it uselessly. Still he reaches for him, fingers brushing limply over Harry’s arm before Harry secures his wrist.
Harry’s heart thrums in his chest as he holds the limp hand--too cold, far too cold--in his, settling his thumb over the man’s pulse. Or rather, where his pulse should be. There’s nothing there, no steady beat denoting his working heart, no biological rhythm that would show he’s alive. Yet he’s still moving, groaning, twitching, blinking vacantly up at Harry. Harry throws the man’s hand away, practically leaping backwards in his haste to get away from him.
This isn’t happening, he tells himself. This is some strange fever dream he’s having. He’s probably still in a coma and he’d very much like to wake up now. But the pain that radiates through his side belies that theory and he unconsciously presses his hand to the bandage. Best to treat this as reality, at least until he can get confirmation otherwise.
On shaky legs Harry staggers down the corridor until he reaches a set of double doors. They’re smeared with bloody handprints and Harry wonders what exactly had happened while he’d been unconscious. He sends silent thanks to whoever had pushed that filing cabinet in front of his room; given the behavior of these creatures, he doubts he would have lasted long without it.
He can’t quite force himself through the doors, not without a weapon of some kind. Normally he can depend on his own body, the martial arts training he’s had sufficient for incapacitating most attackers. These enemies, however, don’t seem to feel pain, even if he’d had the strength to get in more than one or two punches. He’s loathe to go back to the living corpse he’s already pinned to the wall, but he doesn’t have much choice. There is only one other door in the corridor, and when he peeks through the thin strip of glass all he can see on the other side is complete darkness. He isn’t going into that if he can help it.
The man has grown slightly more animated, even in the few short minutes it takes Harry to return to him. His movements are still stiff and jerky, but there’s a deliberation to them as Harry comes closer, his gnarled hands grasping at thin air.
Harry doesn’t linger in front of him for long. He yanks the bloody rod out of him, moving out of range before he figures out how to work his legs again. Forcing himself to slow down and not go barreling through the double doors, Harry takes a long look through the smudged glass.
It looks empty, just as abandoned as the rest of the hospital, and he sighs in relief. He doesn’t have the first idea what these things are and facing a whole horde of them is far from appealing.
This hall is lined with doors, most likely leading into more rooms like his. Small glances into the rooms confirm as much and he shrugs off the slight twinge of disappointment as he finds each of them empty. Finally he comes across a small storage closet and finds a few pairs of scrubs inside. One set fits well enough. He ditches the flimsy gown, sucking in a harsh breath as he pulls on the shirt. The soft, white shoes aren’t exactly durable, but they’re better than nothing, and he tugs a pair of them on as well.
The hallway dead-ends at a lift, something he’s certainly not going to risk with the lack of power. With a frustrated growl, he swings back around, marching back towards the double doors. He pushes through them, intent on heading back the way he’d come and trying the other way when he pauses in front of the one door in this direction he hasn’t tried.
He peers through the window again but only the same bleak darkness greets him. He sucks in a deep breath, one hand tightening around the rod as he reaches for the handle. It swings open readily enough and he steps cautiously into the room. There’s actual airflow here and the soft click of the door as it closes behind him echoes slightly. A stairwell, then.
Groping blindly, his free hand closes around a section of metal railing. He takes a step forward when there’s a sudden thud behind him and he whirls around, rod at the ready.
The man from before is plastered against the glass, gagged mouth pressing against it as if he could chew his way through to get to the person on the other side. He claws at the wood and Harry’s shoulders slump.
The door will most likely hold, at least long enough for him to get out of the building. Not wanting to stay any longer than he has to, Harry feels his way along until he finds the first step. He hurries down the staircase until he reaches the next landing. He doesn’t have any idea what floor he was on; he just knows it was relatively high from the view out of the window. A few times the rod he carries bangs against the railing and he has to stop and listen for any sounds of pursuit.
Thankfully he reaches the ground floor after only a few minutes, a thin slice of light coming in through the window of the exit door. Harry tries to see outside but his eyes can’t adjust quickly enough after being in absolute darkness for so long. Eventually he just pushes out into the open.
The smell hits him first. He can’t remember ever smelling something so terrible and he half-wishes he had his mask back if only to dampen it a little bit. He clamps a hand over his nose and mouth instead, but it doesn’t do much. Better than nothing. He stands still, unwilling to move until he can see again. Gradually his eyes adjust and he blinks owlishly, taking in his surroundings.
Rows and rows of bodies line the grassy courtyard, stacked one on top of another in some areas. Sheets cover most of them but here and there he can see twisted limbs sticking out from underneath. Puddles of blood surround some of them, white sheets streaked with red. There are paths through the rows, grass trampled down from the passage of many feet.
Harry lurches forwards unsteadily. Fatigue drags at his limbs and he doesn’t know when the last time he’s had any sort of sustenance was. Ignoring his aching abdomen, he forces himself forwards, determined to get to Kingsman somehow. He suspects he’ll be able to hunt down a car that still has gas and there’s no doubt in his mind he’ll be able to hotwire it when he does.
He’s only a little more than a quarter of the way down the path when he first notices something’s off. A slight breeze blows, rustling some of the sheets behind him and carrying away the smell for a blessed second. It dies away all too soon and it only takes a couple more steps for Harry to realize the rustling hasn’t stopped. He stands rooted to the spot, grip going white-knuckled around the rod he’s holding.
The sound grows steadily louder. Something off to the right of him shifts and he jerks around, the rush of blood in his ears drowning out everything else.
Harry watches in horrified awe as the body lying under the nearest sheet moves, fingers scrabbling at the fabric until it flutters to the ground.
This corpse is far more dilapidated than the two he’d come across inside the hospital and his heart seizes in his chest. Her hair is scraggly, patches of it gone as if someone had ripped it right out by the roots. Half her face is rotted, one eye dangling from its socket uselessly, blood crusted on her cheeks and forehead. A low moan rattles deep in her chest as she clambers to her feet, tattered dress fluttering around her knees.
There aren’t many things that can freeze Harry Hart in his tracks. Watching this undead apparition stumble towards him turns out to be one of them. He’s vaguely aware of more rustling around him, more sheets tumbling to the ground, more dead rising, moving steadily in his direction.
It takes a moment or two but finally his thoughts coalesce into one basic instinct: run . He doesn’t think, just obeys. Pain sparks from his wound but he ignores it, pushing himself to run faster. His feet pound over the pavement, matching the pounding of his pulse, more and more bodies getting up around him.
A little over halfway through the courtyard he risks a glance over his shoulder and nearly misses a step. There’s a veritable horde behind him, all of them just as rank as the first he’d seen out here. He spots bones poking out of some, gaping wounds on others, gnashing teeth on all of them. “Fucking shit,” he breathes out, forcing himself to pick up his pace.
He can feel stitches popping as he goes, warm blood spilling out of him, staining the bandage and slowly seeping through the scrubs. But the dead are still coming, some staggering out in front of him. He knows he has to get out before they surround him completely.
One of them swipes at him from the side, fingers catching at the sleeve of his shirt. Without a second thought he lashes out with the rod, shattering its arm. It drops to its side limply and Harry’s off before it can try and grab him with the other one.
They keep coming and Harry keeps swinging, letting instinct take over completely. The gap between himself and the edge of the walled courtyard closes inch by inch and he begins to think he’ll make it. Then his rod lodges between the ribs of one of the dead and he’s jerked backwards, a fresh burst of agony ripping through his shoulder from the abrupt stop. Desperately he tugs at the weapon but it’s stuck firmly in place.
“Fuck!” Harry abandons the rod and clenches his hands into fists. He doesn’t know how to kill these things, or even if they can die, but he isn’t going to just sit here and wait for them to kill him.
“Right, then,” he mutters, shifting into a defensive stance and readying himself for whatever’s coming next. “Let’s see if I can take at least one of you with me.”