(fic) Anything to Thin the Blood (in progress!)

[etherati]

A random prompt on Tumblr asked for Minutemen zombies; I wrote the promised vignette but there seems to have been interest for more? So I started writing more, and wow, I am having so much fun. But I'd like to keep this informal, so, see the comment section below for pieces of this as I finish them!

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part 14

[etherati]

*

Hollis has taken to staking out the kitchen, leaned back in one chair and feet propped into another, just listening to the police scanner. He’s gone through more cups of coffee than are fairly his, the last few doctored up so that the mix of stimulation from the caffeine and lull from the whiskey is just nerve-jangling enough to keep him focused.

“I’m at 6th and Main,” the voice on the radio says, “And I don’t even know how to describe this.”

“10-34?” prompts the dispatcher. Assault, Hollis thinks. Understatement.

“I guess you could call it that, yeah.”

“Then cut the chatter. Sending an assist.”

The kitchen door swings open; Ursula comes in, drops a canvas bag into one of the chairs. Leans to start unpacking its contents onto the table.

“Any word?” she asks; nondescript, unlabelled cans stack up.

Hollis tilts the mug up. Just about down to dregs. On the radio, the relative quiet of static. “No, not yet. Nothing that sounds like... well, like anyone we know.”

“I suppose that’s good.” The cans stacked, the next thing that comes out is a cord of rope, a few bags of dried beans. Her fingers twitch slightly over the bag’s edge, clench and unclench. “No news is good news?”

“I think that’s how it goes. What’ve you got there?”

“Things from the basement.” A few rolls of gauze next, and some paper tape. “Found them in the utility room, while I was training.”

Hollis furrows his brow, picks up a can. “How did you end up in the utility room?”

“The routine I was running through went... a bit afield.”

The can feels cool in his hand; he presses it to his forehead. “How much of a mess is it?”

“Hardly important right now.”

“I guess not, no.”

The static on the radio breaks; there’s a lot of shouting all of a sudden, and gunshots, and just generally the sounds of a situation going to hell. Every cop knows that sound, knows to divert straight there in hope of finding something salvageable, but. Again, false hopes. They’ve been hearing this sound a lot, the last few days.

Ursula picks up the whiskey bottle, turns it against the light. “Yours?”

“Came along with my promotion this year.”

“Very nice,” she says.

“10-13!” shouts the voice on the radio, desperate. “Assist, assist!”

Ursula sets the bottle down, sinks into one of the chairs. Retrieves a fresh smoke for her holder, and someone else can stock these cans into the pantry later. Or maybe they’ll stock themselves. Stranger things have happened.

“Anyone you know?” she asks, exhaling a thin stream of smoke, and Hollis is glad to be able to shake his head, slow and heavy.

“Rookies, from the sound of it. Guess that’s all they have left.”

“They’re not coming anywhere near us, are they? The police.”

This, he realizes, is the real reason for the whiskey. “No,” he says, setting the mug down, “No they are not.”

There’s a constant banging noise coming from outside now, as their numbers grow and it becomes impossible for six warm bodies--and one cold one--inside their walls to evade notice. The windows are holding, but just barely. Hollis hasn’t told anyone yet about the state of the front stairwell.

“Then we will just have to save ourselves,” she says, and the finality of it should be more encouraging than it is.

*