The Zombie Apocalypse with MCR (Complete)

Slow Deterioration

"And the way you smashed his skull into absolute pulp?! Legendary!"

I fend off Kyle's big hands as he tries to ruffle my damp hair.

It's been a week, and Tully let us out again today. It was through gritted teeth, and we had a laundry list of supplies to look for (to prove our usefulness, I reckon) but it was another successful trip. Kyle needed to get out as much as I did, or he's exceptional at pretending to have a good time.

"The show of strength doesn't count if his skull was rotten through." I laugh.

Kyle shoves his way through a set of doors, walking backwards, talking loudly, unaware or unbothered by the gathered crowd in the canteen.

I've been allowed to eat in here the past week, but the brains still need me most days - needles and scans and tests and samples - and people still stare. I've sat with Frank, once or twice, but mostly with Kyle.

People have approached me for quiet conversations.

One was a man with salt and pepper hair and tired, dark eyes. He only wanted to thank me, personally, for helping his family get here.

Another was a young mother, who told me with fire in her eyes, that her daughter had died on the journey north. She didn't ask for an apology, but I gave her one anyway. Another name added to the long list in the back of my mind.

"Nah, nah, nah." He shakes his head, "Bursting a corpses brains like that takes muscle! And your swing? Like a fuckin' professional, Angel. I've never seen anything so beautiful in my life!"

"Shut up." I hiss, ducking around him towards the line for lunch.

People are looking and whispering.

"What?" Kyle scoffs, scraping a hand through his wet hair.

There's a bloody bandage around his bicep, like there's bandages around my knuckles. There's a protocol to arriving home; scrub down, tests, medical attention. They have to make sure we're safe for the general population.

Grace argued that we should be quarantined for twenty-four hours every time we go into the outside world, but even Tully deemed that unnecessary.

"Are you completely unaware of how shrill you are?"

Kyle digs his fingers into the soft flesh of my waist and I elbow him in the chest instinctively.

Around a wheeze, he gasps, "Why shouldn't people know we're going outside the wall? It's better than cowering."

"Surviving." I correct.

"Same thing." He mutters.

I grab him a tray and we shuffle along the queue together. Dinner ladies (that's what we called them in school, anyway, and I don't have a better word for them now) fill our plates and hand small cups of drink over. One of the ladies gives me a beaming smile and an extra heaping of Victoria sponge cake.

"Prick." Kyle says, aghast, when he sees the overflowing plate.

"Maybe if you were a little more approachable, they'd give you bigger portions."

"You don't need to be approachable when you're so damn good-looking." Kyle flexes his uninjured bicep, which is pretty impressive, though I don't let that show on my face.

He hands me a handful of cutlery and we turn together to the wider room, ready to find seats.

My eyes snag on a head of red hair, a surprising colour in a sea of browns and blondes and blacks. The head is attached to a pale hand, which is straight up in the air and waving frantically.