Red Vs Blue Book of One-Shots

Red team of the dead

Never had Grif heard an engine so loud in his life, and never had he hated that sound so much.

This is where he kinda regretted turning to face the sound.

The already crumbling wall shattered like glass, but the excess degree and rocks smashed against Grif, causing him to fall back.

He looked up.

Above him was the bottom of a warthog.

*record scratch*

"That's me," said Grif, "you're probably wondering how I got into this situation. Well I am too. You see, if we backtrack about twenty four hours, I was just hanging with Simmons and bang- I mean banjo-ing...? Eh sure, why not. Playing the good ol' banjo. Then, stuff happens..."

~~~~~

Simmons and Grif were asleep, with Grif snoring and Simmons laying on top of him.

It's for his survival- he would've been crushed.

They've fucking dorks, of course they snuggle every night out of loneliness. It's a zombie apocalypse.

Left and right the remains of the world get booted off like contestants of a game show, and much like television, you can't do shit about it. All the problems and worries are revolved around the living dead, the deceased that stalk the earth.

That's depressing, I know, but Grif and Simmons found a way to get over it: eachother. Ever since they found themselves in the middle of nowhere, they sorta started dating and they sorta became a thing and they sorta started sleeping together.

Totally not gay, am I right?

Sleepless nights and late talks grew into a normal activity, and neither of them complained. It was nice.

Real fucking nice.

Until some assholes put bags over their heads and knocked them out.

Not what you were expecting right? Because no one else is alive. Literally no one.

Simmons thought his theory about evolving zombies was right.

Grif thought this was stupid.

They were thrown into what smells like a trunk, and then it was complete lights out for both.

~~~~~

"What... What the hell...?" Grif grumbled as he sat up, rubbing the back of his swollen head.

"Me too buddy..." Simmons said as he started to stand up, then offered Grif a hand.

As the swaying in their brains settled down, they put together a couple things:

1) They were in a room with bars and a locked door.
2) They were fucked.
3) Still fucked.

Neither had their backpack or even weapons, they were just stuck here until whoever knocked them out explained themselves. Speaking of which-

"Hello boys." Said a voice behind a mask, waving.

There were two men, both with hidden faces, one tall and the other short.

"Who the fuck are you?" Grif asked bluntly.

Simmons elbowed him, and whispered "Shut the fuck up."