![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Act One: One Year Later
(In which we catch up with our heroes; our heroes catch a ride; some bad guys catch a hero; and some people just refuse to catch a clue.)
5 May 2011
"Oh, goeiendag, didn't hear you come-- Oh, it's you."
The Nostalgia Critic rolled his eyes. "Of course it's me, fuckwit. Who else would it be? Are you expecting company?"
That Guy With The Glasses muttered something about force of habit, eliciting another eye roll from the Critic.
"Whatever. I refilled the flamethrowers -- you didn't fill yours again, by the way. One of these days I'm going to just let you deal with a pack of zombies and an empty weapon, you know."
That Guy just smirked. "No, you won't. You couldn't handle being on your own out here. Even if you managed to hold off the zombies, you'd still end up curled up in a corner whimpering that you're all alone. Which means you'll keep refilling the flamethrowers for me, so why should I bother doing it?"
The Critic scowled, but didn't reply. Unfortunately, That Guy was probably right. "You think we're starting to make a dent in their numbers?" Not the most subtle subject change ever, he had to admit, but That Guy would notice -- and mock him for it -- anyway, so whatever.
"Nice segue, asshole. Assuming they're not just learning to stay away from us, I actually think so, yes."
"I don't think they're capable of learning. I mean, if they were, they would have learned by now not to run towards the flames of fiery doom, right?" The Critic settled himself on the couch with a can of soda and leaned back, settling in for a long argument. Semi-scholarly discussions about the zombies made up the bulk of their interactions anymore. Most other subjects tended to result in their being -- literally -- at each other's throats, which was somewhat counterproductive to the whole survival thing.
"'Flames of fiery doom'?" That Guy looked almost aghast. "Seriously? What is this, Zombie Apocalypse: The Poetry Hour?"
That warranted another eye roll. "Yes. Yes, it is. Here, I wrote a poem especially for you: Roses are red, violets are blue, I'm feeding you to the zombies, and also fuck you."
"Aw, it's beautiful," That Guy said, with more sarcasm than should be humanly possibly to put into three words. "I'll treasure it always."
But the Critic was no longer paying attention. "Shut up, douchebag. Do you hear that?"
That Guy opened his mouth, probably ready to spout more caustic commentary on the Critic's mental health, but then seemed to think better of it. "That's a car."
"That's what I thought," the Critic agreed, strapping on his gun as he did so, and reaching for a flamethrower. "Please tell me they haven't figured out how to drive."
"You're the one who was convinced they can't learn," That Guy pointed out, and for once there wasn't even a trace of mockery in his voice. "Could be a survivor?"
"At Ground Zero? After more than a year?" And okay, they'd survived this long, but how likely was it that there was another geeky shut-in basement dweller whose housemate was owed some favours by Satan? Not very, is how likely, and even their survival had more to do with extreme luck than with skill, to be brutally honest.
When they emerged from their subterranean hideout they were just in time to be too late. A pack of zombies had forced the car they'd heard into a lamppost, and dragged the driver out of the car. Her desperate flailing -- the gun still clutched in her right hand was obviously empty -- was quickly proving ineffectual. When she saw them, she shouted something at them, but it was difficult to make out over the noise of the still running car engine. Her next words, though, were clear enough.
"Kill me please god don't let them--"
The blast from That Guy's gun shattered the woman's skull and snapped the Critic out of his horrified, stunned daze. The pack, annoyed at being denied their prey, turned snarlingly towards them. The Critic quickly shouldered his flamethrower. Guns weren’t very effective against packs of zombies, they’d quickly discovered, but even amateurishly macguyvered flamethrowers usually worked pretty well. Set one zombie on fire, and if you're lucky, it'll take out several others.
Barely ten minutes later, the pack was reduced to a pile of smouldering, stinking flesh, and the Critic was climbing into the car to switch the engine off. No sense in wasting fuel, after all. From the back of the car, he could hear That Guy yelling, "Hey, assmunch!"
"What?" He was looking around the car for useful things. There was some food, but not much, and the clothes were unlikely to fit either of them.
"Here's a riddle for you: what's a Canadian car doing in Chicago? Doesn't look like it's been here from the beginning, I think she drove it down here."
"Through Ground Zero? What the hell?"
"Well, she was obviously crazy; she kept yelling about cash, like that's worth anything anymore."
But the Critic had spotted something interesting in the foot well of the passenger's seat. A laptop, and plugged into the cigarette lighter to keep it charged, too. What the hell? That Guy was right, Canadian Lady had obviously lost it, because who would risk an empty car battery for a game of solitaire, which was about all a laptop was good for anymore, unless--
Suddenly, it clicked, and understanding didn't so much dawn as arrive with the sudden blindingness of a nuclear explosion. "Not cash," he yelled at That Guy, "Cache." He grabbed the laptop and switched it on, praying to whatever god might be listening that he was right.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" That Guy asked, coming round to the front of the car.
"Cache. C-A-C-H-E. As in a browser cache," the Critic explained impatiently. Fucking XP and its long-ass boot sequence. "Come on, come on, .... Finally! Firefox ... history ... There we go!" He stared at the screen in gobsmacked disbelief. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me." Reality, it seemed, had finally jumped the shark.
"What? What is it?" That Guy leaned in over the Critic's shoulder. "... Oh. Huh."
"Yeah, pretty much," the Critic quietly agreed.
7 May 2011
"Dammit," the Nostalgia Chick sighed, closing the cupboard doors. She was going to have to go out for food again soon, and she was really dreading it this time. She was barely recovered from the last time she'd gone out, and that had only got her enough food to last a week. That had been four days ago, and what was left should hold her for another four days, maybe, but probably more like three. She really didn't want to leave it until she was down to the last can of tuna again, though.
Also, she was out of tampons, and her period was due in five days. Dammit.
She sighed again, ran a hand through her short-cropped hair, and eyed the map covering most of one of the kitchen walls. She forcibly suppressed another sigh. The cluster of pins around her location was depressingly small and red. She was going to have to go further out this time, especially if she wanted enough supplies to last her another three or four weeks. Looking over the map again, she saw what was, maybe, a glimmer of hope: a small green pin several blocks to the northeast. "If I remember correctly," she mused out loud "That was a pretty big store, and it looked like someone boarded it up pretty early on, so if I'm lucky ...
She didn't dare voice her secret fear: that her luck was about due to run out. She couldn't talk like that, couldn't think like that, even with no one around to hear her. She wasn't just going to lie down and die, dammit. There were others out there, there had to be. Even if she was somehow the only survivor in New York City -- and the idea that she'd survived when more than fifteen million others hadn't was ridiculous -- there had to be people holed up in bunkers outside the big cities, right? It was just a matter of finding them, of communicating, because setting off on her own on a search for a needle in a zombie-infested haystack was tantamount to suicide-by-undead-hordes.
She dragged her attention back to the matter at hand, and tried to remember what the roads were like between her and the location of the green pin. Reasonably clear, she seemed to remember; probably not enough to get an SUV through, but she had a vague recollection of a 4x4 parked on the corner. At the time, she'd wondered what kind of small-dicked asswipe had a 4x4 in New York City, but now she was grateful to whoever it was. With a bit of luck, she could sneak over to the store, cram the car full of supplies, and get it back without too many problems. That should give her at least four weeks of supplies, if not more, and at least some more fuel.
"Or," she reluctantly admitted to herself, "I could pick up and move there." Which would be necessary soon enough, she knew, but it would mean cleaning out another flat, boarding up the staircase, killing the lift (if necessary -- not all buildings still had electricity), not to mention--
She sighed. Not to mention there probably wouldn’t be wi-fi. The laptop on the table in the sitting room hummed audibly as its ventilator kicked in.
Checking for an internet connection had been the first thing she'd done whenever she'd moved into a new place, once she'd secured it, and usually even before clearing out. By the time she'd moved in here two months before, she'd pretty much given up hope, checking more out of habit than out of any expectation of a hit. She almost hadn't noticed the connection message popping up, and it had taken her several minutes to believe it was real.
Someone, somewhere in this building, or maybe a neighbouring one, had left their wireless router on, connected, and unprotected. She'd never found it, but then she'd never really looked for it much either, as if it would disappear if she went through every apartment in the building -- with all that entailed, bodies and trash and all -- and failed to find it. Schrödinger’s Router.
The laptop continued to hum, and on the screen, she could see the command prompt doing what it had been doing for the last six weeks: pinging IP addresses in sequence. Nameservers were likely to be down, but if there were any websites still up and running, she'd find them.
If.
She couldn't stay where she was forever, she knew that, but the next day's supply run should give her another month or so at least. Another month of hope to cling to.
And them, suddenly, the silence in the apartment was shattered by a loud bleep. The laptop -- it had found something. Something, someone was still out there. Hands shaking, she launched FireFox and entered the valid IP address from the command prompt, barely daring to breathe as the page loaded, slowly but surely.
The header took her by surprise, but she supposed it did make sense. "Guess they really are the cockroaches of the internet." Then she read the message, and read it again, and again, unable to wrap her mind around the information. When it finally sunk in, she burst out laughing in relief and disbelief.
13 May 2011
"Any new messages this morning?" Spoony asked, trying in vain to get his hair looking something less of a mess.
"Nothing," Angry Joe shook his head. "But there's been fewer and fewer of them lately anyway. I think the connections are starting to go. It's a minor miracle we still have ours."
"Don't jinx it," Spoony muttered. Having finally found a comb, he made quick work of his hair. "Who's up for morning shift today?"
"You are," Joe grinned. "And I'm taking over from Linkara at noon."
They'd come up with the system of overlapping six hour shifts to ensure there was always one relatively fresh person on guard duty at all times. That Chick With The Goggles had been the one to come up with the idea -- had insisted on it, in fact -- after she and Linkara had arrived for their shift one day and found Angry Joe and Ma-Ti both fast asleep.
("Not that they didn't look adorable," she'd told Spoony. "But adorable isn't going to keep the zombies at bay." As usual, she had a point.)
"Great." He looked at the clock. If he was quick, he could just about grab breakfast before heading to the gate. "Hey, bring me over a Red Bull and some Ramen for lunch when you come over, would you?"
"Glad to see our Fearless Leader is keeping himself healthy," Joe remarked dryly, and quickly ducked out of the way of the object flying at his head. "Dude, did you just throw a comb at me? The hell?"
But the Fearless Leader ignored him, and started down to the canteen.
15 May 2011
"Incoming!" the Angry Video Game Nerd nudged Ma-Ti with his boot, none too gently. He was tired, hungry, and he was supposed to have ended his shift ten minutes ago, but his relief was late. He was in a bad mood even for him, and he wasn't above taking it out on Mr. I Am An Invaluable Asset To The Compound So I Get To Nap On Shift, Dammit. "Looks like a car, so probably friendlies. Not zombies, at least."
"Probably," Ma-Ti agreed, rubbing his side and wincing slightly. "Too far away to tell if they're infected, though. Or who they are."
But the Nerd had already lifted the binoculars started to adjust them. "Too far for you, maybe," he smirked. "This calls for old-fashioned methods."
"Old-fashioned methods and state-of-the-art technology," Ma-Ti pointed out, and okay, he had to admit, the high-tech binoculars did help. A little. His point still stood, though.
"Damn sun's glaring off the windshield," he growled. Then, a cloud came to his aid, and he quickly focussed the binoculars ... "Oh, you're shitting me," he exclaimed. The Nostalgia Critic? The guy everyone gave up for dead almost a year ago, because no one could survive at Ground Zero, right? Except, it seemed the fucker had. What was he, the goddamned Batman, now?
"What?" Ma-Ti reached for the binoculars, the car apparently still too far away for his mojo to work. The Nerd handed them over without a word. "... Critic?"
Not a hallucination, then. The Nerd sighed. "Keep an eye on him in case he's infected or something. I'll go tell the others."
New arrivals, even less spectacular ones than this one, were exciting enough that even those on opposite shifts didn't mind losing some sleep to welcome them. By the time everyone was awake and gathered around the gates, the car was close enough that the Nerd could heard the Critic yelling, "Neeeerd!" He rolled his eyes.
"Shut your pie hole, fuckwad!
"Fuck you! Are you gonna let me in, or what?"
"Or what! We need to make sure you're not infected, first." He turned towards Ma-Ti, and gestured. "Well?"
Ma-Ti, not immune to a little dramatic license, apparently, made a point of leaning slightly out of the tower and studying the Critic for several seconds before yelling at the small crowd, "He's clean, open the gates." He slid down the stairs before the car was even through the gates.
"How the fuck could you tell I was clean from up there, you pipsqueak?" The Critic yelled at Ma-Ti as soon as he got out of the car.
Ma-Ti, apparently still in prima donna mode, held up one hand, ring glittering in the early morning sun, and said, "Heart?"
"Huh," the Critic said thoughtfully. "Maybe it's not such a lame power after all."
The next few minutes descended into chaos as people crowded around the Critic, demanding to know how he managed to survive, and the Nerd kept his distance, figuring even the pussy deserved his hero's welcome. Sort of.
"Okay, people, break it up!" And there was Spoony, interrupting the general mayhem and attempting to restore some semblance of order. "I know we're all glad to see each other, but there's no one on guard right now, or preparing breakfast, and I'm sure the Critic will want food, and a shower, and some sleep." The Nerd couldn't help but smirk as Spoony wrinkled his nose and added, "Not necessarily in that order." When people began to disperse, albeit grumblingly, he called to the Nerd, "Hey!"
Oh, god. "What?"
"He'll be bunking with you. Show him around, would you? I'm on kitchen duty." And he was gone before either of them could object.
"You better not snore, asshole," the Critic commented.
"Fuck you, douchebag," the Nerd retorted. "Come on, let's get this over with. You're not the only one who needs food and sleep, you know. I've been on guard shift all night."
"Poor baby," the Critic intoned sarcastically.
The Nerd ignored him. "Showers are over there," he pointed. "Canteen's that way. And this," opening the door to one of the smaller building to reveal a sparse room containing a set of bunk beds, a table with some chairs, and a desk. "Is my humble abode."
"Our humble abode, now," the Critic pointed out.
"Whatever. You've got the top bunk." He saw the Critic smirk. "What?"
"Nothing, just never took you for much of a bottom, that's all. Wasn't it Nerd-on-Critic action, after all?" His attempt at looking innocent failed spectacularly, and the Nerd scowled at him.
"Oh, shut up. We'll see who's laughing when you have to try and get up there after a supply raid. If you survive your first one, that is."
"Hey, I survived at Ground Zero for a year, remember? Although, to be fair, I did have help. Sort of. That Guy was a liability more than an asset, sometimes, though.
"What happened to him, anyway?" The Nerd asked. It was against one of the cardinal rules of post-zombie-apocalyptic etiquette, he knew, to ask about the ones who didn't make it, but manners had never been a big concern between the Critic and him anyway.
The Critic uttered a short, harsh laugh. "Actually, that's a funny story. See, we survived that whole first year, right? Then we found Spoony's message -- don't ask how, long story -- and of course we decided to leave as soon as possible. We did one last supply run for the road, and on the way back, the asshole tripped and broke his ankle while we were getting away from a pack. I managed to hold them off, but there were more coming, and there was no way I could drag him back to the car before we ran out of fuel and bullets. I mean, I tried, but ..."
Silence for a few moments, then: "Anyway, he gave this whole speech or whatever about wanting to die with his, and I quote, 'vastly superior brain' intact. So I shot him though the heart. Turns out he had one. Who knew, right?"
The Nerd wasn't sure what, if anything to say to that -- fuck, sure, they'd had (still had!) their epic feud, but this was something else. He was still trying to think of something when the Critic spared him the trouble.
"So, shower, and food. And I meant what I said about not snoring, asswipe, because I need to sleep for days, and if you keep me awake, I will smother you in your sleep."
29 May 2011
"Are we there yet?"
The Nostalgia Chick glared in the general direction of the passenger's seat. "I'm really beginning to regret picking you up, Paw. I should've just left you for the zombies." Five days of being cooped up in the car, taking turns driving and sleeping, stopping only to refuel and for the occasional bathroom break, were starting to take their toll.
The tension and cabin fever were inevitable, she knew, and she did try to keep her patience. Still, she had probably saved Paw from certain death, the Chick thought, still annoyed. He'd fallen asleep at the wheel after 36 hours of non-stop driving, and ended up swerving into a ditch. Miraculously, he hadn't been seriously injured, but the car was a loss. If she hadn't happened by he'd be zombie chow by now, so you'd think the man would be at least vaguely grateful, but no. Not him. If he opened his mouth just one more time, she decided, he was going to spend the rest of the way tied to the roof, dammit.
"Hey, look!"
"Right, that's it," the Chick started, but he interrupted her.
"No really, look! Over there," he pointed. It was hard to see, squinting against the sunset, but coming up on the horizon was what looked like an army compound, watchtower and fences and all. "I think that's it, isn’t it?"
She nodded. "Looks like it. So, in answer to your earlier question: yes, we're almost there, yes."
"Well thank fuck for that."
The Chick considered the tied-to-the-roof option again. It would only be for half an hour, tops; no harm would be done, right?
"What's up?" That Chick With The Goggles asked, walking into the common-room-slash-comms-room.
Spoony sighed, then stretched. "I'm trying to work out this month's schedule, and we need to organise another raid. Otherwise, we're gonna have to start dipping into the supplies the army left behind, soon.
Goggles patted him on the shoulder. "We'll manage."
"Sure, as long as we don't get more people," he said. "What's with this sudden influx, anyway?"
"You're the one who posted that message," she pointed out.
Before Spoony could respond, Joe stuck his head around the door. "We've got incoming. Two people, can't tell who, yet. I'll go tell the others, and get Ma-Ti."
Spoony threw his hands up in defeat, and Goggles snickered. "Could be someone who's worth the extra mouth to feed," she suggested.
"Unless it's Chuck Norris," he sighed. "I doubt it."
Shaking her head, she made her way to the tower, where Ma-Ti was waving at her excitedly. "Congratulations!" He yelled. "It's a girl!"
"What?"
"It's the Nostalgia Chick," he explained, grinning. "And Paw," he added, almost as an afterthought.
Goggles considered whether doing a little dance of joy would be too undignified. Weeks of being the only girl in a sea of testosterone were starting to get on her nerves. She settled for a discreet arm-pump of victory.
Not bothering with the theatrics this time, Ma-Ti just waved the car through the gates. The Nostalgia Chick jumped out of the car with a cry of "Oh my god, people," prompting Paw to inquire if he was chopped liver, now. Goggles ignored him, instead hugging the Chick until she practically turned blue with oxygen deprivation.
"I am so fucking glad you're here," she said. "I've been all alone here for weeks with nothing but boys, and I was about to start on a rampage or something. Come on, I'll show you where the showers and the canteen and everything is. You're sleeping with me, by the way."
There was a sudden silence as everyone else's eyes seemed to glaze over. Goggles mentally reviewed what she'd just said, and rolled her eyes.
"Oh, for-- snap out of it, guys! God, you're all pathetic." She turned to the Chick. "I swear, you take away their porn for a while and they start acting like everything's innuendo."
"Hey, I was acting like that before," Spoony weakly tried to defend himself. "By the way, Chick, you're not hiding a bunch of supplies in that car, are you?"
The Chick shook her head. "Sorry, I just had enough to get here. You guys running low?"
Joe rolled his eyes. "We have a whole bunch of supplies left by the army, but he refuses to use them."
"I'm trying to save them for an emergency!" Spoony protested.
"Dude, it's the zombie apocalypse, I'd say that counts as an emergency! Anyway, hate to add to your worries, but the Critic was supposed to take over my shift like half an hour ago, and he never showed up. The Nerd says he hasn't seen him since yesterday, and his bed hasn't been slept in."
"Fuck!" Spoony ran a hand through his hair. "All right, I'll take over his shift; you go and get some sleep. Goggles, once you've shown her around, could you try and find out what happened? And see if you can find a volunteer to take over his next shift just in case."
She nodded, and then the boys were off, leaving her alone with an amused-looking Nostalgia Chick.
"The Critic is sharing with the Angry Video Game Nerd? That sounds like it's good for hours of entertainment. Or did they finally let go of their feud?"
Goggles laughed. "Oh, they tried to keep it going, but I smashed their heads together the first time they tried to actually fight. No reason to actually do the zombies' work for them, after all. So now they're doing this thing where they pretend they still hate each other, even though they share a room and pretty much spend all their time together when they're not on shift It's really amusing, to be honest."
The Chick snickered. "Never underestimate a supposedly straight boy's capacity for denial, huh?"
"Oh, girlfriend, you have no idea. I'm running a betting pool on when they'll finally just admit it, by the way. Want in?"
"Hell yeah," the Chick beamed. "But first, I need a shower."
7 June 2011
The Nostalgia Critic ran through the desert, hoping like hell he wasn't going in circles. He could hear engines behind him, and swore. They'd discovered his escape, then. He'd hoped they wouldn't check on him until late in the day. Six hours head start wasn't a lot, not when he was on foot and his pursuers had cars. Not to mention the fact that he had no real idea where he was, or how to get back to the compound.
He blinked against the sunset. At least he'd managed to stumble onto a road. Not that it would do him any good; they were going to catch up with him in a matter of minutes. He set off down the road anyway. He was going to give the bastards a run for their money, even if he was so exhausted there was a dull roaring sound in his ears.
He blinked, turned back. The roaring wasn't a hallucination -- that was a truck coming up behind him.
"Hey! Hey!" He yelled, waving wildly. He hoped whoever was driving it was, at the very least, not one of the crazies he'd just escaped.
The truck pulled up beside him, and the passenger's side door opened. "Get in, get in!" He was in the truck before he realised who his unexpected knights in shining armour were.
"MarzGurl! Linkara! Man, am I glad to see you guys!"
"Feeling's mutual," MarzGurl grinned, then turned her attention back to getting away from their pursuers. "I think we're losing them. Who are they, by the way? They don't look infected."
"Oh, they're not; they're just crazy." He glanced in the side mirror. The crazy people did seem to be losing ground. "They're some group of survivors who've gone completely paranoid. They found out about the compound and assumed we were, I dunno, planning to raid them for supplies, or in league with the zombies or something. They grabbed me to 'interrogate' me about it. Well, that was the plan; by the end, they were making noises about making me into supplies."
MarzGurl and Linkara shot him near-identical looks of horror. "Seriously?" Linkara was looking a little green, suddenly.
"Yeah, don't even. Anyway, I finally managed to escape them last night, but they would've caught up with me soon if you two hadn't come along. So hey, thanks!"
"You're welcome." Linkara winced and shifted, and the Critic now realise his leg was splinted and bandaged.
"Is that leg broken?" He asked. This could be a big problem. He knew they were running low on painkillers, and none of them really knew much about first aid.
"Yeah, a couple of weeks ago," Linkara said. He winced again, took a small bottle of pills out of his pocket, and swallowed one of them.
"Hey, you guys have painkillers?" It suddenly occurred to the Critic to wonder what was in the truck they were driving.
"Painkillers, antibiotics, bandages, food, tea, coffee, you name it," MarzGurl grinned. "We've been stocking up."
Well, Spoony should be happy about that, at least.
'Happy' turned out to be an understatement. "There's even a box of Red Bull!" He beamed at MarzGurl. "I may have to marry you, now."
"In your dreams," she said. Still, it was nice to be appreciated.
"Uh, guys? A little help here?" Whoops, she'd forgotten about Linkara, who was trying to climb out of the truck without falling face-first onto the concrete. Angry Joe and That Chick With The Goggles rushed to his aid, and she could see Spoony wince.
"That leg does not look good," he commented.
"Yeah, I tried to set it as well as I could, but I'm no doctor. He's been doped up on painkillers since it happened, and I've been keeping an eye out for infection, though."
He nodded. "I'll go and see what I can do, then." He caught up with the three, and took over from Goggles, who came over to MarzGurl.
"Hey, hon, good to have another girl in here. Don't worry, we'll get him fixed up. Come on, you can stay with the Nostalgia Chick and me, we'll put an extra cot in our room."
"Sounds like a plan to me!"
On the way, they passed the Nostalgia Citric and the Angry Video Game Nerd, who seemed very intent on pretending to be arguing. Next to her, Goggles sighed and shook her head. "Boys," she sighed.
"What's up with them?" MarzGurl asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh, that's the North American Male doing the dance of I Don't Care, Really, I Don't Even Like You. They do that, just ignore them. Oh, except I think this is the lesser seen I Wasn't Worried About You, No Seriously variation."
Marz muffled a laugh -- it wouldn't do to alert the boys, after all. "Now, now, I'm sure they'll at least admit to being friends soon."
"Oh, I'm sure," Goggles agreed. "And on that day, somebody will never have to do chores again," she grinned. "We have a betting pool. Want in?"
"Gimme a chance to observe them first," MarzGurl replied. "I wanna make at least a semi-educated guess. Now, I believe I was promised a bed?"
The problem with painkillers, Linkara realised quickly, was that they only did so much good if there wasn't anyone around who knew more than some basic first aid. Sure, the pain in his leg had been dulled down, and he was nice and woozy and ooh, lookit the purdy colours, but that didn't actually fix his leg, and whenever someone tried to move it, the pain returned with a vengeance, making it impossible to hold still.
"This isn't working," he heard a voice say -- probably Spoony, he thought, but his eyes felt to heavy to open them and see. "The bone's started to heal wrong, and we couldn’t set it properly anyway. He keeps moving around too much and tensing up." Well, that didn't sound good.
"We could try muscle relaxant," a second voice, sounding doubtful. Angry Joe? Probably. "I think I saw some in the truck."
"Too dangerous. If we give him the wrong dose, it might relax the wrong muscle? Like, say, his heart, or his lungs, or his brain?"
He wanted to point out that he was pretty sure the brain wasn't a muscle, but he could barely manage an incoherent mumble, which neither voice paid attention to.
"Leave it for now," the first voice sighed. "I'll see if I can find anything in the books the army left behind. He's too full of painkillers right now to care, anyway."
Linkara didn't even bother trying to protest this time, and instead listened as the owner of the second voice sighed "I guess so," and left.
"I really hope there's something in the books," probably-Spoony muttered. "Otherwise, I'm going to have to take you down to Him."
Wait, what?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
From:
no subject
Batman! And he's arrived. Of course, everyone deserves a hero's welcome, right before locking horns with their archnemesis again. Hehe, Nerd on Critic action. Funny even after the zombie apocalypse.
Yay, they made it! Those guys need to get laid. I'm not volunteering anyone.
Geez, how far was he from camp to get caught like that? Yay, Marz and Link to the rescue. Wait a minute, I thought Link was already in the camp. Typo, or something I missed? Oooh, I hope he's okay. And who is HIM?
I'm excited and scared! Off to the next chapter!