Work Text:
This small out-of-the-way town was nothing to dream about. Pretty boring, rows of tiny houses with one lonely 5 stories building towering over it that must have been the talk of the town, some eventful months ago.
Still, Grian was mostly glad to have gotten rid of the cracks. They spanned all over the south of England, some huge and hungry black spills that could greedily swallow the ground under your feet at any given moment.
The remaining people there had taken to play bets around it, anything from the next location it would appear to who could get the closest without falling in. All in all, a typical reaction for their suddenly atypical world that kept on giving unwanted monkey paw's gifts.
Grian had found the cracks unsettling, for the most part. Something about the strange groans echoing down the depths. Which was why he had taken to the road once again, cautiously hearing rumours of the worst happenings, and steering clear away from unending thunderstorm, rain that peeled off your skin right down to the muscles, and other fun stories to tell. He liked his muscles where they were, thank you very much.
All of that left him here, worn shoes and halfway empty bag, having the barest gratitude that at least, a few places were still some relative amount of safe.
It was close to an hour after 8 P.M - prime time for scavenging - and the town was quiet and isolated, as of yet blissfully empty. The tiny corner store had graciously given him (or well, allowed him to freely steal, which was much of the same thing nowadays) some resources, and Grian was busy looking in that nasty space underneath the counter nobody thinks to check when the cat interrupted him.
Quickly shoving the odd cherry lollipop and two cereal bars he found into his pocket, leaving behind cigarettes butts and loose change, he looked up to the furry animal worming its way through fallen shelves and broken glass.
It didn't look like it had got rabies, but it never hurt to look twice. Careful had become everyone's second name, when the world had started to stop working as it should. (Nevermind that there were so few cats and dogs left the virus was probably all the way up to extinction.)
It walked close to him, expertly dodging the debris littering the floor, with an agility that left no doubt to its cognitive ability.
Grian had found himself a cat, in the middle of the goddamn apocalypse.
A closer look told him two things: first, the cat had a name, Jellie, golden tag hanging off its red collar, and second, it was afraid. Never a good sign, the bristled hairs just settling down.
Grian crouched behind the counter, quietly checking the magazine of his gun. 6 bullets. Not that much, but if worst came to worst he had a perfectly fine hunting knife, and one set of mostly working teeth.
The cat was rubbing against his legs now, paws tip-tapping against his boots, and he raised a tentative hand to its head. It was warm, soft grey gracing his palm with an affection that Grian had long cut off from his life like an infected limb. But still, the unfamiliar familiarity took over, and he scratched between its ears with the faintest twitch of his lips.
That was when the footstep noises echoed inside the tiny corner store, heavy soles crushing glass and boxes in their wake. Jellie's hairs all stood on hand, as did Grian's, a wave of soft keratin spikes vainly trying to armour him.
Quietly, Grian clicked the safety off from his gun, before rolling an empty can to his left: experience taught him that some trigger-happy people tended to shoot at the first hint of surprise, and Grian popping out from his hidden position would certainly count as a shot-worthy target.
"Who's there?" A hoarse, tobacco corroded voice shrieked, with the very recognisable sound of someone cocking a shotgun.
"Just me." Grian answered, forcefully keeping his body loose and relaxed, save for the hand holding his own gun, steady and firm. Wouldn't be the first time he shot someone, and it certainly won't be the last.
The stranger glared at him, a scowl so deep on his face it looked carved into it, like a theater mask, back when the world had cared enough. The frown was half-hidden under a thin shadow of a blonde beard, striking colour against the tan skin.
Pressing against Grian's calves: the cat, a warm little weight against the fabric of his trousers. He felt oddly touched, something fragile and bruised rising up in his heart at the idea of this small little nothing thinking of him as safety. Safety against this man, who started speaking again. "Who the fuck are you?"
"No one." It was true. When choosing to go alone here, you lost all identity, all marks of belonging to a greater mass of people. You were just yourself, hanging onto your name for the sake of having one.
"Right." The other sneers, trailing the shotgun to Grian's face. "Hand over the cat." He spoke with this weird cadence to it, words slowly escaping his teeth like they were full of gum. The resolve wasn't fake: this man didn't seem all that trigger-happy, but he certainly looked like he'd be happy to pull the trigger on Grian at the slightest hint of resistance.
He was the farthest thing away from trustworthy, with an air to him telling that his hair had probably been greasy a long while before the end of the world had brought with it a lack of hygiene and shampoo. Not to say: who the hell goes after a cat? There wasn't a huge meat shortage yet, despite what the emerging cannibal cult might make you think.
The situation was weird, and Grian didn't do weird ever since the sea had turned blood red on a Friday morning eight months ago. "No." It was his turn to match the man's stance, putting the muzzle line right in between the eyes. It was a match of patience now, and something told Grian he wouldn't be the first to lose.
From the corner of his eyes, Grian saw a shadow quietly opening the door to the shop. Friend or foe didn't matter: the main enemy was in front of him.
"I see now." The stranger continued, unaware of the silhouette creeping up behind his back. "You're working for Him aren't you?" The Him with a capital H was spitted, literally and metaphorically.
Half-distracted, Grian took too long to respond. "For who?"
"Don't play coy with me!" Lost to his 75 decibels anger, he failed to notice the third actor to their play, now within arm's reach. Grian didn't, giving him a split second of attention, for which the smiling stranger answered him with an index raised to his lips and a three fingers count down.
It was like the aftermath of a bomb: all the noises were stolen from his ears in favour of a sharp ringing as he watched those scars littered fingers tick down one by one.
The smiling stranger's hand was now a closed fist. In his other hand, suddenly, a cane, looking heavy and metallic, dangerous. It was swung with practised ease at the man's knee, meeting it with a crack right as Grian shot him in the shoulder. Bad day for him, probably about to get worse.
The man crumbled like wet cardboard, pain robbing him of his consciousness - and probably his life, in slow rough grains of sand escaping the hourglass - just when Grian regained all his hearing with a relieved breath. Not leaving things up to chance, he kicked the shotgun away from the man. It wasn't worth taking anyways, too clunky to manage on his own.
"It's something about Monday, isn't it? They're always so tedious." The remaining stranger interrupted him, made him jump - not helping the 300 meters sprint his heart was seemingly convinced they were trying to win.
"It's not Monday." He frowned, steadying his gun on the other's chest. The cat uncoiled at his feet with a sudden meow before leaving his side, slowly.
"Well, its not not-Monday either. Don't tell me you kept a calendar in that bag of yours, mister!"
The challenge irked him, just the tiniest bit, and Grian was half tempted to lie and throw out a date at random, just to smack the assurance out of the man. He seemed like the type of man who oozed it by every pore of the skin, and Grian had his fair pleasurable share in knocking guys like him down a peg.
But there were other matters at hand. "Who are you?"
The stranger bowed, carefully vulnerable. "Scar, at your service. Or well-" He crouched with a pained grimace, and welcomed the cat into his arms with a blinding grin. "In your debt, more like."
It was enough to shock Grian out of his shooting stance: debts were heavy things, full of twisted hooks in this new derelict world. Something told him he had yet to know if this Scar was a fish he'd like to hook.
We'll see about that he didn't say, though it hung in the corner of his mouth. He was not stupid enough to let go of a freely given gift. Instead, he pointed to the cat still cuddling up Scar's neck and asked the obvious. "Is she yours?"
Scar pouted. "Not even offering your name in return?"
Grian gave him a gracious shrug. "It's your debt not mine." There was nothing else to add, only silence as he waited for the answer to his previous question.
"Yes, she is. People always seems to think they can blackmail me using her, but they never realise what a smart baby she is!" He scratched her chin as he slowly got up, only wobbling a little, and Grian could hear the purr from here.
"Blackmail?" What kind of man was worth being blackmailed, nowadays?
Scar laughed as he dusted himself off, trusting Jellie to stay upright on his shoulders. "They want my stock. I'm a seller of things, all types of things, and no one wants to pay for them fairly!" Hands on his hips, a disapproving frown on his face. "It's hard work you know, finding what the customers want. I could even find you a soul, for the right price." He winked. "Just kidding. Haven't found a way to make them last yet."
A lifetime ago, Grian would have doubted the man's sanity, but now he was just reluctantly impressed, and a touch more cautious. "And you travel alone? With that type of reputation?"
"How dare you say that! I have this adorable Missy right here to keep me company." It was infuriating how the man threw away seriousness like a magician negligently revealed a multitude of coloured handkerchiefs, one after another.
Grian added in a deadpan expression to his unimpressed posture. "Of course, how dare I forget this weapon of mass destruction protecting your back." The moment was relaxed enough, possible threats left up to words now, and so he silently put away the gun, although leaving it easily within reach: he wasn't an idiot.
Scar shrugged off the remark "I know how to handle myself, but it's sweet of you to worry."
"I'm not- That wasn't worry!" Ten minutes into knowing the guy, and Grian already wanted to wring his neck (after making sure the cat was off on her merry way elsewhere, of course, he wasn't a monster). That might not even be effective: with how slippery Scar was, trying to close your hands around his throat would be like catching an eel barehanded.
Not that Scar reminded him of an eel otherwise - he was, truth to be told, quite handsome.
"Wheredya come from anyways, I haven't seen you around here before?"
Grian kept his answer brief. "Liverpool." Even though it had only been a few weeks, rumours travelled fast for those who had ears, and Grian had no doubt Scar would have heard of it. Hard not to, with the continuous stream of black smoke escaping the center of the city, along with the occasional buildings collapsing in a great deal of noise, orange heat and red. The fog always made the red look better.
Scar winced. "Mad fog?" It was the common nickname given to it, and although nobody knew why it always stayed in its cradle, they were all relieved to not have to watch the direction of the wind, on top of constant surveillance for acid rain.
"Mad fog." Grian nodded in confirmation. Thanks to whatever was still alive up there, Grian had caught it early, unlike about two third of the surviving population inhabiting its walls. Privately, he thought a lot of people had also caught it early enough: they just liked it too much to think of leaving. He couldn't blame them, had nearly been the same. Blood and explosion never made him feel the same horror as before, even long after he left.
He would even dare to venture, soot-stained hands hastily washed clean, that it felt kind of good.
The remainder made his hands itch and he suddenly couldn't bear to stay in this store any longer, a dead man's breath rattling over their words.
Humans shed their morals like unneeded weights in brief times of survival. But this whole world had plunged them head first into a constant survival mode, and Grian didn't know what to do about the fact that he'd thrived off as alone as he could be. Only the mad, the violent, or the lost survived outside of the tightly knit communities - Grian didn't want to be part of any of those clubs.
He left the tiny store, giving a wide berth to the body, and soon heard an inquisitive meow, followed by the tiny pit pat of paws coming up to join him.
Jellie was adorable, fluffy and warm, and a living proof that Scar had indeed some kind of power: not just anybody could handle a pet now, and a happy one at that. Grian allowed himself to give her another little scratch behind the ears.
"She grows on you, doesn't she?" The tone was fond, if a bit breathless. Grian had heard the sound of uneven steps following him out, which meant the cane wasn't just for swinging at some asshole's kneecaps. As if hearing his thoughts, Scar smiled. "This one is a bit heavier than my usual cane, but it's useful enough. You should see the other baby though, Cub helped me customise it: stickers, colours, it's even got a tiny cat charm! I just hate to get blood on it."
"Don't you have a long range weapon?" Admittedly, England wasn't America, who probably had gone guns blazing into the apocalypse, but as the number of survivors shrunk, it was easier to loot a corpse and have a lucky find. Scar, with his apparent wealth, should have one, if not a couple.
"Yup!" Scar made the word pop, and started walking at the same time. "Even got a bow, somewhere."
Grian, intrigued despite himself, couldn't help but follow him, a striking silhouette in the dying sun, its last rays lighting up a dying world. "And why aren't you using them, then?"
"Ah, you know, sometimes you gotta get down and dirty to make it worth your while."
Grian blinked, opening his mouth and then closing it in the same breath. "Sure."
"Do you want to grab a bite? All this adventure has left me famished." Wasn't that the apotheosis of stranger danger? But still, Grian was considering it. Scar had this way of talking - there was a beauty to words Grian barely managed to grasp, and yet here Scar was, spinning gold with the roof of his mouth, the tip of his tongue, his teeth.
Something about it made Grian want to continue talking, as frivolous as the subject may be, as long as the thoughts of this strange man continued to collide with Grian's own.
Stomping over his hesitation, Scar continued. "Beside his friends-" A short nod to the corner store's entry. "Are probably coming," He nonchalantly remarked. "I'm pretty sure they put a wanted order on me and Jellie. Will probably be put on you too, if you're seen."
Grian, in what he thought was a perfectly reasonable reaction to being told about a potential manhunt about 20 minutes too late, let out a moderately loud shriek. "What?"
"Do you think an idiot like him survived alone? We've got another handful of minutes, we're still fine." They were definitely not fine. This particular town was empty, crumbling onto itself, and the two of them were definitely a very noticeable dot of colour in the otherwise grey landscape.
"Ah, wonderful, let me escape from this deserted town in a handful of minutes."
"I have a car, I can give you a ride! About anywhere but the Lake District. Trying to avoid that one."
Grian snorted. "No jokes. That's the cannibal cult's place, everyone is trying to avoid that."
"Well, me harder than them. Cub knows I'm on vacation but if he saw me in our territory I bet he'd just snatch me right back up!" The grabbing fingers coupled with his words was very dramatic.
Grian stopped and narrowed his eyes, trying to calmly breath through his nose. "Scar." The events of today were all coming to a boil, and this might very well be the straw that broke the camel's back. Why did Grian always had to attract the weird ones? "Scar, I need you to be honest with me: are you part of the cannibal cult? I feel like that's a thing you announce to someone before offering a ride. And food."
He looked sheepish, but definitely not sheepish enough for his deceit. "Just a little bit. A tiny bit! Blink and you'll miss it really! We just eat annoying people I promise, we wouldn't eat you!"
Grian, whose entire definition up to that point was an annoyance, didn't feel too much reassured. "Huh, huh. Well, I've got business elsewhere. Anywhere you're not going, sadly."
"Come on! Would I lie to you?" He would, but the sad puppy eyes helped appeal to the part of Grian that liked danger and the faces wearing it, thus leaving him feeling endeared against his will. And he was also very much about to become a bloody paste on the pavement if he didn't get out of here, and fast.
Grian sighed. "I guess I could be convinced. As long as I stay in the friend category."
"Jellie likes you, I would never eat someone Jellie likes." Scar swore solemnly, arm to his chest, and it felt true.
The world was ending, Grian had just killed a man, and now he was on his way to share a ride with a cannibal. The instinct to smile at said cannibal's face when he realised Grian was coming was at odds with the commonly accepted set of morals every human should possess but alas. Grian might be as doomed as Scar gauged himself a cannibal, which is to say a little tiny bit, and who knew about the real amount.
"Name's Grian." He offered, because if he was going to die, he'd rather it be with his name firmly settled in the killer's mind.
"Grian!" Scar exclaimed, white teeth set in a splitting smile. "What a pretty name for-"
He held up a hand in the air, glaring down at Scar. "Don't finish that sentence." The other might think it annoyance, but the truth was that if he didn't stop, Grian would blush - an embarrassing red spill all over his face, the kind no one could ignore without being blind.
He could handle the smiles, the sparkling eyes and confidence pouring out of Scar, but an outright compliment was too much, especially after this long without human contact, least of all people pronouncing his name with that kind of enthusiasm, like they were setting a home inside their mouth for it.
"Let's go then, the Swaggon is not too far!"
It was not, indeed, and in the short 5 minutes walk to the apparently famous car, Scar had not stopped regaling Grian with - no doubt exaggerated - stories about it.
It was why, after almost cracking a smile at Scar's latest joke, that Grian turned to him with an accusing look once the vehicle was in sight. "Scar, buddy, that's a murder van."
It certainly didn't look like a friendly car coming to pick up your kid, that's for sure: a big white van, complete with sliding doors and ominous opaque windows.
"Excuse you?That's the Swaggon you're insulting right now!" He opened the back with great gusto, and Grian had a split second of expected near death at the thought of men bursting out of the van, but the inside was actually… cosy.
There was a mattress on the farthest edge, a double at that, albeit on the smaller side. Around it, shelves of heteroclite things, books, cans, even some plants extending their green leaves all around the place. Pictures taped to the walls in colourful mosaics, books with a crooked spine resting in the oddest places, yes, as much as the outside was ominous, the interior had a full grown soul, and it made Grian feel a little bit better about his survival chances, and about everything really.
He didn't have much time to explore though, thanks to Scar's theatrics - that he was beginning to suspect were carefully calculated, once he had a goal in mind.
Scar opened the passenger door, bowing like a gentleman, and Grian rolled his eyes as he got inside, startling when a mass of fur jumped on his thighs.
"That's her favourite place when I drive, you little thief!" Something in Grian's expression must have been hilarious, because Scar laughed: a bright and loud thing in the quiet of a young night.
Silence settled in between them after that, though it was far from the usual uncomfortable weight of having nothing to say. It simply was here, a wordless companion after an eventful night.
Grian propped his elbow against the window, forehead pressing on the cold glass, eyes on the rapidly darkening horizon. Ever since everything happened - this avalanche of bad news no one could truly put a name on when faced with the enormity of it - the stars were out every night, thanks to the lack of electricity, tiny dots of light indifferent to their plight.
The moon, the moon was different. It looked like a flimsy little sticker, carelessly slapped in the middle of the sky, like at any given moment it could peel away and fall on Earth's unsuspecting back. Similar to the lot of them, in summary, hanging on with all their might to the last pages of their biography.
Sometimes, alone at night, escaping the pull of sleep with expert wandering thoughts, Grian liked to pretend he was an astronaut. Lost in space, with no one but the stars. So far away he could not even see their fucked up blue planet, cradled in the calm arms of the universe.
But something always made him blink back to reality, breathing in oxygen and steadying his feet on the solid ground. Once you'd gotten over it being the End with a capital E, you'd realise there were still things worth living for, in these ever changing lands.
They left the town behind them, faint smoke rising in the air, almost undistinguishable from the sky - the classical burial method now: no one wanted to risk adding a zombie uprising to the mix.
Scar's hand brushed against his arm on the way to pet Jellie, still on Grian's laps. The warmth, despite the fabric in between their skin, was like a fire spreading, devouring the distance from his arm to his brain.
Here too, there was no words exchanged, just a slightly apologetic smile that Grian could feel beginning to be familiar.
Things were fine, in this little corner of the world.