RATED M just in case (there's swearing and most definitely violence, but I read FFN's rating system and still don't understand it completely/ oops.)
WORD COUNT (ignoring author's notes, etc.): 9,518

this fic is mainly oriented around the 'GREENS' ship (butch/buttercup, butchercup, whatever other name they go by,) but there might be some background REDS and BLUES if i care enough to pay attention to them. i do plan on using POV - if not alternating chapters, then maybe a switch within a chapter...still haven't decided yet.

/no beta (duh.) consistent updates? NO. i just wanted to get this idea out somewhere before my computer mysteriously eats up my files again, so why not let it fester on FFN? whilst i do hope to update this fic soon, i don't count on it. what with my laptop being a total douche and a couple treacherous assignments that i need to crack down on, it's not a guarantee that i'll be able to update anything for a while. though i plan on trying to make it work.

CHAPTER TITLE: two kids and a teenage murderer walk into a bar /or/ the grim satisfaction is something she'll take to her grave...or afterlife?

In the movies, it's always so...intense. For the sake of the plot, it's all a huge blur and by the end of it you're reeling, trying to understand what the fuck just happened. And when it sinks in, it sinks in and you're overwhelmed with sympathy for the ever-so-hurt protagonist. When the protagonist sheds a tear, or lets slip a sob, you can't help but think that they deserve it. They deserve a moment to themselves, even if it's a moment they can't afford. Because the protagonist has been through oh-so much, y'know, they just need a break.

Oh, what she'd do for a fucking break right now.

In the movies, it doesn't look so hard. In the movies, it's all glorified and made more exciting for the sake of an audience. For views, and money, and all that other shit. You don't really think about how the characters are fairing mentally and emotionally. You just know that they're all varying shades of fucked up and are In Need Of Psychiatric Help (TM).

The more Buttercup thinks about it, the more parallels she has to draw. She never thought that, in the midst of the end of the world, she'd be chaperone to the neighbor's kids. Well, the neighbor's daughter and her project partner. They're sweet kids, really, barely reaching nine or ten. Something like that. Honestly, when the news first came out – it wasn't her father Buttercup had worried about, or her step-sister, or her step-mother. It'd been the two little tykes next door in the backyard.

Mainly because they were screaming to high hell. Truly screaming, y'know, that kind of instinctive sound you can't replicate. The fine hairs on her neck had stood on end. She heard it all the way from her bedroom; the attic, renovated specifically to become a bedroom. Soundproofing, insulation, everything.

And they had just been screaming.

Not even like words, just incoherent shrieks of sheer terror. It had made Buttercup forget all about her last-minute homework she was supposed to be writing up. Damn, she hadn't even put on shoes, she'd just sprinted into her backyard, jumped the fence and damn near gagged at what she saw.

Sweet Bubbles, Mrs Bennett's girl, was crying. Her screaming was the higher pitch of the pair as they cowered on the trampoline. And there was Mrs Bennett. Dragging herself across the lawn. A gory mess of entrails slewed from her lower half, where her legs should be was only the snapped remains of her spine and more bodily fluids.

Now Buttercup is the kind of girl that can watch open heart surgery while eating pizza. No care in the world, she can sit down with her father, a surgeon, and listen to him go on and on about how the liver blackens with cancer and stomach an entire bowl of Fruit Loops.

She just...never thought she'd have to...see it. In person. With Mrs Bennett dragging herself like that, somehow not dying as she profusely bleeds. Red soaking into her cherished green grass, spilling all over Bubbles' sandpit and the prized petunias in the flower beds. Buttercup had been slack-jawed for maybe a few seconds too long, able to decide which vertebrae she was staring at and how many of the Mrs Bennett's lower ribs had been dislodged in the drag of the woman's intestines.

The kids' screaming, by that point, had become static in the back of her head. Mrs Bennett was far too close to the trampoline, where Boomer was shaking, frozen in place. Bubbles cowered behind him, tears streaming down her face; cheeks and nose rosy, and they were just screaming, screaming, screaming.

What happened after that had been automatic fight or flight response. Buttercup had sprinted towards the trampoline, where Bubbles then cried, "Buttercup!" It had gained legless Mrs Bennett's attention, therefore causing the woman to claw her way to Buttercup instead. And that's when she'd gotten a better look at her neighbor.

Apart from the obvious mutilation to her lower torso, the woman's eyes were bulging in their sockets. Once summer-sky blue was then a milky gray. Mouth gaped; bloody foam frothing from her lips. Her skin, though naturally pale, took on a sallow quality and sagged from her frame, as if it was melting, but not quite. A bizarre combination of sloughing, yet awfully dried up at the same time. Veins and nerves were visible through her flesh, and her hair was thinning by the second. The more Buttercup tried to take in, the more it just got worse.

So she stopped looking and kicked Mrs Bennett's head off.

Well, almost off. Her head snapped backwards with a sickening crack. Enough so that her neck broke, effectively severing the spinal cord.

Still. Probably wasn't the best idea to kill Mrs Bennett in front of two little children. Especially her own daughter. Buttercup still has nightmares, even if she wont admit it to anybody.

Their screaming had continued. By now their throats were hoarse, she could hear it, but it was all background noise. Her eyes had dragged up to look around. By then, it registered that other neighbors had come to see what had happened. The horrified stares of adults bore down at the corpse of Mrs Bennett. To the terrified children, to the numb teenager standing in the middle of the Bennetts' backyard. Buttercup still doesn't know how long they had watched it all go down, but nobody accused her of murder, so.

Did they see Mrs Bennett for the freak show she was?

Buttercup still doesn't really know for sure.

The cops had been called, an ambulance to cart away Mrs Bennett's body, and the whole thing was opened for investigation. Buttercup wasn't charged, as...whatever the fuck had happened was put down as self-defense. Multiple neighbors put in witness reports to back her up.

Then the three kids sat on the front porch while they waited for Mr Bennett to come home. He had been called, notified of the recent events. Requested to come home ASAP. Something like that, this is where her memory gets spotty. Buttercup...couldn't look Bubbles in the eyes. She couldn't look at her at all, just staring out aimlessly to the eerily vacant streets of their humble little neighborhood.

The screaming had stopped, at least.

Boomer, she had learned, that's who Bubbles' project partner was. Boomer Bradly; nine years old, new to town, new to Bubbles' school, and so, her new partner for their art class. He was quiet – wide eyed, in utter shock. Police offered him a bottle of water, one of those shock-blankets that shone too brightly in the afternoon sun while they called for his parents to come pick him up. The Bradlies had been unreachable.

Bubbles had whispered, shaking, curled into Buttercup's side, "That wasn't mommy."

Buttercup blinked; her breathing was too loud, her heartbeat louder, but her words were so quiet. "No, it wasn't."

And that had been it for a while. The investigation had been closed for now. No sign of intruders, or any way that the...detachment of upper and lower body could make sense. They found Mrs Bennett's legs stuck under a heavy shelf in the pantry. Nobody else was in the house, aside from Bubbles and Boomer in the backyard. The only way Mrs Bennett could have suffered mutilation like that would have been...herself. All Buttercup understood is that the specialists were looking into it, at the time.

They know better now.

Mrs Bennett, a nurse in the medical wing of the experimental health facility, had brought an illness back home with her. An illness that multiple facilities in the country were trying to keep under wraps.

But still, it had been unbeknownst to them at the time. There had been a funeral. Buttercup attended, along with both her step-sister Blossom and their parents. The Bennetts and the Garcia-Pritchets had been close since...well, for as long as Buttercup can remember. She and Blossom babysat Bubbles, and still did, up until. Recently. The two neighboring families being close started off because of her father (formally Dr Garcia, currently Dr Garcia-Pritchet after marrying Blossom's mother,) was a doctor in the same clinic Mrs Bennett worked at.

Mr Bennett started canceling the plans the two families would have planned prior. Buttercup can't help but feel guilt twist her insides into knotty messes, even though the man is dead now. She had done that, she had made a bubbly and gregarious man turn reclusive and unsociable. She had done that. With one fell swoop (kick.)

She doesn't remember anything significant happening for the weeks following. Bubbles still came 'round to visit after school on Wednesdays, the days Mr Bennett worked late, and sometimes Boomer came along too. Things were...they weren't fine, but they were quiet. Routine.

Buttercup's never liked routine. There's always something a little off, a little unnatural about routine.

One of the things she never realized she took for granted are Sundays. You see, Sundays are a special day, because that's when her father got up at six in the morning for work. His schedule was Sunday through Thursday, then he had Friday and Saturday off. That's how it worked. And on Sundays, those were the days that Blossom and her mother slept in 'til around ten in the morning.

So Buttercup made it her priority to wake up early enough to see her father off to work. She'll never voice it aloud, but sometimes...it felt like her father wasn't the same man, with his new wife. Of course, Sara Pritchet was a lovely woman, she was Blossom's mother after all, how could she not be? Lovely, that is. Because her step-sister is lovely, and hardworking, and – and – and. Well. You get the idea.

In short: Buttercup made her father lunch for work on Sundays. Six-o-clock Sundays they called them, their special thing. Their special thing. All theirs. A Garcia tradition that she never thought would die. Until it did. But they'd be up with the sun just rising; birds ruffling in the tree outside the kitchen window.

They'd hum along to the radio; always tuned to some old rock station, never anything else. Buttercup was and will forever always be okay with that. She likes rock – all kinds of rock, the classics to the post-modern. But whenever The Killers or The Ramones or The Rolling Stones came on, it always made her smile. Her father, though sophisticated and charming, will always be a rebel at heart. "A mini me, you are," He'd tell her.

Six-o-clock Sundays were a constant. The only thing that wasn't suspiciously routine. Buttercup never thought it would be something that would abruptly stop one day. Maybe the only thing she took for granted.

You see, six-o-clock Sundays are relevant because that's the last time she saw her father. He'd left with a fond hand on her head, ruffling her messy bedhead and a brief, "Go back to bed, kiddo." And she'd gone, "Pfft, whatever, 'Fessor." (She's always called him Professor, it's just always been a little joke between them that Blossom and her mother will never understand. Professor Utonium, like that one tv show she used to adore.)

The last time she saw her father, she hadn't even said, "I love you" or "I'll miss you" or something fucking normal for a child, like, she doesn't know, calling him dad at least once.

So Monday evening rolled around, and her father hadn't come home yet. If her father was staying in that late, he would have called to let someone know. Hell, he would have told her that Sunday morning if he was planning on pulling a double-shift. Her father is a man of precision, he doesn't do things without checking them first.

...Yet, when Sara gasped in the living room, television remote clattering to the floor, Buttercup hadn't been surprised. The news channel droned on about an incident at the experimental health facility. The one that Mrs Bennett had worked at, and the one her father worked at.

Death. Undisclosed information, suspicious excuses, some sort of breakout – left vague, explaining nothing. The faces of people...not killed but, uh, 'found' dead in the clinic started appearing on screen. The reporter was rattling off names left and right, maybe ten or so survivors. Buttercup's step-mother had raised a clenched fist to her chest, "...Survivors?" And there had been heartbreaking hope in her voice.

Buttercup already knew her father's face would appear on screen. In that damn, nonchalant, monotonous voice, the woman on the television read out, "Doctor John Garcia-Pritchet..." Somebody else, another picture on screen, blah blah blah.

But for a brief moment, Buttercup had stared into green eyes and that polite smile that made a dimple appear in his right cheek. His black hair combed to the side, lab coat, name tag, pen in his breast pocket and his reading glasses neatly folded in the collar of his shirt. That's when it sank in, and the only thing she really wrapped her head around was – no more six-o-clock Sundays.

There – well – the funny thing is, there wasn't even time for a funeral. Blossom was readying for a school trip out of town, an unmissable opportunity and Sara had a business meeting that required a plane to the other end of California, it was all...a mess. And Buttercup didn't get how they could just busy themselves like this. Didn't get it at all – how could they...how could they just act like it wasn't important? Buttercup's father is dead – Sara's husband, the man she loved, and Blossom's father, too. If Blossom didn't view him as that, then a mentor, at least. She knows for a fact that her father was a good man, and if Blossom had a question, he'd do his damn hardest to fucking answer it.

There was no funeral for Buttercup's father...her dad. The Professor. They weren't even allowed to take his body to a crematorium or anything, apparently there was no body to be recovered and she couldn't figure out what that meant. Because she had to walk to school by her father's workplace, you see, and when she dragged her sneakers on the concrete, there was no sign that the building was damaged at all. So why couldn't they have his body, at least? No body to be recovered. No body to be recovered, they said.

God, she was so stupid. The more she thinks about it now, the more obvious it is.

Buttercup's step-mother away on some business trip, and Blossom off to Citiesville, she was alone. It was during this time that Mr Bennett finally emerged from his solitude.

He surprised her by knocking on her door some evening a week later. A bouquet of flowers, a letter of sincere condolence and the man himself there looking like he's on death's doorstep, rather than the Garcia-Pritchet's. Buttercup felt that way too.

She'd invited the man inside. His blond hair was fairer than Bubbles', less of a brilliant gold color, more pale like straw or platinum, she's never been sure. But Mr Bennett is nothing if not a kind man at heart, and he talked with her for a little under thirty minutes and...it felt. Nice. Yeah. Not great, but not bad, either. To just have somebody to distract her for a while from her own grievance. Or struggle to grieve. Buttercup's never been good with feelings.

If she was any kind of florist – like Mrs Bennett, god, Mrs Bennett, she's so sorry – she'd notice that the particular bouquet he brought her were specifically for the loss of a loved one. Though if she did know, it'd probably make her more bitter than reassured.

Before Mr Bennett left, he lingered on the porch step. He'd murmured, "I don't hate you, Buttercup, for what you did. Please forgive yourself." And then he left, and that had been the last Buttercup had heard of him too. His words reacted with her like water and oil. Two separate layers, not mixing, not melting together. Please forgive yourself. How can she do that when she can't figure out where to start?

The day after that, the end of the world began.

She went downstairs as normal, left the morning news on while she got ready for school. Sneakers, cut-off shorts, ratty shirt she hasn't washed for a while, bomber jacket. It used to be Mitch's, she's pretty sure. The thought didn't ease the bundle of nerves in her stomach.

Mid-way through a granola bar, she'd paused to watch the neighbors outside the window. There, across the road, was Mr Bennett. Through the blinds, she made out him talking to another neighbor. From this distance she couldn't see much; maybe that old widow? Something Rose? Whatever, she looked sick.

Sallow skin, swaying dazedly on the spot, and...Buttercup pried open the window. Mr Bennett was asking if the woman was okay, offering to drive her to the hospital if need be.

The next part happened in the span of four seconds:

The widow snarled, and started choking. A familiar, frothy white-red substance dripped from her mouth. Before either Buttercup or Mr Bennett could say anything, the woman was lunging, and teeth...sunk into...flesh. Gnarled fingers came up to grip the man close, and a strange surge of strength shown through how the itty bitty widow managed to tear her teeth through the man's jugular and make blood splatter everywhere.

More screaming.

Like when you torture something until it makes its vocal chords grate themselves hoarse. Buttercup felt something quietly shift into place; an auto-pilot response. That response was to slam open the front door, hurdle the fence between the gardens and slam open the door. Bubbles startled from the couch, making cereal spill everywhere. "B-Buttercup! Buttercup, what are you -"

And there was Boomer. Thank god for their numerous sleepovers. The children stilled when they heard the screaming from outside. Screaming strangely turning into growls, grunting and groaning, and Buttercup forced it all from her mind. "We're leaving," She stated, grabbing both kids by their tiny wrists and all but dragging them back into her own home. She locked the door, locked the windows, and stared through the blinds and everything felt so numb.

When she turned back to the two blondes, they were once again teary-eyed and trembling. Bubbles broke the silence, already sniffling, "W-Was that my..." She couldn't finish her sentence.

Buttercup decided not to answer, simply stalking up the stairs. She heard little footsteps immediately follow after her. "We're leaving," She repeated. "We're gonna pack some bags, and we're fucking leaving this shitty town." Enough of this bullshit.

From downstairs, the news continued to drone.

"...Discovered an outbreak of a peculiar disease -"

"...Jumping to conclusions...calling it the 'zombie-virus'..."

"Certain states are being declared quarantined -"

She doesn't remember what else the news said, but that had...that had been it. The end of the world confirmed. And she just decided to drag two little children down with her. Fuck. A shuddering breath; then she squared her shoulders, marching into her bedroom and dragging out a suitcase from under her bed.

"What about...what about our cl-clothes?" Boomer murmured. Shy kid, Buttercup got that, but the way he was fiddling with the hem of his shirt said he was scared. She got that too. She shrugged, jerking a hand through her hair. A once over said that their current outfits would do. They were both wearing pants at the time, long-sleeve shirts, jackets...good enough.

She shrugged again, "You'll be fine in that." There was no time to sit around and dawdle about dress-up. They needed to get the fuck out of Townsville.

Bubbles made herself at home on Buttercup's bed, hugging maybe the only thing reminiscent of a stuffed animal in her room. Her blankie. The thing she's had since she was, what, five? Ratty around the edges, faded green, all that. Her favorite thing. She sighs, "I'm more worried about food, yeah? Food and drink, to make us last 'til we get outta here."

Boomer visibly paled. "We're leaving?" She nodded. Bubbles hid her face in Buttercup's pillows, her small body wracking with tears. Sympathetic, Buttercup allowed Bubbles to clutch her blankie without complaint. At least Boomer was there to actually comfort her.

She busied herself with grabbing an old blanket from the closet. It's a little thing; old, sort of musty, but it's small enough that she can fold it up and it wont take up too much space in the bag. A brief visit to the bathroom allows her to raid the cabinet. She grabs everything that's in there – the old med kit, the painkillers, the vitamins...everything. Half the shit she doesn't recognize all too well – antiseptic something something, a bottle of prozac (why? She'll never know,) but she shoved it all into the suitcase.

Buttercup scratched her cheek. Without much thought, she rummaged through her closet and drags out her old baseball bat. She felt the weight in her hand; it used to be her father's – ironic – made of aluminum, it'd do some damage. That's for sure. She lets that rest beside the suitcase, before throwing a jacket in there. Just in case.

Just as she moves to zip up the suitcase, to take it downstairs and raid the kitchen, she paused. Glancing over and Bubbles, she pursed her lips. "Hey..." Her voice was too rough. "Sweetheart, do you need anything?" Still too rough, but both pairs of blue eyes glance up at her.

Bubbles sniffled, rubbing her eyes while Boomer quietly watched her. "I w-want a huuug."

Nodding, Buttercup awkwardly leaned a knee onto the bed. Both kids threw themselves at her; small, fragile, frightened and trembling. She hugged them until they pulled back, then stared down at her baseball cap on the nightstand. Beside it, a family photo. She grabbed the photo, shoving it in her pocket. Wedging the baseball cap onto her head, she smiled weakly at them, "C'mon, let's get the car keys, and then we're outta here."

Buttercup ran over Mr Bennett's rapidly putrefying, reanimated corpse. There's a bloodstain on Sara's nice (crappy) mazda now. Oh well. In the back, she can see Boomer and Bubbles huddled close to each other. The suitcase was thrown into the back, along with her backpack that she crammed shit from the garage into.

Her dad's entire toolbox. Y'know, wrenches, screwdrivers, pliers, nails, hammers, screws, the whole toolbox. That didn't go into the backpack, that just sits in the boot now, but still. It's worth mentioning. Duct-tape, those squeezy ice-packs, and she actually managed to uproot a damn sleeping bag. It's too small for her, but the kids can probably squeeze into it.

(What she's not mentioning is that when they sneaked out to her step-mother's car, everybody in the neighborhood seemed to be...affected.) She shudders, drumming her hands on the wheel. "...You guys okay back there?" Boomer meets her eyes in the rear-view mirror. He says nothing, but nods. Quiet kid. Understandable, considering the circumstances.

It also doesn't help that both times Boomer's been alone with Buttercup, he's witnessed grotesque murder. Because that's what it is, murder, she's killed two people now and something tells her that she can't afford to feel guilty about it. There's only more to come, after all.

What a morbid thought.

She turns back to the road. They've been driving for maybe an hour, now. In truth, Buttercup has little to no plan. Maybe drive up to Santa Rosa, try and find Blossom. Her big sis will know what to do. Maybe. Then again, Blossom's always been a skeptic. Brushed off silly science fiction scenarios, deemed them unlikely. So maybe her big sis doesn't have a plan.

Maybe Buttercup wont get there in time.

Maybe Blossom wont be in Santa Rosa.

Maybe she'll be infected, like her neighbors.

The thought distracts her enough that she has to swerve around a person. There's a weird crunch she tries to ignore when she presumably runs the car over its leg. A heavy discomfort knots in her stomach. That's all it is, though, she can't afford to feel anything else. Nothing more than maybe disgusted. A heartwrenching little sob comes from Bubbles. Her eyes are watching out the back window, where a smear of dark red is left on the asphalt. "Ignore it, kid," Buttercup mumbles. More bitterly, she adds, "They'll be plenty more where that came from." Her point seems to be emphasized as they drive through their tiny little town.

You can hear car alarms, more terrified screaming – god, she's had enough of that now – and glass breaking. People scatter all over the place. Alive or – or...well, zombified, she guesses – all of them causing havoc. Some are trying to get to their own cars. Some succeed. Some are less fortunate.

A particularly graphic scene of a woman getting torn into burns itself into Buttercup's retinas. All she can really think is that there will be a lot of bodies left to bake in the sun.

Fuck, what is she doing? Dragging two kids onto a eight/nine hour drive to Santa Rosa. With barely any idea on what is happening, and she was stupid enough to forget her phone back at home. Then she realizes that 1) she doesn't really know where she's going, and 2) she'll have to take a huge detour to avoid driving straight through San Diego. It'll be hell trying to drive through major cities. a while the Thanks for visiting Townsville! sign comes into view. Bubbles whines uncertainly, "Where are we going?"

Buttercup sighs through her teeth, "Santa Rosa." The kids flinch when something collides with the side of the car. Goddammit. "Lock the doors, guys," She adds, reaching over to push the little peg down in the side of the door. Damn mazda. No auto-lock feature. Buttercup's glad she knows how to drive stick.

"...Why?" One of them asks, she's not sure which.

"Why?" She pauses, "What do you mea -" Right. "My sister's in Santa Rosa right now." That's all she says. She can't just admit that, oh, yeah, she's banking their lives on the hopes that her sister might have a better game-plan than she does.

On the bright side, Buttercup wont have to lie around an after-school detention today.

Or that pop quiz she was doomed to fail. Her history teacher has something against her, she knows it.

The two blonds whisper to each other. Warbled mumbling; she can hear that they're both close to another round of tears, and hugging each other close. Boomer sniffles loudly in the quiet car. Outside is so much louder. Further away from Townsville, there are stray cars out on the highway. It's strange. People are out of their vehicles, news stations on blast. Most of them look...relatively normal. It doesn't explain why everything is still, though, why all the cars are stopped. Rolling down her window the slightest bit, pieces of news reports stream through.

"- In relation to the most recent outbreak -"

"- Saying that it can be transmittable, and -"

" - Quarantined states have been confirmed..."

Fuck. She slows the car down a little, listening out a little more. Bubbles tries to say something, but she quickly shushes the girl. It's a little harsh, but she needs to know.

" - Washington...New York, California -"

Fuck. Fuck. That's why everybody's stopped. There's no point in trying to get away from this disease. They're being quarantined. Dammit. Buttercup slams her fist onto the wheel. She grits her teeth together, closes her eyes. There are children in the car, she reminds herself. They are small, scared, and that wont be helped by her screaming profanities at the dashboard.

Buttercup stops the car all together, a little distanced from all the other clustered vehicles on the road. Families are staring out to somewhere ahead of them. Something that's holding up the line.

Without much thought, she firmly states, "Stay in the car. I'll be back." And, man, she really needs to work on talking to these kids more. Whenever she and Blossom babysat Bubbles, it was always her step-sister doing all the sweet talking and niceties. Buttercup was making dinner (or ordering it from the nearest pizza place, same difference,) or playing errand girl because she didn't know how to really interact with Bubbles. About the closest she got to ever truly playing with a kid was with Mitch at the park. Soccer, that kind of thing. Dammit.

Boomer gasps a little when she slams the door. Through the crack in the window, he stammers, "W-Wait! Where are – where are you going?" She just motions zipping her lips shut and pointing at him sternly. He reclines back into the seats.

Bubbles clutches his wrist and whispers, "She knows what she's doing."

What's the opposite of 'ye of little faith'? Under her breath, she hisses, "You trust me too much." The children don't hear her. When she finally looks around, there's...not much to make out.

There's a lot of yelling, though, over the news station blasting from car speakers. A lot of, "What's happening?!" and, "God, move already!" Buttercup briskly weaves between stalled cars. A couple adults glance at her, and a woman stops her and asks, "Where are your parents?"

All she has to say is, "Gone." The woman visibly pales and retracts her hand. The tall girl continues through the mass of parked cars. It doesn't take long until she's resorting to climbing up onto a car's roof to see above the crowd.

There, a couple cars ahead, is a crashed vehicle. The driver thrown forward through the windscreen, and another person strewn out in the middle of the road. Driver appears dead. She's already had enough death for a lifetime, fucking hell. Though, the less fortunate person spasms on the road.

Unnatural, guttural noises are tearing from the man's mouth. Head shaking side to side, a filmy, frothy substance flying everywhere. It sounds painful. In front of her eyes, it's like those timelapse videos in biology where they make you watch the deterioration of dead things.

The man's spine arches with a pitiful cry. His eyes roll back into his head, coming back milky-gray. He slams his head back on the concrete. A crack echoes through the area. It's like all noise dims. Her senses are all exposed, heightened, just for her to traumatize herself with this scene.

It looks just like a spasm to be honest. Somebody having an epileptic episode, some sort of convulsion. But when his leg gets caught and twists a total 180 and he's still screeching, it's more than an episode. Buttercup watches, unable to look away. The dislocated knee snaps itself further with his writhing. Bending like a regular knee would, but it's all backwards, and that's not how knees work. His hands, shaking, move to claw at his face. Deep red lines gouge into his eye sockets. Pure compulsion.

Her mouth goes dry.

The man starts to try and tear the flesh from his hand. The people around her start shuffling away now, startled into action. People start getting back into their cars. One is not so lucky, because the man grasps for their ankle and yanks the soon to be victim to the ground. Surprising force. Strength that doesn't make sense – he's decaying at rapid speeds, muscles wasting and bones turning feeble. It doesn't make sense.

Before she can try to figure it out, there's another hair-raising scream and the victim is clawed at. Nobody moves to help her. The entire process starts happening again. The victim turns limp, before starting to writhe on the concrete. Fuck.

Buttercup's feet start dragging her away. She makes eye contact with the man. His skin starts to slip a little, flaking and dragging down. An incoherent garble comes from him, before he starts walking towards her.

She's so glad she used to be on the track team. One easy pivot and she's racing back towards her step-mother's crappy mazda. Cars are all over the place, trying to get out of the road all at once. She nearly gets hit once, but she starts to climb up onto the hoods of cars. It's like a game of leapfrog.

Behind her, the sound of glass breaking makes her heart hammer harder. She left her bat in the car. She left the kids in the car. She left everything in the car, even the keys, and she needs to get her ass in gear, goddammit. More yelling. Shouts, cries. Pandemonium.

She always thought it'd be World War III that would come to bite them in the ass.

Maybe not. Maybe the end of the world would come from this – distorted cannibalism and skewed morals. That's...honestly a lot better than she used to think about. At least humanity wont die out from the nuclear remnants of WWIII. No, they'll gnaw each other into nothing first. Wonderful.

Short of breath, she stumbles into the car and slams the door shut. She'd never really cared about the roads around here, but god is she thankful for the lack of road barriers. Townsville isn't exactly the richest place in San Diego – far from it – so it's an understatement to say that road barriers weren't exactly the first thing to come to mind. Still, she's grateful. It means she can swerve off of the road, around the line of cars and the mass of walking corpses.

Bubbles and Boomer jostle around in the back. "Seat belts. Now." She huffs to herself, grip tight on the steering wheel. No time to think about it. She can try and process everything later, right now, she just needs to drive. Nine hour drive to Santa Rosa. One hand on the wheel, eyes ahead, she reaches to rummage through the glove compartment. Maybe Sara was the old-fashion parents that kept those map books in the car?

No such luck.

The GPS she has in there is out of battery, too. Fuck. Looks like they'll be winging it. The car engine revs loudly as they speed alongside the carnage. Bubbles whimpers a little, "Buttercup, what's that ou-outside?" She doesn't answer. Instead, Buttercup roughly changes the subject, "Do either of you have phones?" They're nine, ten years old, they'll have phones right?

Buttercup didn't get her first phone 'til she was twelve, and even then, it was a flip-phone, but things change through the generations. To her dismay, the blonds shake their heads. She sighs. "Either of you know where the nearest gas station is?" It'll be a while 'til they actually near San Diego, but there are usually pit stops and such along the way. Right? Buttercup's never been further than Carlsbad.

Boomer hums uncertainly, "...When the yellow sign comes up?" Yellow sign? Fine. The kid continues, "I – I don't know when it'll come."

She nods, forcing herself to speak a little gentler, "Thanks, kid." It feels lacking.

Bubbles leans forward when the roads clear and Buttercup slows down again. They'll need that damn gas station soon. The small girl puts a soft hand on top of her own, on the stick shift. She asks, "What's happening out there?" Buttercup can't look at her. Not those shiny blue eyes, not any of it. She keeps her eyes on the road.

"Hell if I know, Bubbs."

The sun's low and there's still no sign of, well, anything. It's honestly starting to unnerve her. At points, it gets a little easier to convince herself that this is all a dream. A weird, fucked up fever dream that she'll wake up from. And when she wakes up, she'll realize that there's a history pop quiz she didn't study for and an after-school detention that she'll have to squirm out of. Track practice after school, since it's Monday, all that.

It doesn't happen. Buttercup doesn't 'wake up' hours later. It's dark by this point; the headlights of Sara's car on low and the kids haven't spoken for a while.

Just when the little clock on the dashboard hits 11:30 PM, she thinks that...maybe they've reached a point where nothing is. Too far out on the highway. Then Buttercup makes the mistake of glancing in the rear-view mirror. To check on the two blonds, y'know, see if they're sleeping. She learns two things:

One, Boomer and Bubbles have fallen asleep.

Two, a vehicle was following them.

How the fuck had she missed that? Their headlights aren't on or anything like that, but the lights of Buttercup's own car reflected dimly on the vehicle. She can't make out faces. What does she do? The fuck?

Like hell is she stopping. That only leaves...driving. Just keep driving, she supposes. She's too tired for this shit. What she'd give to fall asleep and wake up. Any history pop quiz is better than this. She glances down at Bubbles and Boomer. They're slumped against each other, seatbelts digging into the arms a little. They look so peaceful. Albeit a little weary, even in sleep, but she's not much better.

As she turns back to the road, something stumbles into the road. Her headlights only just pick up on it in time. With a tight grip on the wheel, she swerves around what appears to be a person. But as she stares at it in her side-mirror...it used to be a person. And that's what pulls her back into reality.

There's the screech of wheels behind her; an engine roaring, somebody honking at the wheel. Her heart picks up, starting to pump heavily. Was the car honking at her? Or just in general? A panicked reaction to a zombie stumbling into their way on the middle of the highway.

The low-gas light starts blinking on the dashboard. Shit. Taking a deep breath, she turns the headlights off. A simple flick of the dial just behind the wheel, but...not they're in total darkness. She knows this road well enough – it's the one her father would use when they drove up to Sara's parents' place. That doesn't stop her from slowing significantly and maybe driving more into the left lane.

In the dark, she watches the car trailing them drive past, unaware. Thank god. She allows Sara's mazda to drift back into the right lane. Boomer's groggy, "B – Buttercup?" Damn near makes her swerve off into the brush.

She raises an eyebrow (one that he can't see) and replies, "Sup, blondie."

The girl listens to Boomer fidget in the backseat, debating with himself. "..Can we have some music?"

She purses her lips, shaking her head, "Not right now. Haven't got anything to play." His hum is disappointed, but he accepts the answer. She swallows noisily, "Tell you what – when we get to that gas station -" Soon, hopefully - "We can look 'round for some CDs."

There's a soft sniffle; muted, like he tried to cover it up. "I'd like that." Buttercup lets out a sigh, nodding to herself.

The silhouette of her fingers are dark against the soft glow of the dashboard. The low-gas light is red in a menagerie of off-blue lighting. "Do you like music, kid?" She asks. Maybe it's just for the sake of asking, for filling the silence. But a little part of her has a genuine interest. Blossom always said it was rude to just make assumptions – this was usually about the kind of seasonings she put into the spaghetti, but it still applies. Maybe Boomer doesn't like rock music, maybe he likes pop or jazz of all things.

Boomer makes an affirmative sound, "My mom – my mom liked Joy Division."

Buttercup ignores the past tense he uses, and hums lowly, "Joy Division's a good choice." There's a little shuffling, before Boomer's voice is a lot closer to her than before. He must have leaned forward in the seat.

"What...music to do you like, Buttercup?" She drums her fingers on the steering wheel, staring out into the darkness beyond the hood of the car. "

Rock," She says, "And maybe some punk, too." He nods sagely, as if what she just told him actually means anything.

"Rock's good," He acquiesces. Then, a little more hesitant, "Is – is Blink-182 rock?" She rolls her shoulder loosely, "More...pop punk."

Boomer nods again, chewing his lip. His dark eyes catch the reflection of the dim light. He looks gaunt in the lighting, only the most prominent of his features highlighted. He looks starved and terrified. Relatable.

"If I -" She chuckles, it's bitter, and it makes Boomer flinch - "If I had my phone, maybe we could play some music, kiddo." with her spare hand, Buttercup drags her hand down her face. Then adjusts her baseball cap, before taking it off all together and raking her nails along her scalp. It does little to make her eyelids less heavy.

"But since I dont -" Irritation makes her clench the wheel tighter than she should have - "We're without music, and we're fuckin' lost." And they're so fucking low on gas and she's hungry goddammit and there are two children in her backseat that she doesn't know how to look after. She can't even get her head straight about algebra, what makes her able to cater to infants?

There's a small, roughed up hand on her shoulder. It squeezes her shoulder through its trembling. She stares out into the darkness, resolute. Boomer clears his throat a little, "We'll...we'll be okay." A small chuckle – more like a giggle – and the kid has the gall to say, "We're with you, after all."

It's not reassuring at all. But, for the sake of this poor kid who's watched her kill twice, she forces a smile. "Right," She murmurs. "Right. We'll be okay."

That yellow sign that Boomer was talking about doesn't show up until the fuel meter on the dashboard is nothing more than a thin red line. Two hours later, because she's been making the mazda go at a crawl in order to preserve gas.

She takes the turn, vaguely surprised by the sight of street lamps ahead. It takes her a second for her eyes to adjust. When they do, it's to a pickup truck already at the station, rumbling low in the night as the driver adds to his tank. Buttercup purses her lips, pulling her car up to one of the pumps. It creeps slowly across the asphalt. God, she's on edge. In the rear-view mirror, she sees Boomer slumped against Bubbles once again. Okay, she tells herself, okay, they could do this. A simple fill up and go; back on the road.

The second her car pulls to a complete stop, she regrets it. The man across the gas station watches her as she gets out and leaves the door open. While she grabs the keys, she wedges each one between her fingers, before keeping her hand in a loose fist.

Grabbing the feeder and shoving it into the tank hatch is the easy part. Watching the numbers steadily go up, the whirring sound as the diesel chugs into her tank is all well and good. Nothing goes wrong there. She leaves the feeder back on the rest, shuts the hatch and moves to get back in her car. A gruff voice calls from across the station, "You not gonna pay for that?"

Buttercup throws a look at him over her shoulder, "Are you?" Clearly not. He's already made to get into his truck; old, chipping yellow paint looking thing. Buttercup feels the back of her neck prickle when the man starts to stroll towards her. She kicks the car door shut, pressing the little button her keys that lock it. Boomer and Bubbles were soundly asleep, but now Bubbles is twitching and shifting. Fuck. Poor kids. All Buttercup wants to do is find Blossom. She'll know what to do.

The man is beer-bellied, rough around the edges and as he nears, Buttercup is reminded of the locker rooms after running track. Sweat. Damp. That uncomfortable feeling of knowing that you're being judged as you change into your regular clothes. She doesn't like the way he's looking at her. "Whatcha want?" She asks, trying to appear casual. She keeps the hand with her keys just slightly behind her.

The man doesn't seem to notice, lumbering towards her, "What's a lil' -" A pause. He sizes her up as he gets closer. Barely an arm's length apart now, and Buttercup is only a couple inches shorter than the man. Said man corrects his question, "What's a sweet thing like you doing out here?"

She steps away from him, "Gettin' gas." For every step she takes back, he takes a step forward. Her feet steps off of asphalt and onto sandy soil. She stands just outside the light of the gas station now, over that bright line and into the dark. Her back is to whatever could be out there. This is a bad sign.

Suddenly, his rancid breath is in her face. She sees the silhouette of a meaty hand moving towards her; she grips his wrist, tugging it forwards and forcing the man to go stumbling. She kicks him once in the side before racing back to Sara's shitty mazda.

She fumbles with the keys, jamming them harshly into the door's lock, with no such luck. Buttercup's always found Sara's amount of keys to be rather obnoxious. From over her shoulder, Buttercup can hear stumbling, the man grumbling loudly to himself. The thump of his boots gets closer.

The keys slip from her hands, because of course they do.

Turning to put her back against the car, the sight surprises her. Sure, there is a burly man stalking towards her in bleak white garage light and that desolate looking backdrop of the sight desert isn't the most pleasing, but...well, when the world's ending that's not the worst scenario she can think of.

It's the coyotes behind him that make her stop. They shift in the shadows, eyes gleaming dully in the lights. Small yips back and forth to each other – two, maybe three – all of them small and scrawny from what she can see. One of them steps out into the light.

The man doesn't notice, still approaching her. He says something vile – sex, how young she is, blah blah blah – and before he can take another step, she shoves him backwards. Punches him – left hook, it's always a left hook, how funny is that – and he stumbles and trips over his feet. Asshole. Buttercup would have pursued – her own anger would have been enough to at least knock the guy out. But low growls and claws clicking on concrete make her stay by the car.

No, coyotes aren't the most threatening thing out here. But they are when they foam bloody froth at the mouth, eyes milky and their mange exposing the crude gouge marks around their necks and stomachs. She's transfixed as the coyotes prowl closer. The man – fuck, he doesn't even see what's coming – and tries to sit up. A sudden movement; how fucking stupid. One of the mutts lunge. The other one snarls, before pouncing too. Buttercup blinks for a second. Still as a statue. Unmoving, unblinking, unthinking. It's gruesome, really. From their wounds, this thick substance oozes. It doesn't look like blood, but the gross dregs you find in the bottom of a wine glass, thick and oily as it runs through the rough patches of mottled fur and onto the concrete.

It's gross. It doesn't make sense.

She can't look away.

Coyotes don't attack people. Not often, anyway. But there's something wrong with these ones; they smell like rotten mulch and when they roll around the in the sand, more of their fur falls away. The man lets out a shout – she spies a pair of sharp jaws sinking into flesh, tearing, scrabbling to pull away.

Two against one.

Three against one.

Another person limps from the shadows, into the gas station light. Withering hair, skin sloughing, milky eyes and a foaming mouth. Arm torn to the bone, dislocated jaw. Buttercup takes a step back, pressed up against her car. The smell of blood is ripe in the air. And the man is screaming.

God, she wants the screaming to stop.

And suddenly the stupid stalker creeper thing sinks to its knees just before all the carnage. The coyotes keep tearing into the man, stomach gaping and his blood suddenly isn't so bright on the concrete floor.

His struggling comes to a stop.

His screaming comes to a stop.

Then the coyotes are screaming – those high pitched yowls that leave her head pounding like a truck slamming into her each time. Their muzzles are stained red. More foamy saliva drips to the floor. She watches, unnerved, as the zombo-freak reaches out with trembling appendages. There is a sick satisfaction in watching slick teeth sink into the man's cranium. God, she thinks. The guy never saw it coming. Never saw it coming.

Blindly, she picks her keys up from the ground. Buttercup opens her car, and climbs inside. It's hard to tear her eyes from the sight. Shredded entrails and smeared not-quite-blood.

She wonders if this is what god had in mind in those seven days.

Hell, she wonders if this is what she had in mind two days ago.

Then she chuckles to herself. Why is she thinking about god? He's gone, now. She turns the key in the ignition, and they are far, far, far away from the gas station once more.

How Bubbles and Boomer slept through that, she will never know. But they did. So when they wake up, Bubbles seems to be attempting a smile and Boomer's got his heart set on finding a Blink-182 CD.

She's taken a huge detour to avoid a majority of the towns they have to get through. That puts them somewhere along in Alpine, maybe, and if she squints, she can see the town out in the distance. But that's not where they're going, so she doesn't stop by. They're good on gas for now. Food, however, is a different matter.

Maybe they can stop by another gas station. Get some snacks. It's not like anybody's really going to miss it. Then again...Buttercup doesn't really want to near a gas station right now.

There's an ache in her back from sitting in the car for so long, and her head is fuzzy with the screaming. Even all the way out here, the screaming follows. Cars burning on the side of the highway, dogs howling themselves hoarse from their trapped places, terror palpable in the air, death in the form of shrieks strangled stiff and Buttercup wants to bludgeon every single one of them.

If her white-knuckle grip on the wheel is any indicator, neither kid points it out. Somewhere along the line, Boomer tries to lighten the mood. He taps a beat on the windowsill (left open due to the heat.) His humming isn't he worst thing Buttercup's ever listened to. Soft, actually; melodic rather than tuneless. It doesn't easily join the static in the back of her head. Bubbles finds it in herself to sing sweetly; harmony. Still, Buttercup ignores their hopeful stares. Hoping for her to sing along. It's not something she can will herself to do right now.

Not when a fucking eighteen-wheeler truck is blocking the road.

She pulls the rim of her cap over her eyes. Deep breaths. One...two...three...four – fuck it.

Buttercup yanks her cap off and slams it against the dashboard angrily. Of course there's a blockage. This isn't Townsville anymore, there are roadblockers and they're all concrete and firm. She can't just swerve around the tipped truck and off-road. There are barriers. She's stuck. A glance to the lane heading back home shows that, well, there's no hope in that either. The traffic is all backed up.

Who knows how many people died there.

Who knows how many got bitten.

Who fucking knows.

Bubbles makes an uncertain noise from the backseat, "Why have we stopped?"

She gestures vaguely to the tipped truck. "I can't get 'round it." Unless they can hotwire another car, but Buttercup doesn't know how to do that. And they can't just leave the car, either. There are so many dead people out there. Dragging, limping, stumbling around.

They're fucked. Buttercup has...there's no way...they're not gonna survive if she tells them to get out the car and walk around. They can't get to Citiesville on foot. That would take...weeks. Well, maybe not that long, but days. Days they don't have – days she doesn't have, can't afford. Blossom will definitely be gone by then.

Boomer clambers into the front seat, trying to get a better look at the truck. "...Can we not fit around the side?"

Buttercup shakes her head, "A motorcycle, maybe." But there's no way she's juggling all three of them, plus their few supplies, on a motorcycle. She sighs. In the back, there's her backpack and a suitcase. Light weight. She could carry that by herself, no problem. It just depends on how fast the kids can run. She can...try and jack a car or something, or...or...fuck.

Buttercup smirks humorlessly. "How do you guys feel about taking a little walk?"

Silence. She glances over her shoulder, only to find a creep staring directly into Bubbles' back window. Thank fucking god the window's rolled up. It's automatic when the first thing she reaches for is her bat.

In one swift movement, she's out of the car and bringing down aluminum onto a brittle skull. Crunch. Like mulch. No, Buttercup doesn't look. No, Buttercup doesn't listen. No, Buttercup doesn't stop.

(No, Buttercup doesn't watch the way yellowing skull and graying brain mush caves under her swing, each hit solid and fucking disgusting. Bits fly, and she's pretty sure she got some of that not-quite-blood in her mouth. The sounds are wet; sloshing, almost, as she turns this zombie's head into paste. To think she used to like guacamole. Not anymore.)

Only when the thing stops twitching does she let her bat rest at her side. From inside the car, wide blue eyes stare at her. Boomer seems...understanding, to say the least. Awed and horrified, but he understands the sacrifice. Bubbles...looks ready to cry. Terrified, her lower lip wobbling as she blinks down at the corpse at Buttercup's feat. Indiscreetly, Buttercup kicks it under the car. "C'mon," Buttercup crows, "Get out, we're gonna wire another car." It's their only option.

She throws a glare at the tipped truck.

Rounding Sara's shitty mazda, she pops open the boot and shoulders her backpack. She keeps the suitcase's handle extended, so she can pull it along after her.

Buttercup was hungry before this.

Now? Still pretty damn hungry.

"Maybe we can get some food along the way," She murmurs out loud. Around them, everything seems quiet. But...if zombies sneak up as quietly as that one just did, the quiet isn't exactly a good thing.

It's better than the screaming.

So maybe Buttercup lied when she said she had no idea how to hotwire a car. It's just a matter of remembering which wire needs to go with which. That's the...difficult part. She showed Boomer, though. He seemed genuinely interested. Bubbles was more concerned about getting sneaked up on again. Buttercup thinks, that while the little girl sat on the roof of the car, that Bubbles maybe wanted a minute to cry by herself. So she let the blonde do that. What else is there she could do?

But whatever. They've got a cool new car that has maybe half a tank of gas. Buttercup doesn't know when they can come across food. There are two cans in her backpack. That's all they had in the cupboards, for some reason. Apparently her family doesn't invest much into canned goods.

Fucking Sara and her fresh grocers.

And, would you look at that, Bubbles is gently tugging on her sleeve, "Buttercup, I'm hungry..."

She shrugs, "Check in my backpack. Might be some pineapple slices or something." Buttercup has no idea what the canned food is. She saw sweet on one of the labels and chopped on another. She hopes they're edible. Boomer makes a happy sound, and they both declare yams! merrily.

She doesn't think she's ever heard someone so pleased to see yams of all things.

Bubbles make a disconcerted sound, "...Are they good?" Boomer nods merrily, wrestling around in Buttercup's backpack for the one plastic fork she found and decided was a good idea to take along.

"Really good!" Boomer continues, "They're sweet an' juicy."

Buttercup drums her fingers on the wheel. She doesn't like this new car as much. It's smaller, and she doesn't really know what most of the buttons do. It's automatic instead of stick-shift, and a crappy newer model that is made out of alloy instead of good ol' metal. Easier to damage. "That enough to tide you guys over?" She asks. The kids let out an affirmative. There's the metallic ring of the can being peeled open.

Buttercup just hopes they find some sort of jackpot soon.