Pre-Notes: Because everything is better with zombies and because sometimes I freak out over my portfolio and crank out things that aren't porn for it.
Disclaimer: Honestly, Disney should hire me but I still wouldn't own it.
Summary: It was the second year of the zombie apocalypse, and Chad was starting to get the hang of killing zombies and taking names. That, of course, was before Ryan showed up.

The Other Side
"Thing have been O.K. for me except that I'm a zombie now."

There were zombies behind him, closing in, and the open door had seemed like an absolute godsend. He had run in and slammed the door behind him, thanking every god he could still remember after spending a full year doing pretty much nothing but running from zombies. Quickly, after a year of practice, Chad had barricaded the door with some random crap lying around—which was really just an extra precaution because the door was a type that was strong enough to hold back zombies.

No one can spend a year fighting back zombies and not learn what kinds of doors hold and what kinds don't, the problem was merely finding that information out quickly enough for it to be useful. Chad sagged against the barricade for a moment before looking around. He was in the backstage of an old theatre, something that might have been fascinating were he not totally frazzled, tired, hungry and running out of ammunition. All that Chad took in was that there were places to be that were high up and pretty much unreachable by zombies. Quickly, he located a staircase and barricaded that quickly before scampering up the stairs and into the scaffolding. It was, for the moment, peaceful.

But that was four hours ago, and four hours is a long time.

"Hiding from the zombies? The theatre is a good place for that."

The person talking was floating in the air in front of Chad, having just materialized out of nowhere, and was completely oblivious to the fact that a) he was floating, b) he was carrying his head under his arm, c) they were probably fifty feet off the floor, and d) Chad was sort of just staring and trying to articulate the sheer confusion of the moment.

"Not that it really helped me, although I suppose that had more to do with the fact that the doors were open during the performance than anything. Really, the zombies just rushed right in and ate everyone—it was a tragedy befitting Shakespeare, if you ask me."
"Dude," Chad said slowly, "you're . . ."
The floating person interrupted, "A ghost? Yes, I'm afraid so."
"I was going to say floating."
"Oh, that. It's far easier to float than to pretend to be solid. I learned that the hard way."
". . . I must be hallucinating. There is just no way that there is a ghost floating in front of me wearing black skinny jeans and holding his head under his arm. Shit like this does not happen, I must have drunk bad water again. Or consumed more mold than usual."

Chad closed his eyes and silently though that, on the count of three, he was going to open them and the ghost would be gone and zombies would be swarming in and life would be normal once more. One, two, three—Chad opened his eyes, only to see the ghost holding his head out toward Chad's face.

"Are you quite done being an idiot now? I want to show you the emergency supplies."
"Oh god," Chad moaned, "you're really there."
The person tucked his head back under his arm, "Yes, I'm really here. Get up, we're going to have to go back down again."
"Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Why are you helping me? Aren't ghosts supposed to, like. I don't know, cause problems and make life difficult?"
"Honey, the zombies already filled that role. Besides, you're kind of cute and while you being dead might give me some company, I'd rather not have one more thing on my conscience keeping me here."
"Why are you here?"
A ghostly sigh, "It's a long story and we don't have time for it. Please get up off your ass and follow me."

There was really only one choice: Chad got up and started walking after the floating figure—who (he had just noticed this) shimmered slightly, like the cheap desert mirage images in B-rate movies. Chad shook his head and climbed over the barricade he had made earlier while the guy floated straight through. They turned a corner and Ryan pointed to a safe.

"Combination is 27-8-14."

For a moment, Chad didn't move. Then, with a skeptical glance toward the ghost, Chad moved forward and swiftly dialed in the combination. The safe clicked open and Chad stared in dumbfound disbelief at the contents of the safe. The whole thing was a fucking emergency disaster kit. Fresh water, food . . . Shit. There was a good month worth of food in the safe—granted it was all the shitty dried food bars that everyone ate and rehydrated with a little water, but fuck. It was food, Chad hadn't eaten anything decent in a week—he'd been surviving on mushrooms and shit.

"Holy. Shit."
"Thought you would like that. I suggest taking to up to the rafters and living up there for a while. The zombies will get bored after a few days."
Chad is two steps ahead of the ghost, "Yeah."

It had been two days of living in the theatre and Chad was kind of getting used to the randomly appearing ghost, who was named Ryan (though this may not be his actual name, ghosts have bad memories) and who had been performing when the zombies attacked. In the confusion, someone had mistaken him for a zombie and cut his head off. With a piano wire. Personally, Chad thought the story was a little dubious, but he didn't mention that to Ryan. It seemed kind of rude to correct someone's story about their own death.

"What about you?" Ryan asked while Chad was taking another small sip of his precious water, "Where were you when the zombie apocalypse hit?"
Chad laughed a little, "Ironically? Watching Zombieland. The zombies ripped through the screen and everyone panicked. Me? I ran as fast as I fucking could—which was fast enough, seeing as I was on the track team—until I was outside and then I was tossing chairs and stuff to keep them from getting me. The next day, I used up everything in my bank account to buy two handguns and as much ammo as I could."
"And you're still here."
Chad gave Ryan a grin, "Yeah. Surprisingly, I am."

Chad was sleeping and Ryan watched, floating quietly with his head resting in his lap. If ectoplasm could cry, he probably would because this boy—this beautiful boy—would leave and turn into a zombie. You couldn't outrun them forever, honestly. Ryan escaped by fluke—by the sheer dumb luck of falling through the trap door and being shut away from where the zombies were. The silence stretched and Chad's breathing remained even. In a fit of craziness, Ryan lifted his head forward and he pressed a kiss to Chad's forehead.

"Goodbye. I don't think I can stay any longer."

When Chad woke, Ryan was nowhere to be found. That wasn't exactly unusual, but something felt wrong. He was thinking about it and trying to place exactly what felt wrong when the door started rattling, which effectively snapped him out of foolish concerns for a ghost who was already dead and put him right back into zombie killing mode. Chad grabbed his handguns and waited, his pack of supplies close at hand. The door rattled some more and then, just as suddenly as it started, stopped. Now on edge and wary of everything, Chad kept a careful eye on the door and cautiously called out.

"Ryan? Ryan, are you there?"

Silence. Only silence. Part of Chad knew that yeah, okay. Ryan being missing wasn't really cause for alarm because he was a ghost, but as Chad slid his guns back into their holsters he started to worry. Chad stood up and grabbed the edge of the scaffolding and yelled.

"Ryan, that isn't funny. Where are you?"

His voice echoed off the walls of the empty theatre, making him suddenly feel very alone and very afraid. Chad sank back down to sit and glanced over to his pack. It had been filled with the remaining week's worth of food and water, in addition to his remaining ammo, a flashlight and a short range radio he had found. The radio didn't give off static when there were zombies nearby, but he figured it was still a useful thing to have. Rather, Ryan had picked it up using his telekinesis or whatever it was he had and dropped it into Chad's hands saying that if Chad ever needed help, the radio would come in handy. It seemed like a petty reason to use the radio, but Chad reached for the pack and dug out the radio anyway. He fiddled with the dials, trying to make it do something other than give him static.

"C'mon, I need to talk to Ryan . . ."
The radio crackled before Ryan's voice floated from it, "Chad? Is that you?"
"Ryan? Why are you in the radio?"
The radio's signal started crackling, "I'm not—radio. I've moved—next life."
"This radio lets me talk to the dead?"
"No—just me, but—beyond the—if you want?"
"No," Chad said with a smile, "just hearing you is enough."
"Watch out!"

Chad pulled one of his handguns from its holster as he held the radio to his ear like a cellphone. There were zombies invading the lower floor and he was trying to pick them off with his guns but there were . . . Kind of a lot of them. It was possibly time to try another tactic.

The radio came to life, "—sandbags!"

For a moment, Chad looked wildly around until he spotted the ropes holding up sandbags. Quickly sliding his gun back into its holster, Chad ran over to the ropes and pulled out a pocket knife, sawing through the ropes quickly and sending sandbags down to squash zombies. That clears out just enough zombies that Chad can quickly grab his pack and pull it on, still holding the radio to his ear like a cellphone. Quickly, he went down to the lower floor, gun already in his hand and ready to shoot zombies. There weren't many, and they went incredibly slow so Chad found the front entrance (knocked in by zombies, of course) and ran out looking around to get a bearing on his location and other possible hide-outs.

"Get—inside! They're—safer—just trust me!"

It wasn't until after the radio tried to warn him that Chad noticed. There was a swarm of zombies—everyone in the city of Albuquerque, if Chad had to choose a number—waiting outside. As if everything was going in slow motion, the zombies all turned to face Chad and, upon seeing that he was still alive, started ambling toward him. Without much thought, Chad turned on his heel and run back inside—only to be met with the zombies he'd left inside. Quickly, he shot them down and ran back inside. He scrambled for the stairs, climbing over his barricade as fast as he could.

Unfortunately, it wasn't fast enough. One of the zombies grabbed his ankle and started pulling him down. The radio fell from his hand and bounced on the floor, miraculously still in one piece. It spit out static that seemed like it was trying to form words, but Chad couldn't make out what they were over the moans of the zombies. The zombie tugged harder, and Chad slipped down, landing next to the radio.

"Love—Chad. Can—hear—okay? I—you. I love you!"
Chad smiled, just before the zombies closed in, "I love you—"

The rest of his sentence went unsaid, as the zombies started ripping into his flesh. Chad screamed.

Postit-Notes: . . . Does it make it better if I say that they meet each other in the next life and it's way less depressing? No? Oh, well . . . I tried.