synopsis: it’s a fallen world, and futakuchi is a fallen man. apocalypse au.
Strength alone won’t carry you through the end of the world.
Futakuchi Kenji knows this better than anyone. He’s seen countless men go down, most of them armed with machetes, rifles, and muscles three times the mass of his own. They walk around with the bravado of decorated generals only to get taken out by a single biter lurking in the storage closet of an abandoned gas station, destined to join the putrid ranks of the undead.
No, strength is not enough. You have to be clever, too. Extremely clever.
That’s the only way Kenji’s stuck around this long, he thinks, shoving cans into his backpack. He’s kneeling in front of a shelf in an empty supermarket, replenishing his rations without even bothering to read the labels. He can’t afford to be picky. Nowadays, “good food” is just whatever doesn’t give you salmonella.
He happens to catch the words on the last can as he gingerly places it atop the pile. Chicken noodle soup, it reads. Zipping the bag up and hefting it onto his shoulders, he wrinkles his nose-- he hates chicken noodle.
Clever means something else, too. Before, it meant report cards littered with As, college scholarships, knowing how to find the differential of a function. Now, it means survival. It means being able to keep your body moving even when every single fiber of your being is screaming at you to stop. It means knowing how to find clean water, how to bandage a tourniquet, how to identify biter tracks and have the good sense to bolt the opposite direction.
It means being able to leave people behind.
Kenji slips out the supermarket entrance, careful to avoid ringing the little bell that still hangs from the doorframe, a mockery of what was once civilization. Swiveling his head in every direction, he scans for even the barest trace of biters before darting out into the middle of the road, careful to keep the cans in his bag from rattling too loudly.
He’d started out with a small group comprised of several guys from his hometown. In retrospect, Kenji thinks he should’ve split that first week. Then maybe he wouldn’t have had to see Iwaizumi trampled by a herd of rabid biters, reduced to a bloodstain on the sidewalk. He wouldn’t have seen Kamasaki torn limb from limb right before his eyes while he could do nothing but watch in horror, paralyzed by fear.
Kenji is glad he’s run out of tears to cry.
“Fuck off!”
He’s shaken from his reverie by a string of cuss words and a drawn out scream, followed by the solid thwack of metal on flesh and the angry hissing of a biter.
“Somebody! Anybody, please! Help me!”
Sounds like a girl, Kenji thinks. He hates coming across girls-- that’s something he never, ever thought he’d say back before everything went to shit. But girls have always been more trouble than they’re worth, and it’s even truer these days. Kenji shrugs his shoulders, shifting the weight of his bag a smidge, and tries to trudge on.
“Please!”
Kenji cringes, halting in his tracks. Your voice is so achingly desperate, torn raw by terror. It’s the voice of someone who wants to live. And that, well, that’s something Kenji can relate to.
Against his better judgement, he heaves a heavy sigh and turns on his heel, grasping the duct taped handle of a baseball bat protruding from his bag’s outer pocket and spinning it in a practiced motion. He sprints towards the sound of your voice, silently hoping he’ll arrive before a biter takes a nasty chunk out of your arm.
Kenji is clever, and he knows it. He can find clean water, bandage wounds, and track biters. But leaving people behind? That’s something he has to work on.
--
You’re backed into a corner, wedged between the brick wall of a storefront and a recycling bin. Three biters claw at you and you swing at them with a crowbar, but it seems futile-- they’re already dead, and you’re not sure if they can even die again.
“HEY!” Kenji calls, tossing his bag to the side. The biters turn towards him with clumsy, lurching motions, decaying flesh dripping from their bones and empty sockets where their eyes should be. “Come and get me, shitheads! Bet I taste a whole lot better!”
One by one, they obey, snarling as they approach him. And one by one, Kenji takes them out with a violent swing to the head. Wide eyed, chest still heaving, you watch as their brains splatter on the sidewalk in foul pink lumps.
When the last biter falls to the ground, Kenji looks up at you breathlessly. “You good?”
He’s more than taken aback when you run towards him and throw your arms around his neck, squeezing tightly. Instinctively, he returns the embrace, pulling you close by the waist.
“Thank you,” you whisper, and he feels your heartbeat thumping wildly against his own rib cage. “Thank you, thank you. I really thought I was dying today.”
For a fraction of a second, he lets himself melt into your arms. It’s been a long time since he’s touched another human, and even longer since he’s hugged one. Sighing, he gently pries you off by the shoulders.
“No problem,” he says. You’re still clutching at his sleeve, looking up at him with something like admiration-- or maybe shock. He clears his throat and nods curtly, carefully pulling your wrist away and turning to grab his bag. “Uh, good luck out there, I guess. I gotta go.”
“Hey, wait,” you say, and he does, despite himself. More than anything, he wants to get out of there and back on track. He can’t risk the burden of company— in the apocalypse, company just means a broken heart waiting to happen. “I’m coming with you.”
“Oh, no you’re not,” he says, a wry laugh threatening to rip from his lips. “I travel alone.”
“Not anymore,” you say, and for a moment Kenji is speechless-- a rare occurrence. “Don’t give me that lone wolf shit. It’s a dangerous world out there, and two is better than one.”
Kenji raises an eyebrow at you. “You’re the one who was almost lunch just now. I can handle myself just fine.”
“Can you?” you say, stepping closer. You stare pointedly at his forearm, and he groans inwardly. He’d forgotten about that. It’s a cut, fairly shallow but long, and it’s begun to turn an oozing orangey-yellow. He’d caught his arm on a chain link fence he’d been trying to vault over— lame. “That doesn’t look good.”
“I know how to bandage a cut,” Kenji insists. It’s not a lie. But the issue is really that—
“It’s infected,” you say. You tilt your head back towards the storefront. “I have Neosporin in there. And half a bottle of painkillers, which you might need, depending on how bad that little scratch gets.”
“I’m fine,” Kenji insists. The “little scratch” throbs painfully as he lies through his teeth. “It’ll take care of itself.”
“Like hell it will,” you snort, glancing towards the store again. A faded sign above the doorway reads Miyazawa’s Convenience Corner, accompanied by the image of a grinning cat. “Wait just one second, then we can get going.”
Kenji doesn’t know why, but when you scamper into the store, he stays. He glances at his watch, a silver analog whose glass is split in two by a crack straight down the middle. He’d found it on the wrist of the first biter he’d ever taken down.
“Okay, let’s go,” you call, emerging once again. You’re bearing a backpack similar to his-- threadbare and distinctly not yours. He wonders who it used to belong to. “You got a camp?”
“Woah, slow your roll,” he says. He crosses his arms and stares down at you-- you’re pretty, he notices, underneath that layer of sweat and grime. You’re the type of girl he probably would’ve tried to hit on in the past. “First of all, I don’t even want you to come with me.”
You scowl at him, ready to disagree-- he silences your protests with a raised finger.
“But,” he adds, “if you insist on doing so, we need to set some ground rules.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” you say, giving him a mock salute and a bright smile. He rolls his eyes.
“First,” he says, sternly as he can manage, “I get all the canned oranges we find.”
You raise your eyebrows but nod nonetheless.
“Second, we don’t interact with other groups. Humans can be just as fatal as biters.” Kenji’s had to learn this the hard way, and from the way you swallow, expression solemn, he thinks you must’ve too.
“Lastly,” he says, allowing himself a small smile as he bends down near your ear. “Don’t fall in love with me.”
“Like I’d ever,” you scoff, stepping back. “You’re not my type. You just happen to be the only other person I’ve seen for months.”
“I’m everyone’s type,” Kenji says, with about as much confidence as he’d say the sky is blue and the grass is green. “Just be careful.”
“Sure,” you concede, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “So long as you don’t fall in love with me, either.”
“I’ll try my best,” Kenji says, and he will. He can’t afford to fall in love. Love is a painful, risky business-- and it’s expensive. Love costs a whole heart and about half a brain, two things he’s going to need if he wants to survive.
Still, you’re pretty. Real pretty. You’re kind of funny, too-- a deadly combination, and he’s no Achilles.
When he starts walking towards the street, you follow, struggling to match his long strides. He shoots a glance over his shoulder, along with a wicked smile. He’s missed this. “But no promises.”
Good afternoon to @nobodynose27 @little-boats-on-a-lake @almightygrasshopper @tronagon who are according to tumblr my four biggest fans everyone else fuck off
