She appeared to be breathing heavily and didn’t react to them in any way. Stiles’ trigger finger twitched nervously before he pulled it away and pressed it against the cold metal lining the outside of his gun because Scott was moving into his line of fire. Stiles sighed exasperated. Of course he would do that.
“Dude, what now? Shoot her if she is infected or only if she attacks you first? If she’s infected…” Stiles stopped talking, not because he didn’t dare to finish the sentence, but because they both knew how it would end and there was no need to say it. Nothing she did would matter anymore if she was infected and from how she looked hope wasn’t exactly something that came easy.
Stiles had, despite the question he was asking, understood what Scott was trying to tell him – he was just not very happy about it and would have wished to live in a world where it wasn’t necessary to tell him things like that. Scott wouldn’t be able to do it and Stiles completely understood why, but at the same time he wasn’t sure if he could do it either. It pretty much looked like he would have to.
Stiles’ finger was back on the trigger when Allison grunted in response to Scott and relaxed as she added a clearly articulated Scott to that gruesome sound he came to associate with the zombie plague haunting this planet. He was about to be relieved that she wasn’t a zombie yet, that he maybe had a minute longer until he needed to kill one of his best friends, when Scott yelled at him.
Stiles froze and widened his eyes, gaping at Scott for a long moment before he was able to react. “You did not just do that…” He looked around nervously, searching the near vicinity for any kind of movement or a walking, rotting corpse. Sure enough there were faint rumbles, movement not far from their position, shortly after that yell had disturbed the silence. This was going to end badly one way or another and Stiles felt fear rise up in his chest, paralyzing him and rooting him in place. He tried to physically swallow it down and push it back, but he already felt his hand tremble slightly. Luckily enough adrenaline wasn’t far behind the fear and he had been in enough really awful situations with the pack of werewolves living in Beacon Hills that he might just survive an attack of undead monsters.
“Let’s see how long we’re still alive when whatever heard you gets here.” Stiles stopped looking around and focused back on Scott and Allison and breathed in deeply before taking a few steps over to get closer to them. Allison looked bad, but she also looked hurt, blood staining her jacket and her pants, and that was nothing that was okay in this world anymore. If you looked hurt, you might just as well have been bitten or scratched and that meant you were a dead man walking with no chance to be saved. Not by them, not here, probably not anywhere.
“Allison, have you been bitten?”
She neither reacted to him, nor to Scott and he was about to say something about that when Scott already started to pick her up. “Scott, no!”, Stiles voice was urgent as he spoke, “Scott, look at her. Look at her, for god’s sake. We will not take her to the station with us. We’re trying to avoid zombies.”
That there was no objection to this made by Allison should have told Scott something.
As soon as Scott had lifted Allison, Stiles eyes trailed off, following the slow but steady drip of blood down from her side onto Scott’s shoes. He could have lifted her jacket and looked if something had bit her, but, as opposed to Scott, he was hesitant to touch anything that had come into contact with the undead and wanted to not do it for as long as he could possibly manage.
“Scott…”, he said, voice as calm as he could manage and not aware of how patronizing he sounded, “… she is bleeding, man. Deaton can’t help her.” Stiles looked back up at Scott’s face and if he didn’t express how sorry he was through his words, he did it with the expression on his face.
He swallowed thickly, glancing away, unable to hold Scott’s gaze. It would have been easier if Scott hadn’t obviously chosen to ignore the obvious.
The thing that he couldn’t deny was that taking her to the station would have solved one of Stiles’ problems. If his father was there, if some deputies were there, someone else could shoot her. Someone who wasn’t him and who wouldn’t remember the dead look on her face for the rest of his life – as short as that might just be, given the circumstances. However, if she turned on the way she would probably bite Scott and even if his chances to survive weren’t outright zero percent and non-existent, Stiles would have preferred if that did not happen.
There was also still the off chance that she did not bite the person carrying her, but Stiles and if any teeth would get too close to him today that would just mean his early and certain demise. It was sad that Allison was basically already dead and even sadder that Scott didn’t look like he was going to acknowledge that any time soon, but it didn’t mean it couldn’t get sadder if Stiles died with her.
There were noises again, closer this time, and Stiles didn’t need to ask Scott if he heard them as well. If Stiles could hear it, Scott had already heard it. He turned around and lifted his weapon again, suddenly realizing that Scott didn’t just want to carry a dead weight, he also just had rendered himself incapable of fighting by picking up Allison.
There was a single zombie staggering towards them, bumping into a trash can on his way. They didn’t seem capable of the simplest things, like realizing they should walk around stuff instead of against it, but Stiles sure wasn’t complaining about that.
There he was – everything that was left standing between them and death. “I swear to god if you don’t put her down and help me, you’re next. We can’t take her.”
And naturally that was the moment Allison chose to speak up, her weak voice sounding as battered and hurt as she looked. Don’t leave me here. Stiles closed his eyes for a moment, knowing there was no chance left anymore that Scott would put her down and he couldn’t shoot her while she was in his arms.
Stiles opened his eyes again, focusing on the rotten corpse only a few feet away from him, clothes tattered and ripped from bumping into everything that was in his way or from whatever had killed him. There was a stripe of flesh obviously missing on his arm, gray bones shining through. It wasn’t as great to live in a horror movie as it had looked in the movies.
A gunshot echoed through the street.
Another was followed by a loud thud, a sag of wet bones and rotten flesh.
“We need to go, there will be more.”
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