Wrong Genre

[directors_cut]

Who: Billy Loomis, Stu Macher, Donnie eventually
What: Fighting Zombies
Where: Temba, Alien Target
When: Zombie Event
Warnings: Blood, graphic violence, amputation



This really was pretty close to a dream come true. Hoards of violent faces they were all but encouraged to smash in. It wasn't exactly the same without that fear in their eyes. No mind games, no chase (at least not them doing the chasing), but beggars can be choosers, and for some reason they're allowed to lay into these things as much as they want without weapons disappearing, or fucking boxes raining down on them.

The boys had geared up, setting out day after day to be good, brave citizens and take care of the threat. It was the most fun they had in ages. They'd holed up in the big department store, eager to reenact the Dawn of Dead, and so far it had been all smooth sailing. Bloody and violent smooth sailing.

Billy nudged Stu in the ribs with his elbow, pointing out a familiar face in the shambling mob.

"Isn't that one Randy? You want dibs?" he teased, knowing Stu had a soft spot for the idiot.

Comments

[target_audience]

Any noise Donnie was making then was static along with the groaning of the zombies, dead air in Stu's ear as he kept his unblinking focus on Billy and nodded obediently, letting Billy take the belt then holding it blankly. It took him a second before he finally figured out what they had both been trying to tell him, then he was moving quickly to yank the belt punishingly tight around Billy's bleeding arm. "It's fine, see? No problemo. We'll get a bandaid. We'll get murder doctor," he said cheerfully through tears.

[directors_cut]

Billy hissed in pain at the crushing tightness, but nodded with a groan. "Just like that-" he panted. "You gotta do it, Stu. You gotta chop it off or I'm gonna turn into one of those things." He shook Stu, trying to force him into action. They didn't have time for tears. "You owe me one, remember?"