Chapter Text
Peter heard the very first emergency messages on the police frequencies when the zombie outbreak began.
He closed his case file and put it away, and called Elizabeth. "Honey," he said, slowly and clearly, "I don't want to alarm you, but --"
"Zombies, I know, I heard it on 1010 wins in the cab home," Elizabeth said, talking like any other New Yorker with limited cell minutes -- in other words, a mile a minute. "And you're emergency personnel, you have to stay at work. Don't worry, we have the road barricaded at both ends of the block, and everyone has pickaxes and walkie-talkies. The neighborhood zombie drill was just two weeks ago, so the batteries are fresh. Now, Rose is organizing the watch rosters and if I don't get a word in edgewise, she'll let all the teenagers stand watch at the same time. We're fine here. Go save the city. I love you, bye!"
He looked at the phone.
"What?" Neal asked.
"Why is my wife not running the government?"
"Elizabeth is okay?"
Peter grinned and stood up. "She's magnificent. Now: have you ever used a fireman's axe? No? Well, you're about to learn."
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The last order that Hughes gave the roomful of FBI agents was, "And remember people: wear the Tyvek coveralls. I know they're uncomfortable, but if a zombie draws blood from you, we assume you are a carrier. In the last outbreak, Tyvek saved more lives than Kevlar."
Peter was assigned to lead the group protecting the nearest hospital, NY Downtown. "Bodyarmor and axes first, people. If you're zombie-certified on another bladed weapon, grab it. Jones --"
Jones grinned a particularly bloodthirsty grin, "I'll get the chain saw fired up."
Peter nodded with a smirk, then raised his voice again, "We're taking three surveillance vans, and we'll regroup in the hospital lobby in 30 minutes." He jumped down from the chair.
"Come on, you're getting body armor too, Caffrey. Good looks and a snappy wardrobe won't charm a zombie."
"Wait, you're taking Caffrey?" Cruz asked.
"Yeah, you're taking me? I never much thought of myself as a zombie-fighting kind of guy." Neal was still looking after Jones.
"If you're not fighting zombies with me, you'll go in the lockup here. It could be three days before the outbreak is under control, more if someone is stunningly incompetent. This building should be as safe as anywhere in Manhattan, but you won't get any news and the power may go out if they have to ration diesel."
Neal said, "I'll stick with you." The hell of it, Peter thought, was that Caffrey made it sound like it was his idea of a good time.
"That's what I thought." Peter started loosening his tie. "Now, unless you want to get guts on your suit, leave it here. We'll get our kevlar and tyvek at the armory."
"This is not," Neal muttered, shrugging out of his jacket, "the way this usually goes when I'm undressing with someone."
Peter smirked. "Maybe next time, Romeo."
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Peter wouldn't have thought it was possible, but the zombie attack made downtown traffic even worse than usual. The trip to the hospital was harrowing. Zombies were already roaming the streets downtown, and they all seemed attracted to the unmarked Bureau van that they were in, ignoring the other two in front of them. "Why us?" Peter asked aloud from the front passenger seat. A zombie jumped up on the windshield and the driver swerved blind, hitting a parked car and wrenching the back of the van out towards the center of the street.
"Okay people, we're going the rest of the way on foot," Peter yelled, even as he unbuckled his seatbelt. "Close order out the back. Go!"
The agents pushed the back doors open, and what seemed like a wall of zombies were right there. Cruz jumped out first, swinging a blade on a pole, like a tree branch lopper, and decapitating a zombie, with the others following closely. Neal, armed only with a hatchet, hung back to wait for Peter, but Peter pushed him forward, "Stay near the center of the group, Caffrey!" Peter, meanwhile, had a shoulder under the limping driver's arm, and his other hand was wielding the biggest machete that Neal had ever seen.
"Why are they focusing on us?" Cruz asked, from where she was literally spearheading the group. "The other vans got through without a problem." Even from behind the ring of officers, Neal was getting sprayed with zombie gore, and the muttering about "brains, brains!" was getting repetitive.
The zombies gripped the driver's off arm and pulled. He went down, immediately covered in swarming undead intent on ripping his skull open. Peter almost went with him, but Neal was there, cutting the arm off a grasping zombie with his hatchet.
A few yards farther, and Peter said, "They're focusing on Neal." And it was true. Whenever he was, Neal was the center of zombie attention, like the blue-eyed bullseye amid rings of undead.
"Don't tell me," Jones said, taking out two zombies with one swing of his chainsaw, "Caffrey's charming the zombies, too?"
"I'm not trying to!" Neal said as they finally made it to the safety of the hospital.
"Who knew that even zombies would notice your big shiny brain?" Peter asked.
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The FBI agents gathered in the lobby. Peter quickly divided them into groups to guard the entrances, with a smaller group to comb through the hospital for zombies already inside. "Keep the doctors and nurses alive. We need them to start inoculating everyone with No-Zomb."
"What does that do?" Neal asked.
"It keeps you from turning into a zombie. It doesn't keep zombies from killing you, though. Now, you have to be extra careful."
"Why?"
"You and I are on zombie-clearing detail. You are the best zombie bait we have."
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The five of them got into a groove: they'd clear one room in a wing, put Neal in the doorway, and any zombies in a 50 foot radius would head straight for him. Cruz and Peter beheaded them in the hall, and when no more appeared, they'd move down to clear the next 50 feet. Two security guards, who were limping but had already been inoculated, swept up behind them, making sure there were no zombies trapped in closets or under beds.
Between moments of sheer horror, there was time to talk.
"If we know how to prevent people from becoming zombies," Neal asked, "why doesn't the government just make everyone get inoculated?"
"It's not actually illegal to be a zombie," Peter said absently, waiting for the zombie in the wheelchair to get within striking distance.
"Are you fucking kidding?!"
It was the first time Peter had ever heard Neal swear. But the guy was sweating in the ill-fitting tyvek coveralls, splashed with zombie gore and more human blood than either of them really cared to think about, and he'd been fighting -- physically fighting -- for hours now.
Peter whacked the zombie and shoved the headless body to one side. The wheelchair itself was just what they needed for a walking barricade.
"Killing people is illegal, and so is spreading zombiosis," he explained. "But just being a zombie? Naw. The courts haven't even figured out if zombies are citizens or not. We've never seen a zombie who wanted to vote, but that might be because none of the outbreaks happened on voting days."
"That's crazy."
"Welcome to my reality."
When no more zombies appeared, Peter and Cruz started moving bodies to the side walls so they could get down to the next section. Peter heard a scuffle behind him, but thought it was the cleanup crew, until he heard Neal say, "Peter? Peter!" and saw a huge zombie looming over Neal, with his hatchet was stuck in its collarbone. Peter pulled his service pistol and shot it, which pushed it back long enough for Peter and Cruz to get to it and finish the job.
Afterwards, Peter pulled the hatchet out -- it really was wedged in there -- and cleaned it off before handing it back to Neal. The guy was shaking, from fatigue or adrenaline, whatever. Peter gave him a one-armed hug, with his free hand. "It'll be okay. You're doing good. Everyone freaks out during their first outbreak."
"I really, really, don't want to turn into a zombie."
"We're working on that. You want a No-Zomb shot, too?"
Neal nodded.
"Okay, as soon as we finish clearing this floor, we'll go down and get the shots."
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Hours later, Neal and Peter slumped side-by-side against a wall in the emergency ward, resting while they waited their turns. Finally the medico came to them holding what looked like a caulk gun. He asked their names, shot them in the arm with No-Zomb, and used his marker to draw a big fluorescent orange X across their foreheads.
"Is that really necessary?" Neal complained.
"If you don't want your head chopped off by accident by someone who hasn't slept in a couple days, then yeah, it is necessary."
"Ooh, sleep," Neal said.
As Neal drowsed off, Peter checked his phone messages. Elizabeth was fine -- or had been half an hour ago, which was enough to ease Peter's mind just then. He texted her a message with their status, then flagged down a hospital employee.
An orderly (with his own X) pointed them towards the ward where the off-duty FBI crew were sleeping. Peter tumbled into the last empty bed, and Neal followed without any hesitation. Peter rolled on his side to make room, and Neal pulled the blanket up and threw an arm over him. "I never want to sleep alone again," Neal said, his breaths hot puffs against Peter's jaw.
"Good," Peter told the ceiling just before his eyes closed. "Elizabeth wanted a bigger bed anyway."