Chapter Text
“Shit”
Cramped in a small closet filled with cleaning supplies, Vanderwood pressed tightly onto their arm for a solid minute before letting go of it and looking down at their palm, seeing exactly what they had anticipated; blood.
Their blood.
They were supposed to go out to scavenge the abandoned bakery they came across while navigating the town, not get hurt and end up hiding somewhere they couldn’t completely fit without feeling the corners of the shelves pressing against their sides.
“Gotta focus, Stark.”
The brunette wiggled enough to be able to carefully strip the backpack from their back and place it on the floor.
It wasn't the blood that worried them.
Their injury was nothing more than a cut that didn't seem to go that deep. The main worry was not to get an infection on their way back to the bunker.
“Clean water will have to be enough. We are not wasting antibiotics in this shit.”
The trip hadn't been a complete waste, at least.They were able to find some bottles with olive oil, canned ingredients that could still be eaten, like some corn and tomato soup, also one of those portales phone-chargers with a solar panel built on it. It had been inside a drawer in a somehow smaller office than the supply closet they were in, passing the corridor that joined the eating area with the kitchen, only one of two swinging doors remaining to separate the spaces.
Seven had mentioned needing something like that a couple of weeks ago. Or maybe it had been a month ago.
They would have maybe found more interesting stuff if they hadn't run into—
The sound of footsteps approaching cut Vanderwood’s thoughts.
Uneven steps. Quick and loud gasps for air. A faint odor intruding their nose, rapidly getting worse.
They would have to focus on the cut later.
It was one of those things, approaching.
They weren't people anymore.
People could think. People didn't have their guts hanging from their stomachs onto the floor and still walk around.
Most people were crazy and an annoyance. These things were insane and dangerous.
People could be easily killed. These things,, they were quite tricky.
The brunette grabbed one of their sharpest knives, always kept it in the right pocket of their jacket, and made the mental note to clean the handle—now smeared with their blood—later.
It had to be mere meters away.
Could that thing be able to smell them?
Vanderwood wasn’t sure. They didn't have a degree in dead people.
They only knew the necessary.
Avoid being visually detected, avoid being heard. Stab or smash their heads to get them from standing up again.
Do not get bitten.
As the relentless-declining percentage of the world that hadn't met their end with this infection, there were not many ways other than learning on the go.
The door of the closet slightly shook; not enough for them to consider that the corpse at the other side was trying to get it open—it likely just leaned into the door as it made its way down the corridor.
It didn't seem aware of the brunette's presence there yet. Good.
They closed their eyes, focusing on their hearing, and held their breath.
If they didn't have some prior somewhat-related experience, they probably would have instinctively gagged at the smell of rotten flesh hitting their senses.
It was worse than trash during a hot day. Worse than vomit.
It made them taste an almost citric-like flavor in their mouth, with a barely noticeable putrid sweetness too.
Stark closed their eyes a tad harder.
The smell was overwhelming but still not as bad as it could—would—get.
That didn't mean that the mind-induced blood flavour felt any less disgusting in their mouth.
Vanderwood could, theoretically, leave their hiding to take care of the thing ambling and make their escape from the building.
However, nothing truly assured them it was only this one lurking nearby.
They could take care of one face-to-face. Two were still manageable. If Vanderwood planned meticulously, three was doable.
More than four, though? Alone? They'd rather not, thanks.
That is why even if they only heard (and smelled) one, Stark wasn't risking the possibility of ending up surrounded.
The sound of the door rattling made them shoot open their eyes again.
That thing was scratching the other side of the door, their nails making the poorly coated with different tones of gray door shake wholly.
Judging by the looks of the door—visibly old and with a few painted-over termites bites—Vanderwood doubted someone would have cared about a bit of damage on the door, even before the apocalypse.
Focusing on what really mattered.
They reminded themself to breathe, eyes focused on the door knob while the slight burn in their arm kept steadying them.
It had a lock, and they'd turned it as soon as they entered the closet, but if that thing decided that there was something of interest for it inside the small supply room, they doubted this poor quality door would be able to stop the dead-walking-person from forcing its way in.
Vanderwood prepared their stance, lifting their knife-holding hand.
If the door gave in and opened, they would stab through that thing's skull before it could open all the way.
A clean way to get rid of a moving rotting corpse.
If it came to it, and that thing tried to take a bite out of them, it was likely they’d end up with some ex-human remains splashed on them.
Vanderwood could take the stench for a few minutes, or a handful of them if needed.
Not that there was another option until the brunette deemed it safe to make their way out.
Shame, they did get the chance to shower just yesterday.
Ha.
Vanderwood kept their eyes unmoving on the shaking doorknob.
In moments like this, Stark couldn't help but recall their more need-of-involvement mission that the agency had forced upon them.
No matter if the world had completely fallen apart—or just theirs.
–The door began to waver from the increasing force used against it from the other side, scratches finally starting to rip off the wood of the door.–
Their hands would apparently always end up dripping with blood.