in every universe, i'll love you /pietro one shots

They said that the world was going to end with a bang and so that's what we all prepared for.

If your dad wasn't building a bomb shelter in the back yard in the 50's then he was hardly a father at all, at least according to the dogs of war that ran us all into the ground. They promised us survival as long as we followed their instructions.

It began with the shelters then grew into drills. We'd shove our children beneath their desks midday at school while an alarm screamed at them, as if that would do them any good at ground zero. Frenzied buying came quickly after and weeks would pass with the grocery store shelves empty of canned goods as we all prepared for the worst.

They wanted us afraid, to draw our thoughts away from the horror of what we'd done.

A decade ago it was such an impossible idea, no one could fathom an event that could bring total destruction. In church on Sundays, they would preach about the wrath of god, how he could lay one mighty palm down and flatten an entire city. That was only a story, no one believed it, no one could picture it ever actually happening.

In 1945 came Hiroshima and three days after that, Nagasaki, entire cities were swallowed up in the great maw of the god called War. Hundreds upon thousands were dead in a matter of seconds, many more would follow in the days after and later, we would find out that those cruel machinations still hungered for more.

A month later, the war ended.

Though we didn't earn our peace, we acted as if we did and it was enough. People forgot about what we'd done. Children came home from the battlefield wearing the face of men, in uniforms that were ragged and as bloody as their minds had become. They were still better off than the ones who never came home at all.

Better off than your father, who came back as a vial of ashes.

That was just fine with your mama though, the last thing a woman needs when trying to raise a child is a man, least of all one that aches. The government paid her well for his great sacrifice, the reservoir filled from the industry of war.

Thought the money that bought your diapers had another life once. The gold bars lining the safes of the banks of America used to be wedding bands, candle holders, picture frames, tooth fillings, countless family heirlooms from a people whose pleas for help went ignored until it was convenient for us.

We should have known, really, what was coming.

Because when you lay an offering at War's feet like that, all it ever does is whet her appetite.

⟣ ⟢

You were ten when the first atomic bomb fell on New York City. Eisenhower came on the radio to tell everyone about it and your mama let you stay home from school, all special. She stood in the kitchen, her back to you, arms straight down beside her and wept as the president announced the deaths of fourteen million citizens.

But you were a child and New York was far away. Your friend Kyle wanted you to come outside and play on your shiny new bikes and you asked your mama and she said yes.

So you went outside and the sun was shining down on you like a smile. Wind blew through your hair as you biked up and down through the neighbourhood looking for soda cans to bring to the corner shop and turn in for some candy. Mrs. Morrisen let her dog out to play and there was only joy until the sun was setting and your mamas were hollering for you both to come home for supper.

You still think about that day a lot.

⟣ ⟢

People say it was the radiation that did it but in reality, it was us. We hadn't noticed that nothing had come out of Japan since the bombings. They'd offered their surrender and then gone radio silent and we were full of so much hate after Pearl Harbour that we relished their quiet instead of questioning it.

And it seems that the human body does more than just burn when subjected to radiation like that. It stays with us, in the air, in our water, in our bodies, we pass it down like a goddamned gift. It runs through us like a current and hides within our very DNA, latching onto our cells and turning them slowly.

For a moment, the the government tried to hide it. They built a wall around the perimeter of the blast site, took pictures in hazmat suits, set up a memorial for the lost as if that could contain the change spreading through us.

Pathetic really, how little we knew then.

⟣ ⟢

"Hey Kyle," you say, beckoning your best friend over to where you lean against the wall beside the window, "Check this out." Then you take another deep pull of the joint you rolled earlier and carefully blow out a near perfect smoke ring.

"Yeah but Pietro, are you watching for them?" Kyle asks you, gesturing vaguely towards the outside. He's always way too paranoid when he smokes but you can't really blame him for it, not since Hazel got bit. You try and talk to him about it every now and then but it always just ends with him telling you it was his fault for trusting you to keep watch.

And then you don't talk for a little bit because he needs a break from you.

"I'm watching," you say, nodding seriously before sticking the joint back in between your lips and turning to peek back out the window. "Nothing out there," you tell Kyle and toss him a happy little thumbs up. He's looking at you a little funny when you turn back around.

That's not new, he's been doing that since he found you braining your mom with a toaster about two years back, over and over again, until she finally stopped moving. To be fair, you've been a little off since then and not too good at staying sober. Every time you break into a house, Kyle heads for the pantry while you always make a beeline for the medicine cabinet.

If you don't keep your brain numb then the sorrow just disconnects your body and makes it impossible to move. In a world like this one, if you can't move then you're dead.

It's self-preservation that keeps your head in the clouds but it makes you a liability, you know that. You don't want to be one, but you are. If you weren't so selfish, you would have told Kyle to leave you behind months ago but you both know that you're not very good on your own.

He finishes up in the kitchen and you drop to your knees to peek out the windowsill.

"They're out there," you whisper, "Kyle, they're coming."

But he doesn't hear you.

You clutch your baseball bat tighter and wait silently in the dark, smoke slowly curling out from your nose.. A month back, you punched a bunch of nails through the metal and lovingly called it 'Julienne' after your mother's vegetable slicer.

There's a creaking sound then, of the stairs to the second floor shifting under someone's weight. Then there's a shuffling and you go still, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "Kyle?" you plead softly.

A soft moan rattles out from the mouth of a lady, rotting skin sagging off of her frame, eyes sunken deep into their sockets. You press yourself back further against the wall, pulling your knees to your chest. Then another one follows her in, a big one with a leg bent at an odd angle and missing half the skin off of his face.

"Kyle, we... we... we gotta go dude," you whisper again.

The dead stop and turn slowly, searching for the source of the sound. You're years into this shit and you're still so terrible at it but at least you have the sense to stop talking and begin slinking slowly towards the kitchen. They're dumb and slow, they don't know you're here yet so you make it pretty easy but the room is dark and there's no sign of your best friend.

Except there's a note on the table, beside a can of cream of mushroom soup, your favourite. You stow the soup in your pack and then just stare at the note for a moment, the sound of the dead getting closer.

Sorry. Need some time, K.

You're not really surprised, but you are a little hurt. The joint starts to burn between your lips and you just stand there letting it singe you. Then the dead lady starts to come shuffling in.

You watch her, moving slowly around the table until it stands between you and her. She's ignoring you though, going through the motions of making a cup of tea at the counter instead. She pushes at an old rusting kettle on the stove and then pulls open an empty cabinet. The large man shambles in next and sits down at the table, body collapsing over the chair. He gazes straight through you, rotting fingers curled around an invisible paper that he shakes out in front of him.

You know, you know full well that you really have to go while they're not listening for you but you're always like this. If you stay completely still, they'll never know you're there, at least until you make a sound. It's Kyle who always has to do the killing, you who always freezes.

So you're stuck in place because you're unable to take your eyes off of the dead, living more of a life than you ever will again.

⟣ ⟢

A few days pass, then they pile up and turn into a week. You make it out of town eventually but only after you almost get eaten when you make the dumb choice of hiding out in an old church. Everyone knows that War's disciples turned them into zombie pens as a joke. It's just usually Kyle who thinks and you follow.

Everything becomes worthwhile when you break into an old corner shop at the edge of town and find a container of Blosser's Medical Powder, your favourite cold medicine because it always makes you trip.

Another week goes by and you're standing in a parking lot at Cannon Beach, surrounded by abandoned automobiles. Your mama never had one because they were expensive but sometimes Kyle's dad would take you both cruising down main street on Saturday nights.

Your mama would do her makeup and tie a headscarf on to keep her hair from getting ruined. Kyle and you would jump around in the back and wave out the windows, whooping while his dad played Perry Como on the radio. Then if you were lucky, he'd buy you all an ice cream at the drive-in.

But that was a long time ago and now all you can hear are the waves from the surf and all you can see for miles and miles is sand and endless sea.

⟣ ⟢

Two months go by and you don't know where to look for Kyle but you realize you can't be alone much longer. You're not very good at alone, you never have been. Even when you were really little and your mama had to leave at night to work her shift at the diner, you couldn't sleep because she wasn't there.

So you'd walk yourself down the street to the veteran's hall, noisy at all hours with the broken men who'd come back from the war. Most of them had known your father and so they all knew you too. They always let you sit with them at the table and play go fish until you fell asleep or your mama came looking for you.

You're not good at being alone because you were created to be the life of the party and then sit on the shelf until needed again. You were born to love without barrier and hold a person's heart in the palm of your hand but only so tenderly.

You were never meant to be alone but you are and it's so painful and you don't really know how to handle it.

⟣ ⟢

You find a little boy in Los Angeles and for a moment, it's like the world glitches. Kody? You think, looking at his little mop of hair and his entire fist shoved into his mouth. You don't know where the name came from, it's one you've never heard before.

His eyes are all scrunched up though and he looks weepy. There's a toothache tablet under your tongue and it's already making your brain sluggish but you know that's not good. You and Kyle were in Portland once and you saw this kid screaming and crying for her mama outside the movie Theatre. The dead were on her in moments. Sometimes you wake up in the night with the sound of her screams still echoing through your ears.

The kid's mouth opens and you raise a hand, palm out and fingers spread wide like a stop sign. Then his eyes screw up, his lip curls inwards and he flaps his hands, in full blown tantrum mode. A low whimpering starts from deep in his throat and you take a step backwards, hand shaking, already knowing what's going to happen next.

But you can't let it this time, you just can't. 

So you squat down in front of the kid, stick your fingers in the corners of your mouth and tug, letting your tongue flop out and your eyes cross. "Kody!" you whisper softly, "Don't cry, you don't have to cry."

The little guy giggles.

You're relieved for a brief moment.

Then you hear the first rattling moan. You tug the kid into your chest instinctively, staring over his head at a dead man shambling towards you. Then there's another sound to your left and you turn your head to see a cheerleader with two stumps for legs dragging herself across the grass.

Kody's crying softly into your shirt, little hands balled up in the fabric. He hardly makes a sound, someone's taught him how to cry for the world you live in now. You're jealous, you would've liked to learn too.

A third moan comes from behind you, then another ahead, a fifth to your right.

Then you hear footsteps, too fast, too solid to be a dead person's. They pause for a moment and then move faster towards you and you look up, eyes falling on a man with a piercing gaze, his arms outstretched, reaching for Kody.

"Curt," you mumble, as he pulls Kody from your grasp, your hands trailing after until he's gone from you. He holds his child close to him, like he's the most precious thing in the world. Sweat drips down the back of your neck and your vision swims, your mouth chalky from the tablet you took, your body loose from it.

The world around you flickers and for a moment you are in a tower, thousands of feet above the ground. Then you're falling and the scene changes again, you're standing in a train car and the world is completely empty. You're alone.

"Ah, they're coming," you mutter, as the man and the boy step away from you. He's always backing away from you (but you make it so easy to). "Kyle, they're coming." A tear slips down your cheek and you look up, too tired from all your walking to get back on your feet again.

"Daddy!" Kody squeals happily and bangs on Curt's chest. You both freeze, eyes on the dead all around you, watching out of the corners of your eyes as all of their heads turn so fast in unison to stare at the little boy in Curt's arms.

Horror fills you as you realize what you're about to witness.

You open your mouth, breath catching in your throat as you gaze at the two of them, frozen in place against the back drop of the Hollywood Bowl.

Your mother used to dance you around the living room, her hands wrapped around yours as you stood on her feet. She told you stories about seeing Frank Sinatra at the bowl in '43 with your father. She liked to laugh and say she almost left him that night because she was so smitten with Frank but she'd always kneel down and rest her chin on your head and whisper, "But then I wouldn't get you."

Then three years ago, you hit her over the head with a toaster until her body stopped moving.

Everything suddenly makes a lot of sense; you know what you have to do.

Time slows.

You open your mouth wider, ball your hands up into fists at your sides and squeeze your eyes shut. Then you tilt your head back and let out the loudest sound you've made in years, whooping like a child leaning too far out an old blue cadillac window on a warm summer night.

You open your eyes to see Curt staring back at you, he's horrified but pure joy is falling off of you like oil on water. Then there's suddenly a vice-like grip around your wrist and its yanking you backwards. Nails dig into your shoulder, scraping, your cry falters, breaks as teeth dig into your thigh and it becomes a scream of agony. Your foot is yanked hard and you lose your balance, tipping forwards into the arms of a dead man who holds you far too tight as teeth gnash against your skin, dig in and then tear.

Pain runs through you, electric like a current but you don't stop screaming, making so much sound that you draw nearly every zombie in the area to you. You see your hand, in the grass beside you, no longer attached then look down and there are your guts spilling out of your body and you smile, shaky, cries getting softer, more staggered, turning into whimpers as you are unravelled piece by piece until there is nothing left of you except a dark stain in the grass.

But at least you aren't lonely anymore.