Disclaimer: Same as before, don't own, don't sue.
"Difficult as it may be to cure, it is always easy to poison and to kill."
-Elisha Bartlett, Philosophy of Medical Science
Quatre smiled as the wind whipped his golden tresses around his head, the cool breeze refreshing and satisfying him. His long, slender arms wrapped around Trowa's waist as the brunet leaned forward on his freshly polished motorcycle, cautiously rounding a bend on the highway, careful not to throw the little blonde off. He squeezed the handlebars tighter as the raced towards Darkfall.
A meeting between the Gundam pilots had been affirmed in a small town name Darkfall, a town with the population of probably more cows than people from the looks of it; Quatre and Trowa had been on the road for over a half hour now and hadn't passed any automobiles since a semi about twenty miles back. Frankly, Trowa thought it was down right creepy.
//At least we won't get noticed. . .//
Trowa's thoughts were interrupted as Quatre's arms tightened around his waist, causing him to shoot a quick look over his shoulder at his koi. "Quatre?" he asked loudly over the sound of the bike's engine. Quatre grunted, disentangling one arm from around Trowa's waist as he clutched at his heart.
"Something's. . . very wrong, Trowa. . ." Quatre gasped, his breath starting to get violently harsh. "I've, felt it since we first. . . passed the ten mile sign. . . just a. . . . few minutes ago. Something's wrong, Trowa. I can feel it. I feel as if. . . thousands of people are screaming. . . /howling/ out in pain. . . God, Trowa there are so many of them. . . . nm. ."
Trowa swallowed a lump in his throat and concentrated on the road in front of him. If Quatre's empathic talents were telling him that something was wrong, them /something/ must be . . . and it couldn't be good.
The pair passed the five mile sign and Trowa gunned the motor.
. . . . "/Oh, Jesus!/"
Duo felt a trembling hand grab at his ankle, the digits grasping eagerly, curling around his leg. Chestnut shot a brisk glance down and grunted in revulsion and surprise as the lanky auburn-haired woman on the road, the dead woman on the road scrabbled hungrily towards the back of one of his legs, struggling to drag her mangled body closer, drool dripping off her chin and onto the soft black leather of his boot and sliding off onto the pavement.
Without hesitation, Heero whipped around, training his weapon on the girl's ghost-white face, and squeezed the trigger twice, pumping two rounds of hot lead into her forehead. With a moaning, whispery sigh, he girl let go of Duo's leg and settled into a spreading pool of her own fluids.
"Let's get the hell out of here!" Duo screamed, grabbing Heero's arm and lurching over the girl's body, choking back bile. The smell was intense, and getting stronger.
The pair backed up, with Duo behind Heero as the Japanese boy pumped a few rounds into the other walking dead, large scarlet flowers blossoming on the mangy tan shirt of the big guy, the woman and the skinny guy following close behind, their arms still held in front of them as they whispered ravenous complaints, determined to get at them despite the fact that they were already dead.
"What the hell's up with that?!" Heero cried, his voice high-pitched. It was the very first time Duo had ever seen or heard the emotion of fear on Heero Yuy's face, which couldn't mean a good thing. The American watched as Heero finished out the clip on the zombie trio, ejecting the empty and slapping a fresh clip home.
The zombies advanced towards them, raising their macabre voices to the wind.
Trowa pulled the motorcycle up to the front door a small, all-night diner, booting down the kickstand and turning to Quatre, who has been wheezing since the scare just ten miles outside of town, when his "space heart" started to kick in. He sat on the edge of the seat, slumping forward as Trowa got off, seemingly getting weaker by the moment.
Trowa looked down at his lover with pity, the boy seeming much younger than his nineteen years, his large aquamarine eyes clouded with suffering, the torment and grief of thousands of damned souls running through his veins, the pain becoming excruciating as he suddenly cried out in sheer agony, his long and thin delicate fingers digging into his chest.
//Quatre. . . he's too kind to be feeling this much pain. . . it's not fair. . . not fair, God, Quatre. . . if there's anything I can do . . .//
But Trowa knew there was nothing he could possibly do, being an empath, Quatre was damned to this fate, doomed to feel the hurt and sorrow of thousands over, but was also privileged to feel the gentle warm of purity and happiness that others might be harboring.
Quatre sobbed in misery again, and Trowa's heart broke in two as he stared down at the fragile golden angel.
The blonde stood up on unsteady feet, staggering forward a little before stumbling into Trowa.
"/Quatre/. . . you're too weak. Let me carry you."
Quatre complied, already half asleep as he collapsed in Trowa's strong arms, his breath coming out in shallow, shuddery gasps. He grasped at the hem of the tall pilot's leather jacket, pulling his face closer to Trowa's with his last ounce of strength.
"Trowa. . ." he rasped, tears of tribulation cascading down his face, distorted with pain. "Trowa, they're all dead. . ." With that he finally sunk limply in Trowa's arms, a gentle sleep calming him, but certainly not releasing him from his pain as his face tensed even more.
//Hold on, Kat, I promise we'll get to the bottom of this. . . .//
Trowa entered the diner as carefully as he could, his usually stealthy movements cumbersome with Quatre's thin body in his arms. Since he had made an overwhelmingly large amount of noise just getting in the doorway, Trowa didn't bother with holding up a quiet cover, calling out to anyone who might me within the rather deserted-looking premises.
A pitiful moan answered his shout, and the tall pilot rounded the nearly immaculate white counter, carefully stepping over a fallen stool, noting it among the other unsettling debris such as a few items of silverware on the floor, and on one table a salt shaker that had been dumped over. There were a few other trivial objects out of place, minor things, but unsettling nonetheless. /And where the hell were all the damn people?/
Trowa, hoping that the moan was the answer to his distressing question sauntered the last few steps, his heart in his throat and the sound of pulsing blood in his ears. The Latin pilot walked around the counter and stopped dead in his tracks, almost dropping Quatre as his heart froze in his chest. The scene before him was inconceivable.
It was a bulky man, dressed in cook whites, kneeling over the body of a female waitress, the violet polyester uniform now stained crimson with blood splatters, the bulk of which coming from her head, or lack thereof. The cook greedily shoved his meaty hands into the remnants of her brains, shoving the assorted gore into his mouth, moaning in pleasure as he did so, returning his slobbered-on hands back into the mess on the floor.
//Oh, God. . .//
Trowa backed up a step, treading onto a white dinner plate which broke under his foot with a thick crack, alerting the zombie cook to the pair's intrusion on his mealtime. The burly man grunted and stood up, reaching for one of Quatre's slender arms which had slumped off his stomach. Trowa immediately jumped back, not caring if he jarred the boy, just making sure he got him out of the way of the cannibal cook. The guy resented Trowa's movements, pulling away his soon-to-be next meal and he started towards them both, his arms outstretched.
Trowa shot a look back the way they had came, towards his motorcycle, and felt his heart plummet into his stomach. Two of the creatures stood outside, shambling around his bike as if they could smell them, the very aroma of their bodies like a beacon for those things here and now, on this hellish night.
Trowa looked down at the sleeping blonde in his arms, knowing he had to get him out of there, anyway he could. /What the hell had happened in Darkfall?/
Flashing his sweaty gaze around the tiny diner, Trowa searched desperately for an escape-
-//hallelujah!//
His emerald stare came to rest on the back door to the restaurant, and without hesitation Trowa ran towards it, the slim blonde jostling about in his grasp, Quatre's head softly striking his chest in rhythmic movements as the tall pilot managed a shambling jog, running sideways the last few steps and hitting the door on his left elbow with all of his momentum-
-and stopped dead in his tracks as semiautomatic was leveled at his head, freeing it of all though save the decidedly deadly weapon trained on his forehead.