Title: Six feet under (or not)
Pairing: Mr. Orange/Mr. White, Freddy/Larry, you know the drill
Warnings: gore and occasional disturbing imagery, CRACK AND NO POINT WHATSOEVER
Notes: ... no, really, don't ask. Written for a multifandom zombie!apocalypse challenge, and I'd never thought that I could write one, let alone in English, or about a Tarantino movie XDDD *buries herself*.
“Just what the fuck were you thinking, man?”
“You shot me in the fuckin' mouth!”
“Excuse me while I was busy freaking out about the fact you are a goddamn cop, you lying son of a bitch!”
“Fuck, I told you I was sorry, you might as well try and stay civil about it!”
“You can civilly suck my d—waitamminit.”
“What, I'm trying to have a serious conversation here!”
“I shot you in the mouth, you were shot in the stomach before, and I'm pretty sure some of your buddies shot me somewhere in the chest... Aren't we tough guys, we're still alive! Plus, who the fuck brought us to the hospital?”
Freddy groaned, and realized they were lying somewhere in a spotless room that looked like a hospital. Something was wrong, he thought, squinting his eyes, slowly trying to get up. His face – more like his whole body – felt weird, wobbly, and the light coming from the ceiling was blinding.
He half-heard Larry stretching cautiously from the bed behind his back, and groaned again once he managed to sit on the edge. His suit was so thick with clotted blood he was having a hard time moving in it, which wasn't that strange, considering they both had one hell of a day.
“Eugh, we smell” Larry threw in. Freddy barely noticed.
“What the ever-loving fuck.”
Damn if there wasn't something wrong with this whole hospital business – as soon as Freddy tried to rub his face, one of his fingers stuck in a socket he was sure had never been on his cheek before. He tried to poke it again, and discovered in horror that the damn hole ran deep, as in real deep. He nudged it tentatively with the tip of his tongue and grimaced.
“Christ, I need a shower.”
“You're a neat guy and you've always smelled real nice, I'll give you tha--”
He had to stop, though. Something hard and small was rolling on his tongue, and Freddy forced himself to spit in the palm of his right hand – he did have a tooth that had become a royal pain since a couple of months after all. Too bad what came out didn't look like a tooth at all. More like a big, fat bullet, and yeah, a couple of his teeth, too.
“You shot me in the mouth.”
“You're welcome,” Larry stuttered, while checking the hole in his chest, right there under his blood-spattered shirt.
Freddy felt a wave of dread wash over him, and it suddenly occurred to him that he couldn't feel it in his gut, or else he was certain he would have shitted his pants right away. Nevertheless, he found the courage to finally look around, and didn't like what he saw, not one bit. A steel table glinted in front of him, bathed in cold, artificial light, and the whole amount of tools sitting on it didn't exactly speak first aid. Especially the saw. He turned around, and found out he'd been lying on a morgue slab. A row of unused corpse bags hung on a rack in a corner of the room, and Freddy swallowed hard, a lump of fear in his throat.
“Larry, I think we have a problem here.”
“You don't say?” he commented, flatly. With a scowl, Freddy glanced behind his back and noticed that Larry was sticking his index finger into his wound, wincing. He considered retching, then remembered having no stomach for it.
“Sweet Jesus. Okay. Okay,” he muttered, running dirty fingers through his hair. Then he swung his legs for a couple of seconds, frantically trying to disregard his own bare feet, and the tag hanging from his right big toe, which read 'Newandyke, Freddy' “so we're done for. Dead, I mean.”
“Seems so,” Larry remarked, dryly, while getting down his slab and heading towards Freddy's.
“Uh,” he scoffed, darkly, as he reached out for the tag “So the name's Freddy?” he said, pointedly enough to make the younger man (zombie, whatever) blush “Took a fucking bloodbath and a morgue tag to make you spill it, huh?”
Freddy just rolled his eyes and grabbed his arm.
“I don't know about you, but I have a bad feeling about this. I mean, zombies! Something must've happened, it's not that you wake up dead every day,” and dragged him to the window, as if to make a point. Larry grumbled, but admitted he was undead and goddamn curious. The window creaked as Freddy opened it, and they both squeezed their heads into the chink. The air from outside smelled like sulphur and rotten apples and—Holy Mother of God.
“You got the feeling this is a motherfucking zombie apocalypse, or is it just me?” Larry mouthed.
“Huh-Huh. You talking about the fact that we're one, or about that bunch of zombie crooks beating the shit out of those cops?”
“Both?” Larry offered. Well, at least chances he'd die from a heart attack were slim.
“Wonder if the others are out there. Doubt they'll be happy to see us anyways.”
“Yeah,” Larry agreed, bitterly “They'd welcome us with open arms, then eat us.”
“One can always hope,” Freddy said, casually “what's the point of being zombies in a zombie apocalypse if you can't have some fun? Okay, the heist went downhill, but—we're still here, ain't we?”
“I put a shitload of fuckin' bullets in 'em because of you! Shouldn't you be the one with a conscience—uh, no, sorry, forgot you're a flatfoot and a liar and fulla shit! And we got some unfinished business to take care of, you may be dead but I can still cut you to pieces!” Larry bellowed, but Freddy just stood there saying nothing. Goddamn kid might be dead but his eyes were still fuckin' blue, and Larry still had to wrap his mind (while it was still fresh in its skull, so to speak) around the fact that all the tacos and the hanging around, all that laughing and teasing and kissing were just plain bullshit.
“For fuck's sake, Larry, you're a great guy and I liked you and I know you know it – it was my goddamn job but I liked you, and I just didn't feel like lying to you anymore. Seemed unfair, and we were dying anyway!”
“So now what. You gonna play zombie cop? 'Cause you still smell like one to me, y'know.”
“Well, technically I'm not a cop anymore. It's like I retired. Permanently. You know, bein' dead and all that? Might as well be a zombie criminal, it's all about perspective after all. Whaddya say?”
“You for real?”
“'Fraid so, yeah.”
“So,” Freddy suggested, reaching for the saw “How does cop stew sound for dinner?”
“Fine by me!” Larry grinned, and quickly brushed some dust off his blood-caked suit, following Freddy out of the morgue.
“D'you think a dead guy can still have a hard-on?” Larry asked while walking next to Freddy down the deserted hallway “'Cause I don't think blood actually flows inside a zombified body, if you know what I mean.”
Freddy shrugged, causing one of his clavicles to drop into his right lung. Ow.
“You still have a dick, right? I think it's worth a shot!”