Chapter Text
Thursday, very early morning
There’s a zombie in his living room.
Abbacchio blinks like that’s going to change what he’s seeing. (It doesn’t.)
…This can’t be real. There’s no way one of those things could even get in here, he keeps the place so locked and boarded up – especially at night, which it happens to be right now. Very late at night, actually.
No matter how impossible, Abbacchio isn’t dreaming. He really was startled out of his sleep by a suspicious noise. He really did stumble downstairs only to find a very real zombie in his living room. It’s standing there, glassy eyes fixed in his general direction. In one hand it’s holding Abbacchio’s best black zip-up jacket while its opposite forearm is pressed tight over its abdomen.
In this situation, it’s recommended that you shoot on sight.
Abbacchio’s gun, however, is half lowered at the moment. From shock and hesitation alike.
Because there’s…something different about this zombie.
He can’t put a finger on what it is exactly, only that – even from across the room – he can tell that those eyes have light in them. This one…doesn’t look like a flesh-eating monster. Which is fucking ridiculous. Because that’s what it is; that’s what they all are, and even as an immune, Abbacchio harbors a certain dislike for the creatures that, y’know, murdered his old life.
With that thought (with these too-vivid memories of everyone and everything he’s lost) in mind, Abbacchio raises his weapon. Aims the shotgun, takes a threatening step forward. Steels himself.
And this zombie must be an unusual one, because it releases Abbacchio’s jacket in favor of slowly lifting both hands in the air, palms out. A universal gesture of surrender and I-mean-you-no-harm. From a zombie.
…
Their highest brain function is supposed to be something like hunt, eat, kill, right?
Seems like this one didn’t get the memo.
Looks like it had an arm pressed over its stomach for a reason, too, because now its guts are spilling out of a gaping gash there. Abbacchio’s seen some nasty shit in his life, but this might take the cake. The fact that the zombie is very definitely dead doesn’t make those innards spilling over Abbacchio’s area rug any less gross.
He realizes he’s letting the gun slip lower, but it can’t be helped. His arms feel like uncooperative jelly.
The zombie seems to take this as proof that Abbacchio won’t shoot, and it lowers both hands to start stuffing its insides back…well, inside. Mostly intestines. Something that’s either part of its liver or a discolored stomach. Abbacchio wants to look away from the gruesome sight, but he can’t.
When its work is finished, the zombie only stares at him, both arms now wrapped firm around its abdomen. Somehow, without realizing, Abbacchio has gotten closer to it – him, to be more accurate – and can tell, in the dim lamplight, that his eyes are clinging to blue. His hair is black, cut in a bob, and his clothes were simple but expensive before they were tarnished by the undead lifestyle.
The oddest part, though, is that this zombie seems to be held together by a patchwork of zippers.
That’s weird.
Kind of an interesting aesthetic.
…Why doesn’t he just sew himself together and skip the zippers…?
Whatever. Back to the real problem here.
Zombie guy is still watching Abbacchio, eyes focused on the shotgun. Abbacchio really should shoot him. One good headshot, some quick cleanup, and he can go back to his peaceful, solitary lifestyle wherein he only has to interact with others when escorting survivors or receiving his monthly supplies from the City. No reason to hesitate.
How hard can it be? Abbacchio’s killed plenty of zombies. Hunted a specific pack of them down for revenge, even. He protects people from zombies for a living (if you can call it that).
Hasn’t had trouble against any zombies since –
Since the last time he didn’t shoot one that he really should have. He’s learned his lesson by now.
But those eyes are staring at him, shifting away from the gun to search him every once in a while, and they look…worried? Afraid? Unless Abbacchio is reading way too much into this. He probably is. It’s the middle of the night, after all, and his living room lamp isn’t the brightest.
Still, he hesitates.
This zombie is acting awfully alive for the undead.
Slowly, Abbacchio lowers his gun, watching for any kind of reaction. The less the gun is pointed at him, the more at ease the zombie becomes, though he keeps his eyes locked on it the whole way. Abbacchio lets the gun drop until he’s holding it one-handed, and then leans it against the couch. Letting go of it.
If he has to, he can fight a zombie barehanded. Not like he hasn’t done it before, and not like most zombies are especially fast. But this one doesn’t feel like a threat. Which is a weird sensation.
“What are you doing here?”
Okay. That’s probably a stupid question. Looking for a midnight snack, is the obvious answer. And besides, just because this zombie is afraid of guns doesn’t mean he can comprehend words – even if he can, there’s no guarantee of a coherent response.
The zombie blinks at Abbacchio, and then tips his head to peer down at the floor.
Abbacchio follows his gaze, spotting his own black zip-up lying at their feet. “My jacket?”
There’s a real actual nod from the zombie when Abbacchio glances back up at him. He lifts one hand a tiny bit to bend a finger in the direction of his sliced open abdomen. Pointing at it.
Oh, zombie guy can’t possibly be serious. He broke into Abbacchio’s house in the dead of night, damn near got shot to a second death, risked losing his entire digestive system to the rug – all for a zipper. Crouching down, keeping half an eye on the zombie, Abbacchio picks up his jacket. Slowly straightens to standing. “You want the zipper?”
Another nod, along with what’s supposed to be an affirmative noise, at Abbacchio’s best guess.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Is he about to help this flesh-eating, decaying monster? There’s too much going through his head right now, and an entire pool of quarreling emotions in the pit of his stomach.
Anger, fear, pity…the worst of them all is the curiosity, though. That’s the one that’s spurring him on, even though he knows he should throw the zombie out, at the least.
Nothing good can come from letting zombie guy stick around even for a moment. These creatures bring death wherever they go, after all.
That’s the whole reason for this fucking apocalypse.
Friends, family, partner – all of them are dead. Eaten by zombies. Turned by zombies. Horribly, violently maimed by zombies, teeth tearing in and – virus taking hold –
Well. No use going too far down memory lane. The point is that just because this zombie here is communicating, and can comprehend shit, and experiences fear, and has bright eyes, and is stubbornly not letting himself rot to pieces…none of that means that Abbacchio can let his guard down.
“You’ll need something to attach it with.”
This is a bad idea. This is a downright horrible idea.
Abbacchio walks past the lifelike undead (puts his back to the creature, what the hell) and carries his jacket through to the dining room. The sewing kit is still on the table, and he snatches it up on his way to the bathroom. There’s a first aid kit in there. Maybe it has sutures, or some fishing line – that’d hold better. Do zombies get infections? (Does it matter if they do?)
As he crosses the hallway, a cool breeze hits him, jarring his jumbled thoughts to a halt.
Fresh air should not be blowing through this musty old house. Boarded and locked up as it is. So that’s more than likely not a good thing.
He flicks the bathroom light on, deposits the sewing kit and jacket on the counter, and then makes a beeline for the kitchen, only to find that the back door is hanging wide open – which is a terrible idea for so many reasons and he definitely didn’t leave it like that so what the fuck.
Here’s hoping that mild-tempered zombie is the only thing that wandered in. Abbacchio slams the door shut and twists every lock. Slides the chains in place, too. Does up both deadbolts.
…Speaking of that zombie, how the hell did he break in, in the first place? Abbacchio hasn’t left the house in days (weeks?) and he sure as shit keeps all doors firmly locked at all times regardless. Sure, every once in a while he’ll accidentally miss a lock and leave it undone, but sheer numbers prevents this from being an issue. And there are no obvious signs of tampering, at least none that Abbacchio can see in the dark, so how…?
No sense in worrying over it now. If zombie guy could speak, Abbacchio would ask, but no such luck. For now he better just head back to the living room and see if he can coax the zombie into the –
Turning around, Abbacchio jumps out of his skin.
The zombie is right behind him. Staring. Especially creepy in the dark. Those zippers are ominous.
“Holy fuck.” Abbacchio’s heart is pounding. Hasn’t he had enough scares for one night? “Don’t do that!”
It can’t be possible, but the zombie looks confused – are the undead capable of making facial expressions? Abbacchio can’t say he’s ever spent much time with one, considering he’s usually trying to kill them before they eat him.
He’s never seen one even look afraid for their inevitable fate. This one has been emoting left and right…
The expressions are only ever subtle, as if he can’t quite get his dead face to fully form them. That zipper across his cheek can’t help, either, pulling awkward at his skin like that. His eyes can be very telling, though, and okay Abbacchio time to stop thinking so much.
He steps around the zombie and makes a beckoning motion over his shoulder. “C’mon, the bathroom has the best lighting.”
This time, Abbacchio can hear the zombie’s footsteps when he moves, which raises the question as to why he didn’t earlier. Mysteries just keep right on piling up tonight, don’t they? The most pressing of which being why the hell he feels compelled to help out a real actual zombie so much – but he can’t spare the time to dwell on any of it right now. He’ll do plenty of that later. When this crisis has passed.
Back in the bathroom, he turns on the lights above the mirror to supplement the overhead one, then takes a seat on the closed toilet seat lid. Time to cut the zipper out of his favorite jacket stitch by stitch. So he can give it to a zombie. For no goddamn reason.
…
The menial task isn’t much good for not thinking, but oh well. Abbacchio is used to spending too much time in his own head by now. It’s fine.
Zombie guy lingers in front of him, watching with those eyes. Still holding his stomach together.
…
…
Abbacchio’s lived alone for years now, and yet somehow this is the first time he’s ever felt that it’s too damn quiet in this house. Might have something to do with the way that not-so-dead-eyed zombie stare is penetrating his skull. Grazing him from head to toe. He fights off a shudder.
“Why do you use zippers, anyway?” he asks, mostly to fill the awful silence, because he’s sure the zombie’s communication skills can’t be that good. “Can’t you just sew yourself together?”
The zombie’s head tilts to the side a bit, and he fingers the zipper on his cheek. Seems like he’s thinking that one over which is…zombies shouldn’t be capable of that much thought, should they?
“D’you like the way they look?” Abbacchio guesses. Once you get past how unsettling the idea is, it’s not so bad. Doesn’t hurt that this zombie was probably very handsome when he was alive, before all the decay set in.
…Abbacchio is going to stop that line of thought right there.
Zombie guy doesn’t move to confirm that, only tilts his head more. He gives it a minute shake.
“Then what?” Tearing the first strip of the zipper free, Abbacchio glances down to start cutting at the other, looking back up once he gets in a rhythm.
He’s just in time to see the zombie reach in through the gaping hole in his shirt (must’ve been made by whatever sliced open his abdomen) and undo a zipper on his torso. The sound is out of place coming from a humanoid body not wearing a coat – but not as much as that heating pack that falls out onto the floor.
Abbacchio stares.
It…makes sense. Dead bodies aren’t exactly warm. But can they feel cold? Apparently this one can, to some degree, and cares enough about being warm to…stuff himself full of heating packs. It’s disgusting and ingenious all at once.
“…I see.”
Zombie guy zips himself back up there, and then reaches deeper into his shirt to unzip another spot, roundabout where his heart should be. Abbacchio is afraid that the organ itself will spill out, but nothing does. Instead, the zombie sticks his fingers inside – it squelches – and pulls out a pocket sewing kit, and what looks like a small, folded piece of paper.
“Oh,” Abbacchio says, pausing his work, “storage?” This is infinitely more than he bargained for when he asked.
After replacing his items and zipping himself back up, the zombie holds up a finger as if to signal that this isn’t all, and Abbacchio almost doesn’t want to see what else there could possibly be.
Reaching up with his right hand, the zombie starts to undo a zipper that goes around his left upper arm, and oh fuck no. With each centimeter that he unzips, the limb dangles looser and looser, showing off bone and muscle and everything, until it’s left hanging on by just a bit. Zombie watching what he does so that it doesn’t fall the whole way off. (He needs that arm to hold in his guts, after all, since the other is busy showing off.)
“Why the fuck would you need a removable arm?!” Abbacchio yanks the zipper the rest of the way free with one rough pull, and feels his jacket fall off of his lap. That’s not normal – but then again, none of this is.
The zombie offers a real, actual shrug at that while zipping his arm back on. And there might be a teeny tiny smirk on his face, too, the absolute asshole.
“That’s not funny,” Abbacchio grumbles, “it’s disgusting.”
Faded blue eyes lock on him, nearly shining with humor. And that’s…Abbacchio’s got half a mind to throw this zombie out. How does he look so alive, with all of his removable parts and body pockets and…undeadness?
Abbacchio shoves the two sections of zipper at the zombie, who takes them with a slow and stiff hand. His fingers are cold.
“You don’t need my help putting that on, do you?”
Zombie guy shakes his head.
“Thank fuck.” Abbacchio thinks he’s seen enough zombified gore for one day. He’s also pretty sure he doesn’t qualify as a zombie doctor. The less he has to do for this wayward creature the better.
Pressing his back to the wall and sliding down from there, the zombie situates himself until he’s nearly lying down. When he carefully peels his arm away from his stomach, his guts mostly stay in place. Only bulge a little, which is fantastic.
Eager to leave him to it, Abbacchio sets both kits – sewing and first aid – within reach next to him. The zombie picks through both with something akin to curiosity, grabbing his preferred supplies. Forgoing the curved needle, which is an odd choice. Though maybe he’s never used one before. That sewing kit of his sure didn’t have one. He’s grabbing up fishing line, too. A good sturdy option.
When that straight needle dips into half-rotted flesh, angled toward the zipper, Abbacchio has to let his attention wander.
He’s far from a stranger to gruesome injuries, but god…
At least there’s plenty of other shit to think about. Like how his undead guest is somehow…charming?
That’s not the right word. It can’t be. Just something similar to that. Interesting, maybe? Intriguing? Those are more accurate. Whatever the case, he’s been around for twenty whole minutes and despite the very obvious quirk of him being dead, Abbacchio doesn’t think he’s bad company.
And that can’t be right, either. Abbacchio’s out of his fucking mind, here.
He’s reacted with a healthy dose of rage and violence toward every zombie he’s ever encountered. A sort of one-of-us-will-die-here, fighting-for-his-life type thing, because Abbacchio (for some reason) wants to stay alive. But this zombie – this zombie is different. Pulls at what might be a heartstring. Which is weird as all hell.
Something about him is somehow more human than every human Abbacchio has had the misfortune of knowing. Including himself. (Especially himself.)
And zombie guy has a personality. Zombies aren’t supposed to have those. It’s almost like there’s still a soul in there, trapped in an uncooperative, dying body. Rattling around and trying to make the most of it.
That…isn’t possible, as far as Abbacchio knows. Shouldn’t be possible, anyway.
When he’s done sewing on his zipper, the zombie will probably leave. Why the hell would he stay? For the company?
…
Abbacchio comes to the sudden and jarring realization that he doesn’t want his guest to go.
At least. Not before Abbacchio’s morbid curiosity is satisfied. Which might be impossible. What the hell is wrong with him? There’s no guarantee that just because this unusually well-mannered zombie isn’t eating him now he won’t later. Hell, half an hour ago Abbacchio was ready to shoot him in the head, but now…
“Do you have a name?” Okay, that is absolutely a stupid, unanswerable question. Unnecessary, too. Slips out before Abbacchio can come to his senses.
The zombie is in the middle of sewing the second half of his zipper on, needle paused in his stomach like it’s a pincushion when he stops to look at Abbacchio. He stares for a very long moment, and then lifts a hand. Stiff fingers curling as though wrapped around a pencil, he mimes writing in the air.
…Hold the phone.
“You can write?”
A nod.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
That one gets him a look that’s downright deadpan, which really is the easiest to read on a dead face. Kudos to zombie guy for that one.
And it’s one-hundred-percent fair, because that was easily the most redundant question Abbacchio’s ever asked in his life. “Sorry,” he mutters. Tries not to stare at that bloodless wound and its zipper casing. “I’ll be right back.” Then it’s a quick jaunt across the hall to the dining room; he’s thrumming with an odd sort of excitement that’s all kinds of foreign.
Here he is. Close to having a real actual conversation with a zombie. Fucking surreal.
Pen and notepad acquired, he returns to the bathroom, immediately met by dulled blue eyes. They’re staring at the doorway, watch him come in, and follow his hands as he passes over the pen and paper.
Dull as they are, though, those eyes do light up a bit as the zombie takes the items with his own grimy fingers, and by the time Abbacchio sits back down, the guy’s already writing something. His pen is slow over the page, and when he’s finished he turns it around to show Abbacchio.
‘Bruno,’ the paper says. The handwriting is neat, slightly crooked and bulky.
“Bruno,” Abbacchio tries out, getting a nod in return. “Suits you.” He doesn’t know why he says that. Won’t dwell on it. Should really stop staring.
The zombie – Bruno rests the notebook on his chest, well above the half-done zipper work on his stomach. There’s an expectant expression on his face, and Abbacchio ponders it until he remembers his manners.
Right. When someone introduces themselves to you, you’re supposed to do the same in return.
“I’m…Leone Abbacchio.”
It’s been so long since he spoke his full name out loud, and it tastes a little bitter on his tongue. Bruno doesn’t seem to notice anything off, just nods and mouths what might be Leone before going back to his sewing project. Abbacchio watches him for a while; his stitches are clean, if heavy handed. (Honestly, it’s impressive that he could even thread a needle in the first place.)
So!
Now Abbacchio is on a first name basis with the zombie that broke into his house to steal his zippers.
What a night.
“Do you…have anywhere to go?” Might as well make tonight even weirder, right? The hell does Abbacchio have to lose? His life? Hah…
Bruno lifts a hand, holds it flat with his palm parallel to the floor and fingers splayed out, then tips it side to side a couple of times. ‘Kind of’ Abbacchio assumes that means, or maybe ‘not really’. Either way, it’s nothing concrete, which is not at all helpful. Bruno continues attaching that zipper of his.
Abbacchio is left to sit and watch. Fascinated by bloodless gore. Trying not to have an opinion on whether or not he wants Bruno to stick around, because surely Abbacchio can’t be that desperate for company…
He does not want company at all, in fact. Let alone of the undead persuasion.
When his zipper is fully attached and zippered up, gaping wound sealed shut, Bruno clambers slowly to his feet. He seems pleased with his work, running a hand over it – and it really does look like a neat job, Abbacchio thinks. Keeps Bruno’s insides inside, thank fuck.
Bruno tugs at his shirt, but the gaping tear in the fabric does little to cover up his newest storage area. After smoothing fabric down his front as best he can, he grabs the notepad and starts writing again.
‘thanks for not shooting,’ is the message this time. Scrawled beneath his name.
Abbacchio snorts. “Thanks for not eating me.”
If zombies can roll their eyes, Abbacchio is sure that Bruno does just that. Although it kind of looks like they’re going to stay stuck back there, their bloodshot yellowed whites show for so long. But they do roll forward again, and he turns his notepad back around to write something else across the page with a slow, deliberately steady hand.
‘staying here’
…
“What?”
Nonplussed and unfazed, Bruno is already shuffling out of the bathroom and down the hall. It only takes two of Abbacchio’s long strides to catch up with him.
“You can’t just decide that shit for yourself!”