The sickness came slowly. It crept up on an unsuspecting populace so efficiently that by the time they had a name for it, it was already too late. A new strain of the flu, that's what the doctor's called it. Mortality was high, but they were working on a vaccine. It's unclear what came first, the vaccine or the first infected biting another fellow human. What is certain is that by the time the inoculations became mandatory, the "flu" had mutated into something worse.
Various Internet forums dubbed it the "zombie"-disease. It was a world-wide joke. Until suddenly it wasn't.
The Avengers were called out to the first mass rising in New York. The Presbyterian Hospital had seen a slew of sudden "flu"-deaths and their morgue was packed to the rafters. Death is always hardest on the young and the old, and these corpses were so fresh they still looked alive. Diseased, yes. But living. Sure, there was a five year old girl chewing through the skull of one of the morgue attendants, but that didn't make it any easier to put a bullet or an arrow (or goddamn Mjölnir) through the head of paper-thin and frail old lady stumbling down the hall towards them.
The memory of that day -- three hours of non-stop fighting -- is flat as a sheet of paper in Natasha's mind, brushed over and flattened over and over again, until the only thing that remains is a thick scent just at the back of her nose. The sharp sting of antiseptics mingling with the almost sweet smell of decay. If she closes her eyes she can see the muzzle flash of her gun illuminating face after face. A boy, not even three years old; an old man with laughter lines around his dull and life-less eyes; a teenage girl with hair dyed a bright pink, her hospital gown slipping down over narrow and bony shoulders. Natasha doesn't close her eyes much these days.
Three months later, the Avengers boarded up a hospital filled with infected. (Mothers, young men in the prime of their life, grandparents, babies. Still alive, only waiting to die and join the hungry hordes.) Natasha doesn't know what the official plan was. Quarantine, perhaps. And then what?
As it turns out: Hospitals burn easy.
Another flattened and tucked away memory; Clint's hands pressing against her back, the heat of the fire licking at her face. Time wavered, between two burning hospitals at two different points in time, and in her the same sickening sensation of falling, falling, falling and spinning out of control. Perhaps she thought it would feel different when she struck the match this time. Turns out it didn't.
The world went gray and a little drab after that. Like all of the color bled out of it with every new death, every news story about closing borders or infected schools. The networks all become 24/7 news outlets. The Food Network had Martha Stewart advising how to make an excellent meal out of strict rations. National Geographic had Bear Grylls talking survival. Live footage blended with old programs. Whatever they dug out of the archives that might be applicable to what the Internet had dubbed the "Zombie Apocalypse" and CNN called a "pandemic panic." In the end, the Internet won that one.
Stark Industries joined the race to find a cure, or a way to stop the ravages of the infection. The first vaccine had accomplished one thing; the virus was no longer airborne. The only way to catch it was via bodily fluids. Blood, saliva-- One woman caught it by having sex with her infected (and diseased) husband. Her face was splashed across the newspapers, back when the printing presses still ran.
One after one the newscast started to drop out, network after network going dark. CNN kept going into the last. Their last broadcast ended with the failure of the last power plant. Slowly, the lights of America flickered out and died. Only one last light refused to go out; Stark Tower.
Tony envisioned it as an Ark; a safe haven. But it became a dirty scrabble for survival (just like everything else), nothing like the shining beacon of hope he imagined.
It's true that disaster brings out the best in humanity, but desperation brings out the worst. The layers of humanity have been peeled back, revealing dark and twisted cores. Natasha never trusted easily, these days, she doesn't trust at all. She doesn't need to learn their names. They'll die or betray her, and she doesn't need names to go with the faces of corpses.
The sound of another human voice makes her flinch, and in a second she's got her shotgun trained on the flicker of motion behind the tree. The zombies -- good a word as any, right? -- will come, lured by the loud noise and the smell of those decomposing corpses. If she's lucky she'll be far away by then. But she forgot about the living. The quinjet will make a tempting target for Scavengers. It's filled up with food, water, weapons, ammo, and medical supplies. Not to mention the fuel. Some poor bastard might try to use it in place of gasoline.
Three seconds. He's a man, a bit taller than average, with the look of a man who has been living rough. But, then again, haven't they all been lately? The rifle in his hands has one up on the shotgun in her hands (if he knows how to use it), but they're close enough the handgun tucked in the back of her dirty jeans could be its equal. If she can draw it before his bullet hits it mark that is. Better bet is throwing herself behind the curve of the quinjet, and taking him out when he comes closer.
Wary, Natasha keeps her shotgun trained on him, but she lets her body loosen, drops the threat written clear across the tense lines of her muscles. Feel free to underestimate her. She can ill-afford to add a bullet wound to her list right now.
"Put up your rifle," she calls back, drawing closer to the hatch back inside the quinjet, boots skittering across loose gravel. Sure, she'll be trapped, but he'll have to come in after her. "I won't shoot unless you make me."
no subject
Various Internet forums dubbed it the "zombie"-disease. It was a world-wide joke. Until suddenly it wasn't.
The Avengers were called out to the first mass rising in New York. The Presbyterian Hospital had seen a slew of sudden "flu"-deaths and their morgue was packed to the rafters. Death is always hardest on the young and the old, and these corpses were so fresh they still looked alive. Diseased, yes. But living. Sure, there was a five year old girl chewing through the skull of one of the morgue attendants, but that didn't make it any easier to put a bullet or an arrow (or goddamn Mjölnir) through the head of paper-thin and frail old lady stumbling down the hall towards them.
The memory of that day -- three hours of non-stop fighting -- is flat as a sheet of paper in Natasha's mind, brushed over and flattened over and over again, until the only thing that remains is a thick scent just at the back of her nose. The sharp sting of antiseptics mingling with the almost sweet smell of decay. If she closes her eyes she can see the muzzle flash of her gun illuminating face after face. A boy, not even three years old; an old man with laughter lines around his dull and life-less eyes; a teenage girl with hair dyed a bright pink, her hospital gown slipping down over narrow and bony shoulders. Natasha doesn't close her eyes much these days.
Three months later, the Avengers boarded up a hospital filled with infected. (Mothers, young men in the prime of their life, grandparents, babies. Still alive, only waiting to die and join the hungry hordes.) Natasha doesn't know what the official plan was. Quarantine, perhaps. And then what?
As it turns out: Hospitals burn easy.
Another flattened and tucked away memory; Clint's hands pressing against her back, the heat of the fire licking at her face. Time wavered, between two burning hospitals at two different points in time, and in her the same sickening sensation of falling, falling, falling and spinning out of control. Perhaps she thought it would feel different when she struck the match this time. Turns out it didn't.
The world went gray and a little drab after that. Like all of the color bled out of it with every new death, every news story about closing borders or infected schools. The networks all become 24/7 news outlets. The Food Network had Martha Stewart advising how to make an excellent meal out of strict rations. National Geographic had Bear Grylls talking survival. Live footage blended with old programs. Whatever they dug out of the archives that might be applicable to what the Internet had dubbed the "Zombie Apocalypse" and CNN called a "pandemic panic." In the end, the Internet won that one.
Stark Industries joined the race to find a cure, or a way to stop the ravages of the infection. The first vaccine had accomplished one thing; the virus was no longer airborne. The only way to catch it was via bodily fluids. Blood, saliva-- One woman caught it by having sex with her infected (and diseased) husband. Her face was splashed across the newspapers, back when the printing presses still ran.
One after one the newscast started to drop out, network after network going dark. CNN kept going into the last. Their last broadcast ended with the failure of the last power plant. Slowly, the lights of America flickered out and died. Only one last light refused to go out; Stark Tower.
Tony envisioned it as an Ark; a safe haven. But it became a dirty scrabble for survival (just like everything else), nothing like the shining beacon of hope he imagined.
It's true that disaster brings out the best in humanity, but desperation brings out the worst. The layers of humanity have been peeled back, revealing dark and twisted cores. Natasha never trusted easily, these days, she doesn't trust at all. She doesn't need to learn their names. They'll die or betray her, and she doesn't need names to go with the faces of corpses.
The sound of another human voice makes her flinch, and in a second she's got her shotgun trained on the flicker of motion behind the tree. The zombies -- good a word as any, right? -- will come, lured by the loud noise and the smell of those decomposing corpses. If she's lucky she'll be far away by then. But she forgot about the living. The quinjet will make a tempting target for Scavengers. It's filled up with food, water, weapons, ammo, and medical supplies. Not to mention the fuel. Some poor bastard might try to use it in place of gasoline.
Three seconds. He's a man, a bit taller than average, with the look of a man who has been living rough. But, then again, haven't they all been lately? The rifle in his hands has one up on the shotgun in her hands (if he knows how to use it), but they're close enough the handgun tucked in the back of her dirty jeans could be its equal. If she can draw it before his bullet hits it mark that is. Better bet is throwing herself behind the curve of the quinjet, and taking him out when he comes closer.
Wary, Natasha keeps her shotgun trained on him, but she lets her body loosen, drops the threat written clear across the tense lines of her muscles. Feel free to underestimate her. She can ill-afford to add a bullet wound to her list right now.
"Put up your rifle," she calls back, drawing closer to the hatch back inside the quinjet, boots skittering across loose gravel. Sure, she'll be trapped, but he'll have to come in after her. "I won't shoot unless you make me."