Zombie Peaches
At the eve of the Zombie Apocalypse, Phil was prepared for blood, violence, and moving corpses, but not this.
“Who are you?” He asked, confused. ”And where the hell did you come from?”
”Oh, from out there,” the young man — boy, really — standing in front of him said airily, waving vaguely somewhere behind him. “I’m Clint. Nice digs.”
Phil blinked. ”Thank you.” Then he shook his head. ”No, I mean, what are you doing here?”
Clint shrugged. ”I need a place to crash. I’m not a virgin anymore, so if I’m out there alone, I’ll die.”
”What?”
”You know, you have this place pretty damn well hidden. I stalked you for ages before I figured how to get in.”
”You did what now?” Phil asked mildly, already guessing where Clint had been hiding. His scent was probably all over the place. Damn.
”Don’t worry, I didn’t stay at one place all the time,” Clint huffed and rolled his eyes. ”I’m not that stupid.”
”And yet, here you are,” Phil deadpanned. He was pretty sure the clock was already ticking.
The boy blinked and his cocky smile faltered on the edges.
Phil sighed and took a long look at Clint. His face was drawn with hunger and he was clad in several layers like all of them nowadays, but Phil spied a strong, lean body underneath the muddy clothes. His gaze was piercing and strong, and there was a stubborn set on his jaw. He was a fighter.
”Fine,” Phil grumbled. ”Get in.”
”Holy fuck! You have a shower?”
Phil glanced at Clint who had stopped short, staring at the makeshift shower niche with open-mouthed wonder.
”Yes,” he answered curtly.
If he was being honest, Phil was pretty proud of the thing. From the moment everything had gone to shit, water had become a luxury, and proper showers were something common people like him seldom had the chance to use. He had designed the system to gather rainwater and moisture, and, after a couple of tries, he had managed to get it working properly.
Of course, the shower itself hadn’t been the challenge, but building an absorption field that would keep the human scent off of the zombie radar.
Goddamn zombies.
”So, you mind if I take a shower?”
”Yeah, go ahead,” he sighed. ”Leave your clothes on the floor and I’ll clean them.”
Clint let out an elated hoot and bolted towards the shower, littering the floor with his clothes on the way. Phil resisted the urge to ogle his lean frame and the dimples right above his buttocks, because he still had manners, thank you very much. Instead, he picked the clothes from the floor, blinked at the state of them, and put them in the washer he had tinkered together. That thing didn’t use water, but a mix of dry chemicals that cleaned the worst grime off and at least gave them, if not exactly fresh, at least a not-so-pungent smell.
When Clint emerged from the shower, he had only a threadbare towel wrapped around his hips. He was pink from the scrubbing and looked way too young to be out all by himself.
Phil’s mouth acted without his consent. “How old are you?”
Clint gave him a long look and cocked his head. “Old enough,” he said and then paused. “Or young enough, if that’s more your thing.”
He walked slowly closer and Phil took an involuntary step back.
“I can suck your cock, you can fuck me, or I can fuck you.” Clint shrugged. ”Or I can pretend to be gay but not really,” he continued turning his head a little and shooting a coy look at Phil from under his lashes.
”What,” Phil said flatly.
”What?” Clint asked.
”I— never mind,” Phil huffed and shook his head and pinched the base of his nose with two fingers. ”Your clothes are on the chair by the wall. I guess you’re hungry.” He turned towards the kitchen area to fuss with supper.
It was nothing fancy, just baked beans, pickles, and canned peaches, but at least the beans were warm, and there was enough for them to eat their full. Clint’s expression was blissed-out as he slurped down the last pieces of peaches, licking his fingers clean afterwards.
It was… distracting.
”You can take the bed,” Phil said when they were done.
Clint batted his lashes and asked, ”Won’t you join me?”
”Perhaps some other time,” Phil said dryly, focusing his attention on the door and the small sounds he could hear through it.
If he was lucky, Clint had been sneaky enough, and the location of his bunker was still hidden. Phil didn’t believe in luck though, so he figured he was going to have some uninvited visitors in no time.
The next morning, Clint was gone with half of Phil’s canned peaches. Considering he was a very light sleeper and the peaches weren’t exactly light cargo, Phil had to admit he was impressed.
The theft was the least of his worries though, because he was more busy with the horde of frothing in the mouth zombies trying to squeeze themselves inside through the fifteen inch window on the bunker door.
Fucking zombies.
Phil cursed on his way through the bunker, hastily gathering his things, and throwing them into his pickup’s bed. He checked that the bumper spikes were sharp and in order, donned the webbing in place, got in, and stepped on the gas. The panel on the floor activated the door in the back of the bunker, and the car’s weight triggered the kill switch right behind it, opening the front door and igniting an explosion that would bury that particular bunch of murderous, dead meatloaf.
As he emerged from underground, Phil saw that there were a couple of zombies wandering around, and they lurched after him in a lopsided, but surprisingly fast gait. The car’s frame rattled as it hit zombies, crushing them underneath it. Phil set his jaw and maneuvered around, past, and over them, trusting his Hilux to get him out alive. Which it did.
He didn’t have much gas — that also being a luxury — but he had more than enough to get him to his next bunker, assuming there were no added surprises on the way.
It was just his luck that, one third of the journey in, he saw a bunch of zombies gathered under a partially dead tree, engaged in what was probably supposed to be an attempt to climb it, but what looked more like a group sex event, only with more blood and severed heads.
He glanced up and saw a glimpse of a familiar can as it was thrown with dead accuracy into one zombie’s head.
”Brain melba!” Someone hooted from the tree.
Clint.
Phil gritted his teeth. Even though the zombies couldn’t climb shit, it didn’t mean they didn’t have means to get Clint down. And as much as it grated Phil that Clint had stolen his stuff, he just couldn’t leave him.
He honked as he revved the engine before speeding closer. He had only one chance, and he hoped Clint was smart enough to take it. There was a *thunk* and as he checked his rearview mirror, he saw the familiar, if slightly bewildered eyes staring back at him.
He nodded once and stepped on the gas, not really sorry when Clint toppled over.
As soon as they were in the new bunker and the doorway behind them was secured, Phil stopped by his truck and slammed his palm on the side of the bed.
”Out,” he said and pointed at the corner. ”Strip.”
Clint blinked and stared at him. ”Oh, you’re the bossy kind,” he drawled with a leer. ”Okay, I can work with that.”
Phil pressed his lips together in a tight line, drew his gun, and pointed it right in between Clint’s eyes. ”Strip,” he repeated.
The leer slowly leeched off from Clint’s face and his eyes turned hesitant. ”Yeah, okay. Take it easy. I’m going.”
Warily, he walked into the corner and started stripping while Phil watched him with a narrowed stare. He mapped Clint’s skin in the most non-sexual way, looked for bite marks, scratches, early signs of the zombie infection, surprising himself with a relieved breath when he found none.
”Face the wall,” he said quietly, ignoring the way Clint suddenly went nervous as he reached for the container from the car, placing his gun on the Hilux’s hood.
”What are you doi— fuck!” Clint’s question turned onto indignant spluttering as Phil showered him with hydrogen peroxide solution.
”I’m cleaning you up,” Phil said calmly. ”Turn around.”
”I took a shower yesterday!”
”Uh-huh… and see how well that turned out?”
”Yeah, but— fuck this shit stings!”
Phil froze, lowered the container and grabbed his gun. ”Where?”
”My eyes!” Clint hissed, rubbing his eyes and glaring at Phil with a furious, red-rimmed stare.
Phil relaxed slightly. The whites of Clint’s eyes would’ve turned red if he had been infected through his eyes.
”They’ll recover,” he said coolly. You’re clean.”
”No, I’m not! I smell like crotch.”
Phil blinked, opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. ”I meant, you’re not infected,” he said slowly.
Clint blushed, and after a moment, grumbled, ”Yeah, I knew that.”
”Right,” Phil said and turned to tuck the container back into his car.
That night, Phil was prepared. He heard soft shuffling and didn’t hesitate to cock his gun at it.
”You know, if you wanted something to eat, all you had to do was to ask.”
For a moment, he heard nothing, then Clint sighed. ”Damn, you learn fast, old man.”
”Thank you,” Phil said calmly. ”Now, go back to sleep.”
”Where are your parents?” Phil asked a couple of days later. ”Oh, and pass me the screwdriver, please.”
”Dead,” Clint said flatly as he handed him the tool in question.
”Oh, I’m sorry.”
”Don’t be,” Clint snorted. ”I’m not.” He turned abruptly and walked away, leaving Phil standing with the screwdriver in his hand. He frowned at the rigid line of Clint’s shoulders and wondered, how long the boy had been alone.
That night, when Phil was brewing tea, Clint poked him in the shoulder.
”So, if I suck your cock, will you let me stay?”
”What?”
”You heard me,” Clint said with feigned nonchalance.
Very carefully, Phil set his tea mug on the counter and turned to face the young man. ”Me letting you stay has nothing to do with cocks, Clint.”
”So, is that a yes or a no? Your cock looks nice.”
”Since when do you know how it looks like?” Phil asked, bewildered.
Clint shrugged and gave him an innocent look.
”I— whatever.” Phil leveled him with a flat stare. ”I’m going for a perimeter check.”
”I’m cold,” Clint complained.
”You already have three blankets.”
”They’re not enough,” Clint whined. Phil was sure he was also pouting.
Phil sighed and tried to arrange his limbs into a even marginally comfortable position in the chair.
After a moment, Clint asked, ”You know what would make me warmer?”
”I highly doubt my sperm has thermal benefits,” Phil said.
”Uh… no, I meant, we’d both be warmer if you came and bunked with me. You know, shared body heat and shit.”
”That usually works only with skin-to-skin contact,” Phil reminded him.
”That’s fine by me,” Clint added quickly.
Phil groaned. He had walked straight into that one. ”For fuck’s sake,” he grumbled under his breath. ”Fine. I’m coming. And no puns about that, thank you,” he added before Clint had time for another quip.
”Spoilsport,” Clint muttered, but Phil heard the smile behind the words.
Slightly awkward in the new bunker, Phil made his way to the bunk. He barely got horizontal before Clint plastered himself partially on top of him. He was like a furnace, and as his warmth seeped into Phil’s bones, he grudgingly admitted he could see the appeal of a shared bed.
”Oh, and Clint? I don’t want to wake up with my cock in your mouth.”
Clint raised his head from his chest and nodded somberly. ”I understand. But how about you going to sleep with your cock in my mouth?”
Phil closed his eyes and let out a long-suffering sigh. ”Go to sleep, Clint.”