Back to the Apartment

As Meg releases your hand, you feel a sort of calm wash over you that you hadn’t even realized you’d been missing. You had known you weren’t alone, really; there was Bella, there was Sam, and if you were lucky the rest of your family had survived the first hours of what you were quickly concluding was the apocalypse. But having Meg trust you when you said that you had a plan? That there was a chance you could all reach a haven?

Something about that makes you feel lighter than you had a moment ago. Sure, there will probably be assholes who will use the opportunity provided by societal collapse to pillage and **** and pull any crap they wanted, but maybe there are enough people who just want to survive and hold together that things aren’t hopeless.

“I should probably go.” You get the feeling that playing coy and trying to dance around with Meg is not the way to go; she seems the direct type. “I should tell my roommate that there’s another survivor joining us.” Meg nods.

“Go on. I’ll catch up, probably.” Looking around, her eyes narrow at something before she turns to you. “If I have time I might even be able to finish up one of my WIPs and get you something to help keep the hordes at bay with.”

“Really?” You knew she made things like ‘Trusty,’ whatever it was, but for her to offer you one of her creations, and so soon?

“Sure. Not like all of them are complex anyway, and even if we don’t end up working together one of my babies might save your ass before this is all done.” She shrugs. “I’ll let you know.”

“I… Thank you.”

She waves you off.

“Ack! Don’t get mushy on me here, okay? You might get it on something.” You can’t tell if she’s joking or not, and as she pushes you out the door you don’t think to ask. “I’ll catch up with y’all later. See you, Buttercup.” The door doesn’t quite slam shut behind you, but the sound does come with a sense of finality, and you get the feeling she’s the type of person who doesn’t like to be disturbed when she starts working. Deciding that you can search more later (or just break into the office like you originally thought), you make your way back to your apartment, where you find Sam sitting on the couch and nursing a beer.

“Hey.” She looks up and smiles a little when she sees you, but she’s still clearly tense. You can’t blame her.

“Hey there.” She lifts her bottle. “Found this in Charlie’s room. It’s not cold, but it’s not terrible. Prick really was holding out on us.” She extends a second bottle to you along with an opener, and you waste no time taking a drink. Sam’s right, too; this stuff is pretty good. It’s smooth and balanced, and leaves an aftertaste you don’t immediately want to wash out of your mouth, and would even call pleasant. It’s definitely not the swill your roommate would normally offer, which would wear off way too fast and leave you hung over way too long (if he offered at all). You’d question where Charlie got these, but you suspect that you probably don’t want to know. Just drinking it yourself is justice enough. You nod, satisfied with your conclusion.

“So, what’s the news?” Sam's expression has tightened again, and you wonder if she half-expects your sister to have called to say you shouldn’t expect a rescue. It makes you more glad that you have reasonably good news to share.

“We have another survivor.” She starts at this, blinking at you as you take another drink. “She’s a floor down, this is the first time I’ve met her, but she seems savvy.” You look at her, trying to convey just how serious you are. “She apparently makes homemade weapons as a hobby.

Sam chokes a little and coughs into her fist before staring at you.

“Wait, you’re serious?”

“Completely.”

“... well, shit.” Her tone is one of surprise rather than resignation, and her eyes shift forward, gazing at nothing in particular as she lifts her bottle back to her lips. “And they work?”

“Probably?” You shrug. “I only really saw one finished, and while she aimed it at me when I knocked, she said it wasn’t loaded.” Your roommate makes a face and glares contemplatively at the wall, before shrugging and raising her bottle.

“What the hell. Not like it’s going to make things worse, right?” You half expect to hear a crash from downstairs when she says it, but thankfully no such disaster-indicating sound reaches you.

“That was pretty much my thought. She seems legit, and if we have room she might be able to help keep us alive longer. Even if they’re not as good as she says there’s still safety in numbers.” There’s a comfortable silence between the two of you as you finish your beers. The presence of someone trusted is enough to let the two of you relax, and it shows as Sam breaks into a fit of nervous giggles.

“God, this is really happening, huh?” You can’t tell if she’s laughing at the absurdity of the situation or if the laughter is a reaction to stress, but the sound is enough to bring a smile to your own face.

“Yeah. We’re living in a zombie apocalypse.”

“I thought this crap was the stuff of cheap young adult novels and shit, and here we are living it!” She’s not laughing anymore, but she’s still smiling, though it’s shaky and looks a little fragile.

“Well, not anymore! The world is a cheap YA novel now, sweetheart!” And even though it’s not exactly comedy gold, your statement sends you both into fits again. You’re probably only laughing because your brain is trying to dull the blow that is slowly settling in, but it’s enough to let you both forget the insanity outside for a little while.

As the two of you lay on the couch catching your breath, you look over to see Sam’s smile fading slightly. The silence that fills the air is slightly uncomfortable, and her eyes flash between you and some undefined point in the distance several times before she sits up, licking her lips.

Shifting in your own spot, you let the silence drag on, feeling that the redhead wants to start this conversation - whatever it is - herself. Finally, she locks eyes with you, wringing her hands slightly, but otherwise appearing calm. Her red hair frames her face as she breathes in, seemingly to center herself for what’s to come.

“Hey, Michael?”

“Yeah?” You don’t break eye contact, sensing that if you do this might go very badly very quickly.

“Can… can we talk about what I said earlier?”

Oh.