Grif swung the blade with a grunt of effort, not even bothering to duck out of the way. Blood splattered from the decapitated zombie, spraying across the front of his shirt. He made a face, wiping at his face with a sleeve. His shirt was ruined now, stupid Simmons. He just HAD to go get himself cornered by a hoard of zombies, and now Grif had to rescue him. That idiot KNEW that he could get infected, all it took was one bite, one scrape of bloodied undead nails and he’d be one of them. Grif had no problem distracting the hoards, it’s not like he could be infected. He’d learned quickly on that he was immune to the virus that poisoned the blood from the bites and scratches. He’d been just fine on his own, driving until he ran out of gas and picking up another vehicle to continue on. He was going to get to Alaska, dammit. He had a PLAN.
His plan didn’t include stupid, know it all redheads who needed rescuing all the time.
Grif kicked the less animated corpse aside, trying to catch his breath as he looked around for any sign of the group that had separated them. Sure, it was the zombie apocalypse, but he wasn’t used to doing this much WORK. The handle of the blade he was using nearly slipped from his grip, covered in infected blood. He’d have to give himself a good scrub when they made it back to their temporary safe house. Grif couldn’t be infected, but Simmons could, and Grif wasn't going through all the trouble to rescue the other just to have him get infected because he had blood on his hands.
And a ruined shirt. That was important. He LIKED that shirt.
He hurried down the alley he’d seen Simmons disappear through. The hoard was thinning out, which either meant the zombies hadn’t found the other, and lost interest, or they’d found him, and there wasn’t enough left to be interesting anymore. His stomach sank at the thought of the latter.
Fortunately, it seemed to be the former. Grif turned the corner, heading deeper into the alley where the small wave of zombies grabbed ineffectively at the pair of jean- clad legs dangling off the edge of a storage shed. Simmons was quick to draw his legs up against his chest, panting hard but otherwise looking okay. Grif let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in relief, making his way through the mass with his blade swinging.
He’d watched enough zombie movies to know that going for the head was the important thing, but what the movies didn’t mention was just how difficult it was to swing even a sharp blade through a neck. It was exhausting. And while he was immune to their bite, they could still very well tear him apart if they overran him.
“Grif!” Simmons shouted when he saw the Hawaiian, squirming to his hands and knees on shed roof. “Be careful!”
“Should’ve thought about me being careful BEFORE you went and ran off!” Grif snapped, taking a rather aggressive swipe at the nearest zombie. “Once I get done rescuing your dumb ass, I’m gonna kill you!”
“That seems redundant,” the redhead frowned.
“Simmons!” Grif growled, shutting the other up quickly. “Just stay there until I get done!”
Simmons huffed, but remained where he was, watching as the other continued to hack away at the zombies in between them. Grif was obviously winded, gasping for breath, but continued to take down the number, barely a pause in between swings. Simmons kept his mouth shut, not wanting to distract him any more.
After what seemed like hours, Grif stood in an empty alley, leaning heavily against his blade handle. His chest hurt from the exertion and his legs felt wobbly. Maybe it was time to cut back on the smoking. He was sure Simmons would be pleased to hear that. When he trusted himself to move without falling over, he stepped over the zombie guts until he was directly under the shed overhang. He looked up at Simmons with a scowl.
“You’re an idiot.”
“No, you’re the idiot,” Simmons grumbled back. “I’m supposed to be the smart one, remember?”
Grif snorted. “Yeah, cuz running away with all the zombies chasing you is the smart idea.”
“I knew I could outrun them,” Simmons shrugged, poking at the roof’s shingles.
“And I’m the one with the immunity!” Grif shot back.
“Immunity doesn’t mean you can’t get killed, Grif!”
The two stared at each other, both too stubborn to give up the argument. It wasn’t the first time they’d had this fight, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. But for now, Grif was exhausted, and just wanted to go back to the safe house. “Did you get cut up any?”
Simmons gave himself a once- over before shaking his head. “Just the one on my forehead.” He rubbed at it idly.
Grif nodded, holding his arms out. “Okay, jump. Just keep your head away from me, I’m covered in zombie goo.”
Simmons looked like he was going to argue, but quickly gave in, scooting off the sloped roof and into the Hawaiian’s arms. Grif’s legs buckled a bit, but he held steady until the other got to his feet.
Looking around, Simmons started out of the alley, Grif following behind. “So that was pretty impressive, I guess. What were you before all this? Some kind of fireman or something?”
Making a face, Grif stared at him. “Hardly. Pastry chef.”
“Huh.” Simmons slowed a bit, letting Grif catch up so they could walk side by side. “I think you missed your calling, that was pretty badass.”
Grif’s face warmed a bit under the praise, shrugging it off. “Nah, that’s nothing. You should see me with a cake knife.”