Demonic Germ Warfare
one
The year is 2012, and the thought still makes Dean shake his head in amusement. Nothing is funny about the world being overcome with the croatoan virus though, so he doesn’t dare crack a joke in front of Sam and Cas. It started a few short months ago, but it swept the country quicker than any pandemic he’s ever read about before. At last estimate, only 200 people were disease free. That was three weeks ago.
“Dean, come look at this.” His brother’s voice breaks the deafening silence, the syllables cracking like a whip in the air.
Rule number one, don’t make loud noises. Keep low and keep quiet, stay alive. So as Dean hurries across the room, his heart pounding in his throat, he knows there’s a reason Sammy spoke loudly, a damn good reason. The sun, though no longer as bright as it used to be, shines directly in his eyes and it takes him a moment to focus on what Sam is talking about.
Wandering the streets below, a group of one man and three women stumble through debris. The guns strapped to their backs are a small sign of humanity, but not enough. He whistles to Cas, who stumbles from the bedroom with a bottle of jack clutched in his fist.
The angel had given up long ago, no longer caring for his vessel’s appearance. Dean’s not even sure that Jimmy still lives inside. It seems illogical that two souls can live within one body, and Castiel is as human as he’s ever been. He offers up a weak smile, and follows Dean obediently as they creep down the steps.
Two days ago they took up fort in a bar with an apartment above it. For two days they’ve been making an infected families house their home, drinking their beer, living the life they spent their hard earned money to live. He has to remind himself repeatedly that they’re no longer human, they’re animalistic carnivores.
While Castiel takes up sniping position at the front bay window, Dean walks slowly onto the rain slicked sidewalk, grimacing at the foul taste the air brings to his mouth. It smells like sulfur and tastes like rotten eggs.
He raises his gun before speaking, braces himself for an attack. “Hey!”
The group turns, and the man instantly steps to the front. The three women, though not as cowardly as Dean would suspect them to normally be, hover warily behind him. All point their guns with the skill of amateurs, and while they’re giving him the once-over, he checks their bodies for cuts and open wounds.
“We thought this town was wiped out,” the man calls, walking forward slowly.
Dean notes the man’s gun is still aimed directly at his heart, refuses to lower his weapon first. As the man inches closer, he begins to notice little nicks and jabs on the surface of his skin. His shirt, though dark blue, is clearly stained with blood smears. Every fiber goes abuzz within his body, his muscles tense up, and his trigger finger slides smoothly into place.
“Where’d you guys come from?” Dean murmurs, clicking the safety off.
“Missouri,” the man’s answer is short and clipped, and as he nears Dean can see the signs.
He has no doubt that the man will go ape in a couple of minutes. Or, he muses as he presses the trigger and watches the man jolt, collapse to the ground with a snarl frozen in place, a couple of seconds. The women scream, and the eldest – the one who must’ve been his wife, touches the man with tender hands.
The muttered curse he breathes catches her daughter’s attentions, and they stare with wide eyes as he raises the Smith & Wesson, placing the barrel softly against the woman’s head. She tilts her head up to look at him, her cheeks stained and wet. He’s not much of a last words man so as she parts her lips to grovel and beg, he pulls the trigger. Her body lands in an almost poetic fashion atop her husbands, but he tries to ignore it and face the task at hand.
“I’m going to need you girls to come forward slowly, I need to inspect you.” His voice is rough, calm, quiet. But most of all it’s tired.
They do as their told, maybe realizing that he won’t hesitate to kill them if he sees fit, maybe because they know they’re on their own unless they cooperate. Either way, the girl’s making it easier on him lifts his mood and by the time he’s escorting them inside he’s no longer feeling gloomy about killing two more people on top of the fifty he killed the week previous.
After all, there’s no room for guilt in a kill or be killed world.
“Dean, come look at this.” His brother’s voice breaks the deafening silence, the syllables cracking like a whip in the air.
Rule number one, don’t make loud noises. Keep low and keep quiet, stay alive. So as Dean hurries across the room, his heart pounding in his throat, he knows there’s a reason Sammy spoke loudly, a damn good reason. The sun, though no longer as bright as it used to be, shines directly in his eyes and it takes him a moment to focus on what Sam is talking about.
Wandering the streets below, a group of one man and three women stumble through debris. The guns strapped to their backs are a small sign of humanity, but not enough. He whistles to Cas, who stumbles from the bedroom with a bottle of jack clutched in his fist.
The angel had given up long ago, no longer caring for his vessel’s appearance. Dean’s not even sure that Jimmy still lives inside. It seems illogical that two souls can live within one body, and Castiel is as human as he’s ever been. He offers up a weak smile, and follows Dean obediently as they creep down the steps.
Two days ago they took up fort in a bar with an apartment above it. For two days they’ve been making an infected families house their home, drinking their beer, living the life they spent their hard earned money to live. He has to remind himself repeatedly that they’re no longer human, they’re animalistic carnivores.
While Castiel takes up sniping position at the front bay window, Dean walks slowly onto the rain slicked sidewalk, grimacing at the foul taste the air brings to his mouth. It smells like sulfur and tastes like rotten eggs.
He raises his gun before speaking, braces himself for an attack. “Hey!”
The group turns, and the man instantly steps to the front. The three women, though not as cowardly as Dean would suspect them to normally be, hover warily behind him. All point their guns with the skill of amateurs, and while they’re giving him the once-over, he checks their bodies for cuts and open wounds.
“We thought this town was wiped out,” the man calls, walking forward slowly.
Dean notes the man’s gun is still aimed directly at his heart, refuses to lower his weapon first. As the man inches closer, he begins to notice little nicks and jabs on the surface of his skin. His shirt, though dark blue, is clearly stained with blood smears. Every fiber goes abuzz within his body, his muscles tense up, and his trigger finger slides smoothly into place.
“Where’d you guys come from?” Dean murmurs, clicking the safety off.
“Missouri,” the man’s answer is short and clipped, and as he nears Dean can see the signs.
He has no doubt that the man will go ape in a couple of minutes. Or, he muses as he presses the trigger and watches the man jolt, collapse to the ground with a snarl frozen in place, a couple of seconds. The women scream, and the eldest – the one who must’ve been his wife, touches the man with tender hands.
The muttered curse he breathes catches her daughter’s attentions, and they stare with wide eyes as he raises the Smith & Wesson, placing the barrel softly against the woman’s head. She tilts her head up to look at him, her cheeks stained and wet. He’s not much of a last words man so as she parts her lips to grovel and beg, he pulls the trigger. Her body lands in an almost poetic fashion atop her husbands, but he tries to ignore it and face the task at hand.
“I’m going to need you girls to come forward slowly, I need to inspect you.” His voice is rough, calm, quiet. But most of all it’s tired.
They do as their told, maybe realizing that he won’t hesitate to kill them if he sees fit, maybe because they know they’re on their own unless they cooperate. Either way, the girl’s making it easier on him lifts his mood and by the time he’s escorting them inside he’s no longer feeling gloomy about killing two more people on top of the fifty he killed the week previous.
After all, there’s no room for guilt in a kill or be killed world.