The first few patients were referred to him, actually. House deemed it contagious on the spot, and an epidemic about five minutes later. Every doctor who rode the ambulance in which the first Jersey victim had arrived died. Every doctor who touched the body died. The virus was voracious enough to get through latex, to seep in through cornstarch and sweat. Everyone that could be moved was moved. Everyone that had been exposed was quarantined in the morgue. House appreciated the morbid irony.
The details in Allison Cameron's memory are now marred, much like the once-human faces she sees on the news. She remembered getting in the car, thinking she was safe so long as she didn't run out of gas. She had no destination in mind - anywhere but here with open roads was fine by her. New Jersey was starting to resemble her copy of Resident Evil 4 - filled with the undead, still unbeaten. She found herself wishing she had the cheat codes, but she bet she'd have a better shot if she assumed they all had lupus and treated them accordingly.
She heard that song on the radio between news updates and current death tolls - that one that goes "so I think I'll go to Boston" and it seemed like a good idea. She wanted to blame House for this, but she hasn't worked for him, or seen him in months. He never asked any of them to return. But, Allison has a friend in Boston, Alan Shore. She's tried to call, but the cell phone towers are constant broken-record of "I'm sorry, all towers are busy, please try your call again later." She decided just to drive, to see a friend, to see what happens, because it's the end of the world as she knows it, and she's not feeling so fine.
Denny's eyes take on a certain manic cast when he's in close proximity to a gun. Alan's reminded alternately of a mad scientist and a two-year-old who has in his clutches a prized toy. He's not sure which association is more terrifying. "Today is the day everyone in this office realizes that there is a reason I keep guns stockpiled here. That not all amendments are created equal. That—"
"Denny. Denny, you are not" — Alan sighs, gets to his feet, crosses to the door to the balcony — "the hero of an action movie."
There's no smoke billowing from the rooftops, but it'll come. The morning's news had been terse—no sports scores scrolling along the bottom of the screen, no banter between anchors. Overnight, even the weather report had become a grim reminder of horrors to come. Most stations have limited themselves to a two-day forecast; there's not much point in looking further ahead.
(Fox News, of course, had given utterance to the immortal—for whatever immortality's worth, these days—line "Sunny with a chance of zombies.")
Denny grunted. "I saved your life, didn't I? One shot and…" He jerked the gun back into his shoulder, made a sound halfway between a bird whistle and a clearing of the throat that Alan could only surmise was meant to simulate a gunshot. "The Duke couldn't have done it better himself."
"The Duke is dead," Alan said, but his mouth twisted into a faint suggestion of a smile.
"For now. It’s not a permanent condition anymore." Gun tucked under his arm like a football, Denny threw open the door to the balcony, stepped squinting and grinning into the early morning light.
The city’s familiar rhythm has given way to the whoop of the siren. Even at this height, Alan caught a strain or two of the amelodic keening—as though Boston itself knows what’s coming. There are riots in the streets. There’ll be more to follow.
Denny nursed a glass of scotch as he laid out his arsenal - assorted weaponry that had been taking up residency in his desk for years. He had everything ranging from pistols to shotguns to rifles to knives and, even a sword to make things interesting. He decided for certain now that he must've been a sniper in the military portion of his career, but he really can't prove a thing one way or the other. He turned to Alan, whose scotch remained untouched, "You have to admit, this is the way for two flamingos to go. Drinking scotch, loading guns, killing zombies." Oh, he acts like it's all ordinary, business as usual, but really, he's elated beyond words and can't understand why anyone feels any different. "I have a doctor on the way, Alan, assuming he shows. You're having post-pardum or post-traumatic or pre-menstrual something. Greg will fix it, whatever it is, and before you know it, we'll be back to sitting on our balcony, drinking scotch, making smores, watching the carnage. Denny Crane."
And that's how House had found himself still here, in his office. He turned back to his answering machine for the tenth time, replayed the newest message, and started getting on his jacket to leave, having used the last vestiges of Google Maps to re-familiarize himself with the way to the law offices of Crane, Poole and Schmidt. This was either the best decision House had ever made or the worst, but it didn't matter.
There were fucking zombies.
Note: The userinfo is a conglomeration of initial posts from 👁 Image smrtr_than_you, 👁 Image lovely_damage, 👁 Image ilookgreat, & most notably 👁 Image alan_shore who inspired the entire ZOMG! Summer of Zombies! writing project with her full post here. This is a game that crosses a few fandoms that we enjoy in an end-of-the-world style setting of zombies. At this time, we're not accepting members, as this was just an experiment we wanted to play with. We do, however, appreciate you interest and encourage you to read the crossover, zombie goodness! If we decide to accept other players, then we will post something to let you know, or perhaps send out invitations. Thanks!
