DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters or events of the film "Shaun of the Dead." That honor belongs to the very lovely and very talented Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright. I also do not own any of the characters or ideas of the television series or film "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." That honor belongs to Joss Whedon, who is equally lovely and talented. I do own the character of Sara and her various and sundry colleagues, though.

This story is dedicated to my fellow PeggLeggs: JessicaDwyer for inspiring me to write this in the first place (let's hope it's one-tenth as good as your story), Lekksa for starting up the Pegged Message Board and thus feeding our collective addiction, and MizSlick for her in-depth knowledge of DVD technology (easy on those Pause and Zoom buttons, sunshine). But really, anyone who appreciates the humor and hotness of Simon "SmileyRiley" Pegg is near and dear to my heart. Hope you enjoy!

"...And I really hope that we can stay friends, Shaun. In spite of all we've been through, we still had some good times together. I still care about you, I just need something more. Maybe if we had some time apart, you could find your focus, really figure out your place in life. I just want what's best for you, Shaun. Bye, byeee, bye!" BEEEEP.

Shaun had listened to the message a hundred times over the past month and still couldn't make sense of it. He needed to find focus? He needed to find his place in life? His focus was Liz. His place was with her. Hadn't he risked his life, and the lives of his friends and family, to save hers back in the chaos of Z-Day?

He had plenty of focus. And now was time to focus on ridding his life of everything Liz. "Right, then," he said determinedly and began the task of clearing his flat. He worked through most of the day, not even noticing the light outside begin to wane.

When he looked out the window and saw approaching darkness, he decided he'd been working long enough. Time for a pint. He threw on his dark grey jacket and headed out the front door to the pub.

It was an unusually cold summer evening as the sun set on the city of London. Across the old city, darkness settled in and streetlights sparked up like little torches dotted across the landscape.

The city was as busy at night as it was during the day—the hard-working and the unemployed, the living and the zombies, alike making their plans for the evening. As the young vibrant socialites tried to secure taxis enroute to Leicester Square and SoHo, the zombies settled in for another night of watching "Pop Idol."

Paul, a concrete slab of a security guard at the British Museum, already had his plans for the night. And he didn't like them. He'd rather be at the pub watching Manchester United, instead of babysitting a bunch of old, dust-covered relics.

A large shipment of antiquities had arrived recently from Serbia, sent by a wealthy donor unsure of that country's new government and their interest in preserving the past. Now Paul had to wait around while a bunch of tweed-suited, four-eyed professors made a thorough inventory of every piece.

He better be getting overtime for this, he thought, taking another drag off his cigarette.

"Would you mind not smoking in here?" one of the professors requested in an annoyed posh voice.

"Yes, I would," Paul grunted. He'd been patient while the academics wandered around all day, but it was past closing time and there was only one professor left. A tall, slender man with disarmingly intense blue eyes and a slightly nervous manner. He kept lingering around a big black wooden box. The last item of inventory. "Look, sir, you'll have plenty of time to look at this during business hours."

The professor was fully enthralled by the many markings etched into the top of the box. "No, no, I'm afraid it must be tonight."

Paul approached him warily. "Look, what is so interesting about this box?"

"These carvings—they seem to be an ancient Romanian dialect, dating back to the 14th or 15th century possibly. The inhabitant of this box was a very, very powerful man."

"You mean to tell me there's someone in there. Like one of them sarcophagus."

"It's much more complicated than that. If I'm translating this correctly, these are the words of a binding spell, meant to imprison this very powerful and very dangerous man for all eternity." He continued to study the markings carefully, producing a small golden object shaped like a dagger from his jacket.

"Here, what's that for?"

"It's a key. The key to open this box."

"Why would you want to open it?"

"Because it is my destiny." He whipped round and stabbed the guard in the stomach with the gold dagger. Now covered in blood, he slipped the key into a lock on the side, fighting to turn it against the years of rust.

He heard the click of ancient locks opening and the creak of ancient hinges turning. "Arise," he whispered. "The world has been waiting too long for its master to return. Arise, my old, old friend."

While the rest of the city got ready for bed, oblivious to the pained cries of a mortally- wounded security guard, an ancient evil awoke in the cellars of the British Museum.

The next morning, Shaun decided to stop in at the record store on the way to work. As he entered, his eardrums were assaulted with Avril Lavigne's "Happy Ending" blaring over the speakers. He winced at the angsty teen pop that was far too descriptive of how he was feeling. It certainly didn't help his hangover, either.

The only employee he saw was a short brunette dramatically dancing to the music as she put away CDs. "Excuse me," he said softly, almost hesitant to interrupt her.

She turned abruptly, her brown eyes wide, struggling to hold on to the stack of CDs in her hands. "Oh, wow, you scared me," she gasped.

"Got some CDs to exchange," he said, holding up a Fantasy Bazaar bag full of Liz's CDs. Too bad Liz had forgotten to take them when she left. Oh, well, at least he could make some money off her bone-crushing, heart-shattering departure.

"Okay, I'll take a look. Feel free to browse." She took the bag behind the counter, while Shaun started to wander the store.

As he flipped through the soundtracks, the background music mercifully changed to The Smiths' "Girlfriend in a Coma" and he tried to suppress a smile. Much more appropriate, thanks. After a few more minutes of wandering, he approached the counter.

"Any luck?"

"Let's see, I can give you 25 dollars cash or 60 dollars store credit."

"Don't you mean 'pounds'?" he corrected, noting the American accent.

"Yes, yes, exactly. Sorry, I haven't been here that long," she explained, embarrassed. "So...cash or credit?"

"Cash."

"Okay." She collected the pound notes from the till, handed them to him along with one of the CDs. "I'm afraid I can't take that one."

"Why not?" Shaun asked, noticing that it was Jeff Buckley's Grace. "Is it scratched or something?"

"No, I just think you should hold onto it."

"Why?"

"Because you've just broken up with someone, right? I mean, all these albums are of a romantic nature. One would guess that you are ridding your life of everything that reminds you of her, or possibly things that belonged to her," she hypothesized, holding up a suspicious Celine Dion CD. "You'll need Buckley to get through those lonely nights."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Just...trust me."

"Right. Cheers, then." He took the cash, and the Buckley CD, and departed.