I'm baaaack! With a vengeance. :D

Sorry if I've failed to mention, but I am a huge procrastinator. I've been caught up in Plastic Beach, and drawing fanart, and avoiding fanfiction at all costs. For that, I'm sorry.

But this is gonna be good.

So let's go ahead and get Down with the Sickness!

I don't own Gorillaz.

----

"Get up, come on, get Down with the Sickness!

Get up, come on, get Down with the Sickness!

Get up, come on, get Down with the Sickness!

Open up your hate, and let it flow into me!"

Murdoc threw the singer into the wall, his greasy head bobbing to the song. 2D whimpered, his head lolling up to look at his abuser. The bassist strolled over, a grin on his face. He ran his calloused thumb over the singer's smooth lips, wiping the scarlet liquid off. He licked his thumb, causing 2D to shudder. "You're fuckin' sick." he muttered, coughing. Murdoc shrugged, still smiling. "Don't touch my records again. M'kay, poppet?" The music played on, and Murdoc swaggered away, leaving the singer to slip down the wall. He hopped inside his Winnebago, singing along in his crow-like voice.

2D sighed, wiping his bleeding lip. He could feel his cheek swelling up, and he knew he had a busted lip. "Brilliant..." Standing up shakily, the singer made his way across the carpark and back to his room, slamming the door like a moody teenager. High-stepping over the junk on his floor, he grabbed his painkillers, dry-swallowing two. The effects started almost immediatly. He checked his teeth for any that were loose or missing. Nothing serious. Removing his spit covered hand, he sighed, leaning back on his bed. "All I did was touch 'em..." he growled.

Murdoc lit a Lucky Lung, taking a long drag. The song advanced to just shouting nonsense about the guy's mum, making adreneline pump through his veins. Taking another drag, he checked the time. "7:00 pm." It wouldn't be dark for another hour or so. "Time for a stroll then, eh?" The bassist stomped his fag out, then jumped out of the mobile home, causing it to rock and Cortez to squawk.

&&&

Murdoc hummed the bass line to Feel Good Inc as he walked down the hill. He stopped occasionally to throw rocks at birds, or read the name on a gravestone. The thought of having a weapon never even crossed his mind. Nor did he notice the sun slinking down behind Kong. It was only when the fog rolled in that he stopped stomping around. In Kong studios, fog meant zombies. And zombies meant death. And death meant no more money. Murdoc cringed, mentally slapping himself for not bringing anything but a packet of fags. A low moan behind him ripped him out of his thoughts. A bony hand shot out of the dirt, making the bassist jump. He supressed a girlish squeal when another followed. Skin peeled back, showing him rotting muscles, tendons, and worms.

"Shit." Murdoc growled, jumping back. A few more hands, then and elbow, and another, followed by shoulders, and a rotting head. It glared at him with white eyes. Sod fell off it, along with worms and flaking skin. It moaned, making the satanist gag. His mind was screaming, RUN! Run, you stupid mofo! but his body was screaming HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! The zombie staggered towards him, followed by a few more of its rotting buddies. Murdoc's eyes widened, and the fag he had been smoking dropped from his lip. As he turned to run, another bony hand popped up and grabbed his jeans. He fell. Hard. And he screamed. Like a little girl.

Kicking at the rotting appendage, the basist scrambled up, his eyes wild. Dirt and, err, other things he didn't want to know about covered his hands and knees as he ran. More and more of the undead bastards followed him. "HELP! GET A GUN! THEY'RE POPPIN' UP LIKE DAISIES!" His voice, which was normally gravelly and hoarse, was even more so with the fear and adreneline pumping through him like a bullet train. He ran blindly through the fog, trying to get away from the creatures that craved his flesh. He cursed everything; himself, God, Satan, 2D, Russel, Noodle, that tree he just ran by, Jamie, Damon, Cass. The whole lot of them. Damn them a-- TWACK!

Murdoc cried out as he literally tripped head-over-heels on a half-crumbled gravestone. His head slammed into the trunk of a rotted tree. He saw a flash of white light, then darkness.

It was the moaning that brought him our of his stupor. They were closer. Too close. The bassist groaned, managing to peel himself off the dirt and look up in the eyes of the ugliest mother fucker he had ever seen. "GAAAGHHH!!!" he yelled, lashing out. It caught his hand in its rotting one, opening its ghastly mouth. Saliva dripped from it, dripping on to his arm. The thing's teeth were yellow, and its gums were green. In a movement that seemed to be too fast for this rotting bastard, it bit down on his hand.

Murdoc's eyes widened, and he yelled once again, kicking it in the gut. His Cuban heel sunk into its stomach with a squelching noise, but it knocked it off. He jumped up, cradling his bleeding hand, running up the hill, gasping like an asthmatic. "2D! RUSS! GUN! SCYTH! ANYTHING!" It's amazing how fast you can run when your life depends on it. When he finally made it into the carpark, the zombies followed not far behind. 2D looked around nervously from his door, his scyth clutched in his hand. When he saw the "friends" Murdoc brought back, he locked his jaw, narrowed his eyes, and swung, just as the bassist ducked into the Winnebago for his weapon.

They swiped, swung, and sliced expertly, the singer with more vigour than the worn-out satanist. After a while, all that remained were squirming, squelching blobs of rotted meat. Murdoc panted, leaning against the singer. 2D smiled lightly, wiping sweat off his brow. They sat on the floor of the carpark, leaning against the blood-splattered Winnebago. After the bassist caught his breath, he shakily stood up, kicking a wiggling arm away from him. He patted the singer's butt, making him blush. "Thanks. Now clean it up." And with that, Murdoc left the gobsmacked, blushing pretty-boy standing there as he headed to the toilets to check his wound.

&&&

"Shit..." His hand was bleeding steadily from the bite. As he stared at it, the reality suddenly crashed down on him. He was bit. He was infected. He was dying. Now, Murdoc Niccals almost always laughed in the face of danger, but faced with death, he was just any other man. Murdoc shook, his face paling. For a moment, he thought he was going to be sick.

What now, Mudsie? You're infected. No more money, women, concerts, or that hot piece of blue-haired ass.

He shook, rubbing his face with his good hand. Using the gauze he snatched from Russel's first-aid kit, he wrapped up the bite. Staring at the blood stained fingers, he sighed. "Bummer..."

A/N: Yes, this is a MurdocX2D, in case you couldn't guess. R&R please. :)