Hello readers, here's a story I've been working on awhile. AU with Zombies, naturally. Hopefully I'll be able to update once a day-ish. I'm gonna say this is an M rating for language and future adult themes. Just to be safe.
TW - gore, violence towards zombies.
I don't own any of these characters, obvs, for that matter I don't matter any movies or celebrities I might mention.

Oh, and p.s. there will be a couple of crossovers from relevant things that I'll mention as we get there.

March 31st 2013

Rule number one in Zombieland New York is CARDIO. That's right. Cardio.

Rule # 1 - CARDIO

- It's me, Emma Swan, ahem, I mean, Boston, writer extraordinaire, and I'll be sure to highlight the other rules as I go. I'm kidding about the extraordinaire part, the writing's awful, I know. But when there aren't many people left in the world, someone has to keep a record of what's happened, right? Right? Well, it sucks that it had to be me, but someone's gotta do it. My handwriting blows and this bundle of papers and moleskin notebooks is getting thick, but whatever. Back to the story?

Only the strong survive when the world goes to hell. Darwin's evolution. At least I think that's what Darwin said. With the birds, right? And that's what's happened. Not the birds, but . . . well anyway, the world has gone to absolute shit and there's nothing I can do about it. Except survive, that is. I don't know how, or where they came from exactly or if it started as a terrorist attack or whatever, but it's already passed the one year anniversary of zombies royally fucking up our lives day in and day out.

I do know some general information about these things: it's just like people said it would be, sort of like the TV shows said it would be. They're people, well, they were people, and those people were infected with this virus that spread down from northeast somewhere, even farther northeast than we are now in New York City. They decay slowly, and they only have their basic brain and brain-stem functions: hunger, movement and motor control, vision, hearing, and of course heart rate and breathing. As fast as regular people, they can run and jump, and they get especially pissed if they're being threatened.

They want to eat other people, or animals, whatever they can get really, they're not picky. But they are particular to brains, so I've heard. And in honor of all those fine people who are dead in the ground, or dead walking around who said this day would come, that Armageddon would strike us someday, singing "I told you so!" in their dead zombie voices, I came up with some rules for survival. Not only for us, but also for them. As a big, fat, middle finger symbol to where they can shove their "I told you so!".

Because they're dead. Or undead. And we're still here. And the rules help, by the way. They really do.

Just like one of my favorite movies. Well, back when there were movies and enough electricity to watch those movies, I had favorite movies. Well, we do have the solar power, but it's a rare occasion that we use it for watching a movie. Now I'm just satisfied to be alive and reasonably healthy. And I'm happy I have my son. He's the only thing that matters, the only reason I continue to even give a shit. Because he deserves his best chance at life, even if it's a life full of chopping off zombie people's heads and scrounging around for food and weapons throughout the city. He's the only reason I don't just go out and lie down in the street, yelling, "come on you fuckers, here's breakfast!" and just let them have at me.

And he's the only reason I've got this apartment all boarded up and reinforced like there's nuclear fallout on the way. It wasn't easy, believe me, getting my hands on some of this stuff, this reinforced steel on the door, that stack of riot shields, those piles of assault rifles and shotguns. No ma'am, it wasn't easy at all. And it's taken me most of this year to acquire all of it without getting my own head chopped off, or worse, bitten off by one of those zombies.

But anyway, here we are, me and Henry, sorry Bronx, he goes by Bronx these days, casually eating biscuits from a box and also canned soup. We cook everything either sparingly on the electric stove, or downstairs on the grill or here in the fireplace, just like they used to in the old days, or so I figure. I didn't pay much attention in history class, or any class for that matter growing up. I do understand a little physics, which is helpful. What I do really know how to do is survive on the streets, stealing if I have to and breaking in to places if the need arises and those skills have come in pretty handy so far.

Speaking of history class, and school for that matter, don't worry, I brought Bronx with me down to the Barnes and Noble, abandoned of course, except for a few walkers here and there, stumbling around the fiction section. He picked out plenty of books, and I even made sure he got a few textbooks as well. He was nice enough to grab me these notebooks and a couple books on survival and prepping; he's really the brains of the operation, if we're being serious here. The kid does seem to love to read. Who knows, maybe he'll learn something.

Not that it matters.

But don't tell him that. I know, I know, it's sort of a fatalist attitude, but after a year of this hell, it's hard to keep those thoughts buried. It's hard to hope that there will be any sort of civilization or learning community for him to get into if all of this chaos keeps up. Will there be any actual people left? Will he get to go to college someday? Or even high school?

He's staring at me, over his soup, which he's not slurping or drinking from the bowl or anything. The perfect little gentleman at only thirteen years old. So I smile at him, my own soup dribbling down my chin just a little, and that makes him laugh. Laughter is good. It's rare, few and far between, but it helps. It's one of the only things that helps. Besides the rules, of course.

That night, I toss and turn in my bed, right next door to Henry's with both of our doors open so we can hear each other. Just in case. It's not unusual for me to be tossing and turning. I'm normally worried about one thing or another, usually the zombie apocalypse that is currently ruining our lives. Our perfectly good lives. You know, I just so happened to be Big Apple Bailbonds' number one employee, dragging and wrestling in all kinds of criminals one way or another. And I did have my ways. It helps that I used to look nice. Used to.

Now I'm way too thin, so thin you can see my ribs and hip bones with my shirt off, sort of like the way the contestants on Survivor would look towards the second half of the show. I make sure Bronx gets most of the food, secretly of course. He's a growing kid, and he's always hungry. Always. So he gets the lion's share and I ignore my rumbling tummy. Not that I'm complaining. But anyway, I used to look better, with my hair done in curls down my back and a tight red dress and heels, when my hands weren't so damned calloused. I could lure in any man, like a black widow into her web, drawing them in and drawing them in and then BAM! hit em when they least expect it.

My hair now is sort of limp and still hangs down my back, but most of time it doesn't get washed, so I like to keep it up in a ponytail. Either that, or wrap a bandana around my hairline and call it good. Of course, dresses are off the table now. It's just comfortable jeans, cargo shorts if it's hot. And lots of tank tops. At least I've still got the arm muscles.

But that's not what I'm tossing and turning about. I could care less about my looks and what I'm wearing these days. What's keeping me from getting into my good sleep cycles are these damned dreams. It's one of those recurring dreams, the kind that you have every now and then and it's mostly the same every time. This one is like that, except it progresses a little more each time, takes me a little farther into this town. This really bizarre town that I don't think I've ever been to, but it really seems like I have.

There's this clock tower and it's stuck on 8:15, every time. And then the dream goes to several different places, sometimes over to the water, where there are ships and sailboats and fishing boats and seagulls, and then sometimes it goes to this tree with fruit on it. Other times, it takes me to what looks like a town hall and usually when this happens, I get sent to this room with a door. And that's all there is. Then I wake up. Every damn time.

April 1st, 2013

It's just getting light outside, the sun is peeking through my window, shining in my eyes and reminding me that another night has passed, another night we've survived, another night I haven't slept soundly. Swinging my legs over the side, I get up, trudge over to the side of my room and wash my face in the basin on the dresser. The water is tepid, sort of stale, but what can you do? The only partially running water we have is downstairs in the courtyard. My back cracks and protests as I bend over to pull on a pair of jeans and my boots, leaving on the loose tank I wore yesterday and slept in last night, tuck my nine millimeter into my waistband and head to the door.

I'm meeting Henry downstairs in the courtyard for breakfast. He's still asleep, lucky kid is able to sleep for hours at a time. Me on the other hand . . . not so much. I'll give him another hour or so and then wake him up. We're having leftover biscuits from last night. You know what I miss the most about life before zombies? Dairy products.

Milk with my cereal, cheese, ice cream, butter. God, butter. What I wouldn't give for a pat of butter on this biscuit. Maybe we should find a cow, or a goat.

Nah, too much work. Chickens wouldn't be so bad, though. I miss eggs too. Eggs fried in real bacon grease. God, I have to stop that. It's making me miserable.

On the bright side, Cheez whiz and velveeta seem to last forever, so those are some good ole American staples that are hard to find, but well worth it when you do. Maybe I'll look for some when I go on the run today.

It takes a good twenty seconds to undo all the locks and deadbolts I have on my steel reinforced door, but if it keeps both alive and dead people out, I'm all for letting that extra time go. Down three empty stories into the lobby, and I take a look around. Everything looks normal, nothing out of place. There are two exits on this floor, one in the front, another steel reinforced industrial style door, and the one I just came out of: the stairwell, which also leads down to the parking garage. That entrance to the street is gated and reinforced as well, and I've got three working vehicles down there, one of 'em's mine and the other two I hot-wired: the yellow bug, a pickup, and just a regular four door sedan. They all have about a half-tank of gas left in them that I try to use as sparingly as possible. We've also got two bicycles and a motorcycle, but that last doesn't get used much. It's way too loud and attracts all the walkers.

Anyway, I try to keep the entrances and exits as limited as possible, just in case we need to get away, but also because too many ways in could mean sort of a two-front battle, and that's not easy for only two people to defend. Up top in our apartment in fact, we've cleared all the lower floors from walkers and other dead bodies, and there are only two fire escapes on the outside of the building. Easy to get away, not so easy to get in to.

So I walk past the unused front desk and throw open the front door, stepping out into the courtyard and into the sunlight. It smells like vegetables and herbs at first from the small garden built on old shipping pallets directly in front of me, and then the wind just happens to be blowing my direction from the northwest and I get a whiff of the latrine. Ugh . . .

It's the best we can do, sort of like a port-a-potty. Not the best for smells, but I planted some lemongrass and lavender in containers around it, hoping to take some of the smell away.

Anyway, I hate to admit this, but you sort of get used to it. So I get on with my business and then wash up a little more at the solar shower. Now this was a cool invention. Basically just a gazebo type thing with black tubing coiled up on the roof. When you run water into the tube from one of the rain collection barrels, it sits there all day and heats up, leaving us with a few minutes worth of a warm shower. Not that we shower a whole lot, but it is nice every now and then.

To my left, there are several more rain collection barrels connected to gutters leading down from the roof, and we keep those around for extra water storage in case it doesn't rain. But New York gets plenty of rain, let me tell you.

And it's strange, I guess, that we haven't seen many alive people in the past few months, not since . . .well, anyway, not for a while now. People high-tailed it out of here when all hell broke loose. The ones that survived fled to the woods, to the suburbs, to places where the zombie population wasn't as intense. The walkers hide in the buildings and in the subway especially; we never go near the subway because of that. But if you're smart and you methodically and silently take out every walker you see, living in the city isn't so bad. There's plenty of stuff to scavenge, that's for sure.

And lucky for us, right before the outbreak, the Bronx had just started their emergence into the environmentally friendly scene and several buildings around here are outfitted with solar panels on the roof. Photo-voltaic cells to be exact, and they're perfect for what we needed. The batteries and inverters and switches were all in pretty good condition, just had to read up on how we could unhook it from the non-working grid and keep it solely focused on our apartment and the downstairs lobby and kitchen. It runs one small direct current freezer downstairs and our lights and electric stove upstairs.

But we only use the alternating current power at nighttime, besides the freezer of course because that makes for a more efficient system. It's nice not having to use it for heating water or heating our apartment, for that we just bundle up when it gets cold and open the windows and run a fan when it gets hot. On nights when we have a little extra power left in the battery, we pop a movie in the small TV and DVD player. For two hours of playing time, it's only about 350 watts. It's a rare treat. His favorite movie used to be Finding Nemo, but he always refused to watch the ending.

What he absolutely will not watch are the rest of the animated kid's movies. Like the Disney princesses and Lion King and Toy Story. And neither will I. Not because the princesses need saving and they're weak or anything like that, although sometimes that is the case; it's really more about the happily ever after business. And that spawned one of Henry's rules. You can always tell the difference between mine and Henry's rules. Anyway:

Rule #540 - NO FAIRYTALES

Because living like this is real. It's a real situation, and it hasn't been easy. It wasn't ever easy, really, for me. Growing up in foster care, floating from place to place without feeling like anyone ever really loved me pretty much eliminated all hopes of a happily ever after. Yeah, yeah. Sob story, I know. And Hen-Bronx hasn't had it easy either. I had him when I turned eighteen and still in prison for theft. Bronx's father, that bastard sperm donor, not only knocked me up, but also left me hanging out to dry with his stolen watches while he got the hell out of Dodge. Rotten son of a bitch. But I don't like to talk about that.

Back to the fairytales. Sometimes we even take it so far as to purposely destroy princess and other animated merchandise we happen upon. Target practice doesn't always have to be serious and business. It's actually soothing to shoot off the princess barbie's heads and stuffed animals and riddle their DVD boxes full of mostly-useless-for-killing-zombies .22 bullets and reusable arrows.

I guess I should explain the fact that I haven't been using first names. You've probably noticed, reader of my journals, that we've taken city names and use them as call signs if you will. Well, that's a painful story and it involves the death of people we had gotten to know pretty well, people who were our allies here in the city, friends even. It's not easy saying goodbye to people like that, and it's even worse when they turn into zombies and you're forced to kill them. Or unkill them. I don't know what to call it, it's all fucked up. The worst part is knowing they had a first name and a last name and family and a whole past and maybe a kitten or a gerbil and then all of a sudden they're undead, standing in front of you, ready to eat your brains, and there's nothing you can do about it except kill them. The worst part is you know their name. Something else I don't like to talk about.

So that's the next rule.

Rule #35 - NO FIRST NAMES

I picked the city of Boston as my name because I spent most of my early childhood there, bouncing around the system, before going to my last foster family in Oregon later on. Plus, Henry, I mean Bronx, and I lived there for all of his life until right before the apocalypse happened. We moved to New York after our apartment burned down. God, this is just a regular old series of unfortunate events in our lives, isn't it? And then pretty soon after we got here, the zombies started showing up and people started panicking and turning on each other and looting businesses and rioting in the streets and then finally most of them left. We stayed put, rode out the storm like a hurricane, and emerged when we could, looking for water and food and the like.

The kid, if you can imagine, does not like the Red Sox at all. Three guesses for the baseball team he roots for. That's right, the Yankees. Even though we live here, I still can't forgive him for it.

And speaking of the little traitor, with his hair all mussed and sleep still in his eyes, here he comes out the front door, yawning and stretching in the early sunlight. He smiles at me, and trudges on to the latrine as I cut open two biscuits for him, smearing what's left of our strawberry jam on top. I fix one for myself and sit down at the table we dragged from the lobby out next to the vegetable garden. When it's nice out, there's not much better than just sitting and relaxing in our little enclosure, looking up at the clouds going by and wishing life's circumstances were a little different.

When he comes out, he says good morning and thanks me as he stuffs half of the biscuit in his mouth, wiping away my earlier ponderings as to how he got to be such a fine young gentleman. I see myself in him now, crumbs falling all over his front and a big, dopey grin on his face, happy just to be eating.

"You look tired," he says in his half-squeaky, pubescent voice with his mouth full. All I can do is glare at him and give him the stink eye because I'm sure I do look tired, seeing as how I never get much sleep anymore.

"Was it the dream again?" Jesus, he's more observant than a damn reporter. I nod, finish off my biscuit and stand up, taking the few steps in between the table and the water barrels. The water makes a satisfying gushing sound when it flows from the orange cooler as I fill up my water bottle; it's the kind that fits in a little holder and goes around your shoulder, easy to transport.

"It's the weirdest thing," I start, sitting back down and handing the bottle over to him. He takes a few serious glugs, plops it down on the table, and goes back to finishing up his second biscuit. "Sometimes it's more vivid, and other times I can't really tell what's going on, but it's always the same town and there's always a door at the end."

"And the clock?"

I nod. "Yeah, the clock was stuck at 8:15 again. And it's cold there."

"And there are never any people who talk to you?"

"They're there, but I never see their faces. I catch glimpses of them turning around corners, always walking away from me."

"That is weird," he agrees, chewing thoughtfully, a little more civilized now that he isn't so ravenous. "Maybe you have anxiety?"

My eyebrow arches at him. Of course I have anxiety. We live in a world with zombies. "You been reading dream interpretation books or something?"

He shrugs, swallowing the last of his biscuit and wiping his hands on his jeans, which could probably use a good scrubbing, I note while not really caring. "I might've looked at one at the bookstore. Anyway, you going on the run today?"

"Yep. Anything else you think we need?"

Shaking his head, he doesn't make eye contact with me and I know exactly what he's thinking. He wants to go with me. But that's a no. Not a no, but a hell no. I just don't feel as safe when he's out there with me, not like I do when I know he's in here, safe behind these walls, with weapons and a walkie talkie and an escape route if he needs one. There's not always an escape route where I go.

"You sure you don't need a plus one?"

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, trying to get rid of my biggest fear. Of watching a crowd of walkers overtaking him while I'm stuck fighting off some other ones, helpless and desperate, watching him pushed to the ground and hearing his screams and pleading for me and I can't do anything about it. That fear is burned into my brain, though, and I'd just really rather he stayed here, even if it is nice to have someone watching my back out there.

"I'm good," I say steadily, looking at him now and waiting for him to look me in the eye. "You'll be okay here?"

"Always am," he says gloomily, but I'm not falling for his moping act. He's been out there enough times. He knows what it's like and knows that I want him here and I want him alive. But I know what his fears are too. He's afraid I won't come back if I leave. That I'll go one day and they'll get me and he'll be here all by himself. We probably should talk about what he would do in a situation like that, but I just can't bring myself to do it. It's too painful, thinking about leaving him without any parent at all. Maybe I should start taking him along. Maybe. Maybe next time.

"What are you gonna do while I'm gone?" Up on his feet now, the kid walks slowly next to the vegetables and I watch as he pulls weeds every now and then, tossing them to the concrete below the raised beds. He doesn't answer me right away, just keeps walking and messing with the leaves and budding flowers.

"I dunno, practice my aim with the bow, I guess."

"Good," I say, as cheerfully as I can, because that's the only way I can think of to make him feel better, short of letting him go with me. "I'll have the walkie talkie."

"Okay," he says, still looking down, but I can still hear the love in his voice. "Remember the rule."

I nod, standing up and making my way back into the lobby so I can go upstairs and get ready. "Number seventeen, don't be a hero."

Rule #17 - DON'T BE A HERO

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A/N - let me know what you think?