Here we are! The prologue of the much-announced Zombie Apocalypse AU! Hope you all enjoy it!

MY SISTER AND WONDERFUL BETA, TOWEL_MASTER (or, VergOfTowels as she is over here) DID AWESOME FANART FOR THIS. YOU CAN FIND IT ON HER DEVIANTART (http:/vergoftowels(dot)deviantart(dot)com/gallery/#/d2xp6sn) OR AT HER LJ (http:/towel-master(DOT)livejournal(DOT)#cutid1)

November 4, 2013: Present Day

"—dne? Ariadne, are you still here? Ariadne!"

The girl gasped and strained against the hand on her shoulder. "I have to go. I can't just leave him out there. It's—"

"Arthur, yes, I know," the man sighed, and there was an odd note in his voice. He cocked his shotgun, considering.

"You known him?" she asked, momentarily caught by surprise.

"Yes, he and I are acquainted." Again, the odd tone…

"Then we have to let him in! Come on! It's Arthur! No matter what you say, I can't just leave him out there." Ariadne pushed the restraining—warning—hand off of her and took a step toward the blockaded door. "I've known him for years. I can't just abandon him, Eames."

Her companion finally nodded, seemingly reluctant, but Ariadne thought she could make out a hint of relief in his eyes. She figured that he wanted to find Arthur— or anyone they knew—safe as much as she did. With a nod to her to move the bookcase, Eames opened the door and pointed the shotgun out into the dim hallway.

"Clear," he said, after a minute. "Come on then, pet." Giving her a handgun from his belt, Eames led Ariadne down the empty corridor. Above, what lights that hadn't been shot out or similarly destroyed in the first rounds of chaos flickered ominously, casting dancing shadows that played hell with their imaginations.

"Ariadne?"

"He sounds like he's a level down," Eames said. "Bloody idiot. Doesn't he know that shouting will bring them faster?" But there was worry in his voice.

They approached the stairs, stepping over the fallen bodies that littered the carpet. If it hadn't been for the holes in their heads and the gore on their faces and clothes, Ariadne could almost have pretended they were sleeping.

When they were halfway down the stairwell, the heard the bark of two gunshots and a muffled curse and froze.

"Arthur…" Ariadne breathed, fingers tightening on the gun she'd been handed. "Oh God, please be okay."

"If he's half the man I remember, he's fine," Eames assured, but his voice was tight with anxiety as he descended the last stairs and kicked the door open.

The hallway stretched before them, silent but for the sounds of a struggle down at the other end. From where they stood in the stairway door, Ariadne and Eames could barely make out four figures in the dimly flickering light. Three of them were fighting, and one of them sat motionless on the ground.

"Onward, then," Eames said with a quirk of a smile, and he and Ariadne began their stealthy approach, wary of the gaping doorways that could hide anything—or anyone—inside them.

The first one to notice them was the woman on the ground.

She turned to look at them from where she was crouched in the half-smashed-in confines of apartment 117, her eyes wide and pleading, her bloodstained hands pitifully clutched to her chest.

"Please," she whimpered brokenly, hand reaching out to them. "Please help my husband. That man's a murderer. Please—"

She fell still when the bullet hit her right between the eyes.

Eames took aim again and shot at one of the fighting men; a teen in a formerly green hoodie. The bullet missed the target when the boy ducked down out of the way. Then he turned to face them. His mouth was smeared with blood and his eyes were crazed, and he gave a wicked smile when his eyes landed on Ariadne.

"Hello there," he said, and his voice had a soft, breathy quality, like wind through dead leaves. Ariadne shuddered and raised her gun.

Eames beat her to it, his shot catching the teen just above the left eyebrow. In a rain of blood, half of his still-smiling face was blown away.

Out of immediate danger, Ariadne allowed her eyes to go to the two remaining figures: one a slim man in a suit, the other a slightly more bulky thug in what looked to be jeans and a gray t-shirt. They were grappling in close quarters, and she heard Eames swear softly behind her. He didn't want to take the chance of hitting the wrong person, and no matter how good a shot he was…

But they didn't have to worry. Arthur, once-elegant suit now ruined with gore, got a knee up between himself and his adversary, shoving the wild man out of his personal space. Then Arthur lifted his axe and swung, neatly parting his attacker's head from his neck in an artful spray of blood.

As the body dropped, he spun on his heel and drew his handgun, sweeping it to cover both Ariadne and Eames. For a moment, they all just stared at each other, and then Eames smiled.

"Darling," he said. "You look gorgeous as always."

A myriad of emotions flitted across Arthur's face. Among them Ariadne could see surprise, trepidation, and more prominently, relief.

"Eames," he acknowledged and actually—bless him—tugged his waistcoat straight self-consciously. "Ariadne, thank God. I'm glad to see you two…healthy."

He hadn't lowered the gun.

"We are, darling. Though I suppose you have no reason to believe me. Shall we go outside into some more…adequate light so you can examine our color? And we yours?"

The lights continued to flicker above their heads, and the bulb behind Arthur burst with the next power surge.

"That might be the best option," Arthur conceded, but neither party moved.

"Arthur," said Ariadne, "we're not sick. Can't we all just go back to the room? There might be more outside." She sounded as nervous as she looked.

"That is a good point," Eames said. "Especially since Arthur here was yelling so loudly. He probably drew everyone for a mile in every direction." He shot the man in question an annoyed look.

"Well excuse me for wanting to know if one of my friends was all right, Eames. Next time you're trapped in a den of raving lunatics hungry for your flesh, I'll just leave you!" Arthur was glaring, and his hand had tightened on the grip of his Glock.

Eames raised the shotgun higher.

"Guys. Guys," Ariadne snapped, placing her hand on Eames's gun and pushing it down. "The infected have no emotions. Now that you're suitably pissed off at each other, can we go get supplies or, you know, do something useful?"

After a tense moment, Arthur lowered his gun and Eames thumbed the safety of his on, but their shoulders did not relax.

"The lady's right," Eames said with an irritatingly charming smile. "Shall we, darling?"

"Let's just go," Arthur said, holstering his gun. He took a few steps forward until he was even with them, and then gestured for them to lead the way back up the stairs. Ariadne took the initiative and started up first.

Eames hesitated for a moment, then slid his arm around Arthur's shoulders and pressed his forehead to Arthur's temple for the briefest of seconds. "I'm so glad you're all right," he breathed.

"Yeah, you, too." Arthur leaned into the embrace with a small sigh. "This is fucked up."

"Yes, it is. But it's life. For now, at least."

"Get off me." Arthur pulled away, but he was smiling slightly. Together they followed Ariadne upstairs.

Hooray! Just to tell you all, I will be following a one chapter/week posting schedule. This fic is done, so no worries there. I will post chapter a week, for the next 13 weeks. :) And yes, the chapters after this will all be longer. I hope you all enjoyed!

Now, in case you missed it the first time: MY SISTER DID AN AWESOME BIT OF FANART FOR THIS, OVER AT HER LJ OR DEVIANTART. PLEASE GO TO http:/towel-master(DOT)livejournal(DOT)#cutid1 or http:/vergoftowels(DOT)deviantart(DOT)com/gallery/#/d2xp6sn