FicWad

The morning rush at the news stand had abated. Somewhere in the background, a tiny radio was tuned into a music station but Slash wasn't really listening. He had other, much better, things to be doing. With time to kill before the lunchtime rush, Slash decided to catch up on some much needed phone calls. Leaning back on his stool, he put his feet on the counter and reached beneath the it for the phone. It was a usual routine: come to work, serve customers, spend rest of day on phone. Shake up slightly at weekends before repeating on a Monday.

Feeling around in a pocket, Slash pulled out a small notebook. The notebook contained the phone numbers for every bar, club and music venue in the city. It was his bible, his connection to the big time. Flicking to the first page, Slash was preparing to dial the first number when the phone did an unusual thing. It rang. For a moment, he just stared at it. He had no memory of it ever ringing before but now it was. A loud, tinny ringing that grated through his hangover. Annoyed at having his routine disturbed, he grabbed the receiver and forced it against his ear.

"What?" he spat.

"Slash, it's Duff." Slash sighed upon hearing the calm, collected voice.

He knew that sooner or later Duff The Diplomat would call.

"What?" he curtly replied, raking a hand through his unruly hair. "I have other fuckin' things to be doing, Duff."

"Man, you really need to patch things up with Izzy."

The stool creaked as Slash rocked back onto four legs and placed his head against the counter.

"Well, from the massive fuckin' row we had last night, I assumed it was over. For good."

He heard the sound of smoke being exhaled at the other end of the line, followed by a sigh.

"It might be," Duff replied. "But I don't want to come between you and him."

Slash's breath hitched in his throat. "What are you talking about dude?"

"Izzy told me," Duff began, before sighing. "Izzy told me he has feelings for me."

"He WHAT?!" Slash pushed himself upright, the stool clattering to the floor behind him.

"Slash, I can understand that you're pissed off." He could hear Duff fiddling with something. "That's why I want you to come round and try and patch it up between you two. I don't want to come between anyone. Especially not tonight."

"What's tonight?"

"Do not tell me you've forgotten Slash. It's the showcase gig for all those industry fuckers."

Slumping forward, Slash slammed his head into a pile of newspapers.

"Oh holy hell, I had forgotten," he sighed. "Fuckin' fight made me forget. Look, I'll pick my gear up. Then I'll come round to you and try and sort it with Izzy."

"Sure dude. Oh, and Slash. Bring Izzy something nice. Try and make up for your fucking around."

There was a click and Slash was left with the dialling tone. Hanging up the phone, he looked around himself. The normally busy intersection seemed quieter than normal. Cars, pedestrians and, most importantly, customers, seemed a bit thin on the ground. Making an executive decision, Slash grabbed the shutter and pulled it down. It was time to go and make up with Izzy.

The radio was still playing quietly in the background as he left, a newsflash just broadcasting as he slammed the door shut.

"In other news, it appears that the corpses of the recently deceased are returning to life. Scattered reports are coming in from around the globe that people are literally being eaten alive by these so-called "zombies". We'll bring you more news as we have it. This is 95.5 FM KLOS..."

####

Slash could see the gas station but he couldn't get to it. There was a queue, snaking back along the road, with him at the end. For at least a quarter of a mile, all he could see were cars, every single one of them queuing for gas.

"What the fuck...?" he whispered, before rolling down the window.

Sticking his head out of the window, Slash flagged down a passing pedestrian. The suited man stepped up to the van, eyeing Slash with suspicion.

"What the fuck's going on?" Slash pointed to the line of cars.

"Haven't you heard?" the suit replied. "Apparently it's the end of the world. Everyone's getting out while they can."

"End of the world?" Slash's curiosity had been pricked.

The suit shrugged, pushing expensive sunglasses from his head to his nose. "Some corpses coming back to life. That's all I picked up from the radio. Look, as much as I'd like to fill you in, I have to run. Got to get a head start on whatever's out there."

Slash nodded. "Cheers man and good luck, okay?"

The suit replied with a nod and was gone. Sitting back, Slash reached for his cigarettes and the radio. The cigarettes he found in a pocket but the radio was gone. Instead there was just an oblong shaped hole where it should have been.

"Steven! You fuckin' junkie bastard!" Slash punched the ceiling; even he hadn't stooped low enough to stealing for drugs.

####

It took two very long hours to get to the front of the queue. During that time, he was sure he'd seen a horse and cart, piled with stuff and people, go by. He was absolutely certain he'd seen a couple of military trucks and a tank go rolling down the road.

To be on the safe side, he'd filled the tank although that had been a struggle. There had been people behind him, yelling at him to hurry up. Frenzied people with cars piled high with belongings and looks to to kill. If the end of the world truly was on its way, Slash had no idea where the people were going to go to.

Now he was back in traffic, a cigarette in one hand and a bunch of cheap flowers on the passenger seat. He'd stolen them as he'd left the gas station. Slash figured they owed him that much for the hassle of waiting in line so long. Hopefully they would warm Izzy just a little.

####

Pulling up in front of their run down house, Slash stuffed the flowers onto the dashboard and hurried to the front door. Pushing it open, he was greeted by an empty room. Normally Steven was there, smacked out of his mind and watching old re-runs. The only noise was the insistent drone of the news station. Standing in front of the TV, Slash surveyed the headlines as they were repeatedly read out.

"In breaking news," the newscaster started, "people are being attacked by the resurrected corpses of the recently dead. Whatever has caused these "zombies" to walk the earth is infecting the victims of attacks, turning them into the walking dead. We have been told to advise you to stay in your homes and keep your doors and windows locked. Once again, remain in your homes..."

"There's someone out the back," Steven's voice pierced Slash's thoughts.

Following the voice, he found Steven standing by the kitchen window, staring out into the litter strewn backyard. There, stumbling around was a man. Blood stained his shirt and he seemed to be drunk with a vacant, glazed look in his eyes.

"What the fuck is that?" Steven asked, his eyes never moving from the window.

"It must be one of them," Slash quietly replied

"One of what?" Steven moved back from the window to look at Slash

"Zombie." Slash swallowed around the lump in his throat.

"What are we going to do about it?" Steven's eyes filled with something like worry, a rarely seen emotion for the permanently happy drummer.

"Leave it?" Slash shrugged, not sure if that was the right answer.

Steven smiled, the current problem obviously averted in his mind.

"Fancy getting high?" There was a twinkle in Steven's eyes.

"Well, we've got nothing better to do until all this blows over."

Crashing onto the couch, Steven began feeling around on the floor, picking up apparatus and drugs. The news still played an endless loop about the upcoming Apocalypse of zombies. Slash watched, fascinated. If this truly was the end of the world then he wanted to know how and why it happened. The news station was really good at making things seem worse than they were. Images of mutilated animals, stumbling, bloody zombies and the military intervening flashed across the screen, all accompanied by the cycle of commentary.

Suddenly he felt something slide up his arm and turned to find Steven tying a tourniquet.

"Dude, do you think this is a good idea?" he asked.

Steven just shrugged. "They're telling us to stay inside so why fuckin' not? We've got to pass the time somehow."

Slash watched as Steven heated the spoon before drawing the dope into a needle. The warm needle was just pressing against a vein when the phone began to ring.

"Motherfucker!" Slash pulled away and reached to the side of the couch, snatching up the phone. "WHAT?!"

"Slash, it's Duff."

"What now?" Two more seconds and this would have been an entirely different situation. At least he'd have been floating away on a haze of drugs.

"The apartment building," Duff quietly replied. "It's surrounded by drunk people."

"Duff, have you had the fuckin' TV on today?" Slash irritably asked.

"No."

"The radio?" Slash could already predict the answer. He suspected that Duff and Izzy had probably spent their morning screwing. Bastards!

"No."

"Well turn one of the fuckers on!" Slash's voice raised an octave.

There was a click as something was turned on, followed by silence and the quiet chatter of the television. For a few moments, neither said anything. Then Duff spoke.

"Holy shit, Slash. They're fuckin'..."

"Zombies?" Slash interjected. He wanted to hurry Duff up and find out what he wanted. There were drugs at stake.

"Can you come and rescue us?" Duff's voice was slightly panicked.

"Rescue you how, Duff?" Slash's eyes never left the TV screen.

The news anchor was still babbling on.

"The zombies can be destroyed by removing the heart or destroying the brain. Heavy, blunt objects like baseball bats seem to work. Please remember to only use this method if you are under attack." The anchor was looking haggard. "Please remain in your homes and stay calm. Help is on its way..."

"Duff?"

"Yeah?"

"I've got a plan." Slash looked around himself, eyes searching for blunt objects. "Just stay there and don't do anything."

Dropping the receiver back onto the cradle, Slash turned to Steven. The drummer looked up at him, a needle in his arm and his eyes glazed.

"What?" Steven's voice was slurred.

"We've got to go and get Duff and Izzy." All thoughts of getting high had left Slash's mind.

"Why do we have to fuckin' rescue them?" Steven waved a syringe at Slash. "We have fuckin' good dope to get through."

"Because it's fuckin' Duff and Izzy that's why! We have a fuckin' gig to get to and we need them!"

Slash could feel his stress level rising. Feeling in a pocket, he pulled out his cigarettes and shook one free from the packet. He always thought better with a cigarette on the go.

"Okay, okay," Steven sighed. "Calm down. What are we going to do?"

The TV was still playing in the corner. "You can kill the zombies by destroying the brain or removing the heart. Regardless, we advise every...."

Slash's eyes flicked from Steven to the television and back to Steven. A slow, drug filled grin spread across Steven's lips.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked, slowly.

Slash pulled himself off the couch and stared down at Steven. "Can you get up, you fucker?"

It took a couple of attempts but finally Steven was standing and seemed mostly coherent. Placing a hand on Steven's shoulder, Slash stared into the drug filled eyes.

"Ready?" he asked.

Steven rocked slightly, getting his balance, before grinning. "Ready. Let's do this!"

Racing through the house, the pair began hunting for blunt objects. Veering off, Slash kicked the door to his room open and quickly surveyed the scene. The room was a mess of crap; piles of books and records, torn posters and a filthy mattress but nothing blunt. Swinging round one last time, Slash's eyes came to rest on the one heavy, blunt object in the room. His beautiful, sunburst Les Paul. His one and only beautiful, sunburst Les Paul.

"Oh no, no, no." Falling to his knees, he gently ran a hand over the varnished wood.

From somewhere in the house there was a crash and the sound of breaking glass.

"SLASH!" Steven screeched. "They're breaking and entering!"

Grabbing the neck of the guitar, Slash swung it over his shoulder and headed back into the hallway.

Steven was waiting for him, a worried look on his normally happy face. Slash had a feeling he was going to be seeing that face a lot over the coming hours. Sounds of groaning and splintering glass came from the lounge.

"Okay, what have you got?" Slash turned to look at Steven.

A goofy grin crossed Steven's face and he held up a drumstick. A solitary, pathetic looking drumstick that already had a crack down one side. Slash sighed and swung the guitar down from his shoulder, resting it against his leg.

"Steven, these are blood thirsty zombies," he kept his voice low, speaking slowly for Steven's benefit. "A drumstick is not going to KILL THEM!" The urge to throttle Steven was strong. "Go and find something else."

Steven's face fell and he looked like he was going to cry. Slash felt almost sorry for him. He would have felt completely sorry for him if they weren't in a life or death situation.

"There isn't anything else," Steven whined.

"There must be. Go and look."

The drumstick dropped to the floor and Steven disappeared into a room. The sound of crashing and cursing filtered through the thin wall before Steven reappeared.

"Right, what have you got?" Slash asked.

Steven held up a fairly lethal looking cymbal stand, folded and ready for action. He swung it from side to side, testing the weight before smacking it into the wall.

"Jesus Christ, Steven!" Slash jumped back from the manic drummer.

Steven looked from the nasty hole in the plasterboard to Slash, an evil smirk on his face and the cymbal stand dangling from one hand.

"I'd say that's gonna to do the job," Steven laughed. "Let's roll!"

Speeding back into the lounge, they came face to face with a zombie. It was swaying and groaning, blood splattered onto once neat clothes. It held its arms straight out in front of it. Lifting its head slightly, it seemed to sniff the air; the scent of fresh meat. The scent of them. Slash could feel the bile rising into his throat. It was a mixture of the potent scent of death that eminiated from the walking corpse and the reality of what he was about to do. His vision began to swim as the zombie slowly gained on them.

It's not human any more, he thought to himself. It was dead before it turned into that.

But what if it was one of the bitten people. /His conscience suddenly kicked in. /You know, one of those poor people that were attacked and turned into a zombie. They weren't dead before they became that.

Slash squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to silence the little voice. SHUT THE FUCK UP! Whatever it once was is now gone. It's the walking fucking dead and it's about to fucking eat me!

Your call dude. His conscience disappeared and Slash opened his eyes just in time to see the stinking stiff reach for his throat, decaying teeth getting closer to his throat.

Letting out an unearthly scream, Slash lifted the guitar from his shoulder and swung it as hard as he could. It impacted into the zombie's head, splattering skull and brain across the wall. Somewhere, Slash heard Steven yell. The zombie staggered forward, hitting the floor just as Slash jumped back. The stench of death was even stronger and Slash pulled the neck of his t-shirt over his nose. He felt sick again but it wasn't from what he'd done. It was from the stench of pure evil. Killing it had been easy and he was sure that any others that got in his way would be just as easy to kill. He took one last look at the now still corpse before swinging the guitar upwards and back onto his shoulder. It seemed like the logical way to carry it for now.

Steven was standing in the hallway, a look of shock on his face. Killing anything was a bad idea in Steven's book. Fighting, maiming, pissing on people: all okay. But killing? No, that was bad and wrong in Steven's little version of the world. But he remained quiet, obviously sensing that this wasn't normal killing. No, this was survival of the fittest, sorting the men from the meat. Kill or be eaten. Slash grabbed the van keys off a shelf and headed for the door. A hand landed on his shoulder and he turned to find a concerned Steven behind him.

"What about Axl?" he asked, eyes wide. "Shouldn't we ask him if he wants to come?"

"After the grilling he gave you last night, I'm surprised you're even concerned about him," Slash replied. "Besides, he's probably holed up in his room, licking that wound he got. He's not going to want to come out."

Steven's vacant eyes went wider. It was almost like he was concerned about what would happen if they left Axl behind. Would he freak out at the coming zombie apocalypse? Would he get eaten? Slash sighed and leaned the guitar against a wall. The mission to rescue Duff and Izzy seemed more of a problem than it was worth. Izzy had screamed at him and run to Duff so why should he bother rescuing them? Slash ground his teeth at the thought of them together. In bed with Duff fucking Izzy. His Izzy.

Fuck it Slash! Less thinking, more doing.

"Axl." He rapped his fingers on the singer's bedroom door. "Axl."

"Yo dick-head!" Steven had appeared at Slash's shoulder, making Slash jump again.

"Will you quit fuckin' scaring me," Slash hissed as he aimed an elbow back into Steven's ribs, winding him. "Anyway, it doesn't like he's in. Let's go."

Cracking the door open, Slash looked out, searching for zombies. There were none straight ahead, none to the right. Then he looked left and his heart nearly left his chest. There, looking like trashy, Hollywood rejects of a George Romero film, were the walking corpses of the recently dead. All swaying and groaning down the road towards the van. Their van. Steven stuck his head under Slash's arm and surveyed the scene for himself.

"Fuckin' hell." For once Steven seemed relatively quiet. "What are we going to do?"

"The gear!" Slash panicked. "We need to pack the fuckin' van!"

Quickly he looked outside. The zombies didn't seem to notice them but the clattering of cymbals and drums would soon arouse them. Turning to Steven, he placed both hands on his shoulders and stared into his eyes. Desperately, psychically, he tried to convey just how much shit they were in.

"I'll get the gear," Slash whispered, "and you cover me. If anything comes at us just aim for the head. It's a piece of piss."

There was the thunk-thunk-thunk of Steven swinging the stand against his hand. Slash's words seemed to be processing somewhere. It amazed Slash at just how quickly the hit of junk seemed to have worn off. It was also shocked that Steven didn't seem to have any shakes. He knew that would probably come later. For now, he was hoping Steven could survive on adrenaline.

"Go stand on the porch and when I come with stuff, follow me." He gave Steven a reassuring smile. "Let's do it!"

Pushing Steven out of the door, Slash sped back into the house. Keeping one hand on his guitar, he grabbed as many of the drums as he could and sprinted for the door.

Breaking free of the house, he ran towards the van, hoping and praying that the back door wouldn't stick. As quietly as possible, he dumped everything on the ground and pulled on the door. For once it opened with ease and Slash sent up a silent thanks to whichever gods were watching over them. With slow, calculated movements, he picked up a cymbal bag and began to slide it into the van. Everything else quickly followed before he headed back to the house, guitar firmly on his shoulder. As he re-entered the house, he threw a cautionary glance at Steven: he was still standing on the grass, eyes watching the zombies, ready for action.

It took another five minutes of huffing and puffing before Slash was finally dragging the last amp out of the house. He was a musician not an athlete. The exertion had given him stitch just below his ribs and he was having difficulty breathing.

"Where are they?" he hissed at Steven, pausing for a moment to catch his breath.

Steven's eyes flicked from the road to Slash's red and sweaty face.

"Somewhere behind the van," he quietly replied.

Slash smiled; Steven was learning fast that everything had to be done with care and caution. Leaning against the Marshall, Slash slowly resumed his journey to the van.

Setting his guitar against the door, he carefully manoeuvred the amp into the back of the van. Suddenly, his foot slid from beneath him. There was a scrapping noise followed by the loud clanging noise of the guitar hitting the road. Holding his breath, Slash looked around, his eyes finally resting on Steven. The blonde was looking straight past him, around the van. Then it came, the groaning and shuffling of a hundred zombies, all hell bent on sinking their teeth into the two pieces of meat by the van.

"Shit!" Slash shouldered the amp into the van and slammed the door. "Steven! Get in the van!"

"I'm driving!" came an excited reply.

Bending down, Slash swept the guitar into his arms and raced for the driver's door. The zombies were closing in on him, their heads snapping round at the noise of his movements.

"No you're fucking not!"

"Why not?" Steven's whining was starting to annoy him.

"Just because." Aiming a foot at the door, Slash kicked it. It had a chosen now as a good moment to jam.

Grabbing the handle, Slash wrenched it open, throwing the guitar across the two passenger seats. He quickly followed, slamming the door shut and hitting the lock.

Not that it matters. They'll get me and kill me and rip me limb from limb.

A frantic Steven was trying to open the passenger door, all common sense seeming to have evacuated his brain. Zombies were closing in on him and, as Slash leaned over to push the door open, he swung the cymbal stand. It impacted against a dead head, sending bone and brain flying, the zombie falling to the floor. It was quickly replaced by a second one, desperate to get its grubby hands on Steven's young, supple flesh.

One final push and the shitty door creaked opened. Screaming, Steven threw himself in, slamming the door behind him. The zombies had gathered around the van, clawing at the glass, trying to get in. Jamming the key in the ignition, Slash shifted into drive and floored the accelerator. Zombies bounced off the hood, scattering like leaves in the wind. In the rear-view mirror, Slash watched them crumpling to the ground, dead. He glanced across at Steven. The guitar and cymbal were clasped to him, his once white t-shirt splattered with blood.

"You've got red on you," he commented.