Chapter Text

☣☣☣

"It was the bumble bee and the butterfly who survived, not the dinosaur."  

—Meridel Le Sueur

Chapter One

Twenty-one days.

That was the exact length of time it took for the world as humanity had known it to crumble into an unforgiving realm of monsters and chaos. No one was prepared. It started off like a tidal wave—seemingly harmless until it reached the shores and crushed everything in its path, leaving only fear and ruin in its wake. 

Why did it happen? 

No one could really say, but before everything went to total shit some of the brightest scientists, researchers, and doctors from all over the world agreed on one thing: it couldn’t be stopped.

This was the new world, the new reality.

On day twenty-one, societal order shattered like glass. No one trusted the government, community leaders, the authorities or military powers—it became a fucking free for all. In the weeks to follow, competition for resources amongst individuals and groups ran rampant as fights and even murders occurred all over major metropolitan areas. By the third month of what became known as ‘World’s End’, order and trust disintegrated.

The fourth month all infrastructure collapsed—power grids, medical facilities, economies, transportation, communication—it was like dust in the wind. One good thing that came out of infrastructure falling apart was no one had to hear about the way people were dying. The way the world fell as animal, plant, and corpse mutations took over the world. When humans died, they came back driven by a ravenous hunger to eat anything they could. Animals, including insects, mutated into terrifying creatures that roamed freely and attacked on sight. And many plants became toxic, unleashing dangerous spores that could paralyze, poison, or even kill. The world became a dark and scary place like that of video games everyone once loved—until they had to live in it themselves.

By the seventh month of World’s End, small survivor communities formed safe havens. Focus shifted back to a primitive lifestyle. Survival of the fittest, natural medicines, subsistence agriculture, and so on. Many became more self reliant, focusing on themselves, and ensuring their survival at any cost. There had even been rumors of cannibalism in some areas. Some groups would cull their weak, using them as fodder for the mutated monsters—sacrificial lambs. It became the most dividing debate among the living—the needs of the few versus the needs of the many.

Then the first year came to an end—the world’s population was estimated to have been more than halved. Major cities were left in ruin as plants, monsters, and reanimated corpses took over. By the third year, the world was basically unrecognizable and no one could really say how many people were still alive.

The virus, disease, parasite, or whatever it was became less scary and more…normal. Everyone understood that should you die, you’d be brought back as a starving monster. By the third year, many safe haven communities fell to normal sicknesses—the common cold, pneumonia, and influenza. Those who were seriously injured fell to sepsis and infection.

By year six, a new world order was created among smaller regional communities—a desire to not just survive any longer, but thrive. Live. Humans had to come together and carve a path for a better world, otherwise all anyone had to look forward to was a second death as a mutated monster.

Yet as if the gods, if there were any, had a fucking sick sense of humor…the mutations changed. They were no longer shuffling or slower paced, they became quick, lethal, and smart. The challenges never ended, no matter how badly you wish they would.

Today, July 24th, marked the tenth anniversary of World’s End—and somehow people were still surviving. Against all odds, life was finding a way.

Kuroko Tetsuya sighed, snapped his journal closed and tucked his pen into his pocket. He leaned back against the wooden pillar, one leg dangling over the balcony wall he sat upon while his other was outstretched. Below was the small farm constructed to provide food for the nearly 250 individuals that resided in the camp, which became known as The Palace. It had everything necessary to survive—security measures, medical care, water, food, shelter, and some comforts of the old world.

He had a hard time believing that he had managed to survive in a world of ruin and chaos for a decade. In fact, he often found it hard to remember when he was sixteen. A first year high school student who played basketball and had just won the Winter Cup. Ten years. How could that have possibly been the amount of time that had passed? Kuroko Tetsuya wasn’t a kid or teenager anymore, but an adult man.

The late afternoon sun was unrelenting. Sweat beaded on his forehead, which he wiped away with a tattered rag he carried around in the pocket of his trousers. All his clothing had seen better days, but the new world wasn’t about fashion—unless you were Kise Ryota, who demanded to be ‘apocalyptic chic’ at all times. The idea made Tetsuya smile as he studied the toes of his scuffed boots that had been glued and taped together at least three times since he’d first found them a year ago. His vest, which had many pockets, had once been a light gray shade, but from various stains—blood, mud, grass, sweat—it had become more of a charcoal color.

He rolled his shoulder, trying to get the crick out of it. After a couple of rotations it popped and he grimaced. It hadn’t fully healed since having popped out of its socket a couple of weeks ago. The laceration on his forehead had been healing nicely. And because of his injuries, his friends had essentially forbidden him from leaving The Palace. He’d accepted, wanting to be able to sleep without having to keep one eye open, but it turned out his body was hardwired to always be on high alert.

Tetsuya hadn’t been the only one that got injured on the last supply run mission. Kagami Taiga had suffered a crocodile quill through his side, it was mostly a flesh wound, but Midorima Shintaro—resident doctor—basically chained Kagami to the bed as he ‘sucked’ at following his doctor’s orders. Crocodiles and alligators weren’t native to Japan, but they’re mutated versions had plagued the rivers and hot springs all across the country and were a serious problem to say the least.

“Shin-chan’s gonna kill Kagami,” Takao Kazunari said, hands stuffed into the pockets of his tan camo vest. “Maybe you can talk Kagami into resting for a while longer.” Around Takao’s neck was a thin head scarf he often wore while on search & rescue missions, the tails of the scarf fluttered around him as a breeze sailed by, providing a temporary reprieve from the summer heat and humidity.

“I doubt he’ll listen even if I tell him,” Tetsuya replied with a small smile. “He hates being bedridden more than anyone. Especially when he feels like he still has a job to do.”

Takao hummed, standing by Tetsuya’s worn boots. “It’s been two weeks with no sign of them.”

Tetsuya licked his lips and nodded. “I know that and so does he, but until—”

“Until you see a body, you don’t know for sure,” Takao finished, resting his elbows against the half wall surrounding the balcony of the watchtower that stood in the far south corner of The Palace. “Still though, they’re just gone.”

He meant Momoi Satsuki and Hayama Kotaro. It was supposed to be a routine mission, scout the area, gather materials, and return home. In the war room, when they discussed the plan, it sounded so simple, but even after ten years the chaos of the world was as unpredictable as ever. The team’s target were some communication technology pieces in a relay center about half a day’s walk from The Palace, what they hadn’t anticipated were a tribe of mutated macaques that lived in the surrounding area.

The chaos resulted in a hoard of the undead coming into the area. They were overwhelmed within minutes. A skilled team taken down in seconds, Tetsuya witnessed four people ripped limb from limb by the mutated macaques. It had become so hard to sleep since that day as the memories of the blood, screams, wails, gunfire, and snapping of bones took over him.

“Going out hurt won’t do him or anyone else any good,” Takao spoke up, breaking Tetsuya from his memories. “Just go talk him down, he’ll listen to you.”

Tetsuya looked back over the field where dozens of people were tending to various crops. Two horses were hooked up to a wagon that people were filling with bushels of fresh food. In the far left corner of the field was a chicken-coop with about fifty hens and three ornery roosters that had a personal vendetta against Tetsuya. Before he had joined the supply run team, he worked in the fields, maintaining the crops, taking care of the chickens, and four milking cows and three goats they managed to keep alive.

He turned his attention back on Takao. When they were in high school, Takao had always been a bit of a jokester, friendly and goofy, but after ten years of living in what could only be hell, he’d hardened. His body had become bulkier, his demeanor colder. He traveled around camp armed to the teeth, a knife in each boot, a pistol at each hip, a sword at his back, and he even wore brass knuckles from time to time, which were currently poking out of his chest pocket. His hair that had once been straight and combed back was now long and tied into a loose braid that fell right between his shoulder blades.

And he had a scar. It was hidden, but Tetsuya had seen it when it had been an open wound, when it was healing, and when it became a permanent mark on his flesh. Jagged and long, it stretched from his right hip to his left shoulder. Tetsuya could see the tail end of it poking out from beneath his vest. It had happened three years ago, but it wasn’t a mutated animal, insect, plant, or the undead that had done it to him, it had been another living, breathing human.

“I don’t think he’ll listen, but I’ll try,” Tetsuya said, swinging his legs over and hopping  down, then muttered, “Aomine didn’t listen.”

“His woman is out there,” Takao replied with a shrug. “I can’t say I wouldn’t be searching if it were Shin-chan.”

☣☣☣

Kise Ryota let out a heavy sigh, his gloved hands holding to the rickety back of the chair he was straddling. He’d been in the infirmary for the past fifteen minutes, listening to Kagami and Midorima bickering like some old married couple. He’d stayed out of it for the most part, his eyes ping-ponging between the two with a slight amusement. The truth was while Ryota completely understood Kagami’s plight of getting back out there and finding their lost friends, Midorima’s logic was sound. Kagami’s side had been torn open and needed adequate time to heal. Of course, patience had never been Kagami’s strong suit even when they were teenagers.

“You’re going to injure yourself further, possibly even get yourself killed, idiot,” Midorima grumbled, rubbing his temples. “You need at least another three weeks of bed rest, four preferably.”

“I’m fine!”

“No, you aren’t, Kagami,” Midorima chided with a shake of his head. He plopped down on the rolly stool beside Kagami’s bed, scooting closer to his head. “Any strenuous movement will make those stitches tear right open. We’ve been over this a dozen times already,” he pointed to the bandages wrapped around Kagami’s torso and shoulder, “if that wound opens, you’ll bleed, get an infection, pass out and then become food for the dead and beasts out there. Just stay put.”

Kagami was sitting up, propped against three pillows, blanket over the lower half of his body, wrist handcuffed to the bed frame—Midorima’s doing—and eyes filled with the same worry, anger, and anxiety everyone else had since the mission a couple of weeks ago had gone horribly wrong. Honestly, Ryota didn’t even think horribly wrong sufficed as an explanation. No words could encompass the tragedy of that mission.

When Kagami remained silent for a whole thirty seconds, Midorima let out a breath of relief and rose to his feet. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and turned around, heading toward the supply cabinet across from the four beds in the room. Kagami hadn’t initially been alone in the room, but Midorima had the others relocated to a quieter and more peaceful space about two doors down.

“It’s my fault,” Kagami said.

Ryota frowned, resting his chin atop his hands. Based on the reports from those who did survive, no one was to blame. A team of ten went in—four were ripped apart, two went missing, and four came back injured—Kagami was the worst of those injured.

“I can’t just sit here and do nothing!”

Midorima had placed fresh bandages, gauze pads, cotton balls, rubbing alcohol, and a homemade poultice onto a tray and turned to face Kagami. “You aren’t doing nothing. You’re healing, moron!”

Kagami snorted. “I’m a fucking prisoner.”

“If you wouldn’t try to run off, I wouldn’t have you handcuffed to the bed.”

“I can handle it, the stitches are holding. No fever, no irritation, minimal pain, just let—”

“Taiga,” Midorima stated firmly. “You’re in no condition. Enough already, please.”

Ryota caught it, the slight tremble of Midorima’s hands, the rattle of the metal tray. Kagami must have caught it too as he stared down, not making a single sound.

“We’ve lost enough people,” Midorima explained, softly. “I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

“But—”

“Kagamicchi,” Ryota cut him off.

Scarlet eyes locked onto Ryota’s golden ones. Kagami licked his lips and fell back into his pillows. He’d changed since they were teenagers, they all had. He wore his hair shorter and had a scar on his right jawline. Tall, lean cut with defined muscles, and an ornery attitude…well, maybe Kagami had only changed physically.

“I need to change your bandages and check your stitches, you’re bleeding again.” Midorima placed the tray on the bedside table and pulled the rolly chair over with his foot. “This will go a lot faster if you don’t argue.”

Kagami glanced at Midorima, sighed and then nodded. Ryota smiled weakly, watching as Midorima undressed the wound, examined it, then began to clean it. Kagami grimaced as Midorima wiped with rubbing alcohol then topped it with a poultice. Once he finished cleaning, he placed fresh gauze then wrapped it up with new bandages. He piled all the dirty bandages and cotton swabs on the tray and walked over to the trashcan beside the medical supply cabinet.

He then walked over to the wash basin, cleaning off his hands. When he finished and dried his hands, he turned around and leaned back against the cabinet, studying Kagami then glanced at Ryota. “Kise, go get some food for him.”

Ryota nodded, standing from the chair. “No problem, please don’t kill each other in my absence.”

“Do no harm,” Midorima muttered under his breath, earning a small chuckle from Ryota.

The whole reason Ryota was even in the infirmary was because Akashi had asked him to be in there. Not because Kagami would listen to him, but because Ryota had become well versed in the plant spores that infested certain areas around the region. And he carried a couple of vials of spores that would put people to sleep for several hours. If push came to shove, Ryota would use it on him. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Ryota walked to the infirmary door, which had a window blocked by a thin white sheet. On the other side, he noticed a shadow. He pulled the door open and smiled as he looked down at Kuroko dressed in his tattered pants and worn out vest. “Just in time to fill in as referee.”

“What are you doing here, Kise-kun?”

“Entertainment purposes,” Ryota replied with a wink, then slipped out into the hallway. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, want some food?”

“I’m fine, thanks though,” Kuroko replied as he stepped into the infirmary and closed the door.

Ryota walked down the short hallway of the two story house they’d converted into a medical facility. The second floor was mainly used for patients Midorima had to keep an eye on. He turned on his heels and clomped down the stairs, boots thudding and steps creaking with each step. He made it to the ground floor, entering the main hall of the home, which was empty aside from two benches pressed against the wall of the stairs. Directly across the walkway was the living room that was used as a check-up space for basic things like splinters, scrapes, stomach bugs. Three beds were placed beside the window, neatly made with crisp clean sheets.

“Sure was a lot of yelling up there.” Mibuchi Reo stood at a large wooden table, different medical supplies laid out before him. He was Midorima’s assistant in all the medical events, he stepped up after the death of Midorima’s father two years ago. It was a great loss for the entire community, but they still had a few other medical professionals from the past. “Kasamatsu is waiting outside for you, by the way.”

“He is?” Ryota said with a raised eyebrow.

“He heard all the arguing though and said he’d just wait outside.” Mibuchi dropped some supplies into a metal tin, closed it up and packed another. 

All teams were given first aid kits whether they went beyond the wall or not. Everyone had also been trained how to do basic first aid to hopefully save some lives. Unfortunately, Ryota had seen more deaths than rescues in the past several years. In a way, he had sort of become numb to it all.

“You know how Kagamicchi is, stubborn as hell,” Ryota said as he watched Mibuchi for a few moments longer. “He’ll get riled up again in an hour or so.”

“Just give him that sleeping spore,” Mibuchi said, continuing to pack more first aid kits. “Maybe then, he’ll legitimately rest.”

“This stuff is hard to collect,” Ryota replied, patting the pouch secured to his belt. “I’d rather not unless it’s completely necessary.”

“Sei-chan wouldn’t have told you to baby sit if he didn’t think it wasn’t.”

“Maybe, but let’s see if he’ll chill with some food in his belly.” Ryota walked out of the dining space and into the kitchen to grab a bowl from the cupboard. With a bowl in hand he made his way toward the back door at the other end of the kitchen. He stepped onto the porch, the humidity and heat practically slapping him in the face.

The soft rift of a guitar filled his ears and he glanced to his left, spotting Kasamatsu Yukio on the porch swing. Ryota smiled and placed a hand on his hip, staring down at Kasamatsu, who strummed the guitar mindlessly.

“Yukiocchi,” Ryota said.

“Don’t call me that, weirdo,” Kasamatsu retorted, steely blue eyes peering up at him.

Ryota chuckled. “Can’t help it.”

“Try anyway,” he stated, strumming the guitar strings a couple more times in a pleasant melody.

“What are you doing here? Waiting for me?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

Kasamatsu rolled his eyes and placed the guitar down, leaning it against the banister of the porch. “Well, we’re on the same team aren’t we?” he asked as he rose to his feet. “The Recon Team spotted a herd of cattle about an hours' ride from here.”

Ryota raised an eyebrow. “Did they say how many?”

“Sixteen.”

Ryota whistled. “No mutations?”

Kasamatsu shook his head. “Kobori’s already talking to the council, we’ve got about five hours of daylight left.”

“Go saddle up, I’m coming.” Ryota grinned.

“Thought so.” Kasamatsu clapped Ryota on the shoulder and walked down the back porch steps, heading across the small yard to the gravel path that led to the stables.

Ryota made his way to the fire pit, where a large pot was slowly cooking over an open flame. Mibuchi had set it up earlier that morning. A hearty beef stew that would hopefully put Kagami to sleep.

☣☣☣

Aomine Daiki didn’t accept the fact that Satsuki was gone. And he for damn sure didn’t accept that she was dead. He’d search for her until he found her again. He would not rest until he did. She wasn’t dead. He knew she was still alive. They hadn’t gone through the seven levels of hell twice for her to have been killed by a mutated monkey. And she damn well knew how to fight off the dead, he’d made sure of it.

He walked along the tree line that surrounded the relay center. Careful, slow movements, head on a swivel, ears alert for any out of the ordinary sounds. Crossbow in hand, Daiki crouched behind some bushes. 

For the week and a half, Daiki had searched the entire valley for any signs of Satsuki. He’d also kept an eye on the relay center, studying the mutated macaques that had made it their home. He didn’t dare get close. They were big, nasty, and violent. From his reconnaissance he’d concluded that there were fourteen in the tribe, one of which was a big fanged male with matching razor sharp claws. Pure muscle and rage. When they stood erect, they reached his chest, which was way bigger than necessary.

It was mid-afternoon and hot as balls, meaning they’d be hanging out inside the facility that was mostly concrete, metal, and stone. Daiki wiped the sweat from his brow, stayed low and moved quickly across the clearing to the chain-link fence that was rusted and overgrown with weeds. The hole the team had gone through a month prior still remained. He glanced around once more ensuring the coast was clear then slid through as quietly as he could manage.

He traveled light, crossbow, a set of throwing knives strapped to his thigh, boot knife, and a pistol at his hip. When he was on the other side of the fence, he crept forward through the knee high grass. Aside from the rustle of the grass and the hum of cicadas, nothing else could be heard.

Daiki had to go inside. No one had since the attack, no one dared due to the undead and mutant monkeys. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew if they were in there they’d be dead. Two with no food, water or medical care…He shook his head and continued toward the three building set-up. The giant satellites had crumbled and their rusted frames looked like mangled hands reaching toward the sky.

A rotting, sour stench wafted through the air, stinging his nose. His stomach churned, the desire to vomit bubbled in his throat. Letting out a shaky breath, Daiki pressed on, ignoring the burn of his eyes. When he finally made it to the doorway of the main building, he noticed dark red blood smeared along the wall, the streaks appearing as though something or someone had grabbed the wall and was pulled in.

The smell was way worse inside. He reached for the bandana tied around his neck and lifted it up over his mouth and nose before creeping inside. The sunlight poured in, guiding his way into the building. The hall was wide, big enough for a small car to drive through. Old pools of blood stained various spots on the concrete ground. He stepped cautiously, avoiding anything that would make a sound. One wrong move and everything in the building would know he was inside.

When he made it to the end of the corridor, it forked to the left and right. He pressed himself against the brick wall and peered around. To the left was a metal door with a small rectangular window that had a bloody handprint smeared on it. Daiki shook his head and glanced to the right, finding six dead bodies on the ground. No one from the team, but rather the undead killed in the fray. He decided to head right, which according to the old signage of the building was the way to the workshop.

He stepped over the bodies, face scrunching as the rot and decay overtook his senses. His hands tightened around his crossbow as he lifted it, pointing straight ahead. The closer he got the stronger the smell became. At the end of the hall were a set of double doors, one was still closed while the other was partially opened. On the ground, a thick trail of blood led into the next room. Daiki edged closer to the door.

Silence.

He didn’t want to move the door, but he had no choice. With one gloved hand, he pushed the door slowly. The hinges creaked. He froze, crossbow at the ready. Nothing was coming from the hall and the next room was still quiet. It was dimly lit inside, only the holes in the ceiling and the dusty windows along the upper part of the wall gave him some type of visual field. He went into the next room, coming onto a yellow painted grated platform.

Daiki sucked in a breath. “What the fuck?”

All the mutated macaques lay scattered across the workshop floor. Bodies mangled, blood, bones, flesh everywhere. Daiki shook his head. No human or even the undead had done this. He swallowed the lump in his throat and inspected the stairs. Blood dripped from the railing and viscera clung onto the grated steps.

“Geez,” Daiki breathed as he moved down the stairs. When he made it to the ground, he stepped in a puddle of blood with a mangled monkey arm beside it. Sunlight streamed through the dusty skylights above, some fractured allowing the elements to seep in. Toward the back of the room, he found rows and rows of industrial shelving units.

He weaved through the corpses and detached limbs, stepping lightly as he proceeded. It was hard to tell for sure, but Daiki estimated there were five rows of industrial shelves that had various pieces of old technology covered in a thick layer of dust. He’d be hard pressed for any of it to even work, but Imayoshi and Akashi had made things work with less.

Something from above creaked.

Daiki stepped back, lifting his crossbow in the direction of the sound. Nothing. His brow creased, but he kept his bow up.

A low guttural growl rumbled through the room.

His heart thrummed in his chest, beating like a war drum against his ribs. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face, dripping from his jawline. He scanned the room, slowly for any sign of movement. Whatever was in there with him wasn’t a mutant corpse—zombie, undead, whatever—it was something much fucking bigger. He kept his breathing as level as he could, but every instinct told him to run like his ass was on fire. That would be a stupid idea though.

Running made it a game.

The clack of claws on the plywood shelves echoed in the room. Daiki held his breath. Something fell just arms length from him. A sickening loud splat. His stomach roiled as a shredded torso of a monkey lay beside him. Slowly, his eyes drifted up toward the top shelf.

Glowing green eyes. Curved fangs protruding from a feline maw. A massive body filled in with hard muscles. Long claws meant to slice and shred its victims with ease. Inky black fur with the subtle markings of spots. Its tail flicked as it gazed down at Daiki and licked its chops.

Daiki spotted the faint outline of a door against the back wall. It would be a long shot, but it was better than being in a cramped room. He’d taken two spore bombs from Kise. He needed to get out and strike the beast down before he inhaled the spores himself. Daiki looked back at the mutant, its body coiling as if ready to pounce and devour him whole. He placed his finger on the trigger, his crossbow aimed squarely at the mutant cat's face. The damn thing was as big as a horse, he couldn’t fucking miss.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Pull the trigger.

Fucking run!