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Jun. 13th, 2007 11:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
3pipeproblemMy housemate has an impressively loud friend over, which means I'm not good for much besides posting things I've already written. So, on that note...
"I knew this day would come."
"Tuesday."
"No." Denny cocks his shotgun. For all the attention he affords the task, he could be brushing a piece of lint from his suit.
Denny's eyes take on a certain manic cast when he's in close proximity to a gun. Alan's reminded alternately of a mad scientist and a two-year-old who has in his clutches a prized toy. He's not sure which association is more terrifying. "Today is the day everyone in this office realizes that there is a reason I keep guns stockpiled here. That not all amendments are created equal. That—"
"Denny. Denny, you are not"—Alan sighs, gets to his feet, crosses to the door to the balcony—"the hero of an action movie."
There's no smoke billowing from the rooftops, but it'll come. The morning's news had been terse—no sports scores scrolling along the bottom of the screen, no banter between anchors. Overnight, even the weather report had become a grim reminder of horrors to come. Most stations have limited themselves to a two-day forecast; there's not much point in looking further ahead.
(Fox News, of course, had given utterance to the immortal—for whatever immortality's worth, these days—line "Sunny with a chance of zombies.")
Denny grunts. "I saved your life, didn't I? One shot and…" He jerks the gun back into his shoulder, makes a sound halfway between a bird whistle and a clearing of the throat that Alan can only surmise is meant to simulate a gunshot. "The Duke couldn't have done it better himself."
"The Duke is dead," Alan says, but his mouth twists into a faint suggestion of a smile.
"For now. It’s not a permanent condition anymore." Gun tucked under his arm like a football, Denny throws open the door to the balcony, steps squinting and grinning into the early morning light.
The city’s familiar rhythm has given way to the whoop of the siren. Even at this height, Alan catches a strain or two of the amelodic keening—as though Boston itself knows what’s coming.
There are riots in the streets. There’ll be more to follow.
“We shouldn’t be out here, Denny.” He catches his friend by the arm. “It’s only a matter of time before…” Alan laughs, shakes his head. “Chaos. Ruin. And a few days after that, perhaps the President’ll do us the honor of salving our wounds with a few guitar chords. We need to get you someplace safe.”
“Alan.” Denny gestures expansively, emphatically, with his loaded gun. “This is our balcony. If there is one place in this city—in this world—that’s safe, this is it. I don’t care if it’s zombies or, or Jerry Espenson—“
Denny’s eyes widen; Alan turns to follow his friend’s line of sight and finds himself slammed up against one of the massive chairs designed for scotch-drinking and quiet contemplation. The shotgun barks. Alan’s ears ring.
In the glass of the door, surrounded by minute fractures like tiny forks of lightning, is a hole. Alan blinks, estimates it at the size of a quarter. He spends a grim moment superimposing the image on a human skull.
“See?” Denny says, indicating the glass with the barrel of his gun. “If that had been a zombie, he would be dead right now.”
“Technically—“
“Oh, come off it. So there are zombies on the loose. It’s not the end—“
“Technically—“
Something in Alan’s voice, perhaps something in a register only Denny is attuned to, must falter, because he lays the gun down and looks the younger lawyer in the eye. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to let anything happen to me.”
Alan raises an eyebrow. “Promise?”
Alan keeps faith the way some people—careless people—keep receipts: in scraps, worn and crumpled, and with a vague notion that it might some day come in handy. What little faith he does have, he invests in words; two in particular. Denny says them now.
From now on, I think my fic(lets) should include acknowledgements. I am very much indebted to wikipedia for its article on shotguns. And also mucus (it seemed relevant at the time).
You know what, while we're at it, my cousin used to play this game all the damn time.
"I knew this day would come."
"Tuesday."
"No." Denny cocks his shotgun. For all the attention he affords the task, he could be brushing a piece of lint from his suit.
Denny's eyes take on a certain manic cast when he's in close proximity to a gun. Alan's reminded alternately of a mad scientist and a two-year-old who has in his clutches a prized toy. He's not sure which association is more terrifying. "Today is the day everyone in this office realizes that there is a reason I keep guns stockpiled here. That not all amendments are created equal. That—"
"Denny. Denny, you are not"—Alan sighs, gets to his feet, crosses to the door to the balcony—"the hero of an action movie."
There's no smoke billowing from the rooftops, but it'll come. The morning's news had been terse—no sports scores scrolling along the bottom of the screen, no banter between anchors. Overnight, even the weather report had become a grim reminder of horrors to come. Most stations have limited themselves to a two-day forecast; there's not much point in looking further ahead.
(Fox News, of course, had given utterance to the immortal—for whatever immortality's worth, these days—line "Sunny with a chance of zombies.")
Denny grunts. "I saved your life, didn't I? One shot and…" He jerks the gun back into his shoulder, makes a sound halfway between a bird whistle and a clearing of the throat that Alan can only surmise is meant to simulate a gunshot. "The Duke couldn't have done it better himself."
"The Duke is dead," Alan says, but his mouth twists into a faint suggestion of a smile.
"For now. It’s not a permanent condition anymore." Gun tucked under his arm like a football, Denny throws open the door to the balcony, steps squinting and grinning into the early morning light.
The city’s familiar rhythm has given way to the whoop of the siren. Even at this height, Alan catches a strain or two of the amelodic keening—as though Boston itself knows what’s coming.
There are riots in the streets. There’ll be more to follow.
“We shouldn’t be out here, Denny.” He catches his friend by the arm. “It’s only a matter of time before…” Alan laughs, shakes his head. “Chaos. Ruin. And a few days after that, perhaps the President’ll do us the honor of salving our wounds with a few guitar chords. We need to get you someplace safe.”
“Alan.” Denny gestures expansively, emphatically, with his loaded gun. “This is our balcony. If there is one place in this city—in this world—that’s safe, this is it. I don’t care if it’s zombies or, or Jerry Espenson—“
Denny’s eyes widen; Alan turns to follow his friend’s line of sight and finds himself slammed up against one of the massive chairs designed for scotch-drinking and quiet contemplation. The shotgun barks. Alan’s ears ring.
In the glass of the door, surrounded by minute fractures like tiny forks of lightning, is a hole. Alan blinks, estimates it at the size of a quarter. He spends a grim moment superimposing the image on a human skull.
“See?” Denny says, indicating the glass with the barrel of his gun. “If that had been a zombie, he would be dead right now.”
“Technically—“
“Oh, come off it. So there are zombies on the loose. It’s not the end—“
“Technically—“
Something in Alan’s voice, perhaps something in a register only Denny is attuned to, must falter, because he lays the gun down and looks the younger lawyer in the eye. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to let anything happen to me.”
Alan raises an eyebrow. “Promise?”
Alan keeps faith the way some people—careless people—keep receipts: in scraps, worn and crumpled, and with a vague notion that it might some day come in handy. What little faith he does have, he invests in words; two in particular. Denny says them now.
From now on, I think my fic(lets) should include acknowledgements. I am very much indebted to wikipedia for its article on shotguns. And also mucus (it seemed relevant at the time).
You know what, while we're at it, my cousin used to play this game all the damn time.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-06-14 03:57 am (UTC)“Don’t worry. I’m not going to let anything happen to me.”
Alan raises an eyebrow. “Promise?”
Heh!
no subject
Date: 2007-06-15 03:40 am (UTC)Is that all right with you?
no subject
Date: 2007-06-14 05:14 am (UTC)Oh, the awesomeness of this day. It just keeps coming.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-15 03:23 am (UTC)Zombie!fic is positively addictive, I must say.
I may have started some Smecker/Shore.no subject
Date: 2007-06-15 05:40 pm (UTC)I need a zombie icon.
(Hey, are you still up for a House beta? I know you abandoned the crazy long ago, but I am in need at least some kind of snark guidance.)
no subject
Date: 2007-06-15 09:47 pm (UTC)(I'd be delighted to beta! I'm headed to a family reunion this week, though, so I probably won't be able to get it back to you until Monday, if that's all right.)
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Date: 2007-06-14 05:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-15 03:20 am (UTC)Although it's probably safe to say apocalyptic zombiefic isn't "most" Alan stories.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-14 01:52 pm (UTC)I got a little carried away there. Sorry.
I loved this. But I'm curious how the shotgun blast only made a small hole in the glass. And also, if the zombies would want Denny's madcow brains.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-15 03:08 am (UTC)Weeeeeeell, I figured if anyone would have the glass in and around their office bulletproofed, it'd be Denny. But for some reason I was too tired to wiki bulletproof glass and determine what the likely result would be.
I pretty much should have just let it shatter, because that would've been about 1000 times more awesome. And I could've described the sound.
The zombies would not want Denny's mad cow brains! If I were to write a sequel, this would become a plot point.
Thank you for encouraging me to hold my zombiefic to a high standard of realism ;) Also, much love for your own zombie-related exploits yesterday.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-14 03:14 pm (UTC)I love this. OMG.
Can we play Denny and Alan and the end-of-the-world-zombies? Denny would take them all out! Denny Crane! <3
no subject
Date: 2007-06-15 02:38 am (UTC)I realized while writing it that Denny would pretty much think a zombie apocalypse was the best thing ever. Which says a lot.
Ahahaha, sure! I'm being carted off by my family this weekend, but maybe sometime next week?
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Date: 2007-06-14 10:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-15 02:11 am (UTC)>:O
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Date: 2007-06-16 01:37 am (UTC)Denny and Alan vs zombies is awesome. The very first line is awesome. Just, awesome. Also, damn you for getting Julie to tempt me into zombie-writing. I'm about to send an email saying yes, no token protest or anything.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-16 01:41 am (UTC)*CACKLES*
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Date: 2007-06-16 02:04 am (UTC)Oooh, I'm hoping I saw an AD joke on the news the other day. They were talking about how Paris Hilton was taking up the cause of the chickens and one of them said that when she gets out she'll 'be free as a chicken'.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-17 01:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-20 09:35 pm (UTC)