Gerard knelt in front of the stranger, who had clearly had the worst pile of shit dumped on him. Not literally, of course, but he did kind of look like it.

This stranger had holes in his jeans and cuts on his face, his hair straggly and outgrown. His boots were scuffed and bloodied, as were his bare arms, and the t-shirt he wore had been torn at by something. He stared straight ahead, into space, as if the car wasn't there, and he didn't even look like he was breathing.

"Hello?" Gerard said softly, barely aware of tiny stones digging into his knees. "Can you hear me?"

He glanced towards the car and saw Ray's stricken face in the passenger seat, with Bert leaning against the driver's side door and Frank probably somewhere in the back. He didn't get a response from the man, not even a blink of the eye, and he frowned, his eyebrows drawing together.

He reached out a hand and placed it on the stranger's shoulder, and the stranger jumped, a little gasp leaving his lips. Gerard jumped too, startled, and he watched as the man looked around, his hands shaking.

"Why didn't you run me over?" He said quietly, and Gerard blinked.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"There's a car a foot away from my face; why isn't it a foot away from my corpse?"

He glanced up at Bert, who shrugged, getting back behind the wheel. "Listen, do you - uh - want to come with us?"

The stranger shook his head. "Thanks, but no. I'll just have to find a gun or something."

"What? Why?"

"Because I can't take anymore of this fucking apocalypse." There were tears in the man's dark eyes, and Gerard had never seen anyone look so defeated. It was like he'd chosen it, chosen to walk away. Like there was nothing else he could do. "It's taken away everyone I've ever known and loved, especially the two most important men in my life, and I'm the only one left. I'd rather shoot myself, or - or get run over by some scrapheap car than get devoured by a zombie."

Gerard winced. Bert turned on the ignition and revved the engine, clearly not appreciating getting his precious car insulted. Gerard knew Bert: insulting his car was like insulting his masculinity, or what was left of it.

Meanwhile, the stranger began to sob. "Please, please just kill me. You're the first person I've seen in months, I don't want to go that length of time without seeing anyone again. Kill me now, so I don't have to do it myself."

The engine revved harder, and Gerard shot up. "Bert, no!" He cried, and the man behind the wheel raised his eyebrows.

"But Gee -"

"No." He turned back to the stranger. "What's your name?"

"What does it matter?" He wept.

"It matters to me."

There was a pause. "I'm Ryan. Ryan Ross. Please...I just want this apocalypse to end."

~

Bert was grumpy. And so, it seemed, was Frank. Ray and Gerard were the only ones talking to Ryan, the three of them sat at the side of the road, while the two grumpy bastards glowered in the front seats of the car.

Ryan couldn't stop crying. By choice or not, the most he could get down to were sniffles, and then it would just wash over him all over again. He sobbed against Gerard, who just held him, not needing an explanation. It had happened to all of them.

Frank, meanwhile, was glowering at the three, his knife in his hands. Bert reached over and gently plucked it from his grip, turning it over in his own hands.

"What's going on in that head of yours?" He asked quietly, and Frank shrugged.

"If he really wants to die, why don't we just kill him."

Bert rolled his eyes. "It doesn't work like that, Frank. I'm sure even your mind can figure that out."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

A shrug. "You don't think like a teenager, do you? You're not like the rest of us, kid."

"Says who?"

"All of us."

Frank shook his head. "That's not true."

"It is."

There was a pause. "So why isn't he dead if he wants to die so badly?"

"Maybe he's a coward, just like the rest of us."

Frank glared at him. "I'm not a coward."

He hated how Bert was so nonchalant about everything, about this. He hated how Bert could be so calm. He hated how Bert was the one telling him what he could and couldn't do. He was beginning to hate Bert himself.

"You're a different kind of coward, kid."

The younger rolled his eye, and then folded his arms, swinging his feet up onto the dashboard. Bert frowned but said nothing. "Do you love Gerard?" He was asked.

"Yes." He admitted, with five seconds' pause. "Why?"

"Does he love you?" Frank was looking at the three on the side of the road by now, or rather, he was looking at Gerard, and trying his very best to ignore how the elder made his stomach do some sort of weird twisty thing that was really quite uncomfortable at times.

"No. I don't know. Probably not anymore."

"What happened?"

"It doesn't matter, Frank."

Frank sighed. "Are you going to date him?"

There was a snort, and the teenager turned his gaze to Bert, who rolled his eyes. "See, this is what I mean. We're in a zombie apocalypse, and the most important thing on your mind is whether I'm going to date my best friend or not."

The back doors of the car then opened, and Ray, Gerard and a still-tearful Ryan slipped inside. Gerard leaned forward and said something to Bert in a low voice, his lips at his ear, and Frank felt a touch of jealousy, though he couldn't fathom why.

Bert handed Frank his knife and started the car, beginning to drove with no clear goal, and Frank just sat there, listening to the voices behind him. The knife in his hands was glinting maliciously, almost daring him to do something with it. It was a knife, of course, so it couldn't dare him to do anything, but even so, he felt a sudden urge to stick the blade into Ryan's leg.

He glanced around, unknown to the others, and he sought out Ryan's right shin. Then he faced the front, gripped the handle tight in his left hand, and struck.

Only the blade never found its target, as Ryan gripped Frank's wrist and moved his leg out the way. He took the knife from him, holding it up, and Frank glowered. That was the second time today his knife had been in the hands of another person. He didn't like it.

"My boyfriend had a knife like this." Ryan said slowly, and his dark eyes met Frank's for a split second, before Frank turned around and faced the front. He didn't mention how he'd taken the knife from the bloody hand of a dead body some years ago. He didn't mention how he'd thoroughly cleaned the blood off of the blade, thinking guiltily of its owner and their grisly end. "I was going to keep it, but when I returned to his body, it was gone. I wonder why that was..."

Frank didn't say anything, but he could feel Bert glance his way. In his eyes, he'd done nothing wrong.

Nothing more was said for at least another hour, until Ray started complaining that he was hungry, and they were forced to stop at a gas station that looked like it had been set fire to about three times. Bert, Ray and Gerard piled out, leaving Ryan and Frank behind; the latter decided he wasn't hungry, and the former had something he needed to do.

All of a sudden there was the sharpest pain in Frank's upper arm, sharper and clearer than anything he'd ever felt, and before he could cry out, there was a hand over his mouth. The hand was rough and dirty and it belonged to Ryan Ross, who twisted the knife in Frank's arm, making blood drip beneath the sleeve of his jacket.

"That's what you get for stealing from dead people, Iero." He hissed into Frank's ear, and Frank screwed his eye shut, whimpers of pain leaving his lips, only to be muffled by Ryan's hand. "Lindsey should've wrung your fucking neck."

And with that, he withdrew the knife, tossing it onto Frank's lap, and he left the car, left Frank, who bled and sobbed, helpless, all by himself.

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