Title: The Final Nail in Your Coffin

Rating: T

Genre: DEATH/ horror

Word count: 2000-ish

Warnings: Blood, gore, zombies, character death, power saws, surgery, nail guns

A/N: Part two of my zombie!glee fic. NOT CUTE, NOT FLUFFY, NOT ROMANTIC, NO SHIPS.

When the outbreak hit McKinley, Santana's first thought was to get Brittany and get the hell out of there, her second was weapons. New Directions scattered to the four winds, and Santana was already pulling Brittany away from the choir room when the blonde stopped moving, and began to pull against her hold. Over the screaming she heard the blonde's pleas.

"We can't leave Artie, San! We have to help him."

Santana is fully prepared to drag the blonde away and deal with her anger and sadness later, because really, Artie doesn't stand a chance. But the blonde's hand slipped from hers and she ran back in the direction they had come. Santana turned back and ran after her, heart in her throat when she saw all of the bodies writhing in the hall.

She wasn't exactly a fan of zombie movies, but she had seen more than a few when she was "dating" Puck. She almost wished he was around as he had been planning for the zombie apocalypse with Chang since they were little kids. He probably had his basement fortified and stocked with bottled water and non-perishable food.

She and Brittany didn't have to go all the way to the choir room; Artie had wheeled himself out like a mad man with the devil after him. And the devil was after him, in the form of three former cheerleaders. Former, because they were now grey-skinned, white-eyed monsters with tears in their flesh and clothes.

Brittany skidded around behind him and grabbed the handles of his wheelchair to take over steering. Santana stopped and waited for the blonde, taking a quick look around the scene. People were rushing by, buffeting her in their wake, others were on the ground writhing and vomiting blood, and then others still were trying to stand up, grey faced and vacant.

When the blonde reached her, Santana pulled Artie's chair from her grip. "Just run," she commanded, taking over control of pushing the crippled boy. "I've got him."

"Where do I go?"


The blonde ran ahead without further comment and Santana followed closely, Artie gripping his hand rests tightly from fear of falling out of his chair.

"If I die because of you," Santana hissed in his ear, "I'm gonna be pissed."

The woodshop was in one of the out buildings in the back of school property. It was unlocked, and it looked like a few people had already thought of raiding it for weapons, if the bloody mess all over the concrete floor and over turned tables were any indication.

She and Artie wandered through the mess. She had an actual goal in mind, but she wasn't sure if Artie was looking for something specific or if he was just observing. She tried the door to the teacher's office, but it was locked. When she cupped her hands around her eyes and looked through the windows she could see that the room was undisturbed and empty. Behind the vacant desk in the room was a locked cabinet. Santana knew what the teacher kept locked in there, nail guns, extra saw blades, a crowbar, and a few sledgehammers.

It's only when she felt a breeze tickle over her back that she remembered that the door was open. She turned and looked back to see that Brittany was staring out the way they had come. Santana had to physically remove Brittany from in front of the still open door, pulling her back and closing the heavy metal entrance as quietly as possible. The blonde was a lot like a baby deer. Sweet and graceful and leggy, but she lacked the sense of self-preservation present in most fawns.

"I don't understand, Santana," she admitted timidly, when the brunette guided her back. "I don't know what's going on."

"Me either. Just stay with Artie while I take care of some things," Santana replied gently, rubbing her hands over the blonde's forearms. "Okay?"

Brittany nodded and moved to join Artie where he was looking over a pool of blood with interest.

Quinn was the best lock picker that Santana had ever met. It was a talent the blonde had been proud to hold over her head, but Santana wasn't too shabby at the art herself. It just took her a little longer to get results sometimes.

Being off the Cheerios was a blessing sometimes, and pockets were defiantly a good thing on days like that one. When she was on the squad she had to keep all of her personal belongings, including her nail file, in her backpack, but now she could carry it around wherever. It would be useful for her purpose.

It only took her three minutes to jimmy open the lock, and when she finally succeeded she fist-pumped in triumph.

She immediately went for the battery powered nail guns. She took one and three extra batteries out to the main part of the shop. With a hand saw, some spare lumber and some electrician's tape, she jerry-rigged a riffle with Brittany leaning over her shoulder as she worked. She tested it with distance and direct contact and ended up with a pleased smile slipping over her face.

For the first time since the zombies had infected the school she wasn't afraid.

She gave a crowbar to Artie and a sledgehammer to Brittany. Artie test swung the bar and Brittany stared at the hammer with a confused pout on her face.

"So, what now?" Artie asked.

"We should go to Puck's house. I'd bet anything that his basement is completely zombie proofed. If we can get to my car, assuming it hasn't been stolen by now, we can get there in ten minutes."

"What if he's been taken?"

"Then we kill him and take his house."

Brittany turned shocked eyes to the Latina. "We can't kill Puck, Santana. He's our friend."

Santana sighed, chewed her lip, and sighed again, trying to think of a gently way to explain the situation to the blonde. "Alright, Britt-Britt, there's a new rule. If you see a zombie you kill it. No exceptions. It doesn't matter if it used to be one of our friends. Once a zombie is a zombie it's game over. They're already dead and they're just trying to kill you."


All it took was the sound of the door opening and the zombie that had been shuffling by was on them. Santana had killed it, three nails to the head. It had been cake, but Brittany had screamed in shock at seeing the creature so close. Then it dropped to the ground body decaying quicker now that its brain was out of commission.

That one scream had drawn them like flies to honey. They weren't very fast, especially the ones with the bum legs, but there were so many that it didn't really matter. They worked through them. Santana didn't waste nails, she didn't know how many she had, and so her shots were precise. If it took more than two shots she just used her makeshift gun as a club and then moved on. Brittany wielded her hammer in great sweeping arches, knocking multiple monsters to their asses with each swing. Artie kept his back to the wall and drove whichever end of his crowbar he could into zombie flesh.

It got to be too much. There were fewer zombies, but the humans were tiring.

It was how they ended up winning usually. Humans wore out eventually, and zombies were relentless.

Artie was screaming, but Santana was pretty sure it was from fear and not pain. The zombie had a hold of his knee between its teeth. The wheelchair-bound boy was slamming his crowbar down over the monster's back, but the awkward angle meant that he couldn't really do anything. He tried to pry its teeth away, but he couldn't get the edge of the bar to grip anything.

Santana shot the last zombie near her in the head a few times and watched it crumple before running to help Artie. Brittany got there first with her sledge hammer. She reared back and then let it fly. It connected somewhere on the side of the monster's head. The sound of bone crunching rent the air. Blood and brain burst from the body as it flopped away. Artie's leg had followed the motion of the body because the zombie didn't let go, and absorbed some of the impact from the hammer. His pants had torn where he had been bitten, blood and bone clearly visible.

"I think you broke his leg," Santana told the blonde. She knelt by the boy and pulled his ripped pants away from the wound to get a better look at it. It was nasty and bleeding a lot, but she could clearly see where his leg was snapped. "Yeah, it's broken."

Big blue eyes welled with tears. "I'm so sorry, Artie. Does it hurt?" Santana sighed in exasperation. Brittany never had really grasped that Artie couldn't feel anything in his legs.

"No, Brittany, it doesn't hurt," he smiled shakily at her and she lit up a little. Then his eyes met Santana's and the Latina knew they needed to talk without Brittany around.

"Britt, go lock the door again and then go get the first aid kit out of the office."

She bounced away at once, dropping her hammer with a loud crash.

"I want you to cut it off," Artie told her quietly. Santana opened her mouth to refuse, violently, but he beat her to speaking. "If we do it quickly the disease might not spread."

She shook. There was no way that her feelings about the cripple could be considered positive, but that didn't mean she wanted to be responsible for killing him. "You'll bleed to death."

"It'll be better than becoming one of them," he insisted, jerking his head at the decomposing body next to him.

"I don't know if I can do it? How do I even…"

"Put me on the table and we'll use the round saw. It'll be nasty, but it'll be over quick." He didn't wait for her to answer, he just wheeled himself over to the table where the saw was mounted and plugged it in. He shot a dark look over his shoulder when the saw whirred to life. "If you don't help me I'll just do it myself."

"You'll never dance," Brittany whispered. Their eyes snapped to hers. Neither had noticed her rejoining them.

Artie smiled sadly at her. "I'd rather be alive to never dance, Brittany. Santana understands that, right?"

Santana helped, and she wished to God that she hadn't as soon as the first spurt of blood hit her in the face. She slammed the saw down quick, not wanting to drag out the torture. There was plenty of blood. There was the sick crunch of bone. And Artie was crying a little. Fear again. Normally Santana would make fun of him. But she was crying too.

She pushed the mangled and grey leftovers of his leg off the edge of the table and pulled the plug on the saw while Brittany pulled the rest of Artie away from the whirling blade.

When the boy puked all down his front and then passed out she tried not to panic. She and Brittany pulled all the gauze out of the considerable first aid kit and packed the wound. The sensation of the blonde's panicked eyes on her made Santana feel useless. She didn't know what to do about the bleeding. She had seen people on action movies burn gashes closed, but she didn't even have her little lighter on her.

They both had to pull him off the table and position him back in the wheelchair, and when he slumped forward limply, they tied him in upright with the extra electrician's tape, since the simple seat belt wasn't helping.


Cutting off his leg didn't work.

It took maybe ten minutes for him to reanimate and tear clear through the tape and belt. He couldn't walk with only one leg, and Santana didn't know if he would have been able to walk if both legs had still been attached. He crawled toward them, dragging his decaying form over the concrete with just upper body strength.

Brittany was crying, and she cried harder when Santana leveled her nail gun at Artie's head, aiming right between sightless white eyes.

She didn't bother lying to herself. It felt damn good to pop a few into his brain and watch him slump over, dead.