disclaimer: disclaimed.
dedication: to my dorky little brother, who is actually way less dorky than I am. whatever, you're a goober, dude.
notes: so um. yeah.

title: contagion
summary: George Michael, Maeby, and the zombie apocalypse.






"Are you sure about this?" he asks dubiously, and she holds the gun out because someone has to.

"Of course I'm sure," Maeby replies. She flips her curls over her shoulder and eyes him critically; looks up and down and sort of squinty like she's trying to figure out a way to avoid studying for a math test.

George Michael hates it when she looks at him like that.

It never bodes well. He privately thinks that maybe that's what the end of the world looks like—wait, never mind, the world had already ended. This is nothing new.

He's got to remember that.

Maeby's still holding out the gun. "Would you just take it, already?" she demands.

George Michael fumbles with it, nearly yelping as the cold weighted metal bites heavy against his skin. He doesn't know what to do with this, never held a gun in his life and he doesn't even know what to do with it.

"Maeby, I don't know about—"

"It's do-or-die time, George Michael," she laughs, and he cringes away from the gaiety of it. It sounds all wrong coming from her mouth when her eyes are iced over the way they are. It doesn't suit her, and he misses the sarcasm and the anger that are as signature to her as her name.

"I guess."

"Always shoot twice," she advises.

"How do you know that?"

"Ever watched Zombie Land?" she asks in reply. George Michael remembers that movie—he remembers how she forced him down, nearly sat on top of him to keep him from movie, and he'd always hated zombie movies, he didn't know how he was supposed to deal with this.

"Stop thinking, stupid," she says again. "Always shoot twice."

She always was good at interrupting his inner monologues.

George Michael holds the gun uneasily. Maeby pulls the safety off, and suddenly they're the only two kids left in the whole world, and he would really love to kiss her just once more. She's close enough, and he can count her eyelashes.

He doesn't.

She whirls, hair everywhere, and trudges to the door. Shoves it open with a sharp bunch of her muscles. White light around her.

George Michael can't speak.

She looks over her shoulder at him. "Coming?"

"Yeah," he gulps, and follows her.