Title: Shower Scum and Rotting Corpses: The Secret Life Of Adam Lazzara
Pairing: Adam Lazzara (TBS)/John Nolan (SLR)
Rating: PG-13 for zombie violence
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Adam is not just any underpaid, overworked hotel maid. No. Secretly, he's Adam Lazzara, Protector of the Living, Sworn to Destroy Any and All Supernatural Forces That Threaten the Health and Safety of the Human Race. At least, that’s his official title...
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these people, and if zombies ever attack, I sincerely hope they aren't our last line of defense.
Warnings: Zombie violence. Lots of it.
Word Count: 1,143
This chapter is for the fanfic100 prompt Enemies
Before the elevator door even opens, you can hear the mayhem outside. As the two sides start to move apart, you’re hit by an almost deafening roar of screams, grunts, and crunching bone. “Holy shit,” you mutter under your breath.
“Told ya,” Jesse says in a voice that would be smug if he wasn’t swinging his axe at one of the mob of zombies that swarmed towards you as soon as the doors slid open.
“Shut up, Jess,” John pants, already exhausted from swinging his sledgehammer. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t squeal like a little bitch when you saw what was going on.”
“I didn’t,” he pauses to decapitate a grossly overweight zombie, “squeal. It was a brave expression of surprise.”
“Bullshit,” he grunts, braining two undead with one blow. “It was a squeal and you know it.”
Now, ordinarily you’d jump in with a biting comment about moving past the third grade, but you’re busy bashing the living dead with your baseball bat while simultaneously trying not to get your uniform too dirty. You’ll have to wear it again tomorrow, and zombie flesh is fucking impossible to get out. Even worse than vampire blood.
“Jesse, look out behind you,” you shout as a zombie in a bellhop uniform stumbles towards him. You think it’s Fred, the morning shift guy, but you’re not totally sure because half of his face seems to have come off. You hope it is, though. He always pinches your ass through your flimsy pants as you walk by him every morning, and it’s taken every ounce of willpower you possess not to unleash your superhuman roundhouse kick on his ass.
He whirls around and neatly chops his head off with the sharp end of his axe, then smashes it to bits with the dull one before it can roll away. By this time the zombie’s face is completely gone, so it looks like you’ll never know if it really is Fred’s lifeless body you’re currently stepping on. You decide to pretend like it is until you learn otherwise, and stomp pointedly on its rotting groin.
“It’s like they never end,” John exclaims, braining two doormen with one swing.
It’s true. The three of you are already knee deep in rotting body parts and shattered skulls, and the seemingly endless stream of zombies staggering into the lobby through various doors shows no sign of stopping.
“Where are they even coming from?” Jesse asks, grunting out the last two words as he strains to lift his axe high enough to decapitate a particularly tall zombie who appears to have been a maintenance worker just hours ago.
You can tell he’s getting tired. Hell, you’re getting tired. You may have superhuman strength and all that jazz, but let’s face it; it’s not every day you face a never-ending stream of undead hotel employees. You look back at John, and he’s just as exhausted as you and Jesse. You can’t go on like this. Last time you tried to battle monsters when you were this exhausted… Let’s just say you spent the next month dreading what you might find out on the next full moon.
“Guys, we need more backup. Let’s get out of here,” you before bashing your bastard of a manager’s brains in with a particularly hard swing of your baseball bat.
“Yeah, but where the fuck are we supposed to go? They’ve got to have taken over the whole fucking building at this point,” Jesse yells back.
He’s got a point. You rack your brain for somewhere in the building where the rotting bastards might not have made it yet. Your first instinct would be the seedy hotel bar because it doesn’t open for another few hours, but, considering the zombies’ newfound penchant for alcohol and people who serve it, that might not be the best place to hide.
“What about the car?” John shouts as he smashes yet another zombie’s head to bits. “I mean, assuming the things haven’t figured out how to drive or something, we should be able to get away long enough to call like Vinnie and Brian and stuff and maybe even get a drink. A strong, strong drink.”
“Yeah, good idea,” you grunt, hitting a receptionist in the ribs, feeling the familiar sickening crunch of breaking bone. Vinnie and Brian comprise the rest of your small team of underground heroes. You’ve been friends with both of them since high school and, though you’d never admit it to them, you probably wouldn’t have survived past the 11th grade without them watching your back.
“I’m game,” Jesse yells, ducking under a small hotel maid’s outstretched arms, and swinging his axe up quickly, crushing her skull from behind. You feel a quick pang of regret. That was Gina, the woman who cleaned floors one and two, and she’d always been really nice to you. Pity she had to go and turn into a rotting, living corpse.
Fortunately, you don’t have much time to contemplate her tragic fate, because John grabs your arm and drags you through the front door, Jesse following close in your footsteps.
“I’ll hold them off,” you shout to John. “You guys go get the car and meet me around here.”
He nods and pulls you in for a passionate, almost bruising kiss. Sadly, Jesse tugs him away from you almost immediately, muttering something about getting a room, and the two of them run off towards the car, leaving you alone with slightly swollen lips, a baseball bat, and an undead gardener who appears to be brandishing a spade at you menacingly as he approaches.
Stupid zombies. They ruin all your fun.
You’re on your third gardener by the time Jesse pulls the car around, and you jab it in the gut with your bat a few times for good measure before whacking its head off and jumping in the back seat of his baby blue Jetta. That’s right. His baby blue Jetta. Only your best friend would have the questionable taste to buy the gayest car on the market.
You slam the door shut, and Jesse speeds off, plowing down several undead elevator repairmen as he goes. In the front seat, John’s taken his phone out, presumably to call Brian and Vinnie. You stare out the window, only vaguely aware of the conversation going on just feet in front of you. You know you should care about what he’s saying, you know you should be grateful he’s calling for backup, but all you can think about is how much you wish you didn’t have to go back to that damn hotel.
The car turns a corner and pulls onto your street, a row of practically identical condos. Jesse parks outside a particularly nondescript one, and you sigh and unbuckle your seatbelt, getting ready to get out of the car. Home, sweet home.