DRP Halloween Special - Chapter 1 The Bitten

The zombie paused, confused and repelled by Bert’s flavor.  It was clear he didn’t quite know how to continue, as the infection had limited reactions to moving things. They were either ignored as already dead, or food.  Bert sounded like prey, and moved like it as well.  He did not taste at all like warm blood and fresh meat. At this point, he was starting to look and smell worse than Roger’s fresher corpse. A spark of anger compelled him to pursue the thin man, hissing in rage.  As if Bert were denying him a meal by being inedible. 

Raising his hands again, he staggered at Bert once again, aggressive but less enthusiastic this time. The mess in the apartment worked to the immortal’s advantage, as the undead tripped up on a pile of clothing that had spilled over off a ratty armchair.

With a yelp, Bert was leaping over the flailing walking corpse, landing heavily and clumsily as he managed to dart toward the window again.  Sack of supplies over his shoulder, he whirled around, rebar weapon at the ready to swing- to put an end to this- but stopped himself with a lump in his throat.

It was still Roger. He couldn’t. He couldn’t do it.  There was something wrong with him, something wrong with the world and he wasn’t about to contribute to this mess- he was no murderer! Dead or undead or walking dead or eating dead or whatever they might be… it was still his dear friend. 

Wounded leg and all, he quickly pushed himself out the window and onto the fire escape. “G’bye, Roger…” He managed to whisper, but before the man could lunge again, he slammed the window closed, trapping him inside. “I’ll… I’ll figgur’ out a way t’sort this out, mate, don’ you worry!” 

But Bert himself was worried. Severely worried. And that worry ate away at him as he clambered down the fire escape as quietly and quickly as he could while not thinking too long nor hard on the gaping wounds that would not heal.

Pushing himself up slowly, Roger snapped at the retreating offender to no avail.  He pushed against the window with clammy hands as Bert made his escape. Brief impressions of thoughts flickered through what little was left of his mind.  For a moment, he wondered why Bert was going and why he felt so strange.  He might have even felt  a resigned sadness, groping at the truth of the situation as his friend disappeared.  Almost as soon as the other man had vanished from view, it faded.

Time passed and he could no longer keep track of it by any means. The city changed rapidly and eventually the draw of his own kind, the sight of prey dashing from the other zombies instilled a need in him.  He needed to be out there, free...  Roger pushed on the window, moaning.  When it did not yield, he began to push. Harder.

The shattering of glass went unnoticed below.  The crowd was too busy feasting.

[END]

Blood on Ice | [Halloween AU: Week 2] | Kristoff & Roger

Hissing and gargling in frustration, the corpse groped, reaching out for Kristoff. As it became clear even to the limited intelligence that he would be unobtainable, the zombie seemed to act more agitated, fighting against the pick mindlessly.  No matter how hard it lurched against the slippery frozen surface, Roger did not move the solidly planted weapon in the slightest.  Gnashing his teeth, he could only groan his fury at the man

Kristoff was exceptionally proud of himself for planting this walker in the ground, but knew he had to get back to Arendelle. He had to warn the people what was coming, and that had to start with Anna. 

He didn’t wait around to see what the undead man’s next move was going to be, and determined it was well worth it to lose the ax in hopes of keeping the zombie grounded. Back through the chilled, whipping wind he ran. Through the gates to the kingdom, and straight to the tavern. He had to tell Anna, but not yet. Not when he was pumped up and still frightened from the close encounter. He sat down at the bar and knocked his knuckle on the wooden bar. This called for a drink. But even then, he knew he had to update Anna. Not this minute, but soon. He promised.

As the object of his attention departed, the undead raged, snarling louder and drooling bloody, rancid froth. After Kristoff was out of sight, his protests died down.  Calming, the zombie seemed to forget anything that had happened.  The axe was still a puzzle, hindering his motion, but unlike any non infected creature, he completely ignored it.  Falling and struggling in the cold, his limbs grew stiffer from the freezing wind and ice below.

A small group of travelers, passing by a few days later remarked on the fearful omen. Frozen solidly into place, the axe was covered in gore and they could still see a messy, bloody trail leading away over the lake.

DRP: Halloween : Clopin & Roger || Meeting In the Woods

Walking along the countryside of France, Clopin felt tired and weighed down by the pesky depression. Clopin had a joking side and a fierce side, but no one was aloud to see his sad side. When Clopin was alone his depression set in. Sure, around viewers he was the most overwhelming presence on and off stage, but when he was alone .. Clopin sighed and pulled his hood on, feeling as though it covered his face. If only Esmeralda could have come with him he wouldn’t have to deal with his own feelings. What if the plague got to him, eh? No one around to help. No Esmeralda around to say his goodbyes to. Nothing and no one. Clopin was starting to wish he hadn’t told everyone to split up. Without even knowing it, Clopin had walked himself into a thick forest. He then shivered. “Agh a forest..” he grumbled, “Of all places!” Clopin stumped around clumsily over fallen trees and rocks, not used to having such constricting boots on. Suddenly there was s breaking of twigs and some noise coming from the side. Clopin about jumped out of his pants as he twirled around in circles, looking for the original of the ruckus. “Bonjour? Anyone there?”

A thin moan answered him.  The undergrowth began to rustle toward his location as a lone undead zeroed in on the voice from the path.  His aimless wanderings had purpose. He shambled faster, ungainly in the thicket as he snarled eagerly.  The unspeakable things the zombie had feasted on early in the day had been meager fare, already picked over by a hoard of the plague ridden corpses.There was nothing in his sluggish mind now but the drive to find his prey and feast...

Thunder cracking overhead, the wind began to blow hard down the dirt path outside of the graveyard. Pressing on against the wind, Clopin pulled up his brown hood. The pain of leaving his people fresh in his chest, Clopin glanced back one final time before descending the...

DRP Halloween (Week 3) : Along the Way || Open!

Taken aback by this odd reaction, Clopin stopped in his tracks and strode confused. "Well well! That's no way to greet a fellow traveler, mon ami!" Clopin kept walking towards the creature, the darkness hiding his undead features. Clopin had only ever seen one of these plagued creatures so he was quite unaware of what they looked or acted like. As the two walked closer to each other, the figure made some more mumbling and grumbling noises and Clopin furrowed his brow. "Are you not feeling well, ami? Ahahaa! Here, I have a lamp, just the thing we need!" Clopin got, unknowingly, dangerously close to the creature as he reached in his satchel and pulled out a small lantern. Lighting it, Clopin turned to his new traveling friend and jumped in fear. "Y-Y-You're f-f-f-f face!" Seeing the creatures sickly features he stumbled back in surprise, tripping over his own feet and falling down on the dirt path.

Roger had no reply but to groan and bare his teeth. By now,the infection had made him unnaturally gaunt with a sickly, waxy sheen to his skin that wasn't horribly damaged, even more evident in the lantern's glow. The light was a minor distraction that the undead followed for a moment.   He was soon distracted by the sounds of Clopin falling back. Staggering up the slope of the hill, he was still almost able to catch up to the startled man. The zombie awkwardly got down, reaching for his leg, intent on biting anywhere he could get a toothhold.

[HALLOWEEN AU; Week 2: The Start] Burrowing Down || Jess & Roger

The undead musician had followed the others, all infected.  Very briefly, he’d experienced a strange feeling.  One that wasn’t hunger or the thrill of the hunt.  This place was familiar, much more than other places he had been since he’d died.  The memory was fleeting, especially as the mob surged, spotting the still living toons, Coursing after them in a flood of ink spattered, groaning bodies, Roger couldn’t have resisted had he wanted to.

But why would he?  

The beat of life vibrated in what was left of his brain- filling his shreds of consciousness until there was no room for anything else.  There was no real sense of competition or coordination, just the mindless need to sink their collective teeth into struggling, hot flesh.  He pushed to the front of the crowd, stronger for having all his limbs relatively intact.  Teeth bared in a ghastly grimace, he clawed out for the nearest toon. Limbs flailed all around him, making it nearly impossible to distinguish dead and alive.

They were almost there. They were almost home-free! He could see the bright yellow of their front door. A colour calling them to safety — standing out so fiercely against the drained, grey-scale backdrop of the dying city.

The rabbit’s gloved hand held tightly against his wife’s, not wanting to get separated as they both ran as quickly as they could towards their own personal safe-haven. Why they had ventured outside, he couldn’t even remember anymore. All that mattered was safety.

So close now. But then—

“Ah!" Something sudden and cold clutched around his arm, tugging him backwards away from Jessica. He fought through the panic, both wanting to keep his wide eyes on his wife, and take in whoever, or whatever, it was that was keeping him from her. “Jessica!" He called, finally wrenching his line of sight away from her and to his attacker.

The ink ran cold through him, and time stopped as he stared up at the undead man. Gnashing teeth and fingernails clawing at him, holding him in a vice-like grip, which he tried to break from, but couldn’t seem to get his feet to work.

Jessica cried out, swinging forth and missing as the crowd surged and stumbled. Heart thundering her hands shook slightly but a strange energy seized her, even as claws and hanks raked at her and were beaten back,

"Roger-"

His hand seized hers and she turned sharply, hair flying as she moved against him. Frantically, Jessica scanned the crowd and a familiar face flashed briefly- Her— Her pianist?!

Her jaw dropped but she was distracted by a timely scream and turned sharply. Her hand was wrenched from his and there was a jerk— She was pulled back by the hungry hands of a cartoon frog, gaping. It was one swipe and she was turning back frantically, calling again,

"Roger— Roger, no!”

Time slowed.

They were parted by, what? An entire five feet? The toons on the outskirts were fleeing, hunched over the cat and the crow, shoulders rolling and heaving. And Roger was with Roger but one of them wasn’t right— One of them, drawn and pale and solid flesh, eyes glossy, teeth dark with stains and hands turned into mangling claws, heaving forward, forward, forward-

           no

The silence burst apart with the sound of her scream.

@twobiiits

  twobiiits

Without the slightest hesitation, the undead yanked on the struggling toon. Already the other monsters were filling the gap between the Rabbits. Stumbling, it was difficult for the toon's captor to keep a hold of the struggling prey.  Snarling, his grip tightened on his catch as he realized he'd found exactly what he wanted.  Jostled by the press of falling apart bodies, Roger  pulled the fluffy toon closer with cold hands. Closer, until he could reach- with an excited hiss, he bit the skinny arm, sinking his teeth deep.  

Blood on Ice | [Halloween AU: Week 2] | Kristoff & Roger

At the shove, the zombie was knocked off balance as he lost his only support in the form of Kristoff’s arm. He hit the ground with a sickening thud that might have winded a living being.

Flailing, Roger didn’t waste time with recovery.  As soon as he could stagger to his feet, he followed the voice.  The slippery ice almost upended him again, but the human was so temptingly close.  With an angry hiss, the creature bared his teeth.  Kristoff was staying just out of reach this time and the ice kept him too unsteady to keep track of where he was.  Moving was difficult and he couldn’t attack with any speed with such little traction. Glaring, he snarled with what could be considered frustration at the difficult to catch food.

The noises coming from this…this thing were ghastly, and Kristoff was doing his best to not be terrified of them. He hollered at the walker once more, this time with a little more shakiness to his voice.  "Come on! That’s it. Riiiiiight over here." He stopped again and lowered his head just enough to stare Roger in the eyes which were void of any signs of life. He was as close to Kristoff as he would allow him to be, and Kristoff heaved the ice pick over his head and thrust it down as a grunt escaped his mouth. 

As soon as the pick made contact with the ice, Kristoff rolled to the side and stood up. He was hoping his plan worked, but he was prepared in case it didn’t. Sure enough, Kristoff saw a zombie who couldn’t move in any direction. The ice pick had pierced through the rotting flesh and bones and dug into the ice, much like hanging a picture on a nail in the wall.  Kristoff took a couple large steps backward and couldn’t help but holler as his adrenaline relaxed and he began to feel unstoppable. “WHOO! Boom!” 

Hissing and gargling in frustration, the corpse grope, reaching out for Kristoff. As it became clear even to the limited intelligence that he would be unobtainable, the zombie seemed to act more agitated, fighting against the pick mindlessly.  No matter how hard it lurched against the slippery frozen surface, Roger did not move the solidly planted weapon in the slightest.  Gnashing his teeth, he could only groan his fury at the man

DRP Halloween Special - Chapter 1 The Bitten

The maneuver worked, but only briefly.  Unlike even the drunkest of adults, the zombie had no hangups over biting.  With strength beyond what Roger had ever displayed, the undead grappled until its teeth found cloth with flesh beneath. Bert was nearly to the stage of repelling other infected.  Unfortunately for him, he was still human tasting enough that Roger hesitated before pulling away, heedless of the damage done in his mindless search for food. The instinct to seek better prey overrode what little short term memory he might have retained and he bit again, next to the first with an annoyed growling.

TW: Some nasty zombie bites goin’ on here - gore

Bert let out a strangled cry, finally letting go to stagger back as he clutched his ravaged arm, and as he did so, flesh pealed away in Roger’s vice-like teeth, exposing bone beneath the torn fabric of his jacket and skin. It hurt, it hurt like nobody’s business but his head was spinning, still in shock. His wounds felt far away, the room far away as the panic rose up in his throat like bile and he tripped over the cluttered apartment, trying to put some distance between them. “Roger…”

No. No, that look in his friend’s eyes… the blood drenching his face. Roger was gone. He didn’t know how or when or why, but the disease had clearly spread. 

He had to get out. He had to… to sort Roger out- no, no he couldn’t- could he die, now? His wounds weren’t healing. Was the magic keeping him alive undone? 

No time to think, only act. Get your shit together, step in time. 

Side-stepping around the snarling Roger, fumbling with his bum leg, one hand found the pack he had half-filled with supplies, the other his rebar-cane, hefting both up and at the ready- but that put Roger between him and the window, and who knew what lurked deeper in the building…

The zombie paused, confused and repelled by Bert's flavor.  It was clear he didn't quite know how to continue, as the infection had limited reactions to moving things. They were either ignored as already dead, or food.  Bert sounded like prey, and moved like it as well.  He did not taste at all like warm blood and fresh meat. At this point, he was starting to look and smell worse than Roger's fresher corpse. A spark of anger compelled him to pursue the thin man, hissing in rage.  As if Bert were denying him a meal by being inedible. 

Raising his hands again, he staggered at Bert once again, aggressive but less enthusiastic this time. The mess in the apartment worked to the immortal's advantage, as the undead tripped up on a pile of clothing that had spilled over off a ratty armchair.

[HALLOWEEN AU; Week 2: The Start] Burrowing Down || Jess & Roger

"Oh, damn-“

The swear was swift and edged, and her movements just as fast— Her hand plunged into her purse and hefted out the familiar and useful frying pan, as she growled,

"Roger, run!”

She took aim, and slammed the pan straight for the crow. The noise was a heavy metalic clang and dozens of wretched scratches, it’s remaining outlines scrambling as it the crow stumbled back. Ghosts of bells rung above it before disappearing off— At least that was somewhat consistent! And she’d managed to stun it, just for a moment!

"House- We have to get back-" She panted, adrenaline coursing through her, as she shifted her weight and the pan, swallowing hard. "I’ll protect you-” she managed, just as from the ditch a second zombie lunged, mostly-cat, mostly-paint, and she turned to strike again, rounding the pan into it’s neck—

Separating head from body with a clean SWISH of an eraser— It was all she could do to not scream.

Run?!

Roger’s head whipped around to look up at Jessica in panic. He couldn’t just run! He couldn’t just leave her there! Despite every instinct in him telling him to do the opposite. The rabbit shook his head feverishly, backing up closer to his wife instead of bolting in the direction of their house.

If something were to happen to her, and he’d just run, he knew he would regret it for the rest of his life.

The sound of the fight cemented him to his place, and for a long, tense moment, he could do nothing. He was frozen, watching Jessica as she tore the familiar frying pan from her purse and gave the ravenous crow a good wallop over his feathered head. Roger would have been proud — had he not been completely terrified.

Then, another attack. The cat’s head rolling down the street, cold and lifeless as it came to a slow stop against the curb. Its ink running from its neck and down into the open storm-drain…

Roger’s jaw dropped. Just as the cat’s body did. Was it dead? Toons couldn’t die. Not like that anyways. This was not good. This was not good!

Adrenaline took over, and Roger pulled out a large mallet from behind his back. Backing up so that he was pressed tightly against Jessica’s legs. There was no way anyone was sneaking up on either of them.

Together they inched closer to the safety of their home, whacking anything and everything that dared to come near them.

The undead musician had followed the others, all infected.  Very briefly, he'd experienced a strange feeling.  One that wasn't hunger or the thrill of the hunt.  This place was familiar, much more than other places he had been since he'd died.  The memory was fleeting, especially as the mob surged, spotting the still living toons, Coursing after them in a flood of ink spattered, groaning bodies, Roger couldn't have resisted had he wanted to.

But why would he?  

The beat of life vibrated in what was left of his brain- filling his shreds of consciousness until there was no room for anything else.  There was no real sense of competition or coordination, just the mindless need to sink their collective teeth into struggling, hot flesh.  He pushed to the front of the crowd, stronger for having all his limbs relatively intact.  Teeth bared in a ghastly grimace, he clawed out for the nearest toon. Limbs flailed all around him, making it nearly impossible to distinguish dead and alive.

DRP Halloween (Week 3) : Along the Way || Open!

Thunder cracking overhead, the wind began to blow hard down the dirt path outside of the graveyard. Pressing on against the wind, Clopin pulled up his brown hood. The pain of leaving his people fresh in his chest, Clopin glanced back one final time before descending the steep hill. He was in no mood whatsoever to be his jovial self. Eyes shifting, Clopin peered into the night and caught sight of a figure in the distance. Going the same way he was? Furrowing his brow, he forced himself out of his depression slump a posted a smile on his face. “Bonjour down there!” he said, waving his arms, “Wherever might you be going this fine evening?”

Unquestioning of his new surroundings, Roger had struggled to escape the low iron fence.  By the time he'd freed himself completely, he was looking more ragged than before. To the undead's advantage, it was still quite dark, so as he staggered toward the sounds of someone walking, he might still appear somewhat normal and human. When the pleasant voice rang out, he reacted, letting out a fierce snarl as he lifted his arms to seize at any warm bodies. 

DRP Halloween Special - Chapter 1 The Bitten

With a raspy moan, the zombie lurched at him.  The newly undead was unsteady as well as hesitant about this supposed food source. It wanted fresh meat and Bert was all too rapidly becoming spoiled.  Clawing out, his friend’s corpse clawed at him, making gutteral noises.  His eyes narrowed as he snapped at the air, almost as if defending his territory rather than attacking prey. 

Bert flinched back, clinging frantically to the denial that helped put a cork in his panic. He… he was just disoriented…

No, no, it was that look, like Little Sam had just before he had lunged- “Roger!” As the man snapped at him, he gave him a rough shove away, clumsily side-stepping around him to try to pin Roger’s arms behind him, like he had so many times when a sweep-mate had had a bit too much to drink on a rooftop. “Just… just calm down a moment!” He hooked his arm around the newly risen’s neck, dangerously close to mouth-level, but if it would still the man, so be it-

The maneuver worked, but only briefly.  Unlike even the drunkest of adults, the zombie had no hangups over biting.  With strength beyond what Roger had ever displayed, the undead grappled until its teeth found cloth with flesh beneath. Bert was nearly to the stage of repelling other infected.  Unfortunately for him, he was still human tasting enough that Roger hesitated before pulling away, heedless of the damage done in his mindless search for food. The instinct to seek better prey overrode what little short term memory he might have retained and he bit again, next to the first with an annoyed growling.

DRP Halloween Special - Chapter 1 The Bitten

  At the sound of his name, Roger’s eyes opened slowly.  With a soft wheezing hiss, he turned to look at Bert.  The wet rag slid over his face without elicting a reaction. His eyes hadn’t clouded over yet, but there was no spark of life or recognition as he stirred. Clumsily, he fought the ratty blanket to sit up.  The worried face in front of him was… mildly interesting, but more for the sounds it was making.  Bert smelled so much closer to the dead by now that his former friend barely registered him as anything worth the chase.  However, there wasn’t much else to do in the small space. He bared his teeth and growled.

Bert’s mind raced as his friend seemed to wake up. His immediate reaction was the smile broadly with relief, giving his friend a good hearty slap on the back as the man groggily sat up. “Oh, there y’are, mate! ‘Ad me… ‘ad me worried for a second there!” There was something off, though… maybe about the eyes. Possibly about the sudden bearing of teeth and growl any of his friend’s many dalmatians would have been proud of. 

"You er… need some water?" He ventured carefully. 

With a raspy moan, the zombie lurched at him.  The newly undead was unsteady as well as hesitant about this supposed food source. It wanted fresh meat and Bert was all too rapidly becoming spoiled.  Clawing out, his friend's corpse clawed at him, making gutteral noises.  His eyes narrowed as he snapped at the air, almost as if defending his territory rather than attacking prey. 

Blood on Ice | [Halloween AU: Week 2] | Kristoff & Roger

Zeroing in on Kristoff, the zombie clawed at him clumsily.  The only thing left resembling life was the instinct to follow prey and unswervingly attack until it was subdued. Any concept of self preservation or caution was gone.  The ice pick was no threat, an interesting part of the warm life that blinded him as a flame did a moth.  As the snow gave way to harder ground, the deadman stumbled. Clumsily, he staggered, grasping at the broad shouldered form, seeking anything to bite.

Teeth sank into the well worn leather and fur. Unable to comprehend the material, Roger fruitlessly continued to gnaw at the heavy outer layer of Kristoff’s sleeve. Though he might have renewed an attack to less protected skin, there wasn’t enough intellgence left to direct his actions. The many layers were impermeable to a human bite, but the futility of his efforts were lost on the undead thing

Kristoff knew better than to stand there and wait to be attacked, but he froze once the walker came up to him. He was taken back by everything he was seeing, especially the gruesome appearance of his attacker. The zombie groaned as he reached forward and scratched at Kristoff. “Whoa!” He hollered as he backed up. He held his pick steadily with both hands and tried to think of the next best move to make. 

Unfortunately, he thought too long. The next thing he knew, Kristoff’s arm was being bitten. Luckily for him, he was wearing too many layers for the zombie’s dulled and decaying teeth to reach the skin. And now he knew just how dangerous this thing could be. Kristoff held the ice pick in the hand that was being bitten at as he firmly pressed his hand against the zombie’s forehead in attempts to pry his sleeve out of the teeth. “Hey! Get off me! Get OFF!” With a forceful push of his palm and a tug of the sleeve, Kristoff’s arm was free. He sent the zombie tumbling to the ground. He quickly examined the site, and there was no breaking of the layers. Kristoff looked around for any trees or anything he could tie the undead to. However, there weren’t any close enough to matter. He then got an idea that might just work. “Come here, bud. Come on! Over here!” Kristoff said as he back up, leading the zombie toward the ice once more. The ground was easier to dig into, but the ice was more difficult to pull out the tools.

Which was just what he wanted. 

At the shove, the zombie was knocked off balance as he lost his only support in the form of Kristoff's arm. He hit the ground with a sickening thud that might have winded a living being.

Flailing, Roger didn't waste time with recovery.  As soon as he could stagger to his feet, he followed the voice.  The slippery ice almost upended him again, but the human was so temptingly close.  With an angry hiss, the creature bared his teeth.  Kristoff was staying just out of reach this time and the ice kept him too unsteady to keep track of where he was.  Moving was difficult and he couldn't attack with any speed with such little traction. Glaring, he snarled with what could be considered frustration at the difficult to catch food.

Blood on Ice | [Halloween AU: Week 2] | Kristoff & Roger

Heedless of his words, or the change in his stance, the undead continued to plow through the snow after he cleared the slick ice.  It was slower going than the frozen surface, and he seemed to grow frustrated.  Snarling at the out of reach human, the bloodstained figure lurched at Kristoff, nearly flinging itself at him with each labored step. The low hissing increased as it came ever closer.

30 feet. It was very clear now that this man was in fact covered in blood. He was still staggering toward Kristoff, but very quickly now. There wasn’t much time to think. Kristoff’s fight or flight senses were kicking in and his adrenaline was pumping, increasing by the second. 20 feet. Even through the wind and the snow, it was clear to see. This wasn’t a man, anymore. This-this thing, maybe once was a man. A regular guy. But now? No. Not anymore. He fit the description of what Espen had described to him the other day, and Kristoff didn’t like it one bit. His breathing was becoming heavier now. There was no use in talking to him. He was clearly sick. Very, very sick. And from the looks of it, there was no curing him. Part of one of his arms was bitten, his leg looked bedraggled and bloody, and from what Kristoff could see, he had a gaping hole in his chest. How is he still alive?  10 feet. Kristoff pulled the ice pick off from his belt, and grasped it with two hands. He didn’t want to kill him. No, but he didn’t want him coming to Arendelle. Eyes shifting around, an idea came to him. His sweaty palms gripped the wooden base of the pick and held it up close to his chest. 

Zeroing in on kristoff, the zombie clawed at him clumsily.  The only thing left resembling life was the instinct to follow prey and unswervingly attack until it was subdued. Any concept of self preservation or caution was gone.  The ice pick was no threat, an interesting part of the warm life that blinded him as a flame did a moth.  As the snow gave way to harder ground, the deadman stumbled. Clumsily, he staggered, grasping at the broad shouldered form, seeking anything to bite.

Teeth sank into the well worn leather and fur. Unable to comprehend the material, Roger fruitlessly continued to gnaw at the heavy outer layer of Kristoff's sleeve. Though he might have renewed an attack to less protected skin, there wasn't enough intellgence left to direct his actions. The many layers were impermeable to a human bite, but the futility of his efforts were lost on the undead thing

DRP Halloween Special - Chapter 1 The Bitten

Slumping down on himself, the musician fell into dreams. All of them horrible in some strange way or another. Anita,but with only half her face. Bert rotting away into a knobby skeleton in a scarf and cap.  Sally- strangely enough he hadn’t thought of her in so long- and other ghoulish creatures shambling along.  Instead of stuffing they leaked organs and ichor. 

His fever spiked as he slept, making him breathe raggedly with pain.  It soon ceased, taking with it the dreams and everything.  Roger stopped breathing.  Without a sound, he died.

Hours had passed, and Bert had checked on Roger every so often. The man was burning up. They needed to get to somewhere they could treat him, but he was in no condition to carry the poor man… Let him sleep it off. He set a cool wet rag on his unconscious friend, but there seemed to be little more he could do for him. He limped about the small safe house, glancing out the window occasionally- looking for signs up at the rooftops. There weren’t as many chimney sweeps here as there were home in London- newer heating systems, he supposed.  At least in most areas. He would have loved to wave down a friend, but try as he might to call and whistle the universal signals of a Sweep in Distress, no one answered. 

And he was still hungry. Nothing sat right. His egg-filled stomach gurgled.

With a sigh, he returned to Roger’s side, ready to rinse out and rewet the rag, but hesitated. It was eerily quiet. “Rog?” He clumsily managed to crouch himself beside the small sofa, giving his friend’s cheek a ginger touch.

The fever had broken, it seemed… the skin was as cold as a corpse. “Roger? Roger, we… we gotta’… We gotta’ go. Maybe we can… can find a telephone, you can ring Anita-” Panic in his voice, he gave his shoulder a shove, hoping that would rise him from the deep sleep he had to be in. Had to be. As though to compensate, Bert began hyperventilating as he gently placed a hand over Roger’s mouth and nose… no breath. Roger wasn’t breathing. “Rog?”

At the sound of his name, Roger's eyes opened slowly.  With a soft wheezing hiss, he turned to look at Bert.  The wet rag slid over his face without elicting a reaction. His eyes hadn't clouded over yet, but there was no spark of life or recognition as he stirred. Clumsily, he fought the ratty blanket to sit up.  The worried face in front of him was... mildly interesting, but more for the sounds it was making.  Bert smelled so much closer to the dead by now that his former friend barely registered him as anything worth the chase.  However, there wasn't much else to do in the small space. He bared his teeth and growled.

Blood on Ice | [Halloween AU: Week 2] | Kristoff & Roger

The zombie paused, turning slowly.  With the wind whipping about, his dulled senses were already muddled.  Seeing the moving human through clouded eyes, he lurched forward, moving faster now that he’d located the source of sound.  As he stumbled closer, he stretched out his arms in the torn, bloodstained sweater.  Slipping on the treacherous ice, the corpse righted itself in much faster time than he would without the incentive of PREY. He would have moaned, but all that came out was a dry hissing.  The sound seemed to echo itself through a puncture in his chest that had never begun to bleed.

As the zombie turned, so did Kristoff’s stomach. Go. Run. Run! Get out of here! were the thoughts of his gut instinct taking giving orders. In a normal situation he would have trusted his instincts, but this wasn’t normal. Kristoff cleared his throat as the zombie staggered in his general direction. He still had a good 60 feet in between them. “Wh-what are you doing out here?! Don’t you know it’s dangerous?!” His brow furrowed as he squinted to see the walker through the flurries of snow. 50 feet. He tightened his grip on his ice pick just for extra precaution. W-was that blood? He could tell the man was coated in red, and that seemed to be the only logical explanation. 40 feet. The man was certainly picking up speed and Kristoff began to sweat, widening his stance. 

Heedless of his words, or the change in his stance, the undead continued to plow through the snow after he cleared the slick ice.  It was slower going than the frozen surface, and he seemed to grow frustrated.  Snarling at the out of reach human, the bloodstained figure lurched at Kristoff, nearly flinging itself at him with each labored step. The low hissing increased as it came ever closer.