Whoever's out there isn't entirely human any more...

[communi_kate]

Title: George, Mitchell Annie and the Bolivian Army Ending
Fandom: Being Human 
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Frequent references to English pop culture
Summary: Written for glinda_penguin 's prompt The Dead are rising, other than a living room full of zombies drinking tea this isn't much of a problem to our heroes, but some of them are after something a little more sinister than biscuits.' for the apocalyptothon lj challenge

George, Mitchell, Annie, and the Bolivian Army Ending


A Being Human fan fiction by xahra99

For glinda_penguin's request 'The Dead are rising, other than a living room full of zombies drinking tea this isn't much of a problem to our heroes, but some of them are after something a little more sinister than biscuits.' as part of the apocalyptothon lj challenge.



Mitchell ran a hand through his hair.

"Now, let's go over this one more time," he said to George.

George barely spared Mitchell a glance. He sat bolt upright on the floor with his hands clasped around his knees, staring at the chapel door and the stacks of pews and tables that barricaded it closed. Mitchell could tell that George wasn't listening to anything he said.

He sighed and looked around.

People littered the chapel floor, wrapped in sheets or tablecloths and using hassocks as pillows. There had been no noise from outside for nearly four hours now, and most of the survivors had gone to sleep.
Mitchell had spent the last hour trying to talk George down from his panic and failing utterly. Now it was three in the morning, and George was still jumpier than a coked-up Bristol clubber.

"George," he tried again, because he didn't know what else to do. "You should rest."

George completely ignored him. "We should go," he said, "We should find her-"

"She's a ghost!" Mitchell said sharply. His voice was a little too loud for comfort. A few of the sleeping forms around them rolled over.

George glared at Mitchell. "Mitchell, keep your voice down," he hissed, as archly as if Mitchell was being the idiot here.

"Annie will be fine." Mitchell retorted. He tried and failed to grasp the last few strands of his self-control. "For fuck's sake, George-"

There was a soft pop and a hiss of inrushing air. Both of them looked up, surprised, as Annie appeared. She wore her usual grey cardigan and slippers, and a shocked look on her face.

"Did you see those?" she said. "Mitchell, they-re'

"Zombies." Mitchell said. "We know."

George didn't even bother to say anything. He got up and threw his arms around her. "Annie!"

"It took me ages to find you-" Annie said in a voice muffled by George's armpit.

"You're all right!" George exclaimed.

Annie groaned. "George! Relax. Who do you think's the only person here with nothing to fear from these guys?" When George failed to answer, she raised her eyebrows and pointed at herself. "Hmm? Me?"

"Oh," George said hurriedly. "Oh. Oh, yes, of course. You must think I'm an utter fool."

"It's sweet that you were worried," Annie said. She reached out with an insubstantial hand to brush George's hair, slipped out from his grasp and nodded at Mitchell. "They are zombies, right?"

"I think between us all we've watched enough bad films to be able to identify zombies when we see them," said Mitchell.

Annie looked at the barricaded doors and around at the sleeping people. She looked back at the doors and appeared to come to a calculation regarding the size of the hospital and the number of refugees. "There aren't a lot of people here," she said.

"Most of them are out there," Mitchell jerked his head at the doors. "But they aren't people. We-we heard screaming, early on. It got quiet about an hour ago. I think we can assume that whoever's out there isn't entirely human anymore."

"Bit like us." George said morosely, and nearly swallowed his tongue when the hospital pastor tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hello." Mitchell said in a tone of voice that said fuck off and die.

The pastor didn't even glance at Mitchell. "I didn't see you before," he said to Annie. "Must have missed you in the slaughter."

Annie held out her hand. "Oh, Hi. I'm Annie. Um, was there slaughter? I just came."

"Charmed," the pastor said as he shook Annie's hand. He looked at her, Mitchell thought, a little longer than a priest should have done, and ignored the last sentence of her conversation because there was no way it could possibly have made sense. "Seeing as we're probably all going to die, I wondered if you three would like to join me in some prayers."

"We're not believers," said Mitchell.

"Yes, but most people say that. It's amazing how the threat of a zombie apocalypse tends to turn people towards Christ. The Lord is my shepherd, etcetera." He looked from face to face. "No?"

"Sheep," George said. His tummy rumbled violently.

"So what's the plan?" Mitchell asked the pastor.

The man looked startled. "Plan? There's no plan. If any of you could think of one, that would be great." He coughed. "We're stuck in here until someone comes to rescue us. I'm just glad this place has thick doors."

"You're the least comforting priest ever."

"I'm not a priest, technically. I'm a pastor. Are you sure I can't tempt you with a quick moment of heavenly contemplation?"

The trio shook their heads in unison. The pastor sighed and stumbled off between the bodies with an expression that indicated he was hunting for te bottles of communion wine.

"Do you think we'll survive?" George said into the sudden silence.

"We'll survive," said Mitchell grimly. "But what about them?"

"We have to protect them," Annie said firmly. She sat down on the ground beside Mitchell and wrapped a blanket around herself.

"That's all very well for you to say, Annie." George pointed up at the ceiling. Mitchell and Annie followed the direction of his hand and found themselves staring up at crumbling plaster and peeling laths. George stabbed his finger beyond the ceiling, beyond the sky, and up at the stars they knew were there somewhere "Full moon."

"What about it?" Annie asked.

"It's tomorrow night. If we-if I-don't get out of here before that, we're all dead. And so is everyone else." He looked grim, or as grim as he ever looked. George's face was made for panic.

"Shit," Mitchell said reflectively.

Wrapped in her blanket next to him, Annie hummed nervously. The tune resolved itself into REM's 'It's the end of the world as we know it,' and both boys glared at her. Annie stopped humming. "What?" she said, "It's just music."

"You'll be fine whatever happens," George told her morosely.

Annie pulled the blanket over her head. "I don't want to haunt a world with those-those things- in it," she said. "I'd rather go through the doors."

Mitchell reached out and touched her arm. "You won't need to do that," he told her.

"Someone will come," George said with certainty.

Annie sighed. "Who, George? Who will come?"

"The army. The government. Someone."

Mitchell snorted. "The army? Haven't you seen 'Twenty-Eight Days Later'?" He looked around at Annie and George's blank stares. "It's like zombies, but it's a virus. Anyway, the army guy goes crazy, and he shoots Cillian Murphy and tries to shag all the women. I think he's Christopher Ecclestone."

Annie shook her head. "The Doctor would never do such a thing," she said, scandalized.

"You lot are not helping," George snapped. "Haven't you looked? There's no food here. No water. Maybe we've got some communion wine, if the priest-no, sorry, pastor there hasn't drank all of it already-"

"No more TV," Mitchell groaned.

"Priorities, Mitchell," Annie told him. "We have to get these people out of here."

Mitchell and George exchanged glances. Annie carried on. "If we can clear the hospital, we can get into the canteen, and everyone would have something to eat and drink."

"By 'we'," Mitchell said carefully, "you mean me and George, right?"

"Of course." Annie told him.

"Against hundreds of ravening zombies." Mitchell confirmed.

"Who seem to be very quiet at the moment." Annie said.

"They'll be back," Mitchell said. He frowned. "Do zombies even have blood?"

"I don't know," Annie said, "But it might be a good idea to find out, don't you think? And George-well, we'll just have to find you a weapon." She looked around. "Do you have a cricket bat?"

George looked stunned. "What?"

"A crowbar would do," Annie said thoughtfully.

"No! I don't have a cricket bat. Or a crowbar! This is a hospital."

"There's a fire axe over there on the wall," Mitchell said thoughtfully. "You could try that."

George followed his gaze to the fire axe, which was about a foot long. "You're crazy!" he said."I've heard of this. Cabin fever. You've all gone insane!" His voice rose an octave.

"We've been in here three hours, George," Mitchell said.

George shrugged. "Nobody said there was a time limit," he pointed out quietly. His voice sounded normal, or as normal as George's voice ever did.

"We might be able to do something." Mitchell said slowly. "Help people."

"Exactly," Annie beamed. "It's quiet now. We can slip out-" she waved a hand at the half-ton of assorted furniture piled against the doors like it was nothing, "and we can help."

"You'll let them in!"

"We won't," She cocked her head. "It's very quiet. Do you think they've gone?"

"They haven't gone," Mitchell said. "I can hear them. Down below." He looked over at George. "George?"

George nodded reluctantly."They're out there," he confirmed, and looked even more miserable. "So we just...open the doors? It's like the Bolivian Army all over again."

"I fail to see what the Bolivian Army has to do with any of this, George," Annie said.

Mitchell held up his hand. "No, he's got a point," he said. "Butch Cassidy, right? Oh yeah. I liked that film."

Annie sniffed. "I can't believe you're discussing pop culture at a time like this."

"You haven't seen it?"

She shook her head.

"George, she hasn't seen Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid!" Mitchell looked wounded. "It's a classic. First chance we get, back in the house, I'm going to sit you down and make you watch it, and you're not leaving the room 'til it's done."

"Assuming we survive." Annie said glumly.

"Assuming that, of course. But, well. At the end of the film, Butch and Sundance are in a church," he gestured, "and they're completely surrounded by the entire Bolivian Army. They have no hope of escape."
"Hey!" George complained.
"Sorry. Well, they open the doors, and they just run out. Trust me," said Mitchell, "It's awesome."

Annie looked unimpressed by their explanation. "So who's Butch, and who's Sundance?' she asked, prompting an entirely new round of pop cultural musings.

"George is definitely Butch," Mitchell said.

George snickered. "Well, Mitchell can't be Sundance," he said, "You're a v-"He paused, alerted by the intake of Annie's breath, and looked around at the sleeping spectators. "Um. Er. You're just not."

"Hang on," Annie interrupted, "you left out the most important bit." She looked from George to Mitchell and then back again. "Do they die?"

Mitchell spread his gloved hands wide. "You never find out. The film just ends. Right there."

"That's a stupid ending." Annie said.

"I think the real Butch Cassidy really did survive, though," George added thoughtfully.

"Hey!" Mitchell looked wounded. "What happened to Sundance?"

"I think he died," said George.

"Oh great," Mitchell sighed. "That makes me feel better."

George echoed his sigh. "Sorry, Mitchell."

Annie looked from one morose face from the other. "Look, are we going to do this or not?" she asked.

George got up. "I think we're going to have to,' he said as he crossed the room quietly and took the fire axe from its nails, "Because when the full moon comes, believe me, these people are safer outside with the zombies than in here with me. Help me shift the doors."

Mitchell got up. "Annie?"

"Mitchell?" Annie took hold of one of the pews and started to drag it away from the doors. "What?"

"Did you see Herrick out there?"

Annie exchanged worried glances with George. "Herrick's dead, Mitchell," she said softly.

Mitchell grinned. "Yeah, so he is. You know, for a moment there I thought we were in trouble," he said, and they began to lever the door open.

***