Dean Winchester always swore that the only way he'd willingly go for a run was if there were zombies chasing him. Now, a year and a half after the dead stopped staying dead and started chowing down on the living, those words are biting him in the ass. Well, better his words do it than an actual zombie, he figures.
It's not a life of leisure, but it's certainly better than it could be. New Lebanon has pretty good zombie-proof security, military protection, and there's plenty of food and other necessities, along with even a few luxuries. The settlement's Runners, of which group Dean and his brother Sam are reliable members, are to thank for that: heading out the gates every day into the undead-infested countryside and abandoned towns in search of whatever the town needs or wants. A Runner's first job is to run, since Amazon sure as hell hasn't done deliveries since Bezos got eaten by his own board of directors.
Sprinting from death on a regular basis might never fit the definition of "boring," but Dean's grown accustomed enough to appreciate the smaller sense of routine and predictability. That is, until one day when his radio headset, rather than just picking up the voice of the handler guiding his mission, suddenly starts receiving an aberrant transmission from a mysterious, gravel-voiced stranger. Dean can't resist his growing fixation on the unknown man and his secrets, and he's determined to track him down and rescue him, no matter what. Â
Picking their way across the chilly creek, lifting his knees high and being cautious about where their feet were planting under the water, the intermittent earpiece crackling abruptly resolved into a finger-plucked acoustic guitar arpeggio. As Dean listened, the music slowed into a gentle chorded strumming. A rich, dark voice joined in over the guitar, singing. âHope there's someone who'll take care of me when I die...will I go?â The plaintive words yanked at Deanâs heart uncomfortably.
âBobby, you watching old soap opera tapes again?â he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the song. Â The collection of scavenged soaps and reality TV show recordings was a poorly kept secret among those whoâd ever dropped in on the man unexpectedly.
âShut up,â Bobby growled. âAnd no, I am not. Not that itâs any of your business what I choose to do, but donât you think I know better than to be distracted when Iâve got Runners in the field?â
Dean frowned. ââKay, fine, whatever, but then turn down the music. Itâs loud enough I can hear it on my end, and itâs not much better if the Runners are the ones being distracted.â
Sam turned to look at Dean quizzically, while Bobby paused before answering. âNot listening to any music either, Dean. I donât see anything unusual on the cameras, but you sure what youâre hearing isnât on your side? A radio orâŚâ
âNot a soul for miles, man. Whoâd be stupid enough to be playing music loud enough for anyone to hear around here, anyway?â Dean scanned the surroundings anyway, seeing only scraggly trees and brush. The singer continued to croon in his ear as Dean clambered up the creek bank and paused to try tapping the transmitter attached to his belt.
âWell, thatâs just great,â groused Bobby, and now that Dean stopped to think, the baseâs reception was a little different, maybe a touch deeper, from what he usually noted when the handler spoke. âProbably some damn local radio station that put things on autoplay before they all ate each otherâs brains. Something else for us to deal with when we gear you all up for missions.â
Dean was already shaking his head in disagreement. âDoesnât sound like a recordiââ Just then the music trailed away and the singer started talking.
âLittle on the nose, maybe, for this fine, grey day, perhaps,â the voice said, âbut I suppose Iâve been a touch morose lately. I havenât been keeping close track of things like the date lately, because why bother, but I did a little math yesterday and I think I just missed my birthday. SoâŚhurray. Thanks for bringing me into the world all those years ago, Mom. Iâm sure your card must have gotten lost in the mail.â Sarcasm tinged his words, and Dean snorted a laugh.
âAnyway, even if Iâm the only one around to say it...Happy birthday to me,â he sang. The guitar accompanied the voice as he continued the song, and Dean found himself wanting to sing along as well.
Sam, smiling a little sadly, nudged Deanâs shoulder to get his attention. âCâmon,â he said, gesturing with a head tilt. âGotta keep moving.â
