[A/N] So, this is what I did for my Permission piece. It's a bit of backstory for Agent Drew. Before you read it, though, be forewarned that HERE THAR BE CUSSING!]
“Oi! Drew! There’s a watchtower of some sort over this way!”
“Hwhaaaat? Oh, aye. Bit of an odd place for it, innit it?”
“Meh. It’s in a good place. We clear it out, we’re set for the next… however long the food holds out.”
Drew scratched his chin. “Hm. You raise a valid point. Good job, Tom ‘ol chap!”
Tom looked irritated. “Stop that.”
“That British thing. I know full well you’re from Kingston.”
“You also know ‘full well’ me and my accent are entirely different entities.”
“Do you want me to help you investigate this wondrous watchtower of… erm… wuhmystery? Because I can totally not do that if you’d like.”
Tom grinned. “I hate you so much.”
“Right, then! All is as it should be! Let’s head off, mmmyes?”
A short walk later, and the duo had reached the relative shelter that the watchtower provided.
“Oh, man, this place is brilliant! We’ll be able to see clear to the horizon from the roof! Good eye, mate!
Tom grinned. “It’s lucky one of us was paying attention!” He turned serious again. “Right, if I check the door, you’ll cover me, yes?”
Drew nodded. “Of course. That is the usual agreement, if my memory serves.”
“Right.” Tom tested the door, which turned out to be unlocked. “Brilliant. No effort on my part.”
“Unless there’s zed-heads in there. In which case, you’ll be in the front.”
“You’re a bastard.”
Tom checked his gun, a Tavor GTAR-21, sans grenade launcher. Grenade launchers weren’t much use anymore. “Right, that’s all in working order. How’s your gear?”
Drew carefully examined several of the guns from his pack. “Hm. M1911 or the Model 500?”
Tom glanced backwards. “Not using the Mossberg?”
Drew grimaced. “Can’t hold my machete with the Mossberg. Eh. I’ll use the M1911. Don’t know how many zed-heads are in there.”
Tom nodded. “Alright. On three.”
Four minutes later, the pair were standing behind an overturned table. Tom was carefully picking off zombies, while Drew fumbled in his backpack for spare clips.
“Bugger bugger bugger shit bugger fu-oh, there we are.” In a considerably calmer manner, Drew reloaded his gun. “Oi! Tom! How many have we gotten?”
“Start shooting, you daft mother-“
“Now, now, no need for that langua- hey, I’ve got a clear shot at the stairs!”
"DREW THAT IS NOT PARTICULARLY HELPFUL AT THIS MOMENT!" Tom shouted angrily while removing an empty clip and grabbing an extra from the pile at his feet.
The less helpful teammate responded in a more level-headed fashion. “Yes it is. It means that we’ve only got the ones in this room to kill.”
Tom paused momentarily, then resumed firing. “Oh. Yeah, that is pretty good to know.”
Drew poked his head up from behind the table, and shot the last zombie in between the eyes.
His partner lowered his weapon. “Well, that’s that, I suppose. What say we loot the place?”
“I like the way you think.” He paused. “Dibs on the pantry.”
Ten minutes later, Drew found the pantry. “Oh hell yes!” He gesticulated wildly with his revolver, and opened the door.
The door evidently took offence to this, as a zombie promptly grabbed his elbow, and they fell back in a tangled heap.
If there is one thing the Smith and Wesson Model 500 is good for, it is blowing heads clear off before the owners of said head has a chance to react. This was fortunate for Drew, who, in a rather spectacular display of ignorance towards commonly recognised gun safety, had his finger directly on the trigger.
Tom found Drew three minutes later, who was staring in shock at the half-head atop of him. He rushed over to his friend and wrenched the zombie off of him.
“Shit, mate, you okay?” He held his hand out towards his partner
Drew was shaking. “That is the closest I have come to death since this bloody mess began.” He accepted his friend’s hand and shook his head. “Aside from that, though, I’m okay. If feeling a bit stupid.” He grinned weakly. “At least we know where the food is now, though.”
Tom didn’t return the smile. “I think I can do you one better.”
In a rare event, Drew turned completely serious. “Oh. Well. Now, or after you…?”
Tom shook his head sadly. “I’ll… I’ll do it myself. No point in you wasting your ammo, you’ll need it.”
Drew inhaled sharply. “I… should I get a shovel?”
“No. Don’t waste your time on the dead. You know that.” Tom turned and started to leave.
“Tom! I… I…” Drew swallowed heavily. “I… Never mind.”
“I’ll be on the roof. If you want to… yeah.”
Drew nodded. “Yeah. It… It’s been good knowing you.” Suddenly, he lunged forward, and grabbed his friend in a bearhug.
Tom patted Drew on the back, and disentangled himself. “Good luck, mate. Try not to forget me.”
Later, as the sun set, Drew wandered up to the rooftop, and sat down next Tom, ignoring the wetness he felt on his elbow as he did so. He slumped back, and looked out across the landscape. The sun was setting, turning everything a shade of red as it did so.