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It starts with Clark opening the front door. This used to be his apartment, but these days, he's been switching from the Wayne Manor and the Justice League Tower. He tries to keep the normal ones out of immediate reach up in the Tower. The Wayne Manor stays more of a solid foundation down on Earth.
The Hall of Justice was over run when everything happened.
It started with a simple flu. Just a little cough and runny nose combination, nothing more, nothing less.
Until it started spreading. At first it was because of the pollen—spring, flowers are being pollinated. Then it's hay fever because it's autumn. Then, it's just the light colds because of the winter.
It never got better. It never disappeared.
The first time a case cropped up, the body was mutilated. Blood smeared on the floor and walls. Soaked through the rug and between wooden floor boards.
A police officer was bitten. Teeth sharp enough to break through the webs between the thumb and forefinger.
It was too soon when out break finally happened. Bruce had been out investigating when he heard a woman scream. Down in a dark alley, struggling against two infected. Eaten as she cried for help. Bruce didn't know what to do.
Bruce had looked at him. Tired, weary, red-rimmed eyes looking at him. Burning from the light of the computer screen.
"Promise me, Clark." He hadn't replied. Blood rushing in his ears, head too empty of any thought. "Promise me that you'll do it."
Bruce had slouched, bags under his eyes too dark. Streaks of grease paint down his gaunt cheeks. He'd gotten thinner. Obsessed with analyzing, obsessed with finding a cure. Constantly evaluating. Constantly testing.
"I don't—" He swallowed. Throat squeezing tightly around nothing.
"If Clark can't, then I need Superman to promise me." Bruce's voice cracked as he pressed the heels of his palms against his closed eyes. "Please."
There's a groan deep within the run down apartment. Clark knows that they know that he knows.
He just... Couldn't do it.
When it came down to it. He couldn't do it. How could he? Why would he?
Dick had been furious. Face red and veins bulging. He'd modified his escrima sticks to release higher voltages, had said that he was ready. Much more lethal than it already is. Yet his hands were trembling too much to even hold his stick up properly. Jason was white, fingers too shaky to even hold a gun, the same one he promised he'd use to put a bullet between the eyes. Cass had been wearing her mask, emotionless, still. Distant in the way she tends to be. Dissociating.
Tim was crying, trying in vain to keep it all inside. But like Jason, like Cassandra,, he couldn't. Damian was placed behind Dick, his katana held loosely in his hand, eyes wide, unseeing. Despite his age, he looked much younger than he is at that moment. He'd been mumbling about the pits in a frenzy, unaware of the way tears escaped and dripped down his skin. How they could use one—the nearest one in Gotham is a days travel if they were careful.
Clark had been there, skin unbreakable. Bullet proof, bite-proof. His back to the children. The physical shield as he told the kids to move, lock themselves up in the Manor and never come back as teeth bit and nibbled useless against his neck. Arms wrapped solidly around a squirming torso.
He'd told them to not open the doors, to keep everything locked down. Not until Clark was done. Not until Clark was far away from where the children could hear and see.
"Hey, B." Clark greets as he opens the bedroom door. His closet has grown mold since the last time he last saw it. There's a crack on the wooden door.
The chains have rubbed down on rotting flesh, clinging uselessly on to nothing but grinding bone and dripping sinew.
The bed smells like a dead dog, rat, and cat combined. The scent travelled up from the nose, lodging deep into the sinuses. Clark could never really get used to it.
He can taste is on his tongue, shoving itself down the back of his throat.
Blue eyes turned milky pale. Burst blood vessels painting the sclera a dirty, murky brown. Gaunt cheeks are gone, showing off the sides of teeth, the thick muscle keeping the jaw intact and moving.
White porcelain skin turning an ashy grey, dead black in places.
"I'm sorry that it took me a while to visit." Clark sits himself on the edge of the bed, turning his body to the side so he can look at his companion, placing his leg bent on the bed. He can feel the sludge of a decaying body soaked through his mattress creeping up and staining his jeans. "I've been pretty busy lately—"
The chains rattle loudly as the body groans, long and drawn. Dragging through a broken voice box. He lunges at him, stopped shorted by the chains keeping wrists chained to the wall. Clark's not scared. He's been bitten. Not once has it ever broken enough for him to be infected.
"Oh," Clark takes the bag he's wearing off. "I got you something." He brings out a severed arm and smashed up brain matter. Still littered with a bit of gravel from the road.
Carefully, he places it on the bed where it can be within reach. "Next time, I'll try to—"
For a breath, Clark stops when the groaning stops, a haggard, watery breath inhaled in hole-filled lungs. Turning into a whine. Confused and bordering a cry.
"It's okay, you can eat it—" Clark continues, scooting further up the bed to take the arm and bringing it closer to a mouth. "Here."
"... K'll..." He whispers, broken, slow and stuttered. "Mmm... Eeeeee..."
"Bruce." Clark whispers, tilting his head back to stare at the black-spotted ceiling of what used to be his bedroom.
With a swallow, Clark brings his head back down again, watches as he lifts his head up, white eyes lid-less, staring directly at him.
"Ple—... Sssss..."