Chapter Text
A lone set of tires crunched the gravel dusted over on the road as they passed, rolling over the small rocks and pebbles that only moved when the wind blew, or a set of slow feet dragged past it on a lonely moonlight. The car that they held up, once a black SUV, betrayed how much dust the air actually carried, all the while bumping along the deserted street. All around the sidewalks and curbs lay stranded cars and empty buildings. The driver of the SUV had long since learned how to navigate through the crowded streets, easily gliding the steering wheel to and fro. To someone who had never been before, Morioh City would look like a disaster, but to those familiar, it was little more than a sad shell of the city that used to be. Weeds, overgrown and unwelcome, had begun to sprout out through each crack in the asphalt where bustling feet and happy people used to walk. Some had even deigned to begin climbing the walls of some old shops. Outside the SUV, the faint bump-bump-bump of bass drum thumped through the air, but besides that, the world was silent.
Inside, however, Josuke Higashikata had the refurbished police car bumping. His thumbs drummed on the wheel to the beat of Britney Spears’ Toxic, and he mouthed along to the lyrics. His head bobbed up and down with the music, his hair loose in front of his face enough to where he had to flip it back so he could see.
“You’re toxic, I’m slipping under…” He grinned, and, ducking his head to see better out of the windshield, peered into an old bookstore. Inside, a mannequin that had been positioned so his arms were crossed over his chest stared out. The dummy had two eyebrows drawn on in Sharpie, creating a permanent scowl. Quieting as if he had been shushed (as he had been while the owner was still alive), Josuke turned down the music.
“Sorry, old man,” he muttered, waving a sheepish hand at the window. He’d placed the mannequin there years ago to try and remind himself what Morioh had been like before the world had turned on him. The bookstore owner and he had never particularly gotten along, and though the only thing that stared at him now was a dummy, it still felt humanizing to pretend like he wasn’t alone. He’d done the same in almost every store on the main stretch. He ran a hand through his hair again, pulling at the strands to keep them to the side. Though he couldn’t necessarily speak for those outside of Morioh, the Haunt Virus had not treated him well.
It had started three years ago, when one of the doctors in Morioh City released a seeming ‘cure-all’ for any disease that damaged human tissue. As expected, the ‘cure’ had been disbursed through the entire world, but before long, effects had begun to show. It had started with widespread loss of will to live. Initially, that should have been enough to start a major recall, but by the time that the first human changed, the damage had already been done.
Josuke remembered it well. His grandfather, who had taken the ‘cure’ to help his failing kidneys, had been among the few that were first to change. He could remember his mother on the phone; she had already left the house, and then was hoping against hope that she had seen it wrong. He’d hopped on his bicycle as fast as possible, trying, hoping to make it in time…
He cut himself off before he could think too long about it.
Glancing down at the car’s radio clock, he switched off the CD player and flipped the mechanism to the radio. After he’d passed the old bookstore, he turned up the volume again. He’d been on the frequency for just a moment when music cut out and the transmission began again.
“Mori-Mori-Morioh, Morioh-Cho Radio…”
He grinned as the introduction music died down, and he sat back farther in his seat. His hand, still holding some strands captive, held up his head, which suddenly felt like it carried a thousand thoughts.
“Today’s date is June 11th, 2007. My name is Josuke Higashikata,” his voice filled his car, and he let his teeth sink into the soft flesh of his cheek. “I don’t know if anyone’s out there, or if you have any transportation, but I am a police officer from Morioh City.” He directed his gaze outside the window to the silent, overgrown world.
“I am the last citizen in Morioh. I have been ever since humans were wiped out in the city, and that was…three years ago. For some reason, I am immune to the virus. I have food, water, and supplies to support human life. I can help support you, and keep you safe. If you can hear this, I have to ask you to stay out of the city. Actually, no, I stress it now, do not go into the city.” As the transmission continued, something caught his eye, and he stopped the car. He leaned forward, squinting his eyes to peer into the old bakery at his left. “The virus is almost airborne there, and the haunts are less susceptible to sunlight. I repeat, the haunts are less susceptible to light.”
Speak of the devil, he thought, leaning further into his seat in order to grab the shotgun tucked behind the passenger seat. Jerking the car door open, he tucked the butt of the gun under his arm and pointed it directly at the ground.
“They’re also showing more signs of aggression.” Slowly, deliberately making his way around the car, he held the gun tighter, like it was the only tangible object around. Between his phrases on the radio, the silence deafened him.
“My transmission frequency is 89.5, and I always have my radio on.” He raised the gun to eye level, listening as, on the inside of the bakery, one of the haunts began to moan, hungry for food. He paused, waiting for it to come into sight again. The gun made a satisfying ‘click’ when he cocked it back. A rumbling came from the building.
“Just know that you’re not alone.”
Silence permeated the air again when his tinny, mechanical voice stopped talking, hanging like a lead balloon over where he stood. He squinted again, aiming for something below eye level and resting his finger on the trigger.
An alarming cry ripped through the silence, jerking the officer so much that his finger tightened and the gunpowder exploded and echoed in the street. He snapped his head up, heart pounding so hard that he felt like it would rip out of his chest and ears ringing with the unfamiliar sound of human voices.
“Kakyoin!” Came another voice, deeper than the first, and Josuke cursed under his breath, dashing around the hood of his car and throwing the shotgun into the passenger seat. Foregoing his seatbelt, he slammed the gearshift into ‘drive’ and stomped on the gas. He rolled down the window as he drove, leaning his head out of the opening to better hear what was going on. Luckily, he knew the streets of Morioh like the back of his hand, and as he heard more yelling, he drove nearer, hoping that his ears weren’t failing him.
After nearly three years of solitude, he couldn’t afford to be wrong.
The tires squealed as he came to a stop down Morioh’s main street, and as Josuke gripped the wheel with white knuckles, he had to remind himself to breathe.
Three years, alone, completely devoid of human contact, Josuke had gotten used to the silence that surrounded him. The inactivity of what could only be described as a zombie apocalypse had rendered him unaccustomed to other humans; sure, he spoke to himself, and to other mannequins that he had placed around the City as companions, but after the second year had rolled around, he’d almost given up hope of finding anyone else.
There were five of them. He felt his breath leave him in a rush as one struggled with a haunt, desperately trying to yank his arm away from the hulking, half-dead creature. His long red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and the harder he pulled against the deformed hand, the more Josuke could see that he wore a pair of bottom-rimmed glasses. One of the other men, a graying gentleman, held a bow and arrow knocked back, as if he were trying to aim at the haunt rather than his companion. Josuke watched as he followed the movement. Gauging from the angle he held the arrow, he followed the trajectory with his eyes. The other three stood a little bit away from the other man, waiting for the redhead to be released.
“Hold still, Kakyoin!” The old man yelled, and despite his warning, the captive man continued to tug as the haunt’s teeth grew closer and closer to the offered arm.
“Not really an option!” He called over his shoulder.
“Kakyoin!” Another, a white-haired man yelled. Gritting his teeth, Josuke flipped on his strobe lights, and laid on the car horn.
The sudden sound broke whatever tension had been in the air, and all five men turned to see the squad car. Josuke grabbed the radio at his right and flipped on the speakers.
“Move!” He cried, tossing away the receiver and flipping another switch. On top of the SUV, two large spotlights turned on, and before the haunt could get any closer, Josuke stepped on the gas.
Luckily, the men moved out of the way just in time for him to pass. As he grew closer, the light directed at the haunt grew more intense, and the man that it held captive’s eyes grew wider, as if Josuke were about to hit him. He stopped on the brakes in time to stop a foot away from the two. The haunt started to cringe away when he stopped, his grip loosening as he did so. Josuke grabbed the shotgun in one hand and a UV flashlight in the other, kicking open his door and jumping out into the street. He stalked toward the haunt with flashlight in hand, holding the shotgun by its forearm.
“Let go!” He ordered, until finally the haunt complied, releasing the man’s sleeve in order to protect its eyes. The man stumbled away behind him, and Josuke dropped the light, bringing the gun back up under his arm. “Get back!” He yelled, and, moaning in pain, the haunt continued backward. He followed in pursuit, eyeing the closest building. As soon as the haunt turned on its way back to the building, Josuke took a few steps backward bent and grabbed his flashlight, and swung his body back into the car, which he started again to follow after it.
Out of the corner of his eye, he knew that the men were congregating together to ensure that the haunt had not bitten their companion, and when the haunt turned to fully retreat into the bank, he swung the car around to block off the entryway. Opening the door again, he stepped on the running board and manhandled the lights to point inside the building. Ear-splitting cries erupted as soon as he did so, the curious haunts still inside trying to see what was going on. It was a noise he’d grown used to, but no matter how many times he heard it, it still shook him to the bone. He forced himself to wait until the shrieks inside died down before he let himself relax. The air fell heavy and silent again, the police officer allowing his shoulders to fall.
As soon as the tension left them, however, he became extremely aware of five pairs of eyes staring holes into his back. He snapped his head around to see the men, each of them staring at him as if he were one of them.
It was everything he could do not to growl at them, just for kicks and giggles.
“Who are you?” He asked, jumping off the running board onto the pavement. In the afternoon sun, he could see each of them clearly.
The redhead, the one he’d saved, stood closest. His long red hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, though any bangs he had were swept off to the right side of his forehead. He wore a brown leather coat over a bulletproof vest and green pants, and as he rolled down his sleeves, he readjusted the coat on his shoulders. One of the others, wearing a long black trench coat, released his arm after a careful inspection. His face seemed to darken as he scowled up at Josuke, and he raised his hand to adjust the hat sitting on top of his head. He wore a shotgun strapped to his back and held an axe up on the sidewalk. He wore a turtleneck underneath his coat, and the longer Josuke stared, the deeper his glare seemed to become.
The archer, an older man with a beige turtleneck under his bulletproof vest, slowly caught his breath. His graying hair was slicked back away from his face, and his beard and mustache accentuated the look of worry plastered on his face. He was still very built for his age, and though Josuke would never admit it out loud, he looked eerily familiar.
Next to him stood a large man with dark skin, two scars cutting through his face, one on either cheek. Had they not looked so clean, Josuke would have assumed that they were from fighting against haunts, but the longer he stared the smoother they seemed to be. He wore a tight black hoodie and black pants, and he had stopped in the middle of strapping on a flamethrower. His black hair was pushed back with a headband, though the bantu knots on top of his head rendered the headband a simple accessory. Slightly behind him, standing next to a wrecked Jeep, stood the man with a white head of hair. It was parted down the middle, with a bowl of shorter hair giving way to a mane that touched the top of his back. He looked the most frazzled, his own hoodie tucked under a bulletproof vest and pants tucked into high boots. Once Josuke had taken in each of them, he turned to their Jeep, which must have crashed into one of Morioh City’s light posts before it came to a stop.
“Who are you?” the old man asked, and Josuke stood a little straighter. Just because they were people—actual, real, breathing people—didn’t mean that they necessarily meant well.
But they were people, for goodness’ sake.
“My name is Josuke Higashikata,” he stated slowly, and the privilege to see their faces change as they took in his name felt almost exhilarating. “Who are you all, and why are you here?”
The man with the flamethrower stepped forward, releasing the thrower in his arms. The mechanism retracted to the canister on his back, and he spread his hands in almost a peace offering. “You are Josuke HIgashikata?”
Turning his head toward him, Josuke nodded.
“We heard your transmission,” the white-haired one piped up, and Josuke turned there, almost regretting this ping-pong of interrogation. “We didn’t know that someone was capable of living in the city.”
“We also heard that you’re immune,” the tall, dark-clothed man cut in, and Josuke turned to him. Were he a more trusting person, Josuke would have walked over to ask for a handshake, but in case he was indeed dreaming, he wanted to stay for as long as possible.
“I am,” he nodded, and turned back to the redhead. “And if you aren’t careful here, you’ll get bitten. The haunts here are more advanced than what I’ve heard from outside the city.”
He stood up straighter. “That’s right. The haunts we are used to do not come out in the daytime. That one caught us off guard.”
“If you are passing through, then I suggest getting to it, because it’s almost airborne here,” he pointed out, and the redhead let out a mirthless laugh. Josuke took in the Jeep again, and the man standing next to it. “If you have more in your group, you might want to tell them, as well.”
“More?” Flamethrower man asked, and Josuke turned to him. He and the old man exchanged a long look. “This is it. My name is Muhammad Abdul. Call me Abdul.” He began gesturing around the group. “This is Jean Pierre Polnareff, Joseph Joestar, Jotaro Kujo, and Kakyoin Noriaki.” As he introduced them, Josuke nodded at each, acknowledging their presence. “We had more, but…well…”
“You don’t have to explain.” Josuke cut him off, taking the strap on his shotgun and swinging it around his back. He felt his heart beating quickly in his chest, and he dialed down his intensity. “You…where are you from?”
“We came from Tokyo,” Polnareff groaned as he stretched. “And what a drive!”
“Tokyo!?” Josuke began counting on his fingers. “That’s—that’s a five hour drive, did you—?”
“We were looking for more survivors,” Abdul offered.
“People,” Josuke breathed, and when the rest of the group grew quiet, he snapped his head up. “Are there more people in Tokyo!?”
His spirits fell along with their expressions.
“Not many,” the old man, Joseph, sounded sad when he spoke. “But some.”
“Some is better than none,” Josuke stepped forward now. “Are there a lot? Or—,”
“There are about ten now that we left,” Jotaro informed him.
Ten.
Josuke placed his hand over his eyes, and turned back to his SUV, placing both hands on the door for support.
“Ten,” he leaned his head on the window. “With them, that’s fifteen…”
“Are you okay?” Kakyoin, the redhead, moved closer to ask, and Josuke squeezed his eyes shut. Pull yourself together, he berated himself.
“Are you saying,” he murmured, “that you came from a community?”
“Y-yes,” Kakyoin answered, and Josuke reeled around, finally allowing himself to stare at the men for real.
“Why would you leave?” He demanded. “Was there something wrong?”
Kakyoin, who had indeed stepped forward, looked over his shoulder to make eye contact with Joseph. After a moment of thought, the old man nodded. Kakyoin returned his gaze to Josuke with more empathy in his eyes.
“We’re looking for a cure,” he explained, “the virus has been progressing to the air in Tokyo. We’d heard nothing but horror stories from the south, so when we came north…”
“You heard my transmission and came to find me,” Josuke finished. “But why did you come into the city? I told you—,”
“We waited,” Joseph cut in, “but when you didn’t come back in the morning—,”
“I had to update the message,” Josuke said. The air was heavy for a moment before Kakyoin cleared his throat again.
“When we heard that you were immune, we figured you could help us.”
Josuke blinked at him for a moment, and unsure what else to say, blurted, “My safe house is ten miles outside the city proper, on the cape. It would be safer for you to follow me there, instead of waiting for one to try wandering out into the daylight again.”
Josuke turned to his car, but when there were no footsteps, he turned on his heel. Behind him, each of the men were fixing him with an incredulous look. He stared at them for a moment in return before he finally looked back to Polnareff, standing by their crashed Jeep.
He let out a long sigh.
“Or…we could all fit in mine.”