Yixing huddles on the floor beside Joonmyun, arms wrapped around his knees. They share earbuds, but the music doesn't distract them or drown out the sirens outside.

Shhhffffp. Shhhffffp. Shhfffp.

Someone shuffles down the hall outside their room, dragging something behind them.

Both men scoot back further against the wall and watch the door. A shadow crosses the tiny strip of light between the floor and door and pauses. It knocks.

Joonmyun's hand clamps over Yixing's thigh, blunt nails digging into denim.

Shhhffffp. Shhhffffp. Shhfffp.

The shadow passes.

Joonmyun's head falls to Yixing's shoulder; the dancer pats his hand with what he hopes is a comforting smile.

“So … . What are we supposed to do?”

“I don't know. Our flight should be leaving in a couple hours, but I don't know if we can leave. You saw outside.” People in stages of purification, skin marbled and blistered, shuffle and trip over sidewalks and among abandoned cars.

The world had gone to hell in a manner of hours. No one's really sure what happened or how; it happened too fast, and the media fell with the rest of city, leaving snowy channels and useless landlines. People just started dying but came back within hours, partially decayed and understandably ravenous.

Yixing pulls Joonmyun's hand off his leg and slips their fingers together. He gently tugs the earbuds from between them and stuffs them and his iPod in a pocket. “I guess we just have to find help.” If there is any.

A perk of being fully alive and not partially decomposed is they can outrun any brain munchers. Joonmyun doesn't consider himself an athlete, but training and singing and dance taught him how to breathe properly, so when he and Yixing slip out of their safe haven—locking it with a room card, just in case—and come upon a drooling hotel maid at the end of the hall, they book it to the elevator without losing breath.

That doesn't mean they can control their hearts, though, and once the doors are safely shut, Yixing and Joonmyun both fall back against the finished metal walls and feel their hearts beating wildly in their pulsing fingers.

Yixing looks at Joonmyun. “Up or down?”

“Down. We need to get out of here.”

Ping … Ping … Ping …

The elevator jerks to a stop.

Yixing squeezes Joonmyun's fingers subconsciously.

Fffffsh.

A Western tourist peers into the car. His jaw hangs loose, and saliva drips passed his teeth, hanging from his lip in stretching strands.

Their heart rates sky-rocket, and Yixing makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, shifts his weight to a foot, an lashes out to strike the tourist in the chest with his heel.

The tourist stumbles and falls with all the grace of a newborn giraffe.

Yixing jumps over him and tugs Joonmyun along behind. They run until they reach the end of the hall and an open, empty office. Joonmyun whirls around, slams the door, and slides the bolt into place.

“Maybe the stairs would've been better.”

“Hindsight's great,” Joonmyun pants. He points to his left. “I'm going to look and see if there's a working phone or something. You look over there.”

They split up.

Joonmyun rummages in the cabinets and drawers. There's nothing useful. He has no idea what even is useful against zombies. This isn't his forte. Where's Chanyeol and Jongin when he needs them?

Probably drooling all over themselves and rotting alive. Perfect.

“Having any luck, Yixing? I got nothing.” Silence. “Yixing?” Heart in his throat, he speed-sneaks back to where they parted. The Chinese man's nowhere to be seen. “Yixing?!” Joonmyun didn't hear anything. The zombie things have a lazy shuffle that's easy to hear. There can't possibly be classes and levels of zombies. “Yixing!”

The dancer finally calls softly, “I'm here.”

Joonmyun swallows around his heart and sighs. “Where'd you go? Did you find anything?”

“Yeah.” Yixing walks out from a side room, a small breakroom for hired help with a long sofa, some chairs, and refrigerator. He has a bundle of blankets in his arms.

“What is it?”

“Gaoxing.”

“Gaoxing?” Joonmyun unwraps the top of the blanket, and his heart drops clear to his stomach. A baby, maybe a year old, is nestled in Yixing's arms. “There's no one else but us, I guess.”

“I wonder what happened to her parents.”

Shhhffffp. Shhhffffp. Shhfffp.

They freeze. Gaoxing the baby shifts and mumbles.

“Into that room!” Joonmyun whispers. He herds Yixing into the breakroom and closes the door. It has no lock; he tugs and pushes the giant sofa until it blocks the entrance. He collapses onto the cushions and wipes his face with his sleeve.

Yixing sits on the floor, Gaoxing on his lap. “So what now?”

“I guess … we wait.” Joonmyun leans forward and tickles the baby's cheek with a finger, trying to smile. “We can't put her in danger, now.”

“Maybe one of us could—”

“Not a chance.” Joonmyun drops to the floor and scoots to sit hip-to-shoulder against Yixing's side. “We're better off staying here and waiting. Something's gotta give, right? In all the movies, the good guys win, somehow.”

They're not in a movie, though. It's on the tip of his tongue, but Yixing knows the look on his face, the mask he wears to play the part of fearless leader. Joonmyun doesn't need to be told what he already knows, especially when neither of them have a clue how to survive this apocalypse or epidemic or nightmare, much less how to care for a baby.

Despite his lack of faith in the other man's words, Yixing simply nods. Gaoxing coos in her sleep, head on his heart.

Shhhffffp. Shhhffffp. Shhfffp.

a.n.: Gaoxing (高兴) means "happy."