They look like a college diversity pamphlet.

You’d think Jack would stop thinking about that after 1,224 mornings, or that it’d stop making him laugh. Val got tired after a whopping twenty times ‘cause ve’s too good to him.

But they really do. You’ve got two white kids, Jack and his sister Hannah. One’s got blond hair and blue eyes, the other’s got brown hair and brown eyes. Then you’ve got Rishi, a Pakistani girl with hijabs made of whatever she can get. Greg’s a black guy with a Harvard senior portrait face. If colleges were still a thing, they’d be on the front cover of Prospective Students pages.

Jack watches them wander around the piles of canned food. Rishi grows Kadan’s talons to open a can ‘cause Greg’s using the opener. Hannah’s taking advantage of their refreshed water supply to make coffee. They’ve already set out the solar panels for their chargers and generator. Besides the light jab of exasperation at Jack’s diverse pamphlet thought, Val’s consciousness is still yawning as dawn peeks out. Jack stretches with vem.

But for the distant hissing and slobbering of the zombies, all’s quiet. Jack turns side to side to stretch the scaled scars on his back.

“We got water for my toothbrush?” he asks.

“Yes, thank Jesus,” Hannah mutters, putting her hand-painted mug, which yells in splattered letters, APOCAMUG. “I even got to wash my hair.”

Jack slides around the cluttered island and counters to Greg, who immediately holds up his hand.

“That means you can’t kiss me with that mouth,” he says. Rishi snorts as she shoves their cans in the microwave.

Jack trills his lips, but accepts the small shot glass of water. “Can I wash my hair too? I don’t got as much.”

Hannah raises her Apocamug to the huge pile of water jugs. Two feet behind him. Right, ‘cause he’d helped lug ‘em in.

He’s a little tired.

“Nice.”

Hannah calls after him, “Remember you’ve got first flight!”

((&))

You might ask, “But Jack. Why would you wash your hair when you’re about to fly a dragon over a barren wasteland?”

And that’s a fair point. But consider: Jack’s gonna get absolutely filthy anyway. He’s used to it. So really, why wouldn’t he wash before flying across a barren wasteland? Illogical it may be, but Val’s indifference’s rubbed off on him.

Facing the reinforced window to sun his scales, Jack brushes his teeth first. He groans quietly as he digs his teeth and tastebuds from their stinking grave (zombie puns are a must in this apocalypse). He sighs through his nose and brushes through bleeding gums and cringing sensitivity. The clean feeling alone is worth it.

Val’s amused again. It’s one of ver default states. Ve also presses an image of cold sunscreen. The aggravated human skin around Jack’s scales give a telltale twinge. Honestly, the things formed two hours after the world officially went tits up. You’d think everything around them wouldn’t be so sensitive. Like Jack shouldn’t think the pamphlet joke is still funny.

But he does and they are, so he heads back to the door to ask for help. He finds Greg about to reach for the knob, well-squeezed bottle in hand.

Val is very amused.

“I’ll get to applying,” Greg says, gesturing to Jack’s foamy lips, “You finish up.”

Jack makes a garbled noise around his toothbrush.

“Love you too.”

It’s a little awkward when Jack has to gurgle and spit in the shot glass, but zombies do wonders for adaptability. Greg doesn’t bother asking about soap first. It’s not like Jack can do much in the way of washing his scales. There’s never time for it, especially when there’s water to spare for washing, ‘cause then they really can’t spend unnecessary time outside the essentials. Rishi can, and some parts of Hannah’s are spick n’ span, but they got these things from their dragons. Val’s got too many grooves. You gotta get a nail or somethin’ to pick out the dirt.

“There,” Greg says, “How’s that feel?”

Jack puts his hands on his hips and bends back a little. He tips his head to look at Greg upside-down. “Very moist.”

Greg snorts.

Jack spins around and grins. “Can I kiss you with this mouth now?”

“Dude,” Greg says, “you’re still terrible at come-ons.”

“But?”

They’ve gotta keep it closed-lipped until Jack’s gums stop bleeding, but it’s awesome. Never underestimate the value of toothpaste. Kissing with a decently clean mouth? Unreal. Jack’s already dreading morning breath.

Greg thumbs Jack’s jawline and says, “Better hurry up. Gotta clear the area.”

Jack tries to be annoyed. Val’s excited bloodthirst turns it into a smirk—one that Greg should be used to, but somehow never is.

One more peck, and Jack’s grabbing the shampoo.

((&))

Home’s on the tenth floor of an apartment building in Boston, not far from the university. The dragons have taken the park.

Jack’s pulled on what used to be a white t-shirt. He’s cut off the sleeves and demolished the back into a thin strip at the bottom to accommodate his scales and the heat. He wishes he could wear shorts too, but the shirt’s a big enough risk. Cargo pants, boots, and thick gloves it is.

“Where are my goggles?” he calls, poking Val’s consciousness.

“Where they always are,” Rishi replies dryly. When Jack just looks at her, she rolls her eyes and adds, “The hooks, you moron.”

By the door, a chaos of different coats, jackets, and gloves crowd a quivering set of hooks that’d come with the apartment. But over all that are four pairs of decked out swimming goggles with added padding on the sides. Hey, it’s the best they could find.

Jack takes his phone and headphones from the window chargers. He says goodbye while swiping the Bluetooth on.

Greg crosses his arms. “Excuse me?”

Jack blinks. Then smiles and kisses him. “See you soon, Greg.”

Greg smiles back. He stuffs some extra sunscreen in one of Jack’s free pockets, along with a travel mug of tomato soup and water.

A rumbling noise, followed by squishes and zombie screams.

“Ride’s here!” Hannah says.

Jack puts on his headphones and grabs his messenger bag.

Like always, when he closes the door, he stamps down the visceral panic of never making it back. The shit Val put in him when ve marked him protects him from important apocalypse stuff—radiation, zombie bites. But he can still bleed out, still get sick, still break in half.

Like always, Val senses his feelings and reasoning, but ve doesn’t understand. One again, ve paints an image of him on ver back, safely in the air with a sniper rifle. Then ve pulls up another, where Jack is bleeding, but Val easily picks him up and scorches nearby hordes with acid. Then he’s in bed, bandaged, in Greg’s exasperated/relieved care.

Safe, safe, safe. He can almost hear a human voice, guttural and deep. Safe, safe, safe.

Despite the reassurance, Val’s annoyed. Actually annoyed, not like when he laughs about the pamphlets. Ve takes Jack’s worry as his not trusting vem, of being a foolish human. Jack reaches the roof with a sigh.

“You know it’s not that,” he says to ver rising head. “You know it’s not.”

Val hums, chameleon eye flicking up and down. Skeptical.

Jack steps up to the edge of the building. “You want me to prove it again? Even though I literally owe you my life?”

His stomach swoops with a memory of jumping. He’s done it before, for a couple reasons. Recently, though, it’s only for showing Val that he trusts vem to catch him.

When he spreads his arms, Val warms and nudges him back. Jack latches on, mindful of ver scales.

“This sounds weird every time I say it,” he murmurs, “but you’re me and I’m you. I just—I just can’t stop remembering how it all ended.”

Val snorts, white hot breath rivaling the sun’s oppressive knuckles on Jack’s human skin. Image of a book, a page with END. The page is torn out, revealing a continuing story.

Jack smiles. “Yeah, I know. We’re surviving.” He picks his head up. Val’s eyes still roam independently, but he knows ve’s listening. “You’re gettin’ real creative with your imagery, y’know? Thanks.”

Groans interrupt the nice moment. More zombies meander towards them, stepping around the squashed pulps of other zombies. Radiation’s affected ‘em differently. Some have whole other heads growing from their faces. Others have bubbly flesh like warts on a toad. Useless extra hands and legs swing from waists and shoulders. Because the radiation had to burst at the same time the dragons arrived—magic works quick and brutal.

The sun sinks into Jack’s scales. The rest of him screams, even under the sunscreen he’d applied after washing. His hair’s gonna turn white from all the bleaching.

“Come on,” he says, “Let’s hunt.”

Val lifts him in ver talons, ripe with images of tasty, tasty zombies.

All in all, not a bad morning.