Blood, Sweat & Tears // BTS Zombie Apocalypse AU

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Yoongi told himself that they weren't human anymore but he couldn't help but feel bad.

Someone so young had their entire life ahead of them. Family, friends. In a sense, she was just like him. Shaking his head, he blew out a noisy sigh and pried his cocoa hues away.

It didn't matter anymore. She was already dead.

Yoongi eyed the shop's display glass.

The group of zombies he had managed to attract clawed at the wide glass window, smearing bloody fingerprints and decaying flesh.

He threw his head back, not at all concerned when it smacked off the hard surface of the wall with a resounding 'thwack'.

"Fuck me." He whispered, chest still rapidly rising and falling. He shut his eyes with a lucid weariness and focused on slowing his breathing.

The tapping of fingers and the slight slam of heads upon the glass set his heart racing, and his eyelids twitched.

Thud.

His eyes snapped open.

They flickered to the doorway, glossy. He released a long sigh through his nose and turned away from the bloodied corpses.

Yoongi was... scared.

He wouldn't say it out loud but he was absolutely terrified.

Blinking back the saltwater brimming his eyes and wetting his lashes, he allowed his eyes to wander the room.

They trailed across the many old trinkets and dream catchers lining the shelves upon the walls and along the pretty, albeit creepy, bisque dolls that sat motionless in the corners, eyes wide and lashes long.

A collection of expensive jewellery lay colour coded inside a glass box at the front desk, set alongside mythical creature figurines and small ornaments.

Behind the front desk were many shelves bestrewed with packets and tins of tobacco, and the store smelled heavily of a smoky incense.

A set of glass pipes were scattered messily upon a dark oak desk, a large clothes rack placed beside it.

Displays of colourful badges decorated one section of the left wall, and four plastic trestle tables lined with sweet-smelling tins and records were settled beneath them.

A light wood pedestal table held a few extra various boxes of jewellery and strange oblong tribal masks. Yoongi eyed the odd sailor paintings on the wall.

He jumped when his phone ringtone went off and then closed his eyes, sighing deeply. It scared him.

His hands dug around in his parka jacket pockets, searching for his phone.

His finger caught the 'answer' button and slid across the icon.

"Namjoon?" He asked, a hidden relief underlying his tone but upon hearing the plentiful groans outside, his anxiety returned.

"Yoongi-hyung? Thank god." Namjoon sighed, glad. "I was worried the service would disappear before I got a chance to call you. Are you okay? Where are you?"

"I'm fine, Joon. I'm in one of the shops on the high street. Where are you?"

"We're in the old warehouse on St. Michaels."

Yoongi smiled meekly, relieved. "I take it everyone else is there with you?"

"Jimin... isn't."

"What?" His heart dropped.

"Jimin didn't come with us to the restaurant."

"Why not?"

"He's staying with his parents for the week. He missed them."

Yoongi's eyes hardened. "Call him." He demanded, overcome with worry.

Namjoon sighed from on the other side of the line. "Trust me, I've tried."

"I'll..." Yoongi dragged a hand through his hair, stressed, chocolate eyes swirling. "...get him."

Namjoon didn't respond.

The younger male stood up on shaky legs and glanced around the shop, looking for a more reliable weapon. He crouched down and sifted through the shelves lining the inside of the front desk.

"Yoongi-hyung?" Namjoon's quiet voice spoke out from the speaker.

He pressed the phone back to his ear, eyes scrutinising the objects aligned neatly with an attentiveness that surprised even himself. "Yeah?"

His hyung hesitated on the other line. "Stay safe." He whispered and although the words were sincere, he couldn't help but take note of the growing discomfort settling into his brittle bones.

This time, it was Yoongi who didn't respond.

Swallowing the lump forming in his throat, he ended the call and shoved his phone back in his pocket.

He pulled out a Glock17 from the desk and his cocoa-coloured pools of prudence drifted to the box of 9mm Parabellum bullets placed beside it.

He wouldn't promise. He couldn't bring himself to.

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1178 words, a/n not included

unedited