Chapter Text
Night fell on Bag End. Bilbo retreated upstairs after spending most of the day staring at the kitchen door, half-expecting Gandalf or even his parents to come bursting through with the news that the past ten months or so had all just been an excessively horrible nightmare.
He was exhausted but his heart still pounded wildly in his chest, causing him to feel like his whole body was vibrating. It was the same jittery feeling he had suffered from on some mornings while conducting research at Cambridge during his postdoc, the result of who knows how many double espressos after countless sleepless nights of working through novel coding schemes or programming solutions to firewall vulnerabilities.
He had tried to pick up his book again in order to calm himself, and when that didn’t work—the wizard in the story reminded him just a little too much of Gandalf—he took the risk of dashing across the yard to do a little pruning in the greenhouse. While he was there, he also took the opportunity to feed his surviving chickens, having rounded them up and relocated their coop to the safety of the enclosed space shortly after returning home. It was ultimately futile, but at least now he had some fresh tomatoes and spinach with which to make an omelette in the morning.
(He hadn’t yet had the chance to make one so far. Most of the hens were worryingly skinny and half feral, having run wild in the yard for who knows how long. However, with his care and gentle coaxing, a couple of them were encouragingly starting to lay again. It made Bilbo feel inordinately hopeful. If you asked him, there was nothing more cheerful or satisfying than a just-slightly-runny fried egg.)
Nothing else he had tried after that had worked either. Even the act of smoking his pipe, a calming activity if there ever was one, couldn't keep his hands from shaking. He nearly spilled ash all over the rug for his efforts, which would have been a dreadful pain to clean up without the use of a vacuum.
Bilbo was just about to climb into bed and conduct what was probably a pointless attempt to sleep when he heard rustling outside. He frowned and did his best to tamp down the fear that stabbed at his gut. He climbed into bed, making an effort to tuck himself in and fluff the pillows.
He stared at the ceiling. Hands folded neatly on the bedspread, he waited for sleep to come. From the alarm clock, Mickey Mouse gazed at his rigid form impassively, ticking away the seconds until the time tomorrow morning when it would sadistically remind him that he needed to get up. He didn’t even bother snuffing the candles.
The rustling continued outside, followed by the loud metallic clatter of what were probably the bins tipping over. He resolutely refused to jump or startle. It was probably a stray dog rummaging around, he reasoned. Just one of many former housepets that had lost their owner since Durin’s Day, nothing to get upset about.
He looked to the elephant rifle that lay just within easy reach. The light from the candles flickered on the smooth metal of the barrel.
"Just ignore it, Bilbo Baggins," he muttered, rolling out of bed and reaching for the rifle anyway. "It’s probably nothing. You were the one that just got through saying that you didn't want any more excitement."
He slowly shuffled over to the boarded-over window and jimmied off the bottom-most piece of plywood, loosened from the handful of other times he had done this exact thing since first nailing it on. Setting it aside, Bilbo slid the glass up with practiced ease, peering out into Bag End's moonlit rear yard with resigned dismay. There were only a few infected out in the yard tonight, ghastly specters of former village residents who had wandered blindly into the once-neat hedgerows and raised vegetable beds that dotted the lawns of Bag End.
They had most likely been attracted by the lingering smell of Bilbo’s and Gandalf’s warm, alive presences in the garden from earlier that day. In contrast, the only aroma Bilbo could make out on the night breeze was the rot of Hamfast Gamgee, whose putrefied remains rested just below Bilbo’s bedroom window. He should really get to disposing of them soon, if out of respect more than anything else. Though, he did find that the stench helped to mask his own living smell. The infected had stopped clawing at and trying to open the kitchen door at night once Hamfast had found his final resting place.
Bag End proper aside, they did still try to break into Bilbo’s greenhouse about twice every week or so. The heavy chain and padlock on the door were usually more than enough to keep the mindless hordes from getting in, but there had been one close call where an undead neighbor had somehow cracked one of the glass panels, dangerously close to running amok and destroying Bilbo’s only remaining source of fresh veg and protein. While the infected were decidedly preferential to the other white meat, he had seen them go after all sorts of animals if they got hungry enough. He remembered one incident with a horse on his journey back to Bag End that he would just as soon try and forget.
True to form, one of the infected seemed to be sniffing around the entrance to the greenhouse a little too closely for comfort. He looked like to have once been a strapping young man in his late twenties, a clerk at the local market if the tattered remains of his yellow uniform polo were anything to go by. His flesh was an unhealthy gray color and half his face seemed to have sloughed off, which revealed the muscle and stark white bone of his jaw. Most of his right eyeball bulged out of its socket.
Bilbo loaded a new magazine into the clip and poked the muzzle of the firearm out the window, resting the barrel on the sill. He engaged the bolt as quietly as he could, not wanting to alert any of the six or seven infected milling around the yard, let alone his target. Bullet stripped from the magazine and safety off, Bilbo peered down the scope and put the head of the infected straight into his crosshairs.
He let out a breath. His finger rested lightly on the trigger.
The sound of a vintage Weatherby Mark V safari rifle is hard to describe, especially if it is fired in the absence of any other noise. The sound it made in the countryside of western Cornwall on a night almost a year after English (and quite possibly the world’s, for all Bilbo knew) society had been abruptly murdered was nothing short of biblical. The crack of the firing pin ejecting the .316 caliber bullet from the barrel sounded akin to the sky itself being rent to pieces. Bilbo imagined it echoed across the countryside for miles.
There was a split second where the garden was shocked into stillness. Then the former grocery clerk’s head promptly exploded in a fountain of viscera, blood and brains splattering across the unkempt grass. Droplets even made it as far as the glass wall of the greenhouse, a good meter and a half away.
In lieu of all his other skills having been rendered obsolete after the end of the world, Bilbo Baggins had made the welcome discovery that he was, to his utter surprise, a ridiculously good shot. The caliber and resultant firepower of the Weatherby may have been overkill, but Bilbo decided that being sure was better than being eaten.
Meanwhile, the rest of the infected whipped themselves up into a froth at the sound, which Bilbo had expected. They ambled toward the remains of their dead companion, unbothered by the bits of cranium that littered the surrounding lawn. Bilbo pumped the bolt again, ejecting the empty shell casing and stripping a new bullet just in case. He looked down the scope, not knowing yet if he intended to find a new target in the newly formed cluster of undead. They were busy giving their fallen comrade a couple of curious bites. If Bilbo was lucky, it would hold their attention for the rest of the night until they retreated back to... wherever it was they went to when the sun was up.
It was then that something strange wavered in his peripheral vision.
The once nicely pruned hedge in a far corner of the garden rustled briefly before a large, burly figure emerged from seemingly inside it. Bilbo swung the rifle in its direction, peering down the scope to get a better look. The man—for it was a man, living and breathing just as Bilbo himself was—assessed the situation for a second before sprinting as quietly as he could to the back door. Bilbo saw the pate of his bald, tattooed scalp gleaming in the pale moonlight. The man looked straight up at Bilbo, seeming to lock eyes with him through the scope. He scowled through the combination of his thick beard and moustache, jerking his head roughly at the door as he ran.
Bilbo stared dumbly at the figure for a moment before his brain caught up with the situation. He leapt up from his sniper’s perch, flipping the safety back on the rifle and darting down the stairs to the kitchen door. Had he been more aware of himself, he would have patted himself on the back for not even flinching as the third stair squeaked. However, the only thing on his mind at that moment was his hope to meet the intruder before he did something drastic, like breaking down the door and getting them both eaten.
The kitchen was pitch black when he entered. Bilbo found the back door mainly by feel, fingers trembling as they rushed to unlatch the deadbolt. Instead of flinging it wide, he opened the door just enough to fit the muzzle of the rifle and the front of the scope through. Moonlight spilled in through the cracked door, creating a rectangle of silvery light that splashed against the tile and worn paisley doormat, illuminating Bilbo’s bare feet and the bottom of his pyjama pants. The man had made it past the cluster of infected and arrived at the edge of the porch, where he slowed to a jog and eventually stopped next to Hamfast. He regarded the elephant gun that was pointed directly at his sternum with a disconcerting coolness.
“Nice distraction,” said the stranger, tone gruff. His voice was pitched low and was colored with a vague glottal accent Bilbo couldn’t place. “Now, if you would lower that overpowered peashooter and let me in, that would be very helpful.”
“Who are you?” whispered Bilbo, refusing to budge despite his slight discomfort at pointing a weapon at another (living) human being.
“Don’t you think we could have that conversation inside?” replied the man in a low murmur. He sounded annoyed, but his eyes darted worriedly to the group of infected not five meters away.
“Certainly not!” Bilbo hissed.
The man glowered, his expression becoming more intense as the infected began to grow agitated. They began to realize that their fresh meal was actually not so fresh, and that there was the scent of live meat on the breeze. Loud groans puncturing the quiet night air, they furiously tore apart what was left of their fallen comrade in a matter of seconds. Meat and guts were flung across the grass as they howled in rage.
“The old man sent me,” the stranger rumbled, edging closer toward the door. “I swear, on the blood and spirit of my fathers, I mean you no harm. Now let me in.”
There was no masking the desperation now. Bilbo glanced past the stranger and at the undead, the herky-jerky motions of their heads and bodies signaling that they had gotten bored of disemboweling and had definitely caught the scent of fresh blood. While they were generally slow, if the infected whipped themselves into enough of a frenzy they could swarm and rush in the direction of the scent. If that happened then they would both be done for. Bilbo had only a moment to decide.
“Gandalf sent you?” asked Bilbo, slowly starting to retract the gun.
“For Mahal’s sake, yes. Now let me in the thrice-damned house! ”
The stranger took advantage of the slight weakness in Bilbo’s guard, forcing the door open just enough to allow his tremendous bulk to pass through. He quickly shut it behind him and latched the bolt, sending the room back into pitch darkness.
Bilbo trembled and backed away blindly, his backside colliding painfully with the edge of the dinner table. It slid, and the scrape of the wooden legs on the tile echoed painfully in the still room. It sent Bilbo into even more of a panic, certain that those infected outside had heard it. Frightened beyond reason, he brandished the rifle blindly in front of him, finger on the trigger and thumb resting on the safety.
“W-who the hell are you?” he stuttered out into the darkness.
There was a click and a small whoosh, a pinprick of illumination lighting a tiny portion of the room. The stranger held his small steel lighter aloft, casting dramatic shadows across the jagged planes of his scarred face.
“Dwalin, at your service,” the stranger said. He quickly spotted the kerosene lamp on the table and lit it, bathing the rest of the kitchen in relative brightness. “Now stop pointing that thing at me. You’re making me nervous.”
With the added illumination seeming to physically clear the shadows from Bilbo’s mind, the reality of the stranger’s—Dwalin’s—words started to sink in. Slowly, he lowered the rifle, feeling like he had run a mile. The man sat down heavily at the table and kept his distance, seeming to appraise Bilbo in silence.
“I… I’m Bilbo Baggins. At yours, I suppose,” said Bilbo after a moment. The tension started to drain out of him as Dwalin continued to act in a reasonably non-hostile manner and not make any sudden moves.
“Mind if I smoke?” asked Dwalin, though he had already fished a black cigarette out of the breast pocket of his grimy combat jacket and stuck it in his mouth.
“...Go ahead?”
As he lit up, Bilbo saw that the lighter was inscribed with a sort of script he couldn’t quite make out; to his untrained eye, it looked sort of like runes. He could also see the same sort of script tattooed across Dwalin’s hands and knuckles along with some intricate geometric patterns and a bit of Cyrillic. He had similar tattoos on his scalp.
The tattoos had been the first thing he noticed about the man as he had darted across the lawn. The next, which Bilbo realized now that he was sharing space with him, was the fact that Dwalin was massive. Though not particularly tall by English standards (but certainly taller than Bilbo, who despite his protestations was definitely on the short side), Bilbo could tell that even under his bulky travel and combat gear, Dwalin was intimidatingly large. It was compounded by the fact that he had the ramrod straight posture and bearing of a career soldier. He seemed to be in possession of a deathly serious air that magnified his already intimidating presence.
Within minutes of meeting him, Bilbo could already tell three things about Dwalin of which he was almost certain. One, that he was a man of few words; two, that he smoked clove cigarettes; and three, that he probably did not have much patience for nonsense. Which is why Bilbo couldn’t help but stare at perhaps the most conspicuous—and absurd—thing about his person: The two giant, two-handed axes that he had strapped to his back.
Bilbo rubbed his temples, trying to cross the headache he felt creeping on off at the pass. Leaning the rifle against the counter, he reached up on his tiptoes to a high shelf in order to retrieve the abalone shell Mum liked to use as an ashtray (she had caught it herself of course, free diving off the coast of Northern California). He set it on the table in front of Dwalin with a conspicuous clatter.
Dwalin grunted in a way that Bilbo decided to interpret as a heartfelt thanks.
“Is there anything I can get for you?” Bilbo ventured, falling into the role of polite host strictly out of habit.
“Coffee,” Dwalin replied curtly, exhaling a large cloud of spicy, botanical-smelling smoke.
“Ah. No coffee I’m afraid. Ran out of that about a week ago. Tea?”
“Nah.”
“Okay.”
They stayed like that for a long moment. Bilbo stood dumbly in the middle of the kitchen, wringing his hands as Dwalin smoked silently and glowered into space. Though Bilbo knew intellectually that it was a perfectly proper size, the chair looked slightly too small for him, especially with the two huge axes.
It was unbearably awkward.
“So…I take it you’re one of Gandalf’s colleagues,” said Bilbo, haplessly grasping for conversation.
“Aye. Was scouting ahead for the rest of the group when I got pinned down in your hedge. Thanks for that, by the way.”
Bilbo shrugged weakly. “You’re welcome, I suppose.”
Dwalin tapped his excess ash into the abalone shell, looking thoughtfully at the rifle.
“You sure you know how to use that thing?” Dwalin asked, gesturing in its general direction. “Peashooter like that has an awfully big kick for such a little man.”
Bilbo bristled, mouth opening despite himself. “Yes, well! This little man certainly saved your hide with that ‘peashooter’! You have some nerve, especially for someone who barges in here uninvited and that comes with axes of all things strapped to their b—”
Bilbo was abruptly cut off by a loud banging on the door, too paralyzed by fright from the sudden sound to gain any sort of satisfaction from Dwalin’s startled yelp, quiet though it was. They stared at each other for a long moment, neither daring to move a muscle as the banging continued.
“Turn the light down, lad,” Dwalin hissed, shoving the cigarette between his lips.
Bilbo scampered to the table, turning the kerosene lamp down so the room was bathed in what he supposed to be the dimmest light it was still possible to see by. Dwalin stood up with practiced deliberation, making sure not to jostle the chair and make any sudden noises. His hand traveled slowly to the huge bowie knife Bilbo now noticed was strapped to his hip, edging towards the door. He took up a position just to the side of it, one hand on his knife and the other on the deadbolt.
The banging continued at a frenetic pace, this time accompanied by what Bilbo supposed were a few guttural words in a language he couldn’t place. Dwalin stiffened and immediately unlatched the door, hand flying through the opening to haul who or whatever it was inside.
In the new dimness Bilbo could not properly see whoever Dwalin had dragged into his kitchen, just that Dwalin was now quickly patting them down—Bilbo couldn’t tell if it was for weapons or for injuries—and exchanging words in that same unknown language. Bilbo didn’t recognize it, but concern colored Dwalin’s tone.
“Turn that light up!” barked Dwalin in English. Bilbo rushed to comply, despite the stab of ire at both being bossed around in his own home and his own seeming compulsion to follow orders.
Now that Bilbo could see properly, he saw that the newcomer was indeed another man. Despite being slightly shorter than Dwalin and looking considerably older, they bore a striking resemblance, though most of it was hidden underneath the worrying amount of fresh blood that had splattered across the broad expanse of his nose and matted into his silver hair and beard.
“Oh dear,” said Bilbo.
“Nothing to worry about, laddie,” the newcomer remarked, his friendly tone colored by the same vaguely guttural undertone that Dwalin had. “Most of it isn’t mine. Balin, at your service.”
Dwalin sighed almost imperceptibly in relief, though Bilbo hardly noticed.
“I see,” Bilbo replied, slightly mechanically. “Bilbo Baggins, at yours.” Even though he knew it was rude, he was unable to look away from the gore that spattered Balin’s face.
Balin smiled anyway, seemingly charmed. There was blood in his teeth.
“Before we get down to business, I must apologize for my brother,” he said, sending an exasperated look toward Dwalin. “He’s not exactly what you would call, ah, a particularly sparkling conversationalist.”
“Didn’t do anything,” Dwalin muttered, sitting back down and smoking obstinately.
“My point exactly. I imagine you didn’t explain a single thing to our host,” said Balin. “The poor man looks frightened half to death.”
Dwalin said nothing. To Bilbo’s fascination, he looked almost sheepish.
“While I would love to let you into the loop, Mister Baggins,” he continued, “I’m afraid we do not have much time. Am I correct in assuming that gunshot I heard earlier was your doing?”
“Oh, yes. I suppose that was me,” said Bilbo mildly, though flashes of his earlier kill were starting to flash discomfitingly in his mind’s eye. While it had been in defense of his food supply, it was starting to not sit so well. Bilbo thought Balin’s skin seemed to become slightly ashen, the gore standing stark against his flesh.
Seeming not to notice Bilbo’s ogling, Balin turned to Dwalin.
“Did he hit anything?” he asked.
“Just a head that burst like an overripe melon,” replied Dwalin, words wreathed in tobacco smoke.
“Clean?”
“Aye.”
“Oh good,” Balin said with a cheerful little smile. “While I worry about the amount of attention from the infected—”
“Zombies,” Dwalin interjected.
“—infected," Balin insisted, "that the noise is going to draw, I’m afraid that we have an immediate need of your marksmanship skills, Mister Baggins.”
Bilbo’s attention, which had somehow wandered off without his permission, suddenly snapped back at the sound of his name. “Oh, well,” he said, not quite sure what they were talking about, “I don’t know…”
“I have men—well, boys, really—still out there,” said Balin gravely.
“Mahal! ” exclaimed Dwalin, sitting up straight in his chair. “You can’t be serious!”
Balin imperiously stroked his beard, a silver curtain of hair that hung elegantly on his chin despite its relative unkemptness, smearing some of the blood. He proceeded to grimace and wipe his hand on his pale-yellow jacket, leaving a rusty smear. Bilbo stared.
“We were unexpectedly overrun at our previous lodging, so I’m afraid we’re going to have to impose on you a bit earlier than expected. The boys and I became separated from the rest of the company on our way over here. When we stumbled upon a group of particularly agitated infected stalking around your back garden, the boys decided to circle around and draw their attention so I could make a run for the door—quite without my input or approval, I might add,” Balin said with an exasperated sigh, though it was said with a certain amount of affectionate indulgence.
“Those—urgh—those ёбаные идиоты. Sounds par for the course for them,” Dwalin remarked, dragging a hand down his face.
“Oh, most certainly,” agreed Balin. “Well, I suppose the proper course of action now would be for two of us to provide cover fire for the boys while another one mans the door. Though, I’m afraid my eyes aren’t quite what they once were, especially in the dark. Which reminds me, may I bother you for a towel, Mister Baggins? This blood is starting to drip something awful.”
Bilbo blinked, nodding slowly. Balin turned back to Dwalin and continued to say something else. His cheerful smile was still fixed firmly upon his face as if he was talking about something innocuous, like the weather. Bilbo couldn’t hear it above the loud ringing in his ears.
Instead of joining the conversation which he could barely follow, he robotically retrieved one of his mother’s good tea towels, wetting it in the sink for good measure. He handed it to Balin without a word, trying not to think of how there was blood everywhere.
“Running water! What a splendid place you have here, Mister Baggins,” Balin exclaimed.
“Thanks.”
Balin dabbed at his face, ineffectually mopping up the slowly congealing blood that was starting to run into his eyes. Bilbo propped himself against the sink, breathing heavily through his nose. Balin handed back the towel, its delicate floral embroidery now stained beyond repair. Bilbo could only stare at it helplessly.
What. Was. Happening?
“—ggins. Mister Baggins!”
Bilbo’s head snapped up from where he had been gazing blankly at his slippers, the pale moon of Balin’s crimson-smeared face wavering in his field of vision. The hand gripping the tea towel hung limply at his side.
“Yes?” he asked dazedly.
“Are you feeling alright?”
“Quite,” he said, his voice sounding strangely far away to his own ears. “Now what is it that needs to be done again?”
“I need something that shoots straight so you and I can go upstairs to blast apart some zombie heads and save some idiot kids with a death wish,” said Dwalin brusquely.
“Now Brother, you know we don’t use the z-word,” chided Balin. Dwalin rolled his eyes.
He registered that something didn’t feel quite right, like he felt slightly disconnected from his body. But the vast majority of Bilbo’s mind seemed awash in static, simply too overwhelmed to make coherent thoughts. Images of Balin and the grocery clerk superimposed themselves over each other in his mind’s eye.
“Right then. I suppose I should show you to my mother’s gun locker,” he babbled. “She was quite the hunter in her day, you know. Africa, big game and all that.”
“Hm. You ever go with her on one of her trips?” asked Dwalin.
“Oh, heavens no. Awful waste, it seemed. Never had the stomach for it.”
“So you can shoot a zombie, but not an animal. Got it,” Dwalin snorted. He threw a meaningful glance toward the rifle that was still leaning innocuously against the counter. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Ah. Right.” He quickly grabbed the Weatherby and stalked out of the kitchen, not bothering to check if Dwalin was following.
“Let’s hope you actually know how to use that thing and that wasn’t just a lucky shot.”
“Yes, let’s,” Bilbo muttered.
“Good luck lads!” called Balin, taking a seat by the door.
Bilbo shuffled down the dark hallways of Bag End, his eyes adjusting to the darkness as his feet made the journey to his mother’s study by memory. Dwalin followed him about a foot behind, the loud thump of his heavy soled boots the only thing signaling that he was keeping pace. Bilbo was suddenly, mortifyingly reminded that he was still barefoot and dressed in his pyjamas. The realization seemed to shock something in his brain.
What am I even doing? he thought in a wild moment of lucidity. With barely any time to ponder that particular question, they arrived at the grand French doors that marked the entrance of the office. Bilbo unlatched them with sad reverence, wondering why he was letting this gruff, rude stranger into his mother’s private space.
Like the rest of the house, Bilbo had boarded up the great veranda windows that once looked out over the garden. While admittedly laid back and somewhat flighty, Mum had always been particular about how things were arranged in her private spaces, so he had left the room otherwise untouched.. Their steps sent up a fresh layer of dust, which caused Dwalin to sneeze.
“Take it you don’t come in here often, then,” he said nasally.
“Not really,” Bilbo replied, padding over to the big armoire in the corner. “Can I have a light?”
Dwalin flicked open his lighter, casting a dim glow over the surrounding area. The lighter illuminated the solid mahogany desk and matching dusty cabinet filled to bursting with a collection of various porcelain dolls and Precious Moments figurines. Dwalin looked at them askance.
“You’ll have to excuse my mother, she’s a bit of an eccentric,” said Bilbo, fiddling with the combination padlock on the armoire, once again thanking his lucky stars that his mother didn’t trust electronic locks. (Or the power grid for that matter, which is why the water pump ran on solar, which in any other circumstance would have been a laughable addition to a home in cloudy old Britain.) Soon enough, the lock clicked open, and Bilbo removed the chain keeping the armoire shut. He yanked the doors open, revealing the full extent of Mother’s armory.
If you asked Bilbo, it was, in a word, overkill. The barrels of antique rifles, automatic pistols, revolvers, and other menacing firearms glinted lowly in the firelight. The matte black finish of some more powerful weapons, some that frankly made Bilbo nauseous just to look at, gave off a similar glow. Dwalin let out a low whistle.
“What was it your mum did again?” Dwalin asked, running a reverent hand over the barrel of a brand-new Kalashnikov that Mum had gotten as a gift from one of her Russian friends.
“She’s a housewife.”
“Ah, that explains it,” muttered Dwalin, though his tone made it clear that it most certainly did not. He shot a doubtful look at Bilbo’s Weatherby. “All these options and you decide to use that? ”
Bilbo flushed.
“It’s sentimental,” he said defensively.
“Sentimentality isn’t going to keep you alive,” Dwalin grunted, hefting out a newer self-loading rifle with a state-of-the-art scope mounted on it, along with a magazine. Bilbo chose not to dignify that with an answer. Dwalin appraised the gun for a moment.
Seemingly satisfied, he said, “Well, let’s get on with it before the boys get themselves killed.”
“Right.”
Still piloting on automatic, Bilbo led them up the stairs—“Watch that step, it squeaks,” he warned—and directed Dwalin down the hall to a guest room with a window he found had a slightly different vantage point than the one in his bedroom. Bilbo padded into his own room, not thinking very hard about what he was doing or why he was doing it. He once again taking his post at the window. What he saw in the back garden made his heart sink.
“Oh, for heaven's sake! My greenhouse!” he moaned aloud in despair.
Peering through the scope to get a better look, he could spot two sprightly-looking figures that had somehow clambered up and balanced precariously atop the greenhouse’s roof while a crowd of eleven or twelve infected swarmed around them. The undead rattled the glass paneling, which was the only thing keeping them from ravaging Bilbo’s prized veg and chickens. He couldn’t see any cracks yet, but it was only a matter of time.
One of the figures seemed to be firing a crossbow into the surrounding horde to little avail, the sloping angle of the roof blocking most of his shots. The other, whose golden hair glinted in the moonlight, seemed to be in turns actively taunting the infected and encouraging their companion. Bilbo groaned at the idiocy.
A sharp crack rang out across the garden, causing Bilbo’s finger to twitch on the trigger. A spout of dark, half-congealed blood erupted from the neck of an undead where one of Dwalin’s bullets had caught. It collapsed with a dying gurgle. A whoop erupted from one of the figures on top of the greenhouse.
“Nice one, Mister Dwalin!” they cheered.
Suddenly, Bilbo’s resolve hardened. Abruptly overcome with fury, Bilbo engaged the bolt on his Weatherby and lined up a shot. He aimed for the head of another nearby infected, against his better judgement hoping to repeat his horrific performance from earlier that night. Not thinking, he let out a breath and squeezed the trigger. It burst like it had been shot by a cannon, showering its infected compatriots with bits of half-rotten brain matter. Another whoop sounded from the greenhouse roof and Bilbo felt his adrenaline spike, eclipsing the churn of nausea he had originally expected to have. Focus starting to sharpen, he and Dwalin started firing in turn, picking off the undead one by one. Most shots found their target, though Bilbo found he missed more times than his apparent ally.
Grip tightening on the gun and blood pumping, he lined up his next shot. Through his scope, he saw an infected that he realized with a shock had once been Daisy Proudfoot from down the lane. In the fog of surprise, he somehow pulled the trigger.
Something about the scope must have been off, he later reasoned. Or perhaps it could have been the rifling in the barrel finally giving way, given the Weatherby’s advanced age. Whatever the case, Bilbo’s next bullet only grazed his target. While it was enough to take out a nice chunk of the-creature-that-had-once-been-Daisy’s head and solidly put it down, the bullet ricocheted off her skull and sailed straight through the tempered glass wall of the greenhouse, where it immediately shattered in perfect synchrony with Bilbo’s heart.
“Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” Bilbo swore, flinging himself away from the window and landing squarely on his bottom. To his horror, tears were welling up in his eyes. The rifle clattered as it fell to the ground.
Reluctantly, he glanced back out the window, what little remained of his heart plummeting into his stomach. It seemed that the panel he had shot had been one of the walls of his makeshift chicken coop, as six panicked domestic hens suddenly scattered across the yard in a flurry of feathers.
Dreadful as the sight was, it proved an effective enough distraction for the remaining three infected that the two figures on the roof could jump down as silently as possible and sprint for the back door. Bilbo turned away, burying his head in his hands to muffle a sob. Three more shots fired off in succession. A door slammed somewhere. The yard and house were suddenly utterly silent. Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to stem the flow of tears. The glass, the chickens, Daisy Proudfoot’s destroyed cranium—Bilbo sat there for what seemed like an age trying to rid himself of the images flickering behind his eyelids. Then he heard a clatter directly below him, which reminded him that he was not alone in the house.
Abruptly, something in his brain seemed to click back into place. His thoughts cleared as the calm of rage settled itself over him.
Bilbo stood up, swiping at his eyes and hoping to God in heaven that they weren’t puffy, because that would sorely detract from the absolute righteous fury he was about to unleash on his uninvited house guests. Refusing to look through the window behind him, Bilbo stalked to the kitchen, stomping loudly on the squeaky stair to announce the inauspiciousness of his arrival. He could faintly hear Balin’s voice drifting up the stairwell as he talked to the newcomers.
“—strange, but well-mannered,” he said, talking in a somewhat hushed tone. “Nervous and excitable as a jackrabbit, to be sure; probably has to do with living alone in this great big house of his. So, Kili, I need you to be polite.”
“I’m always polite!” a new voice whined. It had yet to shed the slight wavering tenor that came with youth.
“Sure you are,” said another sardonically.
“That goes for you too, Fili,” chided Balin.
“Now where is this Mister Boggins, I should very much like to see what all the fuss is ab—” the first voice said, cutting itself off as Bilbo appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.
Bilbo felt the inferno of fury descend coldly to the bottom of his stomach as four pairs of eyes turned to him simultaneously. To his utter horror, he felt himself shrink under their combined weight.
“There you are, Mister Baggins! We were thinking you had gone to bed after that splendid performance!” greeted Balin, cheerful and friendly as ever. He seemed to have availed himself to more of the running water, because his face looked a lot less bloody, though some stubborn rusty spots still clung to the silver strands of his beard.
Bilbo looked over to the two newcomers in dismay. Balin and Dwalin had been depressingly accurate in their decision to call them boys instead of men—they were exceedingly young. The brunette, whose hair was a wild tangle pulled back into a low bun, couldn’t have been more than nineteen underneath the blood, grime, and what seemed to be the first attempts at stubble. Bilbo realized that he had been the one ineffectually firing crossbow bolts. The other, blonde with a short-cropped beard and hair resembling a lion’s mane, couldn’t have been much older, twenty or twenty-one at most.
Of course, Bilbo thought exhaustedly, only two dumb university kids would’ve had the grand idea of climbing on top of a greenhouse to escape a horde of zom—infected.
Before Bilbo could answer, or say anything at all for that matter, the brunette had rushed up and started pumping Bilbo’s hand in a decidedly one-sided handshake.
“Kili, at your service!” Kili exclaimed with no shortage of ebullience. “Those were some great shots, Mister Boggins! You almost matched up with Mister Dwalin, though not quite! Is it true you were using an antique safari rifle? And that you have an arms cabinet here to rival those gun nuts in America?”
“Kili,” Dwalin warned.
“I would love to see it when you have a moment,” continued Kili obliviously.
Bilbo tried and failed not to jump when a heavy, muscled arm slung itself across his shoulders and a blonde head entered his peripheral vision, far too close for decorum, let alone comfort.
“Oh, lay off him Ki,” said the blonde, with a grin that Bilbo supposed was his sincere attempt at roguish. “Fili, at your service. That was a fine idea with the chickens, Mister Boggins.”
“Fili! Kili! Give Mister Baggins some air,” Balin barked, his expression suddenly becoming stern. He spoke a few unintelligible sentences before adding, “Can’t you see the poor man is on the verge?”
Bilbo let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He shrugged Fili off with borderline violence and yanked his hand from Kili’s aggressive handshake, who had still been holding it in a tight grip. Neither of them looked contrite in the slightest. Instead, they shared twin looks of mischief, communicating silently like it was all some sort of joke that only they were in on. At that, Bilbo felt his anger abruptly return, which only intensified as he saw the crossbow, Dwalin’s twin axes, and a sword of all things cluttering his kitchen table.
He couldn’t help it. He exploded.
“No weapons on the table, please! ” he exclaimed in an almost-yell that sounded exceedingly shrill, even by his own standards. Bilbo found he didn’t much care.
The kitchen suddenly fell silent. Fili and Kili looked at Bilbo strangely, his outburst having seemingly interrupted them in ribbing each other about their recent misadventure.
“Mister Baggins, are you feeling well?” asked Balin for the second time that night, not unkindly.
“Oh yes, just peachy,” said Bilbo sarcastically, tone dripping with venom. “Who wouldn’t be after a night like this? Being forced to murder neighbors—one of whom was a friend of my father’s, I might add—in defense of strangers whom I’ve never met, though now I suppose I’m expected to host them as house guests! No, I’m just fine, especially after you all went about endangering my food supply and my chickens and my father’s heirloom tomatoes. And now there are weapons on my table, breaking the one rule my mother holds most dear in this house! Oh yes! Everything’s just WONDERFUL.”
Bilbo’s voice cracked on the last word, and he suppressed a little sob as he scrubbed a hand down his face. He all but collapsed into his armchair. Silence rang in the kitchen following the outburst, time stretching indeterminately as Bilbo attempted to compose himself.
“Your mum had a rule about weapons on the table?”
“Kili, you sodding idiot,” Dwalin grumbled, tweaking one of the boy’s prominent ears.
“Ow! What did I say?” he whined. Fili shot him a withering look.
“What did I say about being polite!” Balin rumbled, though he also shot Bilbo’s slumped form a queer look that made Bilbo desperately want to flip him off, sheer propriety being the only thing holding him back.
“I was being perfectly polite! I was just asking a question!” Kili argued, rounding on Balin.
“You never know when you stick your foot in your idiotic mouth,” Fili quipped, while also side-eyeing Bilbo. “Though to be fair, it was Mister Boggins who shot his own greenhouse—”
“Fili,” Balin warned, though he already sounded halfway to conceding Fili’s point.
“What! It’s true!” said Fili defensively. Balin groaned and Kili let out a hoot of laughter. An argument suddenly erupted amongst the three of them, while Dwalin looked on in exasperation.
Bilbo was done.
“THAT’S IT! ” he snapped, though it seemed that the other occupants of the room hardly heard it over the steadily rising voices trying to talk over each other. He jumped out of his chair, ready to do... what, he didn’t exactly know, but something. “I want you all out of my house this instan— ”
For what seemed to be the umpteenth time this night, the room was startled into silence by a knock on the kitchen door. Dwalin and Balin shot each other simultaneous nervous glances before eyeing Bilbo warily. It was infuriating.
“Oh, don’t get up,” huffed Bilbo, stomping over to the door and carelessly flinging it open before anyone could tell him otherwise, zombies—because Bilbo didn’t have any patience left to call a duck anything other than a duck—be damned. “Hello, I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’m not running an inn service and we are absolutely full up to… night…” Bilbo trailed off, voice failing him as he registered the sight on the porch.
“Oh, well I’m sorry to hear that,” said Gandalf with no shortage of humor. “But surely you can make an exception for a very old friend. Who also may have brought some friends of his own.”
There, much as he had just this morning, stood Gandalf Greyhame, sunhat on and broadsword still strapped to his hip. This time however, he had brought along a crowd of about eight or nine other people who were shuffling restlessly on the porch and eyeing the darkness, and Hamfast, warily. Bilbo gaped helplessly, words failing him.
“My dear boy, whatever happened to your greenhouse?” asked Gandalf with concern. “It looked to be in absolute peak condition this morning.”
“We caught a couple of your chickens for you!” a cheerful voice with a thick Eastern European brogue called from near the back of the group, triumphantly holding a terrified fowl over their head. He couldn’t really see the person, just their tattered fur-lined trapper hat.
Bilbo’s vision began to tunnel.
“Bilbo? Is something the matter?” Gandalf asked worriedly. His voice sounded far away, and his face was the only thing Bilbo could see.
“Oh dear,” Bilbo croaked.
“Don’t put your weapons on the table! He hates that!” he heard Kili cry.
Then his knees buckled, and he promptly fainted.
