This is probably not what anybody wanted. Blame the preteen in my house, and his obsessions...
The attack had initially been devastating. Some new villain had released an airborne toxin from in front of Stark's tower, convincing all of those caught by his gas that they were zombies. The toxin eliminated their higher brain functions so that even walking became a shambling caricature of itself, while the only desire evinced by the erstwhile victims was demonstrated by the one word seemingly left in their vocabulary... "BRAINS!" Further, the leprosy-like effects of the toxin ensured that it took fairly large amounts of damage to stop the "zombies" in their endless pursuit.
Although the zombies' slow shuffle made them not terribly difficult to avoid, danger came from the fact that they were tireless. The day after the initial attack, the endless monotone of "BRAINS" turned polyphonic, interspersed with the occasional short, sharp shriek of somebody caught unawares, probably sleeping. Matt's sharp hearing ensured that this duet formed the soundtrack of his days and would haunt his nightmares, he knew, for quite some time.
Foggy and Karen were much more fortunate. Foggy had taken refuge almost from the start at Landman and Zack, at first under the hasty cover of a "consultation" with Marci and then because every warm body was appreciated in helping to ward off the horror of what was happening just outside the remarkably secure doors. The occasional loud cry was the only symptom of the outbreak that reached him. Matt, while thankful for his safety, had no desire to join him in that cozy retreat; nowhere was remote enough for him to escape what was happening to his city. Karen, meanwhile, had been caught in the initial outbreak, and now, presumably, knew no pain.
For three days straight, Matt roamed his city, mourning every time he heard another death and helping horrified victims, torn and bitten by their feral fellows, to medical help. He finally resorted to targeting the legs of the zombies, between helping some of his terrified neighbours (particularly those who were incapable of moving quickly) as they attempted to evacuate, a process complicated by the fact that Manhattan Island had been quarantined to prevent the escape of any "zombies."
The only saving grace was that, for some reason, the zombies were horrible climbers; anything higher than two stories was fairly safe, as they could easily be overwhelmed going up stairs and elevators proved entirely beyond their comprehension. While the subways became a horror, the heights offered salvation: airlifts from any helipad sufficiently high enough to prove sanity enabled a steady stream of migration, while some residents just relocated to the top floors of their apartments temporarily. The last Matt knew, there had been three families living in his penthouse suite. He himself caught the occasional cat nap against a roof vent before leaping back down into the fray.
In the middle of the third day, the battle decisively turned. News quickly spread that not only had the perpetrator, one Quentin Beck, been found and incarcerated, but an antitoxin for his weapon of choice had been developed. The city rejoiced, their jubilation only dampened by the addendum that the "zombie cure" required intravenous administration.
Meanwhile, Tony Stark, anxious to redeem himself after that fiasco in Sokovia, announced a stationary defense he was willing to personally supply to any residents hardy enough to stay while the zombies were rounded up. Apparently the brainchild of Pepper Potts, the defensive system he offered was motion activated and shot tennis-ball-sized projectiles that somehow froze the zombies upon contact. Solar activated, Stark had apparently decided to remind people to leave them where they could get sunlight by a touch of whimsy in their design, naming them "Pepper's Lesser Armored Neutralizers, by Tony Stark" on top of that. (Matt suspected that Stark was working on even more of a sleep deficit than the rest of the remaining residents of Manhattan.)
The new P.L.A.N.T.S. were nothing like real plants to Matt's senses, but they were certainly effective against the zombies. The Avengers and the National Guard soon became very busy both passing out P.L.A.N.T.S. and rounding up subdued zombies. The day that Matt heard from Foggy that Karen had been successfully revived at a hospital in Queens, he knew that the long ordeal was almost over. In his relief, he finally allowed himself to feel the weariness his body had been steeped in, and decided that he had entered his homestretch; the P.L.A.N.T.S. would be enough to take care of the few remaining zombies.
That night, he slowly ascended the stairs to his long-forsaken apartment. The last of the families that had been using it had cleared out two days ago, after cleaning so thoroughly that Matt could smell the cleansers from two blocks away. He had had to sidetrack to crack a window, but by now that should all be aired out and his rooms in a state as pristine as when he had moved in. Matt could almost feel his freshly hand-washed silk sheets already. Just getting out of his Daredevil suit would be a relief; it had never been intended for the lengthy usage he had given it, and he found it hard to think of a body part that wasn't suffering from the resultant chafing. Strangely, that was the only type of injury he had suffered since the zombie outbreak began; the streets had been too dangerous for other crimes, while Matt's habit of traveling quickly and usually via rooftop meant that the zombies had posed very little threat to him.
Matt's victory march to his door quickly became derailed, however, a process that started in the hall with a tricycle, (the possession of one of the little girls that had been staying in his apartment that had somehow been abandoned outside his door,) continued with the tricycle accompanying Matt back down the stairs, and ended at the already overcrowded hospital with three broken ribs and a displaced fracture of the humerus of his right arm.
Matt couldn't believe it. He'd survived the zombie apocalypse untouched only to be brought low by a tricycle. Foggy would never let him hear the end of it.
[Yes, that preteen dressed as a PvZ zombie for the second year running for tonight's trick-or-treat. Despite the sling he had to wear because of the displaced fracture of *his* right humerus. That was the result of a trampoline fall, though, not a pink tricycle run-in.)
[FILL] I'm so ashamed of this.
The attack had initially been devastating. Some new villain had released an airborne toxin from in front of Stark's tower, convincing all of those caught by his gas that they were zombies. The toxin eliminated their higher brain functions so that even walking became a shambling caricature of itself, while the only desire evinced by the erstwhile victims was demonstrated by the one word seemingly left in their vocabulary... "BRAINS!" Further, the leprosy-like effects of the toxin ensured that it took fairly large amounts of damage to stop the "zombies" in their endless pursuit.
Although the zombies' slow shuffle made them not terribly difficult to avoid, danger came from the fact that they were tireless. The day after the initial attack, the endless monotone of "BRAINS" turned polyphonic, interspersed with the occasional short, sharp shriek of somebody caught unawares, probably sleeping. Matt's sharp hearing ensured that this duet formed the soundtrack of his days and would haunt his nightmares, he knew, for quite some time.
Foggy and Karen were much more fortunate. Foggy had taken refuge almost from the start at Landman and Zack, at first under the hasty cover of a "consultation" with Marci and then because every warm body was appreciated in helping to ward off the horror of what was happening just outside the remarkably secure doors. The occasional loud cry was the only symptom of the outbreak that reached him. Matt, while thankful for his safety, had no desire to join him in that cozy retreat; nowhere was remote enough for him to escape what was happening to his city. Karen, meanwhile, had been caught in the initial outbreak, and now, presumably, knew no pain.
For three days straight, Matt roamed his city, mourning every time he heard another death and helping horrified victims, torn and bitten by their feral fellows, to medical help. He finally resorted to targeting the legs of the zombies, between helping some of his terrified neighbours (particularly those who were incapable of moving quickly) as they attempted to evacuate, a process complicated by the fact that Manhattan Island had been quarantined to prevent the escape of any "zombies."
The only saving grace was that, for some reason, the zombies were horrible climbers; anything higher than two stories was fairly safe, as they could easily be overwhelmed going up stairs and elevators proved entirely beyond their comprehension. While the subways became a horror, the heights offered salvation: airlifts from any helipad sufficiently high enough to prove sanity enabled a steady stream of migration, while some residents just relocated to the top floors of their apartments temporarily. The last Matt knew, there had been three families living in his penthouse suite. He himself caught the occasional cat nap against a roof vent before leaping back down into the fray.
In the middle of the third day, the battle decisively turned. News quickly spread that not only had the perpetrator, one Quentin Beck, been found and incarcerated, but an antitoxin for his weapon of choice had been developed. The city rejoiced, their jubilation only dampened by the addendum that the "zombie cure" required intravenous administration.
Meanwhile, Tony Stark, anxious to redeem himself after that fiasco in Sokovia, announced a stationary defense he was willing to personally supply to any residents hardy enough to stay while the zombies were rounded up. Apparently the brainchild of Pepper Potts, the defensive system he offered was motion activated and shot tennis-ball-sized projectiles that somehow froze the zombies upon contact. Solar activated, Stark had apparently decided to remind people to leave them where they could get sunlight by a touch of whimsy in their design, naming them "Pepper's Lesser Armored Neutralizers, by Tony Stark" on top of that. (Matt suspected that Stark was working on even more of a sleep deficit than the rest of the remaining residents of Manhattan.)
The new P.L.A.N.T.S. were nothing like real plants to Matt's senses, but they were certainly effective against the zombies. The Avengers and the National Guard soon became very busy both passing out P.L.A.N.T.S. and rounding up subdued zombies. The day that Matt heard from Foggy that Karen had been successfully revived at a hospital in Queens, he knew that the long ordeal was almost over. In his relief, he finally allowed himself to feel the weariness his body had been steeped in, and decided that he had entered his homestretch; the P.L.A.N.T.S. would be enough to take care of the few remaining zombies.
That night, he slowly ascended the stairs to his long-forsaken apartment. The last of the families that had been using it had cleared out two days ago, after cleaning so thoroughly that Matt could smell the cleansers from two blocks away. He had had to sidetrack to crack a window, but by now that should all be aired out and his rooms in a state as pristine as when he had moved in. Matt could almost feel his freshly hand-washed silk sheets already. Just getting out of his Daredevil suit would be a relief; it had never been intended for the lengthy usage he had given it, and he found it hard to think of a body part that wasn't suffering from the resultant chafing. Strangely, that was the only type of injury he had suffered since the zombie outbreak began; the streets had been too dangerous for other crimes, while Matt's habit of traveling quickly and usually via rooftop meant that the zombies had posed very little threat to him.
Matt's victory march to his door quickly became derailed, however, a process that started in the hall with a tricycle, (the possession of one of the little girls that had been staying in his apartment that had somehow been abandoned outside his door,) continued with the tricycle accompanying Matt back down the stairs, and ended at the already overcrowded hospital with three broken ribs and a displaced fracture of the humerus of his right arm.
Matt couldn't believe it. He'd survived the zombie apocalypse untouched only to be brought low by a tricycle. Foggy would never let him hear the end of it.
[Yes, that preteen dressed as a PvZ zombie for the second year running for tonight's trick-or-treat. Despite the sling he had to wear because of the displaced fracture of *his* right humerus. That was the result of a trampoline fall, though, not a pink tricycle run-in.)