This story came about after I went to Comic Con and heard about a webcomic called Last Blood on Keenspot. I haven't read it (yet) but the idea was so amazing to me that I wanted to write a fic with the same premise. I'm not sure if I'd call this a crossover but if you've read the comic and recognize the idea, that's why. Obviously, you don't have to have read that comic to understand this world. Also until I can think of a more interesting title, Last Blood is what this will be called as well.

This is a fic with zombies and vampires which means there will be ~blood~ and ~gore~ so please watch out for that, these are the only warnings you'll get. Also there will be smut, but it's a long ways down the road.

I don't currently know where I'm going to go with this fic, but so far I have 15,000 words written so, needless to say, I'm going to continue to just have fun with it. Updates will be irregular but if you're desperate for more or something, feel free to nudge me at my tumblr :).

I'll stop talking now. Hope you enjoy~

He's running. Feet pounding the decrepit asphalt with one shoe gone, the other falling apart as it is. His feet are bleeding, his lungs are burning, but then again, that's a usual circumstance.

He's alone. So, so alone and likely to stay that way for a long time - assuming, of course, that he doesn't die now.

He hears a growl behind him followed by more. Growls, mumbles, howls, hisses; it's really all he hears anymore. All loud noises in the night while he's trying to get some much needed sleep, though it never comes - not so long as those noises are around, haunting him, torturing him.

He remembers as he runs (as he always does at such desperate times) remembers the news. Remembers other people - other humans. Remembers the reassurances, the promises that this epidemic, this plague wouldn't last long; it would be contained, just stay inside and lock yourselves away. Sure.

There was a time when the government provided door to door rations and when there was no panic, no blinding fear. He doesn't remember that part though, because right now he's terrified and he can't remember ever having not been.

He wants to cry as he jumps another fence, heading for the safety of the tree line. He wants to stop and bawl and just let death come because nothing can be worse than this hideous sickening constant terror, this non-stop chase, these traitorous thoughts of maybe today is it, maybe the end is finally here I at least hope it doesn't hurt too much I hope they kill me as quickly as possible.

But his tears are all used up.

They've been dried out, run down from crying over a life lost, family members killed and changed, a world destroyed. Whether he wants to or not, he couldn't produce tears now of he tried.

He dodges a tree and jumps over a hole in the ground, still running at full speed. The noises of a chase have quieted now but he's still got a while to go before he reaches a safe distance. It's a well-known fact that zombies - as that's what everyone seems to have wanted to call those creatures - don't like forested areas.

The woods are good, perfect really; it's hard for the clumsy zombies to keep up in the brush and very occasionally, an animal will keep them distracted. He remembers there being rumors about cities of humans locate throughout the forests of Europe. He's stopped believing in those - after a year of travel he still hasn't come across a single one. Besides, he hasn't heard those myths in quite awhile. Though perhaps that has to do with the fact that he hasn't actually talked to another human a very long time.

He thinks of his brother, the last of his party to survive. He was killed, of course, while trying to protect him, no less. He closes his eyes for a moment at the memory and instantly regrets it.

While it's a well-known fact that packs of zombies don't like forests, that same rule doesn't apply to groups of two or even three. He hits one straight on, close-lining himself and falling heavily to the ground. A clawed hand swings through the air, coupled with a harsh moan, and he rolls just in time to avoid taking the brunt of the attack, though his back still gets sliced the tiniest bit.

He lifts himself to his feet and staggers - his ankle was hurt in the fall. He curses; a twisted ankle will get him killed in the matter of a few hours, that is if he's not killed here.

He limps back, trying to ignore the pain but afraid at the same time of causing more damage. He continues to move backwards, watching the three creatures in front of him move forward at the same time. It's a slow dance they're participating in: the first strike is always the most tenuous.

He gropes around behind him, trying hard to avoid being cornered in by trees while also trying to find a good branch to take a swing with. He immediately regrets using his last weapons on the monster that killed his brother but vicious, revenge-fueled anger, he's found, simply cannot be controlled.

He starts, eyes widening when his hand hits cold flesh instead of wood. Spinning quickly, he avoids the biting attack of the zombie behind him. The quick movement, however, incites the other three to action and he curses again, stumbling out of the way of two other attacks.

He cries out when a third attack comes dangerously close to his neck, clipping his face instead. Blood splashes hot against his cheek, dripping viscously down his throat adding another stain to his ruined shirt.

He flips around, preparing to print away when a hand grabs his ankle, dragging him to the ground. He lands and the breath leaves him. He struggles, kicking the zombie in the face as hard as he can until the thing lets go. It's skin stretches and tears, it's cheek cracks and it's jaw unhinges but still it won't relent. In the background, the other three are gathering their bearings, turning to encircle him and for a moment, he thanks whatever deity might exist that zombies are easy to daze..

The right one pounces first. He rolls, dragging the other mutilated zombie with him. Grabbing a thick stick from the ground, he flips around, hitting another square in the jaw. It howls as part of its face is lost but stands back up after the blow. He discards the broken stick.

Finally, he gets in a position to step on the arm still clinging to his ankle. He stomps hard, breaking bone as he pries the hand from his ankle while he tries to stand.

The other two attack and he just barely dodges a bite to his right shoulder and another to his left hip. He trips, falling to his knees. He's tackled from the side but manages to roll out from under the flailing zombie and blinks as he struggles to pull himself up again. Another zombie lands on his back and he shouts as he wrenches free of its grip. He rolls away, hitting a tree.

Eyes wide, he glances at the tree. It's large and already the zombies are encircling once more. He's trapped. His breath stutters out of him as he realizes that this is the end: there's no possible way to escape without a bite.

The zombie on his right jumps first, knocking him flat on the ground. He waits for the first of many bites but it doesn't come. Instead, the weight is removed from his back. He blinks his eyes open and pushes up, holding his weight at his elbows as he watches what's happening.

A man is fighting the creatures. He takes the one currently struggling in his hands and throws it hard against the other three. They fall to the ground and the man pounces, landing on one and taking no time in completely tearing its head off. He turns quickly, plunging his hand into the chest cavity of another and wrenching its spine apart. Before that one can even land on the ground, the man picks up another, throwing it against a far tree. The last he picks up, tearing the howling creature near in half.

Blood, blackened by stagnation, rains down as the man turns, eyeing him still on the ground. He realizes, vaguely, that he's shaking; he's scared, even more so by this silent protector than by the zombies themselves.

The man is impeccably dressed, almost as if clothing stores hadn't shut down just after the first reported attack. He wears a long - possibly leather - trench coat, buttoned only in the center. The bottom flutters around him and his strapped black pants while the top is unbuttoned to reveal a black dress shirt and a deep maroon tie.

It should look hideous. His high-calf combat boots shouldn't look so good with the dress shirt and his neatly combed brown-grey hair but it does. He's tall, intimidating, and, most of all, looking at him with an analytical yet predatory gleam in his eye.

"What's your name," he asks, his deep voice booming in the small area.

He shakes, opens his mouth to answer, closes it again. He has to think; he hasn't had a name in so long. "M-M-Martin." His voice is cracked from disuse, his stutter as prevalent as ever.

The man raises an eyebrow. "British, then. You're far from home."

"No home left," he replies, eyes unwavering as he meets the mans unblinking stare.

The man tilts his head and smirks. "I suppose that's true for you."

Martin's eyebrows furrow. Who in the world is this man? Did he somehow miss the fact that the apocalypse had occurred?

"I, um, thanks. For saving me. That was, it was...good. So. Thanks."

The man's smirk extends into a close-lipped smile. "You shouldn't thank me just yet," he says, sending a shiver down Martin's spine. "I assure you the motivations weren't entirely altruistic." He tilts his head as Martin leans against the tree to stand. "You're hurt."

"Er...yeah. It's fine, though."

The man hums and walks closer. "You won't survive long with that ankle."

Martin raises his eyebrows and nods. "Nope, probably not. Not much to do about that though. Just have to keep moving. Thanks again." Pointedly turning away from the man, he tries to limp forward. He hates being alone but his gut is telling him that being with this man is even more dangerous than being on his own. And if there's one thing he's learned during these last months, it's that he shouldn't ignore his gut instinct.

He doesn't get far, however, as the mans hand reaches forward, gripping him painfully tight at his shoulder.

"I may be wrong," he starts. "But going off alone in such a condition isn't a good idea."

Martin turns, and it's only then that he sees them.

He'd first heard of them only after he and his family had left the small island housing the United Kingdom. They'd been in hiding for thousands of years until humanity's apocalypse. From there they'd been desperate, nearly as desperate for humans as humans were for escape from the wretched world theirs had become.

He'd only ever seen a vampire once before; since then, he'd vowed never to go near one again. Yet here one is, looking at him expectantly with his fangs in full view after just having saved his life. "Oh," he says.

The man smiles once more, seeming to catalogue Martin's reaction. Martin's eyes are fearful but also resigned - he knows what could happen to him in the presence of a vampire.

"'Oh' indeed," he drawls. "No need to worry, you're a precious resource, I'm not going to kill you or suck you dry or do any of the other likely terrible things running through your head. Rather, I have a proposition for you."

Martin nods, unable to do much else while the man, the vampire, has him in his grasp.

"I happen to know where a tiny little human village is," he starts, grinning at Martin's traitorously hopeful expression.

"It's a few days' walk: northeast from here. My own coven protects it from those hideous zombie packs. In exchange, we feed on a few of you once weekly. We don't kill a single one of you - you're nearly extinct after all - but with the current amount of people and my coven of fifteen vampires, a single person is fed on once every two months or so. What do you think?"

Martin's eyes go wide. He very nearly forgets that he should be wary of the vampire. "There are that many humans still alive?"

He smiles. "That and more. We don't feed on children but there are plenty there. Similarly, we're constantly finding more like you just wandering. Enough to viably rebuild a civilization, at least."

Martin lets out a large breath of air that he didn't know he'd been holding. It wasn't great, being fed on, but it was the lesser of two evils. He would survive, he wouldn't be alone, he'd be protected. He looks back at the vampire. "That sounds fine," he says, still slightly suspicious but also eager.

"Marvelous," he responds. He extends a perfectly manicured hand. "My name is Douglas. Welcome to the village, Martin."