Hamilton Oneshots

Zombie AU

A/N: Don't even ask about this. It's based off Mushie Room's animatic series Historical Stitches and my theory about what's going on.

-Angie

The lab was dark with only one simple LED light bulb illuminating the shadowy room. But Dr. Henry Laurens didn't seem to even notice the lack of light. Large dark circles ringed his bloodshot eyes. Caffeine and utter obsession with his most recent 'project' were the only thing keeping him awake. Dried blood engulfed his once white rubber gloves. His dead wife was strung up to a wall to keep her upright. The scent of decay reeked within the room but by now Henry was immune to the foul smell.

"Daddy, can we save mommy yet?" his small son, John asked.

"Almost there," he replied with a quick ruffle of John's curly hair before returning directly to his work.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Ready, John?" Henry asked as he hooked his son up to the machine.

John had a slightly fearful look in his eyes. "This will save mommy?"

"Yes, but it might hurt a bit," he replied. He wouldn't force this on his son but he needed to save his wife.

"I'm ready as I'll ever be," John answered bravely. 

"Alright, let's do this." Henry began hooking himself up to the machine. For Eleanor, he thought gravely. "On the count of three. One," he started bringing his hand towards the button. "Two... three." He slammed his hand onto the button with sudden bravery and the machine began sucking the very life out of him.

John felt tears at his eyes but refused to let them fall. It's for mommy, it's for mommy, he repeated over and over in his head. Suddenly, Eleanor's dead corpse began convulsing grotesquely. "Mommy!" John shouted joyfully. All the small kid could see was his mom moving again. Not the way that darkness seemed to fill her eyes rather than light like it's supposed to do. Not the grotesque way her limbs failed. Not the way her heart empty of blood raced widely.

A piercing scream shot out of her rotten mouth. "HENRY!" she screamed.

"D-dad what's happening?" John stuttered. Realization crossed over him that something was wrong. The screaming became louder and more high-pitched.

  "What do you mean? She's alive," Henry said, oddly calm. "It worked." He turned off the machine and the electrical hum stopped, leaving the room feeling strangely silent.

"M-mom?" John tried. A tension-filled minute passed where nothing happened. Eleanor's head snapped up and her hands inhumanly jerked in the chains that held her. Henry pulled out a rifle and shot her right in the abdomen with a stone-cold face. She fell with a sickening thud. John's large innocent eyes widened and tears spilled down his checks. "Mommy!" he cried.

"She's gone," Henry replied.

"Mommy!"

"She's gone, John!" Henry snapped. He stormed up the stairs. John stared at his mom's crumpled corpse on the floor. Blood oozed out of her mouth and something about the darkness that filled her eyes made him feel uneasy. Once he couldn't take it anymore, he ran upstairs after his dad.

"We're moving," Henry said when he heard the basement door creak open.

"But mommy," John whispered halfheartedly. He knew deep down that they couldn't take her and something was wrong with her. Henry ignored John and continued bustling around the house. John followed after him like a lost puppy. "We're taking her right?"

"No," Henry sighed, "We're not." John's lip began to quiver. All this hope had built up in him like a dam, protecting him from an onslaught of emotions.

"But, you said-" John began.

"I don't care what I said!" Henry turned on him. They stared at each other. John with eyes that were brimming with tears and Henry with the cold stare of hardened emotions. "We're leaving. Now."

John grabbed his one stuffed animal, a turtle named Shelly. She was the only thing remaining of his childhood. She was tattered and dirty but then again so was John's childhood. Henry grabbed John's hand roughly and they walked out the door together, leaving behind all that must be forgotten... for now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~10 years later~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"John... please!" The dark haired girl begged. "Don't do this."

"I have no choice, Eliza," John reminded her, becoming impatient with her repetitiveness. "This is all for him! I have to do this!" He turned around to look at her, trying desperately to make her understand. "This is the only way," he whispered more to encourage himself than her.

The only answer was her sobs echoing around the vast empty lab. "There's other options," she tried one last time. 

"But there's not," he replied, a set expression on his face.

She still whimpered but by now she had given up attempting to reason with him. "Don't make this harder than it has be, Eliza," John warned as he approached her.

"Jackie, please!" Eliza pleaded, her whole body shaking like a leaf in the wind. Tears brimmed over and slid down her cheek. John didn't respond, he simply moved towards her and placed the mask on her face. Her small body fell limp like a rag doll, only held up by the restraints on her hands and legs.

"This is all for you," John whispered pitifully. A sole tear slipped down his face for everyone is afraid of the unknown no matter how much we say otherwise. He slammed the mask on his face before he could chicken out of it.

A boot slammed against the wrought iron door making a indent it in. John gazed over at it before he slipped out of consciousness.

"John.... John!" a familiar voice yelled sternly. John sat straight up and frantically searched the floor for his gun.

"Where..." John began looking around, "where am I?"

"New location," the voice brushed off the question simply, "same deal."

" I don't want to do this anymore," John sighed. "Would you give up already?"

"It has to be perfect!" the voice boomed, echoing across the darkness.

"I'm done."

"John, be reasonable," it chided. "You could have perfection. In fact, you're so close to perfection."

"You say that every time! It's never true. I always end up back here!"

"It's because you make a mistake every single time!" The voice snapped at me. A silence past. "I'm sending you back. Whether you like it or not."