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The funeral is held in a tent. Despite the lack of church, casket, or even body, Quackity thinks this funeral is the most somber affair he’s ever been a part of.
Quackity fills two medicinal plastic cups with poorly measured fingers of tequila from a bottle with a note taped to the front reading, for tommy’s 18th birthday. It is not the first time Quackity has dipped into the bottle, but the last time he shared a drink it was with Wilbur. He passes a cup to Tommy’s shaking hands. Maybe it’s not Tommy’s birthday, but Quackity thinks killing your brother ages you faster than time ever could.
According to Tommy, the body was torn apart beyond recognition. If he tried to drag Wilbur back here, he would have been jumped by zombies a hundred times over. The kindest thing Tommy could do for Wilbur was make sure a bullet hit his brain then run for the fucking hills.
It was only a few hours ago. Quackity is grateful Tommy wasn’t so wrapped up in grief that he dragged Wilbur back to camp. Not just because he probably would have been eaten alive the same as Wilbur. Quackity’s tired of digging graves. Granted, it’s been a few seasons since he has had to, but Quackity spends every day running for his fucking life so digging a grave is just one more thing on his very tired shoulders.
Tommy lifts the cup to his face and gags at the smell. “God, is this really what you two sneak off for?” The humor is shaky but still there. Thank God even Wilbur’s death can’t shake Tommy Innit’s spirit.
“It tastes better than it smells.” Hardly. But after a few drinks you’re warm enough to not care anymore. It was only partly the alcohol they snuck off for, anyway. You can’t drown yourself in a bottle when there are monsters lurking at your every turn, but losing yourself in heat and skin is less dangerous. A little, anyway.
“Snuck off,” Tommy corrects himself. He finally takes a sip of the tequila and his entire face scrunches up, like an exaggerated version of the way Wilbur would when they came across a dead body. He never got used to the smell. Tommy takes a second sip and swallows like he’s forcing it down. In a harried tone, he says, “Not a fan of this mourning shit, Big Q.”
“You don’t have to, Tommy.” Maybe cracking open a bottle wasn’t Quackity’s best idea. It just felt like the only thing they could do.
Tommy echoes his thoughts with, “Fuck else am I gonna do? ‘s not like he’s gonna be here for my birthday. Might as fuckin’ well, eh?” he slams back the drink which makes him gag and sends him into a coughing fit. Tommy hunches over and groans, “This sucks. ” Quackity gives him a few solid slaps on the back.
“I know. It- God, it fucking sucks.” Quackity takes his first drink. He wants to get drunk. He wants to down the rest of this bottle and wake up worse off in the morning. It almost feels like the only thing in the world he could possibly fucking do. But he’s seen what happens when you take your drinking habits from the real world to the apocalypse. Quackity won’t make Tommy dig him a grave.
Quackity continues, “I can’t even… Can I- I mean, so you said he got fucking ambushed?”
Tommy was not the most forthcoming with details when he returned to camp, two hours later than Quackity was expecting. Quackity paced the grounds, already wondering if he should go after them or just wait a few more hours before repacking and taking off. But Tommy came over the hill, looking more tired than Quackity had ever seen, with a gash on his forehead pouring blood. When Tommy stood in front of Quackity, bloody and haunted, he didn’t even need to say what happened. Quackity knew what fucking happened.
Quackity asked, “How?”
Tommy said, “Fucking… ambush. He was-” he let out a shaky breath. Angry, he said, “He was too fucking far.”
Quackity took the knowledge and wore it with ease. Wilbur Soot was the kind of guy you knew had an expiration date a little sooner than everyone else. So Quackity took Tommy inside and got to work on his forehead slice with the worryingly sparse first aid kit. He knew there would be time for questions later. Preferably with a drink in his hand.
And with a drink in his hand, Tommy huffs. “Yeah, he got fucking ambushed. There was a fountain and- and like 6 zombies.”
“Did you kill them?”
“I know I’m good, Big Q, but I’m not- I wasn’t about to risk that fucking much.”
“And… Wilbur. You said you made sure you…” Tommy stares at his empty cup with a frown. “Right, Tommy?”
Tired, he asks, “What’s it matter, man?” Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe Quackity should just let it be. But he doesn’t want to wake up tomorrow and see Wilbur’s dead body tripping over tree roots to eat them alive.
“It doesn’t, I guess, I just- I don’t know, man.” Quackity takes a drink. His little cup is almost empty. God, he wants more. Tommy looks at him, a fake smile on his face.
“I’ve got good aim.” Quackity knows he does. “I wouldn’t- I wouldn’t leave Wil like that. All… zombified and shit.”
Despite knowing and accepting Wilbur is dead, it all feels too fucking fast. Just this morning he and Wilbur were fighting about which side of the river they should walk along to get to their destination. Quackity thought they should stay on the side they already were until they had to cross over, and Wilbur argued that they needed to get it out of the way, while Tommy roasted walnuts that drop off the trees here in spades. Quackity doesn’t have anyone to fight with anymore. Tommy will take his lead. That should be a good thing.
Quackity returns Tommy’s smile with a shaky one of his own. He claps Tommy on the shoulder. “You’re a good kid, Tommy.”
Tommy’s smile wavers.
Quackity wakes up with a little headache. Not a major one, he only poured himself and Tommy one more tiny-ass cup of tequila no matter how badly he wanted more, but he has hardly drunk since the whole apocalypse started and it has brought him back to a lightweight.
Quackity opens his eyes and sees Tommy’s sleeping bag is open and empty. It sets off alarm bells in his head that he tries to push down. Tommy is an early riser. Just not as early as Quackity.
Trying not to seem like he is, Quackity rushes to open the tent and scour the grounds for Tommy. It’s not a large area, so once Quackity determines he is not at the dead fire, he heads toward the river. Immediately, Tommy’s head comes into view and Quackity can breathe easier.
Tommy sits cross-legged in front of the river and tosses grass into it, watching it flow down the stream.
Quackity says, “You’re up early,” as he gets close so Tommy knows the footsteps are his instead of some undead creep’s.
“Bit, yeah,” is all Tommy says. Quackity takes a seat beside him.
“You sleep alright?” It’s a dumb question. Quackity doesn’t even know why he asked it other than the fact he has no fucking clue what to ask right now.
“Not as good as you.” Quackity is used to sleeping off death. Tommy should be too. No one who died around them was Wilbur, though. Not until yesterday. “Wanted to see the sun rise.”
Every morning, Quackity woke up to Wilbur already up and attem. He was never doing anything productive, of course. Usually, he was just laying in the grass or dirt or asphalt depending on where they stayed for the night when Quackity came out of their tent. Wilbur rose with the sun every morning after a night of restless sleep. Apparently Tommy wants to follow in his footsteps.
Quackity asks, “You hungry?” Tommy shrugs and tosses another bunch of grass into the stream.
Over the next few minutes, Quackity lights a fire. It’s always annoying and kind of shit, but he manages and that’s the important part. Their food situation is getting dire, but he grabs some of the walnuts they have gathered and puts them in a pot Tommy managed to find in an old, abandoned apartment store about a year ago. Quackity doesn’t know how the fuck they survived without it.
They sit by the stream and eat their nuts. They aren’t particularly good. It’s just something in their stomachs. A bit of protein to start the day. They do have a few canned goods left, but it would be better to eat that when they’re traveling. Speaking of.
“I was thinking, Tommy, we should head out in a few hours.” The day’s still plenty young. Quackity figures it gives them enough time to gather as many nuts as they can carry and pack their things. He wants as far away from this camp as possible.
“What?” Tommy sounds upset. It’s the most emotion Quackity has gotten out of him all morning. “Why?”
“Because we’re eating nuts off the ground?” Quackity laughs, confused. He figured Tommy would want as far from Wilbur’s death as Quackity. “We’ve- I mean, we have to go soon. We were gonna go today anyway. After…” he trails off. After Tommy and Wilbur came back from town with more supplies.
“I mean, I-” Tommy frowns. Scratches at his neck. “Maybe we should stay put a bit, yeah?” He ends the sentence by putting a nut in his mouth. Is he fucking serious?
“Why would we stay here, Tommy?”
“I jus’,” Tommy talks as he chews. “I dunno, Big Q. I just think maybe we should stick around, alright? Just for a little while?” He swallows. He doesn’t look at Quackity.
“Tommy-”
“Please, Quackity,” Tommy begs. He still doesn’t look at him. “Just for a little while. Just… give me a bit, yeah?”
Quackity doesn’t understand. Tommy can mourn Wilbur fucking anywhere, does he really have to choose here? The last place they saw Wilbur alive? Somewhere that still carries traces of his life? It’s not the worst spot in the world, he guesses. There’s a stream and the nuts are good enough to not have them dead by the end of the week, but they need to find supplies, namely food and first aid, and they need to either find them or L’manburg soon.
Still. Quackity knows grief. He’s taken it by the heart and bitten down. He can cut Tommy some slack.
“A few days,” Quackity gives. “A week, at most. ”
“Yeah, yeah, of course, Big Q!” He holds out a handful of nuts to Quackity. “Thank you.” Quackity takes one of the walnuts with a sigh. It’s bitter.
The next few days feel simultaneously like the longest of his life and like a blur. Tommy is awake before him every morning just watching the stream. He always looks a little more run down. Quackity wonders if he’s even sleeping. He doesn’t remember how long the human body can go without sleep, but he does know he hasn’t actually seen Tommy sleep since Wilbur died. He wishes he knew how to help Tommy. He barely know what to do with himself. He eats nuts and drinks stream water and hopes Tommy will wake up and say today’s the day.
On the fourth day, Quackity nearly has a heart attack when he leaves the tent. Tommy isn’t by the stream. He isn’t by the dead fire. He isn’t even taking a piss. Quackity wanders the land beside their camp, praying for any sight of Tommy’s baseball-t that used to be red and white according to legend, but has been sullied with blood and dirt the past few years. No matter where Quackity looks, all he sees is green.
Quackity dares to call out, “Tommy?” He tries not to be too loud. He’s not a fucking moron. But if Tommy’s okay, he should be close enough to hear Quackity. He decidedly fucking doesn’t. Quackity already lost Wilbur, and he likes Tommy a Hell of a lot more than Wilbur, and if Tommy fucking dies too…
Quackity’s never been alone before. He spent his childhood bouncing around foster homes and juvies, hardly let out of someones sight for more than what it took to sleep, and the second he got his shit together enough to stop ending up in a cell he met Schlatt, and then he met Wilbur, and now Quackity doesn’t know if he has it in him to be alone in this fucking apocalypse.
Some amount of time later, Quackity surely could not say, when he’s venturing too far from camp in the hopes to find Tommy, he hears footsteps. He freezes. Listens. He decides the footsteps are lively ones. That scares him a little more, actually. He can shoot a zombie in the head (half the time anyway), but with a human he has to decide if they deserve that fate. He’s never been too good at figuring out who does and who doesn’t.
Lucky him, as he readies his crossbow, he sees red. This motherfucker.
“Where the fuck were you?” Tommy’s eyes widen at the crossbow. Quackity lowers it. “I thought- fuck, Tommy, what the fuck?”
“I- I was taking a walk, man! I didn’t… I just didn’t realize how long I’d been gone.”
“A walk? A fucking walk, Tommy?”
“I do that. Sometimes.” Quackity brings his hand to his face and silently screams. Tommy doesn’t do that. Wilbur does. “I thought I’d be back by now! Before!”
“And all the times you yelled at Wilbur for going on a walk by himself, that’s null and fucking void now?” Tommy scowls. Quackity feels like a dick using Wilbur against Tommy, but seriously? Fucking seriously?
“I just…” he trails off. With a huff, he kicks at the ground. Weakly, he says, “Woods are pretty. It’s not that dangerous out here.”
“That can change in a fucking second, Tommy.”
“I know! I know. I just…” Tommy shrugs. Looks at Quackity with sad eyes and says quietly, “It helps, man.” Quackity sighs. Yeah, it sure fucking helped Wilbur.
“Can you just… tell me? So I don’t think you’re fucking dead?” Tommy nods enthusiastically.
“Yeah, yeah, I will! I promise, Big Q, won’t happen again.”
After that, Tommy takes multiple walks a day. He’s gone more than he’s there. Quackity offers to go with him, but Tommy is apparently taking the solitary route to grief because he shuts him down every time. It’s so unlike Tommy. He can’t stand being alone. Quackity is trying so, so fucking hard to show him that he isn’t.
Quackity dreams of a ditch. He’s fallen, a body heavy with dead weight on top of him. The smell of booze permeates the small space. Quackity can’t move. All he can do is scream.
After a couple more days, Quackity tries again. “We’re almost there, Tommy. Just a couple more weeks of traveling, we’ll finally be done with nuts and zombies.”
“Real close,” Tommy agrees.
“We should leave tomorrow.” Tommy’s shoulders tighten.
“Maybe not… not tomorrow.”
Exasperated, Quackity starts, “Tommy-”
“I can’t!”
“What does that fucking mean?”
“I just-” Tommy looks out into the woods, something pained. “Just a little longer, Big Q. Please.”
“A week ago you didn’t even want to stop, Tommy! You said it didn’t matter because we’d be closer to L’manburg anyway!”
“A week ago, Wilbur wasn’t fucking-” Tommy cuts himself off. He clenches his fists. Quackity doesn’t even know why he didn’t finish the sentence. Both of them know it. Both of them live it. A week ago, Wilbur wasn’t fucking dead, and L’manburg felt closer than death.
“Tommy, I know this has been hard for you, man.”
Tommy lets out a weak laugh. “Hard.”
“The hardest thing you’ve ever had to deal with. I know, okay? I miss him too.”
Quackity wishes that weren’t true. Quackity wishes he wasn’t mourning, but he misses Wilbur more than he should. He misses not-so quiet moments alone in the morning before Tommy was awake. He misses the way Wilbur laughed, especially the carefree way he did when it was his brother who made him. He misses sneaking off in the middle of the night, far enough not to be heard but close enough they could hear Tommy scream. He even misses fighting about the river, about every stupid decision that got him here.
Quackity continues, “But we’re still alive, okay? And we need to keep ourselves that way. Wilbur wanted you safe, Wilbur wanted you at L’manburg, okay? All we can do is keep going.”
Tommy’s face scrunches like he might actually cry. Quackity doesn’t know what he’ll do if Tommy does. He’s never seen Tommy cry before. Tommy gets sad and he gets pissed, but he never breaks. Quackity doesn’t want to see him break.
All Tommy says is, “Please.” Quackity sits with it for a few seconds.
Hoping to patch up the leak, Quackity says, “Okay, Tommy. A few more days.” Tommy sags in relief. Quackity still doesn’t understand.
L’manburg is something Tommy told Quackity about a few days after they met. It was the possibility of safety in this Godforsaken apocalypse. It was a pipe dream only a kid could believe.
“And the streets are paved with gold!” Wilbur smacked Tommy upside the head.
“Oh, will you stop that?” Wilbur turned to Quackity, a smile on his face but something guarded behind it. “It’s just a safe haven. Somewhere with walls. Somewhere you never have to smell the dead again.” It was then that Quackity realized Wilbur believed it too. He wasn’t just lying to make his little brother feel better. Wilbur bought into his bedtime story.
Tommy asked, “You want to come with?” Wilbur leveled Tommy with a frown but said nothing.
Quackity considered the option. He considered what he needed, he considered what Schlatt needed, and he decided, “Sure. Why not?” He would not buy into this story, but he would follow Tommy and Wilbur, mooch off of their supplies until he couldn’t, and if there somehow was somewhere safe at the end of this, Hell, he would cry tears of joy. But he knew that’s not how this story would go.
Quackity wonders when he changed his mind. When that pessimism became hope. It had to be around the time Schlatt’s heart stopped.
The next day, Quackity comes up with an idea to not feel so useless anymore.
When Tommy comes back from his morning walk, they chow down on walnuts and Quackity suggests, “Why don’t we go into town?” Tommy’s head shoots up in surprise.
“What?”
“Listen, I know it’s dangerous, but we can be careful, Tommy. We need better food and I used the last of the first aid kit on you.”
Tommy looks down at his walnuts with a furrow to his brow. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“If you’re worried about… seeing him-”
“No,” Tommy interrupts. “I just- it’s too dangerous, alright? It’s- the town’s fucking teeming with those fucks. We’re doin’ fine with the walnuts, okay?”
“But it’ll take us at least two weeks, Tommy, to get to L’manburg, and I don’t know if eating walnuts the whole way is gonna work out. I don’t even know if they'll last.”
“Only got the two of us now, yeah? They'll fuckin’ last. I’m going on a walk.” That seems to be that as Tommy drops his uneaten walnuts and storms off. God, he’s gotten angsty. Quackity does not know if he has ever looked at Tommy and thought the word angsty before. Is Tommy gonna follow in Wilbur’s footsteps for everything? Quackity misses the happy go lucky kid he knew a week ago. The thought makes him feel guilty, but fuck, Tommy’s gonna get them killed.
That decides it. Tomorrow, when Tommy takes his walk, Quackity will go to town by himself. Fuck the danger. They need food for the road, and Quackity is fucking determined that they’ll be on the road in three days times.
That night, Quackity dreams he’s at a dinner table. Schlatt lays in the middle and complains that the tablecloth isn’t good enough to eat off of, let alone lay on.
Wilbur sits across from Quackity and says, “Dinner shouldn’t speak.” He raises a wine glass in toast. Quackity doesn't think the thick, red liquid it holds is wine.
“To bad food and bad company.”
Quackity reciprocates with a raised glass of his own. “To the end of L’manburg.”
In unison, the three of them concur. “To the end of L’manburg.”
Quackity packs light. A backpack with a handful of walnuts, a crossbow, a knife, and two stacks of arrows. If he does die on this trip, he wants Tommy to have everything he needs to get to L’manburg. Of course, Quackity doesn’t plan on dying. This is a stealth mission, and he is the stealthiest motherfucker alive.
The second he gets into town, he trips and yells, “Fuck!” He looks up quickly with wide eyes and a hand on his crossbow. No matter how long he’s been in this stupid apocalypse, he doesn’t know how to keep his voice down. Tommy’s the same, if worse. Wilbur was always slightly better at it than the two of them, not that Quackity would ever fucking tell him that.
Lucky Quackity, he doesn’t see a single zombie. The first house is completely clear of the dead. He even gets a can of beans. The second house is empty too, though that is both of zombies and food. Fuck, maybe there’s a reason Tommy didn’t come back with a single thing.
After the third completely cleaned out house, Quackity decides to skip the rest and head to the heart of town. He hears shuffling from somewhere though he can’t quite tell where. It doesn’t sound like a lot. Two at the most. That’s still two too many.
Quackity ducks into a post office. Finding food here would be very unlikely, but they might have a first aid kit. He shuffles around behind the counter and actually manages to come up with a small bag of cheetos. They’re probably stale and disgusting and definitely have no nutritional value. He sticks it in the bag.
A muffled shuffle comes from outside. Quackity’s head shoots up. He closed the door on his way in, he’s not a fucking moron, but a single zombie thrashes against it now. It’s making a Hell of a racket. God, Quackity was hoping to avoid every single one of these fuckers. He loads his crossbow and holds it to his side as he steps toward the door cautiously. He needs to kill this asshole so he doesn’t alert the whole town, but he doesn’t particularly like combat. Well, he’s just not very good at it.
Three years ago, Quackity couldn’t even properly throw a punch. He still isn’t the best at it. The only one in their little group who can be reasonably called good at fighting is Tommy. But Quackity is certainly better than he used to be. Once, he punched Wilbur so hard he fell on his ass, too stunned to get up, and there was a bruise to remind them both for a week. It felt satisfying. Killing zombies doesn’t feel quite as satisfying.
Quackity watches the zombie thrash against the door. It used to be when he killed these things, he didn’t think about who they used to be. He shot and hoped they died and didn’t feel anything else past that. He didn’t let himself. But Wilbur and Tommy are a special sort of freak, who notice little details and wonder about the people they have to kill’s lives, and now when Quackity looks at this monster who wants to eat him, he notices blood-spattered Crocs. He notices blue scrubs that have been dulled by grime. He notices long, brown hair pulled up in a bun. He wonders how she kept it up all this time, especially considering the giant chunk of hair and flesh ripped out of the side of her skull.
As he opens the door and takes a shot, he hopes she was a real shitty nurse. The bolt lands in her fucking shoulder. The amount of times he’s killed a zombie on the first try can only be counted on two hands. God, Quackity hates his life.
Quackity stumbles back as he reloads, muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” all he gets in response is a snarl. Fucking zombies and their fucking immortality and their fucking snarling. He holds the crossbow up, aims, and shoots. The zombie makes one last desperate noise as it falls back, then there is nothing. Its already vacant eyes lose even its hunger.
Quickly, he shuts the door again. He spends a few more minutes in the post office, but most of the doors are locked and he isn’t willing to spend the time or noise trying to break it down. No first aid kit. Fuck his entire life. He does, however, find a nice leather jacket hanging on the back of one of the chairs. Whoever left it here was a fucking moron. Or dead. It’s a little big, but Quackity puts it on. It’ll be good for the winter months.
Back on the road, he is surprised that now that he is in the heart of town, there are practically no zombies. Maybe they moved on since Wilbur and Tommy were here a week ago. Quackity figured there would be more, that’s usually how it works when there’s screaming and death, but maybe they got their fill with Wilbur. Quackity frowns and walks a little faster down the street.
When he finds the convenience store, he is surprised to find that it has not been completely raided. Of course, it’s not exactly stocked, but it has more food than Quackity has seen in months. God, did everyone in this town just up and die or something? How is it so close to L’manburg and it hasn’t been completely raided?
Brushing aside the thought, Quackity fills his bag with five bags of jerky, a few packets of peanuts, and an honest to God orange soda. He can’t wait to see Tommy’s smile.
Still no first aid kit, but he does come across some medical tape and shoves it in the pocket of his coat. That’s probably good enough for now. They can ration this for the next few weeks. They can survive until they reach L’manburg.
As he makes his way down the street, the leg he was shot in a couple years ago begins to ache. It aches most of the time considering they spend every day walking, but the past week, despite his frustration, has been a respite to his leg. Though he thinks maybe he got a bit too used to the comfort. While trying to shake out the pain, he notices a collection of zombies shot and killed right next to the fountain in the center of town. The fountain… fuck.
Quackity can’t help himself. There is no reason for him to go to the fountain and look at Wilbur’s dead body. Except maybe that despite the fact that Wilbur has been a dead man walking since Quackity met him, Quackity can’t imagine him dead. He thinks of Wilbur, and all he can think of is Wilbur. Alive and frustrating and preparing to bother him at any moment. Maybe it would help. Maybe the nightmares would be a little more lore accurate at least. He doesn’t know why he wants to. Well, he doesn’t want to, really. He just has to.
With trepidation, Quackity steps closer. His hesitation is partly in case one of the zombies is still good to go and partly because he knows it’ll make him fucking sick. He’s a little scared it won’t, actually. At this point, Quackity has seen so much death. Strangers and friends and lives he thought would never affect him. He watched Schlatt’s body torn apart to bits by the undead. What’s one more to roster?
As he walks up, Quackity counts five bodies. Four zombies, one Wilbur. Tommy must have shot more than he thought. Except as he looks closer, as he forces himself to survey their faces, they’re all… rotted. Their deaths might be new, but their being a zombie is not. No trench coat. No cracked glasses. No fucking Wilbur. Quackity has no clue if seeing Wilbur’s dead body would have made him sick, but the lack thereof makes his stomach drop. Tommy missed. Tommy missed and Wilbur is out there, roaming this town, roaming the forest, dead and alive all at once.
Quackity swallows. He thinks it’s time to make his way back to camp.
When he gets back, Tommy sits by the river with his knees against his head, hands pulling at his hair like it shouldn’t be attached to him.
Quackity drops his backpack and hurries toward him, asking, “Tommy, what’s-” Tommy’s head shoots up. His eyes so wide they’re practically popping out of his skull. His face is red and his breathing is quick.
“What the fuck?” He questions in a wobbling voice. “Where- what-”
“I- I just went to town, Tommy.” Somehow, Tommy looks more terrified.
“I told you not to do that!” He shouts. His breathing quickens. “I told you it was too dangerous, I- I-”
“Tommy, it’s- I’m okay! You’re okay! It’s fucking okay!” Tommy looks toward the river, shoulders hunched, breathing getting quicker. Fuck, maybe Quackity should have left a note. He just didn’t really figure he would need to. He didn’t take long. Tommy’s usually gone longer.
Quackity sits next to him, a hand on his hunched shoulder and continues, “I got- we’ve got more food, now, and I got this jacket. It- it’s warm, Tommy, so we probably won’t freeze to death in a few- in a few months and-” Tommy still won’t look at him. “Listen! Tommy! We fucking needed supplies, okay? I know you were scared because of what happened to Wilbur but fucking- I’m not gonna let us die, okay? You can act however the fuck you’re gonna act, but I have to keep us alive in the meantime!”
They sit in silence. It makes something scratch at Quackity’s throat. He needs to say something else, but he has no fucking clue what else to say. He’s never seen Tommy so scared in his life.
Finally, in a shaky voice, Tommy asks, “Did you see?” It makes Quackity pause.
“See? Did I-” Quackity cuts himself off. Fuck. Wilbur. Tommy wants to know if Quackity saw Wilbur. Fuck. He already looks so fucked up, if Quackity told him… Quackity doesn’t need to tell him. A little white lie never hurt anyone. Tommy will never see that town again. “Yeah, yeah, I did. You got him, Tommy. Right between the eyes.” Tommy’s head shoots up and he looks shocked. Confused, really. Quackity wonders if he’s said something wrong, but Tommy quickly transforms the open-mouthed shock into a wobbly smile.
“Thanks. Thanks, Big Q.” Tommy groans and rubs his hands down his face. “Shouldn’t have gone without me.”
“You weren’t gonna fucking go.”
“Yeah, well, you fucking shouldn’t have.” Tommy hits his head against his knee with a sigh. After a moment, Quackity gets up and grabs the backpack he dropped a little ways away. He brings it back over and unzips it. Tommy does not look up at the noise. Quackity holds out the orange soda and lightly kicks Tommy who looks up with a glare. It changes to surprise.
Quackity says, “Last one in the whole world.” Tommy grabs it without another thought. He looks at it with wonder. He smiles, something genuine, something without a shaky upper lip, and Quackity feels more relief than he has in ages.
“Should I drink it? Now, I mean?”
“Do whatever you want, Tommy.” Quackity figured he would drink it immediately. Tommy has never been good at gratification unless it was instant.
But Tommy shakes his head and decides, “Later.”
“Maybe when we reach L’manburg.”
Tommy goes quiet. Then says, “Yeah. Maybe then.”
The next day, Quackity looks through their supplies just to keep everything new and old cataloged in his mind and realizes an entire bag of beef jerky is already missing. There’s no fucking way Tommy is that stupid. That selfish, at least.
When Tommy returns from his first teenage angst walk of the day, Quackity presents the bag with one less pack of jerky. Tommy reaches inside and has the fucking audacity to pull out another pack.
“Thanks, Big Q, I’m starving.”
Quackity snatches it back. “This isn’t a fucking offer, Tommy!” Tommy looks at his hand in surprise and Quackity takes a deep breath. He told himself he wasn’t going to come off accusing or like a complete asshole, but fuck, Tommy is striking his last nerve. Tommy is usually striking nerves, but this is just… Fuck, is this how Wilbur felt?
“What’s the big idea?” Tommy questions, voice going high.
“Tommy,” Quackity starts again in a calmer tone. “I counted the bags of jerky this morning and we’re short one.” Tommy frowns with a furrow to his brow.
“What, and you think I took it?” He sounds incredulous. Maybe he actually didn’t take it.
“It was either you or someone else, and if it was someone else we need to leave right fucking now, Tommy.”
“Well, maybe you did it!” Strike that maybe he didn’t take it comment. Quackity puts a hand to his temple and takes another deep breath. God, this kid can’t lie for shit.
“Then why the fuck would I accuse you, Tommy?”
“To throw… you off- off your own… scent?” He gives Quackity a nervous smile that he punctuates with a wince.
“You can’t do this, Tommy,” Quackity tries for gentle. He’s never been particularly good at it, but for Tommy he is fucking trying. “I just- if you eat everything now, we’re not gonna be able to last the next few weeks. I need you to get a grip, man, I know things are fucked right now, okay, I know that. Trust me, I fucking know that, but-”
“What do you fucking know?” Tommy suddenly looks and sounds pissed off. Quackity scoffs.
“Tommy. C’mon. I’ve lost people too. I lost my fucking fiance."
“Oh, right, your fiance!” Tommy laughs. It sounds mean. Quackity isn’t used to Tommy’s laugh sounding mean. It reminds him of Wilbur. Maybe it reminds Quackity a bit of himself too. “I mean, you just loved him so fucking much, right? Weren’t completely relieved when Schlatt died or anything.”
“Hey, Schlatt and I were fucking complicated, okay? That doesn’t mean I didn’t love him!”
“Were you relieved when Wil died too?”
“That’s completely-”
“No one you gotta fight anymore, can go whatever side of the fuckin’ river you want!”
“You know that isn’t true, Tommy!” Not completely anyway. Quackity isn’t happy Wilbur died. Not the way he was happy Schlatt did. Wilbur was an asshole, Wilbur was an egomaniac, Wilbur couldn’t fucking fathom an idea that wasn’t his own. But Quackity didn’t want him dead.
Tommy shouts, “You keep tryin’ to make me leave, go to L’manburg, forget fucking everything!”
Quackity matches his volume with, “I just want you safe, Tommy!”
“What about what I want?”
“Then what the fuck do you want?”
Tommy opens his mouth to yell some more, then shuts it with a clack of teeth. He goes quiet, back to staring off in the distance, back to completely cutting Quackity off. None of this is Tommy. Tommy isn’t cruel to be cruel. Quackity is willing to bet Tommy doesn’t even mean half the shit coming out of his mouth. With that in mind, Quackity sighs and sets the backpack down.
Voice kinder than it maybe should be, Quackity says, “It isn’t about forgetting Wilbur, okay? I don’t think that’s possible. I just… what the fuck else do we do, Tommy? Stay here? Starve to death? Make so much noise we get attacked? I’d rather mourn with walls.”
For a minute, Quackity doesn’t think Tommy will respond. He barely knows if Tommy heard him. Then, quietly, Tommy says, “I don’t think I can.”
“Tommy-”
“It’s not… complicated for me, Big Q. Maybe Wil… he was a prick, right? But it was never complicated. He was my brother and I loved him. Now he’s fucking rot. What are walls gonna do about that?”
“They can’t hurt.”
Tommy shakes his head. “I’m gonna go for another walk, I think.”
“Tommy, man, let’s talk about this.” But Tommy just walks away. Quackity thinks about following after him but just falls to the ground and screams into his hands.
What the fuck is Quackity doing? Either of them really? Quackity should just go to L’manburg himself. Tommy clearly has a fucking death wish now, the same one his brother always had, and Quackity needs to leave. But he can’t. He fucking can’t. He knows Tommy, he wants what’s best for him, he really fucking does. Tommy just needs to snap out of… what, fucking grief? Quackity groans.
Over the next few days, other things go missing too. Not food, but it’s still unbelievable irritating. First it’s the medical tape. Then an entire sleeve of the leather jacket is torn off. Some random pins Wilbur threw in the backpack a few months ago disappear too. Quackity tries to talk to Tommy about it, but every single time he’s met with nothing but indifference or anger.
Quackity isn’t used to Tommy being so… irrational feels wrong. Insane, maybe. Every night Quackity gets a little closer to booking it. He knows it’s wrong. He knows he should stay here, take care of Tommy until his head is out of his ass enough to go to L’manburg, and they can both be okay. But Quackity doesn’t think he can stay here much longer. He’s never been able to stand being in the same place for so long, not when there are monsters in these woods that want to eat him alive.
There is something strange about the water too. Nothing Quackity can prove, and certainly he cannot prove it is Tommy’s doing, but he swears sometimes it tastes rotten. Like a zombie has gotten trapped at the top of the river. Tommy denies this. It’s what made Quackity suspicious of him in the first place. But maybe Quackity’s being paranoid.
The breaking point is the day three zombies invade their camp. They come at night, when Quackity is sleeping, and they trample the fucking tent. He screams and grabs for his knife, missing the zombie completely and slashing the tent wide open. He punches at the torso it reveals and barely manages to scramble out of the twisted tent without teeth in his arm.
Quackity screams, “Tommy!” No answer. Of course Tommy’s on a fucking walk right now. Quackity hates everyone in the entire world.
Muttering, “Fuck,” over and over to himself, Quackity manages to make it to his backpack and procure his crossbow. He shakily tries to add a bolt to the crossbow and of course, he fucking drops it. The zombies come closer and he shouts, “Give me a fucking second!” He finally manages to get a bolt in the crossbow and shoots the closest one. Blessedly, it sinks into its head.
Quackity shouts, “Yes! Fuck yes!” Unfortunately, the other two zombies aren’t too bothered by their companion laying across the ground dead, so Quackity runs as fast as he can as he reloads the crossbow. Why did it have to be now? Why couldn’t it have been the middle of the day with Tommy puttering around and Quackity’s crossbow at his side? Why does he only keep his fucking knife in his tent?
Because it’s dark, Quackity doesn’t notice the giant tree root in front of him and goes flying. It just isn’t his day. It just isn’t his week. It just isn’t his fucking life. The zombies are far enough that he scrambles without much trouble, but they’re close enough when he stands that he has to hold his ground. He shoots, and the second bolt lands in one of their stomachs. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Once again, he has to run. The snarls and snaps of teeth feel like they're right behind him, and he prays it's just his fear running away with itself. He reloads as he panics, then turns, and shoots. He doesn’t see where it lands, but he hears a thud and whoops. Of course, he makes a thud just a second later. There’s another tree root. Why wouldn’t there be another tree root?
This time, Quackity lands hard. His chin hits the ground and he bites his lip. His crossbow is flung out of his hands and he rushes to get up but the last zombie trips over him and he screams.
“Fuck off!” He shouts, trying to push it off. Nothing. Nothing but teeth and hunger. Quackity isn’t strong enough and now he’s going to fucking die. He shouldn’t have stayed. He should have left Tommy in the fucking dust. There’s nothing Quackity can do but push with all his might and hope for anything, anyone, any-
A bolt lands in the zombie’s head. The dead weight falls on Quackity and he screams in frustration. Quackity pushes from below and Tommy pushes from the side and suddenly Quackity can breath. He heaves in and out with blood in his mouth and screams again. Tommy looks disturbed. Quackity will fucking show him disturbed.
“Uh- um, Big Q-”
“Where the fuck were you?”
“I- I was just-”
“What, on your fucking walk?” Quackity pushes himself up from the ground. His body hurts. His head hurts. His mouth fucking hurts.
Quickly, Tommy defends, “I hadn’t seen any of those fucks, I didn’t think they were this far!”
“They’re everywhere, Tommy! Everywhere!” Quackity’s chest heaves with lack of breath and complete and utter frustration. “Everywhere but fucking L’manburg!”
“Big Q-”
“We’re going!” Quackity stomps off toward the torn apart tent. Tommy scrambles behind him.
“Quackity-”
Quackity stops stomping and turns to Tommy, shouting in his face, “No! No, Tommy, we did it your way! We did it the sneaking off and being an asshole and stealing supplies way, and guess what? That didn’t fucking work! So now we’re doing it my way. The save our asses and get out of the zombie-infested woods way!”
“We can’t!”
“We can, Tommy! Easily! We can follow the river, then cross, then do whatever we need to do to get to L’manburg. Okay? Do you understand? We aren’t staying here!”
Matching Quackity’s anger, Tommy says, “Yes, we are!”
“I’m not staying here, Tommy,” Quackity looks up at him with as much fear and anger as he can show. He feels guilty, but he just can’t do it anymore. Not for Tommy, not for anyone. “Do you fucking understand?”
Tommy’s face crumples. His voice breaks as he begs, “Please.” Quackity looks away. “Please stay, man. It’s not- it’s not forever! I promise, it’s not forever.”
"Then when is it, Tommy? When we're dead too?" Tommy just stands there looking lost and upset, clenching and unclenching his fists. He looks so much like a kid it makes Quackity sick. He sighs. Gently, gentler at least, Quackity says, "I just can't do it anymore, Tommy."
“I’ll- I’ll go on less walks, okay? I won’t leave when you’re sleeping, I’ll stop- I won’t touch anything, okay?” It’s the closest he’s come to admitting he’s been stealing. Maybe he is making progress. Maybe this whole thing was a wake-up call and Tommy is on his way to healing like a normal person. Or maybe Quackity is just a hopeful moron who doesn’t want to leave the only person left in the world he cares about. It’s not forever. It’s not fucking forever. Quackity sighs.
“Okay, Tommy.”
Hopeful, Tommy questions, “Okay?”
“Okay. Just- soon, okay? We need to leave soon.”
“Of course! Of course, Big Q.”
That night, Quackity dreams he washes blood off of his new sleeveless, leather jacket in the river. Wilbur lays in a nearby patch of grass, the sun shining on him, criticizing Quackity’s cleaning technique. Quackity looks over to glare but finds himself stopped short by a figure looming over Wilbur. Tommy is pale. He is covered in bite marks and blood. His eyes are glazed over.
Wilbur asks, “Are you hungry, Tommy?” Both of them look to Quackity. The river runs red.
Tommy keeps his promise that he won’t leave until Quackity wakes up. They eat breakfast together in the morning, the first meal they have shared in what feels like forever. Tommy is a little more lively today, a little more himself. Maybe Quackity isn’t just playing himself. Maybe Tommy really is getting better. The walnuts are too bitter to finish.
An hour or so later, Tommy takes his walk. Quackity waits two minutes, then grabs his crossbow. His knife is already secured inside of his boot. Quackity does not know if he has solidly come to the decision that he can’t trust Tommy, so this will be the final test to see, once and for all, if it is worth holding onto hope that Tommy will get better.
Maybe Tommy is just taking walks. Or maybe he’s stealing supplies to run off on his own, keeping it in a secure location. Considering what little they have left, Quackity considers how unforgivable that would be. He honestly isn’t sure. For anyone else, Quackity would shoot them and leave them for dead. But when it comes to Tommy…
Quackity holds his crossbow at his side. It feels like someone towers over him. He thinks ghosts should stick to nightmares. He turns to face the ghost with his crossbow, but no one stands behind him. Nothing is here but him and the vague smell of rotting meat. Fuck, he hates these woods.
It must be an hour at least of tracking Tommy through the forest. He knew Tommy took long walks, but the strain of the bullet wound in his leg feels it a Hell of a lot worse than boredom on their camp did. Finally, the crunching of leaves gets louder. Tommy begins to speak. Quackity can’t make it out, not with how far he is, but he slows down a little and tries to walk even quieter.
Coming up close, Quackity stands behind a tree as Tommy talks to… another tree. Jesus Christ, is Tommy so lonely he’s talking to trees? Is Quackity that shit of company?
Tommy says, “And- I mean, I got him to stay, but I don’t… I don’t know if it’ll last long,” he sounds sad. Guilt pulls at Quackity’s chest. “Maybe if we- when I show you to him, maybe he’ll want to stay!” He sounds hopeful. The tree does not respond. Tommy sighs. “I don’t know… man, you look a bit… what’s the nice word for ugly? Let me get some water, I’ll be right back.”
Tommy wanders away, presumably toward the river. This is not what Quackity expected. Tommy making friends with trees is an… interesting response to grief. Should Quackity be supportive? Introduce himself to the tree? God, that feels ridiculous. Should Quackity just book it now and hope Tommy doesn’t know he was here?
A very close by groan makes the decision for him. He stands up, heading toward Tommy to grab him and book it back to camp while the tree and zombies get to know each other, but when he passes Tommy’s tree friend, a hand reaches out and grabs at Quackity. It only manages to graze his leg as he pulls back, but as he pulls out his crossbow to shoot he looks up, then down, then freezes.
No. No, Tommy didn’t. Tommy fucking wouldn’t.
Quackity keeps his crossbow steady. He aims it between familiar eyes that haven’t glazed completely over, but he knows in the coming months will. They have certainly already lost their spark. That intelligence, that curiosity, that anger. All that is left in this thing is hunger. His glasses are missing and his trenchcoat is ripped to Hell at the bottom. The left arm of the coat is completely soaked in blood. Quackity wonders if the blood is his own. Its own.
Quackity takes a steeling breath. He makes a move to shoot. Then, a scream of, “No!” and Quackity is being tackled. Tommy sits on top of him, tearing at his hands and yelling, “You can’t, you fucking-”
Quackity matches his volume, yelling, “What the fuck were you thinking, Tommy?” Through it all, the zombie gets riled up. It groans and snarls and wants them dead. It wants to eat them and Tommy’s stupid, careless ass kept it. Quackity tries to aim the crossbow toward the zombie, but Tommy shoves the bow into his own stomach.
“You’ll have to shoot me,” he says. He sounds crazed. He’s fucking crazy. Quackity takes a deep breath. Then another. He takes his hand off the crossbow trigger and Tommy tosses it to the side, rolling off of him. Too fucking close to the zombie’s hungry hands.
Nervously, Tommy starts, “Big Q, listen, I- it’s okay.”
Quackity laughs. The mean one. “It’s okay, Tommy?”
“Wilbur’s- I mean, sure, he’s a bit… fucked up right now, but he’s always been ugly, eh?” Tommy lets out a weak laugh. Quackity can’t fucking believe this.
“Wilbur’s dead, Tommy! That thing isn’t Wilbur.”
Tommy shouts, “He is!” Then brings his face to his hands, groaning. More calm, Tommy says, “He is, okay? I’ve been working with him and- and he’s made loads of progress, man! Sometimes I get close and he doesn’t even try to eat me!” Tommy sounds so fucking excited.
“That’s insane, Tommy.”
“It’s progress, Big Q.”
Quackity grabs the knife in his boot. “Just- just get out of the way, Tommy.”
“No!” Tommy scrambles up, positioning himself in front of Wilbur again. “I told you, Quackity, you’ve got to kill me first.”
“This- this is insane, Tommy!” Quackity can’t fucking believe this. He can’t… What the fuck? “Tommy, please. Wilbur’s dead. We need to kill him and go. ”
“Dead doesn’t mean gone anymore.”
“Look at him, Tommy!” Wilbur snarls and snaps his teeth, trying so fucking hard to get to Tommy right now. “He’s trying to fucking kill you!”
“You- you upset him!”
“I didn’t fucking upset him, Tommy, he just wants to fucking eat me too!”
“Quackity-”
“Wilbur’s gone, Tommy! He’s dead! I’m so fucking sorry, I wish things were different, but that’s not Wilbur. Okay? So for the love of God, just move out of the fucking way!”
“Make me.” Tommy looks… scary is the best way Quackity can describe it. He’s been odd and intense and unsettling since Wilbur died, but he’s decidedly fucking scary now standing in front of a knife to risk his life for an undead version of his brother.
“Tommy…” Quackity doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to make Tommy move and he’s not gonna kill his only fucking friend just to get Wilbur’s groans out of his ears. Even if it is a little tempting. Even if Quackity can’t look at Wilbur without feeling his heart break a little more.
“Just… let’s just talk, Big Q.”
A few minutes later, Quackity, Tommy, and… Wilbur sit beside the tree. Quackity is as far from Wilbur as possible. Tommy sits too close for comfort. Wilbur’s legs seem to be broken at least, so Quackity isn’t actively shitting his pants anymore. The worst part are the flies. Buzzing around Wilbur's head and getting in Quackity's face for the trouble.
“What actually happened, Tommy?” Quackity asks as he swats away a fly. Tommy looks at Wilbur with a little frown. “Tommy. You owe me that fucking much.”
“It- it just fucking happened, man,” Tommy stumbles over himself speaking. “One second me and Wil were talking about- we were just talking. One second he was beside me, the next…” Tommy looks away from Wilbur’s snarling form, something haunted on his face. “I don’t really know. I looked over and one of those things was on him. But he was… he just stood there. Just watched while it ate his fucking arm. I rushed over, but another of those fucking things… right in the throat. No saving him at that point.”
Tommy lets out a shaky breath, then continues, “I shot ‘em. Made sure I didn’t hit him. He couldn’t speak but he was- he was smiling, Big Q. Wilbur was…” he shifts and the crunch of the leaves makes Wilbur reach out again. Tommy looks at Wilbur with a sad smile. “He died. Bled out the throat. I- I don’t know. I just fucking grabbed him and booked it.”
“You don’t book it with someone who’s 6’4 and dead weight, Tommy.”
“Well, I did! Call it adrenaline or- or what the fuck ever. I headed toward camp ‘til… well, ‘til I realized I couldn’t. You’d fuckin’,” Tommy makes a stabbing motion. “It’d be fucked. So I followed the river. Went up ‘til it felt safe, and I- I left him here.”
“How did he break his legs?”
“Um,” Tommy’s voice goes high and he lets out a nervous laugh. “That was- I mean, it was an accident, really.”
Quackity blinks. Horrified, he questions, “You broke Wilbur’s fucking legs?”
“I needed him to stay put!”
“So it wasn’t a fucking accident?”
“I panicked! I knew he was gonna turn, and I didn’t- I couldn’t let him leave, Quackity.”
Tommy is… insane. Quackity thinks that’s a solid fact now. Wilbur died and Tommy took all of his fucking insanity and then some. God, Quackity wishes he met one normal fucking person in this apocalypse… except he doesn’t wish he hadn’t met Tommy. It’s still Tommy, even if he is harboring a zombie. Even if he broke his dead brother’s legs just to get him to stay.
“Tommy, I- I understand that this is all… very fucking difficult. I understand why you did it,” barely, but Quackity can play a bit of pretend right now. “But we have to kill-” Tommy stands up suddenly.
Pointing at Wilbur, Tommy declares, “He’s been getting better! He- I mean, it’s hardly been two weeks and he’s already eating not-human meat. Eh? Eh?” Tommy looks incredibly proud of this misuse of supplies.
“Is that where the fucking jerky went?” Tommy’s smile goes nervous. He scratches at his neck.
“Um. In a way, it’s Wilbur’s fault, not mine. Be mad at him.” Quackity is. He is so fucking mad at Wilbur right now for dying and leaving his messy, strange, codependent brother in the lurch and Quackity to fucking deal with him.
“So what was the jacket for?”
“Oh!” Tommy shifts some leaves and pulls out what sort of looks like a mask. “Had to muzzle him up sometimes, especially tryin’ to wash the blood and rot off. Couldn’t clean him up for ages, ‘til you found that jacket. Cool, yeah?” Tommy fiddles with the muzzle while Quackity just stares in shock. Upset and nervous, Tommy barks, “Well? What’s the issue now, then?”
“The issue is you’re playing house with a fucking zombie!”
“That zombie’s my stupid brother!”
“Tommy-”
“No, because, he’s getting fucking better, Big Q. He’s made progress, okay? He’s not- he’s not all zombie! He ate jerky! He doesn’t always get murdery when I come by! Isn’t that something?”
It’s nothing. It’s absolutely nothing. But Tommy looks so shattered already, he looks fucking desperate, and Quackity is afraid what will happen if he doesn’t let Tommy keep this delusion. He doesn’t know what to fucking do.
Slowly, Quackity questions, “So what’s the plan, Tommy? We… rehabilitate him? Then what?”
“We go to L’manburg! Like we always planned!” Oh, this poor, dumb fucking kid.
“You really think they’ll let a zombie in L’manburg, Tommy? Seriously?”
“If- if he’s good, if I tell them-”
“They’re not gonna believe you, Tommy! It’s not- no one thinks that’s possible! They’ll kill him before you have a chance to prove it!” Tommy looks toward Wilbur with a look of total defeat. He nods. Maybe that is what Tommy needed, then. Just a little reality check, and now they’re back on track.
Sure of himself, Tommy says, “Then we’ll stay out here.” Oh. Oh, no, that is not what Tommy needed at all. That was just Quackity signing off on Tommy’s suicide note. “It’s not bad. The place is- it’s not teemin’ with zombies, and the town’s not fully ransacked, yeah? And once Wil is good enough, we can start wandering again, right?”
“With his broken legs?” Tommy frowns.
“I can reset them. Might be a bit- a bit wonky, but zombies walk with worse, right? He’ll be fine.” Nothing about this is fine. This is the kind of self-delusion Quackity’s never seen to this degreee, not even out here.
Quackity tries one more time, “Tommy-”
“Are you with us or against us, Quackity?”
For a moment, Quackity could swear it’s Wilbur talking to him. But the zombie stays snarling and those determined, desperate eyes stay blue.
This is insane. This is all fucking insane. But Quackity, for better or worse, still wants to help Tommy. He promised to give Tommy a few days more anyway. He can wait a few fucking days before getting the Hell out of dodge.
Quackity decides, “I’m with you, Tommy. You fucking know I am.” Tommy sags in relief. He gives Quackity a wide, tired smile.
“This has been a long couple weeks, Big Q.’
“You’re telling me.”
The next week is longer.
They go to Wilbur every single day. The walks there feel stilted the way time with Tommy did not use to. Tommy is quiet until he’s not. It’s disturbing when Tommy goes quiet, but the mad ramblings of hope that Wilbur will get better are harder to hear.
They keep trying with the jerky. To Tommy’s merit, Wilbur does actually eat a few pieces. Privately, Quackity thinks that’s just because they have been held in a human being’s hand and are coated in enough scent and sweat that it appeals to his instincts.
Sometimes, when Tommy wants to stay close to Wilbur, to just sit next to him close enough to elbow after a dumb joke or show off something in a book Wilbur used to read and Tommy’s been parsing through, Tommy will tie his arms back around the tree with the medical tape. He puts the muzzle over Wilbur’s mouth. He does it all with a smile and conversational tone.
Quackity has mostly taken to sitting there in shock. He doesn’t really know what’s going on. He tries to participate, to show Tommy he cares, but he is so fucking scared and so fucking confused that he fumbles through every interaction. Lucky for him, Tommy is denying reality hard enough already that any weird behavior is completely brushed off. Maybe Quackity is stuttering and wide-eyed and has a too-tight smile all the time now, but Wilbur’s a fucking zombie so he wins the less of a freak competition in Tommy’s eyes.
Four days in, Quackity dreams of shuffling down an old, dirt road and groans coming out of his mouth. He dreams of the sun blazing a group of three wanderers rotting and starving. All they have is each other, but they cannot satiate each other's hunger. It's not enough.
Quackity wakes up in a cold sweat. His stomach growls.
He has to leave. He has to fucking leave. But he can't leave Tommy… but does Tommy even care about him anymore? Tommy would rather his rotting brother who wants to kill and eat him to Quackity who just wants to keep him safe.
The thought of leaving Tommy makes Quackity just as upset as the thought of staying. Maybe Quackity’s insane too. The problem isn’t Tommy. He’s just a poor kid in a shitty situation. The problem is fucking Wilbur. If Tommy just lost all hope that Wilbur could be okay…
Quackity has a plan. A bad one. But it’s the only shot he has of getting both of them out of this fucking nightmare.
The next night, while Tommy sleeps, Quackity sneaks off to the woods. The path is a little less clear in the night, but Quackity just follows the sound of a death march.
Nearly an hour later, Quackity finds himself face to face with Wilbur’s corpse. He is less loud about wanting to kill Quackity tonight. Just a bit of huffing and a hungry gaze. Quackity should just kill him. He should just end this nightmare right fucking now. But this is the first time he’s gotten to meet with Wilbur alone. He sits.
“You just had to fucking die.”
Wilbur does not respond. He just stares. Maybe Tommy was right about the progress, but it isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough. Maybe they could train Wilbur not to bite them, but he will do what all wild animals do eventually. This thing will never lose an argument with Quackity with the least amount of grace possible. This thing will never fall over himself laughing at his little brother’s shitty jokes. It isn’t Wilbur, and Quackity can’t pretend as well as Tommy.
“I want to say you’d want me to do this, but maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d think it was… poetic or something. The walking dead. But you always hated the smell.”
Wilbur lurches forward shoulders first, but there is no sound, no teeth, no real attempt to kill him. It pisses Quackity off. Can it at least be enough of a monster that Quackity doesn’t feel like he’s killing… whatever the fuck Wilbur was to him? Maybe a friend, maybe an enemy, more than Quackity would ever admit.
“Dead or alive, you can’t read a fucking room.”
Wilbur was the farthest thing from the love of Quackity’s life, but he was the closest Quackity could get in a world like this. Quackity can’t even imagine meeting him somewhere that wasn’t full of misery and death. He doesn’t know if he would want to. The pit in his stomach when he tries to think about it makes him feel like that’s a lie.
“Hey,” Quackity snaps his fingers in front of Wilbur’s face. He almost gets his hand bitten off. Even with the fear rising from his gut, it’s a relief. “There we fucking go, you fucking monster. You fucking thing. A lot could be said about Wilbur’s egotistical, petulant, self-absorbed ass, but he was human. You’re just… fucking rot.”
Before Schlatt died but after Quackity knew he wanted to kill him, Wilbur and Quackity sat on a hill and watched the sun rise. Wilbur scratched at his wrist, something Tommy told Quackity once was a sign he needed a cigarette before the world went to Hell. Wilbur scratched for thirty seconds straight and Quackity grabbed his arm.
“Dude, relax.”
“Relax in the apocalypse? God knows how you’ve lasted this long.” But Wilbur stopped scratching. Quackity took his hand back and Wilbur clasped his own wrist.
“Says you.”
Wilbur scoffed. “I’m the only careful one in this group. You and Schlatt are the problem. And Tommy’s the- the rebel rouser.”
“You’re both fucking morons. At least Tommy’s a moron I like.”
“You could be sleeping instead of hanging out with a moron you don’t like.”
If Quackity slept he would have to lay beside his beloved husband, and he did not think he could do that another night without smothering Schlatt with a pillow.
Quackity just said, “At least you don’t snore.”
“Tommy does. Like a fucking chainsaw,” Wilbur said in despair. “He claims it’s allergies, but I’ve lived with him 8 years at this point and not a night goes by that his snores don’t haunt my dreams.”
“Colorful.”
Wilbur smiled. “Isn’t it?”
They stayed silent a few minutes more. Wilbur rubbed at his wrist and pulled at the skin on his lips and looked increasingly aggravated. As the sun got higher in the sky, Quackity became increasingly aggravated as well. Schlatt would not be up for a few hours, not without divine intervention, but every second was another toward him. Quackity was so fucking tired of every second of his life being another toward Schlatt.
Finally, Quackity interrupted the silence with, “God, you really had a fucking problem, huh?”
Wilbur looked confused. “A problem?”
“Smoking.” Wilbur blinked.
“Did I- is my coat really that bad? Still?” He went to sniff his trenchcoat and Quackity laughed.
“No, fucking- Tommy. Well, yeah, it reeks, but no, that didn’t give it away.” Wilbur dropped his coat with a huff.
“A snitch, even after all this time.”
“You raised him.”
“I’ll let the wolves take the blame on that one.” Wilbur shrugged then smiled at Quackity. “But yes, I had a fucking problem. Still would. Cancer’s better than zombies, I reckon.”
“One caused a global pandemic so, yeah, I’d say cancer’s a little better.”
“And what was your vice?”
Quackity thought of Schlatt so drunk he couldn’t move from the couch while Quackity stared at a wall and nursed a drink himself. He thought of sneaking out onto the balcony for a cigarette that always felt too short. He thought of parties and white lines in the bathroom with strangers. He thought of sneaking off to empty rooms with men who were certainly not his husband.
“I didn’t really have any.”
Wilbur laughed. “Seriously?” He clearly did not believe him. Despite it being a lie, Quackity burned.
“Yeah, seriously, Wilbur.”
“Didn’t realize your life was so perfect before the apocalypse,” Wilbur looked back toward the sky with a shake of his head. “My, what the undead have done to your marriage.”
“What the fuck do you know about my marriage?” Too defensive, Quackity, too fucking defensive.
“I know the other half doesn’t call it a marriage.”
Two years into the apocalypse and they had not met a single priest without his throat ripped out. Quackity figured they didn’t need stupid papers or vows to pledge their loyalty. Silly fucking him.
“That’s because Schlatt’s an asshole.”
“At least he’s honest.”
“And what the Hell does that mean?”
Wilbur looked down on him. “You’re not married. You’re hardly engaged. If it hadn’t been for the apocalypse, I imagine the two of you would have lasted a few months more, a year tops. I know a certain amount of delusion is needed to survive in this world, Quackity, but yours is frankly embarrassing.”
Without really thinking about it, Quackity punched Wilbur in the face. Wilbur fell over, face hitting the ground with a sharp, “Fuck!” Wilbur stayed there for a moment, just holding his face and breathing while Quackity stared, before Wilbur pushed himself up from the ground with a laugh. “Y’know, I really didn’t think that would hurt as much as it did.”
Quackity stood, towering over Wilbur’s laughing, hunched over form. “What the fuck do you know, Wilbur? You think I’m fucking delusional? You’re taking Tommy to some place that doesn’t fucking exist! You’re gonna get there, and all there’s gonna be are bodies. Rot and fucking bones. You’ll fit right in.”
Wilbur just kept laughing. Quackity wanted to strangle him. He thought he just might.
“What I know, Quackity,” Wilbur said, laughter subsiding. Blood dripped from between his lips as he spoke. “Is that you won’t leave. I’ll mock you and I’ll hurt you, and you’ll mock me and you’ll hurt me, and it’s heaven in comparison to laying next to the man you love. So punch me again if you’d like. You’ll probably just draw a few more zombies our way.”
Quackity stayed standing and tried to figure out exactly what to do or say. He wanted to kill him. He wanted to storm off. But Wilbur was unfortunately right in saying that this is much, much preferable than spending the night with Schlatt. His fist still hurt from the first punch but he could not say there wouldn’t be a second.
He watched Wilbur wipe blood from his lips. It was a distracting movement. He had nice lips, Quackity unfortunately always thought so. Cracked and dry, but who fuck’s weren’t anymore? Quackity could imagine him smoking. Sucking down smoke and letting it pass back through his lips. If it weren’t for every word that comes out of Wilbur’s fucking mouth, it would almost be perfect.
Quackity stepped forward, fist still clenched, and all Wilbur did was watch. Quackity was so fucking tired of it all. Of every defense, of every carefully worded sentence, of every “sugar” and “baby” and “pumpkin”. He was so fucking tired of a lie that went down easy but came up with chunks. In that moment, a bumpy truth seemed so much fucking better.
So Quackity took truth by the hair and pulled him to his mouth and for just a little while could no longer smell the rot.
It has been a long time since then. The thing in front of Quackity floods his senses with rot. All it wants is to eat him alive. Quackity almost wishes he were the kind of person who could let it.
“For what it’s worth,” Quackity says as he loads his crossbow. “I’m glad I met you. God fucking knows where I’d be. God fucking knows who I’d be.” He aims the crossbow between Wilbur’s hungry eyes. “So thanks for that.”
Quackity goes to shoot, and as his finger pulls the trigger, a body tackles him with a growl. For a moment, Quackity thinks a particularly athletic zombie is about to make a meal out of him, but he pushes the figure up and meets Tommy’s wild eyes.
“Tommy-”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Tommy screams. He grabs Quackity's shirt with both hands and shakes him.“We were gonna be okay, Quackity! It was all gonna be fucking okay! And now? Now I can’t trust you!” Tommy stands and scratches his hands down his own face. He paces as Quackity moves back, as far away from both Wilbur and Tommy as possible.
Like he's talking to a wild animal, Quackity starts, "Tommy-"
Tommy takes his hands from his face and looks desperate to be understood as he says, “I just- he’s getting better, man!”
“No, he fucking isn’t, Tommy! We’re just training a wild animal, he’s not-”
Tommy explodes, “How the fuck do you know? You a zombie expert now? What’s the harm in seeing if maybe, just maybe, we can get him back? Yeah? What is so fucking wrong with that, Quackity?”
“Because L’manburg is right around the corner and-”
“And he should’ve been there!” Tommy’s voice breaks. “How the fuck- I mean, what the fuck is L’manburg without him, Quackity? It’s not… it’s not fair.” He sounds less angry now. Just destroyed. Quackity can work with that.
“I know, Tommy,” he soothes. “It’s not- it’s not fucking fair, okay? But this world isn’t fair. We’re the ones remaining, you and me, and I know that all Wilbur wanted was for you to go to L’manburg. To be fucking safe. So please. Please. Stop with the- the fucking scientist act. It’s not Wilbur, man.”
Tommy looks at the zombie masquerading as his brother with a weary smile. Weakly, he asks, “Can you believe this guy, Wil?” But even he can’t buy it. His face scrunches up and he sighs. “I hate this. I hate this feeling, Quackity. I’ve never been lost before. You can’t- you can’t be lost if you’re wandering, right?” He chokes on a laugh.
Quackity goes to respond, but Tommy continues, “Why’d you have to do it, man? Why did you have to- we were so close , Wil, why’d you have to do that shit? You didn’t have to get that close. I know you didn’t. I know you were-” Tommy cuts himself off with a shaky breath. “You left me, you fucking dick. And now!” Tommy bends and lifts his pants leg and all of the air leaves Quackity’s lungs. “Now I’ve got this!”
“Fuck,” is all Quackity can think to say at the sight of the bite mark. “Fuck, Tommy.”
“My fault,” Tommy says like a joke but it’s too strangled. “Got too close. Tryin’ to- tryin’ to keep you from shootin’ him.”
“I’m so fucking sorry, Tommy.” Tommy sits a little too close to Wilbur, but it doesn’t matter anymore.
“Not your fault, Big Q,” he sounds close to tears. “How it goes, I guess. How it- how it was always gonna go, I think.”
“That’s stupid, Tommy, we can- we can amputate and-”
“Don’t got the supplies, don’t got the patience. Just fucking go, Quackity.”
“I could…” Quackity chokes. “I can stay. Until you turn, shoot you both.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
“I’m fucking offering, man.”
“And I’m saying no.”
“Tommy-”
“I’ll bite you, Big Q, if you stay,” he says it too seriously. Quackity is still on the ground but quickly shuffles backward. He doesn’t know if being bitten would do anything before Tommy turns, but he isn’t taking any fucking chances. Tommy lets out a strangled laugh. “Yeah. That’s fair.”
“So what?” Quackity questions. “I just fucking go? I just… leave?” He would be alone. Quackity has never been alone. Quackity doesn’t want to be fucking alone.
“Nothing else to do.”
“This is all- fuck, Tommy, if I had just- just reasoned with you-”
“You did, man. You really did. Don’t blame yourself,” he points a thumb to Wilbur who immediately tries to bite it. “Blame this guy.” Quackity chokes out a laugh. Tommy smiles. Right before he’s about to die, Tommy seems more like himself than he has since Wilbur died. It disturbs Quackity to his fucking core. Suddenly, Tommy looks excited. “Hey!” He pulls the can of orange soda out of his pocket. “A little celebratory drink, eh?”
“What the fuck are we celebrating?”
“L’manburg.”
Tommy cracks open the can and takes a chug. He wipes his mouth and lets out a satisfied sigh. “Oh, that’s the good stuff.” He holds the can toward Quackity. “Eh?”
“I’m not taking your last meal, man.”
“Just drink a bit, man.”
Not really knowing what else to do, Quackity pushes himself up from the ground and takes a hesitant step forward. He takes the can. He takes a sip and says tearfully, “This is so fucking gross.” Tommy lets out an offended squawk and Quackity laughs as he hands the can back. They sit with the silence for a moment. If it weren’t for the death looming over them in the form of Wilbur’s hungry groans, it would almost be comfortable.
Finally, Tommy says, “Get a big house for me, eh? Say I’m haunting you so you’ve gotta have room.”
“I’ll make sure of it.”
They smile. Then Tommy jerks his head toward the woods. “You should get some rest. I’ll- we’ll see you soon.” Quackity accepts the lie with a smile. He needs it as much as Tommy.
"See you soon, Tommy." Then, Quackity does what he asks. It feels wrong to leave, but maybe Tommy just wants one last coherent moment with his brother. Who is Quackity to deny that?
Before Quackity is far enough, he hears Tommy’s tear-filled voice say, “I’m so fucking scared, Wil.”
Quackity walks faster. That isn’t his life anymore.
It is more dangerous to walk around at night, but Quackity does not wait for morning to pack and leave. The second he gets to camp, he shoves everything he needs into his bag and takes off. He needs the stench of death as far away from him as possible.
The next three weeks feel monotonous. Every night he sets up camp. Some days he almost dies to undead assholes. Some days he doesn’t hear more than a bird sing. Some days he thinks he won’t have enough food to make the trip. Some days he comes across more walnuts and thanks God. Every day the pit in his stomach grows bigger.
The day he gets to L’manburg makes an effort to be the worst day of his life. He gets a late start because he woke up on time, ate, packed, started walking, then vomited stomach acid and walnuts for 20 minutes. Then he ran into three zombies, killed two of them, and ran like Hell from the third. He saw a flower that he remembers Tommy once said was Wilbur’s favorite. He nearly choked on a walnut because his throat is so fucking tight from trying not to cry.
But finally, he sees the black and yellow L'manburg walls. He lets himself cry, then. They’re still far, but he can see the fucking walls. The walls that mean safety. The walls that mean a life in this Hellscape. He starts running and doesn’t stop.
It is overgrown outside, but that’s okay. A little bit of greenery is good. It probably trips up the zombies. It definitely does the humans.
He gets to an outpost. No one is inside. That’s fine. They probably have an event going on inside the walls. Do they do festivals? Quackity always enjoyed a good festival.
When he gets closer to the walls, he notices the gates are open. Someone else must have come today too. That’s why the outpost is empty and that’s why the gates are open. They won’t even have to reopen them for Quackity! He came at just the right time.
The street to get to L'manburg is a bit of a mess. A dead body here, a dead body there. Probably hard to clean up every zombie they kill. Quackity can’t fault them for not caring what happens outside the walls.
Quackity steps up to the gate. No welcoming committee, but they must be busy with the other new person. They have to be fucking busy.
Quackity peers inside of L’manburg, in all its glory.
Bodies litter the street. The groan of zombies bounce off the walls. They bound down paths like a community all their own. Nothing alive but the plants remain.
Quackity laughs. He laughs so hard he starts crying. He laughs so hard zombies start to head his way. He laughs until he can’t hear the groans and snarls and buzzing flies that follow rotting flesh. A zombie approaches, what looks to be a middle-aged man with a wedding ring. Quackity grabs his knife and stabs the man directly in the head. He hits him, again and again, letting blood and brain matter splatter across his face, grunting and screaming, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” until 20 more zombies are headed his way. He is covered in rot.
There is a way out of this. He can see a path to go down that will get him away from hungry, snarling things that want to eat him alive. He can run for his life and survive another day. Then another. Then another. Then...
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he does regret knowing Wilbur Soot.