Chapter Text
Wilbur slowly opened the door and peeked in. It seemed the room wasn't occupying anyone, so he pushed the door even more before carefully stepping in. He surveyed the messy room. It looked like some kind of home office.
It wasn't easy to tell. A desk was flipped by the wall, perhaps once being used as a door barrier. Even if it was, it definitely didn't do a good job. The shelves at the back of the room were emptied, books scattered on the ground nearby. Puddles of blood mixed with the dark sticky residue left by some zombie were splattered by Wilbur's feet.
He wrinkled his nose at the stench, a terrible mix of something like car gas and smoke plaguing his sense of smell. He considered wearing his gas mask, but there wasn't any fog of spores visible so it probably wasn't at risk of getting his lungs infected.
Slowly entering the room, he inspected it's contents. Random business papers littered the floor where he stepped. He crouched to pick one up, deciding it wouldn't hurt to read whatever was written on it. He then let the page fall out of his hand after reading just the first paragraph. No time to waste, he was supposed to scavenge for supplies, not read boring business letters.
Quickening his pace, Wilbur neared the toppled office desk, noticing a cracked laptop beside. No need for that, it was definitely dead, and even if it still worked there wasn't any signal to contact anyone.
Either way, he carefully lifted it and tried to turn it on. Nothing happened, and he placed it back on the ground with a sigh.
It would've been nice if it had power. In fact, it would've been great. Even if there was no signal, he could've still found a way to entertain himself with it. Better than having nothing but the thoughts in his mind to keep him going. But even the amount of stories he can come up with, the number of random song lyrics that he conjures up, is running thin.
Three months. Three fucking months of his lonely survival. Three goddamn fucking months since this stupid apocalypse started. He was doing relatively well in the beginning when he was still with Phil, still with Techno and Tommy.
God he fucking missed them. He knew they were still alive. Even if they got seperated by that zombie horde, he knew they survived. He doesn't even know how he was so sure. Whatever gut feeling it was, it didn't matter. He just knew .
Surviving on his own wasn't all that bad. He knew where to go when looking for supplies, he knew how to defend himself from both people and zombies. But months with the lack of company? Wilbur probably wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy.
He could join other survivors, it wasn't really the worst decision a person could make in the apocalypse. But that's the thing, it's the apocalypse. People are now unpredictable, especially when the loudest rule is 'survival of the fittest'. He can't risk getting robbed in the middle of the night, or worse, getting killed in the process.
He sighed again as he opened each drawer of the desk, finding a letter opener in the third one. He took it out and inspected it. A pretty good close-range weapon. Better than the dull pocket knife in his pocket.
Honestly, better than the rifle that he strapped to his bag.
That had no ammo.
Unfortunately.
The good news, though, was that the letter opener was sharp. A bit small too, but it was better than nothing.
Wilbur moved to get up, before feeling something cold pressed against the back of his head. He then froze when he realized that someone was standing behind him.
"Don't. Move. A muscle."
A girl. Or at least they sounded like a girl. He couldn't see them-- fuck he couldn't see them and they were standing right behind him definitely with a gun-- but he tried to shift slightly to get a good look at them. Which was a stupid move.
"I said don't move, asshole!"
He felt the gun being pressed harder against his head and decided that it would absolutely suck if he died right now.
He still had the letter opener in his hands. He wondered if he was able to quickly twist around and attack them, just enough to give him time to escape. But there was still the risk of getting shot.
He couldn't think further before the person spoke up again. "Throw the weapon away."
Wilbur knew he had a gun to his head, but he didn't move.
The gun pressed against his head again, enough to push his head a little forward. "I said to throw the weapon away."
They sounded murderous, but Wilbur was able to pick up the slight tremor in their voice. The same tremor he'd hear in Tommy's voice when he would try to act tough.
They were scared.
They might have never fired a gun in their life.
Or maybe they have.
He can't picture whoever is behind him. He can't work with anything other than their voice. And that's what was starting to scare him.
Well, guess they were both scared.
Either way, Wilbur spoke up. "Or else what?"
It didn't hurt to push his luck just a little bit. He had to know what kind of person he was dealing with.
He realised the gun was being removed from his head, but before he could turn around, a loud bang erupted right next to his ear.
A gunshot.
Shit.
A continuous ringing surrounded his ear which made his hand shoot up to cover it. It still didn't go away. He shut his eyes to keep his mind from swaying.
A few seconds passed before he opened his eyes again. They widened as he noticed a small hole on the ground a few feet away from him.
A bullet hole.
Double shit.
His heartbeat was racing.
The person behind him continued talking. "Or I'll shoot you." The gun was aimed at his head again, it felt a little warm. "I'm not playing here. So drop the weapon."
He didn't need to be told twice. He quickly tossed the letter opener across the room, hearing it clatter to the ground as he slightly raised his arms in surrender. He really doesn't want this day to be the day he died.
He waited silently for their next instruction. He started to grow a bit impatient--it also wasn't helping when there was a fucking gun to his that could easily end his life--as a couple of silent seconds ticked by until he heard them take a breath. "Get rid of that knife in your pocket as well, why don't ya?"
Quite the observant one, aren't you? He thought. Dickhead.
He sighed as he reluctantly took out the pocket knife from his trench coat. He threw it next to the letter opener.
Great. He was unarmed. Unsafe.
Triple shit.
"Okay. Now, give me your bag," they ordered.
I'm getting fucking robbed? He thought with annoyance. What a piece of shit.
With an internal groan, he slowly removed his backpack and slightly pushed it behind him.
He heard them pull the bag the rest of the way, heard them crouch down as they proceeded to open the bag. A small gasp could be heard as they zipped it open.
Great. He was going to go back to square one. The bag was filled with pretty good items to keep for survival, which will no longer be his. Fucking great.
He realized the gun wasn't against his head anymore. Could he turn around now? Should he turn around? They still had a weapon while he had nothing. He did need to take a look at them before he could decide if he could take them in a fight. At least to get his stuff back.
He shifted his head to look over his shoulder ever so slightly. His eyes widened a bit when they finally saw who it was.
A girl, with curly ginger hair loosely pulled into a ponytail, was rummaging through his bag. He watched her pull out a few granola bars as he assessed his current situation.
She looked small, or maybe it was because she was crouching down. Either way, could he take her? She hasn't noticed his change in position yet, eyes glued to whatever was in his bag. His gaze rested on the gun that was still in her hand.
Right. The gun. That was going to be difficult.
She still wasn't looking at him. Maybe, if he was quick enough, he could disarm her. But… the gun. He didn't know if she was quicker than him, stronger--he didn't know anything about her. She could shoot him before he can even raise a fist.
He couldn't make up his mind when he noticed her eyes widen as they met his. Aqua meeting hazel. She immediately lifted her gun at him. "The fuck did I say about moving?"
"You're stealing my shit," Wilbur spoke back. "You expect me not to do anything?"
"I expect you to know your limit when there's a gun aimed at you," she spat.
Well… fair point. He didn't want to get shot, especially after getting robbed. Wouldn't be nice to add to his history.
He looked at the ground to avoid her now cold, piercing gaze. Shit, she looked like she was actually considering pulling the trigger.
But she didn't. Instead, she got up, pulling the rifle-- she was taking his rifle?! At least it wasn't loaded --over her shoulder. He watched her drop the few things she took from his bag into her's. Fuck, she was taking most of his food, a roll of duck-tape, his lighter.
He narrowed his eyes as she walked backwards toward the door, gun still aiming at him.
Before she left, she looked back at him, and seemed to hesitate. She took a deep breath before quietly saying, "Thank you." And then she was gone, scurrying out the room before Wilbur could do anything.
He blinked, confused, as he heard her footsteps quickly fade.
What the fuck.