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He thinks that he shouldn't have come to America for Vidcon.
He flew in from England that day, and he was supposed to meet Technoblade and Skeppy and Dream, and see Tubbo and Wilbur again. Because of school, he'd been the last one there; Tubbo's parents had allowed him to take Thursday and Friday off but his parents had told him that he couldn't miss the stupid math test Mr. Brett was giving that day, oh no .
The airplane lands, and then they go to the hotel, and that's when everything went so dangerously, horribly wrong.
He wanders the street with a fire ax in one hand and his other one on the wall of the alley. They'd moved Vidcon from Southern Cali to Washington State, of all places, 'cause of the forest fires.
Washington State reminds him a lot of England. Very unpredictable weather. Sometimes it's cold and freezing and then it's sunny - and it certainly rains a lot.
They reached the hotel and then there was screaming and the electricity died and everything went quiet, and then as if from a nightmare he heard the groans and more screams - and then he saw things in the mist and his parents told him to run and so he had.
They'd gotten lost in the crowd of what could only be zombies.
A zombie apocalypse.
How silly. How real . How horrible.
They were everywhere; creeping and crawling, and Tommy had nobody 'cept himself and his fire ax that he'd named Jared, 'cause he liked the name.
Maybe he shouldn't be speaking to objects.
But then he wouldn't be able to speak to women - no, he shouldn't make those jokes, Wilbur told him not to make those jokes.
But Wilbur is probably dead, so what can he do about it?
He breaks into buildings and convenience stores and drug stores - too bad they don't actually carry drugs - and he finds canned food and a backpack to store it in. He dodges zombies and has to kill one; he hates doing that, even if it looks and acts and sounds like a monster, he knows it was once a person.
He wonders if the others are dead.
He knows his parents are. He saw them fall in the crowd while he ran like a coward.
He doesn't know how long it's been. Whether it's still the same month or the same week, or even the same year - he thinks it is, but days and nights blur and he thinks that maybe it would just be better to die. It would be less painful.
But the human side of him, the side that isn't hurting and in pain forces him to trudge onwards, through the forests and towns and cities and something called Redmond. He sees schools and steers clear of them, and he hasn't seen anything but the undead; 'cept maybe a few stray dogs and a single cat that ran away the moment he moved near it.
He is lonely. He is lonely and afraid and he doesn't want to do this anymore, because what's the point? What's the point ?
He's half-delirious and he's been in the woods feasting on salmon from the rivers; he's so glad that he knows how to light fires; 'cause he doesn't like sushi, and wouldn't fancy it daily. The rivers are cold and flow from the huge mountains from the East - he thinks they are called the Appalachian Mountains - wait, no, they could be the Rocky Mountains - or wait, are they the Cascade Mountains?
America is too big. Too many mountain ranges. Too much fresh air.
Sometimes he wakes up and it's nighttime, and he's confused because he fell asleep the night before, but he feels well-rested and the fire has burnt out...did he sleep too long, or too short?
He doesn't know what day it is.
It grows colder, and this is why he'd rather be in California because it's too cold and he's cold and he has a thin jacket with holes in the armpits and boots that don't fit him; he has nothing else. He huddles by the fire at night; his backpack carries a water bottle, four boxes of matches, and a canned tuna salad that's starting to go bad, but he hates tuna and he's not that desperate.
He feels better when he sings to the birds. The closer he gets to civilization, the quieter they are. He listens to them and he learns that when there are zombies nearby, they go silent. He knows to run when they stop singing.
He learns to call back to them. It's a bit like talking. He pretends that they are asking him if he is okay when he falls and scrapes his knee or when he gets a headache and can't go into a medicine cabinet to find Advil, because there is no cabinet.
Sometimes he finds little houses in the forest. He stays in those until the birds go quiet and he knows that the monsters have caught his scent and he has to leave.
He cries when he leaves behind Jared.
He finds a new weapon, a baseball bat.
He is not okay.
He breaks into houses and in neighborhoods and he finds things of sentimental value to the people that had lived there before. He finds stuffed animals and neatly made beds and ming vases and roses that are wilted, and he even finds an engagement ring on the bedside table of a room that looks like it was meant for two. He sees blood and leaves - and always, always, he listens to the birds.
The birds leave him when it grows cold; they fly to a warmer place, and he gets scared because everything is silent and he cannot sit still - he doesn't know if the zombies are coming. His birdcalls come back empty.
He has a few close calls because he is used to listening to the birdcalls that are no longer there. He can't sleep in the silence.
He is running out of food. He can't sleep. He falls ill.
Everything is not okay.
There is another boy here now. He sees him occasionally. Brown hair, freckles, short - he is familiar. But he cannot place the boy. He does not want to place the boy.
The birds have left him, and he will die.
Except ever since that brown-haired boy arrived, there has been another bird. It was quiet, at first, but it calls back to him whenever he calls out to it. It makes him feel better when he wakes up and hears the silence. He wants to go look for it, but the brown-haired boy tells him that it's close, and that everything will be alright.
He thinks he is sick. Something is wrong. He loses time - hours; he blinks and there is no longer any sunlight. He eats food the brown-haired boy gives him. He doesn't know why the boy hasn't left him to die yet.
Still, he feels better that at least one bird chirps back when he calls. He feels as if he is safer. One bird is better than none.
One bird means he is safe.
Wilbur is exhausted. It's been four months since the apocalypse trapped him in America.
He sits on the steps of the school that they've taken over and stares at the gates, where the undead roam, sometimes banging on the gates and the walls that surround the highschool. Once, he would have flinched at the loud growls and metal against metal - but now he is numb about it. Sometimes he looks at the half-eaten and rotting faces to see if he recognizes anybody.
They got a lot of people out - him and Techno and Phil - but there were so many they lost. They have Dream and Sapnap and George and Skeppy and Badboyhalo and a6d, and Finn and Harvey and Niki and Fundy and Eret, and Purpled and Punz and Ponk - so many, many people he knows.
There are two that are missing.
He hears, rather than sees Phil sit next down to him.
"We're missing some more supplies," the older man says conversely. Wilbur nods, his eyes still scanning the zombies going up and down the roads. "Wilbur?"
"I heard you."
"And George and Dream were able to get a bit of electricity into the internet, and they were able to contact some people across the country. The remaining survivors."
Wilbur looks over at Phil. "What about - "
"No."
"You didn't even let me finish my sentence."
"I don't have to, mate," Phil says. "I know why you're sitting out here. It's going to destroy you."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not."
”I’m fine.”
Phil sighs. "Look, we need to find out who is sneaking in and stealing our food supplies," he says. "Someone is out there taking them, and it certainly ain't zombies."
"If they were someone we knew, they would have joined us," Wilbur mutters.
"I know," Phil says. "But they're survivors. We need to find them."
"How do you know they won't kill you on sight?" They'd had a few experiences with greedy people who had tried to kill them for their food and clean water. Techno and Dream had gone all cray-cray on them and scared them out of the city.
"We don't."
Wilbur sighs, standing up and stretching, and fixing the hair under his beanie, before he walks back into the school, taking one last look over his shoulder at the zombies banging at the gates.
Toby sits in the hotel room, watching Tommy sleep. He has a book of medicine he stole from a college on his lap, but he has no idea what is wrong. His friend has had a fever of a hundred and three, and it showed no sign of going down anytime soon - 'specially since it'd been a week.
When he'd first seen his friend, he'd been overjoyed and relieved that Tommy had been alive.
At second sight, he wondered how Tommy was even alive. Tommy hadn't even recognized him; his eyes had been, and still were, glazed over, almost a sky blue instead of their usual clarity. He woke up at random intervals and made weird bird calls, and then would tilt his head, waiting for a response that would never come.
The birds left with the leaves on the trees.
Tommy would get aggravated when they didn't respond, and would quickly go into survival mode, panicking and breathing hard and looking around, as if for enemies. Toby had no idea why the boy communicated with birds, but he didn't really blame his friend.
Toby had only been alone for a month, not four. He'd been separated from a stranger he'd met when they'd run into a horde of zombies - and hadn't seen the guy since. He was pretty sure Tommy had been alone all along.
He learned to sing like the birds to calm Tommy down. When the boy waited for a response, Toby would answer him. He got better over time, and Tommy would usually fall back asleep. He doesn't understand it, but he does it anyway. To help his friend.
He's stolen food and water and supplies from a nearby high school, in which he's sure are other survivors. He doesn't trust them. The last survivors he saw - besides Tommy and the stranger he met on the road - shot at him with a gun. Toby didn't like that. He avoids people now.
Toby has a bow that he found in a hunting shop - thank goodness for America - and Tommy has a baseball bat, but they don't have any other weapons. Not that Toby would be able to use them. He doesn't want to either.
Toby glances over at the stack of food in the corner of the room - or rather, the lack of food. He sighs. He needs to go get food again. He glances over at Tommy, who just fell asleep. He has a few hours before the blonde-haired boy wakes up again.
Most people would abandon dead weight in the middle of an apocalypse. Not Toby. And as much as Tommy cyberbullied him, it was all in good fun, and he knows the boy actually cared about him - about all of them. He knows Tommy would do the same.
Toby grabs his bow and pulls on his jacket. It's a warmer December day than most - but there is snow on the ground and there is a slight chill in the air - besides, the zombies have a less chance of biting his arm if he gets caught.
As he walks down the road with his bow in hand - there aren't any zombies, they mainly come out at night, and those that out usually dwell in dark alleys - he starts whistling.
Birdsongs.
The same ones he's copied back from Tommy. He's learned certain ones mean certain things. He's learned the ones that mean You am safe , the ones that mean All is clear , and even a few he's made up on his own. He's learned the ones that help Tommy go back to sleep.
He's making noise, but it's not anything that will draw monsters. They're not smart enough to know that birds aren't here during the winter. Besides, he's learned that he likes copying bird noises. He wishes that they were still here so he could learn more. It's a nice hobby in the middle of a global apocalypse.
He sees the gate that he has to pick to get to the storehouse in the high school. He hopes nobody saw the stuff he stole three days before, and that they haven't posted a guard. He takes out a broken paper clip and a toothpick and he picks the lock. He glances around, ducks through, and locks it again. As much as he doesn't want to be with the other survivors, he also doesn't want them to die from his mistakes.
He creeps into the warehouse, glancing around cautiously. Nobody in sight. No cameras. The warehouse is dark; they want to save the little electricity Toby knows they have.
Good. This is good.
Wilbur grabs Techno's arm as his friend prepares to jump down on the unsuspecting thief.
No, wait, he signs, Techno's eyes going down to his flashing fingers in the near-darkness. He's glad that he found the time boring enough to teach himself, Phil, and Techno sign language. It makes things far easier on 'missions'. Look at him
All I see is a nerd stealing our stuff , Techno signs back.
Wilbur rolls his eyes. No, like look at him.
So, what, he's as tall as Skeppy? Techno says, peering down at the brown-haired boy. Wilbur sees that there is a mask covering the lower half of his face; and a hat on his head; all he can see is the tuft of brown hair poking out as the boy grabs some canned food and shoves it into his backpack.
I think he's young. Wilbur knows innately that it's neither Tommy nor Tubbo - Tommy has blonde hair and Tubbo would never steal. But he's still a young kid.
Maybe he's just short, Techno signs. Wilbur shakes his head. Techno sighs. Fine, I won't hurt him. Much.
Wilbur grabs Techno's arm again. Wait. Let's follow him back.
WHAT? Why?
There might be others there! We've gotta help them!
And risk dying? No way!
What if Tommy is there?
Techno's head whips around and he glares at Wilbur. Tommy won't be there. Tommy would have been here with us if he was still alive.
You don't know that.
Yes, I do. But Techno huffs and keeps in place in his position on the rafters, and they wait 'till the brown-haired boy leaves before climbing down and falling after them. Wilbur watches as he unlocks the gate, locks it, and then closes it behind him.
"Wow, that was pretty nice of him," Techno whispers. "He's still a nerd though."
Wilbur rolls his eyes as they follow the boy down the streets, keeping a hand on his ax, which rests across his back. Techno has a sword, but he doesn't seem that nervous - then again, he's always been an arrogant bastard.
Wilbur ducks around a corner, Techno following him as the boy twirls around, his arms outstretched, nearly falling into a snowdrift but keeping his feet.
"What a casual," Techno whispers. "Imagine tripping over frozen water."
Wilbur isn't listening, not as he watches the boy close his eyes and stand still, the wind blowing through his hair. He stands at the bottom of a hotel, looking up at one of the windows - Wilbur doesn't know which one.
He nearly falls onto his face in surprise as honest-to-goodness bird noises - like a whistle, but higher in pitch. Wilbur tilts his head, and realizes that the boy is singing. To birds. That doesn't exist during the winter.
"That kid is batshit crazy," Techno mutters.
Wilbur moves to elbow him, but stops, as the boy turns one last time, his whistling quieting down as he glances once more around the square before opening the door to the hotel.
Wilbur runs after him. The mask as fallen down the kid's face, but he knows , he knows Tubbo when he sees him - and Techno is calling after him as Wilbur throws open the doors just in time to see the kid tearing up the stairs as fast as his legs can carry him, and Wilbur runs up after him - fifteen floors, in fact, and he's lost Techno, who has never been much for running in real life.
He looks down the hallway and he sees a door slam shut, and he runs towards it.
Why is Tubbo running? Why is he running from Wilbur ? Doesn't he know Wilbur?
Wilbur opens the door, and then drops to the floor as an arrow sails over the place where his head would be. "What the fuck , Tubbo?"
He looks up to see the boy with his bow out, brown eyes wide and trembling. "Wil - Wilbur?"
"Uh, yeah?" He gets up and brushes his clothes off from the dirt that was on the ground. "Why'd you shoot at me?"
"'Cause I thought you were gonna tryna kill us."
"...us?"
"Me and Tommy."
Wilbur's eyes focus on the pile of blankets on the only bed, and the boy that sleeps on them. The boy that is too pale, too thin, too weak. "Tubbo, what happened?"
The boy shrugs. "I dunno. I found him a week ago. He's...not okay, Wilbur." Tubbo's eyes fill with tears. "He's not okay."
He wakes up in a room that he doesn't recognize. The brown-haired boy isn't here anymore - is he dead?
Tommy looks out the window and sees that it's dark outside, that it's snowing, in fact. No more birds. No more birds. No more songs, no more calls - no more warning. He shivers as he sees movement beyond the fences. Monsters.
But they cannot get in.
He is safe. He is safe. He can't be caught.
The birds cannot warn him. He will be caught.
Tommy whimpers, looking around the room. It's a bedroom, but there is a bottle of pills on the nightstand and he can see his baseball bat in the corner of the room. A candle is flickering; he is sure he's never seen it there before. Or that he lit it. Perhaps the brown-haired boy did. He seems like a nice guy. Tommy trusts him.
He calls out, listening for the single bird that has been there for him for the past few...hours. Days. Weeks. He doesn't know.
He panics when he hears no answer. Calls again.
Nothing.
He's shaking, trying to calm himself. It's fine. He's fine. The candle flickers, and he sobs, covering his mouth. He feels hot and cold at the same time.
Everything is not okay.
The door bursts open, and Tommy flinches when he sees someone that is not the brown-haired boy there. Technically, the overgrown-tree-man has brown hair, and a yellow sweater, and black riding pants - wait -
"Wilbur?" he forces out, his throat sounding raspy.
"Are you okay, Tommy?"
He opens his mouth to answer - of course, he's fine - but he can't answer. He can't bring himself to make a noise. He feels warmth wrap around him, and he looks up to see Wilbur sitting by his bed and hugging him. "Everything is going to be okay, Tommy," his friend whispers. "You're going to be okay. You're safe."
But he isn't , the birds aren't responding. "They're not calling back," he says with a sniffle. "They aren't calling back."
"What?" Wilbur says after a moment.
His breaths come in irregular gasps. Wilbur doesn't know , doesn't understand . "The birds aren't chirping."
"Of course they aren't, it's winter," Wilbur says.
"They can't warn us," Tommy says numbly.
He hears movement, and he looks up to see a dirty-blonde-haired man with glasses in front of him. "You good, nerd?"
"...Technoblade?"
"Uh-huh." Techno looks at Wilbur. "What's with him?"
"I don't know," Wilbur replies. "He says stuff about birds and chirping and I don't know - " he sounds lost, and Tommy doesn't want him to feel lost.
"They call and when they're silent, the monsters come," he explains. Techno stares at him, and Wilbur doesn't look like he understands either. Tommy grows angry, before remembering that it was okay that they didn't know. They would learn. He blows a breath out of his mouth, clears his throat, and whistles like he heard the doves do.
He opens his eyes when he hears a response. There's a boy standing in the doorway - he knows him, now, doesn't understand why he didn't recognize him before. The boy calls back to him with a small smile on his face, repeating the song that Tommy had whistled.
"Tubbo," he croaks out.
"Tommy." Tubbo comes and sits on Tommy's other side. "You're going to be okay, alright? The birds don't have to help you anymore. We're here for you. We can be your birds. You're not alone."
Wilbur watches Tommy sleep from his chair in the corner of the room. Tubbo is fast asleep on the other bed, snoring softly.
Wilbur tries not to feel sorry for Tommy, who was alone all of the four months, and relied on the calls of the birds to tell him whether the zombies were coming. His fever had broken, luckily, thanks to Phil's emergency medicine.
"Wilbur?"
He looks up to see Techno hovering in the doorway. "Yeah?"
"He's not going to disappear before your eyes," his friend tells him. "You need to get some rest."
Wilbur shakes his head. "I - I need to watch him." Make sure he doesn't go crazy again . Make sure he's real.
Tommy was getting better. Tubbo had explained he'd found him wandering a week earlier with a fever and glazed-over eyes, and he hadn't recognized Tubbo.
He feels a hand on his shoulder.
"It's okay, Wilbur," Techno says softly. "They're both safe. We're going to get through this."
Wilbur stares at the two sixteen-year-olds on the bed - one of them will turn seventeen in a few days, he realizes numbly. "I - it's my fault, Techno," he says. "I should have looked for them, I shouldn't have left for this to happen."
Techno shakes his head. "You can't change the past, Wil. But you can change the future. They'll be here when you wake up. Phil's gonna kill me if I don't get you to eat something."
Wilbur snorts, but he follows Techno out of the room, glancing once more at the sleeping boys.
Tommy shifts in his sleep, and he whistles something under his breath, thrashing once.
Wilbur puts his mouth together and whistles a response. He smiles as he sees Tommy relax. Perhaps he can't sing like a bird. But he can whistle, and it helps. It helps him feel better knowing he can do something.
Everything will be okay.