Chapter Text
Old worn out dress shoes dragged against the overgrown path, dust lightly kicking up as the form moved forward, nudging it's body forward in a lethargic manner. The sun was rising, meaning everyone needed to return indoors, for their safety. As the form was able to get up the steps, it squeezed past the small gap it'd previously left, and used it's shoulder to push the door back closed, as it had been at dusk. It dragged forward more, before feeling itself being stopped by something in it's path, a twin sized bed, with a blood stained yellow duvet on it.
Wilbur hadn't remembered the last time he slept, nor could he actually remember anything. Hell, he couldn't even form coherent thought, he was a corpse, so there isn't much to expect. Although, Wilbur unlike most of the others left in his village, could move more like a human, which allows him to lay down during the day. He liked to imagine he could feel the warmth of the duvet, that he could feel how soft it is. Zombie's skin is entirely numb, they have little to no blood circulation, and on top of that majority of their nerve endings stopped working once the infection started to spread. Thinking of this, he mindlessly reached his cold right hand to his first unhealed wound. It was his bite mark, as he touched it, only being able to indicate he had by the inability to push his hand further, he pulled his hand away; he was vaguely able to see flakes of dried blood on his mint toned fingertips. He closed his eyes, even if he couldn't feel anything, at all, he liked to believe pretending to sleep made him feel well rested when dusk came again. The calm quiet of the village would have been relaxing to any living creature, it was peaceful.
Patches of moss had made it's home in between and on nearly all cobblestone in the village, vines doing nearly the same, growing up the walls and inside of homes made primarily of the stone. The roofs on each wooden building was old, and weathered, splintering from years and years of no maintenance. Sections of logs were sun-bleached, and some parts of the ground and wooden walls still had arrows and blood splatter, some handprints of those believing they could climb up to escape. The history you could infer from one inspection of this village was amazing, with even the street lights, the ones that hadn't been broken, still in tact. All felt right in the moment, but Wilbur began to hear chatter. This cause his eyes to open with no hesitation, and he sat up, moving fast as to lot miss what may be happening.
A group of humans were coming closer and closer to their village. They were an odd bunch, especially with the Piglin standing beside a man in nearly all green. What seemed to be the youngest two of the bunch split off temporarily, heading towards the blacksmiths area of the village. Wilbur knew it'd be empty, the man who worked there before the villages abandonment had been able to make it out alive. His children not being as lucky, who had then perished in the sun years previous; they were why everyone knew to stay indoors during the day now. The man, the Piglin, and another man seemed to all split, beginning to search houses. Wilbur was standing up when he heard gurgling noises.
Peering out his window, he watched as another zombified villager was slain in a house diagonal from his. And for the first time, Wilbur felt something.