Chapter Text
It started in July.
The heat made whatever it was spread fast, and if anyone saw it coming, they didn’t say shit in advance.
One day he’s coming home from work, sitting on his couch and turning on the TV, and the next there’s loud blaring in his ears and screams from outside. The newscaster on the tele is shouting something, stumbling over their words with an urgency you’d never expect from a well-paid white man in America.
Everyone’s watched apocalypse movies. Hell, sometimes he’d indulge the urge to watch the guts and gore, the sadness and anger that went with the end of the world as they know it.
And of course, as with any apocalypse, you never expect it to happen to you.
It’s spores, driven forwards by heat, multiplying by the millions and capturing any unfortunate enough to cross them. Mushrooms the size of a house have grown from the earth, and a mist of poison surrounds them, capturing and “turning” anyone who gets close.
Really, what happened to “turned” people was that they died. Their bodies were then taken over and controlled by the fungi, like some sick version of a puppet. He’s sure he’ll never get used to the way those things move. Their joints bend and twist in ways not possible for the living, stumbled walks of newborn calfs and jaws hanging wide. Their bite can’t turn people, thankfully, but it kills. And any dead thing is quick to get infected, forced to their feet and made to move in that horrible way, on to kill more and start it all over again.
He remembers being started by the newsman saying to keep away from morgues and hospitals. He learned quite quickly why, when he watched his friend open the door looking for supplies, only to be met with a hoard of the living dead.
That’s not even mentioning the hybrids who were turned. Sort of super-zombies, depending on their traits. People of all kinds, some with tusks, tails and horns, some who naturally stood taller, some who had inhuman strength thanks to their hybrid nature, turned into grotesque beasts on the search for blood.
No one really knows what the intentions of this fungus is. None of the “zombies” are eating what they kill, so it can’t really be food.
“Government-made, I’d bet. Some sort of fucked up population control.”
The cramped space and the cellar makes him cautious, but he spares a look to the man speaking. He’s older, eyes dulled and wrinkles that run deep in his face. Quackity notices, almost absentmindedly, how the mans laugh lines run deeper then the rest.
“Somethin’ must have gone wrong, in that case. It’s wiping everyone out, even the rich bastards with their ‘secure locations.’”
The other man is younger, but the years have been harsh on him. His wrinkles are deepest around his bros.
“Government don’t care. They want the strong.”
“Save your conspiracy stories old man. Since when hav’ the uppers cared about strength? Nah, there’s all snot-nosed trust funds at the top, no actual men.”
Quackity has to shove his face into his drink, turning away. He just knows that the next few hours of those men’s life will be spent arguing about what a “real man” is. He takes in the others, trying to scout out any other interesting conversations he could eavesdrop on.
There’s about twenty of them here, mostly men in their mid-to-late thirties. A few of them are younger, and he sees a couple feminine people in the mix, but the vast majority are men.
He notices that quite a few have hybrid traits scattered across their features. He even sees someone who looks to be a creeper hybrid of some kind, four legs and green splotches on their skin. They hiss at anyone who gets close to them and whatever they’re holding. If Quackity squints across the room, he can make out a wrestling mask, though maybe it’s his imagination.
This cellar is a drop point for government-issued supplies. Flyers had been tossed in the air a few weeks ago, advertising internet and food, maybe a few weapons. Apparently quite a few people had seen it.
The instructions written were to wait inside the cellar until someone knocks on the entrance, then come out signal file. After they’ve counted everyone there and made sure no one is infected, supplies will be passed out. Quackity really hopes to get some food. Or even better, some clean water.
Quite a few people wear or hold masks, himself included. It remains secured tight to his face even underground, obscuring the lower half of his face.
Not much is known about whatever this is, but inhaling it is definitely dangerous. Even if underground area had been labeled “safety zones”, he doesn’t trust it.
The bag on his back feels crushing, and he’s tempted to put it on the ground for a few minutes and take a break.
He really wishes he did when the alerting knock rings clear through the room, making everyone stand and get ready to file out.
He lingers behind, avoiding the unsurprising bickering that breaks out between several people. Those men from before seem to be buddy-buddy now, ganging up on one of the younger people in the group to skip their place in line. The poor kid looks terrified.
“Where are you going after this?”
Quackity nearly jumps out of his skin.
Someone stands next to him, the creeper hybrid from earlier. The man has re-fastened his mask, and from this close Quackity can see green freckles that sit underneath, along with the green mop on his head. Despite the bright color, the man is intimidating, his aura deadly.
“I dunno, man. Somewhere safe, hopefully. Just want to get some food first.”
The creeper nods. Quackity doesn’t tell him that he’s planning to head north, into California coasts, where the sea breeze made the spores lighter, and the vast amount of buildings made it easier to find shelter and supplies. He suspects that he’s not the only one with this plan, but honestly, it’s the only one he’s got.
“I’m meeting up with someone. Then we’re going to head east. Mid-land has a lower population, less bodies there.”
Quackity nods. He’d heard people murmuring similar sentiments about the east, where there’s more farmland then people.
“My name’s Sam, by the way.”
“Quackity.”
They shake hands. Quackity is starting to really, truly wish he could go back in time and set down his backpack for even a few minutes. He can feel the straps digging into his collarbones.
“Who’re you meeting?”
The other shifts slightly, and Quackity notices that what he’s clinging to is, in fact, a wrestling mask. Or at least, looks a hell of a lot like one.
“I guess you could call him my partner. That’s the best way to describe it.”
Quackity nods. Must be nice to have someone, throughout all of this. Having another person to be your rock, keep you sane as those you love die around you. He tells Sam as much.
The creeper looks sort of sad, nods slightly, before speaking.
“I don’t know. I feel like I’m going more insane, knowing he’s out there without me, that he could die and I’d be left behind on my own. I think if anything happens to him, it’ll be my last straw.”
Quackity chooses to remain silent.
As they finally reach the ladder that leads to the surface, being some of the last in line, commotion breaks out.
His hands still on the bars as a gunshot is heard, clear as day, then another. There’s a scream, loud and pained, then there’s a final gunshot, and it’s silent again. No one talks. The silent is worse then if everyone had broken out screaming.
“They must’ve found an infected.” Sam mutters behind him.
Quackity nods and takes a deep breath. He hadn’t seen anyone showing signs, but the feds had the best doctors out there. If anyone where to know the subtle symptoms, it’d be them. He continues up the ladder.
The hatch is open already, and he pulls himself up quickly, followed by Sam. The creeper hybrid stumbles slightly, his four legs awkwardly fumbling the climb, so Quackity helps him up and out of the way.
The first thing he recognizes is the scent of blood. It’s heavy and thick in the air, metallic scent that is very distinct.
The second thing he sees is the weapons the people are holding, and their complete body armor, with bold, white letters that say “FBI” on the front.
The third, and final thing he notices, is the bodies. The majority of the people that were in that bunker with him, the people who’d just come to get something to help themselves with, for food and water and medicine, are dead. There are no supplies here.
He runs.
He runs because Quackity has never been one for fighting, and the small handgun strapped to his side has never been touched throughout his years on this planet.
He runs because any sense of community has been replaced by self-preservation, though he does manage to scream a warning to the people below. He wonders if they ever heard it, but he’s not looking back to check.
He runs because Sam is running too, a few feet ahead of him already, an axe that had been shoved into his waistband drawn at the ready. As if it’ll do any good against bullets.
He follows Sam because he doesn’t know which way to go, and Sam lets him. They zig-zag across the far too open area, ducking bullets and listening as pounding footsteps get closer. His heartbeat is in his ears and he knows he won’t make it because he never runs, he wasn’t built for the apocalypse and his lungs fucking hurt-
Sam grips his hand and tugs him forwards and to the left harshly, then pulls Quackity onto his back. (It’s like riding a fuzzy horse, thoughts doesn’t have much time to process that as a bullet wizzes past his head.)
Sam stumbles over a hole and Quackity grips his shoulders tightly, trying to be encouraging as they sprint away.
All he really manages to say is a continual whisper of “thank you, thank you thank you,” and “I was going to die, you didn’t leave me behind, thank you.”
Eventually the footsteps behind them fade, and they’ve managed to make their way to a city. He gets off Sams back, noticing the slight stumble that’s been added to the creepers gait. He must’ve sprained his ankle.
“Thank you.” He says it again because he feels a need to, guilt driving him nuts.
Sam looks at him wearily, the pain in his leg already dragging him down.
“Yeah.”
They find a place to stay for the night, a basement of what used to be a bakery. Sadly the shelves have already been raided, and all Quackity finds left is rotting fruits and spoiled milk. He decides eating some of the loaf of bread he’s shoved in his pack is the better option for tonight. The last thing either of them need is to get sick.
Sam carries some bandages on him, and while it’s not the best work, they wrap up his foot. (Hove? Paw? Quackity isn’t sure. Whatever a creepers foot is called.)
They share the bread in Quackitys pack, and figure out a plan.
Turns out Sam’s meetup spot is near Quackity’s destination, so they’ll travel together. Sam warns him that the coasts aren’t as safe as he thinks, because the number of undead their will be significantly higher then anywhere east, not to mention the troupes that must be patrolling the streets for survivors.
“Why would the FBI be trying to kill survivors?”
Sam sighs deeply. They’re leaning against each other, the cool air of the night causing Quackity to shiver as they walk towards California.
“I dunno. I bet it’s the army, too. They probably have some idea in their heads that everyone’s infected, and they just need to wipe everyone out and hit restart.”
“How would they ‘restart’? Don’t you need people for that?”
“Maybe they already have people.”
The conversation ends, because really, it’s grim to discuss the mortality of mankind.
It takes a week to get to the meeting point, and Quackity’s running low on food. Sam has a few packets of that freeze-dried astronaut food (fuck knows how he got that) and gives him a couple, but it won’t last him more then a week.
He’s learned a lot about Sam over the past few days. His partners name is Ponk, and they’re somewhat-dating-somewhat not. Puppy love phase, he supposes. Ponk and him split to find resources, and that’s when Sam found a group heading towards the supply drop. He joined them to the location, though they didn’t really appreciate his company.
Before everything went to shit Sam worked as an architect, specifically for larger and more dangerous projects. Skyscrapers, towers, prisons. He had lived alone, but was planning to ask Ponk to move on with him soon. (“We’re not dating, he says.” Quackity watches Sams face flush slightly. “W-well, I mean, we never really said it to each other, or anything.” Quackity laughs at him.)
They wait for two days before Ponk finally shows his face. It’s a breath of relief for both of them really, because Quackity might’ve socked Sam in the face if he heard the man make up the worst possible scenario and play it out like some twisted story again.
Ponk is sort of shy, but he’s nice. They chat for a bit before Sam is ushered away, off on their travels. Before they go, Sam gives Quackity both their contacts.
“Big city buildings and military bases still have internet right now. I can’t guarantee we’ll reply, but if you want to join us in Iowa, you’re welcome.”
They wave and start walking off together. Quackity smiles when Ponk lances their fingers together. Despite what Sam had said before, it truly must be nice to have someone to call home.
Once they’re out of sight, Quackity starts making plans. First off, transportation. Sam had said he and Ponk would be looking for a car or something, and he should probably do the same. That might take a couple days though, so he should find a temporary shelter.
It’s not like there’s a lack of houses around, plenty of them are still standing, and any undead that had been here were picked off by the army or wandered farther in land to find living. He knows that most people here died during the initial attacks, so they probably couldn’t find any prey here.
It still nags his brain that they don’t eat who they kill. They seem to survive off sunlight, like a plant does, so why are they killing?
He shakes off the thoughts as he reaches a house that looks somewhat-safe. No creepy noises inside, no sign of broken in doors or windows. Maybe, if he’s really lucky, there’s a pantry.
Plus the sun is rising, so really any shelter would be better then none. They get more active during the daytime, faster, angrier. If plant-infested bodies can count as “angry.”
It’s probably been around a year since he was ripped from his comfortable life, since the world suddenly turned upside-down. It’s weird to think about, really. The first couple of months had been rough. The hot days of summer had made it hard to run, and everything happened so fast. He lost so many people during that time. Friends, family, strangers he attempted to team up with. It felt like anyone he met died.
So, Quackity vowed to go alone. Witnessing people around him rush into death again and again was going to kill him, if it continued to happen. That was proven especially true by the gaps in his memory, times that his brain deemed to traumatic to remember. He can imagine what happened, but he doesn’t think about it too much. The last thing he needs is a mental breakdown.
Despite this vow, he continued to help people he came across. Usually it was small, he had extra medical supplies so he shared with a man who had earned a grizzly gash across his arm. He gave some food to a couple who were making their way to a city and only needed a little more to go on. Small, but meaningful gestures. They were more for his own sake then others, a way to show himself that he was still human, that this was still real, and to give his somewhat-superstitious mind comfort.
“What goes around comes around.”
Good actions breed good karma.
Quackity just hopes that’ll be enough to survive.