Chapter Text
Wilbur grumbled obscenities as he shook his fist comically at the busted radio. He had found the thing nearly a year and a half ago. When he stumbled into an old abandoned police station, the radio had stuck out like a sore thumb. Sure, it was a standard black police radio, but half the wires were fried. He had taken the eyesore, which was covered in My Little Pony stickers, and fixed it as best as he could.
What do you know? Growing up in a mechanics shop was actually useful during an apocalypse. Ah, he should probably mention that. Currently, Wilbur was in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. He sighed as he tried to fix the newest problem his radio seemed to have an endless supply of. He didn't use the radio for much of anything, except to tune into other groups of survivors.
Stupidly enough, Wilbur lived in the city, his current base camp in some convenience store. Now, cities are basically death traps, with the vast amounts of undead flesh eaters. Even if unfortunately most of the supplies are in cities. His point is that groups of survivors often came to his humble abode. Obviously to try and retrieve supplies while simultaneously not dying. This is where his radio comes in.
He uses it to listen for survivors using the radios nearly everyone had. It was suicide not having a radio to be able to communicate with your group. It was also begging to be killed if you didn't have a group. Being alone may attract less attention, but one person can only take so much. The workload required to survive was ridiculous, one person alone couldn't handle that. Wilbur didn't really mind them coming for supplies.
He didn't really need the supplies since...well Wilbur is essentially a zombie. You know, strength, speed, enhanced senses, the urge to eat people. The whole shebang. But unlike most zombies, he also can form coherent thoughts. And that is something he simultaneously hates and prefers. Like he just hates the entire situation in general. Then again, he's pretty sure everyone else is in the same boat.
Did he want to be a mindless zombie that does nothing but eat people? No. Did he want to be a human fighting to survive in this apocalyptic world? No. Did he want to be an intelligent zombie who is actually aware? Absolutely not. But here he was. Wilbur just doesn't like the world. He cursed as one of the wires shocked his finger. Work you stupid piece of-
'-kay, how is everyone doing right now?'
Finally! Jeezus, you would think this radio would work after all the maintenance he does on it…
'This is Squad Feral, we see a supply of medical equipment in a nearby warehouse.'
So a group was in the city right now? Doesn't matter. However, Wilbur was so sure that all the medical supplies had been ruined or taken already. He knew this city like the back of his hand, and had been everywhere here. There was no medical supplies in the city unless you count-
'Does it look retrievable?'
'Yep! Should we have a look?'
'Yeah, those supplies are valuable.'
'Okay, we're heading in.'
Shit! They were talking about a warehouse near the left side of the city. He knows that warehouse, it looks safe from the outside...the inside however is just a giant hive of undead. The reason is because that warehouse once stocked medical supplies. Those supplies were supposed to be shipped to foreign countries. Because of the constant ships being loaded and offloaded, there were multiple abandoned ships in the warehouse.
Each ship had at least twenty undead just roaming around on the inside. Those zombies weren't quiet at all, constantly groaning loudly. But with the ocean nearby combined with the noises the ships make on that dock. Well, you couldn't hear the zombies on those ships at all. It's a literal deathtrap, there being at least eighty zombies camped out in that warehouse. That group of people were marching to their graves!
Wilbur bit his lip, screaming several choice words in his head. Wilbur was a zombie but with most mental capabilities. Therefore he had this annoying nuisance called empathy. He knows survivors wouldn't hesitate to kill or do experiments on him. Hence, why he avoids people and lives in a city full of zombies. That didn't mean he liked standing by and watching them get killed or worse, turned.
The world had become a strange place. Full of monsters, humans and anomilities.
Nearly every human had gained some sort of mutation or ability. The others became zombies. And then there is him. He actually had a mutation even though he is a zombie. It was strange. His ability is actually really unique. He hadn't yet seen someone else with this power. It was like the myth about sirens. He could sing and control other zombies, but he would be exhausted afterwards. He also had his zombie abilities.
He was faster than average, stronger and more flexible. Other zombies ignored his presence and he didn't really need to sleep or eat. He still liked to eat and sleep...it made him feel more human. When he activates his siren call, as he had dubbed it, his eyes would glow a dark blue. No pupil or anything. His entire eye would light up with ocean blue light. Wilbur, in his humble opinion, thinks he looks awesome when he activates his power.
Wilbur had never used his ability and actually succeeded in saving someone. He had tried, but usually zombies moved in large groups. Essentially, controlling over two hundred undead people is not as easy as it sounds. He usually gave the people he tried for a chance, but he couldn't put a full stop to a mob that big. He never left the city, so he hadn't ever encountered a smaller mob.
But he had improved over the last three years. He could control a huge mob of zombies for about five minutes, nearly six. Which was kinda impressive. He never really consistently practiced, but he tried. Just in case he could give a group of people a chance to escape. Wilbur was the only one with the information that could save these people's lives. Wilbur was the only one with an ability that could help these people.
Wilbur was only three miles away from that warehouse.
If he used his enhanced speed and senses, he could locate the group and get to them fast. Using his ability, he could stall the zombies for a few minutes. Enough time for those people to get out alive. Wilbur groaned loudly, grabbing his beat up guitar and backpack. He stuffed the crappy hunk of metal he called a radio in his bag, as he opened the door and bolted towards the target. He can't believe he is doing this. Again.
Gosh, why was he such a 'wear your heart on your sleeve' type of guy!? He could just ignore the situation entirely but no, here he was sprinting into a deadly situation for some strangers. Strangers that might survive and will most likely kill him. It's not that it's obvious he is dead, but does he really want to take that type of chance? Wilbur barely looked alive, not to mention the fact that his chest was unmoving.
It's pretty obvious that he isn't breathing. He only needs to breathe sometimes, and that's few and far inbetween. But he could force his heart to start beating and for his lungs to start breathing, but only for a few hours. Wilbur looked like a mixture of dead and alive, which is accurate. He had extremely pale skin, dark eye bags, greasy brown hair, brown eyes and of course the giant gaping hole in his abdomen. He just wore a yellow sweater over it, a brown trench coat over that, and a red beanie over his greasy hair.
He didn't look like a zombie if you ignored the hole in his stomach. Just like a human on their last legs. But the no pulse or need to breathe thing kinda gave him away, just a tad. Wilbur grunted as he accidently ran into another undead. Stupid brainless lumps of rotten fles-
The warehouse!
"God dammit! There's too many, ditch me! I'm slowing you guys down!" He heard the frustrated yell before he saw the people. He sucked in a sharp breath, as he saw a group of five people, trapped inside a small junkyard. There was no way to climb the walls, only a dumpster and some beat up tires. There was a group of fifty zombies banging on the fence, separating the people from their death. The guy who had yelled was injured.
Wilbur scanned the group over briefly, taking in each of their appearances. The first one had a machete drawn, made of silver and iron. He wore a bright green hoodie, brown sashes lined with pockets criss-crossed his chest. He had on dark grey cargo pants and some black combat boots. White smiley faces lined the boots, similar to the white mask the man wore. Because of the mask however, Wilbur couldn't tell much besides the fact his hair was sandy blond.
Standing next to Mr. Machete, was another man. He had chocolate brown hair, with a pair of white goggles with orange glass atop his head. His eyes were the same color as his hair, an assortment of freckles under each one. His button nose had no freckles, but was slightly red. A mushroom charm dangled from his left ear. His mouth was obscured by a blue scarf, patterned by cherry red triangles. He had on a short sleeve sky blue shirt, a white square outlined with cherry red in the middle.
He wore elbow length white fingerless gloves. His pants were in the same style as Mr. Machete, but white in color. He also had on black combat boots but detailed mushrooms painted the edges. There was another one, but he was obscured mostly by the horde and shadows. The next survivor was hispanic in descent, made clear by the several spanish words spilling from his mouth and the shape of his eyes. His hair was black and his eyes a dark brown. He had on a dark blue beanie, with a detailed symbol on the rim.
He had on a dark blue long sleeved jumper, with two white lines from collar to wrist. The jumper was left open to allow sight to a black tank top that stopped about mid-stomach. He had on light grey cargo pants and black combat boots, golden feathers decorating them. The thing that was most noticeable about him was the decent sized golden wings on his back. Wilbur glanced at the obscured member before finally resting his gaze on the last survivor.
The injured one had midnight black hair and tannish skin, although blemished and scarred. His bangs would be a hazard if not held back by a white strip of cloth. His eyes, which were round, were auburn but looked more orange then anything. Dotting his cheeks and button nose were freckles, although they glowed orange and yellow. His white shirt was short sleeved, with a pixelated version of a flame detailing it. There was a skin tight long sleeved black shirt under his t-shirt.
He wore black pants, seemingly made of some thick fabric and had an abundance of pockets. He had on black combat boots, with a custom paint job of some orange flames. From his waist, hung many belts with a variety of items attached to them. However, Wilbur's attention was drawn mostly to a giant gash, which was seeping his life liquid all over his left pant leg. That blood would draw in every undead in the area, for the love of prim-
Okay, calm down. Getting upset will only make the situation worse. Wilbur strained his ears to pick out how many undead were present or incoming. Two hundred in total were heading towards the group, and were only five minutes away. Right, this was not looking good. If he pushed himself he could use his power for maybe five minutes at most. Wilbur would need to get rid of the threat entirely for this to work.
Zombies are fast, he would know, he could control them to run a few miles all he wants. They'll run back just as quick. It was a problem he encountered every time he tries to help a group. This time though….he actually had an idea of how to prevent that. For this to work though, he's gonna need the survivors' help. He never had asked the survivors he tried to save for help. Maybe this group would actually survive.
But first, he needs to get into that junkyard without the zombies noticing. He set down his backpack near the crate he was hiding behind, not needing the extra weight. All he needs is his guitar. His gaze landed on a nearby crane...Wilbur adjusted his guitar case before starting up the ladder. He quickly scaled the useless machinery, sliding down the rope onto the suspended platform.
'Please, please, I don't want to break my guitar. Don't break my legs either but more importantly, not the guitar...'Kay here goes nothing.' Wilbur thought before taking quite literally a leap of faith. He bent his knees to absorb the impact, but he passed on going into a roll. His guitar case would get damaged. His knees and shins tingle a little from the landing, but he ignored it. He had had worse incidents then some tingling.
He swiftly jumped off the warehouse roof onto the lid of the dumpster in the junkyard. A semi loud bang ricocheted off the walls, drawing the attention of the group. The obvious leader of the survivors immediately points a machete at him. There was no way they realized he's a zombie yet, but survivors that were strangers still had no trust for the other. Wilbur was feeling a bit cynical right then and there, and so he was mouthier than usual.
"You dumbasses really didn't check the ships before you went for the loot?" He snarked, raising an eyebrow. He huffed, jumping off the lid to the floor, cautious with his guitar. He flicked his hair out of his face and sighed.
"Who...are you?" One of the group asked, a little off to the right of him. He glanced at the man, his mousy brown hair was stained with blood from a head injury. He wore a multi-colored hoodie with a spiral on it, a violet purple and neon green fabric that seemingly would look awful. This one however manages to pull it off. His hazel eyes glittered with uncertainty. His black cargo pants and scuffed combat boots were beat up but durable. More spirals were painted on his boots. He grinned and mockingly bowed to the group.
"Wilbur Soot, at your service, quite literally." He answered dramatically. He straightened, glancing at the horde of hungry undead on the opposite side of the fence.
"What do you want?" The leader demanded bitingly. Wilbur decided to ignore that question; there were more important matters to deal with. He had under two minutes to get these people on board with his plan.
"Looks like you got yourselves into quite the situation, and it's about to get a lot worse." He mused aloud, making note of the group tensing.
"Is that a threat?" The injured guy snarled defensively. Wilbur hummed absently.
"Quite the contrary. It's a fact. Y'see, enhanced hearing is a part of my mutation, therefore I can hear everything that goes on in this city. And there are about two hundred zombies heading this way." Wilbur didn't bother sugarcoating his words, there was a time and place for that. The group all sharply inhaled simultaneously.
He took note of how everyone glanced at the leader, who nodded subtly. A mind reader then, Wilbur smirked, how convenient. But the nod did not reassure the group, now that they knew his words to be true, genuine fear weighed on the group. Wilbur abruptly clapped his hands together to get their attention. They snapped their gazes at his person.
"And this is where I come in! Now, idiots, if you want to live you're gonna have to follow my plan! So, what do you say?" Wilbur offered cheerily.
"Why would you help us?" The winged survivor asked distrustingly. Wilbur rolled his eyes.
"It's called empathy, it's as simple as this, I don't want to watch you die. So I'm helping you stay alive, call it generosity. You in or not?" Wilbur retorted, dropping any playful pretenses from before. The group was silent, Wilbur grit his teeth together in frustration.
"Listen, you have a minute before those zombies get here, Mr. Mind Reader over there knows I'm telling the truth. So either decide in the next five seconds, or I'm gonna have to save your moronic asses by myself, which will most likely end in all of your deaths." Wilbur bit out in annoyance. The group, although still wary and a bit shocked he knew their leader was a mind reader, seemed to snap out of their funk.
"Okay, what's the plan?" The leader intoned seriously. Wilbur grinned, and put his hands behind his head.
"Luckily for you, I have a rather useful mutation, and I need you to cover the drawbacks for me. Simply put, I can control the undead by singing, which is what this-" He knocked on his guitar case, "-is for. I'm gonna have a time limit of five minutes to control all of those undead and lead them onto one of those boats." He held up five fingers, letting a finger drop one by one for emphasis.
"Your job is to get the boat in motion, jam the steering wheel, turn it on and get the hell off. Use whatever mutations you have to your advantage. If we do this right, two hundred undead that can't swim will forever be lost to sea. Stuck at the bottom of the ocean until the water decays their bodies." He finished the basic outline of his plan. He noticed the group seemed grudgingly impressed with him.
Whether it's because of his mutation or because of his plan, Wilbur didn't know or care.
"One more thing. Calico over there needs someone to stitch up that wound, because it's attracting every zombie in the city. Whoever does that can also defend him if things go wrong. Which means three of you are gonna have to do the boat, while I do the mind controlling. Got it?" He added tactically. The leader nodded to show his agreement, realizing that it was really the only option besides rolling over and dying.
"Okay Karl, you stay and bandage up Sapnap. Quackity, George, your with me for the boat. Uh Wilbur, you can go do your thing. We'll meet back here in five minutes." The leader instructed the group according to his plan. Wilbur grinned, putting up a cheeky thumbs up. Wilbur quickly swung his guitar case off his back, unlatching the lid before pulling out his guitar. Even though he had never succeeded in this song and dance, he always tried.
He waited for the undead that were incoming to get to the edge of the docks before he began to sing. He began to strum his guitar. He activated his power as the first verse came unbidden from his lips.
A broken heart is all that's left
The zombies began to slowly walk away, as Wilbur willed them to leave. The trio quickly vaulted over the fence, relieved to see the undead didn't even notice them.
I'm still fixing all the cracks
He gave the group a look, throwing his head to the left, obviously telling them to hurry up. The zombies started to stumble past the trio, walking farther away from the group.
Lost a couple of pieces when…
He focused his will into his words, his intent was really what powered his mutation. It's why he was always so exhausted after pulling a stunt like this. A zombie's will to eat a human was extremely strong, almost impossible to ignore. Even if he himself is proof that it's possible to resist.
I carried it, carried it, carried it home
He started to guide the undead onto the boat, letting the trio go towards the control room unnoticed. He made sure to keep the attention of the horde on what he wanted them to do.
I'm afraid of all I am
Wilbur let his will to protect those survivors coat his voice. The zombies continued to walk aboard the ship.
My mind feels like a foreign land
More and more zombies poured in, and Wilbur could feel the exhaustion begin to set in. But he continued to sing so that the group could complete the task. His voice echoed throughout the entire area. He was tired but he pushed on.
Silence ringing inside my head,
Please carry me, carry me, carry me home,
I spent all of the love I saved,
We were always a losing game,
Wilbur finds that if he is emotionally attached to the song, his power becomes stronger. He let a years old grief taint his words.
Small town boy in a big arcade,
I got addicted to a losing game,
Oooohhhh~ Oooohhhh~
Wilbur let his grief and devastation power his song. He had no items to remember his brother by, just a bittersweet symphony to get lost in.
All I know, All I know, Loving you is a losing game,
Do you love me, or love me not,
Peeling pieces from my heart,
And tomorrow's colored lense is gone,
Still I carried, I carry, I carry on,
Wilbur could feel how his power was draining him. He knew he would have to rest after this, he was exerting a lot of power.
Oooohhhh~ Oooohhhh~
All I know, All I know, Loving you is a losing game,
Oooohhhh~ Oooohhhh~
All I know, All I know, Loving you is a losing game,
Wilbur let his mutation course through him. He was exerting a lot of energy. But he refused to fail again, refused to watch another innocent person die. So he sang, and let his voice blanket the shipyard.
I don't need your games, game over,
Get me off this rollercoaster,
Wilbur just wanted to help people. He didn't want to be a monster. But he was a monster, and maybe monsters can be good.
Oooohhhh~ Oooohhhh~
All I know, All I know, Loving you is a losing game,
Wilbur put everything he had into his voice. Letting his willpower and emotion power his song like he never had before. He had been singing for well over four minutes, and the boat finally set sail into the ocean. He finished strong anyway, relieved to see the group returning to the junkyard.
Oooohhhh~ Oooohhhh~
All I know, All I know, Loving you is a losing game!
Wilbur felt all of his energy drain out of him as dark blue waves of light surrounded him. He finally let his mutation rest, letting darkness cloud his vision for only a moment. He stumbled and was about to right himself or at least use the wall for support. However, before he could, the leader was there supporting him. He embarrassingly slumped briefly against the man. Letting out an awkward cough, Wilbur steadied himself.
He looked at the now far away ship, satisfied to see that the undead that did jump, quickly sank. He let out a shaky breath as he turned and put his guitar back in its case. He shut it gently, closing the latches with a quiet click. He stood, slinging his guitar case onto his backside. He looked up, finally focusing on the survivors. He blinked as he took in their facial expressions. They...they looked grateful. He grinned softly, brushing his bangs out of his face.
"Well, guess I'll be off now." He lamented playfully, saluting jokingly. He noticed that their grateful expressions became a little sad, he could tell even the leader was sad, despite the mask.
"Yeah, your group is probably wondering where you are by now." The injured one, Sapnap, actually sounded faintly melancholic. He chuckled, shrugging half-heartedly.
"Highly doubt that people that don't exist can miss me, it'd be pretty pathetic of me to expect a reception back at my base." He replied nonchalantly, blowing a strand of his hair out of his face. Their slightly tilted downwards heads snapped up suddenly.
"Wait, you don't have a group?" George asked, completely shocked. Wilbur let an easy grin stretch his lips.
"Nope! I'm completely solo." He answered, puffing out his chest for dramatic effect. He held up a peace sign, just to be even more hilarious. He was expecting maybe a chuckle or smile, but the survivors were completely silent. Are they...concerned about him? He hadn't expected that to be honest. But it was clearly written in their faces and body language. He hadn't had someone be concerned about him for a long time.
He didn't know what to do.
"Doesn't that get...lonely?" Karl asked gently.
His smile became a little strained, Wilbur dropped it with a sigh. His shoulders slumped, exhaustion and loneliness making a heavy sky for Atlas to bare. He fiddled with the sleeve of his trench coat absently.
"I'll be okay, I always am. You don't have to worry your handsome heads over little old me." He reassured them quietly, not quite believing his own words. Resigned to his fate, Wilbur scaled the fence, landing crouched on the concrete. He turned his head to the side, grinning widely.
"Well, it was a pleasure meeting you guys. See ya never! Especially you Calico, never want to see your ugly mug again!" He ignored the slight crack in his voice, turning and walking away. He retrieved his discarded pack before heading towards the city. His steps were steady as he took his leave, his face now heartbreakingly sad. He was nearly out of the shipyard when he finally let his tears fall. He really missed people…
"Wait! Wilbur!" The leader called out loudly. He froze mid step. Bringing his hand up to wipe away his tears quickly, keeping the rest at bay. He turned around, a smirk gracing his face. The entire group was behind him, Sapnap being carried by the leader.
"Miss me already?" He teased, although it fell a little flat.
"Yeah, we did actually." George returned, looking like he meant it too. He chuckled, feeling more like he was gonna cry every second.
"Well, I have to get back to my rundown convenience store, so it sucks to suck~" Wilbur joked half heartedly.
"Come with us." Sapnap interrupted, staring him dead in the eye. His eyes widened in shock, his smirk dropping off his face.
"You don't mean that." He whispered, looking down at his feet.
"Wilbur, you saved our lives, without you we would have died! And...nobody deserves to be alone in the middle of this shitshow. Especially such a good person like you." The leader stated resolutely. Wilbur felt tears well in his eyes, and they cascaded down his cheeks without his permission too-
"Dammit, you can't just say things like that man!" He rebutted, trying desperately to wipe away his tears. If the wiping at his face didn't give away the fact he was crying, the loud sniffling sure did.
"We mean it, amigo, come with us." Quackity offered firmly. Wilbur wanted too, really wanted too. But if they found out what he was, he didn't want to think what would happen. He also didn't want to hurt them if the hunger ever consumed him. But...even only an hour spent with other people had made him so much happier. And he hadn't felt the hunger even a little around them. Maybe...maybe this could work.
'Come in, come in Squad Feral. Is everything alright, you haven't checked in yet?'
"Yeah, this is Squad Feral, we got into a pretty bad situation but are coming back with the supplies." Mr. Machete radioed back quickly.
'Okay, you can tell us what happened at base camp. Anything else you want to add, mate?' Quackity, the little shit that Wilbur had come to know, grabbed the radio out of Mr. Machete's hand.
"We've adopted a man and there's nothing you bitches can do to change that!"
"Wha-, I never agreed to this!"
"We don't recall asking, Wilby~" George sang.
"This is kidnapping! I'm getting kidnapped by a bunch of cheesy fucks with the same combat boot designs!" Wilbur yelled jokingly, a smile pulling at his lips.
"And now you're never getting rid of us!" Mr. Machete replied cheerily. Wilbur groaned in mock annoyance.
'...we'll talk when you get back.'
'Screw talking, the bitch is funny, let's keep him!'
'Big Man, you said a zombie was funny a week ago.'
'He smacked Tech-bitch. It was fucking funny!'
'I resent that statement, child.'
'Dammit, you chaotic little shits, let go of the radio before I craft a belt-' The feed abruptly cut off, but Wilbur was too busy laughing to care.
"Pfffttt, is...is that normal?" Wilbur queried in between guffaws.
"You're never getting rid of us." Sapnap chimed in sagely. Wilbur grinned.
"I guess it's futile to try then, I have no other choice." He mused, the double meaning behind his words registered immediately with Squad Feral. Karl actually pumped his fist into the air, grinning widely, before blushing as he realized what he just did.
"Aww is itsy bitsy Karl happy?" Wilbur asked in mirth, ignoring how flattered he felt about that reaction. Karl pouted and started to sulk.
"Hey, don't make fun of my beloved!" Sapnap joked protectively.
"Deep breaths, Calico. You know it's all love!" Wilbur teased, starting to feel pretty tired. He let out a yawn, covering his mouth.
"You tired, Wilbur?" Mr. Machete asked, letting some worry seep into his question. He was about to say that no, he wasn't tired, however his body had other plans. He stumbled, dimly aware someone had started supporting him. Half conscious he leaned into whoever had caught him.
"S'upid m'tation dr'wbacks…" He slurred, instinctively forcing his heart to start beating and for his lungs to begin breathing.
"It's okay Wilbur, you can sleep, we'll take care of you." Karl's hazy words barely registered in his head before he was out like a light.
Sleep sounds good right now.