Chapter Text
Two years had passed since the world fell apart.
Wilbur remembers it with startling clarity. He was young, just shy of his 14th birthday. (He still remembers the cake, red velvet with a thick frosting that had stuck to his fingers, he still had one of the candles tucked away in his backpack.)
It was that weekend that the news of the disease broke out. Something vile. Something that scientists didn't understand. (They assured us they'd find a cure. They never did.) Things went slowly from there. It wasn't like the movies- where everything would implode all at once. It was slower, a gentle crumbling of the world beneath your feet. Everyone's world ended differently. For some it was when the first wave of the disease struck, wiping out a third of the population of the northern hemisphere. For some, it was when the looting and riots began- or when global communications went dark.
Wilbur's world ended when his parents left his flat on a gurney, never to come back.
He'd been left alone after that, neighbors coming by to leave food by the door. His door had been marked with three X's. Two red, one yellow. Two dead, one diseased. Not that Wilbur was actually diseased, he never did get sick. But as far as anyone else was concerned, he was as good as dead.
Here he was, still undeniably alive.
He was shaking two bottles of spray paint; red and yellow. He marked a building with three bold X's. His emblem. Everyone had one now, a marker to show which buildings you'd claimed. It was better that way, with fewer scuffles over supplies and territory. First come, first serve. He doesn't know where it started, but all the survivors in his area abided by it. He hadn't met most of them but knew them by the symbols they left behind. Fortunately for him, the small roadside town he'd found was left unmarked, open for the taking.
My lucky day.
It was unbearably hot, as it always was nowadays. There hadn't been any rain in months, one of the side effects of the apocalypse it seems. Nobody really knows why any of it happened- the plague, the storms, the drought. Divine intervention maybe, if you believed in that sort of thing. Not that it matters. Everyone was fucked regardless.
After a long afternoon of wandering he finds himself outside a long neglected gas station, keening for something to drink. He'd run out of water over a day ago, and it was starting to take its toll. He can't recall a time his mouth had ever been so dry; tongue sticking to its roof like sandpaper. He marks the outside of one of the windows, the one facing the sunset. He only noticed that because of the way the orange glow reflected in the glass. It would've been pretty once- something to capture in a Polaroid. Now it just served as a reminder that night was falling and fast.
They're worse at night. Why? Nobody knows. Nobody knows anything anymore.
The front door is blocked off by some chairs, so he wanders along the edge of the building looking for a way in. Most of the windows are boarded up, blocking his view inside. Except for one- it's at an uncomfortable height, just barely at shoulder level, but it's missing several boards and is instead covered by some type of sheet. When he pushes on the sliding glass of the window it comes open, just wide enough for someone to climb through. After wandering the parking lot he finds a trash can that he pulls back towards the window, using it as a step stool to give himself the leverage to pull himself up. It's not his finest moment- mostly just him flailing his legs and huffing until he finally pushes himself through the threshold… but he does make it.
He carefully exits what he assumes to be some type of utility room, grasping at a baseball bat that served as his main source of protection these days. He rounds the corner to the main store, scanning the room quickly- Now really, after seeing how much trouble someone had gone through too fortify the place, Wilbur assumed that there must've been survivors there at some point. If that were the case then odds are there wouldn't be much left inside, so he didn't expect to find much (he'd be lying if he didn't say he was praying for some leftover soda). But deep down he knew nothing of value was likely to be left in a place so open.
So, he certainly hadn't expected to find a fucking child.
"Don't get any closer bitch-" The kid had shouted, frantically waving a pathetically small kitchen knife. He had crammed himself behind the register, pressed into a corner with his shoulders pulled up to his ears. He couldn't have been any older than 12, eyes wide and wild. He looked almost like a wild animal, face streaked with dirt.
"Jesus- okay relax." Wilbur took a few steps back, instinctively grasping his baseball bat with two hands. The kid flinched back harder, back slamming against the shelf behind him.
"Kid- I'm gonna need you to chill." Wilbur tries to push down the anxiety currently flaring in his chest at the sight of the kids jerky movements. He clutches his bat tighter, struggling to keep his hands steady. "You're not a bleeder are you?"
"Bleeder?" There was confusion, then a sharp recognition. " Sick - no, no I'm not-" he shakes his head frantically. "Honest! I haven't been near one of the dead fuckers in days. I've just been here, I swear." He swallows hard, gesturing with the knife again. "So you can just- just see yourself out. Thanks." He waves the knife in the direction of the door, still staring at Wilbur's bat with poorly concealed panic.
It's almost comical, the way he spoke with such bold resolve. Wilbur couldn't decide if the kid was ballsy or just plain stupid (probably a bit of both). It reminded Wilbur a bit of a raccoon, the way they'd chitter and bristle their fur when you'd catch them with a paw down your garbage can. He even had the dark circles under his eyes to match.
"Alright- alright." Wilbur lowers the bat, just barely. "Let's just- take it easy with the knife alright?"
"You take it easy, you're the one who barged into my house-"
"This is a gas station-"
" No shit ."
"Right." Wilbur quickly scans his eyes around the small space. The shelves are mostly picked clean, anything left was stuffed into the far corner of the station, next to a dirty sleeping bag and backpack. The whole place was littered in empty food wrappers and plastic bottles.
The kid wasn't lying, he'd been here awhile.
"You here by yourself?" Wilbur cocks an eyebrow. Kids are rare nowadays, a kid living by themself is just about unheard of.
"Does it matter?"
Wilbur considers this, he figures it doesn't. It's not like he can really do anything for this kid either way.
Still-
"What's your name?"
Wilbur extends the olive branch-
"Wouldn't you like to know bitch."
The kid lights it on fire.
"Okay rude." Wilbur crosses his arms, glaring down at the child, still torn on what to do. He chews at his lip, grimacing at the feeling of the dry skin. "I'm Wilbur, if you were wondering."
"Well Wilbur-" The kid says his name mockingly, like a schoolyard bully. "You look… crusty."
"You're one to talk." Wilbur knows the kid probably isn't wrong. Hell he feels crusty. But the kid looks downright decrepit. One shove and the little guy would damn well probably turn to dust.
"I am not crusty- I am so very cool and awesome." He juts his chin indignantly. Wilbur has to resist the urge to laugh.
"Sure thing child."
"I'm- I am not a fuckin- you're a child. You have a little baby name. Fuckin Wilbur-" That seems to have struck a nerve, because the kid starts rattling on in a nearly incomprehensible tirade. Wilburs head already hurts after a few minutes, and he's once again feeling tempted to just leave the kid there.
The slam on the front door snaps them both back to reality.
"Jesus-" Wilbur rears around, yanking up his bat, flinching when he feels a hand gripping his arm. Much to his surprise the kid has lurched towards Wilbur, pulling him back with wide eyes.
" Shut up-" he snaps, eyes trained on the door. He continues- much quieter. "They come every night. They'll keep going if you're quiet."
Another body slams against the glass, shaking the wall with a reverberating thump, thump thump.
"Please be quiet." The kid pleads. Something in Wilbur twists at the fear in his voice.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
"Alright-" Wilbur whispers now, crouching down behind the counter next to the child. The kid isn't focusing on him, instead peering over the edge of the counter with wide eyes, flinching barely at every thud against the door. Wilbur knows the feeling well, waiting up- praying they can't get to you.
The kids hands grip his small kitchen knife like a vice, his hands are shaking. Trembling with something more than fear. He's thin, and he's quivering like a leaf. The kid is starving.
Wilbur doesn't say anything, he can't really, not without scaring the kid further. Instead he quietly tugs his bag off, carefully tugging at the contents until he finds what he's looking for. The plastic wrapper of a chocolate bar crinkles as he pulls it open, extending it towards the boy, humming quietly to get his attention.
The kid stares at the chocolate like it's Christ himself descending from the heavens.
Take it , Wilbur nods, pushing it into his hands. The kids attention is pulled from the noise at the door and he sinks back to the floor, back sliding against the counter as he greedily pulls the chocolate from Wilburs grip. He takes a large bite, eyes closing in bliss as he hastily chews and swallows it down. The next two bites go like this, before he slows down, relaxing as he breaks it up in his hands, savoring small chunks.
Wilbur feels his chest grow warm. He can't quite discern why. He'd been saving that thing for a special occasion (What special occasions were there in an apocalypse anyways?) He sighs, sitting and leaning on the counter a foot or so away from the kid, giving him his space. He didn't notice the kid pulling a pen from his pocket, not until he was getting nudged and handed back a piece of chocolate wrapped in the aluminum paper. Wilbur looks at the kid, who just nods- go ahead.
Wilbur gratefully pops the chocolate in his mouth, having to chew a bit slowly to account for the lack of moisture. As he does he looks down at the wrapper, which has a single word scribbled down in red.
Tommy.
Wilbur grins, balling up the paper between his fingers and flicking it at the kid- Tommy. Who flicks him off. Wilbur flicks him off back- closest thing to a nice to meet you he could do at the moment.
The thumps outside continue for some time after that. It would stop after awhile, only for another to take its place. Wilbur sits hunched beneath the counter just an arms length away from Tommy for most of the night. He's not sure that either of them sleep. But there is something there...an underlying comfort. The terror in the tiny gas station is palpable, but atleast it is shared.