Chapter Text
“Today is Tuesday, the twenty-seventh—-no, shit, my bad. It’s the twenty-eighth. Twenty-eighth. Sorry. Force of habit,” Wilbur clears his throat awkwardly. “It is 7:34 p.m. I think. It’s what my watch says, but who knows if that’s still right, yeah. I mean, what if one day all the clocks in the world stopped working for a split second and we were always a second behind? Whatever, Time’s a social construct anyway.” There’s a half-hearted chuckle, and a cough. “As of today, it has been three years since what I’ve dubbed ‘The End,’ began. You can expect low traffic everywhere, since there are literally no cars anymore. If ya find one that works, let me know ASAP.”
He edged forward in his chair. The folding table his recorder and radio and other equipment was set up on creaked as he leaned on it with one hand, the other gripping the mic. The view outside his cloudy window was the same as yesterday, and the day before that, and before that, and a week before that. And a month before that when he first moved in. An empty city with rusting cars that won’t work anymore, buildings with broken windows, bare sidewalks, all cracked with growing weeds. Even some vines were starting to line the walls now that there was no one to constantly trim them back. It was kind of beautiful, in that destructive, end of the world way. If the internet still existed someone would definitely make a pinterest board with some of the cities Wilbur has seen. “Most of the cars where I am have been scrapped to pieces, so you can probably just drive over them anyway. I don’t see any zombies out right now. I might go scavenge a bit, if I can make it back before sundown, but that seems unlikely. If you’re listening, feel free to come on by.”
He ran his fingers through his hair and stood, still holding the mic in his hand. He couldn’t walk very far while holding it though because of the cord attaching it to the radio, so instead he just paced in a tiny, two foot by two foot square. The wood was worn from his pacing already.
“The weather,” he hummed, glancing over his shoulder, “..is clear. I’d say there’s no chance of rain but I’m not exactly the world's best meteorologist. I’m not even a meteorologist at all. All I know is I can see the sky and there’s no clouds.”
There was silence in the room. Most of the time there is. The only sounds are the clicking of Wilbur’s shoes against the floorboards, his own voice echoing around him and bouncing off the walls.
“Well, time for your daily Wilbur update, yeah? I haven’t slept in days. There was a leak in the roof of my room from the storm the other day. Got all over my mattress. I thought I’d just wait for it to dry and manage sleeping on the floor for a few days, but it hasn’t dried. It’s still all damp and gross and smells like mildew. So I’ve gotta find a new mattress. But I’m fucking weak, yeah? I’ll admit that. I can’t lift shit. So…Guess I’m gonna have to move bedrooms. Maybe even buildings if the stench gets too bad. I can’t find any damn air freshener around here. Did someone take all of it? What the hell would anyone need air freshener for? Is there some great, life saving benefit from a can of air freshener I’m missing out on?”
He sighed, and flopped back down into his seat. For a moment he sat there in silence, spinning back and forth in the chair, trying to think of anything else to say. But…That was all he really had. Not much goes on in his life anymore.
“Well, guess I’ll go for now. This recorder’s old, and I don’t want it breaking on me. So, this is Wilbur, signing off. Seeya tomorrow, lads….Maybe.”
Wilbur set the mic down on the table and pushed himself to his feet. He stared at the radio for a moment quietly, waiting. For someone to say something. To tell him they were on his way.
It’s playing static, like it has been for the past month he’s had it. Nothing comes through, no songs, no voices, just irritating, lonely static.
Wilbur found it the day he discovered this hideaway. He’d been seeking somewhere high up that would also have a quick way to get out when he stumbled across the towering apartment complex nestled within the rundown city. Many of the rooms had been flooded with rain water, but he was lucky enough to find one on the very top floor that was still liveable. Other scavengers hadn’t even gotten to that much of it. That’s where he found the radio. It took a few hours and a torn in half manual pieced together with flimsy tape, but eventually he was able to set it up and begin broadcasting. He talked into it for hours, searching for a sign of someone else out there, but nothing ever came through.
Wilbur sighed and turned it off.
The summer sun was beginning to set, bleaching the city in an orange glow. The room was facing the west, so the sun was shining directly into his eyes. In a normal world, he’d be annoyed with heat on an evening like this. He’d close the blinds and crank on the air conditioner before flopping down in front of the TV and turning on his favorite show.
But it wasn’t. So instead he hovers in front of the window, chasing the fleeting warmth. As soon as the sun is gone the city will be cold again, like the sun never even existed. He’d scraped together a few blankets, but most of them were moth-eaten and ridden with dust and an unchangeable, old smell. Then it was just a matter of keeping himself from freezing to death until the sun was up again.
Wilbur sighed, looking down at the city. A shiver ran through him, the apartment already growing cold with the sinking sun.
With great effort, he shoved the table with his radio aside and forced the window open, just enough to where he could crawl out. The window had a metal balcony on a fire escape that lead down to the ground through several rusting staircases. The structure creaked loudly as he stepped onto it, and for a moment he froze, eyes flicking nervously around. It probably wasn’t the safest thing to be on, but nothing was really safe anymore, was it?
After a few seconds, when nothing comes scurrying out of the shadows in search of the noise, and the balcony doesn’t crumble under him, he slinks out the window. There was no wind today, just a humid, uncomfortable air that he could practically feel growing colder. He leaned against the railing and stared into the sun. His mom used to tell him not to do that, that he’d burn his eyes and go blind. He’d been doing this for weeks now, and his sight was still up to par. So either she was just trying to scare him, or she was an idiot. Knowing what he knows now, it’s probably both.
Wilbur sighed. He kinda wished he had a pack of smokes right now. He’d been trying to quit, but that was an apocalypse ago, surely he could indulge himself if it was the end of the world. He was going to die sooner or later, right? What’s worse? Dying of suffocation or being ripped apart by zombies?
A fleeting whisper of What if it was now? What if it was quick? floats past as he glances down.
…
He’d thought about it before. What’s the point? It’s a question he’d been asked so many times before and even asked himself once or twice a few years ago. But now he found himself asking it more than ever. What was left for him out there, in this decaying city of trash and rotten corpses? And oh, he’d been on the road for a while now. It wasn’t just this city, hell no, the whole world had fallen this way. It was all ruined. He hadn’t seen another human in a year, unless it was as he was running away from a person unlucky enough to be caught as soon as he found them. Maybe he was the unlucky one actually, staring the end of loneliness in the eyes only to watch it be torn apart. So why go? Why continue just barely getting by, struggling through hunger and sickness when it was eventually just going to end in him getting eaten alive? Or even dead? Why wait for that fate?
This building’s pretty high up.
Maybe it would be better to just…lean a bit forward….The street’s right there. No one would even miss-
tap
A tap.
clank
The sound of a metal crashing together rang out, stopping Wilbur where he stood. His eyes flickered up, catching it as a can rolled out of a large building. across the street
Wilbur inhaled sharply, breath catching painfully in his hoarse throat.
A tiny hand reached out of the darkness casted onto the concrete, fingers inching toward the can, before it pulled back. A shadow comes from the doorway as someone gets to their feet. And then they turn, hurrying away before Wilbur can even see what they look like.
A person.
Their movement wasn’t sluggish or limped, or even slow. Granted, not all dead are slow, but you can always tell if the person’s alive or not just because of how they move. The flash of a silhouette is quick and fleeting, but it’s there. He saw it. He knows he did this time. A figure ducking into a building just on the street below him.
A survivor.
Wilbur’s just about to call out when he thankfully has the sense to smack his hand over his mouth with a muffled squeak, crouching down behind the metal rungs of the balcony. Don’t be loud, they’ll hear you, dumbass. That’s just Apocalypse 101.
Wilbur scurried back through his window with his heart racing, the loud hammering ringing in his ears. While the rules of the apocalypse are mostly clear, there’s a few exceptions that Wilbur’s built. Don’t go out at night? Scratch that. If there is even a chanceof finding someone else to talk to other than yourself, take it.
Wilbur ran through his apartment, ignoring the harsh smell of mildew that came from his bedroom and rotting mattress, instead bolting for the door. He stumbled and barely avoided slamming face first into the wall before wrenching his backpack off the coat hooks by the door. There’s just a few necessities in there, like bandaids, medical alcohol, a few snacks, a bowl for rain water, a water bottle, a crank powered flashlight, and a pack of batteries. He also grabbed the metal bat lying next to the door. It’s the best weapon he’d found so far. Guns are loud and draw attention, crossbows are rare to come by, and he can’t even figure out how to work them. So his last resort is something blunt. He threw the bag over his shoulder and ran back to his office, tripping over the carpet in his panic with the bat firmly grasped in his hand.
Wilbur set the bat down and crouched in front of the window. He tugged on it so hard for a moment he thought the glass was going to shatter in his hands. With a creak it lifted, and he sighed in relief before sliding through, tugging his backpack when it got stuck on the windowpane. Once out, he managed to shimmy his shoulders back under and grab his bat. He scrambled out onto the fire escape and began running down the zigzagging staircase, hardly caring for how loud he was being with each clunking step. There is a person here. A real, living, breathing, alive, not-going-to-eat-him person! Maybe! Are they here because they heard his broadcast? Has it actually been worth it all this time?
The sun is almost gone when he makes it to the bottom of the stairs, crouching quickly behind a wall and into an alley, panting heavily. This is dangerous. This is stupid. But he doesn’t know what he’s going to do if there isn’t someone there. This is the most hope he’s had in years. He can feel it pounding in his heart, adrenaline coursing through every vein and fiber. He looked up hesitantly, watching as the last sliver of sun slipped away, shrouding the world in an eerie pale blue.
He can also feel it as the ever silent city grows even quieter.
It should be beautiful, the night sky. Ever since the lights went out, every single star now stands out in the sky, and sometimes when Wilbur closes his eyes, he swears he can hear them talking. The moon shines brightly in the sky, bathing the city in a ghostly light. It’s peaceful, it’s calm.
But it’s not. It’s horrid. It means danger.
A loud scream rang out from somewhere far off in the city. It was twisted and inhuman. The very sound coiled painfully in Wilbur’s chest, and for a single moment he was tempted to turn back and hide away in his apartment, abandoning the other survivor he’d seen before to keep himself safe.
But instead, he clenched the bat in his hands, and took a deep breath.
Wilbur rushed out of the alleyway, setting his mouth in a determined frown as he ran to where he saw the figure slink by. Puddles of old rain water splash against his legs, but the state of his clothes were the least of his concerns.
He ran up to the building across the street and quickly scrambled through a broken window, his boots clinking against shards of glass. As soon as he was in, darkness fell around him. Each loud and unsteady breath echoed around him where he sat, crouched on the floor of the abandoned building. As quietly as he could, Wilbur set his bat down and slid his bag off his back, slowly undoing the zipper. He paused for a moment, holding his breath. But still, the building was quiet. When he was sure nothing had heard him, he pulled the flashlight out of the bag, quickly cranking the handle.
With a loud whir, the flashlight lit the room in a pale, yellow light. Wilbur sighed with relief and zipped his backpack up, throwing it over his shoulder once again. He picked his bat up in his other hand and began walking forward, eyes glancing warily around.
As he walked through the old building, swaying his flashlight back and forth, keeping his eyes on every doorway and dark corner, he shakily cleared his throat.
“He--..Hello?” He quietly called out, holding his breath. His voice bounced off the cold walls back to him, his own words the only reply he heard.
He swallowed hard, pushing down the worry that sits coiled in his chest as he was met with silence.
“Hi uh—-my name is Wilbur. Please if you’re there, come out. I won’t hurt you. I just—-I just need to talk to another person again, man.”
There’s someone here. There has to be. He hopes—-he knows he saw them.
Wilbur continued walking when no one spoke back to him.
The minutes dragged on. The silence blanketed over his head was only growing, sinking grief building in his chest. The building is large, but there were still only four floors, and he’d searched all of them. Every room had been scoured, every dark and damp corner pored over, every desk and table overturned.
It was so dark, so abysmal. Everytime his flashlight ran out the darkness weighed on his eyes, like someone digging their thumbs into his sockets until finally he fumbled with his light and was able to crank it again. The flashlight was clenched so tightly in his hands he thought he heard the plastic snap at one point, the light flickering but thankfully staying on.
Even though every whispered plea was met with silence, he continued calling, begging to the empty rooms for someone until he no longer cared how loudly his voice echoed through the concrete cage of a building. He needed someone. Anyone. Hell, he’d take a dog at this point. But then the dog always dies a horrible death. He’s seen zombie movies before.
(They’d always seemed ridiculous to him, until he found himself in one.)
But there had to be someone here now. He needed to find them, to know he wasn’t alone. He needed someone to tell him he wasn’t finally losing his mind.
His throat was sore from the dust and his constant calling, shivers raking over his spine from the cold seeping into the walls with the sun now long gone. Something behind his eyes burned, but he was determined not to let it fall.
The building was empty. They’d gotten away. They’d left before he could meet them.
Either that, or they’d never existed.
Wilbur shuddered with a quiet sob before he could stop it, slapping his hand over his mouth as his eyes went wide. The flashlight clutched in his shaking fist fell with a loud clatter, stopping Wilbur’s heart. His breathing halted, and he froze entirely, standing stock still as the flashlight rolled around on the ground, casting its light onto the cracked stone walls.
He listened, eyes blown wide and his hand still clasped firmly over his mouth. He turned his head hesitantly, watching the darkness that lay all around him with bated breaths.
But nothing came. No growls echoed through the building. Nothing charged at him from the shadows. It was completely silent. He couldn’t even hear crickets chirping from where he stood.
Slowly, Wilbur bent down and fumbled around for his flashlight, never taking his eyes off the darkness surrounding him. Finally his hand clasped around the plastic and he yanked the flashlight against his chest, immediately shining it all around him in a wild circle.
Still it was peaceful. Everything was quiet save for the sound of his breath echoing through the empty building.
Wilbur quickly turned on his heel and headed for the stairs, ready to go back home with a sick feeling in his stomach and a storm cloud in his mind, turning his tears into raindrops.
Well, not home. Just to his house. His falling-apart-apartment. There was no home left for him, not for anyone. Not anymore.
Only a home for the bugs and the botany.