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The zombies won’t leave him and Wilbur alone. Wilbur’s worried that they’re going to run out of food, but Tommy’s worried they’re going to run out of pens.
Maybe he should be a bit more worried about the pounding against their barricaded doors, or the way the clock chimes every hour and Wilbur’s not home yet, but Tommy’s colorful pens are slowly running out of ink.
He’s had them since he was four, two years after the zombies took over. He’s surprised they’ve lasted this long, all the way to his eight whole years, and he’s even more surprised to have only lost a few during the long, grueling years of hiding from zombies.
Wilbur told him a few hours ago that he was heading out to get more food and maybe more bandaids, and when Tommy asked the seventeen year old to get him more pens, Wilbur had sighed tiredly and said he would look out for them.
It’s been 5 hours—2 more than Wilbur’s supposed to be out—and Tommy’s getting worried. He draws with his pens on the floor as a distraction, the lines shaking as his hands are. Wilbur made him memorize a step-by-step plan when he was 6 on what to do if Wilbur never came back, and Tommy’s scared he’s going to have to use it.
Thinking about Wilbur brings tears to his eyes, and he sits up from his stomach, a bad feeling in his stomach. Wilbur should be back by now, and the thought that he isn’t is scaring Tommy, to the extent where his hands get all sweaty like Wilbur’s does sometimes.
His drawing of butterflies and cows lays in front of him, and in a quick motion, Tommy draws him and Wilbur holding hands, the stick figures wearing bright smiles. Tommy goes to sign his and Wilbur’s names on it, almost writing Dad instead of Wilbur, stopping himself before he makes the mistake.
When he was four—two years into the zombie apocalypse, one and a half years after his and Wilbur’s parents died—and Wilbur was thirteen, Tommy had fucked up. It was after one daring trip into a supermarket, and Tommy had fallen, scraping his knee as they ran from zombies. They had turned the corner and were safe from the zombies, but Wilbur was still wary.
“Wilby,” Tommy whimpers, clutching his right knee. It hurts very, very badly and there’s red blood coming out of it. Wilby doesn’t listen to him, instead looking for the monsters, and Tommy doesn’t like being ignored. “Daddy!” Tommy cries, reaching out for his older brother, grabbing onto the pant leg of Wilby.
Wilby freezes in front of him, and the next thing Tommy knows, his arms are being pulled really hard and it hurts really bad. He cries again, “Daddy! Stop, it hurts!” One of Wilby’s hands grabs his chin and Tommy cries harder when he sees Wilby crying too.
“Don’t call me that,” Wilby says, the hand holding Tommy’s face pushing him away. Tommy falls to the ground and sobs even harder. Wilby stands up and leans over Tommy, looking like one of the monsters Wilby always tells him to run away from. “Don’t call me that!” Wilby shouts, spit flying out of his mouth and hitting Tommy’s face. Impossibly, Tommy cries harder.
“I’m sorry!” Tommy wails, “I’m sorry, Wilby!” Tommy tries to stand up and hug Wilby, but is two-hand shoved when he’s halfway standing.
“I’m not your dad! Dad’s dead!” Wilby sobs, crouching down and wiping his tears away. “I’m not your dad,” Wilby repeats quieter, and Tommy stands up again, this time allowed to hug Wilby. Later that night, Wilby kisses his Spider-man bandaids and says sorry. Tommy won’t make the mistake of calling Wilby Dad again.
Despite how much Tommy wants to claim Wilbur as his dad, he doesn’t want what happened that night to repeat itself. It won’t matter though, if Wilbur doesn’t return from his supply run, and Tommy’s left to fend for himself.
Tommy clenches the red ink pen in his hand, frustration rising in him. He just doesn’t know what to do! Does he go out—and break Wilbur’s rules in the meantime—to find his older brother or does he stay in the safehouse while Wilbur might be dying out there? He doesn’t know and it frustrates him.
He jams the red pen onto the paper, the flower petals that are meant to be nice and pretty coming out disjointed, edges jagged and rough. In his upset nature, he’s accidentally ruining the drawing more, causing more tears to spring to his eyes.
It’s not fucking fair that Wilbur can go out and kill zombies and be awesome but Tommy is stuck in their tiny apartment with no food, and no way of knowing if Wilbur is okay.
So he’s going to do something about it.
Tommy puts away his pens in the special case Wilbur gave him for his seventh birthday and places them on the table, same as his notepad. It’s due time for this to be the first time leaving the apartment by himself.
He tucks one of their knives into his waistband, grabbing a smaller one that fits his hands. Pulling a mask and gloves on—for no other reason than Wilbur does it and it looks cool—Tommy takes a deep breath, ready to venture into the unknown and into whatever mess Wilbur got himself in.
The lock clicks as he turns it, and it’s dead silence: no birds chirping, no footsteps echoing, no zombies growling, nothing. Tommy’s almost more scared of the silence than if he heard a hundred zombies piling down the apartment hallway.
It’s unnerving, but Tommy grew up in the apocalypse; he knows a thing or two about survival. He doesn’t even remember life before zombies, life before his parents died and Wilbur became his substitute guardian. So this should be a piece of cake, right? He knows how to navigate zombie hordes and when foods that say they’re expired are actually expired.
Tommy should be able to find Wilbur with no problem.
And get some new pens. That too.
Sneaking across the hallway is honestly kind of fun. Tommy likes pretending he’s in one of those spy books Wilbur would read to him. He also plainly likes listening to Wilbur’s voice dip for different characters and fluently saying big words Tommy doesn’t know yet, but he definitely won’t tell his older brother that. Tommy smiles at the thought; he’ll convince—read: puppy dog eyes—Wilbur to read him a book when they get back.
If they get back, he unwillingly thinks, smile faltering.
He exits the apartment complex, eyeing some papers that flutter in the wind past them. Wilbur told him to never be too suspicious, and to always listen to his gut feeling. Luckily, Tommy’s stomach isn’t hurting, so he should be okay for now.
Tommy ducks behind a car, taking cover from nothing but that’s another of Wilbur’s lessons: never stand in plain sight. Zombies could see him easily and try to eat him, or worse, other survivors could see him and kill him for supplies. Tommy does not want to fucking die!
He strokes a fake beard, wondering where he should start. He’s never seen anybody with a long beard before—other than Wilbur’s sad amount of stubble before shaving—but he imagines it’s like the hair on someone’s head. His and Wilbur’s top hair is all curly, so he thinks his would be curly. Tommy once saw someone with long, straight hair, and he spent a good while trying to think of what a straight beard would look like—hard especially since he doesn’t know what a curly one looks like.
Anyways, Wilbur did tell him he was scavenging for food, so maybe he went to one of the supermarkets. Tommy scrunches his nose. That doesn’t make sense; those were looted a long time ago.
With a gasp, Tommy remembers a conversation he had with Wilbur a week ago. They were traveling together, and they came across an old gas station that looked like it had a lot of food in it. Wilbur said that they would come back later, and loot it then, telling Tommy that they needed to get back home before dark. Tommy agreed and then promptly forgot about the conversation.
But there he goes! If Wilbur’s not at that gas station, he has no fucking—Wilbur told him to start practicing his cuss words more—clue where his older brother is going to be. Something Tommy inherited from Wilbur; or something he had to develop; is great navigation. Tommy can easily tell his way around the city streets, taking notice of landmarks like the abandoned movie theater or a big pile of crashed cars that probably collided during the initial apocalypse. The sun glints off the broken glass, and judging by the position of the sun, Tommy assumes it’s mid-afternoon. He thinks.
Which is good! Zombies tend to come out after dark, when it’s easier for them to see or some shit. Tommy doesn’t actually know why, but he does know that they’re rarely out during the day and are usually hiding in buildings. The downside to this is that other survivors are usually out, and they are typically more dangerous than actual zombies. At least zombies are stupid dipshits. That’s what Wilbur calls ‘em.
The inside of the gas station is dark; Tommy’s only really heard stories of what electricity was like from Wilbur. They’ve been using candles for light, and the gas station doesn’t have any. He creeps in, the left door hanging off its hinge, and the right one’s glass completely shattered. Like a super smart person, Tommy goes through the left side, not wanting to get impaled by fucking glass accidentally.
He unsheathes the knife, holding it in front of him like Wilbur had shown him for his fifth birthday. It saved his, and Wilbur’s, lives multiple times. His right hand shakes around the knife, and it’s fair, Tommy’s scared. He’s ultimately terrified that if he dismisses a shadow, it’ll turn out to be his doom.
A creak sounds from his left, over near the cash registers. Tommy’s facing the pop machines, and he turns at the sound, the aisles of food behind him. He crouches even more than he already was, avoiding piles of trash and random shit to walk quietly towards the noise.
He’s about to turn the corner of the registers when a hand grabs his shoulder, spinning him around. Another hand grabs the wrist holding the knife, and with a cry, Tommy’s forced to let the knife clatter onto the ground.
“What the f—” a hand clamps over Tommy’s mouth as he tries to call out, mouth filling with fabric from his mask. A childish hope that Wilbur will hear him and be his valiant prince on a horse coming to save his younger brother diminishes at the motion. His captor has their right hand over his mouth and left hand wrapped around his torso, not budging despite Tommy’s frantic movements to escape.
Hot breath goes into his right ear, and Tommy grimaces, not liking the way it feels on his skin. “Stop squirmin’,” a deep, monotone voice hisses. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
Tommy tries to scoff, movements limited by the hand. Like he’ll fucking believe that. Wilbur told him to never stop fighting, no matter what.
A bit louder, the voice grits out, “there are zombies nearby, you wanna die?”
What.
Stilling, Tommy tries to ignore the sick feeling growing in his stomach. Well, the sick feeling was already there and he tries to ignore it growing even larger. A few seconds after Tommy stops struggling, the person lets him go, and he falls, catching himself on his hands.
Tommy scrambles after his knife, grabbing it and brandishing it in front of him. He’s on his back, left arm supporting most of his weight, an awkward position he can already feel the burn of in his muscles.
The person sighs, stepping into the light from outside. They look kind of scary, if Tommy has to admit it. Although… kind of sick looking too. All geared up in a bunch of military clothes, a vest with a million pockets, and a belt holding what looks like ten different guns. Tommy’s so dead.
“I’m not gonna kill ya, kid.”
Maybe he’s not done for, actually.
Tommy scowls, mask hiding most of his features, but apparently the big guy can see everything based off of his rolling eyes. “How do I fuckin’ know that? Bitch.” That’ll show them.
The person rolls their eyes again, “‘Cause I don’t make a habit of killin’ kids. Plus, Phil’ll kill me if I did.”
Tommy lowers his knife, distrust in every movement. Standing up, he dramatically brushes off his clothing, removing dust that’s been there forever. He sheathes the knife and walks over to the guy.
Might as well get to the point, then. “Have you seen a tall motherfucker out here?” Tommy asks, looking the person up and down, “Tall as you?” The guy raises an eyebrow. “Brown hair, skinny, yellow sweater?” Tommy ponders for a moment. “Ugly?” Tommy smiles when the person laughs. This dude doesn’t seem so bad.
“Nah,” the man starts, “how old are you?”
Tommy blinks at the random question, squinting his eyes in suspicion. “Who’s asking?”
“Me? Who else?” Tommy watches as the guy visibly shakes something off. He’s not too sure what has this guy so bothered, to be frank. “If it helps, I’m 25. And my name’s Techno.”
Tommy scrunches his nose. “The fuck type of name is that? Anyways…” throwing a hand out, Tommy grins an award winning smile. “Name’s Tommy. I’m 8 years old, and I’ll fuck you up!”
Techno takes Tommy’s hand, shaking it gingerly. Tommy responds by yanking Techno’s hand up and down, grabbing it with both hands to yank it even harder.
“Alright,” Techno says, wiping his hand on his shirt. “Let’s go find this person of yours.”
“My brother!” Tommy informs, “He’s 16 and his name’s Wilbur.”
A weird expression flits over Techno’s face, “And you guys are alone?”
“Yep! Don’t know nobody else! Can you be our dad then?”
Techno looks sick all of the sudden, and they exit the gas station. After a few moments, Techno finally says, "no, I can't be your dad." Techno doesn't explain any further and Tommy deflates. They climb over a slab of rubble, and instinctively, Tommy grabs Techno’s hand, thinking of all the times grabbing Wilbur's, creating some sort of muscle memory. Techno jolts in surprise, but Tommy doesn’t let go, and Techno’s hand relaxes in his.
They pass by some unfamiliar buildings. “Are you alone?” Tommy asks, curiosity first and foremost of any stranger danger.
“Nope.” Techno pulls them through a building that had fallen into rubble. “I told’ya a guy named Phil would kill me if I hurt you.” Tommy did forget that. To be fair, he was very stressed. “And there’s a guy we found a few hours ago, he got attacked by some survivors.” Techno changes the subject, “We’ll be there soon.”
Tommy hums, “What if I can’t find Wilbur?” He has to find Wilbur.
“You’ll find Wilbur,” Techno reassures, “you’ll find him.”
They walk for a few more minutes in silence, until they come up on an unassuming door. Techno knocks three times, twice fast and once slow. A few locks click and the door opens, and blond man stands behind it with a smile on his face.
“Techno!” The man greets, arms coming to and wrapping Techno in a hug. Tommy remains silent when the man notices him, smile faltering slightly before picking up again. “And younger Techno.”
“He is not younger Techno, Phil.” Techno says gruffly, pulling on Tommy’s hand to lead him inside. The place looks like a normal house, at least as normal of a house there can be in the apocalypse. They’re in the kitchen right now, and Tommy can partially see a living room around the corner, stairs peeking out as well. “And I only left an hour ago.”
“Still,” Phil says, “You never know what could happen.” He gestures behind him, “Just look at our fellow back there, he’s fucked up.”
Tommy takes this moment to speak up. “D’ya know someone named Wilbur?”
Phil shakes his head, “Sorry mate. You can ask the guy in the guest bedroom. Last I knew he was resting, but he should be up now.”
Tommy lets go of Techno’s hand, ignoring Techno’s cry of protest. He takes the stairs two steps at a time, chest laboriously rising and down. He gives himself a moment to lean over and breathe, footsteps coming up the stairs behind him, before opening doors randomly, stopping when he sees a lump on one of the beds.
He marches into the room, brushing off Techno’s shouts to leave the person alone. Pulling back the covers, Tommy gasps.
It’s fucking Wilbur.
The fucker is blinking up at him tiredly before recognition comes to him. Tommy’s still in a state of shock when Wilbur shoots upwards, inadvertently pushing Tommy’s hands off of him.
“Tommy?!” Wilbur explains, mouth dropped open. At that moment, Techno and Phil burst into the room, Phil a shit ton calmer than his counterpart is. “You’re okay?” Wilbur breathes a sigh of relief. “You’re okay,” he repeats, pulling Tommy in for a hug.
Tommy recovers from his shock, pushing at Wilbur’s chest. “You fuckin’ left me!” Tommy accuses, shrieking when Wilbur doesn’t let go. His cries of outrage quickly shift to giggling when Wilbur attacks his stomach—-by tickling, of course. Wilbur’s tickles make him laugh a lot.
Wilbur lets him go and lays back down, grimacing. Tommy frowns, seeing some bandages under where his shirt rode up. “You’re hurt?” Wilbur nods, and Tommy whips around, eyes wide at Techno. “You said survivors attacked him?”
Phil answers for Techno. “Yep, fuckers ran off when Techno arrived though. Scary dude.”
Lip curling, Tommy says, “I’m not scared.” He’s scared.
“Of course not, Tommy,” Techno agrees, “Mind to introduce us? This is the first time he’s been awake since we saved him.”
“I did not need saving, you bitch,” Wilbur lies, like how a liar lies.
Thinking, Tommy taps his chin, “How did you not know it was Wilbur I was describing earlier? It was super accurate.”
Techno levels a look at him, exasperation in every feature. “One of three descriptions was ‘ugly.’” Phil snorts, covering his mouth with his hands. Wilbur glares at Tommy, who smiles sheepishly. “I don’t think that was a valid describin’ word.”
Tommy sniffs. He’s never wrong. “Okay, bitch.”
Phil looks at Wilbur, “You teach him those?” At Wilbur’s nod, Phil says, “He’s like, six, mate.”
Ignoring Tommy’s indignant “I’m eight”, Wilbur smiles proudly. “You wouldn’t want to kidnap a kid who was screaming swears at you, would you?”
“I almost left him,” Techno admits.
“Exactly.”
Phil shrugs. “Fair enough.”
Tommy struts over to Phil, latching onto the older man’s hand. “Will you be my dad?”
“Wha–?” Phil says, taken back at the sudden question, Wilbur and Techno having twin responses.
“Wilbur says he’s not my dad, and I want one. I also want new pens.”
Phil chuckles, loud and clear like he thinks Tommy’s question is a joke. It’s not a joke. “Sure, mate. I can be your dad. And we can get some pens.”
Tommy cheers, bouncing over to Wilbur and grabbing his hand happily. “Hear that Wil? We have a dad now!”
Wilbur smiles at him, and Tommy knows him well enough that it’s a fake smile. He’s going to ignore it right now, the overwhelming feelings of Phil’s impromptu adoption stirring up feelings Tommy hasn’t felt since Wilbur found a cake a few months ago.
“That’s right, Toms, you’ve got a dad now.”
And Tommy’s getting new pens, this day couldn’t get any better—other than the whole “Wilbur got stabbed by bitchy humans” scandal.
Tommy can’t wait to see what the rest of life entails.