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Yesterday.
There’s a man dying on Tommy’s couch.
Right now, Tommy’s not sure which of them are coated in more blood, and he doesn’t like the fact that that’s a comparison he has to think about. The good news is that none of it is his blood. The bad news is that all of it is the nearly-dead man’s blood, and that does not bode well for the continued survival of the poor fucker.
His breathing is labored. It fills Tommy’s living room with ragged gasps and exhales that sound like fuckin’ Darth Vader. The worst part to listen to, though, are the silent gaps in-between. When the guy stops breathing for seconds at a time, and Tommy finds himself holding his own breath too. Waiting. Somewhere between relief and terror.
And then another gasp. Tommy breathes out with him.
If Tommy was smart, he wouldn’t have a man bleeding out in his living room. Because, really, he should have left the guy out by the bushes in his front yard where he found him. Under the stains of crimson, there’s another shade of red–creeping up his veins, rusting him from the inside out–and that’s what Tommy should be worried about.
Because this man is not just bleeding to death on Tommy’s couch. This man is already dead, and he is going to bring Tommy with him.
Two months ago.
Wilbur calls it the end of the world first.
They’re sitting at the breakfast table, half-watching the news report that plays on the tv on the counter. Phil watches intently. Techno scrolls through his phone.
“It’s gonna be the end of the world,” Wilbur says. “I think a lot of people are gonna die from this.”
Tommy scoffs. “It’s not the fuckin’ walking dead. It’s just people getting sick.”
Techno doesn’t look up from his phone. “People getting real sick. I dunno. Wilbur’s right about that, I think.”
The radio uses the word apocalyptic two weeks later. Techno has this little handheld one that keeps a charge from a hand-crank on the back that he got at the height of his survival interest three years ago. He gives it to Tommy now, and tells him to keep it charged. To listen.
And Tommy still thinks everyone is overreacting. Or maybe he just wants them to be.
The tv keeps working for about another month. Their power goes out after that. People don’t answer the phone, and finally Phil stops bothering to call anyone. They won’t get answers either way.
Yesterday.
Tommy, of course, has learned to overreact now.
Overreacting means driving out to every city Wilbur can get to with their limited gas supply before it runs out or goes bad entirely, and stocking up on food and supplies that will keep in their basement-turned-bunker. It means always carrying a knife. It means Phil has a rifle, and in the city, Wilbur keeps an eye out for ammunition too.
It’s locking every door when he’s home alone and bolting shut every window, even if it means he’s stuffy and overheated most of the day. It’s setting up traps around their property, employing every memory he has of the Home Alone movies and Techno’s extensive collection of supplies. It means, on the third day of sitting by a hand-powered radio and still not hearing anything from any of his brothers, already preparing himself to imagine where he’s meant to go on his own.
Overreacting is not overreacting anymore. Now, it’s just being smart.
And Tommy has thrown all of that away and carried a nearly-dead man into his living room.
Listening to the rasp of his breathing, he feels sick. There isn’t a lot they know about the plague–the infection– whatever you want to call it, because there wasn’t a lot of time. Nobody knew anything, and by the time anyone did, there wasn’t really a way to get it out.
(Wilbur was right. Everyone’s dead, and the people who aren’t are the ones who will do anything to stay alive. The people like Wilbur and Techno who heard the first warning and were willing to bet it all on the worst possible outcome.)
Everyone’s dead, except for Tommy sitting with his arms over his knees on the carpet of his own living room, and a man who isn’t dead yet.
He doesn’t recognize the man. He’s spent long enough looking at him to be able to place it if he did – dark hair, long over his shoulders; round face, like he’s still young, but broken up by stubble and a scar over his cheek and nose that looks fresh, but not as fresh as the gaping wound in his stomach. He’s shorter than Tommy, which he figured out when he’d carried him inside, but bulkier. Muscular. Tommy might tower over him, but he thinks the only way he’d actually be able to beat this guy is from blood loss.
And the fact that, y’know, he’s unconscious right now. And grievously injured.
“Wilbur’s gonna be so pissed at me when he gets back,” Tommy tells him. “I’m supposed to keep the doors locked and windows bolted and not let anybody in. It’s a whole thing.”
Nothing changes. The dying man drags in another painful breath. Tommy exhales with him.
“I hope we don’t both die before they get back,” he says.
Two days ago.
He hears the scuffle before he sees any of them.
It’s sunset, orange light slanting in between the nailed-up boards on his windows. He can’t see much through them, can’t see much inside either, not unless he braves switching on the generator or risking a few lit candles. And he’s not entirely keen on burning the house down while the rest of his family is gone.
“We need somewhere to come back to,” Wilbur had told him. “Keep the doors locked and windows boarded.”
As if Tommy would’ve done anything else.
Outside, he hears a man’s voice shout. He hears someone else, and he hears a crack–a gunshot, maybe, or the explosive pop of one of his rigged traps. It sends him scurrying away from the light system he’s trying to rig in the basement, just so they have somewhere to grow plants indoors, and across the house to where Phil keeps the rifle. His socked feet slip on the floor, and he catches himself on the door with one hand. Steadies himself. Someone in his front yard yells again.
It isn’t his family.
His hands close around the gun. He hasn’t had to use it himself, but he knows how. They all do now.
It’s just a warning shot. He aims it through the cracks of the window at nothing in particular. He doesn’t let himself have the time to think about it, or to be afraid, or to worry that he might hit something. There isn’t time for it. He pulls the trigger.
The warning shot works, as far as he can tell. There are a few more shouts, the crunch of angry footsteps, and then — silence.
It’s all silent.
Tommy’s heart pounds in his chest. He lowers the rifle and realizes, belatedly, that his hands are shaking.
Whoever had been outside–scavengers, travelers, hunters; survivors, as dangerous as that makes them–they don’t come back. Tommy waits by the window long enough that his fingers stop trembling. He waits long enough that his knees go stiff and one foot falls asleep under him, but still he doesn’t dare to move. The sun dips lower in the sky. The light in his eyes turns red, dims, and disappears.
They don’t come back.
It stays quiet as night falls. Crickets take up their song, chirping loud enough to deafen, and as the moon comes up, Tommy finally cracks open the front door and peers out.
Yesterday.
The dead man wakes up around noon.
Tommy hears the change immediately. His breathing shifts, still labored but shorter now. He takes in a breath and hiccups halfway through, and it catches Tommy’s attention from all the way across the house.
At first, he thinks he’s dying. For real this time. And then he hears a sound like a soft whimper, and he realizes that it’s worse. That he’s conscious now.
“Oh, fuck,” Tommy says. The words spill out of his lips nearly unbidden as he rushes into the living room. The man’s eyes are open, dark grey and confused, and he’s got one hand braced against the blood-stained couch cushions. As if there’s some way he could lift himself up off of them.
“Do not sit up,” Tommy scolds. “Hey. Lie still. You’re gonna fuck up your bandages.”
The man goes still. His head falls back onto the pillow, and his eyelids flutter.
Tommy’s stomach sinks. “Wait. Wait, hey, stay awake. Look at me.”
Slowly, like he’s prying them open millimeter by painstaking millimeter, his eyes open again.
“There you go.” Tommy offers him a smile. He sits down on the floor by the couch again. “Hi. How are you feeling?”
Cracked lips part. In a hoarse whisper barely audible, he says, “Like shit.”
“Okay,” Tommy says. “Yeah, okay. That’s fair. You look like shit too, for what it’s worth.”
The man draws in a breath of air that could be a laugh. He winces along with it. “Fuck. Fuck.”
“Careful.” Tommy rolls forward onto his knees, halfway to standing. “I think you got stabbed, dude.”
With his eyes closed and the wince still drawn across his face, the man says, “I definitely got stabbed, dude.”
Tommy lets out his own almost-laugh. “You shouldn’t do that next time. Don’t get stabbed.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” He goes quiet again after that, eyes barely fluttering at all, and Tommy worries he’s fallen asleep again. He’s considering poking him in the face just to check, when the guy says, “You sick too?”
“Huh?” Tommy crouches back on his heels, settles back into the carpet. “No.”
And that makes the man’s eyes fly open. He turns his head–a little too sharp, Tommy can see it in a crease between his eyes–and he gapes at Tommy. “What? You don’t–you–you let me in–”
“Calm down,” Tommy scolds him again. “You’re gonna hurt yourself. Stop moving.”
It’s too late. The ragged breathing turns into a weak cough instead, grating and miserable. His mouth hangs open, like he can’t get any air in, and the sound he makes is nothing short of hellish. Tommy, helpless, reaches out. Grabs onto his arm, as if it’s going to do anything. For an awful second, Tommy thinks This is it. This is the way it happens. Never even gets the guy’s name.
But he doesn’t die. He drags in another strangled breath. His head tips back and his eyes fall shut.
“Fuck, dude,” Tommy gasps. “Jesus Christ. Are you okay?”
“I’m fucking dying,” the guy says. He cracks open his eyes again. Looks down at where Tommy’s hand still rests on his forearm, and his gaze stays there. Like he’s studying something about it Scrutinizing, almost. “Fuck. Kid–I’m fucking sick, kid.”
“Tommy,” he offers. He takes his hand away from rusting veins. “Not kid. Tommy.”
“Tommy. Shit.” Now it really looks like he’s fighting to keep his eyes open. “Sapnap.”
“Sapnap,” Tommy echoes. At least he knows his name.
“You’re a fucking idiot.”
Tommy makes an offended noise. “Okay, my fuckin’ bad for not letting you die in my yard. Goddamn. Talk about ungrateful.”
“You’re going to die.” Sapnap doesn’t bother to open his eyes at all now. His words are soft but frantic, like he’s trying to get them out as quickly as possible. “You’re–I’m sick. Tommy.”
“I’ve gathered.” Tommy says, “I’m not blind, man. I saw when I brought you in.”
He thinks, I made my peace already. Which is maybe true, or maybe it isn’t, but he’s decided to act like he has. If he pretends he knows what he’s doing, it might work out for him.
Sapnap drags in a laboured breath. He struggles getting it back out again. “Fuck.”
“Rest,” Tommy decides. “You’ll feel better if you get some sleep. My brothers will be home soon, and they’ll know better than me how to help. They’re really smart. Bet they’re already halfway to figuring out a cure, honestly. You’re gonna be just fine.”
Somewhere in the middle of the lies, Sapnap falls asleep. Tommy keeps making them anyway.
Two weeks ago.
People who want to survive have to want to survive on their own. Tommy learns this the day that Phil doesn’t come home from a supply run.
It was meant to be an easy one. A quick run to a town nearby, where most everyone’s already left anyway and most things have already been ransacked, but there’s a garden store and Tommy really wants that garden set up in their basement by winter. He’s nearly got the lights right – LEDs to introduce red and blue light, the closest he can get to sunlight in a basement – and he just needs some seeds and some pots. So Phil goes to look for them.
And he doesn’t come back.
And, really, maybe Tommy should’ve been expecting something like that. Maybe they all should’ve, because if you tempt fate enough, if you look at the world burning around you and say, I’m prepared and you can’t beat me, maybe it’s only inevitable that something fate is going to laugh back.
Phil doesn’t come back. So they sit at the table the next morning and decide how much they want to survive.
Yesterday.
Tommy learns about the plague from Sapnap. He’s tightlipped about what if feels like, exactly, as if it’s a weakness he can’t bear to admit, but Tommy can pick up enough based on the way he struggles to breathe. The way his eyes slip closed every couple minutes. The way he never stays awake longer than five or ten minutes.
Of course, Tommy’s sure blood loss plays a role in that as well. He can’t imagine getting stabbed helps with the whole horrific illness situation.
But he learns other things about it too.
“S’supposed to be real contagious,” Sapnap slurs with his eyes closed. He’s talking just for the sake of it. Just to stay awake. Tommy appreciates it. “S’why, uh, nobody wants someone sick to… be around. Dangerous.”
Tommy leans his head against the side of the couch. “How long does it take to catch?”
Sapnap hums. “Quick. Got mine in a couple hours.”
Tommy studies his veins. They’re still blue.
“Sticks around for awhile, though.” Sapnap's voice is quieter now, like he’s falling asleep. Fading out. “Slow. Takes awhile.”
And that–that makes something cold take root in Tommy’s chest. It’s not fear, exactly. Or dread. It’s something heavier, crawling up his throat and scratching at the back of his eyes. It’s an ache, somewhere deep, deep down. Somewhere deep enough that he feels it thick enough for the whole entire world.
The whole world is dying slowly. Rusting out in the rain.
“Tell me something nice,” Tommy says around a lump in his throat. He blinks hard. “This is–I think I know enough about the bad things now. Tell me something good instead.”
Sapnap doesn’t open his eyes. But his mouth turns up just slightly. “Okay. Their names are Karl and Quackity.”
Three days ago.
Techno and Wilbur left without him.
He isn’t sure which part stings more–that they’d left without him, or that they’d left without telling him. He would’ve climbed into the back of the truck and refused to get out if they’d told him, of course, which he knows is the reason they didn’t tell him.
But it stings.
Tommy is alive, two months into the apocalypse, because of Techno and Wilbur. And they leave him behind with a note that says, We’ll be home tonight. Even if we don’t find Phil, we’ll come back. Promise. Just stay home and stay safe.
Lock the doors. Bolt the windows.
He thought about chasing after them on foot. Running the whole way to the city and demanding they never ever fucking leave him again. He never wants to be alone. Even if it means being alive.
Outside, he screams. Doesn’t care if someone will hear him from nearby, doesn’t care who it draws in. He screams, and then he goes inside, and he works on his garden. He winds up his radio and sets it beside him. Every so often, he scans through every channel. Just in case.
That night, he stays up until the sun comes up. He sits outside with the door wide open.
Tommy is alive two months and three days into the apocalypse because of Techno and Wilbur. They don’t come back. And he’s still alive.
Last night.
“You shouldn’t have brought me in,” Sapnap says that night. He’s still on the couch. Tonight, Tommy convinced him to eat something besides watery soup, and it had gone well up until Sapnap lurched onto his side and vomited it all back up onto the living room carpet. And Tommy was so sure he was going to die in the middle of it. So he’s not going to try that again any time soon.
Sapnap needs to eat. But he needs to not die of throwing up too.
It’s a conundrum Tommy can’t solve tonight. He just sets his chin on arms looped around his knees. “You would’ve died outside. In my yard.”
Sapnap breathes like knuckles over a cheese grater. “Better than in your house.”
“I was gonna breathe near you either way.”
This time, he doesn’t answer. His eyes close, and his chest rises and falls, and Tommy watches. He does his best to not hold his breath.
And then he sees it. One tear, muddied with dirt and blood, traces a clean path down the side of his face. It turns the couch cushion dark in one tiny spot.
“Hey,” Tommy says, quietly. And then he doesn’t know what to say after. That it’s going to be okay? Tommy isn’t a good liar.
“I–” He cuts off with a tiny gasp. His voice is soft, a whisper. “I’m so tired of this. Sorry, kid. Sorry you have to watch this.”
“Don’t apologize to me. You’re the one dying,” Tommy points out.
“Yeah,” Sapnap whispers. “That’s the easy part.”
This morning.
Tommy winds up his radio. He sits down in the basement by his garden and he tunes through every station. It’s all static, but he tunes through everything again. Just in case.
He still hasn’t started rusting. He feels fine. He looks fine. Every hour, he studies his wrists under the LED light, and sometimes he stops and goes upstairs, where it is quiet, and he examines them in the sunlight too.
They haven’t changed.
Tommy, two months and four days into the apocalypse, is still alive.
Today.
Tommy is not someone who will do anything to stay alive.
He buries a dead man in his yard.