Chapter Text
It’s three in the morning and Wilbur Soot is running for his life. His breath comes out as sharp puffs in the October chill. The flashlights of his pursuers slash through the mist, looking for him. One of them reflects off the warped frame of his glasses. Shit. Wilbur ducks into a nearby subway system, vaulting over the ticket counter and running down the stairs as fast as his burning legs will take him.
Wilbur hasn’t been religious, not truly, since the world went to shit, but he still mumbles a quiet prayer to anyone up there, Please, please, it’s one train. I know you fuckers can manage that.
As he stumbles out onto the platform he sees it: two seconds left on the doors, but by whichever god answered he’ll take it. He runs, faster than he ever has in his life and leaps for the doors, feeling them pinch on his arm with the rest of him in the train. They release a second later and he doubles over in hysterical giggles. He’s free, he’s free! He’ll see sunlight again, and Phil, and Tommy. Tommy’s probably grown so much. The thought sobers him. The lights in the train car seem to dim. Wilbur stands up and looks around.
A pair of teenagers are openly staring at him, before going back to their own conversation when they notice him looking back. Wilbur waves at them. An old man slumps on a far seat, his hat pulled over his face. He could be sleeping or dead, both seem equally likely. Just in case, Wilbur settles himself in a seat next to the doors. Something soft brushes against his ankle. He recoils at first, thinking it’s a rat, but when it doesn’t pull away he bends down to look at it.
It’s a coat, a pretty nice one at that, a little ratty but nothing compared to the remains of the suit he’s wearing now. He pulls it on and marvels at how warm it feels. The coat’s a little broad at the shoulders, but otherwise fits well, soft leather that drapes to about his knee. There’s something in the pockets too: a little wad of cash and some ration stamps. The gods really were feeling kind today.
Wilbur settles back in his seat, and dreams of nothing in particular.
He wakes up to a man dressed in all white poking him awake. The man wears an almost manically chipper smile, and there’s a crate of milk by his feet. Wilbur tries to go back to sleep, but the man just somehow smiles even wider and says, “Good morning. I was thinking you’d never wake up. Can I interest you in any dairy products today?”.
Wilbur stares for a second, and clears the sleep from his throat. “Where are we?”
“The next stop is Bedrock, but you didn’t answer my question. Y’know, first customers get a bottle free.” The milkman says.
The bedrock district… There’s a safehouse there that Wilbur can use. He thanks the man next to him and stands up. By the time the train stops he’s already out the door.
Behind him, the milkman sighs. His smile drops. He takes off his cap, and pulls out the walkie talkie hidden beneath it.
“Remember Wilbur Soot? I think he’s still kicking. Brown hair, broken glasses, sorta scruffy look to him? Yeah he’s headed up towards Bedrock if you’re interested”. He pauses to listen as a burst of distorted speech spews from the walkie talkie. The milkman nods. His smile is back.
“I get that, but the milk thing is really taking off, and I’m not giving that up just to bust skulls again. Alright? Find someone else for it”. Another burst of distortion, this time louder. It sounds like someone is shouting into a karaoke microphone while skydiving. The dairyman blinks a few times before responding.
“Okay, fine, but you’re paying for my dry cleaning. Understand?”. With that, he resettles the walkie talkie under his hat and opens up a bottle of milk, taking a large swig and setting it back down in the crate. He looks mournfully at his starched white uniform. It isn’t going to stay that way for long.