Chapter Text
It had been a long day and all Quackity wanted- more than anything- was to find something. Something substantial to eat, some extra supplies to stock up upon, and maybe a moment of respite from this hellish world, that he still, somehow, is alive to see.
It always comes as a surprise to himself, when he wakes up in wherever he’d fallen asleep the previous couple of hours, to find that he hadn’t spur-of-the-moment blown his brain out instead. Back in highschool, when the hypothetical of, “What would you do if there was an apocalypse? ” had been thrown around his friend group, he was always quick to answer “Kill myself ”. The idea of dying by his own hands, before things could escalate, had always seemed more appealing than living through literal hell on earth.
And yet, almost six years after it had begun- where a virus had swept through the country and had turned helpless people into zombified versions of themselves- he is still trudging through empty streets; senses honed and a loaded gun in his hands.
Most tend to not refer to the living dead as “zombies ”, which he has always found odd. Because, at the end of the day, they fit the description perfectly.
Rotting flesh bags that wander aimlessly, and attack and eat anything with a heartbeat.
Then again, take away the “rotting flesh ” part, and Quackity knows a decent number of humans who fit that description too.
The most common name thrown around his “corpses ”, when discussing “zombies ”.
Quackity doesn’t really care what others call them, it’s not like there’s anyone around to correct him on it
He doesn’t have a home anymore. Actually, home is probably too nice of a word to describe the camp he used to share with a few other survivors. Until one of them turned on him, and he fled before they could kill him.
That was over a year ago, and now he wanders from building to building, base camp to base camp.
For the moment, Quackity was content with being on his own; the fewer people, the more there is for everyone to go around. And if it’s one man on his own? Well, everything he finds is his.
He doesn’t need anyone, anyways.
Nothing good comes from becoming attached to others, just trying to survive in a world where a horrendous death is inevitable.
And so, as the sun sets behind him, Quackity- a party of one- makes his way into a derelict office building, in the hopes of finding some sort of shelter for the night. Most buildings made of concrete are still in some moderate standing, on the outside. They’re often a deceiving shell, for an empty or unsafe inside; where one wrong footstep sends you plummeting however many floors you foolishly decide to climb.
But the one he has just set foot inside of seems decent enough to not crumble on top of him, as he sleeps.
Now, here’s something important to know- apocalypse rule number one;
The first floor is not safe. Ever.
Unless decently secured, it’s prone to break ins from any corpses that happened to be passing by, and either smelt you or heard your heartbeat.
So, after one quick sweep of every nook and cranny of the ground floor, he moves onto the second out of the three floors. There isn’t anything of use, aside from a first-aid kit he miraculously finds stashed away in a filing cabinet. It has a roll of bandages, some gauze, and some antibacterial wipes (which have definitely dried up by now); that he makes quick work of shoving into his backpack, before moving on.
The third floor is the exact same as the second, aside from its lack of a hidden first-aid kit. There’s a separate room, which Quackity assumes to have been the bosses office, with dead plants in the corner of the room, and a personal water cooler that has the plastic bottle missing; just like the one in the main offices.
He ventures into a side room, next to the separate office, to set up for the night; taking a few battered cushions off a dusty couch and using a tatty blanket he carries with him to make somewhere to sleep. It’s not the best, but it’s more comfortable than sleeping on the scratchy, dirty office carpet.
———
CRASH
A noise comes from the floor below him, causing him to shoot up from where he was previously sleeping. It’s silent for a couple of seconds, and then there’s a-
THUD
And a-
“FUCK!”
Finally followed by-
Silence.
Which is what worries Quackity the most.
Pushing himself off the floor, Quackity notes that the sun has already risen and is coming through the broken windows around him. And if there is something on the floor below him, it’s a miracle that they didn’t decide to venture another floor up, and find him sleeping there.
Either that, or they were attacked before they could make it up there.
Grabbing his backpack and shoving his blanket into it, he loads his gun and makes his way to the stairwell. Quackity scolds himself when he realises that he’d have to pass by the office, on his way back to the streets. He debates on making a beeline down the stairs, ignoring whatever was going on on the floor below.
But the very human shout puts him on edge.
If there is someone alive down there, they may need his help.
And if it’s simply just another corpse, then he’ll just put a bullet through it’s head and loot both bodies.
Gun in hand, Quackity creeps his way down the flight of stairs; avoiding the loose steps he’d made note of last night.
When he makes it to the door, he realises that the supposed walking has stopped. The only noise coming from inside being a slow, wet one.
Which can only mean one thing.
Turning the corner, Quackity can’t see the corpse so decides to step further into the room. He could just leave, he knows that. But the world would be better without corpses roaming around, so by taking this one out, he can at least ensure it won’t be able to hurt anyone else.
Plus, if there’s a dead person in there, they might have some useful stuff on them.
The slopping noise continues as he pushes further through the room, stalking around destroyed desks and cubicles, until he finally finds it.
There had definitely been a human, but they are no longer here; in a spiritual state, at least. Physically, their body lies on the itchy carpet of the office; skull bashed in and chest ripped open, with blood pooling out.
And above them, crouched on that same floor, is a corpse; gorging on their flesh.
It’s a sight Quackity has seen far too many times, and it still makes him sick.
He points his gun directly at the zombies head; taking a few more steps forwards, to get a better shot, when-
Creeeeak.
Shit.
The zombie's head whips around, and in a moment of panic, he doesn’t fire immediately at the being.
Their eyes lock and Quackity can’t help but be taken aback by how human the emotions it holds are. Chances are, whoever this being is, it hasn’t fully succumbed to their infection yet. It’s skin still holds some colour to it; marred with scars, but not fully sunken.
“I-” the being begins, panic seeming also setting in for it, as they stare down the barrel of Quackity’s gun, “Listen man, no need to shoot. I was just on my way out.”
It speaks far too intelligently and fluently.
This is highly unnerving.
Quackity doesn’t lower his gun.
The being rolls it’s eyes, “Before you think anything ill of me, this guy was an asshole.”
Upon seeing that the explanation isn’t going to affect Quackity, it tries a different approach, “Look,” it wipes it’s bloodied hands on it’s ratty jeans, before slowly beginning to stand, “I know-”
“Don’t. Move,” Quackity says harshly.
It looks surprised, holding up hands in defence, “Alright, fine. Floor it is,” sitting back down, legs crossed and back to the body, the being looks back to Quackity expectantly.
Furrowing his brows, Quackity asks, “What?”
“So, what’s the plan now?” It asks.
“Huh?”
The being fixes him with a look of confusion, and chuckles, “Well, seeing as you’re pointing a gun to my head, I assumed you’d be calling all the shots here. But it seems like you have no idea what you’re doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” he spits.
“Uh huh,” it nods, looking around the room, “So what now? You put a bullet through my head and then loot my corpse? Because, I might not actually mind that.”
Quackity falters, “What?”
The being also looks confused, before seemingly remembering what it just said, “Oh yeah. You can shoot me, if you want to. I mean, it would finally put an end to my sorry fucking excuse for a life.”
“You… want me to kill you?”
“If you’re offering, you might as well,” it shrugs.
And something in Quackity’s gut crawls.
He’s been around infected people before. They’re usually pretty lucid and perfectly fine for at least a day or two; making it easy to keep hidden, for a short period of time. Then they begin to descend into chaotic and incomprehensible ramblings. Their minds are the first to go, then their body begins to decay.
Skin shrinks.
Eyeballs pale and then fall out.
Muscles atrophy.
Until they’re nothing more than a walking shell of their former self- aimlessly wandering around the street, looking for their next unfortunate meal.
But this one, sitting on the floor in front of him, like it’s a pre-schooling in an assembly, is… weird.
It’s deathly pale, with noticeable areas on it’s face where the skin has become rotten, and has since been stitched back on. It’s eyeballs have a milky haze over them, but the deep brown of it’s irises bleeds through.
And the fact that it’s able to speak and answer questions, despite the fact that it’s physical appearance shows signs of decay, is completely backwards for the infection process.
“What are you?” Quackity asks.
“Don’t you mean, “Who” are you?” It corrects, “I’d rather people know my name first, before anything else. Names are important, they often get you somewhere in life.”
Quackity grumbles, “Fine . What’s your name?”
“Wilbur Soot,” he smiles, beginning to stand for what Quackity assumes is a handshake. But like hell he’s letting that thing anywhere near him.
“Ground, now!” He orders, watching as the be- Wilbur rolls his eyes and sits back down again; leaning and elbow on his knee and holding his head in his hands.
“And you?” he asks.
“I’m not giving it to you.”
Wilbur huffs, “Oh c’mon. Might as well know the name of the guy who’s gonna set me free from this world.”
“Fine,” he grumbles, “Quackity.”
“Quackity…?”
“Like you said, names are important,” he repeats Wilbur’s own words back to him, “And you’re not of any importance, so you don’t get to know.”
“Fine, stay mysterious,” he rolls his eyes as he leans back on his hands and looks around the room; posture more lax than before. “So… what now?”
Keeping his face as fixed as he can, Quackity looks past Wilbur to the body lying; observing it for anything noteworthy. However, that is a little difficult when there is a corpse blocking most of his view. But, from what he can see, the person had a backpack with them, and their jacket looks relatively not-hole ridden; unlike the one he has been wearing for the past year.
First though, he needs the corpse to move.
“Get up,” Quackity orders, gun still pointed towards him. He uses it to gesture to the back wall, “Go stand over there. No sudden movements, or I will shoot you.”
With a huff, Wilbur stands but keeps his hands held up as he makes his way across the room, “You say that, but I’ve already made it very clear that I’d have no qualms with you doing that to me, Quackity.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses.
Once Wilbur is against the wall, Quackity approaches the body and begins searching it. In the earlier years, he would have had second thoughts about looting another person's corpse; especially when their killer is standing just a few metres away. But that was five years ago, when supplies were still decent and moderately common to come by.
Now, he has no issue stealing from a dead guy, if it benefits his own survival.
Despite the blood soaked into it, Quackity still removes the person's jacket; taking off his own and slipping his arms into the sleeves. He can always wash it off, if he comes by a river any time soon. It’s a black bomber-style jacket, with an abundance of pockets; both inside and out. There’s a switchblade knife in one of the pockets, and a couple of loose bullets in another.
Score.
He empties the rest of the bullets from the person's gun, which had been thrown from their hand when they were knocked over, and shoves them into the pocket with the rest; he’ll sort them out later.
Inside the backpack, Quackity doesn’t find much. Aside from a few pieces of dirty bandages and a single bottle of half drunk water, this guy was worse off than he was.
“Shit,” he mutters to himself, tossing it across the room.
The movement seems to catch Wilbur’s attention, “Find anything good?”
“No,” Quackity answers, “And why would it matter to you, anyway?”
Wilbur only shrugs, and Quackity goes back to searching the body for anything else of use; ultimately coming up empty.
“Great,” he says, pushing himself up, “All this for nothing.”
“Hey man, I did, like, most of the work,” Wilbur protests, “The least you could do is thank me.”
“Like hell I’m doing that,” shrugging his backpack into his shoulder, he also picks up his old jacket and ties it around his waist. He’s not too sure what makes him do this, it’s a raggedy piece of fabric that serves him no purpose anymore. Then again, it’s the only thing he has managed to keep a hold of, since the world went to shit.
“I’m leaving now,” he states, looking the other directly in the eyes, “Do not follow me.”
“Awww why not?” Wilbur pushes himself off the wall, head tilted as he takes a small step forwards; almost as though he’s testing to see how Quackity will react. “Afraid of getting attached?”
“More like I don’t want to be eaten by some weird zombie,” he says.
Wilbur’s face screws up, “Don’t call me that.”
Interesting.
“What?” Quackity questions, now also cocking his head as a smile creeps onto his face, “You don’t like when I call you what you are?”
“Oh no, I’m fully aware of what I am, Quackity,” he admits, “It’s just that the term “zombie”, when used like that, is not something we’re too fond of.”
The explanation amuses Quackity, “You’ve got to be joking.”
“You think I’d lie about that?”
“Yes. Also, who is “we”? As far as I know, I haven’t seen another freak like you, out there,” he jeers, “So I highly doubt there’s anyone else who can corroborate your claims, Wilbur.”
There’s now a furious look on the other’s face, and Quackity gets a sinking feeling that maybe he shouldn’t have insulted something that could rip him limb from limb, without hesitation. Only a couple of feet away lies what could be him, if he isn’t careful.
“Anyway,” he begins, “I’m gonna go. Again, do not follow me. I will blow your brains out.”
And with that, he pulls open the door to the stairwell and begins his decent; eventually making it to the bottom and out of the building, undisturbed. Once out of the street, Quackity looks back up to the third floor windows, spotting the shadow of a figure staring at him from one of them.
Good to know Wilbur is still up there, and hadn’t followed him.
With one last look, and a quick survey of his surroundings, Quackity continues down the road.
The sun is high in the sky, suggesting that it is already noon; which is not ideal for his journey. It means that he has less sunlight hours to travel and find shelter, than he would have liked. Usually, Quackity wakes up as the sun begins to rise; quickly packing up his camp with little disturbance, before continuing on his way.
But, obviously, today a curveball was thrown in his way; taking away his precious and limited time to move.
Contrary to what pre-apocalypse media would have you believe, the corpses that roam around don’t only come out at night. In fact, there’s an equal chance of seeing one during the day as under the cover of nightfall. It’s just that it’s harder to see your surroundings at night, therefore it’s more dangerous to be exposed and moving around.
Which is why it’s always ideal to stay vigilant, and aware of your surroundi-
“So, I was thinking,” a voice from behind begins, causing Quackity to whips around and be, once again, met face-to-face with the corpse from before.
“Prime- What the fuck!?” He exclaims in a moment of panic, “What the hell, man? You can’t just sneak up on someone like that, I could have blown your brains out!”
“And I could have just as easily slammed you into the floor and done the same,” Wilbur speaks with a surprising amount of calm in his tone, for someone with a gun pointed at them- again. “But besides that-”
“I told you not to follow me,” Quackity butts in, “Just fuck off already.”
He flips the other off, turning away from him and continues forwards the way he was going. There are a couple of seconds where nothing moves except for himself… and then he hears an extra set of footsteps trailing him.
Great.
“Like I was saying before, I was thinking- I like this dynamic we’ve got going on, and I think it would be beneficial for us to stick together,” it doesn’t take long for Wilbur to catch up, now walking side by side with the other, as he does his best to keep his eyes forward and not to entertain him.
“And why would I want that?” Quackity asks, manoeuvring around several broken down cars that litter the road, “I’ve been doing fine, on my own so far.”
“Yeah, “so far ”", Wilbur echo’s, “But what about in the future? Having someone have your back- well, that could be of help to you.”
“It could,” he agrees, “But what else? Because I’m not sharing any of my supplies with you. So what else is there?”
“Well, you can keep your supplies. I don’t exactly have to eat or drink as often as you would,” with one hand he gestures to his face, “Y’know, corpses don’t really need that.”
“No, but when you do, I don’t want to be your next meal.”
From the corner of his eyes, he sees Wilbur shug, “And you won’t be. You have my word, Quackity- I won’t hurt you, for as long as I know you.”
“Yeah, like you’ll stick to that,” he rolls his eyes, “And what about you? What’s in it for you?”
“Company. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but other corpses aren’t exactly as-”
“Annoying?”
“-intelligent, as me,” he ignores Quackity’s comment, “And anyone else would have already shot me, by now.”
That’s probably true.
Why the fuck has Quackity still not shot this guy?
He pauses just before they cross a bridge to the other side of a river that cuts through the city. Mostly to check for any signs of decay, that could be detrimental and send the two of them plummeting into the water below. But also, because he’s mulling over Wilbur’s offer.
If Quackity wanted, he could simply just kill the corpse now and keep going as he has been.
Sure, having backup would be nice.
Someone to watch his back whilst he sleeps. Who doesn’t take up precious supplies that he has collected and fought for. And provides company to him, on his mission of aimless wandering.
But when that backup is a ticking time bomb, that could turn on him at any moment; is it really worth it?
Quackity feels Wilbur’s eyes on him, watching and waiting for an answer; not daring to move forwards without him.
“Okay,” he eventually decides upon, “You can come with me.”
“See! I knew you’d come to your senses.”
“But- If you show any signs of decay, on top of your current state. Then this,” he holds up his gun, “is putting a bullet through your sorry head, got it?”
Wilbur scoffs with a smile on his face, “Good luck trying to do that, when I’m slamming your head into the ground.”
“I’m being serious, man,” he fixes him with a hard stare, “I won’t hesitate. I’ve done things you can’t even imagine, just to stay alive. Killing you would be one of the easiest decisions I’ve ever made.”
“Alright alright, I get it,” he rolls his head back as he lazily turns his body towards the bridge, taking a tentative step onto it, “Now let's get going, I don’t want to waste any more daylight.”
Huffing, Quackity adjusts his shoulders and follows the other; holding in a chuckle when Wilbur trips and stumbles over a loose piece of concrete.