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White blankets the entire playground. It covers every outdoor surface, thick and cold. Inside the school, the children must cover themselves in thick coats to stave off the freezing air.
With no electricity since the apocalypse, there is no heating. It is becoming more and more of a problem as the kids age up. They had plenty of clothes for young children, but they hadn’t thought ahead enough to get winter clothes for teenagers and adults.
“We need to run for more clothes,” says Kyle, standing at the head of the council table. “The little clothes don’t fit anymore, and we need some for the big kids.” He isn’t wrong, of course, but the group had been sending out for supplies less and less since it got cold again.
Stan was once the leader of the missions, and he was excellent at his job. Now, though, he has been replaced by Clyde, who is still trying to gain his footing. It’s hard to take away a group’s leader and force them to obey a new one.
Clyde slides lower in his chair, cheeks running hot with embarrassment. They all know he isn’t very adept at hand to hand combat, or leaving the wall. He had only taken Stan’s place because he was the most qualified, but still only by a little bit.
“We’re also running low on canned soup,” Kyle continues, biting his lip. “But I know that Stan had already emptied most of the stores. We might have to travel outside of town soon.” They had always known it would come to this, and everyone around the base has been dreading it for years now.
South Park is a small town, not many people, and it is located out in the middle of nowhere. The nearest city is several miles away, too far to walk in such a short time in this weather.
“For now, we’ll put soup on the backburner, because we can still make food,” Kyle shoots Clyde a somewhat apologetic look. “But we’re going to need more blankets and clothes.”
“On it,” Clyde mumbles, staring at his lap. He hates leaving the base for any reason. He has never been very brave.
“I think that’s all, for now,” Kyle says, clapping his hands together. “Meeting adjourned.” The others nod, and everyone exits the room. He sighs, waiting until everyone else has left to leave as well.
Class is in session for the younger kids. They don’t do much beyond reading and writing, most of the time, but keeping their young minds active is as important as it has ever been, if not moreso.
Kyle walks towards the art classroom, hands stuffed into his coat pockets. He had long ago abandoned the elf robes. They are hanging in his closet.
The door to the art classroom is shut tight, and the window is covered. Kyle knows that this means Stan is working on something, so he knocks. There’s a soft shuffling sound before he hears Stan call for him to open it.
“Hey,” Kyle says, closing the door behind him gently. Stan is standing by an easel in the corner. He’s painting something that isn’t quite finished enough to be made out.
Stan still looks rough, nearly ten months after his accident. There are dark circles below his eyes, and part of his hair hadn’t ever grown back.
“Hey, Kyle,” Stan waves a little, hand covered in write paint. “How was the meeting?” Kyle shrugs and sits on the counter beside Stan. Pottery and paintings surround him, all made by the kids in the school.
“Alright,” Kyle replies, leaning against the window behind him. “How’s the painting?” Stan wrinkles his nose, and turns back to his easel. Now, Kyle can see that he is painting the landscape just outside the window. The art room is on the second floor, so they were able to leave it uncovered.
“It’s alright,” Stan settles on, swiping his finger over his nose. It leaves behind a streak of white paint. “I’m a little bored, if I’m honest.” He sighs and hobbles over to his wheelchair, leaning heavily on a crutch.
Stan’s right leg had been amputated several months before, just two months after his accident. It had been an adjustment, one Stan did not cope with well, but it had ultimately been worth it. The damage done had been too severe, and he would have been in more pain if they had left it the way it was.
He relies on his wheelchair a lot, but he has been getting better and better at walking with just a crutch.
He sits in his chair, hands folded in his lap.
“We’re sending out for new clothes soon,” Kyle says, absentmindedly. Stan hums.
“How is Clyde doing?”
“He seems… apprehensive,” Kyle decides, eyeing Stan. There had been an issue with Stan relinquishing control, despite being the one to suggest Clyde as his replacement. The source of Stan’s micromanagement had been a mix of depression and the fear of being forgotten, but it had made Clyde feel even less sure of himself. Though they have resolved the issue, Kyle still worries there will be another conflict. “But I think he can handle it.”
“So do I,” Stan agrees. “We didn’t get everything out of that one clothing store, and you can always look in houses.” Kyle nods. “When are they leaving?”
“Tomorrow, probably,” Kyle replies. “If Clyde is ready. It’s nearly dinner, are you coming with me?” Stan nods, pushing himself forward in his chair. He had become a lot less embarrassed about using it, which was a relief to Kyle. “I think they’re just making soup and bread again.”
The pair of them walk to the cafeteria together.
Clyde and a small group leave the next morning, just after breakfast. Kyle sends them off with an encouraging smile and a thumbs up. He’s aware it’s lame, but it makes Clyde look a little happier, and that’s what matters.
Kyle spends the day with Stan, painting and talking in the art room.
When the sun begins to go down, Kyle begins to get worried. Last time anyone was out later than they said they would be, it was Stan, and he very nearly died. It didn’t help that they still don’t know what had happened, what had attacked Stan, because he wouldn’t say. Anytime he thought about it too long, he would freeze up. They don’t know what to look out for.
“They’re back!” Shouts one of the guards on top of the wall. Kyle takes his hand away from his mouth, where he had been biting his nails.
The gate is opened, several guards pulling it with ropes. The door is heavy, made of thick wooden planks. It looks like a drawbridge you might see in a fairytale castle, but instead of falling down, it opened like a double door.
Clyde walks in carrying a bag of what is presumably clothing, and behind him is his group. Then, trailing just behind all of them, are two adults.
For a moment, Kyle can’t quite place them, as it’s been so long since he’s seen a familiar adult. But as they get closer, he is able to scrutinize their appearances. The woman has black hair, it’s tangled and messy, the man has a red beard and red hair, with gray speckled throughout.
They’re both covered in blood, scratches and scars cover their arms and faces where Kyle can see skin.
Then, he realizes why they look so familiar. They’re Wendy’s parents. Kyle gasps, hands coming up around his mouth.
They looked upset, and he knows why. When Stan had arrived, he hadn’t said much. One of the things Kyle was able to get from him, though, is that Wendy had died. He hadn’t said how, or explained anything that had led to his arrival, but Kyle knows that Wendy is dead.
He isn’t quite sure who else knows about Wendy, but he does know that everyone on the council knows. So Clyde knows, and has probably told them.
“Mr. and Mrs. Testaburger,” Kyle greets, anxiously sharing a look with Clyde.
“Kyle,” says Mr. Testaburger, and Kyle wonders how they recognized him, before realizing Clyde probably told them about him. Mrs. Testaburger is silent beside her husband, and Kyle can see tears on her face.
“Neither of you have been bitten?” Kyle asks, sliding his glance to Clyde for confirmation.
“We haven’t checked them, but we found them towards the outskirts of town. Surely they would have turned by now.” Clyde shrugs.
“Alright, well, you take whatever you’ve got to the supply closet, and we’ll sort them out,” Kyle shoos Clyde and gestures for the Testaburgers to follow him inside. “Someone will have to check you for bites.” He sounds apologetic, and he feels sorry for them. “It’s just the procedure.”
“We understand,” Mr. Testaburger says. He’s holding his wife’s hand. “We were wondering… well… Clyde told us-”
“Wendy’s gone?” Mrs. Testaburger finally asks. Kyle winces, but does not stop walking towards the nurse’s office.
“Uh,” Kyle glances over his shoulder at them. “Yeah, she’s not here.”
“Clyde said that she’s dead,” Mrs. Testaburger is crying, nearly hyperventilating.
“...she is,” Kyle replies. He hates this, but the infirmary is still so far away.
“What happened to her?” Mr. Testaburger asks, holding his wife in a sort of half hug as they keep walking.
“I couldn’t tell you,” Kyle answers. “Stan’s the only one who knows, and he won’t talk about it.” It isn’t entirely the truth, but all Kyle had gotten was rough and choppy pieces of the story from Stan when he was heavily drunk. None of it had been coherent, and in all honesty, Kyle isn’t even sure if what Stan had said was what actually happened.
“Could we talk to him?” Mr. Testaburger asks. Kyle isn’t sure how to respond, so he doesn’t. They keep walking, in silence now, and for that Kyle is grateful. They reach the infirmary a minute later, and as they walk in, Kyle grabs Mr. Testaburger by the arm.
“I’ll ask him, ok?” He says. Mr. Testaburger nods with a small, sad smile. Then they’re gone, disappearing into the infirmary with a couple guards on their tail.
Stan is in their shared room, a book open on his lap, when Kyle finds him. Despite it being both of their room, he knocks on the frame to alert Stan of his presence.
Stan doesn’t startle, and Kyle is sure that he had known Kyle was coming the second he entered the hallway. Stan is alert like that.
“What’s up, Kyle?” Stan puts the book on a desk, folding his hands in his lap and looking up at Kyle. “You look upset. Are you alright? Is Clyde alright?” There’s an underlying question there, implications Kyle doesn’t want to think about right now.
“I’m fine, so is Clyde,” he says, sitting on one of the desk chairs in the room. It’s a former classroom, and all the council members, save for a few, reside in it. Right now, though, it’s just the two of them. “They found some survivors.”
“That’s awesome!” Stan cheers. “Are they kids too, teens, adults?” His smile is slowly fading as Kyle doesn’t answer or seem excited. “Are they bitten? What’s wrong?”
“They’re Wendy’s parents,” Kyle says, looking at his lap instead of at Stan. He can hear Stan’s apprehension, his anxiety. He can sense the gears turning in Stan’s head, the dots he’s connecting. “They want to talk to you.”
“They’ll hate me,” Stan says, so quickly that Kyle is alarmed. “No, they can’t talk to me. They’ll hate me.” Kyle doesn’t know why, or how to help. He feels useless, and he wants to shake Stan and beg him to just tell Kyle what’s wrong. He’s watched Stan crumble before, so many times, but he’s never told why, or what’s wrong.
“I’m sure they won’t,” Kyle says, in place of everything he wants to shout.
“They will,” Stan says it with such conviction, though his voice still shakes.
“You could just tell me what to say, and I can tell them for you?” Kyle suggests. Stan shakes his head, dropping his chin towards his chest and squeezing his eyes shut. He’s near tears, Kyle can tell. “...they deserve to know.”
“I know that,” Stan snaps, but there’s no heat behind the words. “I know.” It’s quiet for another few minutes. “They’ll hate me.”
Kyle still doesn’t know what to say to that, so he sits and waits as Stan breaks into open sobs and pulls his one remaining knee to his chest.
“I think it could be good for you to get it off your chest,” Kyle says, gently. “You’ve been hiding it all away from us for so long, I think you need to let go.”
“I can’t,” Stan cries. His head whips up, face tearstained and trembling. He locks eyes with Kyle, pained and furious. “You don’t understand what I-” He swallows thickly, all conviction melting out of him like a broken dam. “What I had to do.”
“No, I don’t,” Kyle agrees. “I wasn’t there, and you won’t tell me. And that’s ok. It isn’t my business, or my demons. But… if you don’t want to tell me, tell them. They deserve to know what happened to their daughter.”
“...I’ll think about it,” Stan says, averting his gaze again. Kyle nods, sighing softly through his nose. He stands, and when Stan makes no move to follow him, he leaves.
Stan doesn’t leave their room the next morning. Kyle avoids the Testaburgers the whole day, keeping away from the cafeteria and anywhere else they might be.
He wants to give Stan space to think without running into Wendy’s parents. He hides in the meeting room, reading a book and staring out the window.
Then, when the sun begins to go down, he returns to his room. Stan is lying just where Kyle had left him, staring at the wall, a haunted look in his eyes.
“Are you ok, Stan?” Kyle asks after a moment of uncertainty, crouching in front of his friend. Stan’s head twitches in a way that Kyle assumes is a nod.
“I’ll talk to them,” he says, after his mouth finishes opening and closing like he doesn’t know what to say. Kyle is about to say something encouraging, but Stan continues. “In the art room, with the window uncovered, with guards supervising.” Kyle’s brow furrows. “I don’t know how they’ll- what they’ll do when I tell them. I want someone else there in case they get mad.”
“We can… that can be arranged,” Kyle settles on, climbing into his bed beside Stan. They are both quiet, but Kyle can see Stan’s shoulders shaking, and knows he is crying.
“There will be guards outside the door,” Kyle says. “It will be just the three of you in the room, but you will be supervised the whole time.” Mr. and Mrs. Testaburger both nod. They are clean now, dressed in clothes that are not ripped. “You will not touch him without his consent, nor will you yell at or threaten him.”
“We wouldn’t hurt him,” Mrs. Testaburger says. They reach the art room, where two guards are waiting already. Kyle bites his lip and glances at the door. The Testaburgers remember Stan fondly, he knows that, and he doesn’t think they would do anything to Stan.
“I believe you,” he nods, watching Stan through the glass window in the door. His friend is fidgeting with his hands, looking at the table. “This was all set up by Stan’s request.” Both of Wendy’s parents’ faces fall. “He’s had a really bad year, and he’s really… paranoid. That’s all.” It’s technically a lie, but Kyle doesn’t want them to feel bad. He opens the door, startling Stan, and lets them in. “You have half an hour.” The pair nods, but their eyes are fixed on Stan.
They take in his missing leg, the patch of hair that never grew back. He’s older than when they last saw him, and they are taking him in like their long lost son.
“Hello, Stan,” Mrs. Testaburger says, sitting across from him. She reaches her hand out, then stops, remembering what Kyle said. She settles on resting it in the center of the table, where Stan could reach for it if he wants. He doesn’t.
The three of them are all silent, none of them knowing quite how to proceed. Stan won’t look at them directly.
“What happened to you?” Mr. Testaburger asks, clearly in regards to his leg and head. Stan immediately begins to shake. “Never mind, never mind.” Mr. Testaburger quickly remedies, holding his hands out placatingly. “I’m sorry I asked.”
“It’s ok,” Stan whispers, holding his hands together to hide their shaking. It is ineffective, since the rest of him is still shaking. “I guess I should just- uh- Wendy.” He starts. He clears his throat a few times. “What do you- uh- what do you want to know?”
“Kyle and the others said that she… died,” Mr. Testaburger says. “They said that only you know what happened. Is that true?” Stan stares at the table, images of Wendy as a zombie flicking behind his eyes. Blood on his hands, his clothes, the grass.
“Yeah, that’s- that’s true,” his voice cracks. “I was… there.” He leaves out that he was the one to kill her, though he knows it will be relevant later. “Do you want the whole story or just…”
“Whatever you can tell us,” Mrs. Testaburger cuts in. “Everything you know.” Stan flinches. He knows all of it. He knows every bit of it because he was there.
“Well I guess I’ll start from…” he thinks for a moment, not sure how much they really want to hear. No one knows this story but him, and he’s quickly realizing that it’s his to tell. He can keep as much of it as he wants. “The beginning, maybe.” He takes a breath and scrubs his hands over his eyes.
All these years, he thought he was at least a little bit desensitized to all of it. He thought he was over it a little bit, but he isn’t.
“When everything… started… I went home," he begins. “My parents were already- uh- turned when I got there.” Against his will, tears are pooling in his waterline. “I had to- to- uh- they’re dead now.” The Testaburgers look at him sympathetically, and he notes the tears in their eyes too. “Wendy showed up at my house a bit after that… I think. I was asleep when she got there… she woke me up.”
He swallows, looking up at them for just a moment to gauge their reactions.
“She helped me bury them,” and it’s there that his voice really breaks. That the tears really come. He’s quiet as he cries, silent tears rolling down his face in fat little drops. Mrs. Testaburger looks pained, like she wants to reach out and wipe the tears off his face. She doesn’t. “We buried them in my backyard. My whole family. Mom, dad… sister.”
He clears his throat, shifts, and focuses on his hands. He focuses on the way they shake, and the feel of the table beneath them.
“Sorry,” he says. They don’t respond. “We were talking- about you guys, actually-” he doesn’t miss the way they both flinch, faces riddled with guilt. “Then, out of nowhere, a zombie pops up and…” they stare at him, fully locked into his story. “I tried to grab her, I did, but there wasn’t anything I could do.” Stan inhales sharply, aware that he’s getting close to breaking down completely, and wipes at his eyes. “I killed it but it had already bit her… she turned.” He sobs once, a gasping, choking inhale. “She begged me, she begged me to do it.”
Wendy’s parents look pained, and they’re both crying as well.
“I’m sorry,” Stan wails, looking them both dead in the face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to, but she begged me and I- I’m so sorry!”
He’s gasping and sobbing, choking on half breaths and something else entirely. In a flash of movement that he's hardly aware enough to notice, Mrs. Testaburger is out of her seat. Before Stan can even be afraid of her, she’s wrapping him in a tight hug. He buries his face in her shoulder, crying like a baby.
He needed this. He can feel her arms around him, and if he tries hard enough, he can pretend they’re his mother’s arms.
“I’m sorry,” he cries again, snot and tears wetting her shoulder and his face. She shushes him softly, one hand on his lower back, one hand pressing his head to her shoulder. He moves his arms, finally, to wrap around her as well.
It’s comforting, even as his mother and father’s mangled bodies flash in his mind. He feels safe, and it makes him realize that he hasn’t felt truly secure since the apocalypse started.
Here, wrapped in the arms of someone older and bigger, someone who is meant to protect, he feels like none of the monsters can reach him.
Vaguely, he hears the door open, and footsteps rush in, but he doesn’t really care.
“I’m sorry,” Stan says again, quieter this time. Mrs. Testaburger shushes him again, running her fingers through his hair. It’s nice. He wonders what he was so afraid of. He wonders why he thought they would be mad at him for what happened. He realizes, however distantly, that it’s because of how broken everything is. How the world crumbled around him, and he was the only thing left standing. Or, at least, it felt that way. “I buried her too. In my backyard, next to my mama.”
He is well aware of how much he sounds like a child, but he thinks that maybe, just for a few minutes, he deserves to act like a kid. Lord knows he didn’t get to be one the last few years.
Mrs. Testaburger says nothing, rocking the pair of them back and forth quietly. They’re in their own little world, for now.
It’s several minutes later when Stan finally pulls away. He lifts his head, sniffling and hiccuping. Mrs. Testaburger moves into his line of sight, as if to check if he’s ok.
“Sorry,” he mutters, wiping his eyes and glancing around the room. Mr. Testaburger hasn’t moved from his spot, and Kyle stands by the door that is once again closed. No guards in sight.
“Don’t be,” Mrs. Testaburger whispers, wiping underneath Stan’s eyes with her thumbs. “Thank you for telling us.” She says. “I’m sorry you had to relive all that, and I’m sorry you had to go through it in the first place. The world has been so unkind to you, all of you.” She tilts her head with a watery smile. “You’re so brave. So amazing. Thank you for… for saving her.”
“I didn’t,” Stan insists, vehemently. “I killed her.”
“She was turned,” Mr. Testaburger interjects. “You saved her by letting her go. Thank you.” Stan still wants to argue, but he doesn’t.
“Are you gonna stay here?” Stan asks. Mr. and Mrs. Testaburger share a glance.
“I don’t think so,” she says. “I think we need to go somewhere else. Somewhere away from here.” Stan wilts. “It’s just… too many memories.” Stan understands this, at least. “I’m sorry, Stan. We just can't stay here.”
“That’s ok,” Stan whispers. “I… I get it.” Her face softens.
“Let me give you something,” she pulls out her wallet. How she managed to hold onto something like that, Stan has no idea. From it she produces a photo. She hands it to Stan. It’s a school photo of Wendy.
Stan cradles it gingerly in his cupped palms, looking at the picture. Wendy stares back at him, smiling. Cruelly, his mind overlays the image of Wendy bleeding on the ground on top of the pristine photo of her from years ago.
“Thank you,” Stan breathes, lip wobbling. He has a picture of his family, but he didn’t have one of Wendy. “Thank you so much.” Mrs. Testaburger smiles and kisses Stan on the forehead.
“We’ll see you again, I’m sure,” she says. “But for now, I think this is goodbye.” Stan nods, and they leave.
He watches them go from the windows in the art room, Kyle by his side. Everything feels lighter suddenly, and Stan doesn’t feel like he’s being crushed anymore. He breathes, and thinks he’ll be alright.