Chapter Text
The streets were empty, with no cars or people in sight—at least, no one who was still alive.
Suddenly, a camper van came speeding down the road, swerving around the figures stumbling across the street... if you could even call them people anymore.
Inside the van, several photographs were taped to the corner of the windshield.
The first showed a green-haired troll kneeling beside a German Shepherd, one arm wrapped around the dog's neck as they both looked toward the camera with bright smiles.
The second was an old family photo of five young brothers huddled together, all grinning at the camera. The oldest proudly held the youngest in his arms while he was still just a baby.
The last photo showed the same green-haired troll a few years younger, standing beside an older troll with light teal hair. She had one arm wrapped around him while they both smiled warmly at the camera.
"Come on... come on..." the troll behind the wheel muttered anxiously.
His phone sat in a dashboard mount as it continuously tried to call someone. At the same time, the van's radio crackled with the latest emergency broadcast.
"Good evening, listeners. I'm here with another update on the current situation spreading across the country. The military continues to do everything they can to contain what officials are calling a viral outbreak. The infection appears to cause extreme aggression and violent behavior."
The driver scoffed.
Yeah... right.
From what he had seen on the roads, this was far more than just a virus. Many of the people wandering the streets looked more dead than alive. Some were missing chunks of flesh, while others had injuries no one should have survived. Yet somehow... they kept walking.
"Authorities have also confirmed that the infection is primarily transmitted through bites from infected individuals. If you or someone else has been bitten, seek immediate medical attention and isolate the victim to prevent further spread." the man on the radio said as the driver wondered if medical help can help in this situation
"But for your own safety, avoid all infected individuals at all costs. If you are forced to confront one, authorities have confirmed that conventional injuries are largely ineffective. The only reliable way to stop them is by destroying the brain. Aim for the head. I hope this information helps anyone who is still alive."
The troll silently agreed.
He had already learned that lesson the hard way.
"And one more thing... I'm sorry, but I can't respond to everyone's calls asking me to check on friends or family. We're all trapped in the same nightmare. Now, here are the latest cities confirmed to have fallen..."
The driver listened carefully, his grip tightening on the steering wheel as city after city was named.
Please... don't say theirs.
A small wave of relief washed over him when none of the places where his brothers lived were mentioned. But relief wasn't enough.
He still had no idea if they were alive.
He glanced at his phone and pressed the call button again.
The screen displayed one name.
Floyd.
The ringtone echoed through the van.
No answer.
"Come on, Floyd..." he whispered.
Still nothing.
"...God damn it."
He lowered the phone with a frustrated sigh before turning onto a street he hadn't seen in five years.
One he knew by heart.
Home.
The camper van rolled to a stop in front of a familiar house.
John Dory climbed out, shutting the driver's door behind him.
As he slowly walked up the front path, his eyes immediately caught something scattered across the grass.
Small drops of blood.
His heart skipped a beat.
"...Please..."
He broke into a run toward the front door.
"Grandma!" he called as he threw open the front door.
The house was empty.
Furniture was scattered everywhere, chairs were knocked over, and objects lay broken across the floor as if a violent struggle had taken place.
"Grandma! Branch!" he called again as he stepped inside, scanning the living room while carefully examining the mess around him.
As he walked farther into the house, he heard the crunch of glass beneath his shoes.
He looked down to see a shattered picture frame.
Inside was a photograph of a young boy standing beside the same elderly troll from the picture in his van. She had one arm wrapped around him as they smiled happily at the camera in a park.
As he stared at the photo, something on the floor caught his eye.
His breath caught in his throat.
A trail of blood.
It stretched across the floor toward the kitchen.
John swallowed hard before taking an unsteady breath and following it.
The kitchen was in even worse condition. Cabinets hung open, dishes were shattered across the floor, and more furniture had been overturned.
The blood trail continued toward the back of the house.
His eyes slowly lifted to the back door.
It was slightly open.
John cautiously walked over before slowly pushing the door the rest of the way open.
Stepping onto the back porch, he looked over the backyard.
A small garden sat in one corner.
A brightly colored ball rested a few feet away in the grass.
The yard itself was eerily silent.
He carefully scanned the area before hearing a faint shuffling sound.
His head snapped forward.
There, kneeling with her back toward him, was his grandmother.
Relief flooded through him.
"Grandma..." he called cautiously as he slowly approached, reaching a hand toward her.
Then...
He heard it.
A low, guttural grunt.
It sounded less like a person...
...and more like a feral animal.
John immediately stopped.
His grandmother slowly turned her head toward him.
His heart nearly stopped.
A massive bite wound tore into the side of her neck, a huge chunk of flesh missing as dried blood covered her clothes.
Her once warm, caring eyes were gone.
In their place were cold...
lifeless...
milky eyes.
She slowly climbed to her feet.
For a brief second, they simply stared at one another.
Then she lunged.
"Grandma!"
John stumbled backward, trying to dodge her, but his foot caught the edge of the porch.
He crashed onto his back.
His grandmother landed on top of him, clawing wildly as she snapped her jaws toward his face.
John gritted his teeth, using every ounce of strength he had to keep her mouth away from him.
"John Dory!"
His eyes darted toward the voice.
Standing in the open back doorway was his ten-year-old brother.
Branch.
The young troll stared at the horrifying scene with wide, terrified eyes.
"Branch! Get back inside the house, now!" John shouted as he struggled against their grandmother, desperately trying to keep her from biting him.
He prayed her attention stayed on him.
If she noticed Branch...
She would go after him next.
Branch stood frozen.
His entire body trembled as he watched John wrestle with their grandmother while she continued trying to bite him.
"S-Something... something's wrong with Grandma..." he stammered, unable to tear his eyes away.
He wanted to move.
He wanted to run.
But fear had rooted him to the spot.
Seeing that Branch was too frightened to move, John planted one foot beneath his grandmother's body.
With one desperate burst of strength, he kicked her off him.
She rolled across the porch with a snarl.
John scrambled to his feet, sprinted toward Branch, and grabbed his hand.
"Run!"
The two brothers rushed back into the house together.
Behind them, they heard the frantic scraping of hands and feet against the wooden porch.
Their grandmother was already getting back up.
And she was coming after them.
As they were about to reach the front door, Branch suddenly stopped, pulling against John Dory's grip.
"No! We can't leave! Grandma needs help!" Branch cried, trying to pull John back toward the kitchen.
"Branch, come on!" John shouted, trying to drag his younger brother toward the exit.
Then he looked up.
Their grandmother had emerged from the kitchen.
She staggered toward them, letting out a guttural growl as she reached a bloodstained hand toward Branch.
John's eyes widened.
Without thinking, he yanked Branch behind him.
His hand landed on a hammer resting on a small table beside the front door.
Remembering the warning from the man on the radio...
Aim for the head.
John tightened his grip on the hammer.
"I'm sorry..."
He swung.
CRACK!
The hammer slammed into their grandmother's head, knocking her to the floor.
She twitched violently, letting out distorted groans as she tried to push herself back up.
John raised the hammer again.
Then brought it down.
CRACK!
Again.
CRACK!
Again.
CRACK!
Over...
and over...
and over.
"John, stop!" Branch screamed, rushing forward and trying to pull him away.
John didn't hear him.
He kept swinging.
It wasn't until the only sound left was Branch's sobbing that John finally stopped.
His breathing was ragged.
His arms trembled.
Slowly, he looked down.
Their grandmother lay motionless.
Then he turned toward Branch.
The young troll stood frozen, tears streaming down his face as he stared at their grandmother's body.
John followed his gaze before looking down at his own hands.
The hammer slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the floor.
His hands...
His clothes...
Even his face...
were covered in blood.
A dark pool had begun to spread beneath their grandmother's body.
"You... killed Grandma..." Branch whispered, his voice trembling.
John couldn't bring himself to answer.
"You killed Grandma!" Branch shouted, tears pouring down his cheeks.
The words struck John harder than any weapon ever could.
He felt bile rise into his throat.
Covering his mouth, he forced himself to swallow it back down.
After a long moment, he looked at Branch.
The younger troll instinctively flinched.
"...Branch," John said softly as he reached a hand toward him.
Branch immediately took a step back.
John froze.
Slowly, he lowered his hand.
Seeing the fear in his little brother's eyes hurt more than anything else that had happened today.
He looked away, biting the inside of his cheek before forcing himself to speak.
"Branch... go upstairs, please."
Branch didn't move.
He simply continued staring at John with the same horrified expression.
"...Please," John said quietly.
After what felt like forever, Branch finally turned away.
Without another word, he ran upstairs.
A moment later, the sound of a bedroom door slamming echoed through the house.
John remained standing there, staring at the staircase.
Then he slowly looked back toward their grandmother.
Taking a shaky breath, he swallowed his nausea and walked over to her.
He grabbed one of her legs.
"I'm sorry..."
His voice barely rose above a whisper.
He began dragging her body across the floor toward the back door.
He didn't want Branch to see her like this again.
The body left a thick trail of blood behind as John pulled her through the house.
He tried not to look at it.
Stepping out onto the back porch, he dragged her into the backyard before finally letting go.
Her leg dropped heavily onto the grass.
John stood there in silence, fighting the urge to vomit.
After several long seconds, he forced himself to turn away.
Ignoring the blood smeared across the porch, he walked back inside.
He shut the back door.
Locked it.
Then rested his forehead against the wood, closing his eyes as the weight of everything finally began to settle on his shoulders.
He stood there for a long moment before finally pushing himself away from the door.
Turning around, he walked back into the living room.
He crossed the room and locked the front door before glancing toward the staircase.
Letting out a long, shaky breath, he slowly climbed the stairs.
His eyes briefly lingered on the door to Bruce and Clay's old bedroom before he continued down the hallway toward what used to be Floyd and Branch's room.
...Maybe it was just Branch's room now.
John stopped outside the door and took several deep breaths, trying to steady himself.
Finally, he reached for the handle and quietly opened the door.
The room had barely changed.
Two beds still sat against opposite walls.
Posters covered parts of the walls, and children's drawings were taped in several places.
His eyes drifted toward the bed that had once belonged to Floyd.
Curled into a tight ball on top of it was Branch.
John swallowed hard before slowly walking over.
"Branch..." he called softly.
Branch flinched at the sound of his voice, curling himself even tighter.
John hesitated before kneeling beside the bed.
"...Branch."
He paused, searching for the right words.
"You... need to get up and clean yourself off."
There was no response.
John bit the inside of his cheek.
"There's... blood on you."
His voice almost broke.
"I'll be downstairs if you need anything."
He waited.
Nothing.
Only then did he notice just how much dried blood stained Branch's clothes.
John prayed it all belonged to their grandmother.
After several long moments, Branch slowly sat up.
He still refused to look at John.
Instead, he gave the smallest nod.
John watched him for another moment before quietly nodding back.
Without another word, he stood up and left the room.
He walked farther down the hallway until he reached what had once been his own bedroom.
With a quiet sigh, he opened the door.
His bed still filled the room.
Time seemed to have frozen inside it.
Very little had changed since he had left five years ago.
John walked over to his old closet and knelt down.
From the back, he pulled out an old cardboard box.
Opening it, he found several of his father's old clothes neatly folded inside.
For a moment, he simply stared.
Then he picked out one of his father's old jackets, a shirt, and a pair of jeans before carrying them downstairs.
He carefully placed them on the couch before making his way to the small storage room beneath the staircase.
Opening the door, he looked through the dusty shelves filled with old belongings.
Just then...
The bathroom door upstairs clicked shut.
A few seconds later, he heard water begin running.
Branch was taking a shower.
John let out a small sigh of relief before continuing his search.
After a minute, he found what he had been looking for.
An old FM radio.
He carried it back into the living room, placed it on the coffee table, and sat down on the couch.
Turning it on, he slowly adjusted the dial, searching through the static until he finally found the emergency broadcast station.
The familiar voice returned through the speakers.
"Good evening, everyone. I hope you're all still holding on. Here's another update on the infection. Most military forces across the country continue to struggle as the infection spreads at an overwhelming rate. Entire cities have become impossible to contain. But for those of you still listening... don't give up hope."
John leaned forward as the announcer began listing the cities that had fallen.
He listened carefully.
None of the places where his brothers lived were mentioned.
For now...
They might still be alive.
His thoughts drifted to Bruce.
Bruce and his family lived in a small city called Beach Wayside, not far from their grandmother's town.
The surrounding areas had already fallen.
If the infection kept spreading...
They wouldn't stay safe for long.
Then there was Clay.
He was attending college in Vibe Town with one of his friends.
And Floyd...
Floyd lived in Rock City, a massive city farther west than either of them.
John's chest tightened.
He had no idea if any of them were still alive.
He picked up his phone and tried once more to call them.
No signal.
"...Damn it."
Groaning, he tossed the phone back onto the couch and rubbed a tired hand across his face while the radio continued playing in the background.
"What are you doing?"
John looked up.
Branch stood at the bottom of the stairs.
He had changed into clean clothes, but his eyes still held the same frightened, uncertain expression.
John offered him a small, tired smile.
"Just listening to the news... trying to figure out what's going on."
He quietly lowered the volume on the radio.
Branch had already seen enough horror for one day.
John didn't want him hearing any more than he had to.
Branch looked at him for a moment before his gaze wandered around the living room.
His eyes eventually settled on the trail of blood leading toward the kitchen.
John winced.
I really need to clean that up, he thought. Branch shouldn't have to keep looking at it.
"...Where's Grandma?" Branch asked quietly, his eyes never leaving the bloodstains on the floor.
John looked down.
"I... I didn't want her body getting in the way," he answered softly.
The truth was, he didn't want Branch to have to see their grandmother's body lying there ever again.
"We could've helped her."
John looked up.
Branch had stepped away from the stairs and was slowly walking farther into the living room.
"Branch..." John began, taking a slow breath before continuing. "There wasn't any way to help Grandma. Whatever sickness she had... there wasn't a cure."
Branch kept his eyes on the floor.
"How would you know?" he hissed. "You're not a specialist."
"Branch..."
John reached a hand toward him.
Branch immediately stepped back.
Only then did he finally look up.
His eyes were filled with anger...
and heartbreak.
"How would you know?" Branch shouted. "We could've helped her! We could've found a way to save her!"
His fists clenched tightly at his sides.
"But instead..."
"You killed her!"
"There was no way to help her, Branch..." John snapped, his own emotions finally boiling over.
"...Because she was already dead!"
The room fell silent.
Branch took a slow step backward.
The anger in his eyes disappeared, replaced by shock.
John's own eyes widened.
He immediately realized what he'd just done.
The words hung heavily in the air between them.
John looked away.
"...I'm going to take a shower."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
"Don't open the door for anyone... okay?"
He picked up his father's clothes from the couch before quietly walking past Branch and heading upstairs.
Neither of them said another word.
John entered the bathroom and locked the door behind him.
The moment the lock clicked into place, his breathing became uneven.
He covered his mouth.
Then rushed toward the toilet.
He dropped to his knees and vomited.
Every time he closed his eyes, the same images replayed in his mind.
His grandmother's lifeless face.
The hammer rising above his head.
The sickening sound each time it came down.
Blood splattering across the floor.
Branch screaming behind him.
Again.
Again.
Again.
When there was nothing left in his stomach, John remained kneeling on the floor, breathing heavily.
After several moments, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
He picked up his father's clothes and carefully placed them on the counter before stripping out of his own bloodstained clothes.
They landed in a heap on the bathroom floor.
John stepped into the shower and turned the water on.
Warm water poured over him.
He closed his eyes as it washed the blood from his skin.
But no matter how long he stood beneath the water...
He couldn't wash away what he had done.
The images continued to play over and over in his mind as he stood there in silence, letting the water run over him.
John remained in the shower for nearly fifteen minutes before finally stepping out.
He dried himself off and changed into his father's old clothes.
The jacket was slightly too large, but somehow it made him feel... safer.
Taking a deep breath, he headed downstairs toward the living room.
Halfway down the stairs, he heard the radio still playing.
His eyes widened.
He hurried down the remaining steps and found Branch sitting on the floor in front of it, quietly listening to the emergency broadcast.
"You shouldn't be listening to that," John said as he reached the couch.
Branch didn't answer.
He kept staring at the radio.
"...There wasn't any way to help Grandma, was there?" Branch asked quietly.
John stopped beside the couch.
For a long moment, he looked at Branch...
Then at the radio.
Finally, he let out a quiet sigh and sat down beside him.
"Listen, Branch..."
John looked down at the floor before continuing.
"What happened to Grandma... it's happening to other people out there too."
He swallowed hard.
"Nobody's been able to find a way to help them."
He paused for a moment.
"...And the people they used to be..."
His voice faltered.
"...They're gone."
John turned toward Branch.
The younger troll still wasn't looking at him.
After a few seconds, Branch gave a small nod, silently accepting what John had said.
Neither of them spoke.
The only sound filling the room was the crackling voice coming from the radio.
After several long moments, Branch finally broke the silence.
"...Are you planning on us leaving here?"
John looked at him before nodding.
"...Yeah."
He stared straight ahead.
"We have to."
Branch immediately shook his head.
"W-We can't leave yet."
He finally looked at John.
"We have to wait for Floyd."
His voice trembled with hope.
"Floyd said he was coming back."
John's heart ached.
"Branch..."
He gently placed a hand on his younger brother's shoulder.
"It's not safe here anymore."
"But we have to stay!" Branch pleaded. "When Floyd comes back, we can't let him think we left him. Please..."
John could hear the desperation in his voice.
Branch truly believed Floyd would walk through that front door at any moment.
John closed his eyes for a second before letting out a slow breath.
"...Alright."
Branch looked up at him.
"We'll stay... for now."
A tiny spark of hope appeared in Branch's eyes.
"But we can't stay here forever."
John gave him a serious look.
"The moment this place isn't safe anymore... we're leaving."
Branch looked down at the floor.
He bit his lip before giving a reluctant nod.
John stood up with a tired sigh.
"I'm going to see if I can find us something to eat."
Branch quietly nodded.
John turned and walked toward the kitchen, stepping over the dried trail of blood that still stained the floor.
John deliberately ignored the bloodstains on the floor as he walked into the kitchen.
Making his way to the refrigerator, he opened it and looked through everything inside.
He mentally sorted through what would spoil quickly and what could last for a few more days.
If they were going to survive...
They couldn't afford to waste food.
After a few minutes, he gathered enough ingredients to make a simple meal.
The familiar routine helped distract him, if only for a little while.
Several minutes later, John walked back into the living room carrying two plates of food.
He handed one to Branch.
"Here."
Branch quietly accepted the plate without saying a word.
John sat down beside him, and the two brothers ate in silence.
As he ate, John's mind wandered.
Bruce...
Clay...
Floyd...
Please... be okay.
He had no idea where they were.
He didn't know if they had escaped.
He didn't even know if they were still alive.
The thought alone made his stomach twist.
When they finished eating, John glanced over at Branch.
The younger troll let out a wide yawn before rubbing his tired eyes, struggling to keep them open.
John couldn't help but wonder how long Branch had been awake since the outbreak began.
"You should get some rest," John said gently. "You've had a rough day."
Branch quietly nodded.
The two of them stood, and John led him upstairs to his bedroom.
Once inside, Branch climbed into bed and pulled the blanket over himself.
John gave him one last glance before turning toward the door.
"...John."
He stopped.
Turning around, he saw Branch looking at him with uncertainty written all over his face.
"...Are you going to stay?"
The question hit John harder than he expected.
His heart ached.
He gave Branch a small nod.
"Yeah."
His voice was soft but certain.
"I'm staying."
He managed a faint smile.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Branch stared at him for a moment before the tension in his shoulders eased.
"...Okay."
He lay back against the pillow, and within minutes, exhaustion finally claimed him.
John remained standing in the doorway until he was sure Branch was asleep.
Then he quietly stepped out, leaving the bedroom door slightly open.
He slowly made his way back downstairs.
The radio was still quietly broadcasting in the living room.
John sat down on the couch.
He rested his elbows on his knees and stared silently at the floor.
For several long moments...
He didn't move.
Then he covered his mouth with one hand as quiet sobs escaped him.
Everything that had happened that day finally came crashing down on him.
His grandmother was dead.
Branch was terrified of him.
His brothers were missing.
And the world was falling apart.
The radio continued to play in the background.
"...And we can now confirm that the city of Beach Wayside has fallen to the infection..."
John froze.
His breathing stopped.
Bruce...
The word echoed silently in his mind as he stared at the floor, unable to move.