Chapter Text
It had been exactly one day since the visit, and exactly one day since his symptoms started.
It’s not hard to put two and two together; hospitals love to create a problem so that they can sell the solution.
While the flock cameras may deter some, he never cared if he ended up in jail over not buying The Hospital’s propaganda. But sadly, his bail keeps increasing and his paycheck stays the same, so he reluctantly had to check himself into The Hospital this month.
The worst part was the masks all the staff wore. From sickeningly sweet nurses to kind and understanding interns, he can see why some don't have a problem with going to The Hospital. But that just makes what they're hiding that much more disgusting.
The aftermath of his visit leaves the tan rabbit here, lying on his twin mattress with one of the worst fevers he's had in a while, not wanting to do anything but sulk in bed. He should've just skipped this month's visit…
The bedroom was just big enough to be lived in, with the frameless twin mattress and a box macerating as a night stand with a picture frame on it taking up the majority of the room. The walls had the landlord special, with rotting wood and cracks being hastily painted over with thick white paint that he can't afford to do anything about.
Behind the sniffing mess and mattress were many seemingly connected pictures of hospital staff and employees of The Corporation falling off the wall tied together with a mess of taped-on red string.
A little jingle brought him out of his mopping, scaring him more than he would like to admit. The sad box of broken glass he calls his phone was ringing, and he already knew who it was.
He forces himself to answer the call. “Hey Charlie,” he says, his voice obviously hoarse.
“I thought I told you not to call me that,” The black cat on the other end responds.
“We both know that's not happening, just tell me why you had to call me at such ungodly hour,” He groaned into the microphone, “and make it quick, im busy dying,”
“Firstly, it's currently,” a pause, “eleven am! Nothing about the hour is unreasonable. Secondly, meet me at the diner near the park. I'd like to have a chat,” Charlie says sternly, it's clear he isn't asking.
“Dude which one there's like–” a loud beep of the phone signals the end of the call. The asshole really hung up on him mid sentence.
Whatever. He and Charlie have been friends for months, and they usually just spoke about their theories and findings either online or on the phone. Everything changed when Charlie found out they lived so close together; the feline has been getting more bold with inviting him to places. Sadly, it's not like he has much of a choice, he'd prefer to maintain the only friendship he has.
Begrudgingly getting up for the first time that day, he is forced to cross all of the ten feet it takes to get to the bathroom.
It didn't matter how sick he was, because he's absolutely not leaving the house looking like a mess.
After a cold shower, he tries to groom himself the best he can in his current position, coughing up a storm the entire time.
Finally throwing on a nice shirt and jeans and grabbing his embarrassingly thin wallet, the rabbit is finally out the door, nearly an hour after the initial call.
–
It felt nicer than he would like to admit to actually get out of the house for once. The cooling weather made for better outfits and not nearly getting heatstroke every other day.
What worried him however, was the increased amount of missing person posters by the day. He wouldn't call himself the most optimistic, but he can understand why the few people he passes by look dead on their feet.
What he can't understand is why nobody is doing anything about the situation. It's clear–at least to him– that everyone suddenly being sick and going missing is The Corporation’s fault. It can't be a coincidence that the attacks started around the same time as the mandated hospital visits. At least he's trying to spread awareness!
It's like a punch to the stomach when he feels like he's too openly in public to feel safe, the newly constructed flock cameras staring their mechanical eyes at him.
It doesn't help that he's never seen the city this empty. Streets that were once full of honking cars and jaywalkers have been replaced by the smell of death in the air. He hopes it's unnecessary, but his hand finds his handgun hidden under his shirt for a vague sense of security.
Shit, is it even loaded?
At last he sees the diner in the distance, at least he hopes it's the one Charlie said he'd be in.
He better have important news.
Passing the park and seeing more slumped over adults than kids, he finally makes it to the diner.
It's not a particularly nice place, most restaurants have closed since the initial outbreaks, but it's what they have.
A bell tied around the door handle announces his presence, and the rabbit is assaulted by the smell of black coffee and cigarettes.
The entire building can host around forty people maximum, but this place probably hasn't seen that kind of traction in years. The seats are worn down and cracked, the wallpaper peeling, but having a small business at all is impressive in its own right, especially in this kind of economy. Oddly enough though, there's nobody working the front.
The rabbit’s eyes scan the room to find Charlie sitting in a booth toward the back of the room–always in the back of the room, facing the door– he's wearing the one outfit he has in his closet, a white button-up and black dress pants, and is already on his second cup of black coffee (ew).
“Got stuck in traffic?” Charlie calls out to him from across the empty room, judgement for being over an hour late clear in his voice.
He crosses the room to Charlie’s booth and slides into the opposite seat.
“You know–” a sneeze– “how long it takes for me to get ready, especially when I'm like this,” He gestures to himself.
A raise of an eyebrow is all he gets as a reply.
“What did you need to tell me so bad anyways? You know I haven't been feeling well,” The rabbit impatiently asks.
“You will have to excuse me for the bad timing,” his tail tucks closer to his own frame, a nervous habit, “But I come bearing news I would rather say in person,”
“What's with all the mystery? If it's about going my account, it's useless to try and hide ourselves this late–”
“Except I'm going to have to,” Charlie admits, and the air goes still, the humming of the overhead lights growing louder. It's as if he has been holding this in for a while now. “People have started to get… suspicious at work. I'm going to have to lay low for a while,”
The contents of Charlie's job are probably unknown to everyone except for Charlie himself, but it doesn't take a genius to guess it's probably something illegal. He's not totally sure what them being suspicious means, but it's definitely not anything good.
“Is there any way I can help?” His speech quickens, “I mean, I don't have a guest room but I can probably just sleep on the couch and you could take the bed or like if you want the couch for whatever reason thats fine too or maybe I can get an inflatable mattress or- or even book a hotel a couple of nights,” He stops only to cough, and suddenly feels self conscious, “only if you want to obviously,” It's a statement, but he phrases it more like a question before breaking into a nervous smile.
He just doesn't want to lose his only friend after losing so many others when he could've done something.
All the while, Charlie remained staring at the nervous wreck, coffee long since gone cold.
“You know I can't do that,” the cat watches him visibly deflate, “it's too dangerous for the both of us,”
For the first time the entire conversation, his voice softens. “But maybe once we're out of this mess I’ll take you up on the offer,”
“I don't think we'll ever be ‘out of this mess’ but thanks. I understand.” Although still bothered by Charlie's forced leave, his proposal not being completely rejected did fill him with something that may even resemble hope, a dangerous feeling.
Quickly wanting to change the topic, he asks something that's been bothering him since he first walked in. The rabbit points to Charlie's mug. “A waiter hasn't come by the entire time I've been here. How did you get coffee?”
“I found the coffee pot and made it myself,”
“Figured.” A snort.
“Look,” Charlie starts, “We won't be hearing from each other for a while. The least I can do is walk you home.” He's not asking.
“Sure man… this place is starting to give me the creeps anyways,” right on que the lights flicker, as if the building itself is telling the two to get out.
They both do the awkward shuffle one does to get out of a booth, before the rabbit practically sprints out of the place, Charlie following completely relaxed behind.
As the two start their journey, it's the first time Charlie doesn't initiate the conversation.
“Do you even know where we're going?”
“No,”
“Figured,” a pause, “ya know, at the hospital yesterday, the new intern took like ten minutes trying to figure out if I was an anomaly or not, and that was after I had waited for what felt like an hour to–”
“Do you think you're infected?” Charlie's tone sounded too serious to be a joke, not that he would even joke about this topic in the first place.
“What?” A pit in the shomach.
“You’ve had to have at least thought about it, our entire relationship has been built on our theories of the infected. So, do you think you got it?”
A nervous chuckle. “Cmon man, a little cold doesn't mean anything. It’s probably just the weather… plus I was doing some research and it could totally be a placebo or just a plain coincidence, I've never had the best immune system to begin with,” he knows he's rambling again but he can't stop himself.
“So you have thought about it?” The rabbit was given a pointed look.
The following silence filled only by his sniffing told Charlie all he had to know.
“Do you still have the gun I gave you?” His tone still remained cold.
The rabbit on the other hand is now visibly distressed, his paw instinctively going to his holster. “Dude can you drop the mysterious act? Yes I have it on me, just stop talking like some sort of secret agent,” he says, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.
A hum of vague approval was all he got in reply.
They resume walking, passing the abandoned shops lining the streets.
For a while they were shrouded in uncomfortable silence, or at least it was uncomfortable to him. Charlie has always been an enigma, who knows what that guy is thinking.
Eventually his curiosity got the best of him. “Why were you asking about the gun?”
It took a while for Charlie to reply. He was clearly thinking carefully about his answer.
“Look. I don't mean to be crass, but you're vulnerable. You know just as well as I that there're people out there who don't appreciate your accounts. Nearly every post you make gets taken down, and it doesn't take a genius to guess who's doing it,” now he's making sure to look directly at him. “not to mention that attacks are getting more recent. You need to be ready,”
For whatever reason, it sounds like a warning, though he can't tell what the warning is for.
“alright… whatever,” He's not sure if he should be flattered that Charlie cares so much about his wellbeing, or insulted that he thinks of him as 'vulnerable’. Besides, he knows of the recent attacks, he could tell you the details by heart! He had no idea why Charlie’s acting like it's the apocalypse, or that he's anywhere near famous enough to have a target on him.
Both too soon and not soon enough they turn the corner and he sees his building in all of its spray painted, crumbling glory. Coming to a stop, he looks to Charlie, someone who he doubts would ever have to come near this part of the city, gauging his reaction, ready to defend himself lest he say anything.
He's never been embarrassed about his situation; he's worked his ass off to get where he is, but coming to the uneven and cracked stairs of his apartment complex he can safely say Charlie looked incredibly out of place. His daily attire costs almost as much as what the average person makes in a month.
Curiously enough, there was no outward reaction to where he lived, no judgement like he expected. He simply stood silently at the base of the steps, waiting for the rabbit to enter safely. Odd.
Bidding the cat farewell, he takes another flight of stairs–perks of living in the city– he walks down to the third door on the right and unlocks the door.
Immediately when you walk in you're greeted by the concept of something that could resemble a living room, with a single chair placed in front of a small tv placed on the floor. To your immediate left is the kitchenette, with a clear indication that the microwave gets used far more than anything else. On the back wall is the door to the bedroom with the bathroom door on its right.
His place isn't all that bad, sure it's a bit empty but it's a place to call home.
Placing all his belongings on a table near the door, he makes a beeline to the bedroom where he ungraciously flops on the bed.
Instead of immediately going to sleep, he ruminates on his relationship with Charlie.
While he may be cryptic and downright weird at times, he oddly complements the rabbit well. It didn't take long for the pair to become friends, they both share strong opinions about The Corporation but they also share much more than he would like to admit.
That's exactly what frightens him. He hasn't gotten close to anyone since the incident, and he honestly didn't mean to become as close as they are now. Even if there's still much to learn about the feline, the worst part is that he wants to learn more about Charlie, breaking all the promises he’s made to himself. As much as he complains about Charlie constantly forcing him to get out of the house, in the deepest parts of himself he appreciates someone to talk to again.
What is he going to do about that guy…
–
Waking up without ever realizing you fell asleep in the first place isn't one of the worst feelings in the world, but it's definitely up there.
He's sweaty, his nose is stuffed, and he has no idea what time it is. Not the best way to wake up.
Sadly time keeps going, no matter how much you feel like you got run over by a truck.
The first thing he does is check his phone, not a single notification. Checking the time, he finds 8:54 pm staring back at him through the blur of having barely woken up.
A grumble of his stomach reminds him that he quite literally hasn't eaten since the hospital visit, and he immediately gets up to check if he has any food available.
Dragging his feet to the kitchenette, he's unsurprised to find his kitchen about as empty as the rest of the apartment.
Groaning into his hands, he knows he has no other choice but to go out to get food. Oh how he misses the days of ordering takeout or having your food be ready in minutes…
He didn't bother to look as neat as he did for his outing with Charlie as he threw on a wrinkled hoodie. Before he leaves he hesitates over the miniature table beside the door, his 10mm gun beckoning him with the power to kill in something so small it can hide under his shirt.
He takes the gun.
Ever since the first cases of infections, most major chain and fast food restaurants knew to cut their losses and just close down. That leaves the lazy population (him) with very few choices when it comes to where to get food. Thankfully, he was able to find a small shop not too far from where he lives that actually sells to herbivores.
Walking down the stairs and out his apartment was routine. Sure, new cameras had been set up but that's nothing new. He’s walked the same path nearly every week, stepping over the roots peeping out of the sidewalk more times than he could count. That's why he couldn't place a paw on why exactly he felt… wrong. Now he never had the best eyesight and the night sure isn't helping, but looking around at his immediate surroundings and seeing nothing didn't ease his growing worries. When you publicly make the kinds of videos where you have to reassure your audience that you're not suicidal, paranoia becomes one of your closest friends.
That's what he chalked it up to- paranoia. He really couldn't do anything about it if he wanted to, so that's what he reassured himself with, that he was just being paranoid.
Ignoring the prickly feeling he's getting on the back of his neck, he finally comes to the safety of the shop.
The place is small and far from being fully stocked, but it's good enough for just one rabbit.
The owner was an older rabbit, Jane, whom he had gotten to know better over the months. She was sweet and tended to throw in free items for him, claiming he reminded her of her grandchildren.
Walking in and saying hello to Jane, he walks the isles looking for anything that might entice him at the moment. Oddly enough, despite his hunger making itself very known, the thought of eating anything he sees makes him sick.
Nevertheless, it's been too long since he had last eaten, so he picks up a few bunches of fresh-enough looking cilantro, bok choy, and canned… something and calls it a day.
Ringing up his meager meal for the day, Jane strays from her usual small talk. “My, you look dead on your paws! What's got you so worked up?”
If he had any energy left, he would've taken that as an insult. At the moment, however, he can't find it in him to really care at all, his mystery sickness still running rampant and newfound paranoia leaving him unsociable. “Just a cold is all,” he says simply, sneezing before pulling out his wallet.
“Oh that simply won't do! Here, I'll throw in a herbal tea for free, it'll have you feeling like brand new in days,” she says warmly, her voice somewhat calming the storm brewing in his mind.
Physically unable to turn such kindness down, he silently accepts her gift, hoping his–albeit tired–expression alone will have his appreciation come across.
It is not until after he had paid and left the shop that he sees what has been plaguing him since he left his apartment.
Halfway obscured by the night he sees a dark figure filling out the form of a predator, simply standing in the middle of the road. His instincts scream at him before he could actually register what he is seeing. He felt like he had been stabbed in the heart, leaving him frozen where he stood. Panic, burning and all-consuming envelopes him. He knows he wants to run but doesn't want to make a scene, a clash of instinct and rationality.
Call him crazy all you'd like, but there's nobody else on the streets. He knows it–whatever it is– is out for him, and it wants him to know it.
Doing the first and only thing he can think of, he ducks into a nearby alleyway as naturally as he can in his condition. He takes a moment in the grimy alley to catch his breath as he clutches his chest, his groceries laying completely forgotten beside him. He makes sure to keep a firm grip on the killing machine in his holster.
A million questions immediately flood his mind. What was it doing there? Why him? Was Charlie right?
Is it out to kill him?
His posts became a lifeline after the incident, a way to compartmentalize his thoughts, but he never wanted it to go this far. A couple posts turned into a couple more, and soon enough he had gotten quite the presence online. He should've just stopped when he had the chance!
He didn't know how long he was suspended in that state of silent fear, not being able to do anything but wait out the initial, primal reaction.
It wasn't until what felt like hours later he really started looking around at his surroundings. He was behind what once was a thriving residential area, a place where people went to retire. Now budding families have been replaced by cobwebs, no more than memories of what was.
Because his day just had to get worse, he spots a flock camera looking directly at him. This sets him off completely. Whoever was stalking him surely has access. If this fever doesn't take him out, a heart attack might.
Even if in vain, he steadies himself, grabs his groceries, and tries his best to feign normalcy in the few more minutes it will take to get home.
He hurries back into the sidewalk and unsurprisingly the figure is gone. He doesn't have the mental capacity to know whether it's good that the threat is gone or bad that it's now out of sight and could be anywhere.
He knows he needs to get home as fast as possible, he needs to be anywhere but outside. His heart hammers in his chest and he remembers what Charlie told him. He knows he's vulnerable, but he also knows he would be too scared to ever pull the trigger, hell he couldn't shoot a target!
He just wants to go home.
The only things keeping him grounded are the weight of his gun in his jeans and the plastic of the grocery bag still held so tightly that his paw is shaking minutely, discretely. Because despite the sweat dripping on his back, he's been running his entire life. He knows–or at least he hopes he does– how to blend in.
Like an oasis in the middle of the desert, he sees the entrance to his apartment complex and he speeds up the steps and across his hallway.
With shaking hands he pulls out his keys which jingle unnecessarily loud. Practically stabbing his key into the keyhole, he slams the door shut behind him.
Before making any move inside, he stills. What he lacks in eyesight he makes up for in hearing, so he pauses to make sure the stalker didn't break in.
The air still smelt faintly of mold, the ac still sputtering. Not a single object out of place.
That doesn't calm him completely, but it's enough to try to get some food in him, lest he goes another full day without eating.
That's the rational thing to do at this point. Despite the scare earlier, he hasn't eaten in a day. He knows this and yet… he can't bring himself to do it.
Maybe it's his nerves, maybe it's the fever talking, maybe it's something else but even the thought of eating anything he bought is making him nauseous.
He doesn't even bother moving the bag from its position on the floor. He will just deal with it later.
With sudden determination, he realizes what he needs to do now. Crossing space to his room, he tentatively opens the door and flicks on the lights for the first time in what feels like forever.
Grabbing his phone from the messy bed, he sits down, crossing his legs in front of the ‘nightstand’. Then, with a sigh, he pulls out his phone and props it against the picture frame to hold it. Finally he opens his camera app and presses the record button.
He reels from his own reflection, something that he has somehow avoided all this time. He knew he wasn't in the best shape before but he didn't realize it was this bad. His fur sticks up wildly, his nose red-rimmed and his clothes wrinkled.
Even despite his appearance he steadies himself and fixes the camera.
“Hey everyone. This isn't really how I intended a face reveal to go, but I didn't have much of a choice,” he flashes an awkward smile that isn't really a smile, “look, I’ve been posting for you guys for years now, and I’ve been doing it fully aware that it could get me in trouble. The Hospital has secrets. Dirty, evil secrets that they don't want you to know. I have shared all that I know with you guys and I don’t regret it for a second but,” he clears his hoarse voice, “I fear my time is up, I love you guys. If anything happens to me in the next couple of days, know it wasn't an accident,” his voice cracking at the end.
With shaky hands he stops the recording and immediately signs into all of his social media accounts. He doesn't edit the video at all or even post a caption. It's not necessary. He presses post on every account.
The room is still, all that can be heard is the faint creaking of footsteps down the hallway. He doesn't even register it.
He's feeling a lot of things yet nothing at the same time. Mostly he just feels empty, like someone carved out his feelings and left him behind. He’s alone in this shithole apartment with no remaining family and just one weirdo friend.
He doesn't want to die, even if he logically knew this day might come. He doesn't think anyone ever really accepts that they might die soon.
He picks up the picture frame his phone was propped up on. It's another tan rabbit, similar to himself. The photo is old but the light damage adds character. The pictured rabbit is not too much older than his current age. She's just graduated, still in her gown with a diploma in hand. The diploma reads Masters in Criminal Justice.
His phone pings once, then again, but he can't be bothered to answer it.
He remains on the floor as if suspended in time, gazing at the picture frame, rubbing at her face.
“All of this was for you. I miss you.” He says for the same reason all grieving people talk to stones in the ground or chewed up pictures in a picture frame.
Inside the air is still, the moment suspended in time.
Too bad he doesn't notice it watching him out the window.