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The world ended approximately thirty-two days ago.
Not for everyone. Most people would probably say that the world ended seven years ago, when a virus overtook the world and turned most of the world into mindless, cannibalistic monsters. When the world shut down, when the world changed for good.
Thirty-three days ago, Technoblade would have said the same thing.
But now Techno knows better. Techno knows better, and Tommy Innet is dead, and the world ended thirty-two days ago.
Survivors were a rarity, out here. It was luck that Techno had met Phil and Wilbur just two years prior, saving them from being overrun by a sudden horde. Techno had been traveling solo, before that, which had worked. Techno could fight, and Techno could hunt, and Techno could scavenge. He hadn’t needed anyone else.
But Phil had offered food as thanks for saving them. Phil had been intelligent, cautious, company where Techno had never had any. Wilbur had been cunning, quick-witted, light on his feet where Techno was so heavy.
It was easy, then, to decide to stay.
For two years, it’s worked out. The three worked as a perfect team, scavenging and killing in the daylight, breaking bread and resting by dawn. Techno couldn’t have imagined anything better. Every once in a while, Phil would mention a commune—big, apparently, with food and farm enough to sustain everyone within—but Techno’s always thought that they didn’t even need that. This—being together, uncontrolled, the three of them—was better than what any commune could offer.
Technoblade would do anything to keep his little family together. To protect them, to keep everything just the way it was.
“Anything,” today, is scavenging nearby storefronts and exploring crumbling buildings. Most of everything had been cleared out ages ago, but sometimes they can find good stuff left behind. Non-perishables, cans of uneaten food, the occasional box of children’s band aids. They’ll stay long enough to sweep the city of every resource it has. Once everything is gone, they’ll collect their things and move onto the next empty city.
It’s routine. Monotonous and rhythmic, safe. The consistency is safe.
Techno slowly makes his way down the store aisles, hands ready on his gun. Wilbur and Phil go through the shelves, reading expiration dates and occasionally stuffing something into one of their backpacks.
“Oh, yes!” Wilbur exclaims, pulling a small plastic bag off of one of the shelves. “Man, I thought this shit was discontinued ages ago! I used to eat this candy all the time when I was a kid!”
“Mate,” Phil says, exasperation lightly running through his tone. “Everything has been discontinued.”
“Well, obviously, Phil,” Wilbur says, stuffing the bag of candy into his pack before grabbing fistfuls of every other bag. “I meant it was discontinued before this whole shit-show started. God, I can’t believe this place even has it. They must have missed the recall-notice.”
“Recall?” Phil startles. “You said it was discontinued, not recalled.”
Wilbur just shrugs, too busy still grabbing every plastic pack off of the shelf.
Phil levels Wilbur with a look. “Wilbur. If it was recalled, you should absolutely not be eating it.”
Wilbur smiles with a rebellious shake of the head, patting his now-full bag, “No way,” Wilbur says. “Who knows if I’ll ever get this opportunity again. God, I’ve been waiting for the chance to eat these again since I was ten.”
“Are they even good still? Surely they’re expired by this point.”
Wilbur shrugs again, but a small shine of guilt passes through his smile.
“Wilbur.”
“Come on, it’s fine,” Wilbur whines, as though he’s a child and not in his twenties. “Techno, back me up.”
Techno rumbles. “If you get sick after eatin’ it, I’m not helpin’ you.”
“Fine,” Wilbur says breezily, “because I won’t get sick. Honestly, it’s candy, the worst it’ll be is a little stale.”
“We’re not wastin’ any medicine on you.”
“I know!” Wilbur grumbles, turning with a huff. “You all act like—”
Wilbur doesn’t get to finish. Not when, behind one of the closed doors, there’s a muffled cough. The air immediately sharpens. Techno raises the gun in his hand, whipping towards the source.
With a practiced gait, the three men get in formation. Phil is the one in front, clutching an old pistol in his outstretched hands. Techno stands to his left, pistol up and in sight. Wilbur stays near the back, baseball bat clutched in his hands.
Phil turns his head, just slightly. Just enough to make eye contact with the other two.
Techno nods. Go.
Phil swings the door open with a fast bang! All three men take a quick step back, ready for undead to pour out and start stumbling towards them, but nothing happens. Not until Phil takes a cautious step forward, stretching his neck out to look into the room, gasping at whatever he sees.
Techno tenses, gun at the ready. A gasp could mean anything, good or bad. Techno isn’t willing to risk it.
“Oh, mate.”
That causes Techno’s brow to furrow, but he still doesn’t move. His arm stays stiff and steady, gun pointed towards the open room.
Phil moves forward with a lack of caution that has Techno grimacing. It’s even worse as Techno falls in line behind Phil and sees a person on the ground.
“Phil!” Techno bites, moving forward and bumping him hard enough with his shoulder that he stumbles to the side. It’s better than stumbling forward, where a blond teenager sits on the ground, leaning against the cement wall. His face is red and sweaty, and he pants heavily.
Not good. Not looking good. And Phil had just waltzed in like this was nothing.
To Phil, it probably was nothing. The man is cunning, one of the most intelligent men Techno has ever met. He’s also kind—too kind for his own good. Sometimes it works out; that’s how Techno got here in the first place. Other times it doesn’t.
Like now.
But that’s alright. That’s why Techno is here. To do what needs to be done.
The cold metal of the gun is quickly pointed at the kid's forehead. “You infected?” Techno grunts. He does not motion with the gun. He doesn’t move it even a single centimeter. Techno has never missed a shot. He can’t afford to.
“Techno,” Phil scolds with an obvious frown.
The teenager opens fluttering eyes towards him. They’re blue, like the sky before all of this happened. Cloudy, too. He’s dazed.
“Kid. Last chance. Were you bit?”
With a blink, the teen finally seems to understand what’s happening. His breathing quickens underneath his jacket.
“No,” he gasps, quickly shaking his head. “No, I wasn’t. I wasn’t.”
Techno doesn’t believe him. The gun stays pointed as his forehead. “Check him.”
The kid’s too weak to do anything as Phil and Wilbur take their sides next to him. They pull him up gently, before forcing him to strip out of his jacket, jeans, and shirt. It might be a bit excessive, but Techno doesn’t care. People hide bites all the time. Underneath sleeves or hoods, beneath rough denim or hidden by high-socks.
Phil and Wilbur take to circling him. They look at his arms and his legs, checking each other’s work and then checking again.
“He’s clean,” Wilbur says, and he’s been frowning this entire time. For all the soft-hearted Phil is, Wilbur has always been worse. The sight of a trembling, feverish kid has probably put him in a mood.
For just a second, Techno keeps the gun up. Steady. Strong.
He trusts Phil and Wilbur, and so he lowers it.
Phil is helping the kid back into his clothes before Techno can even take a step back. “Alright,” Phil is saying, “You’re alright. It’s okay now.”
It turns out, the bite-check was all the kid could handle. He must have used all of his energy on standing up, because once his jeans and shirt are back on, he immediately drops. Phil is right there to catch him, wrapping arms around him with a sympathetic coo.
“You’re alright, mate,” Phil says again. “We’ll get you somewhere safe.”
“Heh?” Techno grunts. He fixes a low glare on the teen, the kid’s eyes half-lidded and hair smushed against Phil’s chest.
“We’re taking him,” Phil says, and it’s with the tone of voice that says it’s not up for discussion. “He’s sick, we can’t leave him.”
It’s not a desirable option. It’s new, and it’ll be a change in routine. Something Techno will have to get used to. Something he doesn’t want to get used to.
But there’s no arguing with Phil when he’s got his mind set on something. Especially something like this; this is a teenager—a child. Any reservations Techno has about inviting a sick stranger into their base would be immediately buried under youthful eyes and sick, rosy cheeks.
So Techno doesn’t bother trying to disagree. “Alright,” Techno grumbles, readjusting the pistol in his hand. “Let’s get back home.”
There was a time when Techno was the one who kept everyone safe.
He was always on guard, always ready. Pistol clenched in his hand and eyes snapping across the horizon, catching on anything that shifted or moved. He was not graceful, but he didn’t have to be. There was no inherent grace in killing. Only blood. Only a quick brutality—which Techno was good at. Very good.
They haven’t gone out much, recently. None of them.
Not as far as Techno knows, anyway.
But he doesn’t know much of anything anymore.
Nothing comes as it did before. His mind is not sharp, his body is heavy. Days come in blinks.
Techno doesn’t know if he’s awake or asleep.
He knows that he’s alive and not dead. If he were dead, Tommy would be here.
Tommy will never be here again.
There’s a lot Techno doesn’t remember, nowadays. His mind slips constantly, stealing away time and memory in a haze of darkness until he comes back to. It’s alarming, in some senses, but in the darker, shameful recesses of Techno’s heart, all Techno can be is grateful. Grateful that he doesn’t have to remember this world without Tommy. Grateful that every moment spent in haze is a moment Techno doesn’t have to live through.
Techno’s eyes flutter open and he’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling with his palms facing upward. Up, towards Tommy. As if in praise. As if in pleading.
The thought brings a dark sort of haze to Techno’s vision. He lets it envelope him.
Techno’s eyes flutter open and he’s seated at the table. Phil is there. Wilbur, too. He weeps openly over his plate, his fist clenched tightly within his hair. The occasional keen or whine slips through his trembling lips. Tears drip onto the plate below him.
Wilbur cries and screams and mourns as if he has been torn apart.
Techno doesn’t. Techno can’t. There is no sharp sorrow or agonizing ache—just an ongoing, never-ending sense of dread. As if his heart, his soul, is a weighted stone, sinking deeper and deeper into the dark depths of the ocean. As if he’s constantly being dragged under.
Despair weighs heavily. Techno sinks.
There’s an empty seat, to the right of Wilbur. It is crooked and slightly pushed out, from the morning, the morning, the morning of.
Techno looks down at his plate. His rations are a bit more than usual.
The black can’t hit Techno fast enough.
The kid has been with them for a long time.
Longer than Techno thought he might be. He’s been here for two weeks.
Two weeks can be short or long, depending on the context. Two weeks without contact with an infected horde? Shorter than Techno would wish for.
Two weeks with a loud-mouthed, rude, sick kid?
Long. Very, very long.
Though, at this point, the kid isn’t really sick anymore. Techno had suggested they kick him back to the curb—pack his lunch, pat his back, send him on his way. It was only half a joke, one grunted with low brows and crossed arms, but Phil had frowned at him anyway.
“He’s a kid, mate,” Phil had said. “We can’t leave him like that.”
There had been a bit more than that. Stuff about how finding children is so rare, how Tommy is the future. How it’s their responsibility to ensure that this small, flourishing potential grows. To ensure that this spark of humanity lives.
Which Techno…agrees with. Unfortunately. He hardly ever disagrees with Phil.
That doesn’t mean he has to like it.
They’ve all survived this long because of consistency. Each of them know each other as they know themselves, know exactly how to work with and around each other like river water streaming through the earth. Steady, quick, smooth.
The kid messes that all up. A giant rock in the middle of an otherwise-perfect river.
A struggling kid amongst seasoned adults.
Headaches are constant. Unsurprising.
Techno wouldn’t classify the “before” as quiet. Phil had a tendency to hum, Wilbur chatted to others and himself, constantly muttering or rambling or laughing. Techno was the only one usually silent. But he didn’t need to talk—not over the gentle rumble from Phil’s throat, or the soft syllables that drift and dance through the open space from Wilbur’s muttering lips.
So, no. The “before” wasn’t necessarily quiet.
The “now,” however, is definitely classified as “loud.”
Once the kid’s fever went down, and he gulped down water as though he’d never had any in his lifetime, the kid talked as though a radio: persistently, loudly. Neverending. At least radios had an off button. A volume switch. Neither of which Tommy had.
Tommy was loud in the mornings, and loud in the evenings. He was loud when he was happy, and loud when he was mad, and loud when he felt anything at all, which he was. Tommy seemed to be feeling everything, all of the time. And he always let everyone know.
Dinners might have been a reprieve, had Tommy had any manners. Yet the food underneath him never lasts long. There is never a savoring of what’s on his plate, nor any sort of saving for the future. Tommy simply eats like a starved hound, desperate and with teeth. His fingers are nimble and frantic, and his eyes are not unlike an animal’s.
In the few short minutes it takes Tommy to eat his food, it is quiet.
It’s almost not long enough; yet, as it happens, Techno can’t stop the discomfort that seeps through the silence. Techno almost wishes he would speak through the food in his mouth.
Anything to block the uncomfortable way Tommy ravages anything in front of him. Anything to hide the fact that Tommy is malnourished, and skinny, and everyone out here is hungry nowadays, but Tommy is the only one here that bites at oatmeal and old beans as a wolf bites into a deer.
It puts a weird sort of pressure on Techno’s chest. Another thing that’s been different recently. It’s different, and the change is uncomfortable and unwanted.
“Here,” Techno finally says, two weeks after Tommy first came home with them. Tommy had been too sick to really eat much of anything the first week or so. This newfound frantic desperation has only appeared within the past three days, and Techno is already sick of seeing it. So without another word, Techno stands from his seat, pushing his bowl of oats towards Tommy.
Tommy looks at him incredulously, and Techno can feel the stares of both Phil and Wilbur from next to him, but he stubbornly keeps his eyes away from them. The minute Tommy takes the bowl, Techno turns. No point in staying to watch Tommy gorge himself some more.
Instead, Techno takes his coat and walks up to the roof. Their hideout isn’t anything too special—an old concrete building, only three stories tall. It’s crumbling and a bit unsteady, but it holds them up nicely, has multiple rooms on each floor, and has a trap door leading out to the roof. The building had been a little infested at first, but Phil, Techno, and Wilbur took a day to go through it completely. They’ve been making it through the town that way, slowly but surely—they weren’t sure how long they’ll be able to stay, but a surprise zombie attack from two buildings over wouldn’t be ideal. The sweep had been slow, but they’ve worked their perimeter pretty far. As Techno leans against the roof’s ledge, he can point out where, in the distance, they had worked out to.
But Techno didn’t come up here to think about work. The roof isn’t meant to think of anything that bothers Techno on the ground. No, the roof is the one place it’s safe for Techno to just look up. To stare at the stars, to breathe without fear of bites or stragglers. On the ground, Techno has to be tough, on guard.
On the roof, Techno can finally settle. Can take note of the way his breath puffs in the cold air, of the way stray hairs hang gently around the frame of his face, of the way the chill of the cement-wall railing presses against his palms.
“Giving me your rations was stupid.”
Can take note of the irritating kid, following him up here.
Techno turns his head as Tommy shifts along the edge of the trapdoor. He pulls himself up to the roof, collapsing next to Techno with a dramatic huff, as if he didn’t essentially just call Techno an idiot.
“Heh?” Techno grumbles, fixing Tommy with a stern glare. He had done a kind thing, giving up his own food for—essentially—a stranger. And what does the kid do in return? Insult him.
“It was stupid to give me your rations,” Tommy explains again, shifting on the edge of the roof with a kind of carelessness that has Techno tensing. “I’m not going to give it back. If you offer, I’m going to take it—so if that was some sort of test, it was a shit one.”
Techno rolls his eyes, pulling his gaze away from Tommy and back towards the sky. “Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want you to eat it.”
Tommy is quiet for a moment. “I’m serious,” he ends up saying, loud and brash, “I’m not going to be polite and shit. I’m not going to say, oh, no, Techno! I could never take your rations! ‘Cause I could take them. And I will. Bitch.”
When Techno huffs, it comes out as a tiny puff of smoke in the frigid air. “I told you, kid. I knew you were goin’ to eat it. That’s why I offered.”
There’s another moment of silence. It’s rare, considering how often the kid babbles on about nothing, so Techno takes it for the small comfort it is.
“You’re weird,” Tommy finally says, shifting again next to him. “I don’t get it. Why the fuck would you offer your food if you knew I was going to take it?”
At this, Techno turns with an eyebrow raised. “Maybe I was tryin’ to poison you.”
“Haha,” the kid deadpans, rolling his eyes. “Seriously. Why?”
The wind is cold, and Techno frowns. There’s a second where he seriously considers telling Tommy that he eats like a wild animal. That he looks starved enough, Techno could have considered him undead the moment he saw him.
Somehow, he feels as though that wouldn’t go over easily with Tommy.
So he sighs instead. “You’re a kid, Tommy.”
The kid furrows his brow. “So?”
Another puff of breath. It dissipates into the open air. “I don’t know. You were hungry, so I offered. You gonna keep fightin’ me on that?”
Tommy just stares back at him, eyebrows still furrowed as though he’s frustrated. Techno doesn’t let it get to him. He goes back to looking out towards the sky.
The sun has pretty much set, by this point. A blanket of darkness begins to drape over the sky.
There’s a small, soft intake of breath next to Techno. “Thanks,” Tommy mumbles. His foot kicks gently against the wall. “I guess.”
There’s no need to respond, so Techno doesn’t. The conversation settles much like the silence, and Techno half expects Tommy to stumble away back inside to pester Wilbur.
He doesn’t. Instead, Tommy stays put, looking out towards the same looking sky as Techno.
The silence doesn’t last long, because of course it doesn’t. Tommy starts to ramble about things that don’t matter, and Techno huffs when it’s appropriate and shushes him when he starts to yell.
For the first time, the noise doesn’t bother him. It echoes out into the open street, and Techno is too busy laughing at Tommy to even notice at all.
There comes a point where they have to go back out.
Rations aren’t scarce, necessarily, but they try not to let their supply get too low. Save it for when it’s needed. Like if a storm hits, or one of them is injured.
Or like if one of them dies, and Techno can’t stay present long enough to even know what’s going on half the time.
Phil tries to convince Techno to stay home. He doesn’t. Nothing could stop Techno from going with them on this.
If something happened to them and Techno was too late—if Techno wasn’t there at all—it would be his fault. Techno can’t do that again. He refuses to let someone get hurt again.
It’s a shame that they’ve completely spent all of the buildings within their perimeter. It means they’ll have to clear out some of the nearby buildings and hope for the best.
Techno knows these buildings will hold the undead. He knows it.
It’s why Techno rushes in before any of them can get into position.
He rushes forward before the other two even get the chance. He swings open the door and immediately begins with abandon.
It is a show of brute strength. Brutality, if any of these creatures had humanity left in them, but they don’t and they never will. So Techno swings twice as hard as he usually does. He bashes in skulls and crushes limbs and kills with such a ferocity that for a moment his mind slips again. It is not black this time that overtakes him, but red, and when Techno comes too there is nothing left standing.
Techno is panting heavily. His arms hurt with a fresh ache of soreness. The room smells of rot. Dark, spoiled blood stains the clothes Techno stands in.
Techno stumbles a single step backwards. It’s painful. It’s bitter.
When Techno turns, Phil and Wilbur are not in the room. They stand just outside the doorway.
They hadn’t even had a chance to come into the room.
Wilbur stares at him with a simmering rage in his eyes.
Phil looks at him with eyes heavy and lips tight.
Amongst the carnage, Techno slips. He doesn’t remember ever coming home, but when he blinks next, there he is. A heavy knock on the door is what brings Techno back.
Techno has to take a second to understand what’s happening, where he is. In bed, is the answer, stripped of the blood-soaked clothes from earlier. The world still feels a bit fuzzy at the edges, but Techno still stands and trudges his way to the door.
Wilbur is on the other side when he opens it. His eyes are red and his hair is wild. His face is streaked as though brushed like an old painting.
“You can’t do this,” Wilbur says immediately. He glares at Techno, his brows furrowed and his face red. His chest rises and falls in dramatic heaves, and whenever Wilbur stops speaking his lip wobbles. “You can’t,” Wilbur says again, repeats with a trembling fury.
Techno can only stare back. He is heavy. He sinks. It only serves to fracture Wilbur further.
“You—you don’t eat. You don’t eat, and you run around—Techno, what you did today—” The sentences seem to catch in Wilbur’s mouth. Always started, never finished, and Wilbur just looks angrier at the fact.
“It’s unfair,” Wilbur finally grits out. “It’s unfair, knock it off. Knock it the fuck off. You can’t keep doing this, Techno, you can’t. You—you can’t—” Wilbur’s face crumples. “You can’t leave us too.”
Wilbur breaks apart right there. Techno still says nothing. Still, his heart sinks steadily. Dread pushes down on him, a constant drowning feeling ever present in his bones, his skin, his soul.
Wilbur sleeps with him that night. He curls into Techno’s chest and sobs so loud that even when Techno slips, the cries ring out as ghostly hauntings within the haze.
The world is by no means good any more.
There is constant death and destruction. The undead roam the streets. In an effort to survive, those left alive turn on each other. Those dead tear each other apart.
Yet, Techno has found while living with Phil and Wilbur, not all is lost.
When Wilbur finds an old guitar in a music store, he plays until the sun sets. Phil finds old books and writes his own, an endeavor to inspire those left behind. The prose of Phil’s work is humble and amateur and oh-so-human, and it reminds Techno that amongst the wreckage, they are still all people. This horror has not changed that.
Tommy…complicates it.
Because Tommy adds to the good. Tommy runs and plays as though the world has never been ravaged. Tommy jokes and laughs as if this world has any peasantry left in it. Tommy sleeps with fluttering lashes and twitching fingers, as if he continues to spin and reach and live in his dreams.
Tommy is good. Tommy is some of the good left in the world.
Yet. Yet.
Tommy’s light serves to make the world look grimmer than before. It emphasizes the unfair—it is unfair that someone so young has to live through this. It is unfair that someone so good has to scrounge for food with the rest of them. It is unfair that someone like Tommy digs through shit and fights for survival and lives on a ledge.
If it is hard to bear this unfairness when Tommy is happy, it is only worse when he is upset.
When Techno goes to the roof, Tommy is already there, leaning against the short cement wall and staring out towards the ruined city.
Techno lumbers his way towards Tommy. Even as Techno stands next to him, Tommy just continues to look out. One hand clutches his hoodie. The other hand loosely holds a thin novel—one of the classics that Phil carries around—fingers fidgeting with the cover.
Techno doesn’t pressure Tommy to talk. Usually, the kid will start on his own. When he’s ready.
It takes a few minutes before Tommy speaks. “It’s so stupid,” Tommy finally says, voice exasperated and upset.
Techno glances at him from the side of his eyes. He raises an eyebrow, an unsaid motion for Tommy to continue.
With a short motion, Tommy waves the book. “Everything used to be so…”
Tommy drifts off, but Techno knows. That book was written before everything turned to ruin. Something that Tommy was probably too young to truly remember.
“Yeah,” Techno rumbles, because he understands. The moon shines a pale light upon the demolished city, and Techno understands.
“I’m just—” Tommy takes a sharp breath. “I’m just so sick of this shit,” Tommy complains. “I’m so sick of doing the same shit every day. I’m sick of the zombies, and…and the cold, and just—I’m so sick and fuckin’ tired of eating the same plain shit every day, man!”
It’s a valid complaint, but the end—complaints about boring food, rather than the brain-eating, killer creatures roaming the streets—makes Techno snort.
“I’m serious!” Tommy cries, hitting Techno’s shoulder, “Don’t laugh at me!”
Techno raises his hands in appeasement. Tommy just huffs, going back to staring out at the city landscape.
“I’m serious,” Tommy says again. “This sucks. Everything sucks. I just want…”
There’s silence as Tommy thinks, and Techno waits patiently for Tommy to dream up exactly what grand thing he’d ask for, if he could. Maybe world peace. Maybe a steady food source. Maybe for none of this to have happened in the fucking first place.
“I want something new. Something good, you know? Something I wouldn’t find in a can. Something sweet, that isn’t that gross-ass candy Wil likes. I just want…” Tommy pauses in thought. Techno waits in anticipation. “A raspberry.”
The answer catches him off guard. “Heh?” Techno exclaims, visions of world peace and comfort dissipating out of his mind.
“I don’t know!” Tommy throws his arms up indignantly. “Just—something good! You don’t think that sounds better than fucking oats and beans and shit?”
“Your one wish, and it’s for a berry,” Techno deadpans.
“This isn’t a wish, it’s a want, ” Tommy clarifies. “I’m being realistic, Tech-no-blade.”
“Sure.”
Tommy glares and grumbles. “If I had a wish, I’d wish that you were dead, if you’re gonna act like this.”
Techno rolls his eyes.
It falls silent. The conversation is probably over, but it settles uneasily within Techno’s chest. It presses uncomfortably between his heart and ribs.
“…I’m sorry,” Techno finally says, low and steady.
Tommy shifts from beside him. “What?”
Techno shifts in tandem, mouth set in a line. “I’m sorry. That…this, happened.” Techno motions outwards with one of his arms.
There’s a moment where he can just feel Tommy stare at him. Then Tommy scoffs, and the moment is broken. “Why? It’s not like this is your fault.”
Techno hums. “Still.” Still.
“Yeah. Well…” There’s a shifting, a hesitation, and then a punch on Techno’s arm. “I get to be here with you guys. So…it’s not all bad.”
Techno thinks of the rot. The destruction. The living, the dead, the undead.
Techno thinks of Phil. Of Wilbur. Of the kid next to him, bright and eager and good.
“Yeah,” Techno hums. The moon above him shines on the wreckage, and it shines along the bridge of Tommy’s nose and within his eyes. “Not all bad.”
After the night with Wilbur, Techno tries a little harder.
Maybe not in the ways that Wilbur wishes. He’s still reckless. He still can’t bring himself to eat most days—even the smell of oats and beans makes Techno feel sick. Makes him even more aware of the slow, weighted, dropping feeling in his chest. Constantly sinking with no end.
But Techno tries to be more present when they’re scavenging.
It’s hard. The haze is persistent and constant, and the thought of moonlight, or the quiet, or fucking oatmeal is enough to make Techno slip away.
He reasons with himself, but not for his own sake. If he slips, Wilbur could get hurt. Phil could be killed. It would be his fault again.
Techno doesn’t have the strength to do it again.
So he tries. He grits his teeth until his jaw hurts, and surveys the surrounding area with a low brow.
Phil and Wilbur are silent as they traverse the abandoned buildings. The only sound is of their own footsteps.
It’s quiet. It’s different.
Techno hates change.
He hates the way that Phil no longer speaks of humanity or the world or even survival. He hates the way Wilbur is void of a musical humming or rhythmic tapping of his fingers.
He hates the way there is no laughter, no rambling, no song from a raggedy, loud teenager. He hates the way there’s no voice to echo throughout the empty streets. He hates it all.
“—Techno—”
He hates the way he used to hate the noise. He thought he hated the noise. But he didn’t. He didn’t, he didn’t, he would do anything to have it back. Anything at all. Anything—
“— Techno, look out! ”
Techno snaps back into reality just in time to swing around. His pistol fires right into the skull of the zombie reaching out for him.
The bang reverberates through Techno’s head. It plays on repeat like a scratched record, and the gun in Techno’s hand is too heavy, and the body in front of Techno drops.
Techno’s hand twitches around the pistol. He stares at the dead-undead body in front of him with dawning dread. He sinks. His soul sinks.
“Techno.”
Every blink is a memory.
Blink. The rooftop.
Blink. Moonlight.
Blink. Sickness.
The gunshot rings on and on and on in Techno’s head. It is loud. Not a good sort of loud. Not Tommy’s loud.
Techno would do anything to get that back.
“Techno.”
Anything.
“ Techno .”
Techno blinks. Phil is in front of him. He’s taking the pistol from his hand. He’s standing over the undead body that Techno has just shot.
Techno’s breath is heavy as he stumbles backward.
Techno vomits right on the pavement. The sick drips from his lips as he leans forward, and it smells of rot.
They had given Tommy a gun.
In retrospect, it was a poor idea. It meant one of the adults was a gun down, while this inexperienced kid now had a weapon of destruction. The kid had pleaded and begged though, and Wilbur had been the one to bend underneath the pressure.
“Just for now, Toms,” Wilbur had said strictly, “and you have to listen to me. Okay?”
“Okay,” Tommy had whined, eyes rolling to the back of his head. He reached his arms out towards Wilbur, opening and closing his hands in a grabbing motion as he tried to grab Wilbur’s gun. “I get it, I get it, now give it!”
“Tommy,” Wilbur scolds, holding the gun up higher so Tommy can’t reach it. “Seriously, alright? Don’t be stupid with it—”
“God, Wilbur, I know , alright? Hand it over—”
“Tommy,” Techno growls, voice low and in warning. Tommy turns to look at him a bit guiltily, but Techno doesn’t have it in him to be lenient about this. “This is serious. Stop playin’ around.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” Techno cuts off. “This is a weapon. This is not a toy, this is not a joke.” Techno stands from when he had been leaning against a nearby wall. He towers over Tommy, hoping that Tommy can feel how firm he’s being on this. “You could hurt yourself with this. You could hurt someone else with this.”
From underneath Techno’s shadow, Tommy wilts a little. “Alright, I know.”
“If you have this, one of us is going to be a gun down. If you’re busy playin’ around, somethin’ could happen. To any of us, not just you. This is a responsibility, one I expect you to take seriously. Do you understand?”
Tommy stares at the ground below him. “Fine,” he mutters, all previous excitement drained out of him.
If Techno should have felt guilty, he didn’t. If a stern talking-to was what was going to keep Tommy safe, that’s exactly what he’d do. He’d be the buzzkill if it meant none of them got their heads shot off by accident.
Because, Techno had thought, that was what was most likely to happen. Tommy playing around with the gun, not practicing proper safety precautions and shooting his own foot. Or Wilbur’s foot. Or any of their feet.
Techno hadn’t expected there to be an actual situation.
Animals can’t get infected in the same way humans can. Their infections present themselves as illness, a painful sickness before they pass away—death gleam in their eyes, wounds leaking with pus and dark blood.
But seeing any animals—dogs, cats, pets—is extremely rare in this ravaged wasteland.
It would make sense that Tommy had never seen one.
It makes more sense that he wouldn’t know the animal couldn’t infect any of them.
The dog had looked rough. Death gleamed already in its eyes, tongue out and panting heavily, a blooming wound crossed along the dog’s thigh.
The dog had jumped to meet them. Had lunged towards Wilbur, eager for food, or for pets, or maybe to bite him in fear, none of them will ever know.
Because Tommy shoots it.
He somehow gets it perfect.
It rings through the building they occupy. Phil shouts, Wilbur flinches backwards so quickly he almost trips.
Tommy stares at the downed dog, chest heaving and body trembling. He turns towards Techno with wide eyes. Then he bursts into tears.
They all go home after that. Silent and packed together, Tommy shaking in between the three of them. Wilbur has his pistol back. Tommy didn’t want it anymore.
When they get home, Tommy immediately rushes off. It’s clear that he’s still upset, even though his tears had stopped at some point on the walk back to their base. Techno decides to wait a few minutes before going after him. Tommy might need some time to process by himself.
Techno looks for him on the roof first. Surprisingly, He doesn’t see Tommy against the railing. Tommy isn’t on the roof at all.
Techno frowns. Tommy loved going to the roof about as much as Techno did, by this point. It’s unusual not to see him up here.
Slowly, Techno steps down the ladder and down the hall. If Tommy isn’t on the roof, there’s really only one other place he would probably be holed up: his room. Tommy never spends too much time there—he much prefers to bond with Phil or bother Wilbur.
Yet, when Techno knocks on the door, he can hear Tommy sniffle from the other side.
“Tommy?” He knocks softly twice more. “Can I come in?”
There’s the sound of a large, wet sniffle. Then a small, trembling, “Sure.”
Techno opens the door slowly, the way he does when there might be danger on the other side. When he has to be cautious.
Seeing Tommy tucked into the far corner of his room, head pressed against the dim wall, Techno thinks he was right to be wary.
Slowly, Techno ambles towards Tommy. Tommy makes no move to get up, nor to look at him, so Techno turns and sits with a grunt.
They’re both leaned against the wall now. The view in the room isn’t as good as the view on the roof, but Techno still keeps his gaze focused on the peeling wallpaper, rather than the distressed kid next to him.
He waits for Tommy to speak first. He almost always does. This time, however, Tommy doesn’t say anything. He sniffles wetly and chokes on his own breath.
It’s obvious he’s repressing some tears, here. Techno frowns at the sound of another choked cry. After a few minutes of this, he finally turns his head to look at Tommy. “Kid.”
That one word is apparently the floodgate.
“I know,” Tommy says wetly, swiping his sleeve underneath his nose. “I know, I know. I’m being fuckin’ stupid and dumb.”
Techno’s brow furrows.
Tommy takes another large breath, still refusing to look back at Techno. “It’s just—it was just a dog—” his voice cracks on the last word, and Tommy’s own brow pinches, now, as if he’s angry at himself for it. “—and it—you told me that it was serious, and I had to be responsible if something happened, and I—I should have been ready. I should have known something would happen, so it’s all—stupid. I’m being stupid, and shitty, and—”
“Hey,” Techno interrupts. He knocks his knee against Tommy’s leg. “Stop.”
It only pauses Tommy for a moment before he continues on with shaky breaths. “We kill zombies all the time. And those are people, this shouldn’t have been a problem, I know. I know. It was just…” Tommy’s bottom lip begins to tremble, and he actively turns away from Techno to tuck further into the corner. “It was just a dumb dog.” It’s mumbled and quiet, but Techno can hear the tears.
For a moment, Techno takes in Tommy’s small, trembling form. The way he tucks in his knees and presses his hands against his chest as though trying to curl into himself.
For another moment, Techno just breathes.
Then he turns back to facing the wallpaper. “I had a dog, when the apocalypse started.”
There is no answer from Tommy. Just a small sniffle, and the sound of a shuffle.
So Techno continues. “I’d had him for a few years. Big, white, fluffy thing. I was already at home when the outbreak started. I made sure I brought him with me when I left.” The memories pinch at Techno’s heart. They’re old wounds, but it hurts to focus on. Like picking away a scab, leaving you raw and vulnerable.
Techno can hear Tommy turn to fully look at him. He keeps his own gaze trained to the wallpaper. “He was never bit. But he, uh. He got pretty injured while on the run one day. And it’s not like there were any vets I could take him to. So.” With a dry swallow, Techno waves lazily with one of his arms. He can’t find it in him to say what happened, but he knows he doesn’t have to. It’s not as though the end of the story isn’t obvious.
There is a thick silence between them.
A tight feeling settles within Techno’s throat. He tries to clear it. “You did the dog a favor, Tommy,” Techno continues. “It was in pain. He wasn’t goin’ to last much longer, anyway. He’d probably been strugglin’ for a long time. You let him pass quickly and painlessly.”
Finally, finally, Techno turns his head. Tommy looks up at him with watery eyes.
“You’re not dumb for carin’ about the dog,” Techno murmurs. “You’re a kind kid. Nothin’ wrong with that.”
When Tommy slams into Techno’s side, he’s ready for it. He tucks Tommy underneath his chin and holds him.
Techno cradles him until the tears end. And he keeps holding him after, for as long as Tommy needs him to. For as long as Tommy will have him. For as long as he can.
The night after Techno throws up in the street, Phil visits him in his room.
It’s different than when Wilbur had come.
Wilbur had been thick, red anger, misery dripping from his eyes and laced in the grip of his clenched fingers.
Phil enters rooms the same way Techno used to. Cautious. Slow. A face low and shadowed.
His eyes land on Techno. Techno, leaning against the headboard of his bed, trying to focus on anything but the lingering taste of sickness in his throat, on his tongue, stuck in his teeth.
Phil crosses the room slowly. When he sits next to Techno, it is weighted and heavy. Phil looks as though he has aged by decades.
“Techno,” Phil starts. He opens his mouth, closes it. His brows furrow a minute amount, but Techno sees it. He sees the small wrinkle as he struggles to speak, the frown as he works up what to say.
There’s a moment where Phil seems to hesitate. Then he places his hand on Techno’s knee. “Techno,” he says again, and though he says it steady, Techno can still feel the consistent sink of his own chest.
Phil looks at him, face grim and serious. “We…we can’t keep doing this,” Phil finally says.
Techno tenses, just slightly. This is different than Wilbur, demanding Techno help himself yet being able to do nothing.
Phil acts as a leader and they all know it. Right now, Phil pleads as though a desperate beggar.
“I’m worried about you, Techno. These past few weeks…” For a moment, Phil’s face crumples. For just a moment, his strength subsides. His chest trembles. His lashes flutter. Then Phil takes a breath, and it’s gone. “Please listen to what I suggest. Please.”
The anticipation is deadly. Techno’s jaw clenches; the way Phil is talking makes Techno uneasy. He knows he’s not going to like what Phil says next.
“I think we should go to the commune.”
Techno blinks. His eyebrows furrow. His chest presses a little harder. “What?”
Phil raises his hands—not in surrender. Phil raises his hands as though trying to placate an animal. “Not forever. Just…until things get…better. Better than they are now.”
Hands raised like Phil’s placating an animal—and maybe he is, because suddenly Techno’s breathing is heavier, and he has to choke down the urge to snarl. “We’re fine,” he grumbles, ignoring the way he sinks, sinks, sinks.
“Techno,” Phil says, and he looks stern once more. “No. We’re not. Wilbur’s been a wreck, you…Fuck, Techno, you scare me. You’ve been scaring me. Rushing into danger, dissociating all the time. Yesterday, with the gun, I thought…”
It falls silent. Phil doesn’t continue. He doesn’t have to.
Techno hadn’t been allowed a gun the first two weeks after Tommy’s death. Phil had thought Techno might kill himself. As retribution, as repentance. As relief.
Techno wishes, when it all happened, that he had been strong enough to turn the gun right back on himself. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t been strong enough to do anything.
Phil’s hand reaches out towards Techno’s own. “I don’t want to lose you too, Techno. I can’t.” A shaky breath. “But I feel like if we don’t go somewhere safe, something’s going to happen. To you, to Wilbur.”
Phil’s hand is suddenly suffocating. It’s too much, too heavy, and Techno pushes himself upwards off the bed just to get away from it.
“Tommy is here,” Techno breathes. His ashes lie just outside the window, his remnants soaked and brushed against the cruel soil he used to walk on. It is what’s left of the boy. Techno cannot leave him behind.
“I know,” Phil mutters. Sorrow sweeps across his features. “But he’s…he’s not here anymore, Techno. And if we stay for him, you’ll end up right beside him.”
A piercing, biting feeling gnaws at Techno’s every heartbeat.
Right beside Tommy. Where he belongs, what he deserves.
The thought is symphony. The thought is retribution, repentance. Relief.
The thought is a mercy. One that brings weakness to Techno’s knees.
Weakness that Phil must see, because he shifts in the bed with eyes that ache.
“There was nothing else you could have done,” Phil murmurs. The words feel like a blunt hit to the head. “He was bit, Techno. If you hadn’t done it then, he would have just suffered.”
The words are disgusting.
It was in pain. He wasn’t goin’ to last much longer, anyway.
As if Tommy was an animal. As if Tommy was rabid, just waiting to be put down.
Techno stumbles backward at just the thought.
“Tommy isn’t a dog,” Techno snarls. He pants. A phantom weight weighs on his palms, a ghost of cold metal seeping through his skin from his memories.
“I know,” Phil says. He looks at Techno as though he’s a tragedy. “I know. Tommy was so much more than that. And I know that makes it so much worse.”
Techno wasn’t paying attention.
“Look at these books,” Wilbur calls out to Techno. They’re all out scavenging again, though there hasn’t been much luck. The day’s been slow and long; there hasn’t been anything useful to scrounge up, and buildings have been empty of any infected. Wilbur’s begun to look for things completely unnecessary. “Do you think Phil would like any of these?”
Techno leans over with a critical eye. The small pile of books is messy, thrown against the corner of a rotting desk. None of them look particularly interesting to Techno. The one on top is a car manual. There are a few similar books underneath, all instruction manuals to one thing or another.
“No,” Techno rumbles, picking up the manual and flipping through it.
“What?” Wilbur prods, leaning over Techno’s shoulder. “You don’t think we have a need for a book that tells us…” Wilbur leans forward. “How to change the headlight?”
Techno raises an eyebrow. “As if we have a car.”
Wilbur groans, leaning heavily against Techno’s shoulder. “You don’t think we’ll ever find one?”
“No.”
“Come on. The world is huge, Techno, surely we’ll find at least one working car out there—”
They explored, chatted amongst one another. Joked as though the world was as it always was before.
But the world is not as it was before.
They should have been more aware.
When Tommy’s scream sounds, it is far away. Too far away from Wilbur and Techno. They’re sprinting out of the building before the scream even stops, shouldering open doors with full force.
They see the zombies before they ever see Tommy.
It’s a horde. They swarm and writhe like insects, and right there—right in the center of them all—
Tommy. They can hear him still, can see slips of blond hair.
They can see when he falls to the pavement. They can see the way the infected pounce.
Techno is there within a blink. He’s swinging harder, faster than he ever has, ripping the infected away, bashing through each of their skulls. Dark, rotten blood explodes outward, drenching the infected and living alike. The smell is unbearable, the blood is thick and disgusting, and Techno doesn’t care.
Wilbur and Phil are there too, somewhere. Techno doesn’t know. All Techno knows is the absolute destruction of the infected in front of them. All Techno knows is the way Tommy still lies in the street.
Techno pulls out his pistol.
With the three of them, the horde goes down easy. Techno aims his pistol at the final zombie, and with a quick pull of the trigger, it goes down.
The gun is not put away. Techno swings his aim downward.
The cold metal points right at Tommy’s forehead.
“Are you bit?”
Silence. There is a gasp as Wilbur turns to see what’s happening, but Techno doesn’t risk a single glance towards him.
Techno’s hands shake. He feels unsteady.
Techno has never missed a shot.
Tommy stares up at him from the ground. His eyes are wide and wet. They’re terrified.
“Techno,” Phil calls, arms up and walking towards him, but Techno snaps a quick, “Stay back!” and Phil stills where he stands.
Tommy just keeps staring at him. Trembling, face twisted up in betrayal. “Techno—”
“Are you infected?” Techno grits, clenching his jaw and clutching his pistol so hard, he’s sure his knuckles are white. It weighs like the world in his palm. It is as heavy as a gravestone. As heavy as a body.
Tommy stares. Wordlessly, shakily, he pulls himself up onto his feet. Techno’s pistol follows.
He’s absolutely covered in the thick, dark blood of the infected. The anticipation is painful, agonizing as Tommy wipes the sludge off of his face.
His face is clear.
Tommy wipes the sludge off of his right arm.
His right arm is clear.
Tommy wipes the sludge off of his left arm.
He freezes. His eyes snap up to Techno’s, wide, pleading. “Techno—”
Two things happen at once.
- Techno pulls the trigger.
- The world ends.
Techno turns on his feet before the bullet even hits its target.
There’s screaming. Shouting.
Techno holds his back to it all.
The gun in his palm slips and falls to the ground with a rough clatter.
Techno does nothing to stop it. He can’t move. He can’t breathe.
He is frozen as Wilbur wails behind him. He is frozen as Phil shouts from over his shoulder.
“—my god. Holy shit. Techno, we—holy shit.”
Techno can’t even look at him. His gaze is stuck forward, outward, but he doesn’t see.
His vision flashes with wide eyes, a mouth moving in pleading words, an irritated red bite on pale, youthful skin.
Techno can’t move. He is frozen as though a crumbling monument, still as though the growth that overtakes buildings has now grown over his own feet.
His heart, his chest, a weighted stone, thrown into the darkest depths.
He plummets. His soul plummets.
“Techno,” Phil is saying. Wilbur still screams. Techno stands like if he manages to stay still enough, time will still in turn. If he never moves again, nothing will move on. If he is still enough, he could live in this moment for eternity, never living with what he’s done.
Phil moves in front of him. Techno hardly notices. The blond of Phil’s hair flashes in Techno’s peripheral and the flashes of memory hit Techno like a harsh, vengeful wave. The kind that shoots through every crevice and bashes your head into the sand, holding you under.
Techno plummets. He plummets.
Phil is saying something. It’s muffled through Techno’s ears.
“Please. Techno. Help me carry him, don’t make me do this alone.”
But Techno couldn’t. Couldn’t do anything but stand, facing away as though it wouldn’t be real as long as Techno couldn’t see it.
If Techno still had the weight of the gun in his hands, it would be real. If Techno held Tommy’s weight in his arms, it would be real. So he stayed, frozen and stiff and keeping his blurred gaze on the horizon. Anything to keep from acknowledging the horror behind him.
In the end, Phil had carried Tommy alone. Techno had walked a step ahead of him the entire way. Wilbur continued to scream. In a sick twist of fate, one that made Techno want to bash his own head on the pavement until his brain spilled out, there are no zombies attracted by the noise. No, the tragedy has already come. They are already ruined.
The trip to the commune takes about three hours.
There aren’t many infected on the way there. Nothing that Wilbur or Phil couldn’t take out with a single shot.
Techno wasn’t given a gun.
For once, Techno’s mind does not slip away. Techno needs to know exactly how to get back to Tommy. He memorizes every landmark, cutting into trees and piling rocks together. Phil is silent, patient every time they stop. Wilbur helps mark their surroundings.
They’re greeted at the border of the commune. They’re surrounded by people with guns, sniffed down by dogs and forced to drop their weapons.
(During this stretch of time, guns stay pointed at all of them. For a moment, Techno wonders if he feels even half of what Tommy must have felt. The thought just about overtakes him).
They’re brought in and brought to a large room. There are only two chairs available, and Phil tells Techno and Wilbur to sit.
In another instance, Techno might have insisted that Phil take it. But Techno’s mind is rapidly slipping from earlier, so he takes the chair without argument.
He blinks. He blinks again, and there’s a woman in the room now. She stares at the three of them critically while Phil speaks.
“We can all work,” Phil is saying, hands gripping his pack. “We’re completely willing to follow orders. We just…we lost someone. Recently. Please, we need a place to stay, momentarily. Just until my friends can get back to their feet.”
The woman looks at Phil with a flat stare as he speaks. After a moment, her gaze flicks critically to both Wilbur and Techno. “They can’t work?”
Phil hesitates. “They can. They will. Just…the work out there wasn’t safe for us anymore.” Phil leans slightly forward, mumbling as if trying to be discreet, but the room is quiet. Techno hears anyway. “Techno has trouble staying present, but—but it shouldn’t impact anything of importance here. If it does, I’ll work for him. I’ll make sure we don’t fall behind.”
A sort of indignation simmers in Techno’s chest as Phil speaks. This woman doesn’t need to know. She doesn’t need to know anything about them.
The woman’s eyes flick over to Wilbur. “The other?”
“Fine,” Phil reassures, “he’ll be fine. I can handle any outbursts he might have. Please.”
The woman takes a long moment looking them all over. With a twist of her lip, she looks back to Phil. “We don’t have the time nor the resources for pity cases.”
“I know,” Phil says quickly, “we won’t be.”
She stares back at him. Long, hard.
“Please,” Phil murmurs. A plea too pitiful for someone like Phil. It makes Techno clench his fists from where they rest in his lap.
But it works. The woman sighs, looking over all of them once more. “Fine. But if you can’t pull your weight, we’re throwing you all out.”
“Thank you,” Phil breathes. His hands shake minutely from where he’s clasped them together. “Thank you.”
They’re led to a small room with bunk beds. It’s smaller than what they had before. More compact. Colder, even though their old base was cement.
But this place doesn’t have Tommy. Which means it’ll never be warm enough.
“Alright,” Phil says, clapping his hands as they put their things away. His smile is uneven. Wilbur looks miserable. Techno sinks.
“Right. They’ve offered us food, so we should go out and eat something before it’s put away. There’s a tour afterwards, as well. It’ll be good to get to know the place as soon as possible.”
Wilbur just nods. Techno sits on the bottom bunk and stares out through the old, dusty window.
“Techno?” Phil prods. “How does that sound?”
Techno grunts. He gives a short shake of his head.
A disappointed noise. “Techno.”
It’s stern, frustrated.
Techno ends up going with them.
The food is better than anything Techno’s seen in a long time. Chicken and rolls, fresh water poured into cups, rather than a plastic bottle or old flask.
Techno still can’t bring himself to eat a single bite. The smell is overwhelming. The thought of eating almost makes him want to throw up.
Wilbur pushes him to eat anyway. Techno knows he won’t. He splits his portion between Phil and Wilbur and gives it to them instead.
The same woman from earlier is the one that gives them the tour. She shows them the cowpens, the kitchens, the horse stables. More living areas, a chicken coop.
Techno’s only half-paying attention.
Then they get to a garden.
“We do have some crops here,” the woman is saying, waving lazily at the long rows of produce. There are a few people out here already kneeling, pulling weeds or harvesting. “Carrots, berries, potatoes. You name it.”
Reality snaps back as the woman finishes. A foreboding dread begins to tug at Techno’s chest.
His eyes flick up and down the rows. He knows what he’s looking for. He doesn’t know if he wants to find it or not.
Then—there. Right at the edge of the furthest row.
Raspberry bushes.
Techno’s soul does not sink. It plummets. It drops as Icarus once did: heavy, the sun just in front of him.
Raspberries. Only three hours away from where Tommy was. He could have had them.
If Tommy had been here, he would have been safe all along.
Techno can’t stop staring at them. Can’t stop the way his very being drops, drops, drops.
It feels impossible to move. Every part of Techno is completely locked up. Completely still, every muscle tense. There is a phantom-weight in his palm.
This time, he cannot look away.
Techno doesn’t know how much longer he stands there frozen, staring outwards. Phil ends up dragging him away. He assumes that Techno’s dissociating again.
But no. Not this time. This time, Techno is so aware it hurts. Techno cannot look away. Techno cannot stop thinking about it.
It’s quiet once they all lie down to sleep. The dark from outside shines through the old window.
Quiet.
Quiet like it never was before.
And Tommy—
Tommy—
Techno is out of bed before he even realizes he’s gotten up. He shoulders open the door, ignoring the way that he can hear Phil call out for him from behind.
Within moments, he’s back in the garden. It’s dark, but Techno remembers exactly where he needs to be. He doesn’t bother stopping or kneeling—he rips an entire branch off of the berry bush in one solid motion.
Then he’s back to running again.
The moon provides just enough light as Techno sprints out of the commune walls and out into the woods. There are a few shouts from those at the barrier, but Techno doesn’t care. His heart pounds in his chest as he runs, every step feels as though the ground beneath him could crumble into nothing.
It doesn’t matter. Techno clutches onto the raspberry branch as if it were a cure.
Blood rushes through his ears. Wind beats and tears at Techno as he ducks under branches, following a trail of stones and marked trees. Any thoughts, any reasoning is beaten away under the burn of Techno’s legs, under the debilitating feeling of everything falling in on itself.
Techno runs until the forest gives way to field. Techno runs until the field gives way to crumbling city.
Panting, sweating, trembling with exertion and pain, Techno drops to the ground right outside their cement base.
The soil is freezing. Techno places his palm against it slowly, softly. Cradling the dirt that Tommy’s ashes have sunk into.
Techno pushes his fingers into the dirt with trembling hands. They move tenderly, gently, as if Tommy is still here, and Techno is trying desperately not to hurt him any further.
Pounding footsteps sound from behind Techno. A heavy panting, a muttered, “Christ, mate.”
Techno doesn’t turn. Just digs a small hole in the dirt, before taking the branch and picking off a few berries. He places them carefully into the hole. With the same trembling hands, he pushes the dirt back on top, carefully covering what he’s just buried.
Then he leans back.
He leans back, and the raspberries are buried where Tommy sleeps.
It’s over.
It’s all over.
The air is piercing. There is no chance of slipping away—everything feels real. For the first time since the end of the world, there is no haze.
He is no longer sinking. The stone has reached the bottom of the ocean floor.
There is nothing left to do but break apart.
“He—” Techno’s voice catches. This is real. He cannot look away, cannot pretend. It is painful. “He…he wanted raspberries,” Techno explains hoarsely over his shoulder. Phil deserves to understand, but the pain is visceral. It rips through Techno’s veins and tears his ribcage in half. It shakes through his fingertips and stings within Techno’s eyes.
There is no escaping. The pain is excruciating. Techno doesn’t know if it’ll ever stop.
“Techno…”
Tommy lies in this soil, somewhere. Not as a boy, soaking in the sun, or as a child gazing at the stars.
The sound that rips out of Techno’s mouth is almost inhuman.
In anguish, in agony, Techno leans forward, pressing his forehead against the soil beneath him.
Underneath Phil’s arm, Techno weeps. The rooftop looms above him, and the moonlight brushes the soil the way it used to brush the cheeks of an eager kid.
The stars shine above as though lit candles throughout a funeral procession.
But there is no funeral. Just the ashes of a boy and a man, crumbling over the end of the world.