Work Text:
If Wilbur hadn’t been going to hell before, he sure as hell was now. He was a sinner and he barely had the heart to feel guilty about it.
That could just be the bite talking.
“It's just a scratch, don't worry.”
They all seemed to believe him. They easily took his word for it because why would he lie? What reason could he have?
A small piece of him, the human part, yearned for them to notice. To cast him out now so they would still have a chance. Any of them, just one person, to look at him in disgust and push him away. Or; better yet, turn the weapons against him and not hesitate to fire. End him before he's too far gone to tell friend from foe.
Tell him to leave and he will turn the other way and walk into the hoard.
The other part, the one that was growing and spreading, screamed for them to stay in the dark until it was too late. So that they may all be doomed together.
“It's nothing, I promise.”
It was anything except that.
Maybe it was to ease their worry. They all had enough to think about without a possible infected. The zombies hurling themselves at them from around every corner was more than enough to worry about.
Maybe he was trying to convince himself that it was nothing more than the others.
Pressing a hand to the wound, Wilbur continued on walking through the tunnels. He was ahead of the group, a gun held securely in his other hand. He was the protector, it was his job to protect everyone else now that he had already been doomed.
If he ignored the fact that he was dragging them all down with him by staying, he could pretend his actions were vaguely heroic.
Wilbur was not a hero, he knew that much. He was just a fool who was steering a ship into a storm instead of giving up the wheel. If he were a braver man he would throw himself overboard.
He's a coward. He accepted that as truth when he noticed the bite and the words “it’s just a scratch” came tumbling out of his mouth. Wilbur always thought that he was a loving person, he thought he always put his loved ones above himself.
Could the bite change a person’s nature? Or was it just revealing that all along he was just like everyone else.
A selfish coward. A liar.
Was it hot in these tunnels? No one else seemed to be sweating as much as him. It could have been the running, but the cold chill creeping up from his arm and settling deep into his bones told him otherwise. Wilbur wished he could sit down for even a minute. He wished he was 10 years old again and asking his mother for another blanket. Truthfully he wished for a lot more. For this apocalypse to have never happened, to be watching a news station that wasn't reporting the on going deaths and diseases. A meal would be wonderful too.
More time would be his biggest wish. A chance to make it out of these dark tunnels where the groans of zombies echoed from every corner.
Wilbur wanted to see the sun. Just one last time. Maybe the warm rays could chase away the icy cold that was soon to freeze his heart, his humanity. He never thought that this would be how his life ended. An idea had been planted in his head that he would go peacefully, surrounded by his loved ones at an old age.
It was a bullet or the bite, he didn't know which would be worse.
It was starting to get harder to think, Wilbur was scared he didn't have much time left. He needed to tell someone or to get away.
“Take my shoulder, take my shoulder here” Charlie offered.
Wilbur stumbled into Charlie’s support, forcing his feet to keep moving.
“We can do it man. We’re almost there!”
Without Charlie there he wouldn't have made it this far, his legs would have given out and left him for the hoard.
“I feel hot,” Wilbur breathed. The damp air was sticky against his dry tongue.
‘It’s like in my- in my veins,” He gasped.
“You are hot!” Charlie tried a joke, “You’re so hot, man! You’re hot!”
“Thank you so much,” Wilbur laughed.
“Think sexy! Think sexy!” Charlie encouraged him.
It was supposed to be a distraction, Wilbur knew that. He decided to indulge, let his mind be swept away by the silly jokes in hopes the pain would be forgotten.
“I’m thinking so sexy,” Wilbur tried to smile, though he's sure it was a grimace.
Wilbur could keep going, if only for a little longer.
His time was running out.
Phil was telling them about an escape route, a real escape route. A way out of these damn tunnels. There was hope, and Wilbur could see the relief in all of their faces even if they tried not to show it.
They all wanted to live, to survive. And to do that? Wilbur needed to do one more thing before his time ran out.
“Charlie, come with me. I need to speak to you,” Wilbur said.
I need to speak to him before it’s too late.
“You, you okay, man?” Charlie asked as he followed him around the corner.
“Yeah, man.”
“What’s up, man?
“Look, they’re talking about,” Wilbur paused to breath, “ess-escaping,” he barely got the words out as another wave of pain washed over him.
“Oh shit, hey hey hey hey hey-” Charlie rushed beside him.
“No, no, yeah it's cool, it's cool. I’m cool. I’m cool,” He waved off the concern.
“I’m fine.”
His knees started to feel weak and he pressed himself against the nearest wall. Wilbur didn't have time for this, he had to talk to Charlie about- about what again?
“You’re actually not cool. You’re really fucking hot,” Charlie put a hand on his back.
“I know, I know,. I stink,” Wilbur stressed. He doesn't have enough time .
“You’re really burning up.” Charlie put his other around Wilbur to keep him semi upright.
“Listen,” Wilbur breathed.
He needed to tell Charlie. Tell Charlie what?
He needed Charlie to just listen. What was he going to say?
Why couldn’t Wilbur remember? Was the tunnel getting warmer or was he just getting hotter?
“I need to ask you some questions, man.” His head was getting foggy, but he just needed to do this then he could rest.
“Anything for you, man,” Charlie said.
Wilbur wanted more time to get to know Charlie, but maybe this was all he had.
Charlie was talking. Something about his mother and hot dogs. Wilbur wasn't really listening, not processing any of the words. But having Charlie just talk was nice. It made this all seem a bit more normal.
Wilbur could feel himself smiling. He tried to look in Charlie's direction, to let his friend know that he was listening. It was just so much effort, turning his head was as much work as running away from the zombies.
His arm was burning with pain. His muscles all hurt, his lungs fought to keep taking air in. Wilbur wanted to scream. To collapse to the floor and just sob and cry and curse the universe for having his story end like this.
Charlie was still talking about hot dogs so WIlbur chose to focus on that instead. Charlie was always easy to listen to. He was quick to make you laugh. Even now Wilbur could still smile while his friend spoke. Wilbur hummed and nodded when there was a sentence break, wanting Charlie to keep talking over the pain in his body.
“I think those dogs are what started all of this,” Charlie admitted.
Wilbur must have reached the point of being delirious. Charlie? His friend Charlie starting this apocalypse? It sounded too stupid to be true. He couldn't think right now, his head hurt. Not just from the bite, but from all the information being thrown at him.
“Have you ever had a really good spaghetti bolognese with meatballs?” Wilbur interrupted.
Charlie paused. A silence stretched over them before, “No? I only eat hot dogs.”
Ah. That made a lot of sense actually. More than anything else Charlie had been saying.
“Can I describe?” Wilbur asked. He thought it sounded more like a plea though.
“Lay down. Lay down. Lay down,” Charlie helped to ease him onto the ground.
“Is this your favourite food?” Charlie asked. Wilbur nodded his head as he blinked slowly.
Charlie sounded softer than before and Wilbur thinks he knows why. Wilbur knew he was nearing the end. His end. Charlie knew too by the sounds of it. He knew everything.
“Here, tell me about it, okay? Tell me about your favourite food,” Charlie urged.
“I- I- there was- so- There's a word they use,” Wilbur struggled to say, “in a little country you may have heard of called- called Rome.”
He was breathing heavily, he was breathing. Why did it feel like he was suffocating? His lungs weren't cooperating.
“The word spaghetti?” Charlie asked, gently squeezing his arm.
Wilbur only now noticed that they were sitting, well Charlie was sitting. Wilbur was propped up against his friend, Charlie was keeping him upright and letting him lean against his arm instead of the cold wall.
Wilbur gasped for more air, his lungs burning, ‘Al dente. Of the tooth.”
“Now what you do is you cook the spaghetti, until it's just cooked through enough,” Wilbur explained with closed eyes. This was helping.
“Oh, that sounds so good!” Charlie pushed the conversation forward, seeing the stuttered rise and fall of Wilbur’s chest.
“That is al dente .”
Wilbur was cold now, chills wracking his rapidly weakening body in violent waves. His forehead was sticky with sweat and he probably looked like he should be six feet under already.
Maybe he could just think about the spaghetti, the smells and the tastes. Sitting around a dining room table with everyone. Phil, Tommy, Ranboo, and Charlie. All laughing and smiling. Not an ounce of worry or dirt on their faces. It would be warm outside, the sun would be coming in through an open window. Tommy would knock something onto the floor and Ranboo or Charlie would make a silly comment about it while Phil would sigh.
Wilbur would be with them all.
“You mix in some tomatoes, some onions. Caramelised is the best,” Wilbur was almost sure he could smell it.
“Throw on some meatballs, some purée. Mix it all together,” He lost his train of thought for a second, “You don't know what I would- I would kill for some hot dogs and ketchup and bolognese.”
“No, no, no-” Charlie repeated.
“Bolognese spaghetti, hot dogs,” Wilbur opened his eyes to look at Charlie.
“No hot dogs,” Charlie looked down. Charlie didn't want to think about the hot dogs, not while Wilbur was like this (infected, bitten, because of the hot dogs).
“Just think of the bolognese, okay?” Charlie begged.
“I feel, I feel- are you feeling like a radiating in your face?” Wilbur brought a hand up to his cheek.
“No, not even close,” Charlie shook his head.
“I’m feeling, it’s like up through my nodes,” Wilbur closed his eyes again. It was like fire in his veins, the source being from his arm but it's travelling through his entire body now. It’s too late to stop it, the fire spreads along with the infection.
He blinked slowly, the dark tunnels coming back into his vision. Charlie was talking. About the food maybe? It was getting hard to hear the words, he could only hear the loud heartbeats of everyone. Of his friends in the next room, of Charlie who was next to him.
“I want you to close your eyes,” Charlie said slowly, “and I want you to picture that bolognese, okay?”
“Mhm,” Wilbur listened, the picture of his favourite meal and his favourite people coming to mind.
“Did you go to the bolognese?” Charlie asked, his words sounded tight. Charlie felt a lump in his throat. He didn't want to do this, everyone was supposed to make it out. It wasn't fair.
And it was all his fault. This was the least he could do for Wilbur, to take his pain away.
“I’m there, I’m there,” Wilbur relaxed into Charlie’s arms.
“You’re at the bolognese. Now I want you to take a bite on three, okay?” Charlie brought his hands to Wilbur’s head.
“I want you to take a bite. Alright, on three,” Charlie choked out.
This wasn't fair. Wilbur trusted him, he was leaning against Charlie like Charlie could protect him from the evil in the world. Charlie couldn't do that, he brought the evil to them all. He did this to Wilbur and what he was about to do was unforgivable, yet it was still better than anything he had done so far. What kind of a person did that make him if murder was the kindest thing he could do?
If he were religious he would call himself a sinner.
“Okay, one-” Charlie cut himself off, holding back a sob.
Wilbur didn't even know what was going to happen.
Charlie was holding onto him, his grip barely grounding Wilbur to reality. It didn't make sense, Wilbur was being turned and he was dangerous. Still, Charlie was there. Next to him, holding him, comforting him. Giving him one last good memory.
He wished he appreciated their hugs more.
He hoped they all knew how much he cared about them.
If Wilbur had been in the right state of mind he might have cried. Sobbed for his life cut short, screamed for unfair cards than he had been handed. He would consider himself lucky that he didn't have the energy for that. Charlie’s hold was nice, he didn't want it to be ruined by tears.
“Two-”
Why was Charlie holding him? Wilbur was tired, and all he could hear was the voice in the back of his mind whispering to think about the bolognese and that was a much better thought than whatever he had been thinking of before.
What was he thinking of before?
He let himself get lost in fantasies of home cooked meals and familiar yet nameless faces take hold of him. In his dreams there were four people with him, talking to him, hugging him. He should know them but his tired mind couldn't come up with the names.
The arms touching him faded into the background. If he could fall asleep then maybe he could be with the people from his fantasy. They were warmer than whenever he was.
He felt his heartbeat start to slow, his breaths evening out, his eyelids getting heavy. All sensations started to fade except for the heartbeats ringing in his ears. They were not his own but he was much too tired to think about that.
He wanted to stay here forever.
“Three!”
Only one heart was beating.