Work Text
This is not good, not good at all. The opposite really. It's the worst possible scenario. The worst possible fucking thing that could have happened to Tommy in this terrible ass world he's stranded in. Tommy got bit. He got bit by a fucking zombie. In the middle of the zombie apocalypse, Tommy absolutely failed at doing the one thing he's supposed to strive to do the most in this destroyed world: avoid zombies, and by association, avoid turning into a zombie. Shit, he's so stupid. No, this whole situation is stupid. Tommy tried his best to get away, but the zombies that Tommy and the rest of the survivors in this apocalyptic world fear aren't slow and lumbering like they are in movies. While they might not necessarily have the speed of track stars, they are quick and surprisingly silent. That's how Tommy got caught: they snuck up on him while he was searching for food like he does every couple of days once it's his turn. Fuck. The pain is barely tolerable. It’s like Tommy can feel every single cell that’s morphing from an ordinary teenage human into a braindead and brain-hungry monster. No longer human, no longer Tommy. He hopes the others don’t find him wandering the streets as one of the millions of undead corpses. Oh prime, Tommy hopes they are the ones to kill him. Tears well in Tommy’s eyes, whether from the pain or the crushing weight of this dreadful reality, he can’t tell. But Tommy doesn’t let them fall either way. He sucks them back in, blinking them away, and willing them not to fall. Water is precious after all, and Tommy isn’t going to dry himself out prematurely. No, Tommy isn’t going to die, not yet. He’ll make sure of it. Gritting his teeth against the waves of pain that wash over his body, Tommy leans against the crumbling brick wall of the grimy yet deserted alley he sought refuge from the zombies in. Tommy hisses through his teeth as he pulls his jacket sleeve up. The material is soaked with blood and sticks to Tommy’s skin, making the process even more agonizing, but after a moment, Tommy lets out a relieved sigh as he pulls the jacket out of the way. The second of respite is gone as quickly as it came, though, as Tommy fully sees the mutilation the zombie who bit him left behind. Tommy’s arm is covered in an unhealthy amount of thick red blood. Just that sight alone makes Tommy gag. The bite, located on Tommy’s forearm, is deep and jagged. The chunk of flesh that is missing from Tommy’s arm is grotesque with blood pumping over exposed muscle and bone and strings of skin either barely hanging on or dangling over the wound. Small amounts of green liquid oozes out of the raw flesh and green veins travel up Tommy’s arm from the bite. Bile rises in Tommy’s throat at the sight, and he doubles over the side as he vomits beside him. Throwing up what little Tommy had to eat today and the disgusting burning taste it leaves in his throat distracts him from the pain radiating from his arm. When Tommy finally stops vomiting, he wipes his mouth on the arm of his already ruined jacket, figuring that it’s already gross enough with blood to have a little bit of vomit make any real difference. He’s sure this won’t be the last time he throws up today, even if his stomach is hollow. Hesitantly, Tommy looks back down at his arm, focusing on the veins traveling up under his skin rather than the gruesome and gaping bite mark. Tommy’s skin in pale and the green veins that are spreading from the wound are stark against his pallor. He’s seen these same veins on other people who had been bitten. His dad had veins all over his shoulder, his mom had them on her leg, his friends on necks and stomacks. Not all of them survived being bitten, but the ones who did showed the signs of transformation. And now Tommy is one of them. Tommy knows there is no cure, no medications or antibiotics that can stop the spread of infection. Governments, pharmaceutical companies, all of them tried to create a solution but nothing worked. Once bitten by a zombie, you’re guaranteed to turn into one. There are only two ways to avoid the cruel fate: end it all before you fully zombify or get rid of whatever is infected. From experience, Tommy has seen how it takes only a couple of hours to fully become a zombie. Tommy was bitten about twenty minutes ago. He has time. He can do this. Tommy weakly grabs his backpack which sits next to him on the dirty alley ground. One handed, he reaches in and rummages around for what he’s looking for: his measly collection of first aid supplies and his hunting knife. He spreads the supplies out beside him: a single roll of bandages that is a fourth gone already, a couple superhero themed bandaids, and a few antiseptic wipes. The knife stays in his hand. With his teeth, Tommy unsheathes the knife, holding the leather that covered the slightly dull blade in his mouth. The veins have spread up to his bicep, thankfully not yet to his shoulder. Pain and feverish warmth radiates from his arm, screwing Tommy’s face up in pain as he bites down harder on the leather. Now Tommy doesn’t know really anything about first aid. The extent of his knowledge extends to about how you should clean the wound and yours hands. He thinks maybe you’re supposed to clean the equipment, too? But Tommy doesn’t have time or water to do all that. His water bottle is halfway full, and he needs to save that for actually drinking. If that’s the wrong thing to do, sue him! Blame the fucking zombie apocalypse for causing him to not finish high school. Tommy lowers the blade on the skin of his arm, an inch or so above where the sickly green veins visibly end. He knows better, though, he knows that they never stop spreading until the heart has finished pumping and the brain has begun rotting out of the victim’s ears. He won’t let himself meet that end, he’ll be the only one in his family to survive this fucking apocalypse. His heart beats loudly in his ears in anticipation, and the pain doesn’t cease. He presses the blade down harder and clenches his teeth tighter together against leather in his mouth. Despite it all, he can’t close his eyes. If he does, he knows he won’t open then, won’t go through with this. Won’t survive. Once the knife breaks skin, Tommy’s entire body is overwhelmed in pain. Tears spring to his eyes once again but he painfully holds them back as he continues pressing the knife down, cutting through skin. Fresh blood washes down his arm, mingling with the excess from the bite wound. The blade slices through skins and muscle. Tommy screams against the leather, trying terribly to keep quiet so as to not draw the zombies’ attention but failing miserably. When the knife hits bone, Tommy doesn’t think he can keep going, but he knows he has to. He doesn’t want to leave, not yet, and if this is the price he has to pay for that, then so be it. (But FUCK why couldn’t someone have created a cure before the world went to absolute shit?!) Sawing through bone turns out to be quite the endeavor. Somehow, Tommy bites back his tears the entire time despite the absolute agony wracking his body. The knife struggles through the bones of his arm, causing Tommy to have to hack away at it, mutilating his body even further. His throat goes hoarse from his screams as quickly as the knife and the shaky hand that holds it are coated in sticky red blood. It seems like a lifetime later when the knife finally cuts through the remaining flesh and skin of Tommy’s arm, giving way on the other side. The severed arm falls limply to the ground, the ugly bite wound and green veins taunting Tommy from its spot on the alley ground, surrounded by a crimson puddle. Tommy drops the knife, spits out the leather, and doubles over vomiting again, this time mostly water. Tommy’s whole body feels like it’s aflame. He shudders and trembles, his skin is paler than he’s ever seen before, and blood continues to gush from his shoulder. Tears that he held back burn ever present in his tired blue eyes. Tommy can already feel the weight of his missing appendage, which doesn’t make sense. How can he feel pain and weight of a limb that isn’t there? Is Tommy going crazy? Tommy laughs, feeling like he’s going delirious as blood loss and unshed tears blur his vision. Maybe he is. Maybe he fucking is. Dimly, as if barely conscious, Tommy sluggishly grabs the roll of bandages and wraps his shoulder and stub. He tears the bandage with his teeth and fastens the ends with the bandaids and shreds of his definitely ruined jacket. When Tommy finishes wrapping what remains of his arm and putting his little supplies away, wiping off and resheathing the hunting knife he’ll never look at the same again, he leans dependently against the chipped and flaking brick wall. His chest rises and falls heavily with labored breaths as the adrenaline and agony that was fueling him drains into a numb overwhelming sense of lingering pain. “Fuck,” Tommy groans quietly. He gazes down at his severed arm, the sight wanting him to throw up again, but there’s nothing for him to vomit. Tommy doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at his arm, at the gore and vile ooze that was wrought upon him quicker than it ended, but when he finally snaps out of it and looks up at the sky, he sees it’s getting dark. A pit opens in Tommy’s stomach. He’ll need to get moving, get back before night falls and the zombies become even more active than they were earlier this afternoon. Gritting his teeth and bracing himself, Tommy slings his backpack over his shoulders and uses the wall to push himself to his feet. Tommy nearly falls over immediately, his body struggling to accommodate for the missing arm. “Shit,” he grumbles as pain flairs and he struggles to stay balanced and upright. After a few moments of acclimating, Tommy takes a few slow steps forward. He manages to stay standing, so long as he has something nearby to help him keep his balance. He considers grabbing his detached arm and bringing it with him but decides against it. It serves him no purpose now. And so, Tommy slowly, painfully, and unsurely sets off back to the only place and people that he can really call “home” in this apocalyptic world. It takes longer than usual due to Tommy’s trudging pace, but he eventually gets back to the boarded up and slightly rundown house on Bee Street that he has resided in since his entire family died. Tommy barely makes it through the gate before the front door opens and a familiar brunette rushes down the steps, barreling toward Tommy. Tommy plasters on a big smile, hiding his pain while also being genuinely excited to see his friend. “Hey, ma-.” Tommy is cut off by a harsh slap to his face. His head whips to the side, his eyes wide and already watering. “Where were you?!” Tubbo shouts angrily, although his voice is still low enough not to attract unwanted attention. “It’s dark, you were supposed to be back before dark!” Behind Tubbo, Tommy sees Ranboo cautiously exit the house, too, standing in the shadows of the porch. Even from the yard, Tommy can tell when Ranboo sees why Tommy’s posture is lopsided, why there’s an ever-present grimace etched onto his face, why what remains of his tattered and gross jacket is limp rather than full. “Tubbo-” Ranboo tries to interject, but Tubbo doesn’t let them. “No, don’t defend him! He needs to know that he can’t keep doing this!” Tubbo fumes and points a finger up at Tommy. Despite the height different between them that ranges in Tommy’s favor, Tubbo is quite intimidating when he wants to be. “We were scared something happened! That you weren’t coming back! What if you had been bit or killed?!” Tommy can’t help but flinch, and that’s when Tubbo finally focuses back on Tommy instead of his anger. Finally, Tubbo’s eyes slide over Tommy’s form, checking to see if he’s safe and all in one piece, but when Tubbo’s gaze falls on Tommy’s missing arm, all the fight leaves him, replaced by panic. As Tubbo closes the short distance between them, frantically asking questions and inspecting Tommy’s stub, Ranboo leaves the porch and also comes over. He looks down at Tommy sadly and worried. Tommy tries to smile at his two friends, but the pain still courses through his body and his tears still wish to fall, and he just feels so broken. Ranboo, fucking Ranboo, sees this and before Tommy can protest, draws the blonde into a careful hug. Tubbo wastes only a second before he joins it. And Tommy… Tommy can’t help but finally cry. He held the tears in subconsciously because he’s a big man, nearly a legal adult before the world ended. But now, now Tommy’s with the only people he has left in this destroyed world. He’s as safe as he’ll ever be, and while he’s missing an arm now, he knows he’ll have these shoulders to weep on. And as Tommy ugly sobs against his friends, zombies roam the streets around them, and Tommy’s abandoned arm sits rotting in an alleyway, left alone even by the most desperate of rats who starve with no humans left to feed them.