TW - Blood, guns, corpses, knives, concussion, and ZOMBIES (crazy, I know!)
Present Day
The cold water was refreshing. It reminded Ranboo of waking up at home in the winter, and attempting to wash his face in the freezing tap water. It was nice, having something to remind you of what you left behind. Of course, that house was probably abandoned and crawling with zombies, if it hadn't already been torn down. His parents had decided that with his 'fantasies', they shouldn't be living in a place like the old house surrounded by forest for miles. So they packed up and left. Simple as that.
Tubbo was still fast asleep, snoring softly. Ranboo let him get the rest, seeing as he had been up all night with nightmares. Ranboo pretended not to notice, but he was always a little nervous each time Tubbo began tossing and whimpering, sometimes yelping. But Tubbo never offered any reason for the dreams, and Ranboo never asked. He would just hug Tubbo and let him cry. Then they would both try to go back to sleep. They needed their energy, having to run every day.
Drying his face with the sleeve of his shirt, Ranboo tucked his soaking hair behind his ears. He didn't know why he tried, he realized as he pulled the bloodstained mask on (the original colors having been white and black). He would be covered in even more blood, sweat, and dirt by the end of the day. Just like every other day. He sighed softly, leaning back onto his toes and ignoring the mud that covered his jeans. He reached blindly to his side, groping around until his hand hit metal. He froze for a moment, going back to the moment days before when he had first used it. The woman was innocent, albeit the whole turning into a zombie part of the equation. He didn't like thinking about that, though, and thus continued until he found his jacket.
Feeling somewhat warmer, he looked up. Scanning their encampment, as he did every morning. The small remains of a campfire that they had used as a nightlight, the wool blankets he had stolen from a camping store on the highway, the two backpacks stuffed to the brim with stolen items, and the small lump under the blankets, shivering in the crisp air. The whispering trees. The rocks that looked ready to fall on them any minute now. The abandoned bridge that stretched along above them. The bubbling creek. He didn't like to think about the day when they would have to leave it and head back into whatever world they had come back to.
He didn't like thinking about a lot of things anymore.
His eyes lazily drifted across the water, landing on a small form on the hill, struggling to silently make its way down to the water. His hand immediately went to the rifle beside him as he watched the young deer limp down the hill, decaying skin hanging from its face and ribcage. The sight disgusted him, but it was one he had become used to in the days since it started.
The deer snorted, her eyes scanning the forest. They weren't alive anymore. She was too far gone, Ranboo realized with growing grief as she turned, revealing dried blood covering her neck and upper body. He could just barely make out several bones appearing in her thinning coat. Those dead eyes, as wide as the tin bowls Ranboo and Tubbo ate out of and as dead as the moon, landed on him. Her nostrils flared, her fury visible from where Ranboo waited, his hand frozen on the rifle.
Move.
The voices screamed at him, their voice overlapping and relaying the same message, over and over and over again. Move. Move. Move. Move. He slowly stood up, his boots sinking slightly in the mud. Just another pair of tracks that would stay until the water washed them away. The last traces of humanity. He freed himself, backing up towards Tubbo and raising the rifle. As he flipped the safety off, he prodded at the lump of blankets.
"Tubbo."
His companion sat up immediately, having already been awake for a while. He was wearing an oversized button up shirt that they had found in one of the only houses that had been on the long and winding road they had followed for God knows how long. After his last shirt got clawed to pieces by the same zombie Ranboo had tested the rifle on, and with winter fast approaching, they needed to get at least something that could protect him.
Tubbo's eyes, swollen and red, scanned the landscape, landing on the deer that now stood at the edge of the water. Ranboo pursed his lips, his jaw clenching as he motioned at the camp. "I'll kill it if you get the stuff in the backpacks."
Tubbo nodded, launching himself out of the blankets and going for the dirty dishes they had used the night before to eat some of the food they had found. The first food they had found in weeks. They would have to clean them out at the next camp. Tubbo shoved them into his bag, grabbing the blankets and Ranboo's knife, tossing him the knife and pushing the blankets into the bag.
"Get to the top of the hill, keep the knife with you," Ranboo lowered his voice to a whisper, remembering how Tubbo hated killing the creatures, even if they already were dead. Tubbo nodded, grabbing the backpacks and running for the top of the hill. He knew how to use a knife, even if he didn't enjoy it. They all had to know how to use weapons. For their own safety.
The young doe bleated in agony, her eyes filled with pain for a moment as she stumbled on a rock. Ranboo flinched slightly as the sound echoed throughout the ravine they were in. His hands trembling slightly, he raised the rifle. The doe stared at him, seeming to know exactly what was happening. He held his breath as his bloody finger moved for the trigger, ready to put the animal out of its misery.
With a loud bang, the animal crumpled to the ground. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at the doe. It seemed too easy, and a part of him wanted to go around and kill every one of the zombified creatures. Then he remembered; they only had five bullets left. The rifle was only for when they needed it from then on. They would use knives or anything else they found before risking their bullets. At least until they found some more.
Ranboo turned, running towards the hill. He didn't want to stay with the thing he had murdered. It reminded him of how he was becoming a killer to survive. He was becoming the very thing he hated.
His foot slipped in the mud, his free hand grabbing at a branch to keep himself upright. The rough bark cut into his hand, small beads of red trailing down his wrist. The injured hand brushed against metal, making him flinch and recoil. His breath trembling, he glanced around the corner of the tree branch. A knife, lodged into the bark. Not Tubbo's, he was sure of that. He reached for it, his hand curling around the handle as he pulled it out. He could just barely feel something carved into the handle.
Initials. He was sure of it. C.P. He didn't remember anyone by the name of C.P., although he didn't seem to remember a lot anymore. He would have to ask Tubbo if he knew. Ranboo shoved the knife into the pocket of his jacket, flipping it closed as he did so. He slung the rifle over his shoulder, feeling calmer as he did so. He was so close to being out, and then they could continue north.
He began climbing again, catching sight of sunlight filtering through the leaves that would soon fall. It must have rained overnight, as his feet kept sinking in the mud. They might have to stick to paved roads if it stayed like this. His hand reached for the next branch, feeling lichen poke at his hand as he leaned his weight on it. He raised his boot, aiming for a small ledge with trampled poison ivy growing from it. He heard a loud crack, his hand still wrapped around the broken branch. He yelped, scrambling to grab ahold of anything that could keep him from falling. He caught sight of Tubbo, appearing on the edge of the hill, grabbing at Ranboo's hand. Missing. Helplessly watching.
He slipped through the mud, quickly rolling down the hill. His arms swung wildly, grabbing pieces of bark that broke off in his hands. It almost felt like flying, he realized as he blindly fell towards the ground. At least, until he hit the ground, his head slamming against a rock.
Question: Favorite animal?
