Bitter Murmur | Abby Anderson x Male Reader

Chapter 23

Y/N's eyes snapped open, the whispers in his head a distant memory. He was in a clearing, the moon casting a silver glow across the sea of decayed faces that surrounded him. His heart raced, his breath coming in shallow gasps that seemed to echo through the quiet night. The walkers' eyes, once lifeless, now gleamed with a semblance of intelligence, a spark that sent a shiver down his spine.

"We are the whispers," a gruff voice said, and he realized it was one of the walkers speaking to him. Its jaw hung open, the words a macabre dance of air through decaying vocal cords.

Y/N stared in disbelief as the words registered in his mind. The whispers he had heard for so long, the ones that had been his constant companions and tormentors, were coming from these creatures? "What do you want?" he managed to croak out, his voice a dry rasp in his throat.

The walker that had spoken cocked its head to the side, the motion eerily human. "We are you," it rumbled, the words a cacophony of the undead voices around him. "We are the whispers of the lost, the echoes of the forgotten."

"We need revenge...on...the W...L...F..." another walker groaned.

The revelation hit Y/N like a punch to the gut. The whispers, the very things he had thought were a part of him, were actually the collective consciousness of the walkers. And they wanted revenge on the WLF, the very group that Abby called home.

He pushed himself up to his knees, his hand still pressed to his side, the warmth of his blood seeping through his fingers. "How?" he asked, his voice strained. "How can I bring them down alone?"

The walkers around him shifted, their decayed limbs moving with a surprising grace. "You are not alone," the first one said, its voice a chorus of the dead. "We are with you."

Y/N's mind raced, the implications of their words weighing heavy on his shoulders. If he could somehow harness the power of these whispers, could he turn the tide of their war against the WLF? Would he truly have an army at his disposal, or was this just another twisted game the whispers played in his mind?

With a trembling hand, he reached out to the nearest walker, its cold, dead skin a freezing contrast to the heat of his own. "Will you help me?" he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper that seemed to hang in the air, thick with desperation.

The walkers tilted their heads, their milky eyes focusing on him with an intensity that sent a chill down his spine. For a moment, there was silence, the only sound the distant groan of the wind through the trees. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the chorus of whispers grew louder, the voices of the dead echoing in his mind.

"We will follow," they murmured in unison, their decayed voices a symphony of hissing breath and guttural growls.

Y/N felt a sinking feeling in his gut as he surveyed the sea of undead before him. The whispers had taken on a new form, a tangible, terrifying reality that defied all logic. Could he truly lead these monsters to the very people he had once called enemies? The same people who had taken him in, despite him being a whisperer?

He looked down at the knife wound in his side, a painful reminder of the volatile relationship he had with Abby. He knew she had her reasons, but the pain and betrayal were fresh. He had to find a way to convince her of his control over the whispers, to show her that he wasn't the monster she thought he had become...or maybe he should just accept that he's part of the dead now.

Gritting his teeth, Y/N pushed himself to his feet, his body screaming in protest. The whispers grew louder, urging him to act, to take what was his by any means necessary. He stumbled out of the hut into the night, the cool air slapping him in the face and clearing his head. The walkers followed, a silent army at his back, their eyes glowing with the whispers that now filled him.

"Now," he croaked, his voice a mix of exhaustion and determination. "We strike now, while the night still holds the world in its shadow."

The walkers around him seemed to understand, their rotted faces contorting into twisted semblances of agreement. They knew what was required of them, and the whispers grew more insistent, a symphony of dead voices that sang of vengeance and retribution.

Y/N took a deep breath, the pain in his side a constant reminder of the battle within and without. He turned to face the horde, his eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of life—anything that could be a threat or an opportunity. The whispers grew louder, their voices a mix of encouragement and strategy that swirled in his mind like a maelstrom of decay.

They moved as one, the shuffling of the walkers' feet a rhythmic march towards the WLF base. The night air grew thick with the scent of their decay, a pungent reminder of the power he now wielded. As they approached the perimeter, the whispers grew more insistent, guiding him to a weak point in the defenses. The fence had been hastily repaired, the metal mesh a patchwork of rust and new wire.

The horde has gathered thousands of more walkers while on their march to the base, building up an army of decaying undead.

The whispers grew more feverish as they approached the base, their excitement palpable. The air was alive with tension, the very earth seeming to tremble with the anticipation of the battle to come. The lights of the WLF base flickered in the distance, a beacon of hope and dread in the sea of darkness.