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People call it the Land of the Dead.
It’s an only suitable name for hundreds and hundreds of miles of deserted wasteland with more dead people walking on it than there are alive. Each desert has its own oasis, however, and for the Land of the Dead, it’s the SMP.
They survived, a flower of humanity sprouting through despite all the times it was harshly stomped on, a thousand people cramped inside of walls of debris and steel, not the creatures of nightmare with bloodthirst in blank glassy eyes, but a thousand of living and breathing and real people.
They survived because they helped each other, so when a kid shows up at their gates, weaponless and alone, nobody doubts Dream’s decision to take him in.
Tommy – that was the name he introduced himself with – looks young; around fourteen, sixteen years old at the very most. In a world where people are hunted like prey, children grow up fast, but George’s chest still clenches at the sight of bony scarred fingers clutching the fabric of the shabby shirt.
Tommy flinches and shudders at every sudden movement and his gaze flickers between the three of them, shifting from one foot to another, and his entire body language screams that he is ready to bolt at any moment. He has an attitude of someone who is used to being on the run; who expects a knife to his back from every person he meets. He resembles Dream a lot, jumpy and tense, from the first months of their acquaintance, before they learned to rely on each other and became a family.
It’s not going to be an easy task, but they are going to do everything in their power to earn his trust.
“Follow me, Tommy,” George says, “I’ll show you around.”
The SMP is too small to be called a town – at least in comparison with how towns used to be Before – but it’s not just a campsite, either. They trail through the mess of hastily put shelters and tents, and George points Tommy at the most important places, from the practice range to the infirmary and the storehouses.
He watches the boy from the corner of his vision. Tommy stays silent and stiff throughout the excursion; his gaze flickers between people’s faces, unfocused, and it doesn’t seem like he is listening to a single word George said. That, together with the paleness of his skin, grey from the dust and soot covering it in layers, makes him resemble a walking corpse, but there is a pinkish flush to his cheeks that cold bodies of the dead could never have.
The liveliest thing about Tommy, though, are the eyes. Tinted blue– like cornflowers, perhaps, or even forget-me-nots – and narrowed into thin gaps, careful, distrustful, with cold fire sizzling deep inside of them.
“You have eyes of a wolf,” George notes absently, and he hears Tommy choke on air beside him.
“What the fuck?” he asks, frowning. “What is that even supposed to mean?”
George shrugs, “I don’t know. Just a random thought I had.”
“You’ve got to explain that now, bitch.”
Tommy’s full attention is on him now. That was the moment they reached the center of the SMP, and George stopped in front of a huge monstrosity of several canvas tents and metal containers joined together to form a single parody of a house.
“Welcome to our den,” he says, slipping through the entrance.
Tommy throws him a pointed look, but follows him inside “You still haven’t answered my question – Whoa.”
George smirks, satisfied, while Tommy’s mouth inevitably falls agape. Spider web of fairy lights hanging from the ceiling reflects in his eyes, and he trails a hand, enchanted, down the steel frame of one of the three beds placed in corners of the conjoined tent.
“I haven’t slept on a real mattress in years,” Tommy says. “The closest I got was a sleeping bag, and that one was full of fleas.”
“Well, congratulations,” George snickers, “because that one’s yours from now on.”
Tommy spins around and looks at him, wide-eyed, “What do you mean?”
“We don’t have much space to spare around the camp, so I suggested that you stay with us, at least for the first few weeks.”
“And what about you?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” George brushes him off. “I can share with Dream or Sapnap.”
Tommy looks at him like he had grown a second head, biting his lips in doubt and eyes flickering around George’s face in search of a single hint of a lie.
“What’s the catch?” he finally asks.
“The catch is,” George says, “That you will have to get a shower beforehand. Preferably, with a lot of soap.”
“You have soap?”
Proper shower isn’t the only thing that Tommy gets surprised with that day. The snarly bravado falls off him easily, and his eyes are full of child-like wonder when George shows him a large garden placed behind the tent.
George laughs at the way Tommy pokes at the plants with a sharp stick, “What, have you expected us to eat each other like zombies or something?”
“Zombies are not the only ones who eat human flesh,” Tommy corrects him, “People are generally quite edible, you know, save for the liver and kidneys.”
That’s… Disturbing, to say the least. It’s not like cannibalism was that rare around the Land of the Dead, but George still had to suppress a wince from hearing Tommy talk about it so nonchalantly. “You have met cannibals before?”
“They tried to eat me once, yes,” Tommy shrugs. “Spoiler alert: they failed.”
“I figured as much,” George scoffs. “Well, we don’t eat people here, only the fish from the river a few miles away from here and the plants from our gardens.” George points at the row of neon-pink glowing mushrooms, “Speaking of which, help me gather a few of these and I’m going to teach you how to make a soup.”
Tommy plucks a mushroom and smells it cautiously, “I thought they were radioactive.”
“Oh, of course not,” George reassures him, and Tommy throws the mushroom into his mouth. “They are extremely poisonous, though.”
Tommy pales.
And then proceeds to spit out the half-chewed mushroom on the ground.
“What the fuck!” he wails, wiping at his tongue with his hand, “Why would you tell me that after I already started eating it?!”
George smirks, “Because that’s how pranks work.”
“Oh you bitch – “
***
George and Tommy have been getting along really well these days, but George is on the gate-guarding duty today, and the boy has been walking around the SMP, standing out like a wolf pup lost among coyotes.
Sapnap is at the shooting range when he notices Tommy peeking out from behind a nearby building, staring at the shotgun in his hands like at the eighth wonder of the world.
“Want to give it a try?” Sapnap asks, curving a brow.
Tommy takes a small step forward. Reluctant. Unsure. “Can I?” he says.
Twenty years ago, giving a teenager a loaded weapon to shoot for fun with probably wouldn’t be a good idea (Sapnap would do it anyway). But in a post-apocalyptic world, shooting a gun is a skill almost as critical as breathing is, and it’s only surprising that it seems like Tommy is holding one for the first time in his life.
“Never had to use a gun before,” Tommy sounds both apologetic and resentful. “Besides, people never trust me with anything more dangerous than a kitchen knife.”
“Well, you’re lucky that I'm an adult with zero sense of social responsibility,” Sapnap says. “I have a few rules for you to follow, though.”
He lowers the barrel of the shotgun in Tommy’s hands towards the ground, “Number one – don’t point your weapon at another person. And especially, not at me.” He then takes the shotgun gently from Tommy’s hands. “And rule number two… Well, it’s not a rule, but let’s find an easier weapon for your first time, yeah?”
“Is this heaven?” Tommy asks in the armory, eyes shining as they flicker between the guns covering the walls from the base to the very roof.
Sapnap slaps a hand onto his back. “Well,” he winks, “Go wild.”
They settle on a handgun, in the end, one of the lighter ones, and Tommy clutches it to his chest like a child – a Christmas present.
“I can’t believe that you leave all that weapons completely unguarded,” he says. “And you don’t even lock it up for the night, either?”
“What’s the point?” Sapnap shrugs. “If a zombie horde attacks out of the blue, and somebody – George, probably – loses the key, we will all just get slaughtered on the spot.”
Tommy hums, “Makes sense.”
“Alright. You’re ready to go to the practice range, now?”
“Can you wait for me there? I think I need to pee.”
“You didn’t have to announce that,” Sapnap winces, but takes the handgun from his hands.
Sapnap turns and disappears behind a corner. If he was to throw a last look at Tommy at that moment, he would see him lifting an iron bar from the ground, eyeing it with a thoughtful smile.
**
"That's our humble mini radio station," Dream proudly says.
Tommy enters the tent, eyes flickering between the massive blocks of equipment.
"It looks... complicated."
"One you get a hold of it once, it really isn't. Which Sapnap never has the patience for, so we don't allow him in here at all."
Tommy chuckles, and Dream invites him to sit at an old couch crooking in front of the desk.
"I don't know if you heard of it yet, but a lot of survivor groups have been going missing recently,” Dream says, tone suddenly serious. “One day, they're actively responding to our messages and sharing their news, and the next one – it’s complete and utter radio silence. Like, literally.”
“Why?” Tommy asks.
The boy doesn’t look surprised, so Dream concludes the rumors are already going around the camp. That’s not good. They don’t need panic spreading around the SMP now, so he will have to think of a way to calm people down later. A feast, perhaps? They have some resources to spare for now, so maybe a good big meal will work.
“Nobody knows, but whatever thing or threat that attacked them might reach our camp one day, and I think it’s safer for us to reunite,” Dream says. “There are a few families who used to live to the West of our camp, in an abandoned research station. They’re on their way here now and should be arriving in a few days’ time.”
“And you’re just going to let them in?” Tommy asks. “Just like that?”
Dream nods, “Of course.”
“Do they have better weapons?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Other resources, then?”
“No, they ran out of food the other day.”
Tommy has a puzzled look on his face. He stays silent for a few seconds, and then asks, “Then why?”
“Because they are living people in need of our help. Adults and children, a couple even of your age,” Dream says. “I spoke with Tubbo a few times, and I think you two would get along really well- “
But Tommy’s not listening to him anymore. For some reason, the boy falls into deep thought, tucking his knees to his chest and staring at the floor absently.
“Tommy?” Dream puts a hand on his shoulder. The boy twitches slightly under the touch but leans into it the next second, though he doesn’t look quite present at the moment yet.
“Are you alright?” he asks, concerned.
“Yeah,” Tommy breathes out. He falls limp against the couch, leaning slightly onto Dream’s shoulder. “I just don’t understand how – why are you so… I don’t know, helping. Why are you helping these people from the research station, why did you decide to help me? You’re not getting any benefit from that at all.”
Oh.
So that’s what has been troubling him, then.
"The world has gone insane,” Dream admits, and Tommy’s gaze shoots up at him. “People kill each other for resources, ready to tear one's throat if it means surviving for just another day. Sometimes, I wonder if zombies are the only ones who have lost their humanity,” he sighs. “But we are stronger in groups. Humans are meant to stick together and help each other out.”
Tommy doesn’t respond for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice sounds different. Just as vibrant and young but somehow simultaneously much older than he actually is, "Every group needs a leader, though. Someone to lead and take care of them.”
Tommy turns his head towards the entrance of the tent. They are people outside, gathered around a campfire, telling stories, and their voices are a humming background rumble of ocean waves. Someone must have told a joke, because the crowd explodes with laughter, and louder than anyone else, Dream hears Sapnap and George among them.
“Tell me, Dream, would you do anything for your people?" Tommy says. "Anything for your family?"
"I would," Dream says, and that's an easy truth.
People breathe.
Zombies hunt humans.
And Dream would sacrifice anything for his family.
"Then you're a good leader," Tommy says.
***
They switched onto lighter conversation topics after that.
Tommy tells Dream he likes his mask, so he allows him to try it on for a minute, before earnestly asking the boy to return it back. They bicker around jokingly for a bit afterwards, too. Dream falls asleep on that couch, and when he wakes up, Tommy is nowhere to be found, and there are people screaming outside.
He shoots to his feet faster than he thinks, and stumbles into Sapnap at the entrance of the tent.
“What’s happening?”
“There is a horde outside,” Sapnap informs grimly. “Sneaked up on us in the dark.”
Dream’s heart sinks to his feet, for a split moment. But it shouldn’t be a critical problem. The walls are high, and the gates stand firm; they will be able to withstand the attack.
That was what he thought until he and Sapnap got to the infirmary and found the doors shut and the handles sealed together with an iron bar rolled into a figure eight.
“Fuck,” Sapnap says. “What the actual fuck.”
“We have to gather everyone together,” Dream frowns, mind racing. “Where’s George? Where’s Tommy?”
Both are found a minute later among the people gathered around the front gates.
George – in the crowd.
But Tommy – directly beside the lever that opens the front gates.
They can all hear the horde on the other side, groaning, scratching at the metal panels, and each screech is like a stab of a knife to everyone’s ears.
Walls rattle and shudder under the weight of zombies throwing themselves at them, and in the midst of this, Tommy stands still. Calm. Swaying slightly, like there is music in the cacophony of the sounds he is dancing to.
That lever is the only thing separating them from the nightmare awaiting outside.
“Kid, what are you doing there?” Someone shouts. “Don’t touch the level, alright?”
The crowd holds its breath as one when Tommy’s thin fingers wrap around the lever. He tilts his head, and people can see his lips moving, whispering something to himself that nobody else can hear.
“Speak up, kid, we can’t hear you.”
Tommy finally raises his head. His eyes are bright, brighter than anybody has seen them yet.
Eyes of a wolf greeting his pack.
“I’m sorry,” Tommy says, “But I have to feed them.”
That is the only warning they get before the lever is pushed down, and the horde comes crashing in.
***
Zombies are much smarter than people give them credit for.
They don’t talk, their swollen tongues and rotten vocal cords unable to produce any sounds more complicated than a grunt or two, but they are perfectly capable of understanding human speech.
“We don’t want any surprises,” Tommy says, and the monsters – hungry, bloodthirsty – hear him, through the dying screams and gunshots, obediently leaving the half-eaten corpses and scattering around the town.
By the time people are dragged and thrown into a single pile for the future meal, they are already dead. Well, for the most part. A few are still breathing, clutching the stumps of bitten off arms and legs, and their faces are skewed with horror.
They know they are not surviving this night; hopelessness already killed the fire in their eyes, and without it, they are little more than corpses of their friends and family squeezing them from all sides. The horror is directed at Tommy, who walks through the crowd of zombies, carrying a huge cast-iron cauldron.
It’s called a family feast for a reason, after all.
Tommy is methodically mixing the brew, sitting cross-legged on the ground, when a shadow looms over him and something draped over his shoulder. He doesn’t need to look to recognize the cold but soft touch of Phil’s webbed wings. Before he can protest, a large piece of meat is dropped into the boiling water.
“Phil,” Tommy points the spoon at him accusingly, “You’re ruining the proportions.”
Phil squeezes his wrist gently, thin bone easily fitting into his palm.
“Ma-a-te,” Phil grunts, barely recognizable. You’re not eating enough, that’s what the man’s eyes, absent of any pupils, say.
Phil is the only zombie among the hundreds in Tommy’s horde who are capable of speech. The catch is, his vocabulary is limited to just a single word.
“Stop mother henning me, Dadza,” Tommy scoffs.
He doesn’t argue beyond that point, though. Mushroom soup is nice, but it will be even better with some fresh meat.
Teeth sink into still warm bodies, blood flows down the zombies’ chins and onto the ground in crimson rivers. They chomp, they slurp, choking on larger pieces, and Tommy eyes them disapprovingly.
“I know I’m not the one to speak about table manners and shit, but if Phil is using normal cutlery, then you can, too,” he says.
He already finished with his meal, but refilled the bowl and passed it for Phil to eat. While the zombie struggles to bend his fingers to hold the spoon correctly, Tommy settles behind him and reaches for the base of the appendages on the zombie’s back.
They resemble bat wings, mesmerizingly beautiful in their asymmetric, sharp shapes. What dose of radiation he was exposed to that made him grow additional limbs and how he managed to survive through it, Tommy doesn’t know, but neither zombies nor humans are meant to constantly carry that much extra weight on their backs.
Phil’s wings twitch slightly when he first touches them and fall limp as he starts massaging the sore muscles gently. “Ma-ate,” he groans.
Tommy yawns, “Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome.”
***
He doesn’t notice when his eyelids fall shut, but when he opens them again, first touches of sunset already paint the sky in soft shades of yellow and pink.
Tommy is leaning against someone’s chest with his head tucked under their chin. Through the smell of rot and death that his nose long since became insensitive for, breaks through a vibrant scent of cinnamon. Wilby.
Wilbur’s sharp claws, capable of tearing through humans’ throats in one swift slash, gently scratch his head and comb through the tangles of his matted hair. Tommy leans into the touch, melting into a puddle in his brother’s hug.
Alas, everything good comes to an end. Tommy’s drowsy mind reminds him of the business he needs to attend to, and he tries to wiggle his way out of the zombie’s embrace. The long arms only wrap around him tighter. “Let me go, you bitch,” Tommy resents.
Wilbur grunts, but finally loosens his grip. Tommy pushes himself up to his feet and stretches, and a huge stain on his shirt catches his eyes. It starts somewhere around his shoulder, and as far as he can tell, smudges half his back in reddish brown of dried blood.
More than anything, Tommy’s shirt now looks like a certain zombie very pointedly decided to wipe his mouth with it.
“Wilbur,” Tommy spins around, yelping, “That was my favorite shirt!”
His brother gives him a sly look. He did it on purpose, the prick. Tommy pouts his lips at the ruined shirt, and Wilbur stands up, pulling something from behind his back and holding it with stretched arms.
It’s a baggy sweater. Not new, of course, no clothes in this world are, but the neon tortoise shade of the fabric barely faded with time, and a funny print of two human figures is entirely intact save for a few cracks on the ‘Sunday club’ inscription above.
It looks cozy. And also exactly like something Wilbur himself would wear, and that was probably the reason he picked it in the first place.
“I’m not going to wear that,” Tommy snarls. “It’s ugly and I hate it.”
Wilbur rolls his eyes and shoves the sweater into his hands anyway. Tommy knows him well enough to confidently say he won’t fuck off until he gets what he wants. The boy sighs and pulls the sweater over his head, slipping arms into the wide sleeves.
Tommy has to admit that it’s very comfortable. He didn’t notice he was cold until the sweater shielded him away from the chilly morning air like a soft cloud. Tommy spreads arms to the sides and then puts hands on his hips. “So? What do you think?”
Wilbur nods approvingly. Tommy still hates the sweater, but his brother went for the effort of pulling it off from someone’s corpse carefully enough to barely stain it, and maybe he did like the idea of having matching clothes with him.
“Alright,” he says. “I’m keeping it, but only because it’s free and I have nothing else to wear. Now, if you could fuck off and also maybe point me to where Techno is at. I need to talk to him about something.”
Wilbur does point the direction, but Tommy doesn’t find Techno’s broad figure among the zombies scattered around the now much emptier and quieter camp.
Instead, he stumbles into a man in a cracked porcelain mask.
The sleeves of Dream’s green hoodie are rolled up all the way to his elbows, revealing a bite of sharp human teeth on his right arm and the faint black of veins spreading from the rotting wound. Although Tommy hasn't seen them changed yet, George and Sapnap are probably wandering around somewhere close, too. Tommy grew to like the group in the last few days and made sure they would survive the night and the attack.
Sometimes, in order to survive, people need to die first.
Tommy’s not a psycho. He isn’t chasing some kind of an ultimate goal, trying to raise humanity to a new step of evolution or some similar shit like the original creators of the infection probably were intending to. Tommy just takes care of his family and sometimes expands it with people who are deserving of it.
Dream tilts his head when he sees him.
“Good morning,” the boy greets. “How are you feeling?”
Dream leaves him without an answer. He probably doesn’t understand much of the said words right now. Tommy knows a thing or two on how infection affects a person’s mind – Dream’s not going to be very responsive for a few days, but the instincts must have already kicked in, because the man reaches out, swaying on his feet, just to ruffle fondly at his hair.
Tommy hears Techno before he sees him. Ground shudders under his heavy steps. Tommy spins on his heels just in time to see him dropping a massive chainsaw on the ground.
It’s very obviously broken, probably for a long time now, judging by the ginger rust eating at the metal, but Tommy doesn’t have the heart to tell Techno that, especially when he catches one of the sizzling glances he throws at Dream.
“No fucking way,” the corners of Tommy’s lips tilt upwards, “Techno, you are – are you fucking jealous?”
Techno grunts and shakes his head, but he keeps eyeing Dream like the man is his mortal enemy. Or a rival. And the worst thing is, Dream answers him with the same look.
Dream undoes the straps of his mask and puts it off. His eyes are a green fog, and his face is a blank grey page, yet he is still determined in the way he pushes the mask into Tommy’s hands, for no other reason but because the boy showed liking to it earlier.
Fuck. Tommy is going to have two trash-bringing zombies now, isn’t he?
Oh well. Tommy has the same hair color as Dream and is almost of the same height, and they still need to prepare a trap for the survivors arriving here in a few days, so he accepts the gift and raises the mask to his own face.
It’s not like Dream is going to need it now, anyway.
The horde parts in front of Tommy all the way to the front gates. Every single zombie tries to greet him in some way – with a grunt or a groan or by brushing shoulders with him lightly. Tommy climbs the twenty-feet high walls in a few seconds, and standing at the top, he throws a glance over at the crowd.
Dream. George. Sapnap. A few other people the horde spared on Tommy’s command. He can see Phil and Wilbur from here, together with Techno, his original family, surrounded by all the people they turned throughout these months.
The sun rises above the Land of the Dead.
“Welcome to the family,” Tommy smiles.