Chapter Text
Phil really does mourn the days where he still had the freedom to be picky with his feedings.
It feels like just yesterday, humans were a dime a dozen. Everywhere that the eye could see, there’d be bustling crowds, scattered conversation, traffic in all the roads. It used to be easy , laughably simple; when feeding in the worse parts of the city, where crime ran rampant, no one would bat an eye at a person going missing here or there. No one would ever care at all, because there was always so much happening at once that the general public could only spend so much time on a single murder before moving on.
Phil thrived in the luxury of such choice, back then. He liked making the effort to find meals that were deserving of being ripped to pieces. He has his rules to his feedings-- he likes to think any half-decent vampire does-- and he has his preferences.
Children are off-limits, always. He has a heart, unbeating as it may be, and he recognizes there’s something just particularly cruel in feeding on something so young and defenseless. And for the more practical aspect, kids just don’t really have that much blood to offer until they drop dead. It’s a bad choice all around.
Women are technically on the table, but Phil tends to avoid them, partly a lingering habit of being a gentleman who would never raise a hand to a lady, and partly because no matter the face, they always remind him of a love lost, and the meal will always end up tasting bitter in his teeth.
Men are usually the target, but not any man. No, that’s where his preferences come in. Phil likes finding the cruel sort, the angry, the sinful, the nasty, remorseless monsters that could rival even his own wicked existence on a bad day. He likes finding the abusive husbands with harsh voices, the reckless criminals who wave their weapons with no care to the casualties, and he likes giving them exactly what they’ve given to everyone else.
He enjoys putting the fear of god into them, doling out justice as he sees fit. It’s terribly satisfying, if a bit ironic with Phil being a creature that’s worse than all of them combined. He’s no angel. Just a fellow with a taste for comeuppance. He likes the terror that flows through their bloodstream when he rips their necks open, and he revels in the fact that their pale, blood-splattered bodies will be lost to obscurity, doomed to be forgotten within time. They will become just another poor soul eaten up by the poorest part of the bustling city, and Phil will stay happily fed, content in his revenge on humanity’s worst, and satisfied in his meal.
Oh, but how it has now changed! Now, the comfort of abundance has been torn away, now, humans entirely have grown worryingly scarce, and Phil, for the first time in a long time, has relearnt the feeling of hunger. In the face of a sudden apocalypse crashing down on the world around him, there’s no longer choices, there’s no longer ease. It’s just survival of the fittest and dead bodies stumbling around like idiots.
In all honesty, he didn't expect it to get this bad. He's been through plagues before, and they did give a significant drop to the population, but the humans prevailed! They got over it! Why not this one?
Ah. But, then again. He supposes there’s a difference between a deadly illness leaving one bed-ridden, and a contagious sickness that makes a dead man stand up and begin attacking anything that breathes. He himself got surprised by it on the first days of the outbreak, and he tore off the head of the zombie that had lunged too close at the time. There was a touch of worry about the reaction of that, his reflexes having seemingly blown his cover, but to his luck, no one really cared for the sudden violence like they would have before, because people were dying in the street and the city was suddenly on fire.
And in that burning chaos, Phil lost his home, to where he then lost his nest and his belongings, and then more or less lost his feeding grounds, as well, because any and every person in that area had either turned into a rotting, walking bag of flesh, or they were just plain dead.
Needless to say, he was a bit peeved about it all.
But a few weeks passed, and then a few more, and Phil tried to adapt with the new world, as he’d always done when things got interesting. Humans had indeed become scarcer in the rush of it all, but not in the new “towns.” The shelters that popped up, the government-made bases, the fortified buildings-- humans were not all gone, Phil had found. They just got a little harder to get to, hiding away in their little fortresses.
He had thought at the time that he could figure out a way to take advantage of those little pockets of community. He could linger around them, surely. Be careful with his feedings, take out a few here and there whenever they went out for supplies, let them all assume a zombie got to the poor soul. While it was certainly less than what Phil was used to having, it worked, for a bit.
Until that particular settlement crumbled in on itself, with person turning against person and zombies finding their way in, and all of Phil’s possible meals being turned rotten before the moon was even up. It was a shame, but a little expected with the new stressful atmosphere around them, making the usual person self-destruct if they didn’t have the mental fortitude to keep fighting.
So, Phil moved on to the next one. Found another little makeshift town, and this time, he made his own gracious efforts to keep it stable. He made quiet deals with the town’s leaders, assured that as long as they gave him one person to feast on every now and then, he’d bring them as many supplies as they needed, and there wouldn’t have to be a danger of opening up their doors to the world outside.
That also worked, for a time. However, while Phil could certainly keep a secret under wraps for years and years without falter, the humans…could apparently not. They lasted a single month. Word broke out of the ‘sacrifices’ the leaders were making in exchange for safety, and of course, in response, there was disagreement, general rebellion, raging fires, again, for some goddamn reason, and then the town was gone and the survivors were scattered to the wind and Phil was left to be both hungrier than usual and a bit annoyed.
But, motivated by his need for a meal, he tried again. Several times. With several other groups of survivors of varying numbers. He found another settlement, holed up within an apartment building, and he sat to the side with intentions of only feeding occasionally and staying strictly in the shadows.
Two weeks later, one of them turned from a zombie bite they got after sneaking out, and ended up infecting the entirety of the building.
He trailed the heels of a traveling group wandering around the remains of the city, looking to snatch one or two, but the paranoia from having eyes constantly follow them in the shadows made their downfall, and in their effort to escape Phil’s watchful gaze, they ended up getting trapped in a cramped tunnel with a hoard of zombies and being torn to bits. An entire waste, that.
He made another direct deal with another small group, telling them honestly of his predicament, and this time, he even added how he wouldn’t even need to kill the person, he’d just take his share of their blood and they could recover soon after. It would be a bit tedious for him, having to string out such tiny feedings like that, but he was willing to try, for the sake of his food source actually staying alive for once. Despite that effort, though, they all still turned on each other over the concept of someone being given to the ‘monster’, and things wound up being set on fire. Again. For some reason.
He ended up just devouring whoever was left after that shitshow. It was a decent meal.
In the face of such repeating failure, Phil had to take the time to reevaluate his strategies. So, he can’t directly feed from the humans with a mutual deal, they’ll stress over his existence and fight over the concept of it until it all goes up in flames. He can’t do it in secret with no intervention, either, because if he leaves a group to their own devices, they’ll also go up in flames, apparently.
A reasonable concept would be for him to keep a more careful eye on whichever settlement he chooses to feed off of, make sure no zombies find their way in, make sure they stay civil, but Phil is just one vampire. Settlements often vastly outnumber him, and honestly, he doesn’t have the energy to babysit so many humans just for the sake of being able to eat.
He does need to eat, though. The adjustment of having so many humans to pick from to having hardly any humans at all is a harsh thing for his body, and while he can survive a good while without a proper feeding, he can feel himself growing weaker than before, the sun beginning to irritate his skin and eyes, the need for constant rest crawling upon his back like a lingering weight. Before this apocalypse, he used to be an unstoppable, terrifying force, a demon of sorts, not even the sun making him falter. Now, he’s more like… a creature of the night, still rather deadly, but not as deadly as he could be.
It’s an adjustment, he supposes. He lived through the era of abundance, he thrived in it, and now they’re all in the dark ages and he’s got to suffer along with the dear humans. Doesn’t mean he won’t be a little bitter whilst reminiscing, though.
For the time being, with all the disasters of settlements and burning towns and communities making up their own little wars, Phil switches tactics. He lines out a neat territory within an empty section of the broken-down city, and makes his nest at the very center. He collects supplies with ease, piles them up into a jackpot that any survivor would jump at, and he lies in wait like a spider within its web.
Despite his location within the city, and despite the threat of the occasional horde that likes to linger in the roads, people come by. They come with hopes of finding plentiful resources within the old buildings, they come with the mission of feeding a town from a week’s journey away. They approach, their weapons in hand, their attention firmly caught on the treasure trove of Phil’s supply of food and water to last for months, and then they die.
Even with Phil’s meager meals being so strung out these days, he’s far faster and stronger than any human could ever hope to be. Their bullets won’t kill him, neither will their knives, their axes, their spears. It takes a great deal to overpower a vampire, and by the time they even realize Phil isn’t human, by the time they see his eyes and his fangs and realize this is worse than the stumbling corpses in the streets- they’re already a goner, and Phil’s catching up on his everstinging hunger.
For the most part, this strategy works. Phil doesn’t care for it, finds the waiting and the hunger to be incredibly annoying and boring, but food always comes. There are always survivors, searching for a way to continue going on. It’s a bit unsustainable, to be honest, though, Phil does worry about what will happen when all the humans in the area die out and stop coming, but he supposes that when that happens, he can just pick himself up and follow wherever they go. Humans are a stubborn sort. They won’t all die out, even if everything in the world is against them. He’s always admired them for that.
It’s right on the edge of sundown when Phil’s next victim comes wandering in, the skies blood red with a single, tired-looking person walking down the empty road.
Phil watches them from the roof of a building, slightly disappointed about the fact it’s just one, but his focus kept on them all the same. A meal is a meal. He waits and stares as they come in and out through broken doors, shattered windows, torn walls, looking for something to sustain them for the coming weeks, and then, when they finally make a path towards where Phil’s supply is, Phil goes down to meet them.
His movement is nothing but a slight shuffle of fabric as he leaves the broken roof, his feet landing so quietly on the ground that it’s like his weight is that of a feather. He beelines directly to his supply, the cans of food and bottles of water purposefully placed a bit deep into the building, with the single exit being the way one came. He hears the rustle of things being moved as he comes closer, the rush of a survivor desperately taking what goods they can, and as his hunger makes itself present at the thought of a meal; he hears the beating sound of a heart.
A strong, fast-paced heartbeat. A person in shock at their blessed luck, their hands shaky, their breath quick as they place can after can into the pathetic little bag they brought on their back.
Their lungs hitch when they notice a presence in the corner of their eye, standing at the doorway, and their heartbeat speeds up into a whirlwind of fear and surprise. Phil sees the glimpse of a gun at their side, hears half of a threat trying to be made by their lips, and then it’s all drowned by the piercing, gurgling scream of a throat being torn through with teeth.
Drops of blood fall onto the floor by Phil’s feet, by his shoes that he’s kept so meticulously clean just for the sake of it, and while the waste of it is annoying, Phil can’t let himself stay upset. He just gets too eager, these days, when he finally does get his chance to eat, finally being able to relieve the hunger plaguing him so insistently. He drinks his fill as much as he’s able, ignoring the thrashing limbs trying to push him off and instead listening to the heartbeat underneath slowly fade away into silence. He feels the weight in his hands grow heavy as the body becomes limp, and here, he finds his satisfaction, finds even a bit of joy, and then he finds-
confusion.
Because there is still a heartbeat in his ear, even as the human in his teeth passes away.
No, heartbeats. Plural. Three fast-pacing, panic filled heartbeats, somehow having slipped his attention, sounding- tiny, somehow. Fainter than what he’s used to. He grows curious at the noise of it, lifts his head with his mouth open wide, and he turns his head to find-
Three little faces. By the doorway. Children?
“Oh.” Phil says, for lack of words, because it’s been a bit of a while since he’s seen kids, and he does have his rule about them being off limits. What is he to do with them? Hm.
Three pairs of wide eyes stare back at Phil, no thoughtful consideration in their expressions, only terror given at the bloody display before them, the fangs of his teeth bared, the red splattered over his lips, the still-warm, limp body held in his claws.
“What the fuck.” One of them chokes out, voice weak and wavering, one of his hands clinging to the tallest beside him, the other hand hiding the youngest child behind him in an effort to preserve what little innocence was still there.
“Oh, hello.” Phil grins, now suddenly so intrigued. Children! What fun, those little humans, always running around with such naive joy to their faces, such curiosity in their hearts. He wonders if they were with the man he just currently killed. Maybe not. Maybe they were on their own, and now Phil can take the time to meet them and figure out what exactly to do with them.
It’s then that the smallest one opens his mouth and screams, high-pitched and shrill. That’s not ideal.
“Go-” The tallest one- the oldest, maybe- says, and he pulls a gun and fires before Phil even has a chance to drop the body. What a quick shot! Phil is quietly impressed, if only because he’s seen his fair share of grown men fumble uselessly with their weapons in the face of danger. “Wilbur, go, go!” Even with the bullet tearing through Phil, he pushes Wil to run, and that’s a smart move in the presence of a monster like Phil, isn’t it? To still hold caution until you’re sure he’s dead.
The other boy with dirty, tangled brown hair- Wilbur, was it? -he takes their youngest in his arms and dashes for the exit, not even daring to look back as Phil is pelted with bullet after bullet after having not fallen to the first one. Phil lets the body in his hands drop heavy to the ground, not even flinching at the wounds in his chest, his smile growing wider when he hears the click of a round going empty. They didn’t have much ammo to spare.
Phil takes in the flicker of horror on the kid’s face, the dawning, terrible realization that the gun didn’t do any significant damage. He then looks down at the holes in his shirt in a sort of acknowledgement of the effort, a bit dejected over the ruin of the fabric.
“Well.” Phil says gently, and the kid flinches back, mouth opening and closing like he wants to say something. “I’m not sure how I’ll ever mend those.”
In place of a response, the empty gun gets chucked into the direction of Phil’s face, and while Phil surely has the reflexes to avoid it, surely has the speed to dodge to the side, he’s just- not really expecting it, so it lands directly against his nose, clattering to the ground as he stumbles back in surprise.
He holds a hand up to the bridge of his nose, more thrown off than really injured, and the tapping sound of footsteps running away are all the goodbye Phil gets, that racing heartbeat getting farther from his range. Phil’s hands twitch at the mere concept of a chase, and he’s moving fast with an arm raised out before he can even quite process it, his hand twisting in the back of a hoodie and then yanking the owner of it back.
“Techno!” Wilbur screams from outside, seeing his brother get pulled back into the dark, and Techno shrieks out in return, twisting and thrashing around in Phil’s hold, immediately trying to shed his hoodie to get away.
“Run!” He calls out to Wil, voice trembling, the pitch of it rising high and cracking when Phil takes hold of his arm with a firm, unmoving grip. “Run, go, Wil!”
“Honestly, between you and me, they won’t really get far.” Phil whispers, leaning down to where Techno is trying to drag his weight to the floor in an effort to loosen Phil’s grip. At Phil’s words, Techno raises his head up with a striking glare, then tries to bite down at his wrist.
“Oh, that’s- Hm.” Phil barely holds back a laugh, pressing his lips tightly shut. The kid is clearly fighting for his life here, it would be a bit mean to laugh, wouldn’t it? “Ow.” He says, to give some sort of validation.
The edge of dull teeth scrape over the side of Phil’s hand as a frustrated, angry cry leaves through Techno’s mouth, and Phil reaches down further to scoop the poor thing up, wanting to get over with the initial stage of fighting as quickly as possible. Limbs are swinging every which way, and the kid is a squirming, stubborn mess, but Phil manages to more-or-less press him against his chest, his arms pinned between the two of them, his legs held in the crook of one of Phil’s arms.
“Okay. Alright. Enough of that, I know, you’re very angry and threatening. Let’s go get those other two out there before they get themselves into trouble, yes?” Phil asks, and Techno struggles against him with a frantic shake of his head. “Yes, I think so.”
Techno doubles his efforts in trying to be let go, all the way up until they’ve walked outside, Phil standing out in the open road with a fighting child held in his arms. The sun has since disappeared, and the last lingering bits of light on the horizon make the dim road look more dreadful than usual. A part of Phil automatically keeps an ear out for any undead groans, but to his relief, there aren’t any in the area. That allows him to not worry about the human children running face first into getting eaten alive.
“Let’s see now...Wilbur?” Phil calls out, voice echoing across the empty street. “Where are you?” He asks, but it’s not as if he’s truly lost track of him. He’s latched onto the sound of their little heartbeats now, and he knows that there’s two children hiding in the rubble far off to his right. He stays looking oblivious for the sake of having them come out on their own terms, because dragging them out will just take a lot of unneeded effort, and Phil doesn’t need to go crawling through rubble to pull out uncooperative human youth.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are.” Phil sings out, lifting Techno a little higher like he’s a prize he’s won. “I’ve got your friend right here!”
“Go!” Techno yells out, voice ringing harshly across the road, and he grunts as his feet kick uselessly against the air, legs held firm by Phil’s arm. “Wilbur, take Tommy and go ! Don’t come any closer!”
“Tommy.” Phil repeats, a murmur under his breath. That’s probably the youngest. “Techno, Wilbur, and Tommy. Aren’t those nice names?” He says quietly, more to himself than Techno, but Techno goes still at the words anyway, seemingly unnerved at hearing his own name from Phil’s lips.
With the sudden lack of movement, Phil takes the chance to readjust his hold, grabbing at Techno’s dirty hair and pulling his head to the side in one swift movement so he can bare his teeth and lean towards the kid’s neck. He’s not meaning to actually take a bite out of him, he really only rests his chin onto Techno’s pulse, but from the view of Wilbur and Tommy, it must look as if their brother is about to be a vampire’s next meal.
“NO!”
“Tommy, no, no, come back-!”
And of course, that’s exactly the reaction that Phil wants. Whilst one can always count on humanity being cruel, they can also be awfully attached to each other.
Out from the rubble comes the youngest of the three, dirty as any survivor, wrapped up in a blue coat that’s too big to fit him. He runs in Phil’s direction with the energy of a bullet, but comes to an abrupt stop just a few paces away, shaking in every limb from fear, tears welling up in his eyes. Despite the clear distress, there’s a very stubborn sort of fight in his expression that Phil can’t help but stare at in a sort of appreciation.
“Hello there.” Phil greets, smiling wide with teeth, and Tommy takes half a step back.
“Tommy.” Techno croaks out, his voice seemingly torn away at the prospect of having Phil seconds away from killing him in a bloody, brutal manner. For all he knows, he was just a breath away from death a moment earlier. Phil wonders if he should tell them all that he’s not planning on killing them. Would that lift the mood?
Glancing past Tommy, Phil notices Wilbur still by the rubble, left on his hands and knees with his arms trembling underneath his weight. He’s looking at Tommy and Phil as if it’s a horrible disaster in slow motion, and he’s too frozen to stop it. With a jerky movement, Wil manages to lift his arms up, trying to call his baby brother back to him.
“Come back, come back here, Tommy-”
“Please-” Tommy ignores Wilbur, instead faltering on his words, feet shifting like he just can’t choose between returning back to Wilbur’s arms and running forward to try and save Techno. God, he’s so very tiny. Phil wishes he knew human ages right now, because this one can’t be more than a decade old, surely not. “Please don’t eat him. Please don’t.”
“Tommy.” Wilbur hisses out, and he looks as if he’s gathering his courage now, with a hint of anger that Phil worries about shifting into violence. He keeps his smile cheerful and lets his words flow smoothly, not a threat to be seen.
“Oh, don’t worry.” Phil says to Tommy, leaning down just a bit as he rocks Techno back and forth in his arms, the kid still frozen in terror. “I’m afraid he’s far too small to count as a meal. I won’t eat him.”
Phil would have to wait a good while until he could even consider using him even for a small feeding, really, he’s so scrawny and young that any sort of blood loss to him would more than likely be very risky to his life. Maybe if he grew up before the apocalypse, fed well, kept fit…
An brilliant idea suddenly dawns on Phil as he’s reminded of the before, and of his ever present issue of humans having gone scarce. There is indeed a way to manage the sudden appearance of children, all it takes is a great deal of patience, and a bit of hard work. Maybe if…
“Technoblade-” Wilbur’s steps are suddenly coming close and coming fast, and both Tommy and Phil turn their heads just as Wilbur throws a chunk of cement in the direction of Phil’s face. “-lower your head!”
Phil makes a quick side-step as Techno lowers himself upon Wilbur’s command, and the rock goes sailing past Phil’s ear with a startling sort of speed. That would’ve broken his nose, if it hit. The kid has a good arm.
Something runs right into Phil’s knees, then, tiny arms trying to wrap over his legs to keep him still, and Phil looks down to find Tommy clinging on, trying to help in any way he can.
“You can’t move!” He cries, his grip terribly weak, but ever so determined, fingers digging into the fabric of his pants. “Not until you give me my brother back!”
“Oh, dear. I’m effectively trapped.” Phil responds, sounding more slightly inconvenienced than the distressed tone he was going for. Surely the little one will believe it anyway. “I wouldn’t throw another rock, Wilbur, not with Tommy right here!” Phil sings, thinking Wil’s concern for his little brother’s well-being will keep him hesitant.
“Fuck you!” Wilbur replies, clearly just fueled by pre-teen rage. Phil raises his eyebrows from the sudden viciousness of the insult, a bit amused, then a rock nails him right in the forehead. It’s not as large as the chunk of concrete Wil threw before, but it’s enough to make Phil scrunch his nose at the annoying sting of it scraping on skin.
It falls to the floor, Phil leaning his head back with a harsh huff at the feeling of blood dripping past his face. The wound itself heals within seconds, it’s really no harm, but the blood is still there, and if there’s one thing Phil has become particular about in the last few weeks, it is the task of keeping himself neat and proper even with everyone else living in grime and dirt. He’s going to need to wash up after this whole ordeal.
None of the boys seem to care about his efforts in hygiene, though, Techno particularly now, because in the single moment Phil takes to compose himself, trying to stay still with Tommy on his legs, Wilbur probably looking for another rock to throw-- the boy manages to pull a knife from who knows where, and he drives it into the spot right above Phil’s collarbone.
“You little shit-” Phil hisses at the attack, deciding to go ahead and listen to their wishes at last, dropping Techno without care, letting the boy slam into the ground with Tommy immediately trying to help him up. He takes a step back to grab at the shank in his throat, pulling it away with a frown when he sees how crudely made it is. He can’t get sick from normal disease, but good god, this knife has to have a ridiculous amount of germs on it, judging by the old stains of blood before. How many zombies have fallen victim to this blade? Phil feels vaguely offended at having the same tiny weapon be used on him. He’s also just a bit impressed by their sheer persistence at fighting back.
“Hurry up!” One of them yell, and Phil directs his attention back onto them to find Techno returned to his feet, Wilbur supporting him with an arm, Tommy holding him up by the side. They rush past Phil with fast, limping steps, still too slow to ever escape him, but Phil lets them be. He stays standing in place, the stab wound in his neck sealing back up, and he watches as they go further down the dark street, turning their backs onto him.
Only Wilbur is the one to look over his shoulder as they move farther away, the vampire’s standing figure in the dark giving a terrible chill up his spine. He swears those eyes are glowing at him. Glowing. They don’t turn away, even when they move out of view.
“He’s not following.” He whispers out to Techno, who with each couple steps, regains his energy again, until he’s the one taking his brothers by the hands and dragging them along into a full-paced run, sprinting down the road with loud steps. “He’s not following us!”
“He probably got scared!” Tommy says, a touch of confidence in him for being able to overcome such a monster with his brother’s help.
“Or thought we were too much trouble.” Technoblade reckons, but he isn’t entirely focused on why they were able to get away. He just retraces the path they took to get into the area, wanting to be as far as possible. He can still feel the phantom prick of teeth in his neck. “This way, come on!”
He turns Wil and Tommy past a crossroad, ignoring the ringing panic in his head at the realization that he no longer has his gun tucked in his shirt, nor his knife in his pocket. He’s unarmed and defenseless, and they’re back at square one in needing to find a decent place for the night. They can’t settle anywhere within the area-- they’ll have to keep moving until they can’t any longer, because they can’t risk that- that- thing, coming upon them in their sleep.
They travel across road after road, Techno making as many turns as he can, Wilbur continuing to look back over his shoulder. Eventually, the adrenaline and fear fades, and as their steam runs out. Tommy’s feet begin to drag, his hand pulling at Techno’s with the need to take a pause.
“Stop!” Tommy insists, in between heaving breaths, almost stumbling over his worn-out shoes. “Techno- stop, stop, I can’t-” He pants. “I wanna stop!” He whines, the complaint nearly echoing in comparison to the silent night around them.
Techno listens, coming to such an abrupt halt that Wilbur almost goes falling to the ground, only saved by the fact he’s still holding onto Techno’s hand. Techno breathes hard as he looks straight ahead, and Wilbur takes the moment to lean over at the hip, trying to take in the cold air and ease his fried nerves.
It’s night. It’s fully night, the sun is gone over the horizon, and they don’t have any weapons. They don’t have any supplies. They don’t have anything. Techno had been hoping- praying, really, that trailing the guy from before would lead them to something decent, but all he’s led them to is something far worse than any zombie out here.
Oh, god, the zombies.
“We gotta hide.” Technoblade hisses out, making a step backwards, and Wil lifts his head back up to see a slow moving figure in the road up ahead. It shambles along in a way he knows too well, and his fear snaps right back at the ever faint noise of an undead groan. “This is- it’s too out in the open to stay here, we have to hide-” Techno begins to look around, Wilbur not daring to take his eyes off of the zombie, even if it’s still far.
“We’re going in a building?” Tommy asks quietly, as Techno quickly scans the sidewalk for any open entrances around them.
“Yes, a building. We can find a room, barricade the door.” Wilbur answers Tommy, just as quietly, and he sticks close to Techno’s side as they go across the street, to an office building that has the glass doors at the entrance entirely shattered.
They step carefully through the broken door with the crunch of glass underneath their shoes, and to their great dismay, the dark in here is suffocating compared to out on the street, where at least the light of the moon allowed them to be marginally aware of their surroundings. In here, it’s like a black hole, nothing but the void, and the sight of it is both a comfort and a scare. If they could hide in here, they’d never be found. But who knows what is already hiding within the dark?
Techno whistles out to the shadows like he’s calling a dog, and the noise of it echoes back at them from the walls, the place sounding horribly empty. It’s probably been ransacked, judging by the glass.
Tommy’s small hand grasps onto the bottom of Techno’s hoodie.
“I don’t like this spot.” He says, his words feeble and shaky, and Technoblade tries to not let himself sound too nervous in response. He forces a false, easy confidence into his voice.
“It’s just for one night, Toms. Tomorrow, we’ll find somewhere better.” Tomorrow, they’ll need to keep moving, farther and farther until Techno’s absolutely sure they’re out of range and not being followed. And along the way, he can only pray they’ll find some supplies as well to keep them going. He won’t dare think of approaching the collection of food that- man was by earlier. That’s just a trap, clear as day.
With no groaning response of a zombie to Techno’s whistle and Tommy’s hushed words, it’s deemed safe enough for now, and they creep along into the dark, Tommy holding onto Techno’s shirt, Wilbur keeping a hand on Techno’s shoulder. Techno keeps both his arms out, his steps small as he feels for any obstacle in the way. He bumps into a chair, then what could be an overturned plant pot, judging by the feeling of dirt under his feet, and eventually, he finds his hands touching at the smooth wood of a reception desk. Good enough.
“Okay, here.” Techno declares, and he maneuvers his brothers around the desk, hearing the crinkle of fallen papers underneath them, his leg bumping against another chair. He pushes it away and feels around for the bottom of the counter, then guides Tommy first to sit underneath within the corner of it.
“We’re staying here for the night?” Wilbur whispers, seeming apprehensive.
“I know it’s not good, but I don’t want to be in the open. He- I lost my gun. And my knife.”
“...Fuck.” Wil huffs, frustrated for a second on Techno’s behalf. “Okay. Okay, alright. Just until the sunrise, then?”
Techno nods, even if Wil can’t see it. He fumbles to grab at his brother’s hand and squeezes tight. “Just until the sunrise. It’ll be safer when it’s day.”
“Yeah.” Wil agrees, and with that, he joins Tommy underneath the desk, curling up on the ground with his back to the wood. He keeps his hands where Tommy can grab on them, letting him be constantly reassured in the heavy weight of the dark. Techno goes to join them, to find his own spot next to Wil, but as he’s starting to crouch down with care as to where the edge of the counter is, there’s the soft sound of a rumbling groan by the front door.
The sensation of ice-cold fear runs down Techno’s spine.
A scared whine leaves Tommy’s throat, and Techno immediately lands to his knees, reaching out to try and cover his little brother’s mouth. His fingers touch over Wilbur’s to find that Wil’s already done that, frantic in keeping him quiet.
“Techno.” Wilbur breathes out, hardly even a whisper, and Technoblade squeezes his grip over the back of Wil’s hand, trying to signal for him to just shut up. It’s only a wandering zombie. It won’t come in. It didn’t hear them. It’ll leave. It’ll leave. There’s been plenty of times they’ve had their close calls, zombies coming too close for comfort, but they’ve always just moved along, and this time will be no different. It’ll go. It’ll-
The crunching sound of glass underneath stumbling feet proves him wrong. The noise of it is deafening in Techno’s ears. His breath hitches in his throat, then holds, and his heart pounds against his ribs once, twice, three times, each louder than the last.
He wonders if the zombie can hear their hearts racing at the mere proximity of it. He wonders if it’s coming over to grab them in the dark, and he’ll be none the wiser until it’s too late and his flesh is already getting torn apart. He wonders if this is it, if this is how they’ll go. He wonders and wonders and spirals, and he can’t make himself move, because he was an idiot, and he hid himself and his brothers in the dark in hopes of not having the monsters follow them inside. Now they’re doomed. Now they’re dead , and all they can do is wait and listen to-
There’s a sickening crunch that fills up his ears. Something cracks and splits apart, then there’s a splatter of something wet upon the floor. Techno’s eyes go wide against the dark. The zombie has gone quiet.
What?
Techno turns himself around as Tommy whimpers behind Wil’s hand at the fear of the unknown, a soft shuffling of proper footsteps coming near, then- light. There’s a click of a flashlight, and all three of them flinch at the sudden return of being able to properly see. Techno stares at an old stain in the gray, flat carpet floor underneath him, his breath still stuck in his throat, and only when the sight of polished black shoes comes around in front of him, does he suck in a gasp.
There’s drops of blood on the shoes. Technoblade knows who it is before he kneels down to look underneath the counter.
“Of all places,” Phil sighs as he crouches with the flashlight pointed to the ground. “Why underneath the desk counter?”
He speaks so casually in the cool glow of the flashlight, but even with his tone and the all-encompassing darkness now chased away, he looks horrifying. The blood from earlier is still streaked down his face, a matching bright red with his eyes, which gleam in a way that’s just unsettling. He grins at them all, the fangs from before in full view, and Techno knows he was never bitten, the monster never got the chance, but his neck stings from just the close call. A frail noise dies somewhere behind his tongue.
“I guess I can’t blame you for just wanting to get out of sight. The hoard does tend to spread out during the night for some reason. I never get why. There’s probably some explanation behind it… ” He trails off, looking thoughtful, then he shakes his head and turns his attention back to them. “Nevermind. Come out, now.” He moves closer, reaching a hand up as if to pull them into the open.
“I-” Techno leans back, not sure what to do, mind blank with panic, and it’s in his moment of indecision that Wilbur lunges forward with a scream, slamming into the vampire and sending him falling back-first onto the ground. The flashlight rolls across the floor as Tommy shrieks out in surprise, and Technoblade gapes at the sudden action, not having expected it at all.
“Wilbur!”
“Leave us alone!” Wil cries, climbing on top of Phil to swing his fists down at his face with all the strength he can muster. “You stay away from-!”
In a flash, Wilbur is suddenly pulled off from Phil, and he’s thrown into the ground on his side, Phil hovering over him with a sharp, rattling hiss through his teeth. Wil looks up with wide eyes, cowering instantly under the noise, breathing fast and trying to shrink into the floor as Phil leans close with a snarl so vicious that Technoblade is convinced he’s about to watch his brother get eaten alive, torn to bite-sized bits.
But nothing happens. The snarl dies down, the air around them lapsing back into a tense silence, and they all stay in place, Wilbur curled up on the floor, Tommy gripping for dear life onto Techno’s arm. They wait, the seconds slowly slipping by, then Phil’s voice breaks the calm.
“I don’t kill children.”
Wilbur stares up at him with no visible reaction to the words, eyes glassy with tears, his body shaking like a leaf. Phil leans up a bit to glance over his shoulder at Techno and Tommy, and they’re very much the same. Phil squints at them for a second in consideration, then clicks his tongue as he realizes maybe he should’ve just tried talking sooner, even if they were in the middle of trying to give him a concussion.
“I don’t hurt children.” Phil repeats, an emphasis on the hurt, and he turns back to Wil to brush part of his matted-looking hair out of his face. Wil flinches at the gesture, eyes stuck to the claws on Phil’s hands. “It’s a rule of mine. So why don’t you stop trying to kill me?” Phil asks, and Wil’s eyes flick back up towards his face, tears silent running past his cheeks.
Phil sighs quietly at the sight, feeling tired even with the feeding he had so recently. Maybe it’s just from the short chase. It’s been honestly such a long while since the last time he actually chased his victims. It’s such an effort.
“Come here.” Phil says gently, and he takes Wilbur from the ground, the kid not even resisting as Phil gathers him up in his arms, sitting up so they’re both upright again. He looks back at Wilbur’s terror-filled eyes, and makes a hum. “Hello. Are we calmed down now? Can we have proper introductions? I have your names, I think you all should have mine. That’s only fair.”
“Please go away.” Techno chokes out from behind him, and Phil turns his head to see Tommy held tight in Technoblade’s arms, practically hidden from how much his older brother is curled over him in an effort for protection.
Phil tilts his head with a light huff. “I don’t think I will, Technoblade.” The boy jerks back at the use of his name, and Phil stands to his feet, Wilbur looking away from Phil to make a panicked glance towards his brothers as he stays held to Phil’s chest. “Now. We can begin the fighting all over again, with you throwing rocks and trying to stab me, eventually running off with me finding you over and over until you become too tired to run any longer…or you can head over there,” he nods over to an old seating area within the office place, the chairs still mostly together. “And sit down, so we can have a simple chat.”
“I don’t-” Technoblade tries immediately to refuse, but he considers Phil’s words. Yes, they can fight again. Wilbur could try stabbing his eyes out with his bare hands, he’ll probably do so if Techno just gives some sort of signal, but what then? Will it just be like the last time? They’ll be let go, the man letting them leave, and they’ll run, but they’ll be scared off into hiding from the zombies, and they’ll be found again. They can’t get all that far in the open, not without any weapons, not at night.
At least this monster has some restraint about killing them. The zombies outside won’t give any hesitation on sinking their teeth into their skin. Techno chooses the lesser of the two evils.
He forces himself up on shaky legs, Tommy held close with his hand in his, and they move away from the counter, stepping past Phil. Techno walks over to the chairs with a strained breathing in his lungs, and his eyes naturally fall upon the body on the floor, the zombie from earlier dead at their feet.
With the head torn off.
Tommy presses himself further into Techno’s side, not making a noise, but the shock radiating from him all the same. Technoblade stays looking at the zombie for a minute too long, and Phil ends up nudging them with the flashlight, having picked it up in their moment of distraction.
They don’t sit on the chairs if so much as fall into them, Tommy climbing onto Techno’s lap, wanting to be as close to him as possible. Technoblade holds him with strong arms, then looks up at Phil with his stomach twisting at the red eyes looking back.
“Can Wilbur sit with us?” Technoblade croaks out, and Phil looks down at Wilbur in his arms as if to check if the kid wants that too. Wil makes a frantic nod, and Phil relents, letting him down on the chair beside Techno. Both him and Techno immediately clasp their hands together.
“Alright. Now that we’re all settled…” Phil crouches down again with the flashlight to the floor, the boys now looking down at him as he smiles with a barely contained anticipation. “I’m going to put this simply.”
All three of them shrink away in preparation for some sort of threat, an unveiled anger, something terrible with that snarling, inhuman noise from before, but Phil’s tone stays calm. Very matter of fact, very still. Perfectly content.
“My name is Phil. I’m a vampire. And you three are going to be very important to me.”