Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The day the world fell to shit was great. Of course, Harrison is lying, but that's what he'd let you believe.

The extensive fear that you develop what the government called Chronic Wasting Disease-Type B and essentially become a zombie was mortifying to any and everybody.

David and Campbell (begrudgingly) had collectively locked all of the campers in the mess hall. They'd have Gwen and that CJ guy, too, but they were out of town and would not be returning.

It started three days ago. The campers were living off the pantry and fridge, although rationing.

Cloth was hung over the windows during the night. Harrison couldn't sleep. He'd stayed up late, afraid of what could happen to them.

His mind drifted off to their neighboring camps, the Flower Scouts and the Wood Scouts, and what had become of them.

Harrison looked around the mess hall. Neil and Nikki were curled up with eachother (Nikki looked terrified, Neil looked dead asleep and very, very tired). Max's hood was up and he was leaning on Neil's shoulder.

Space Kid and Dolph were laying under a picnic table, also asleep. They looked like the were talking before the inevitably passed out.

Nurf and Ered were separated from the others, but by no means sleeping near eachother.

David was propped against a wall, sitting up. Harrison knew he wasn't sleeping because of the lit lantern and hunting knife in David's hand.

Preston, Nerris, and himself with kind-of-cuddling, but not really. They were just having a lot of physical contact.

The room was lukewarm from the Wisconsin summer. None of the campers really needed blankets, and instead took off things like jackets and overshirts when sleeping.

Going anywhere wasn't safe anymore. Leaving camp wasn't safe. Leaving the mess hall wasn't fucking safe.

Harrison's destructive thoughts were cut short by the meander of voices outside. He stiffended. David stiffended.

But those voices were muddy. Hardly familiar. But he recognized them.

David stood slowly, lantern and hunting knife in hand. Harrison readied his magic, following suit.

The steps and voices were hard to identify against the rain, but they were moving towards the front door. By the way their numerous steps sounded (heavy, strong, determined), they weren't victims of CWD-B- whose steps were indicated by their disorder, listlessness, and stumbling efforts.

A grunt outside the door was heard; then a hard rapping against the door.

David lowered the knife and looked towards Harrison. Harrison nodded.

David's hand extended shakily for the doorknob, unlocked it, and opened it wearily, raising his lantern.

Six dishelved figures on the other side. The three Wood Scouts and the three more well-known Flowerscouts. Pikeman had a fire axe, Snake had what looked like a tranquilizer gun, Petrol had a wooden plank, and Tabbii— the only armed Flower Scout —had a whole motherfucking chair.

"David," Pikeman started, his voice the same usual nasal tone. "We're here.." He swallows shamefully. "We're here for refuge. Our camps aren't safe. None of us are infected, swear."

David's once firm and stoic gaze turned to one of pity; Harrison knows David couldn't turn away children.

"Come in," he replies, putting his pocket knife away.

Pikeman doesn't utter a verbal thank you, but nods in what could be respect.

The Wood Scouts and Flower Scouts look undeniably worse than the Camp Campbell campers. Hair sticking out every which way, brown (mud? Dried blood?) stained clothes, visible bags under each of their eyes, and clear distress.

They settled in, too. But they didn't sleep. They talked, albeit almost silently, with eachother. They were shifty and afraid, and Harrison didn't blame them.

They were just kids trying to survive on there own. Maybe there was more when their group formed- maybe their friends had... had died.

Harrison shuddered as he curled back underneath Preston's left arm.

Finally, he fell asleep. A short dreamless sleep that only ended when the sun went up three hours later.

Chapter Text

The morning was just about as quiet as the night. The Camp Campbell Campers just stared at the varying scouts as they whispered to one another.

"When did they get here...?" Preston asked, holding his hat in his hands.

"Really early this morning," Harrison responded, his voice tired and dry. "All six. I don't think they've gone to sleep."

Nerris shifted in their seat. "They look like hell." They stated, cleaning their glasses with their cloak.

Preston eyed Nerris tiredly. "The world has gone to hell, dear." He looked back to the six scouts, "they just... brought some in with them, I suppose."

"Hell is an understatement. David doesn't even want us looking outside." Harrison brings his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around them, and leans back against the wall.

Preston inhaled shakily. "I'm just- I'm just going to say it, what if this is the rapture, or judgement day- whatever it's called."

Nerris interjected. "I didn't know you were a Christian."

"I'm not, I'm just trying to rationalize the fucking apocalypse, Nerris!" Preston retorts, his tone peaking slightly and cracking like it used to.

Harrison stopped listening after that, figuring his catastrophizing shouldn't mix with Preston's and make him more afraid.

His eyes shifted to the Flowerscouts and Woodscouts once more as he remembered the desperation on their faces during the earlier morning.

It grew to his realization that the stains on their clothes were in fact both mud and blood. Whose blood was a better question, as he could see it mostly on the Woodscouts (no surprise there), on Pikeman's sleeve cuffs, Snake's shoes and a bit splattered on his shirt, some on the plank Petrol had, and god knows where else Harrison couldn't see.

Although he was curious, he wouldn't even think about asking them. Not just because he practically loathed them, but because whatever had caused it was obviously going to be traumatizing and a touchy subject. Harrison was weird, not stupid.

Harrison's eyes flitted away briefly when he thought he made eye contact.

He watched David stand and take a metal spoon and cup and tap it like it was dinnertime. "Kids, uh- welcome, welcome the Flowerscouts and Woodscouts!" The scouts visibly recoil and groan. "They got here last night, and we're taking them in." The redheaded man smiles nervously.

"David!" Neil shouts. "Why the fuck did you let them in?! What if they were carriers?! God, you're stupid." He rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, what Neil said." Nikki starts, "they're tried to kill us. A lot. Too many times."

Sasha stands up confidently (although her posture shaky). "Uh, fuck you!" She shouts. "You don't know how shitty it is out there, you rat."

As Harrison watches the back and forth, he notices David looks like he's on the verge of a breakdown already.

"Shut the hell up!" Max yells, putting his hoodie back on. "Do you want the fuckin' zombies to hear us?!" He sits back down and grumbles.

The mess hall quiets almost instantly as disordered stomping is heard outside. The person closest to the door, Nurf, silently double checks the locks. He turns around and nods curtly. Zombies.

As if instinct, the campers back away from the windows and door and further into the kitchen, drawing any weapons they have on them on the ready.

Their deafening silence is interrupted by what sounds to be one of the zombies falling on the door, bleeding out, standing back up, and appearing to walk away.

"I swear to fuck if that was Jermy, or one of the stupid Flower Scouts..." Pikeman grumbles agressively, slowly bringing his fire axe down.

Harrison could feel the familiar rumble and burn in his hands die down before it disappears entirely. He sighs as they pile out of the kitchen.

They collectively take their seats at their respective picnic tables. They were all eerily silent.

They started whispering about whatever they pleased. Harrison couldn't bring himself to pipe up about anything like that, but instead found himself drifting off ti the Wood Scouts and Flower Scouts.

His throat was dry, and he found himself shaking by the knees. He shuddered. Why was it so hard to ask a damn question?

He stood next to the Scouts and started: "So... what happened?" He asked. "Why did you have to come here?"

Chapter Text

T hree Days Earlier

Pikeman's hands were clasped together as his elbows were placed upon the table, his head bowed in prayer (he hadn't been apart of the Church in who knows how long, but he felt it was right). He muttered unintelligible words with his eyes screwed shut.

Only recently had the government broke the news of what was essentially zombies, so the Woodscouts had taken to limiting their space and reserving their (already limited) supplies between Snake, Petrol, Jermy (ew), and himself. Times like these were the ones he was glad there were only four Woodscouts.

He heaved a sigh and stood, untangling himself from the dark oak picnic table and making his way to the common area.

"Scouts," he starts. "How are we doing on our rations?" Pikeman scans the area, noticing the absence of one of their key members, Billy 'Snake' Nikssilp. "Where's Snake?" Pikeman asks, his nose wrinkling in question.

Jermy's froglike voice speaks next, the ugly bastard. "He was checking the waaaalll, siiiir."

"Thanks, Jermy." Pikeman responds, his voice chocked-full of it's usual disgust.

"SIR! SIR!" A familiar voice screams from the distance. Snake emerges through the tents and falls to his knees, clearly frazzled. He collects his bearings, and attempts to stand and salute Pikeman.

Pikeman turns to face Snake. "What is it, scout?"

"Walkers, the- the zombies, sir!" He stutters, his chest heaving and his one exposed eye wide. He lowers his salute. "They're trying to get into the camp."

Petrol's eyes widen, Jermy gasps. If Pikeman were holding a pen or pencil, he would've snapped it in immediate shock. "Where?" Pikeman asks.

"The entrance. We- we have to leave. Soon." Snake gasps, his hands on his knees.

Pikeman's face contorts into shock. He swallows, riddled with anxiety. "Damn it," he mutters under his breath. He can feel the bile rise in his throat, but swallows it quickly. "Come, scouts! Arm yourselves with whatever you find."

They braced themselves for what was essentially war. Pikeman grabbed the camp's fire axe, Petrol had discovered a wooden plank (only after hesitantly giving his knife to Jermy), and Snake had found an old tranquilizer gun from when Daniel was still in charge. They made their way to the center of the camp, trying to shield themselves off and away from their barracks.

Inside of the main tent, essentially their mess hall, Pikeman blew out the oil lamp with a quick huff. They huddled together, shielding their backs and getting into position. 

"Snake," Pikeman started, holding the axe in front of him bravely.

"Sir?" Snake continued, clad with the most unsure voice Pikeman had ever heard.

Pikeman inhaled. He exhaled. "How many are there?"

He watched Snake tremble. 

"Too many."

"Fuck."

There was a crash of metal poles, groans, and and footsteps. Horrible, undead, drunken footsteps. Oh, and Jermy screamed.

If you asked Pikeman what happened exactly, he couldn't tell you. All he remembered was that he brought the axe down exactly once (whether it hit or not, he didn't know), he heard a wooden clack or two from Petrol, and finally a shot from Snake.

Then they ran. Through the tents, past the walls, out of the camp, and into the forest. "Uhhh, sir..?" Jermy asked, his nasally voice tense and pained (more than likely from walking; the kid had an ungodly amount of diseases).

"What, Jermy?" Pikeman spat, panting from the run. 

"I was bit, sir..." 

Snake sounded like he got the wind knocked out of him. Pikeman think Petrol's jaw literally hit the ground. "You- You what?" Pikeman let out a short humorless laugh. "You were bit?"

Jermy holds up his flabby, useless arm. Pikeman feels the familiar sensation of bile rising in his throat. He's the leader, this is his problem. Pikeman watches the blood trail down his pale arm. The bite wound already looked infected, and not from the CWD-B strain. Pikeman let out a short gasp for breath, teetering on the brink of a panic attack.

"Jermy." He coughs out. Jermy's dark eyes stare fearful holes into Pikeman's. "Look down and close your eyes."

Jermy shuddered before he obliged, leaning over slightly (which was better), and shut his eyes. His glasses slipped off his nose and cracked onto the rocks. 

Pikeman wiped the eyes he didn't realize he were wet and raised the axe. He paused. This was the correct thing to do, right? Of course.

Pikeman shut his eyes, too, before he brought the axe down on Jermy's neck, beheading him. He felt the warm blood splatter on his face. 

"OH MY GOD." Snake gasped. Petrol averted his eyes, still unspeaking. Pikeman dropped the axe before turning around the trees and throwing up whatever food he ate that day. He took a few gasps for breath again before he wipes his mouth and returns to the group, still shaken.

Snake, who Pikeman thought would've said something, was quiet. He took out a candy cane, unwrapped the end, and stuck it in his mouth, nervously grinding it between his teeth.

Pikeman let out a shuddering gasped before he muttered; "I'm sorry, scouts..."

They buried the body (as best they could). Petrol left the pocket knife as a makeshift headstone. And Pikeman, with dead eyes, washed Jermy's blood off the fire axe before they continued walking west.

It took them a few hours to make it there. The Flowerscouts, that is. Their camp. 

Pikeman didn't want to knock on the the door with the only light on, so Petrol decided to hastily. A scream came from inside before some shushing (that was rather loud) and a few steps towards the door. When it opened, there was the familiar face. Sasha. She groaned. "Of course you bitches went under. I was betting on those bags of filth across the lake." She opened the door wide enough for them to be let in, then she pretty much slammed it. She groaned.

And that's where they were for a few days. Conversing with 'pathetic' women in their camp, trying to stay alive. 

But nothing lasts forever. Especially after the end of the world.

Pikeman awoke rather abruptly from his sleeping spot (underneath a picnic table, like most) to screaming. 

Tabbii, the small one, threw a chair at one of the zombies. "Get the fuck off!" She screamed.

And that, Pikeman couldn't tell you details the details of, either. He just knew they fought, only the Woodscouts, Sasha, Tabbii (with two i's, not two eyes) and the blue-haired girl with two-toned eyes survived.

And so they walked.

And walked.

And walked.

It was past midnight (probably) and then they approached, tired and weary.

Camp Campbell.

Chapter Text

Harrison's heart weighed a bit heavier, his hands a bit shakier, his head a bit more frazzled as those final words left Pikeman's mouth. "You... Jermy... that actually happened?"

Pikeman grunted, crossing his sore arms and scoffing at him, "I don't have to explain else to you, Camp Campbell Camper." He sneers, his usually snotty and self-righteous voice tired and deflected. 

The boy didn't ask further, he didn't even comment on the insult. Part of him knew he shouldn't. Couldn't, even. Internally, Harrison reeled, but managed out a sigh. "I'm sorry that happened," he says, swallowing his bitterness, his pride, his pity. Harrison looks at the other Woodscouts, to the Flowerscouts, and wrings a hand through his hair before sighing again. He can't bring himself to say anything more, so he returns to his friends.

"What was that about?" Nerris asks, their legs crossed and their chin resting on their palm. "Why would you even talk to them?"

Preston looks curious too, but oddly says nothing. "I... I was just curious. That's not a problem, is it?" Harrison questions rhetorically, inwardly rolling his eyes, his moxie being forced upon him in the presence of the other magic kid. Regardless, he slumps next to the others, picking at his cuticles absently.

He looked up, watching David's skinny, scraped, red-kneed legs walk over to the scouts, sitting opposite of them. In his hands is a small basket of what Harrison can only assume is food. David smiles, offering it up to them.

Pikeman's eyes are blown wide at the offer. He looks around for the judgement of the others before he swallows his pride and accepts the basket. "Thank you." He states, his hands not touching David's as they exchange the food.

Harrison watches as they begin to eat what was in there (food, obviously), in varying rush. He hums quietly, his stomach pooling with pity and his heart heavy once more.

Chapter Text

10 Days Until Disaster

Over the next few days, all of the campers collectively spoke a sentence or two. 

Harrison, mulling over the crackers, tried to barter for even a bit of Nerris's pudding (he did not get any). Biting into the stale cracker, Harrison sighs. "What happens when we run out of food? We'll have to leave, no?" He asks his friends, wiping his lips. "I mean, there's not just eleven of us anymore, there's seventeen."

"I don't imagine us going into town-" Preston states, finishing off his small cup of grape juice. He grimaces, the flavor bitter. Nerris interjects, pudding stuck in their braces. "We'll have to hunt, maybe!" They smile, the first smile Harrison had seen in a moment, but Preston seems to detest the thought.

"Don't even joke about that, Nerris," he chides. "And don't make the statement-"

"It's what our ancestors used to do-"

Preston deadpans in frustration when they speak in unison. "I think I hate you."

"Could you guys be any louder? God." Comes a voice from the other side of the mess hall, "you're gonna get us all eaten." Neil smacks at Max's arm, almost telling him to shut it.

"Max," Preston scoffs under his breath, his tone miffed and ire now shared by two. "We can surely—"

"—drive eachother mad!" Harrison blurts. "With all seventeen of us, we'll probably go crazy with nothing to do other than talk... sometimes." He pauses, shifting into a more guarded position, knees up to his chest. "I've been thinking about it a lot. My bad. Sorry. Forget I said anything."

"...Do you need a moment, Harrison...?" Nerris asks, their lisp making it hard for them to sound sincere. "You sound ready to crack."

The magician grimaces, sighing. "I'm fine. Fine, fine, fine..."

-

05 Days Until Disaster

Harrison sees David visibly shift, his gait anxious and somewhat timid. He doesn't blame the man, no, as sixteen campers of varying ages are likely quite difficult to take care of— not to mention during the apocalypse.

David's begun rationing the food, having the campers eat every other day. Harrison doesn't remember the last time he saw David eat.

He misses his magic tricks. His tent. The lake. Even the shitty bathrooms, he misses. He regrets saying all of this, but won't say it's wrong.

Harrison stares at the barricaded windows longingly. Even the sun, he misses. The only time he gets to see it is when it manages to sneak through the boards— which only happens for about an hour each morning.

Infighting had began, too. Max's fault, Harrison thinks, because he's started arguing with the Wood and Flowerscouts. It's grading, irritating, and even driving Max's friends away from him.

"I wish we'd've brought cards or something..." Nerris sighs, "I'm so bored. Maybe we should look around. See if we can find something?"

Harrison crosses his arms, refocusing on the Mess Hall. "You know what David says... no unnecessary noise." He replies timidly, picking at his rolled-up sleeves, trying to accomodate for the summer heat of the musty Mess Hall. "But I don't think it'd hurt..."

Nerris shoves Preston awake, startling the thespian. "We're gonna go... explore."

Preston replies groggily, rubbing his eyes. "The Mess Hall..?"

"The Mess Hall," Nerris repeats, helping him to his feet.

Several campers eye them cautiously, but nobody says anything— "um, what are you three doing?" Ered asks, her arms crossed coolly as she sits on one of the picnic tables.

"Nothing important," responds Nerris as they fix their cloak around their shoulders. 

Harrison speaks quickly, "cards or something," he tries to recover, rolling his eyes mentally.

A half-scoff-half-laugh comes from the other side of the room as Neil stands up, dusting off his slacks. "Finally, somebody..." the scientist approaches the trio, hot on Harrison coattails. "Quartermaster has some tech in there, and I've been needing to tinker..." Neil claims, an uncharacteristically doggish grin on his face.

They quietly make their way into the kitchen in a short sequence. Neil eyes the door to Quartermaster's room like a bloodhound before he slinks in, closing the door behind him.

The group pointedly ignore Neil's odd behavior, having grown used to it, and begin to case the place for games.

Roughly a few minutes later, Nerris pulls out a card game: Une.

"Guys! Look!" They call, whisper-shouting to the two boys.

Prestion chuckles. "Une? What is that, the french version of Uno?" He takes the card game from Nerris, turning it over in his hands. "The company that produced it is literally named Wattel. What even is this place."

Harrison chuckles into his palm, a rare grin on his face. "Better than nothing. How's about we bring it back and play a few? Maybe Max'll stop bitching about everything."

Nerris and Preston agree, "better than nothing," they all think in agreement. The two head back, but Harrison lags behind.

He walks over the the Quartermaster's quarters, knocking firmly. "Neil? We're heading back to the Mess Hall."

Neil doesn't respond immediately, the only noise being a low whirring and humming from inside. "Yeah... mhm. Be right there. Soon. Thanks, Harrison." Harrison doesn't question it and walks off, rejoining his friends in the Mess Hall.