Chapter Text
Wilbur can’t breathe. His breaths are wheezes as he tries to inhale and exhale but no air ever seems to reach his lungs. The chilly February air burns Wilbur’s nose and dries his mouth with each desperate attempt to obtain air then gasp it out. He knows he needs to stop, but Wilbur can still hear the Last Men behind him. That means he needs to keep spriting despite his depleted endurance and shoeless feet that propel Wilbur through the snowy forest. Wilbur takes another breath and keeps going, his tail covers his footprints with snow as he runs. He could climb a tree but there wouldn’t be enough time before the Last Men caught up. So Wilbur needs to hide….
His foot flips and the snow-covered trees and ground tilt as Wilbur falls down a small hill. His right arm hits the ground first and while Wilbur didn’t hear a snap and there was a cold layer to cushion his fall, his arm hurts. Wilbur simply grits his teeth at the pain and quickly looks around at his new surroundings. His brown eyes land on a hollow space underneath a tree and its roots that would be perfect for a fox den. Wilbur scrambles towards it and dives into the space. There is snow built up against the sides so Wilbur doesn’t think that the Last Men can easily see him. Not to mention that the tree Wilbur is hiding under is down a hill from where they were chasing him. The only way they could find him is if they saw him fall (but Wilbur doesn’t hear anything that sounds like soldiers searching), looked for a while (which Wilbur doubts they will waste time on), or saw where Wilbur landed. Wilbur peers out of his hiding place and sighs in relief when he sees how his impact and scramble barely look man-made. Or rather, hybrid-made.
After what seems like an eternity of being chased through the woods, Wilbur allows himself to relax. But with that relaxation comes the thoughts Wilbur was too distracted to pay attention to. Wilbur curls into a ball, his only socked feet tucked into his body and tail wrapped around himself for warmth. The grey fur in his hands, face, and body definitely help Wilbur not freeze but he can’t help but feel bitter about his opossum hybrid traits, considering they are what got him into this mess in the first place.
Wilbur sniffles, his pink opossum nose and light grey almost white snout wiggling at the action. Warm tears slide down his cheeks that are still raw from being lashed by the ice-cold wind. The memories of earlier that day cloud Wilbur’s mind:
Dad and Mom are listening to Wilbur play the practice songs from his booklet on his acoustic guitar, giving him tips on his posture and finger position as he strums the chords.
There is a sudden knock at the front door and Mom gives Wilbur a reassuring look before she gets up to answer it.
“Will,” Dad says. I look at him. “I need you to hide, just in ca--,” Dad is cut off by a loud bang and Mom’s alarmed shout.
Dad looks away from Wilbur in alarm and, eyes wide, father and son helplessly watch as Last Men soldiers stompy into the room. They pay no attention to Dad and immediately walk toward Wilbur. Wilbur can’t move away, his whole body is frozen in shock.
“Wilbur, run!” Dad yells as he moves in front of the soldiers in order to stop them from getting to Wilbur. That snaps Wilbur out of his reverie and he runs to the back door of their house, dropping the guitar as he does so.
Wilbur grabs the door handle and looks behind him. A grave mistake. Wilbur watches in horror as a soldier punches Dad in the stomach and then slaps the side of his head when he doesn’t fall. Dad collapses, clutching his chest and the same soldier kicks him in the side. Dad falls further onto the floor and makes eye contact with Wilbur, fear desperation, and determination filling his eyes like tears. Wilbur may only be nine, but he knows his father well enough to tell these things.
Before Wilbur can pinpoint where Mom is, the Last Men are once again advancing on him. Wilbur turns away from his dad, opens the door, and bolts into the winter wonderland behind his house, escaping from his home. A loud ominous crack sounds behind Wilbur but he doesn’t look back a second time. Instead, he relies on the loud crashings that sometimes near or fall back to gauge the distance between himself and the people that ruined Wilbur’s life from the day he was born.
Now Wilbur sobs. For his parents whom he didn’t get to say goodbye to. For his mom that he doesn’t know if is even alive (he hopes with all his might that she is). For his dad that he left in pain on their living room floor because he tried to protect Wilbur instead of himself. For his life that ensured some sort of misfortune from the moment his mother gave birth to a hybrid. Wilbur feels guilty, sad, angry, and cold. But also determined like Dad. Wilbur isn’t going to let the Last Men win. He’s going to avoid the Last Men, find his parents (although he doesn’t know what direction they’re in or if they were taken), and while he does that, explore. Because, as Wilbur sits under a tree, trying to warm up his exhausted body and finally breathing at a normal rate, he realizes that he’s never been outside of his house before. There’s a whole world out there that Wilbur’s always dreamt of seeing alongside his parents.
So Wilbur wipes his tears away from the now slightly dirty sleeve of his yellow crewneck, wincing at the flare of pain that erupts when he moves his right arm. Wilbur gets himself as comfortable as he can and prepares for a nap. He’ll need plenty of rest if he’s going to start exploring the world he’s never seen before.
o o 0 o o
Wilbur wakes up with a terrible ache in his right arm that hurts more when he moves or touches it. Not to mention that he’s hungry, freezing, and the cold has seemed to make his limbs heavy and movements sluggish. Wilbur rubs his furred fingers and hands over his arms in a somewhat successful attempt to return actual feeling to them. He does the same to his legs and miserable feet. He nuzzles his shoulder as shivers still wrack his body. The young hybrid needs to get out of there.
Slowly, Wilbur crawls out of his hiding spot and stumbles into a standing position, managing to not lose his balance. The scenery hasn’t changed much from whenever Wilbur fell asleep, except for what looks like a sunrise over top of the white-coated trees. Wilbur stares at the blend of oranges and pinks with a little blue peeking through for a moment before switching his gaze to the winter wonderland around him. Wilbur doesn’t smell any Last Men (they reek of sweat and what the hybrid assumes to be gunpowder), and the white expanse is seemingly uninterrupted by the black and green camouflage of the soldiers. For once, Wilbur is saddened by the fact that he didn’t inherit the opossum’s ears. They would be useful in this situation.
After deeming it to be safe, Wilbur cautiously continues in the direction he was running earlier, passing the tree that sheltered him through the night. As Wilbur walks, he makes sure to use his tail to swipe snow over his small footprints. He has seen a lot of movies and learned from them to hide the indents to avoid being easily tracked.
Wilbur isn’t sure how much time passes as he progresses through the forest. Every few minutes, the young hybrid rubs his arms (gently for his right one), legs, hands, and face to warm up and occasionally stops to rest and heat his feet. It isn’t until the sun is high overhead that the trees become less dense and Wilbur is gratefully greeted by an open and bright meadow. He practically runs to the large space, basking in the unblocked sun but wincing at his shoeless feet becoming soaked from the slightly melting snow and the continuous pain in his arm.
Wilbur looks around the meadow as he walks through it. There isn’t much other than slush and yellow grass that comes up to just below Wilbur’s knees. But the sun is a vast improvement to the seemingly endless sea of snow and tall shadows now behind Wilbur.
So Wilbur keeps traveling, hoping to find a house or town, his parents, or at least a pair of shoes.