Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When the cataclysm occurred, people seeked shelter from the sun, and visitors were looking for victims.

You wanted to escape all of it. From the very beginning, you had never been one for people. They had their lives, you had yours, and as the years passed by the meagre world around you had nothing to offer anymore, save for beer, cigarettes, and a house you loathed living in. You had hated your father, the one who had given it to you, even more.

Now there was nothing left to hate, because the world was burning up, the sun was going to explode, and there were too many people in your house. If you could even call them people. You suspected not all of them were. However, the excuse of clean teeth and dotted aura pictures wasn’t of any help to your reputation when you made a mistake and decided to shoot a human being in the head.

The sight of splattered crimson dots on your flowery wallpaper had been a lot to handle. Even two weeks into the apocalypse you just couldn’t get used to it.

What had that suit guy said? “Every pack needs an alpha to lead them,” or some bullshit like that. The man had been strange, if not downright rude, but nothing had happened while he was in your living room, and FEMA had taken him away soon after he entered the house, so maybe it had all been in your head. He had been wrong on many accounts, but his words rang true for at least one thing, that the one pulling the trigger had more power than the one on the other end of the barrel. You had intended to keep it that way for as long as possible, and managed so far.

Now there were only three people left in here with you.

One of the sisters, the depressed one. The other, much more talkative, had been killed one night by a visitor, a stout bald man who lingered on his words. In your bathtub, there was a corpse, dried out from the heat, and sitting on the cold tiles with her head in her hand, his widow. You never thought she’d make it this far. Grief was a terrible lover. The third one was a blonde woman, who had everything but a drab appearance thanks to the colourful makeup and the shiny earrings. She had entered the house with scoffs and tightly pursed lips, but talked to you when you initiated the conversation with more patience than what was left in your own body.

You couldn’t take much more. FEMA was closing in, the vigilante was burning houses. It was time to nail the windows shut and the door with it.

Hopefully the basement had been spared the stench of death clinging to the low ceiling.

One nail after the other, every plank found its rightful place on your windows, shutting out the filtered rays of sunlight slowly and dutifully. No one was to get in anymore. Behind you, the depressed sister stood quietly, hunched over herself with frail arms barely visible through her loose long-sleeved shirt. You had not bothered to learn her name, and she probably would not have given it to you anyway. She hadn’t been able to meet your eyes after the death of her sister, and even though you let her stay, she wouldn’t last long in your opinion if all this mess ever came to an end.

“I don’t want to leave him,” drawled the widow as she stood in the doorframe between bathroom and main hall. Her eyes were red and wet with tears, but you had checked her for alarming signs more than enough. She wasn’t a visitor.

You barely acknowledged her, instead reaching for another plank, another nail. Only one window left, by your office. You didn’t have the heart to open the curtains of the one in your bedroom. You didn’t look that way anymore.

“Is all of this truly necessary?”

Heavy blue eyeshadow, smudged red lipstick, and blushed cheeks. The last occupant of the house always made herself known with condescension and a know-it-all attitude you didn't care much for entertaining nowadays.

“Yes,” you replied, pushing past her to get to the last window. “It’s all gone to hell.”

The world was cursed but maybe there was still a way to survive.

“It was always hell,” said the widow. Her fingers twitched, like reaching for a cigarette, but you had nothing to offer. “What can we even do?”

The blond woman scoffed again. She had confided in you that she wanted to apply for a position at FEMA, and the idea didn't seem outlandish. She had a loud, confident personality, and would have fitted right in, in that atrocious yellow garb of a uniform. Perhaps she was just insecure, or perhaps she wasn’t, and you were projecting.

You let go of the last wooden board, the hammer and the nails, and now there truly was nothing else to do, except hope for the best. By the door, the cat was laying down, barely visible through the hue that had taken to your house. He purred when you crouched down to pet it, his bulbous eyes closing in sheer enjoyment, and squirmed when you went to pick it up.

The radio was deathly silent, as were the streets outside, and you entertained the idea of waiting for just one more night. Step outside, one last time. Feel the fresh air on your face, maybe pick up on a few cricket sounds that hadn't been burnt to ashes, look at the moon or the clouds, whatever was up there. 

You decided against it.

The cat squirmed again, pulling itself free from your grasp, and you let out a frustrated sigh. He had helped you in the few days he had been at your house, and all it took was feeding him a few cans of cat food. You weren’t too fond of animals, but not returning the favor and leaving him here to starve would be cruel.

It took most of your strength to open the basement door in a loud creak. You were exhausted, the sheer terror at the sight of the pale man had ebbed, if only marginally so, but the strain of the vigilante’s surprise visits had not been kind to your stress levels. With one cat under your arm and one shotgun on your shoulder, this was harder than it should have been. Under the unimpressed glare of the blonde woman, the widow made a move to help you. She had seen you were struggling, and you appreciated the gesture, in some small comforting way.

You nodded and she caught your silent thank you, with her grim face and sad eyes. She was your favorite guest, and had been here far longer than the other two. You only regretted not being able to give her husband a proper burial.

Slowly, all three of you made your way down to the basement, the cat jumping down and settling by the dirt on the far side. There was still the beginning of the hole you had tried to dig, before you ran out of energy and decided you had better use of your time than this.

The blonde woman looked around, white tote bag sliding down her shoulder when she descended the stairs. “How long are we staying here?”

It was cooler down there, but the air still felt heavy with unease. You didn’t quite know what to answer to pacify her, or ease your guests’ worries. The sister had decided to sit down next to the cat, and she was now leaning onto the grime and filth of the wall, looking anywhere but at the people around her.

Thankfully the widow took on the burden for you. “As long as it takes, I suppose.”

She looked as if she didn't want to think too strongly about it herself.

You could understand why. If you rationed carefully, your food stores should last for a month or two, but there was no telling if this would be enough. The blonde woman didn’t answer.

You climbed the few steps back up and sealed the door. No one would be able to come in now, and the thought barely soothed you. The widow’s humanity, you were sure of, the sister, a bit less, and the blonde woman was a gamble.

You turned around, and started to wait.

For a few days, everything was fine. You kept track of the days by marking the cellar wall. You had never been chatty, but it was awfully quiet in here. A respite, you told yourself while clutching your shotgun to your chest, a way out. There was no missing the gaze of the sister onto your weapon, more wondering than nervous. You had met your lot of suicidal people in your house, no more no less than two who had taken their own lives while living under your roof. Just one more thing to add to the resume of this awful place.

The sun wasn’t the only threat looming overhead.

Trust faded. You could feel paranoia growing sharper by the day, and you weren't even sure if it was your own or your guests’, all intertwined like poisonous vines. You could feel the stares. Cold. Calculating. Alien.

One day, the respite did come.

You woke up in a daze, and barely had time to reach for your shotgun before someone pinned you to the ground. Killing, as much as you had been witness to during these last few days, was not a foreign entity anymore, but in this instant, while being on the receiving end, the fear of death had paralyzed you. It was all about to end.

Escape didn't even cross your mind. There was nowhere left to run.

Terror blinded you, as piercing green eyes, swimming in a red hue, came to rest upon your face. You thrashed, but your voice refused to come out, you couldn’t even scream. It hadn't just been humans that you had let into your home. The blond woman tore you apart. Darkness flooded your vision, as you reached out and pulled onto her shiny earring, taking the lower half of her lobe with it. Blood spilled out, drops coating your face and left eye, and pain seared through your body.

A small, lonely house took shape into your mind. White paint, dark roof and low ceiling. Green hues. You hoped it would be over soon. It was hard to hold on…

The pain faded as you slipped further away.

…

Welcome me…

But she didn’t.

A bird was singing outside.

When was the last time a bird had been heard in the streets right outside the house? You could not even remember if there had ever been. The blanket was weighing heavily onto your body, embracing your form in warmth and comfort. Surely there was no need to get up.

Outside your bedroom, the phone rang, drowning out the sounds of everything else. No one called nowadays, no one ever did, the last one to do so had been your wife, when she was still…well, it didn’t matter.

Your limbs felt so heavy.

You didn’t need to get up. More people would want to enter your house during the night, and on most days you barely had the energy to check them for signs before passing out onto your bed.

There was plenty of room, now that all of you had moved to the basement. Now that you had been torn to pieces by that blonde woman. Dying felt awful, but the afterlife wasn’t so bad, you thought.

That was it, you would rest here forever, unburdened by responsibilities towards people you had never met before. They had taken to you rather easily, for the most part. Not all of them had been agreeable, but they had complied with your requests, stretched the corners of their mouths wide, shown you hands and fingernails, stood still for pictures that you barely showed them the result of. Perhaps it had been the shotgun, that heavy weight on your back. Maybe people were just desperate for some amount of human interaction, in the end of times.

The phone stopped ringing, and you could almost hear the garbled whisper of the radio just outside your room.

You felt pretty alive right now.

What a strange thing.

…

What the fuck.

Your eyes shot open, and your body upright, heavy blanket flung off to the side as your hands checked your neck, pinched your forearm, tugged at your hair. All of this felt so real. Were you alive? 

That old and musky wooden scent was unmistakable for anything else, just as the heavy square television in front of you. The curtains were drawn, but they had always been, and you were too afraid to check what the scenery looked like.

One foot after the other, you stood up, the warmth of the room oddly nice given how deadly it had become over the course of the last two weeks. You rarely wore another outfit than the blue turtleneck and the dark grey pants, those days, and it almost felt wrong, somehow, to not change and wear them right now.

Changing clothes, checking the tv, the drawer. All things you had done a billion times, but you were now hyper-aware of your body, your environment. Was all that you had lived a figment of your imagination? Had you become a visitor? Or was the house simply messing with you, laughing in the face of your death?

Carefully, you opened the door.

Bright sunlight welcomed you, pouring in from the unclosed blinds like a loving mother opening the door for her son. You blinked a few times, trying to get used to it, and when the white dots in front of your vision disappeared, you could see the vivid green of the fields, your neighbor’s house with its swing and its fences. Uncharred. Not a lick of a fire on the walls, not a single dark stain in sight.

The radio made another strangled sound, all gibberish, but when you tore away from the strange display that was the house, you couldn’t seem to find the right frequency. On the faded wallpaper, in the spot between your bedroom and the office, the calendar proudly displayed 31st, Rumoralia. Two young girls whispering to one another, a strange expression on their painted faces.

You tried multiple windows, all of the rooms in your house, but you were alone. Nothing had changed. Not an object out of place. No cat, no sister, no widow to be found. To your greatest relief, no blonde woman either. Her face seemed to have been burned into your eyelids, the last expression she wore inhumane and grotesque, without the pretense.

A shiver ran down your spine, and you willed yourself not to linger on it for too long.

For the first time in two weeks, you decided to step out, a beer in your hand. It was the last one in your fridge, refreshingly wet against your palm, but you felt as if you had deserved it, somehow.

The sun was a frightful thing. Even for a few minutes, you could only feel unease, like it would eat you alive, lap at your skin and open up wounds. The image of the firefighter popped into your mind, with his skin hanging off in patches and the remaining parts of his now missing lips barely curling over a row of yellow teeth. You feared you’d end up like him any second, like this was all a bad joke.

You went back inside not long after with clammy hands and an empty can.

Maybe this wasn’t all bad. Perhaps you were just dreaming, one last time before oblivion claimed you, or maybe nothing would happen, and you could claim insanity to the local and nearest hospital.

You checked your shotgun, just in case. It was still fully loaded.

There was no use thinking about it now, and if you were to truly die when you closed your eyes, you at least wanted to appreciate these last few moments. A lot of strange things had happened, in your mind. The mushroom man, the visitors and the vigilante, that horrifying pale man that kept coming back to you.

You wanted to call someone, perhaps, just to check if maybe you had not imagined all of this, but you couldn't remember a single phone number and you wouldn’t know what to say. All of this felt very different, all of you, like the deaths and the paranoia and the despair had hardened you into an uncaring, detached husk of a man.

You tossed the can into the trash, hearing the clunk of the aluminum against the bottom of the cold plastic. The faint rustling of the bag stopped long before the door had closed. After closing all the blinds, you opened the door to your bedroom, and slid under the covers, tired and peaceful.

Let me rest, you thought as you drifted off to sleep.

A soft series of knocks on your front door woke you up.

You knew the sound by heart, now. It was only pure muscle memory that made you stand up, grabbing the shotgun and sliding it onto your shoulder before walking towards the source of the noise.

You had woken up, you thought distantly, standing tall in front of the closed door.

Another knock. You peered through the peephole.

A man was standing there, with the ease a friend only would have, a familiar face with frown lines etched deep into the skin. He was wearing an atrocious jacket that tethered the edge between denim and sweat-shirt, and his hands fiddled with one another as he spoke.

“Hey, neighbor,” he said, almost casually. “Long time no see. How’s life?”

You had never been so glad to see him. Almost on instinct, you opened the door without answering. He looked shocked, somehow, or maybe pleasantly surprised. You had never managed to get a hang of the whole expression thing, but you dared advance that the novelty of this interaction was refreshing for you both.

“Hey there, I wasn’t expecting you to open the door so fast,” he said, an easy smile gracing his lips. “Are you sick, is the sun messing with your head?”

He was almost a full head shorter than you, a stocky man built with kindness, beer and family values all balanced in a pile. You didn’t like physical contact, but by God you could have almost shaken his hand right there and then to thank him for all he had done for you before.

“Same as it ever was.” The words were bitter in your mouth. “Come in,” you added, moving out of the way and closing the door behind the both of you.

The cold pack of beers that had been resting on the ground of the porch was now in his hands, his t-shirt under the jacket being pulled down by the weight of the cans that kept almost slipping from his grasp.

“One can never be too careful, these days,” he said, tilting his head towards the shotgun. For some reason, this almost made you feel bashful, and you slung the thing off your shoulder and onto the carpet, the familiar bask of green clashing dramatically with the old metal.

Hands now empty, you wanted to take the pack to ease his burden, but your neighbor was an independent, confident man, who would assure you that there was no need for such a thing.

Instead, you took a step away from the door. “To the kitchen?”

As a way of agreeing, your neighbor started to follow. “Let me level with you, I came over for a reason. I’ve been getting a little worried about you.”

You opened the door, taking the chair opposite the one you’d known he would take. Strangely, you had started to view this spot in the kitchen as his, and no other guest that had sat here had quite managed to make you overcome this feeling.

“You shouldn’t be,” you mumbled, fiddling with your hands. “I’m handling myself just fine.”

That was one of the biggest lies you’d told in the last two weeks.

Your neighbor shook his head, like he wasn’t believing you, and another wave of fondness for the man pushed past your defenses. “Something real bad seems to be headed our way.”

Was all of this happening again? Had you somehow gone back in time?

“I just got off the phone with my cousin. She told me the news is saying something weird is going on with the sun, and that there's people coming up from underground. They’re calling them visitors, for whatever reason.”

So it was. You sighed, leaning back into your chair. It was uncomfortable, but you couldn’t even remember the last time you had sat on it, so it wasn’t all that surprising that you'd never gone with a furniture change.

“Creepy stuff, huh?” he joked, humorless. He had that way about him, that tendency to try and lighten the mood that you had never truly appreciated until now. He was a good man, who had died too soon. You’d do all you can to save him and his family, this time.

“What’s happening with the sun?” You started tapping on the table in a soft rhythm, to distract yourself or ground yourself, but you couldn’t say for sure which.

“Either it’s going to explode or something is going to explode on it… Not totally sure,” answered your neighbor with the faintest edge of resignation in his voice.

“It has been pretty hot lately.”

The smile was back on his face, and he started pulling open the pack’s cardboard with a look in his eyes, like you two were best buddies or something. “I was sure you’d noticed.”

“You think it’s real bad,” you quoted back at him. You already knew the answer.

With the packaging half-destroyed, it was easy to pull out two beers out of the box. “I think we need to prepare ourselves for the worst.” He handed you one and cracked his own open. In the quiet hum of the night, the soft fizzling sound was deafening.

“I’m glad you thought to warn me,” you said.

“You are unusually talkative, tonight,” he smiled from above the edge of his can. “I like you this way just as well.”

“Don’t think much of it.”

He shrugged. Not one to take anything to heart. “My cousin told me that being home alone is dangerous. So I came over to make sure you didn’t end up hurt, or worse.”

By worse, he meant dead, but you weren't about to tell him his intuition was both phenomenal and truly ironic, given his fate last time.

“How are your wife and daughter holding up?”

“Don’t worry about my family,” he waved a hand around, taking another sip of his beer. You still hadn't opened yours. “A good friend of mine is staying with us right now. He’s looking after them while I’m here.”

You thought about asking after the vigilante, your neighbor’s brother, but for some reason remembering the necklace of teeth, ears, and fingers made you hesitate, and the moment passed.

“You haven’t touched your beer,” he remarked, but it wasn’t unkind. “Let’s continue this conversation in the morning, alright?”

I’m not feeling well, you could have said, or I’m happy to see you, or even, I know all of this is true, we really are about to die. You stayed silent. With a curt nod, you reached for the kitchen’s door, leaving only an unopened can of beer as proof of your presence.

“There is a couch in the office,” you informed, and the door closed behind you before you could hear his answer.

Chapter Text

Going out in the sun yesterday had been a good idea, in the end. If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t even be able to remember what the outside of your house looked like. It may just as well have been a void, a large space exempt of trees, houses, people beyond what was standing behind your windows.

The bad news was that this haven of peace, with just you and your neighbor, wasn’t going to last long. Just as you had predicted, the man on the news with his big glasses and blue polo had announced on the nightly broadcast that there had been an unknown emission of energy from the sun, and the temperature was reaching critical levels. The AC had worked just fine last time, so inside, it wouldn’t be too much of an issue, but you feared the eventual mistake, the thing you would remember wrong.

So many people had knocked on your door, after all.

Death really had taken a liking to you, just like that cult leader had said, that bald prophetic man had mentioned. You felt more attuned to it, now, as if your eyes had been closed for longer than necessary and had just opened.

It was the 1st. The very last restful day you would get, trapped like a fly between four walls and a door all too fragile, in your opinion.

Getting up was harder today than it had been, but you would no doubt get used to it. Your resolve seemed to be unwavering, this time around. You could feel it in your bones. You went to pick up the shotgun, the only one at your disposal. It had been your most trusted ally, and would no doubt be in the coming days as well.

A noise in the kitchen drew your attention, like something was being slid across the tiles, and you promptly slung the weapon on your shoulder before turning around.

Your neighbor was here, same as ever, but now he was pulling one of the chairs closer to his own, moving the opened pack of beers to the other side of the table. Almost as if he was making a spot for you to sit in. When he heard the faint creak of the door, he looked up and your eyes met.

“Good morning. I trust you’ve listened to the radio? They are talking about it on the TV as well,” he smiled, gesturing for you to take a seat. “Damn, so it’s true, after all…”

“I never doubted it would be,” you replied, leaving the door open behind you. His clothes were rumpled from the night, but his eyes were still clear and focused. Not a spot of red in them. What am I doing, checking for signs so readily? “Everything you said made sense.”

That made him laugh, a bark of a sound oddly pleasant despite the situation at hand. “Thank you for trusting me, I wasn’t too sure about it myself, yesterday.”

“It’s awful, but what can we do? Let’s just stay inside during the day, for now. Everything might come to an end in just a few months.”

He leaned farther back into his chair, a hum escaping his lips. You had never seen him so pensive, a strange sight to behold in a man typically so assured. “We should. My daughter is not going to be too happy about that.”

“A cute girl,” you nodded. The last time you had seen her, her face was wet with snot and tears, and the FEMA agent that took her away hadn’t even bothered to reassure her or hold her hand. A pang of guilt shot through you. You had just watched, silent, and the house had been quieter, after that.

Your neighbor’s expression shifted, softened. “That she is. She’ll come pick me up tonight. A tough girl, but I just hope she’ll be okay.”

Technically, you had never met her. That little girl had never seen you before, had never lost her parents. The thought was unnerving. “Do we let other people in? It might help with visitors outside, but some of them might not be entirely human.”

“I know you like to keep your distance from people, but you have to,” chastised your neighbor. “My cousin doesn’t know for sure why we can’t just bunker down by ourselves, but she mentioned that if anyone comes and asks if you’re alone, say no and tell them someone’s in the house with you.”

You sighed. “I hate dealing with people.” The tears, the requests, the aggressivity or just the desperation in their eyes, you didn’t want any of it. Not again.

Your neighbor seemed to understand, and shifted slightly in his seat to give you some more space. “Who knows? The people you let inside might bring something useful or share some interesting information.”

Or, they might bring trouble. Perhaps it was that willingness in him to see the better in everyone that led their house to ashes. You off-handedly wondered if you could convince him to stay here with you, somehow.

“Wouldn’t it be better to stick together? I have more than enough room in here for a family of three,” you asked, the tinge of hope barely noticeable in your voice.

There was a pause, not long enough to be awkward. Your gaze was drawn to his hands fiddling with one another. “I appreciate it, pal, but I want some amount of normalcy for my daughter and my wife. How can I explain to them that we need to move to another house, while also sharing our space with strangers?” He sighed, for the first time looking tired. “I can’t make them go through that.”

Not today, then. That flicker of hope was snuffed out. “Just, be sure to check them for signs. Be careful.”

The roles were nearly reversed now, with you knowing more than he did. You only hoped he would heed your advice as much as you did his.

“It’s going to be strenuous, draining work. We’ll be alright,” he said.

For a split second, you could almost see yourself surviving all of this, and him with you. That thought was comforting enough for you to try and hold onto it.

“But don’t worry about chatting with people,” he said, and when you opened your mouth to retort something contradictory, you saw his muted smile. He was teasing you. “That won’t take up any energy, so talk as much as you’d like.”

“I’m already tired,” you groaned.

You regretted not having any windows in this room. You felt as if daylight, even faint, would help more than the sizzling artificial one of your lightbulb.

The pack of beer laid there, cardboard ripped in half and rough at the edges, and your neighbor sighed, almost apologetic. “I’m afraid all we can do now is try and survive. And hope this nightmare ends soon.” He had lowered his voice on that last part, like saying it aloud would shatter the illusion. “I’m sure the government will help us somehow. Maybe they'll take everyone to a shelter or something like that.”

“The government won’t do shit,” you cut in.

Your neighbor fell silent.

What were you doing? “I’m sorry. I just… I don’t think we should count on them doing anything. We know how this goes. Paranoia will seize everyone, and fear will do the rest.”

The shotgun felt unbearably heavy, all of a sudden.

He looked at you for a second more, studying your face like he was seeing a new man. In a way, he was. “No, you’re right,” he finally said, grabbing a beer for himself and cracking it open. “Wishful thinking on my part is all.”

FEMA had taken more than enough people, more often than not humans, and had never given any of them back. There was no telling what they could do, but you had meant it when you said you never wanted to see any bastard in a yellow suit with an oxygen mask strapped to their face ever again.

The blonde woman had wanted to be part of that, even as a visitor.

You didn’t want to talk anymore.

“The offer goes both ways,” he continued, and you felt unbearably grateful that you hadn’t ruined your chances at a friendly relationship with the man with your aggressive remark. “If trouble arises, stick together with me and my family.”

You nodded, something strangled in your throat.

Your neighbor didn’t try to make eye contact. Awfully perceptive of him.

“Oh, right, almost forgot,” he said, pulling out another beer for you. It was the one you hadn’t drank last night, now lukewarm because of the heat and the few hours outside the fridge. He set it in front of you and pulled out a paper and a pencil, blunt and dented. “I’m going back home tonight, here’s my number. They just set up the line over there.”

It was bluntly slid in front of you, and you held the yellowed piece with six numbers on it to your face, reminiscing. You couldn’t remember if the number had changed since last time.

“Thanks,” you muttered, shoving it into your pocket. You didn’t know if he had heard you.

“I’m also leaving this case of beer to you,” he grinned. “My brother-in-law works at a brewery.”

The bar guy had said he liked beer, on your very first conversation. You personally didn't care much for it. It was good, but also made you sleepy, and lately you found there was too much to do during the day. Maybe you’d give one to him, if you saw him again.

“I’ll put it in the fridge.”

A bug crawled out when you opened the door, and the sight was even more unpleasant now than it had been. You stayed for an hour more in this kitchen, basking in the comfortable silence with your neighbor, sipping some beer.

A knock woke you up.

It took barely a minute for you to stand up, checking the windows as you did so. The drunks, the teenagers, the white house not far away, all of it felt so alien and familiar at the same time, basking in that green moonlight.

You knew they may not survive, with such bad odds in their favor, but you still hoped some would make it out in one piece.

There was snoring coming from behind the office door. It seemed like your neighbor had followed your words and slept on the couch rather than in the kitchen. The thought of that stocky man, passed out and peaceful during a cataclysm because of a few cans of beer amused you.

There was another knock. You knew that was the daughter, with her long hair and carefree attitude. She was just a kid, too young to understand the situation you had all been forced into, but she had taken in stride the situation, at least until the accident had occurred.

You truly didn’t want to see her cry ever again, if you could help it.

You got close to the door, looking into the peephole, and a cheerful voice piped up. “Hi!” She was wearing a yellow dress, the kind with light fabric you would put children into when they liked to run around without any bother. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and she swayed from one foot to the other, be it to keep herself entertained or try to forget about the night devouring the landscape all around her.

She really was a tough kid, just like your neighbor had said.

“Hello,” you replied. “You must be the rumored brave girl I was told about.”

A big smile split her face in half, revealing a row of uneven teeth. “I’m brave! Did Daddy say that? Can you get him for me?”

“Come in,” you said instead, unlocking the door and letting her slip in. As soon as she entered the house, her eyes roamed from a window to the phone, from the low ceiling to your outfit, before settling on your face. You tried to angle yourself so the shotgun would be hidden from view. The bottom of her dress was matted with dirt and grass stains, in a pattern that strongly suggested she may have swiped her hands on the fabric.

“Thank you! I was okay before, but I’m really scared now. There are a lot of strange people out here tonight…” You nodded, and she continued, waving her hands and huffing, much more at ease now that she was inside. You didn’t know how you could have just let her outside when she had come to fetch her father the very first time, when it would have taken ten seconds for her mind to be free of worries. “Everything feels like it’s opposite day now.”

You passed a hand through your hair, listening intently as she spoke. She was chatty, but you supposed all kids were, especially when scared. “I agree,” you said, because you really weren’t the best with children.

“People stay at home and sleep during the day, then go out and do stuff at night,” her arms came down to rest by her side, like her outburst had drained her of all that was left. “I’m still scared of the dark, but maybe there’s nothing to be afraid of. Or is there?”

There was, but you didn’t know if you had the heart to tell her that.

“Let’s go get your dad,” you replied instead.

“Okay!”

You felt a hand grip yours, and you froze. She was looking at you, with a smile on her face, her small fingers resting there, squeezing and waiting for you to lead her to her father. It was warm, and uncomfortable, but you squeezed her fingers back all the same and let her follow you to the office. You’d forgotten what another person’s skin felt like when it wasn’t trying to take something from you.

When the door opened, she let go of your hands and threw herself on top of your neighbor, waking him up with a surprised sound from him and an enthusiastic yell from her. “Daddy! Let’s go home!”

You leaned against the doorframe as you watched her push and pull at her father’s jacket. Unsurprisingly, the confusion faded quickly, and he sat up to pull her into a proper hug, his big hands buried into her dark hair. “Hey there, little lady,” he muttered with the gravelly voice of a man who had been deep asleep.

From where you were standing, you could see her frail arms squeeze him tighter. “I wanna go home, it’s scary out there…”

“We are going home,” he replied, letting go of her to stand.

“Can we play the new game you made up for me tomorrow?” she asked, grabbing his hand just as she did yours.

You knew what the new game was, had guessed it even last time as she proudly explained the concept. Barricading a door was hard to explain to a child in anything else other than simple terms. You caught your neighbor’s gaze on you. For a moment, you understood how hard being a parent was. You sent him a curt nod before leading them back to the front door.

“Good luck,” you said.

The little girl waved the small hand that wasn’t clutching her father’s. “Thank you! You too!”

They vanished into the night.

You were alone.

It would begin anew, these weeks of checking teeth and holding a shotgun straight to someone’s, something’s face. There had been so many casualties last night, and you didn’t doubt there would be many more now.

You just…had to try once more, you resigned yourself, because if Death had given you a second chance, it would only be polite to. The low light was sickening, but you were the most sickening of all. Would you play God with these people’s lives once again, or would you try and do right by them?

Your hand lingered on the shotgun, feeling the smooth metal under your fingertips. You were already reeking of gunpowder, the very same one that stained your skin. Perhaps it would be easier to…

A knock pulled you out of your thoughts.

The horrors were never-ending, after all, you resigned yourself with a strained smile.

Last time, it had been the tall guy who had banged on your door, and no less than the next morning, he was dead. You hadn’t known anything about him, aside from his curtness and his little story about the bar. A man like any other, if you decided to omit the freakishly tall height.

You got closer to the peephole.

“Can I come in?” Here he stood, face barely visible, in his white button-down shirt. Half of the building behind him was out of view, as if his mere presence was blocking out the sad reality of the outside world.

He had been human, he probably still was.

“I was taking shelter at a bar down the road, but they kicked me out. Just like that.”

It was the first story of many you would hear for the next few days, and not one of the most heart-wrenching. You were surprised they had accepted him in the bar in the first place, but then again, so did you in your own home.

Your silence seemed to only spur him on, explain himself a bit longer to that closed door and the eye looking at him through the peephole. Considering he was a regular guy, this situation was probably as unnerving for him as it had been for you. “I guess not everyone here found my personality particularly…palatable. But I don’t mean no harm, don’t worry. I just…life is shitty, sometimes, you know?”

You did know.

With just a twist of the wrist, the door was unlocked and open. A smile graced his lips, and you rediscovered his face like a fuzzy dream. It had been so long since that first night. “Come in,” you accepted, for the first time in this second try, for the first guest to have ever graced your doorstep.

He seemed pleasantly surprised, and you guessed his personality wasn’t leaning towards the more optimistic side. Still, he entered the house, lowering his head to fit through the doorframe, and looked at you with gratitude. “Thank you, my good man. I was starting to think you’d walk away without even hearing me out, but I can’t blame you. Trust in people doesn’t amount to a hill of beans these days.”

“It’s fine.”

That seemed to be enough for him. His eyes darted towards the shotgun on your shoulder with a tired expression, but he remained silent. What spot did he choose, again?

“Where do you want me to stay?” Like he had read your mind.

You thought about it for a second, eyes fixed on the wallpaper. You probably had some time before the next guest knocked on your door.

“Let me show you around, and you get to choose,” you decided, turning on your heels on him and opening the closet door.

He looked rather unimpressed. Given his size, that seemed only logical.

“Closet. Don’t go rummaging in those boxes, it’s not mine, and I don’t want to see any of it.” You closed it, then pointed at the phone. “Got the line, help yourself if you wanna make a call.”

“Ain’t got no one to call,” he mumbled.

Fine by you.

“Bathroom.” A nod. “Kitchen, there’s beer in the fridge,” he made an appreciative noise, “but I’m rationing so ask me first. Water is fine.”

He leaned over your shoulder to take a look, and this close, you could smell the alcohol clinging to him. A man of his height should have made more noise when he walked, but the carpet muffled every sound, like a tall shadow was following you. You had your fair share of shadows, with this house haunting you.

“Office. Plenty of space there.” His gaze swept the room once or twice, before resting on you once more. He was probably waiting to have seen all of the rooms, before making a decision.

Your hand settled on the doorknob, before twisting it to reveal the last room you were willing to have him sit in. “Living room.”

“I like it here. The couch will suit me fine.”

A knock sounded at the door.

“I have to go. It’s fine by me,” you said, leaving him alone in the room. He nodded, something almost imperceptible, and you heard the door shut with a faint click behind you.

A few strides took you to the front door once again. You would be in this position many more times, and hopefully only letting in humans.

“H-Hello!”

A girl with bright red hair stood in front of the door. Her shoulder was crooked and her teeth blindingly white, even in the dim green light. She had said she was a cashier, before all of this shit started, and you even felt some amount of pity for her.

“Sorry to bother you so late… It was just so hot out today, and the TV said we shouldn’t go out in the sun, so…” Her eyes widened, bloodshot and panicked. “Could you maybe… Um, find some space for me?” 

She had been a visitor, and certainly, just like the tall guy, nothing had changed. You weren’t willing to have her kill off your guests, and she hadn’t even been aware she was a visitor, making all of this even more troublesome. You had enough trouble for now, had lived a lifetime too many for this shit.

“You should leave.”

Her mouth was pulled into a confused expression, with a hint of sadness. She was probably disoriented, but she would manage. The sun couldn’t harm her, after all.

“Um, okay…clearly, I should go, then.”

You took a step back, sitting into the chair by the door. You could hear only faintly what she was saying, now, and it was making it easier to turn her down. “Bye? Yeah, um, bye.”

No regrets to be had, you hardened yourself as she walked away, the sound of her footsteps disappearing into the night. You had lied to yourself, thinking of respite. There would only be hard decisions, made by a man who had been avoiding people all his life. You didn’t know how to do this, and yet you would learn how to. This was life, now.

A fourth person knocked.

You remember him well. It had been a stoner, pupils dilated and tacky clothing reeking of weed. The man had left before you could truly figure out if he was a visitor or not. Claimed the no-movies thing was throwing him off, and that you were a complete downer. Real nice. Would a visitor have left easy prey behind? Would a human have left shelter in a relatively good place, only to venture under the burning kiss of the sun?

“Hey!” Someone yelled from the other side of the door. That didn’t sound like a man. That voice didn’t even sound like an adult’s. “Uh...hello, I guess, if that's better,” you heard a teenager say from the other side of the door.

You stood up, shotgun hitting the side of the chair.

Through the peephole, you could see a girl, around maybe twelve or thirteen years old, with a cap and wavy hair. There was no way a child was out there by themselves willingly.

She seemed to have heard the sound from your side of the door, because she straightened herself, putting on a confident air that didn’t quite land. “Is this, like, your place? I mean…your house, sir?”

You had no idea who this girl was. “Yeah, it's mine.”

“Soooooo... Can I come in then? Or you just gonna leave me out here? I couldn't find a basement or any other decent hiding spot, so here I am.”

Could a child be a visitor? You had never encountered one other than your neighbor’s daughter or that kid in the coat who had left before even asking for entry.

“What are you doing hiding out in basements?”

She looked to the side, silent as she thought about her answer.

“I…traveling, I guess,” she settled on after a few seconds. “Wanna see the world. Different places. Maybe I'll find a new home somewhere,” you had no idea where that kid’s parents were, but she surely didn’t seem too concerned about them. You had seen your fair share of grieving people, and this wasn’t it. “But I'm broke. So it's either making deals for a room or sneaking into basements. Whatever, that's life.”

You were inclined to believe her. People were doing a lot to survive, nowadays, and it was only sheer luck that you found yourself a homeowner rather than knocking on doors and hoping the one who’d answered wouldn’t shoot you in the face.

“Sometimes you just run into total jerks, though,” she spat out, and even under the moonlight, you could see the edge of a bruise on her face. “Ugh. So try anything creepy and I'll punch your freakin' lights out!”

There was no doubt in your mind that she would.

You didn’t know her. She was a risk, a liability. What if you woke up this morning and found the bar guy dead? Or worse, what if she was a visitor and only started to kill when more people inhabited the house? Where was the stoner guy that had come in the very beginning? Could things change, and visitors now be humans, or would people who had been safe before now tear at flesh and get away with it?

She shuffled in her spot, readjusting the backwards cap on her head. Almost holding her breath. There was no hiding the slight trembling in her fingers. Had you really lost all sense of humanity? She was just a kid.

You had to take your chances.

“Come in.”

“No way! Whoooa...You even got carpet? Sweet. But the…” she frowned, before shaking her head. “Whatever.”

You didn't care much for what she was going to say.

As you closed the door behind her, you noticed a tear in the back of her red shirt, one that you couldn’t see when she was standing outside, and under it, a glimpse of a small wound that didn’t look like it had been properly cleaned.

She caught your gaze. Squared up, one foot behind the other like she was getting ready to fight. There was a hard look in her eyes, and something akin to disappointment in the line of her mouth. For a moment, perhaps she had thought she had made a mistake.

“Fucking creep! I warned you, do anything and I’ll kick you in the jaw!”

You made a face. With the hand that wasn’t on your shotgun, you gestured towards your own back. “Need a medical kit?”

Her eyes widened and she looked at her skin, pulled at her shirt to hide the wound, baring her teeth like it would make you forget what you saw. “I ain't a visitor.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“And I ain't weak either! That doesn't mean anything,” she fumbled for words, “I just…ran into some trouble, okay?” In spite of the strong front she was putting up, she still looked like what she was, a teenager, alone and defensive.

How annoying, you sighed.

“Let’s go and patch you up, then you can pick your spot.”

She made a click of her tongue. “Nah, I can patch myself up just fine. You want to give me medical shit, okay, but I do it myself, and after picking my spot.”

“Fine,” you conceded.

You made a beeline for the bathroom, uncaring if she wandered off to check the rooms by herself or instead waited for you. The cabinet was a mess, and even as you crouched to pull out bandages and disinfectant and put them in a plastic box, you couldn’t help but drop a few items onto the tiles. 

It felt strange to be here. You had become used to the sight of the widow’s dead husband in your bathtub, the faint smell of weed clinging to the sink, not the acidic sting of detergent and the few spots of dried toothpaste.

You heard footsteps behind you. You abruptly turned around, one hand grasping for the shotgun, but the sound carried on down the hall.

You got up, tossing whatever seemed useful into the plastic box before closing the door perhaps more forcefully than you should have. In front of your bedroom, the teenager was kicking the floor as if to test its hardness. “That carpet really is sick!”

The living room door opened, and the bar guy stepped out. He looked at you, medical kit in your hands, then at the kid, and frowned. The expression wasn’t much different than the one he had worn up until then, and you didn't know if he was actually displeased.

“I heard shouting,” he said, voice heavy.

You were about to answer something vague and defensive, when the teenager beat you to it. “Whoaa, dude, you’re freakishly tall. Not that it ain’t cool or anything.”

The guy didn’t deem answering, instead turning towards you. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” you replied, tilting your head towards the teenager. “She is going to stay here for now.”

She was still looking at him, something akin to awe in her eyes. The picture these two made was amusing, so drastically different from one another. Unfortunately, the guy didn’t seem to find it all that amusing himself, sighing deeply. “Have you given her the tour yet?”

The plastic of the medical kit was warming up fast, making your hands clammy. Perhaps you’d have to up the AC soon. “No.”

The teenager took the box from your hand, and started rummaging around.

The bar guy looked at her for a second, then you, and seemed to come to a conclusion in his mind. “Want me to do it?”

“Do what?” she asked.

“What?” you blurted out.

He rolled his eyes, face grim. Perhaps that wasn’t an expression, but rather just his face. “The tour.”

You hadn’t really considered “the tour” as something of great importance. You hadn’t even done it last time, instead opting to let the new guests roam around and pick wherever corner they chose. Only in the morning could you know where each and every one of them was. 

“I don’t care who does the tour,” the teenager said. “You, him, whatever.” You weren't sure if she had been talking to you or the bar guy.

You had a feeling no one else would come by tonight, and truly were tired.

“Alright,” you accepted with a grateful nod towards the bar guy. His face was unreadable, and you hadn’t taken him for a man of such kindness, but perhaps he thought it would be faster if he did it. “I’ll leave it to you.”

You kept going down the corridor, passing by the both of them. No one said good night like your neighbor had, but then again, you didn’t either. Instead, you entered your room and closed the door behind you, hoping that the smell of death wouldn’t be the first thing to wake you in the morning.

Chapter Text

You woke up, and your gut feeling was that everything was fine.

You were tangled up in your sheet, blanket now on the floor. You had ditched it sometime during the night because of the heat. The shotgun was resting by your side. You always locked your bedroom door during the night, just in case, and that habit wouldn’t die any time soon.

You turned on the midday broadcast, and a shrill voice rang through the empty space, spewing some shit you already knew about the number of murders on the rise, the visitors’ characteristics, and that one telltale sign, white teeth.

Bullshit.

Some humans had white teeth, and some visitors had the faintest coat of yellow. Anyone could blur the signs with a smoke or two… Christ, how badly you wanted a smoke. You had to check if the pack was empty, with all the stocking and destocking that you went through over the course of the last two weeks—or rather the two next weeks.

You kept the TV on and waited for a ForRest commercial, quickly jotting down the number on a post-it. You crumpled it into your pocket. You had forgotten about your neighbor’s phone number, but maybe a quick call wouldn’t hurt, just to check in.

Thirteen days to go.

You slung the shotgun onto your shoulder, his weight now a familiar companion, and unlocked the door to step outside. The corridor was bright with sunlight pouring in from the stray openings in the blinds, and you took great care not to look at them for too long. The radio made a garbled sound, but it was either bullshit or information you already knew, so you passed right by it, eyeing the jar of Kombucha suspiciously. What had that lady on the phone said, that Kombucha was an evil spirit or something, replaying your memories over again? Perhaps you truly were possessed, by the ghost of your own future self.

You snorted. How silly.

The house was oddly silent, but then again, the TV and the radio were the only source of distractions in this house, and one of them was in your locked room. If truly no one had died, it was time to check on your guests. The idea warmed your heart. You had made the right decision, brought the right people in. Perhaps there was a way out, if your mind didn’t fail you and your knowledge of the future with it. Even without the added effort, at least you had managed to survive two weeks.

After that…

It was becoming a problem, remembering your death. A distasteful thing, a stinging pain in your heart. You needed a glass of water. You steeled yourself up and opened the kitchen door.

The teenager was sitting in the corner next to the fridge, a half-eaten apple in her hand. She was in the middle of taking another bite when you entered the room, making a beeline for the glasses’ cupboard.

“Hey!” she said with a crunch, the apple in her mouth making her cheeks puff out like a small animal. You rummaged through the glasses, trying to pick the one that had accumulated the least dust on it. When you lived alone, you tended to push these things aside.

Finally satisfied with your choice, a simple thing made out of cheap materials that was clear enough, you went to fill it up. “Hey,” you replied, the sound of the water cutting through the room. “Did you sleep well?”

“Alright, I guess.”

You took a sip. The plastic box was sitting all proper on the kitchen table, with only a roll of bandages missing. “Is your wound fine?”

“Yeah. I managed, did a great job, even.”

You hummed.

The teenager shifted her position. Maybe she was getting uncomfortable, or being alone with a stranger was putting her off. “I helped myself,” she stated defensively, showing you properly the apple in her hand. “You gonna kick me out for that? The guy said I could take whatever, and I didn’t know how to turn on the hotplates or the oven.”

Thank God she hadn’t. Helping yourself was one thing, but you truly didn’t want to wake up in a burning house.

“Fruits are fine.” They would be going to waste in a few days, anyway.

“Oh. Okay,” her defensive expression fell.

What had she been thinking? You weren't about to toss a kid out under the burning sun just because she had eaten a damn apple. Could her opinion of you sink even lower?

The teenager looked to the side, and you did as well, both silent in the cramped kitchen. Her, with the apple’s core, that she quickly tossed in the garbage bin, and you, with your empty glass, a drop clinging to the edge stubbornly. There were still things that needed to be done, and you didn’t know where to begin.

The glass made a soft clinking sound when you set it by the sink. “Why are you out there on your own?”

She avoided your gaze. “Well… home was cramped. Loud as hell. Zero comfort. I wanted out. Wanted to see the world.” You hated making assumptions, but perhaps she hadn’t been around the greatest people growing up. Then again, kids were rebellious all the time and all the same, no matter the family.

You kept your thoughts to yourself. It seemed important, and you didn’t want to interrupt her.

“So yeah, I grabbed a backpack, a couple sodas, some snack bars, and this old friendship bracelet I made back in school… And I left. Parents probably didn't even notice. Not that I care. Since then I just wander around, crash wherever I can,” she shrugged. “And honestly? Been fine so far. At least nobody's on my back, and I’m my own damn boss.”

“I get it. Family doesn’t serve any purpose, in the end.” That might have been too bleak of a thing to say to a kid, but you had your fair share of experiences, with your father and your wife. Now that you had lost them both, that opinion remained strong.

She seemed to understand, snorting. “Yeah. My parents are probably home, not even thinking about me. Or maybe they’re visitors now. Would kinda suit them. Ha.” The sound was too spiteful to be a laugh. “My mom loves sunbathing, too. So yeah… that’s another fun possibility.”

You thought of the fireman that had come to your door, coughing and spluttering. Was one outcome preferable to the other?

“Anyway, can I get a beer?”

You turned towards her, face unreadable. “What?” Why would a child ask for a beer? Weren’t kids supposed to like juice better, like what your neighbor’s daughter had said?

“Are you deaf, old man? A beer,” she imitated the act of opening one and chugging it down. “I understand you’re rationing and all, but with this heat, surely I can get a pass, right?”

She was serious. Twelve years old was too young for alcohol, right? Your father had given you your first one around her age, but he had not been the best role model. “No,” you firmly answered.

“Come on, man!” Her hands shot up. “Yesenin said I just needed to ask. I asked, didn’t I?”

“Yesenin?”

She gestured towards the closed living room door across the hall. “Tall, kinda creepy? Sad unfocused eyes?”

“His name is Yesenin?”

“Yeah,” she reiterated, like you were too slow to understand. “I asked. He didn’t want to understand. Said that it was whatever, and it wouldn’t help us in the end.” She grinned. “But guess what, like, he caved in. Asked for mine afterwards and I said no way, you ain’t gonna know mine.”

You couldn’t help the amused pull at the corner of your lips. “Did you do the whole speech of kicking his teeth out if he tried anything?”

“Hell yeah I did,” she said, face reddening. “I’m not gonna be tossed around, If I'm gonna stay, then we're doin' things my way. Hey, that rhymed. Neat.”

She was brash but honest. You could respect that.

“I need to check you,” you said, readjusting your grip on the shotgun. You wouldn’t check the bar guy, you decided. You already knew that he was a human, after all, but this kid? You had no idea, not a single clue. One could never be too careful.

She made a face, eyes zoning in on your weapon. “What’s with the shotgun?”

You didn’t answer. She was a smart kid.

“Weird thing to ask,” she picked up, clearly uncomfortable. “And hey, you try anything and I’ll bust your face in. For real.”

It was starting to get redundant. You were used to threats, by now, and they wouldn’t do anything to deter you. In the last run, for a few seconds, you had entertained the idea of opening the door to the vigilante, just to bash his face in. You had been awfully tired, by then, and sick of being pushed around by people who thought no one would ever push back. But in the end, you had shown your teeth, yellowed by smoking, and he had left in the dark of the night.

“I need to check your teeth.”

She complied, pulling at the corner of her mouth with her two index fingers to expose a row of relatively white teeth with bleeding gum and braces. Not off to a good start. The braces were playing in her favor, because that would explain the bleeding and her relatively good dental hygiene. Still, you had to check something else.

“Let me see your hands,” you ordered.

“You gonna shoot me?”

You looked at her hands as she propped them up for you to examine. Rather neat, with colorful nail polish and stickers that spoke of her age.

“Mom always nagged me about my hands,” she explained, if only to fill the quiet of the room. “Bla bla bla… That's not ladylike,” she mimicked with a high-pitched voice. “Cause you know what the most important thing in life is? To find a husband and pop out a kid! Real cool stuff, right? … Yeah, I’ll fuckin’ pass.”

No skin rashes or anything. No visible dirt under the fingernails.

Not enough proof for you to shoot her in good conscience.

You straightened up, hand leaving the shotgun. “You’re good.”

She scoffed. “Thank God. Next time, just pull the trigger. I’m not gonna beg for my life. I don’t give a crap.”

“You should.”

“Whatever man.”

It would probably be best to leave her alone. The first time around, you had just left every door in the house closed, but maybe it would be better if your guests got to know each other a bit more. Maybe they would be willing to help each other out, if needed, provide conversations, or whatever. You had always been solitary, but that wasn’t the case for everyone, and perhaps, it was not knowing any of the other guests in the house with them that had led some to leave.

You let the door open, and heard no complaints from the teenager.

Maybe you could check for that cigarette now.

In the last run, the cat had been running around in your small house, sometimes staying still next to the basement or the front door, some other times lounging on the furniture by your room. Its purr had been a comfort, and now he was gone. You had to unlearn the care you took not to step on him, and maybe you'd never get the chance to house that cat again.

As suspected, no pack was waiting for you. You looked at that blank spot where you usually put them, and took out the two papers from your pocket, sticking them onto the wall in front of you.

One said neighbor, the other said ForRest.

You dialed ForRest first. They had an egregious waitlist, and the sooner you placed your order the sooner you could place another one. The six numbers were dialed with soft beeps, the phone light in your palm, and after just a few seconds’ wait, a voice rang from the other side.

“Hello, you’ve reached For Rest food delivery. Would you like to place an order?”

There was no use for cat food yet, and you had more than enough beer to go around. Coffee just wasn’t for you, so truly, one option remained.

“One pack of cigarettes, please.”

You could hear typing on the other side of the phone. “Thank you. Your order has been accepted. Please expect your delivery tomorrow night.”

You guessed they would be much faster than that.

Phone in hand, you dialed your neighbor's number next.

Voice somber, your neighbor picked up. “Hey neighbor. Good to hear from you. So… you let a couple people in yet?”

“I did,” you replied, trying to keep your tone light. So far, so good.

“Good, better that way,” and you could almost hear relief in his voice. Last night must have been rough for him too. “Us as well. My daughter doesn’t really like it. But what can I do? There’s no other way. She keeps begging me to take her outside, just to get away from all the strangers in the house.”

You could only listen to his troubles, unable to help. With each new sentence, his weariness seemed to grow.

“But daytime’s not an option, so we go for walks at night. Dangerous, I know… But what else can I do…”

You didn’t know what to say. You thought about a non-commital hum, wishing him good luck or empty promises that things would only improve. It all rang so useless, in your head. So you kept quiet.

“Are you okay with the food issues?”

“I got lucky. Stocked up ahead of time.” Just as you remembered. It seemed some things just didn’t change, from one life to the other.

You thought about warning him again, but the man had enough on his plate already. “Take care,” you said instead.

“You too.”

With a click, the line rang dead.

You put the receiver back onto its stand. There was only the bar guy left to talk to, and then maybe you could rest some more. The house was dreadfully bland.

As you turned the corner, you found out the kitchen door was still open. You didn’t know if the teenager had heard all of that, but she didn’t even spare you a glance when you passed by the door, entering the living room.

You nodded as a way of greetings. The bar guy nodded back. “Hello,” he deadpanned.

“You told her about the beer?” You replied.

It could have been the ghost of a smile you saw on his lips. From across the hall, the teenager yelled. “Hey man, I’m right here! And yeah, he told me, what of it? I’m grown, I can have a beer just like anyone else.”

You ignored her.

“I did the tour, just like you did mine.” He was sitting onto the couch, his long legs one over the other, hunching like the weight of the world was resting onto his shoulders. “Was there a problem?”

“Don’t offer my beer to teenagers,” you decided.

“And so I won’t.”

Where to begin?

“Why did they throw you out of the bar?”

He straightened himself, looked at the ceiling for a second, like a man lost in a maze of memories. “Hm. I blame the chain of catastrophes that broke everyone’s minds. The sun teetering on the brink of explosion, the arrival of the visitors, the economic crisis, and so on and so forth. It fucked us all up. Some crumbled under the stress. Some dove headfirst into the bottle.”

You didn’t know about stress, but he rather looked to you like the latter.

“But me? Well, it was rage that drove me mad,” he sneered, eyes narrowing into slits. “I snapped, climbed onto the bar and screamed. Stop blaming everyone but yourselves,” he imitated, though it probably lacked the strength of the original shout.

You glanced at the door, and you could see the teenager was listening intently as well. She probably wouldn’t intervene, but you couldn’t blame her for her curiosity. It was why you had decided to leave doors open, after all. 

“Cataclysms can lead to intense emotions,” you pondered, not knowing if you were defending the bar patrons or his outburst.

He nodded. “Let them weep, I say. Tears in the beer foam don’t ruin the pint. Malt and hops taste better with salt. Nobody appreciates it, so why bother.”

There was more to the bar story, you discovered with every new sentence. Like a new side of the man was appearing before your eyes. From the uncanny, tall man who had been kicked out from a bar, emerged a solitary man, annoyed and angry, unwilling to wallow in self-pity. Perhaps a tad too blunt, but nothing that warranted you kicking him out.

You made a move to turn around and leave, but his voice rose once more, surprising you.

“Are you not going to check me for signs?”

There was no way around the truth. “No.”

“Why not,” he asked, looking straight at you.

The teenager got up and closer to the door. Her hands rested on the sides of the doorframe, and she was leaning in towards you while keeping her distance, long hair flowing from beneath her backwards cap. “Yeah, why not? You checked me, didn’t you?” When she moved, her shirt rode up and you could see the tightly wrapped off-white of bandages. 

You couldn’t very well explain that you had lived through all of this, minus a few changes, and were convinced this particular guy would be a human because he had died last time.

You could still remember the smell coming from the garbage bags.

“I’m just not going to.”

The teenager gawked at you like you were suicidal, or mad. The bar guy looked unimpressed. “You don’t think I am a visitor?”

“No,” you reiterated. “Do you want me to check you?”

He hesitated. “No.”

“Then it's settled,” you decided, and even the strong-willed, disrespectful teenager couldn’t do much apart from sputtering out a few outraged curse words as you walked past them both and towards your bedroom.

The familiar sound of a knock woke you up.

Painfully, you dragged yourself out of the warm embrace of your bed. In the dark of the night, you fumbled for your shotgun, second for your shoes. In a few seconds, you were out the door.

You felt groggy but not disoriented, acting on muscle memory alone.

Green light greeted you. Behind the blinds, you could see your neighbor and his daughter playing happily. The sight stirred some deep memories inside of you. You wondered if only for a moment, they succeeded in forgetting the horrors all around.

The other windows were less than pleasant. The bodies of the teenagers were lying on the ground, motionless and basked in blood. Under the moonlight, the color appeared a soft blue.

Behind the last window, on the footpath, stood the pale man.

A shiver passed over you. Like death itself, with sagging skin and a wide grin. His fingers curled in twists and knots, and you could feel how his gaze bore into you. You had seen his eyes up close, deep and watery, standing out grotesquely like two black marbles in the snow.

You knew him perhaps best out of all, unless he liked doing his little door-to-door charade to other people than you. You just hoped that out of the millions possible changing variables, he would be one, and he would leave you alone.

Another knock.

There was always an urgency in the knocks, but for once, it was rather unhurried, almost polite. You could guess who it was, by that fact alone.

You let your feet carry you to the front door. Passing by the polished wood of the kitchen door, you could hear something from the inside.

You stopped, looking at your shoes and your awful carpet. You were sick of it. The muffled sobs didn’t stop. Maybe the teenager wasn't holding up so well, under her strong uncaring front. You sighed, a hint of defeat in the sound. You didn’t know how to help her yet.

Someone talked from behind the front door, kicking again. “Hey, anyone home?”

Just as you had guessed.

You liked the delivery guy. A man no doubt without a purpose, but who had tried very hard to create one for himself. A lack of directions that became a driving point, and you wished you had been more like him, in the beginning of all of this.

You opened the door, coming face to face with him. “Hey. How are you holding up?”

He had curly red hair, a bright red jacket and a tired look in his eyes, borne from the situation rather than a lack of sleep. On his shoulder, almost mirroring your shotgun, was a huge backpack seemingly packed with various items.

“I’m good. Here for the delivery. Apocalypse or not, guess folks still gotta eat lunch!”

He pulled out a dirty notebook, filled with scribbles and stains. On the page, you could see your name in big bold letters, with your address and a few words that you couldn’t quite make out.

“Must be heavy, carrying all that stuff,” you remarked. You hadn’t bothered to make small talk or get interested in him, the first time around.

That seemed to amuse him, if only given by the smile on his lips. “Yeah, I wish we got hazard pay or tips, especially with how dangerous it is right now. It still distracts me from everything going on, though, so that’s that.”

He held out the cigarette pack, in pristine condition despite everything. His fingers were clean and his nails trimmed. “Ready to accept the delivery?”

You held out a hand, signed the notebook, and grabbed the pack. With a thank you and good luck, he was walking away in a blur of red, and with a shut door. A good guy, now as well, it seemed, even if by the end his mental state had deteriorated quite a bit.

You barely had the time to reflect on it, before someone knocked at your door again. Groaning, you left the pack of cigarettes by the phone stand, before coming closer to the door. This had been the most exhausting part of the whole two weeks. Not waiting for the night to end, hoping that everyone would awake, but rather the anticipation before a knock, the certainty that things weren’t about to go as well as everyone expected.

You got closer to the peephole.

A familiar stranger was standing there.

Tall, with wavy purple hair and a colorful jacket tied around his shoulders. He looked exhausted, with deep eyebags and cheeks wet with tears, and was fidgeting, looking over his shoulder like a man on the run.

He mumbled something, while waving his arms.

You had agreed to let him in, when you had first seen him at your doorstep about ten days ago.

Back then, a surgeon had been staying at your house, and the man had refused to enter. It was either him or the old man, who you’d been certain was a human being, and with whom you spoke of hospitals, shelters and FEMA. The man didn’t want to enter with him there. You had yelled and scared him away, perhaps more forcefully than you should have. Fear and stress could do a lot to someone, and in your case, the heavy weight of the gun strapped onto your shoulder, the cold gaze of the vigilante and the downright atrocious smile of the pale man had been too much to handle.

Now, seeing his face marked with dry tears, something akin to guilt pulled at your gut. There was no old man, now. Maybe this guy was a visitor or perhaps he wasn’t, but you had energy to spare checking and more than enough bullets to correct any mistakes you could make.

“Come in,” you said, opening the door.

There was an expression of relief on his face, but not enough time in the world and energy left in you to worry too much about anyone else’s problems from up close.

He stood in the doorway, tense at first, the dim light catching on the dark stitches across his skin, before stepping inside. His boots dragged slightly on the worn floor. On his shoulders was an orange jacket, loosely tied, his clothes were damp in places and his hair plastered to his forehead. The faint streaks along his cheeks told you he had not stopped crying until moments ago, and yet, he wasn’t cowering, his eyes meeting yours without looking away.

He had no way of explaining himself, even if you wanted him to.

You caught the small hitch in his breathing, as the door closed behind him. Quietly, he glanced at the parts of the house that he could see, alert, as if cataloguing every sound and dark corner. There was no reason he shouldn’t feel safer here than outside, or rather, not yet, but still, the understandable unease radiating from him was quite noticeable.

You had always been rather uncomfortable when it came to distressed people, and that was why your daughter’s neighbor had spent her few days here alone, crying in your kitchen. Maybe you could handle it better now, you steeled yourself.

Moving a step closer, you thought about what to say. You hated physical contact, and he probably wouldn’t like it either. The gesture would sound rather hollow, coming from a stranger, and still, you didn’t know how to reassure him, to pacify his nervousness. You hesitated, hand hovering over his shoulder.

He tensed up as he tracked the movement with careful eyes, as if deciding whether you meant comfort or control.

There was a sharp knock on the door.

Shit.

You dropped your hand before he could decide

You gestured towards the chair next to the window with the hand that wasn’t holding the shotgun’s strap.

“Sit down, I just need to take care of something.” No sound. You turned your gaze towards him. He hadn’t even moved, eyes slipping from you, to the chair, to your hand.

“Sit down, please,” you asked once more. Again, not movement. Well, whatever. “Or stand up if you want to,” you muttered, turning back towards the door, “but it's not going to be comfortable.”

You looked through the peephole, and recognition dawned on you.

Sisters, they had said, but they looked so alike they might as well have been twins. One was carrying herself with more confidence than the other, though, and the light reflected on their skins with slightly different hues.

Both had gangly limbs and long dark hair, with drooping eyes that spoke more of sadness and regret than the rest of their appearance. You couldn’t accurately pinpoint their ages, but you knew that just like you, they had seen horrors and known grief.

Last time, they had been humans, but only one had survived. You briefly wondered what had happened to her in that basement, after your death. Or perhaps she had been killed before you. You couldn’t make up your mind on which fate frightened you the most.

To your relief, the man decided then to take a seat, one hand coming to rest on the back of his neck, waiting. When he caught you glancing at him, he lifted a hand and pointed toward his mouth, but the motion was more weary than desperate. His fingers steadied midair, and he tilted his head slightly, watching your reaction.

You had to get people in, first, but maybe you could speed up the process a little bit.

“Hello,” the one you assumed to be the oldest greeted, before muttering to her sister. “Oh, here, lean on me for a bit. Do you…maybe have room for us?”

You opened the door. It was familiar, seeing them, especially the second sister, the one you had spent so much time with. There hadn’t been a lot of happy conversations, before her sister died, and there hadn't been at all, after. Still, you had wished for her to get better, even if you didn’t entirely believe it.

She didn’t take a step back, but a small smile graced her lips. When she had that expression on her face, her eyes narrowed, like two moon crescents.

“I do,” you said, leaning in to help her carry her sister inside. She let you, guiding your hand towards her back. “Are you alright?”

“I suppose. My sister, she's depressed. She can't even walk or bathe on her own. Sometimes, even getting out of bed is a challenge for her. But it's okay. She'll get better someday. Right, sister?”

The other woman didn’t answer, but you knew she would open up to you eventually. You didn’t want to push.

“She's not really in the mood to talk right now,” explained the first one, strands her long greenish hair falling down in front of her face, “but she finds the strength to speak up sometimes.”

“It’s fine. We aren’t all chatty in this house either.”

You gestured for them to follow. The corridor light flickered as you led the sisters down the hallway toward the living room. It had always been their preferred spot, the one with the couch and your childhood toy, the blanket still draped over the armrest of the chair.

The younger one walked a bit slower, though it was to be expected. She was hugging herself in a protective gesture, and you could hear the faint rhythm of her breathing with every step. The elder sister kept close, one hand hovering resting on the other’s shoulder and occasionally rubbing soothing circles into the fabric.

When you pushed open the living-room door, the hinges gave a tired sigh. The bar guy was slouched half-asleep on the couch, by the cupboard’s drawers. His head lifted sluggishly at the noise, eyes narrowing in the light.

He looked between you and the two women, recognition dawning slowly on him through the haze of fatigue. “Back again?” he murmured.

“They’ll stay here tonight,” you explained.

He nodded once and shifted to make room on the couch, wordless, as though this arrangement had been rehearsed. The older sister guided the younger one to sit on the chair, brushing a few strands of hair from her face. You couldn’t tell if she was comforting her or keeping her still.

“Get some rest,” you told them. “It’s late.”

You waited until the room quieted again, with the sisters whispering something in low voices, and Yesenin settling back into half-sleep, before you stepped away.

Back in the hallway, the lack of sound of the house returned. There was no creak of floorboards, no sigh of the wind at the doorframe. You adjusted your shotgun against your shoulder, the strap biting a little into your collarbone.

As you turned the corner, you could see the guy looking at you, eyes following the movement, posture rigid, composed. His eyes flicked once toward the door, and then back to you, quietly asking if all of this was normal. Maybe you had the time to—

Someone knocked.

You looked at him a moment longer, and his arms fell to his side, defeated. It would have to wait.

You looked through the peephole. On the other side stood a big man, with a checkered patterned dress shirt thrown onto a white t-shirt, one that must have been too hot for the heat outside. His sunken eyes darted from the peephole to the woman by his side anxiously, and he hugged her closer against him, firm grip on her noticeable even in the night. She looked uncomfortable, or bored, or just strange, and she didn’t tear her gaze away from him even so she must have heard you through the door.

At this point, it would only be fair to assume that you wouldn’t see the same individuals that had crashed at your place previously. The order was all messed up, anyway.

“Oh Howdy! My lovely wife and I are looking for a safe place to weather the storm! Would you mind if we crashed here for a bit? Only if it's no trouble, of course.” When he spoke, the words tumbled out hurriedly, almost overly polite. He didn’t have the smile of an easy-going man, but he spoke like an unassuming guy, a strange contrast of an individual.

You remembered them from the last run. An odd couple, and you suspected something must have been quite not right, but you couldn’t pinpoint what exactly. In the end, they had been killed by a visitor before you found the strength to get to the bottom of this. 

“What if you’re trouble?”

“Well, I guess we could go and look for shelter somewhere else. My old lady’s exhausted, though. She needs a little rest. Can we stay for just a little while?” He had said that, you remembered. That his wife was tired, overly timid and introverted. You could almost have mistaken her for a mute. “If it’s not too much to ask, I mean,” he added, unblinking.

There was no point in refusing entry to a couple of humans, no matter how strange they appeared. “Come in.”

You opened the door with a creak, coming face to face with the man. He was your height, but had twice your body mass, and for a second you stretched your shoulder, just to feel the weight of the shotgun. You probably would have been dead meat a whole lot sooner, if you didn’t have it.

“Oh thank you.” He nudged his wife’s unmoving body towards the main entrance. “Why are you just standing there? C’mon honey, the nice man’s invited us in. She’s just feeling a bit shy,” he added with a wide apologetic smile. He must have noticed your staring.

When she finally stepped forward, her gait was uneven, almost delayed. 

“Does she need to sit down or something?” you asked. “She doesn’t look too good.”

The man’s smile thinned, though it didn’t disappear. For a second, the warmth in his voice was gone. “I said she’s tired, didn’t you get that? I mean, once she’s rested, I’m sure she’ll get back to her normal self quickly.”

You nodded, unsure, but stepped aside to let them through. Their shoes left faint, wet prints on the linoleum. The woman’s breath came shallow, if at all, and you could help but pay closer attention to her than you had last time.

Next to you, the man with the stitches was sitting very still.

The husband’s shoes thudded dully against the floor, breaking the quiet that had settled over the room. He stopped short when he noticed him near the door, and you could see his eyes linger on the wounds. For a moment, no one spoke. The wounded man lifted his head slightly, his expression unreadable, though his eyes darted toward you as if to ask whether he should leave.

The newcomer’s face twisted into something unpleasant. His smile didn’t quite vanish, it just went crooked, toned down somehow. “Didn’t know you were keeping company,” he simply said.

The foreigner straightened in response, slow but deliberate. He raised a hand in a vague gesture, something uncertain, and then dropped it, maybe realizing it would do him no good. You felt bad for him. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

“He’s a guest,” you said, but the reassurance sounded thin, even to your own ears.

The man’s eyes lingered on the wounded stranger a moment longer, cold and measuring, before he turned his attention back to you. “Of course,” he said finally. “Always good to see folks helping each other out, these days.”

He smiled again, though the look he threw over his shoulder at the silent man was anything but friendly.

The woman hadn’t moved from her spot by the doorway. She stood there, her head tilted, and her husband’s hand twitched, just once, at his side, in a motion so small you could have missed it. The wounded man saw it as well, and shrank back as if burned.

Better take care of that later.

“Let me show you around,” you said, closing the door behind them. You led them through the narrow hallway, listening to the sounds from the outside. You hoped the pale man had gone away, but you didn’t dare check. Every time the wife passed a doorway, she lingered, as if checking for something, and you waited patiently. In the end, she remained silent.

You had seen everything but the living room and the kitchen. You opened the latter first. 

“This will be perfect,” exclaimed the man with a wide smile as soon as he entered, without so much as waiting for his wife’s input. You weren’t sure why your guests liked your kitchen so much.

The air was heavier there, not as hot as the rest of the house, but used, stale. The fluorescent bulb hummed weakly above the counter, and you noticed someone had forgotten to wipe away the ring of spilled milk on the table. The smell was faintly sour, human.

In the corner, the teenager stirred. Her hair stuck to her cheek, and when she blinked up at you, it took her a moment to understand she wasn’t alone anymore. Her gaze slipped past you, to the couple, then back again.

The man’s smile widened. The woman didn’t move.

She shot you a dirty look, like it was somehow your fault they had picked the kitchen. She untangled herself from her spot on the floor, and in a blur of red and brown, she was gone. The door slammed behind her with more force than necessary, and the husband furrowed his brows. Fortunately he remained silent. Through the wood, you could hear the door of the living room opening up and being closed again.

You sighed.

At this point, you weren’t even sure what was going on, but you were grateful that she hadn’t chosen to leave. With the pale visitor roaming around, you weren’t giving her five minutes if she was to step outside.

The man let out a laugh that wasn’t entirely natural, nudging his wife by his side. “Lively bunch you’ve got in your house, isn’t that right, honey?”

She remained as silent as you, not even looking at your face as he pulled her closer into him.

It was honestly getting a little concerning, and a lot more unnerving. “Are you okay?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“She’s fine,” said the husband, angling himself as if to shield her from your gaze. “She always manages.”

Sure. Right. A whole new can of worms you weren’t ready to open just yet, but you’d possibly see clearer about this whole thing in the morning.

The matte cracked plastic box on the kitchen table caught your eye. Inside were the remaining bits and pieces of the medical kit you had half-hazardous thrown together for the teenager the day before.

You tilted your head towards it. “Any of you need some patching up?”

The husband followed your gesture, but waved a hand around like swatting a fly. The gesture was probably meant to be polite or comforting or something. “How kind of you! But no, thank you. All is well for us, isn’t that right baby?”

Again, no answer.

“Alright, don’t mind if I take it back, then.”

You were almost certain you had seen a fingers-shaped bruise on the wife’s neck, but you weren’t about to push.

“Have a nice night,” the man said. You closed the door behind you without answering.

Weird folks.

The guy was still there, sitting on the chair, hands resting on the back of his neck. Like he had been too afraid or weary to drag himself to someplace better in the house. When he saw you coming back, he started fidgeting, but you tried to not let it distract you.

You put the plastic box next to the phone, pushing aside your half-empty pack of smokes. There was barely enough space, but still you started to rummage through the thing, pulling out what could be useful.

When did you become a nurse?

You didn’t have a clue what you were doing, but you supposed you could start by disinfecting the wounds, before cutting the wire stitching them together. Yeah, that seemed about right.

You could feel his gaze stare on your back, your hands, your face. Studying your movements quietly. What a way to finish the night.

You turned to face him, a few things in your hands that soon dropped to the ground, and grabbed the disinfectant bottle. It was a small white thing, the label coming apart under your fingers, with some kind of residual liquid that had dried under the heat a long time ago.

“Let me disinfect it first,” you explained, turning the bottle over in your hands to try and catch the instructions written on the side. “Then we’ll cut that thing.” To your dismay, the most important parts seemed to have faded. Better to disinfect before as well, right? You had no idea.

He stared at you blankly, eyes shiny with tears. The wounds were crusted and bloody, and the stitches had been pulled tight, a strong smell of iron coming off of them. Christ, who would do such a thing? Humanity was capable of worse atrocities than visitors.

He pointed at his mouth with an odd look in his eyes, then mimicked a finger pressing on a spray. His head tilted slightly, like a silent question.

“Yeah,” you assured, once more. “Just this for now. It might sting a bit.”

You brought the tissue closer, the texture soft under your fingers, and humid where the solution had been poured. It had the faintest yellowish color, sifting to a brown, like honey that might have been left under the sun for too long, and an awfully strong smell that didn’t do any good for your, no doubt, incoming headache.

A muffled hiss escaped him as the tissue came in contact with his lips, and he jerked slightly, but your grip was strong and unmoving.

“Okay, just like that,” you pacified. You dabbed the tissue imbibed with the disinfectant onto his wounds a few times more, before pulling away.

His eyes watered, but he blinked the sting away, breathing through it. His shoulders were tight, gaze fixed on the far wall, and one of his hands shot up in a reflexive gesture. He shook it a few times, like it would ease the pain, breath laboured.

He looked as if he might have been in this situation before, getting patched up. Or perhaps he was just very resilient.

What did people typically say in those situations?

“I can imagine it’s…very painful,” you drawled out, still holding out the tissue in one hand and the other one on your knee.

The guy didn’t move an inch, only raising an eyebrow, looking confused. Great. Way to go. He was probably thinking you were either cruel or stupid, and you were shutting the fuck up now.

“The good side is, it’s closer to being over.” You put the tissue to the side, taking care to place it into a clean part of the plastic box, and pulled out the scissors.

Closer to being over, but not about to be easier.

When the man saw the metal glinting in the low green light, he froze. His eyes flicked to yours, questioning, uneasy. On edge. Shit. This was going to be difficult.

“I’m not going to do anything, aside from cutting that wire, alright?” You said, raising your hands by your head in a pacifying gesture, like a thief caught red-handed.

The man’s eyes moved from your face to your scissors, to your face again. He didn’t move, nod or shake his head.

You huffed. What were you supposed to do, then? Leave him like this to die of starvation? Plus, it would scare you shitless if you were turning a corner and saw him standing there, mouth stitched shut, and you weren’t about to inflict yourself that fate.

“Come on, surely you don’t want to keep that,” you insisted, lowering your voice.

The man stilled, and took a deep breath. His hands were uneasy, clutching the chair under him like it would shield him from you. Too bad, because you weren’t about to leave just like that. You could only hope he wouldn’t try and punch you in the face or something.

After a beat, he gave the faintest exhale, the closest thing to consent you would get. You would take it.

Ah, maybe you could use a numbing agent? 

You tried looking for numbing cream in your plastic box. That was a thing, right? Maybe your ex-wife had an old bottle left, a tube from forgotten times you hadn’t had the heart to throw away. You kept a lot of her stuff, especially her pictures that were still adorning the house.

“Wait a second,” you said, getting back up and reaching for the bathroom’s door handle.

For a second, you almost thought you would see the stoner from the previous run, sitting there by the sink, eager to make small talk in order to distract himself, but no.

No stoner, no widow, no corpse in your bathtub. The objects from the previous night you hadn’t found useful were still littering the floor. You look through them a second time, grabbing a white tube with a fancy sounding brand name, then a small box containing some sort of greenish product. You couldn’t find any numbing cream.

Behind you, the man with the stitches made an inquisitive noise. You pulled your attention back to him, and he held your gaze for a moment longer before turning away. “Sorry, we’ll just have to go through it the hard way,” you apologised.

You got down on one knee, closer to him than before, and slowly brought the hand that wasn’t holding the scissors to his face. It came to rest on his chin and cheeks, holding his face still for you to cut the wire.

“I hope there’s no signs of infection, let me have a look.” The man shuffled in his seat, yes fixed onto your face. It was making you self-conscious. “Sorry I have to hold onto you like this, but it’s better if you stay still, alright?”

Damn, this guy was making you chatty.

To top it all off, there was not a sign that he had understood, or even heard what you had said. No hum, no tap of his fingers, no shift in his gaze. The perfect picture of a patient, still and listening.

Probably scared out of his mind.

You snipped the first wire carefully, the faint sound breaking the stillness. He didn’t move, not even a flinch, though his jaw tensed beneath your fingers. The cut edges curled slightly outward, blackened from heat. Whoever had stitched him up before had done it in a hurry, or with bad lighting, or both.

“Okay,” you muttered, more for yourself than for him. “One down.”

You adjusted your grip, trying not to brush against his throat with your knuckles. His breath was shallow, but steady and something in that sight made you falter. You cleared your throat, blinked the moment away.

The second wire was buried deeper. You had to press the edge of the scissors against his skin to find the right angle. A low sound slipped from him, not a word, but rather an involuntary noise of pain.

“Almost done,” you said, quietly.

When the wire came loose, small beads of blood welled up from the wounds. He turned his head slightly away from you, as though tired or ashamed, and you wordlessly reached for the disinfectant once more, uncapping the bottle with steady hands.

“This is gonna sting,” you warned again. The words were becoming a habit, by this point.

You tried to be gentle, but there was no painless way to clean something that deep. The gauze came away pink. He winced again. You pressed another one down.

“Sorry,” you murmured. You found yourself repeating that word often tonight.

He glanced up at you then, and said something under his breath. “(That hurts.)” You didn’t get a single word.

“What?” you asked, and he rolled his eyes. He repeated it, slower this time, enunciation slow and meticulous, as though he hoped for you to understand.

It clicked.

The thought sat heavy in your chest, embarrassingly late. You’d spent the evening talking to him like he was a wounded animal or a frightened child, and all along he’d been listening to your nonsense, unable to understand a simple word.

“Right,” you muttered, almost to yourself. “Different languages. Fuck I’m stupid.”

He didn’t seem to mind your realization, just watching your face tensely as if to gauge whether that changed anything at all.

You smiled, small and apologetic. “Still sorry,” you said, though now the word felt even more useless than before.

He made a small sound again, but it was softer, almost questioning. When you looked up, he was watching you, not tearful or angry, just looking. The thought unsettled you.

You tried smiling, but you knew it came out wrong, because as you made the joke, you thought of your ex-wife. “Yeah, I know. Not the best bedside manner.”

He tilted his head, as if weighing the tone of your voice rather than the meaning. Then he nodded once, slowly.

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until you exhaled. “Guess you got that one,” you muttered. Or perhaps he hadn’t, and thought agreement would please you best. Perhaps he was the one gauging how to pacify, what reactions would keep you calm and willing to hear him out.

The silence stretched between you again. You hoped the guy wasn’t a visitor, or else you’d have to undo all of your hard work with a single shot. He seemed nice enough, and pretty smart.

You found an old antiseptic cream in the box and decided it was better than nothing. You squeezed a bit onto your fingers and spread it along the edges of the wound, earning you a wince at the first touch. He didn’t pull away.

Up close, you could see the lines around his eyes, the small scar that crossed his temple, half-hidden under a mess of purple hair. He looked like someone who had spent a long time outside, and not a lot of it must have been pleasant. His lips were drawn into a tight line, and he was looking everywhere but your face.

“Done,” you said softly, setting the cream aside. “You should be okay now.”

He didn’t respond at first, but there was something like tired gratitude in his eyes. Then, words started pouring out, as he nodded again. (“God, I can’t believe I can talk again. It hurts like hell, too, but at least I managed to avoid the burning sun. And we can’t even understand each other, so now I don’t know what we should do.”)

Thank you, maybe, but there had to be more than that. You couldn’t understand a lick of it, though. You returned the gesture clumsily, tapping your own chest. “You’re welcome,” you said, enunciation pronounced. He probably wouldn’t understand any of it himself.

The corners of his mouth twitched, just barely. Not a smile, but the ghost of one, something not quite defeated, but hopeful all the same.

You stood up, joints stiff from crouching, and realized how quiet the apartment had become. The others had stopped moving, the teenager, the couple, everyone seemed to have fallen asleep or quieted down just enough. Even the humming fridge now sounded distant, not that you could hear it at all with the door closed.

You busied yourself cleaning up, pulling objects off from the floor and back into the plastic box. You hadn’t used it in God knows how long, and all of a sudden it had become the most prized item in this house. Gauze into the bin, scissors back into the box, cap on the disinfectant, everything left in the box, box in the bathroom.

When you turned back, he was still watching you. You thought for a moment he might say something after all, but of course he didn’t. He just looked to the side, before gesturing towards the closet door.

You didn’t know if he thought this was a room or something, there was barely enough space in there for a few cardboard boxes you liked to ignore the existence of.

“It’s a closet, are you sure?” you asked, and when he didn’t answer, only tilting his head in confusion, you made a beckoning motion with your hand, asking him in the universal gesture to follow you. “Here,” you said, “it’s not that big.”

He seemed to like it enough. He waved a hand towards the empty space, a quiet certainty in the gesture. You thought he was asking permission, but when you opened the door wider and he stepped aside, you realized he’d already decided.

Yeah,” you said, nodding for good measure. “You can rest there.”

He seemed to understand that, at least, easing himself down onto the floor with a small grunt. He looked the most miserable out of everyone in this house, lips and hands stained with blood and antiseptic.

You didn’t look at him when you spoke, focusing on the walls, yellowed-out by time and a lack of care both. “You can stay tonight. Tomorrow we’ll figure out what you need.”

A pause. Then a soft sound, perhaps an agreement, or a word. You had no way to know for sure.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. This was difficult, and you didn’t appear to be too awkward. “You got a name?”

He looked at you, puzzled, and you pointed at yourself. “A name,” you reiterated. “What’s your name?” Then at him.

For a moment, nothing. Then he pointed towards himself, muttered something low and rough, syllables you couldn’t catch, consonants soft and foreign. Even if he had said something in your language, you couldn’t have begun to decipher it with how low he was speaking. Maybe the guy was just exhausted.

“Alright,” you said, nodding. “I’ll…try to remember that.”

You gave him your own name in return. He tried to repeat it, failed, botching all of the syllables, then gave you a smug look that probably said close enough.

The moment almost made you smile, but you bit it back.

It had been a while since you had stayed in that closet for more than ten minutes since the death of your father. In there, no windows to observe the inky outside world, no mirrors to reflect the faint glow of the lightbulb, and no pictures of happy memories to regret. A little box, closed off to the rest of the house, the world, except for those dusty old piles and boxes littering the shelves.

The room fell into comfortable silence.

When you glanced back at him, the man had rested his head on his arm, eyes half-closed, finally letting the pain turn into exhaustion. Too tired to be cautious, you thought.

You closed the door, turned off the light, and quietly went back to your room.

Chapter Text

It smelled like someone had died that night.

You didn’t know how to react. The smell was there, you knew what it was, were certain of it like more than you’d ever been certain of something before.

It was too warm in your bedroom, even without the blanket. You supposed the sun was heating up more than ever before, and that surely was the reason as to why you could tell even from there, that you’d find one guest less in your house. The heat did make the smell of death stronger.

Who would it be?

Yesenin the bar guy, first to go once more? The teenager, who had sobbed her eyes out last night, left to die alone in a stranger's house? One of the two sisters perhaps, or the couple, their tragic fate inescapable. You thought of the guy with the stitched lips and the purple hair, how he had fallen asleep peacefully, how he had been the last one you saw.

A selfish thought, but you were glad it hadn’t been you.

You couldn’t find the strength to get up. More so than who was the victim, who had been the perpetrator? There weren’t any strangers in the house aside from the teenager, whom you had checked a few times, and the new guy, the foreigner. Perhaps it had been him. The thought was bitter in your mouth.

You had done everything right, so why were people dying under your roof once more? How hypocritical, you thought to yourself, you have more self-awareness than that, playing the victim, the knight. This isn’t about you.

Someone was getting shot today.

You got up, grabbing another clean outfit, nearly identical except for the fabric. It was soft under your fingertips, and just light enough. You grabbed your shotgun, noticing for the first time the discolouration around the handle. You couldn’t remember the last time you had properly cleaned the outside of your weapon, only focusing on the important parts, how effectively it would fire.

You knew it was cowardly, but you turned on the TV first. Anything to delay the inevitable, the anxious gazes, the biting remarks, the questioning. The sound of the gunshot.

The chatter of the TV didn’t do anything to ease your worries, but it also didn’t worsen them. The anomalous heat continued to rise, the visitors showed no signs of stopping. You made a face when the FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Agency as the tv guy said, was brought up. You had completely forgotten about them, and frankly, you would have given anything for those assholes to fail at following you in this timeline. The yellow hazmat suits and gas masks weren’t bringing anything positive to the table. Plus, you hated their newly-established propaganda.

They had discovered another way to check for visitor signs, apparently. Fingernails, although you had known it for two weeks now, and it was anything but foolproof.

Teeth, fingernails, eyes, skin, armpits, photos, ears.

All bullshit.

You turned the tv off, and your reflection greeted you like a depressing guest in the dark flat surface of the screen.

You were sitting down on the side of the bed by the nightstand, and had a passing thought about your wife. You did what any normally healthy individual would do in this case. You pushed it down.

You knew you’d have to go eventually. Leave the safety of your locked door and confront what was waiting outside. Better sooner than later. The bed creaked when you got up. It was too big for you, much too spacious, but that meant the shotgun could remain in its prized spot next to you.

Not the safest place to be, but hey, safe was better than sorry when it came to man-killing monsters in your house. Were they monsters? That cashier girl hadn’t looked like one to you, the first time around. She had been very confused.

The blonde woman also hadn’t looked like a monster. 

Time to face the bleak reality of the outside world, you supposed. With a sigh, you reached up to the door handle, hand hovering over the unpolished golden metal. You couldn’t even see yourself in the reflection.

You opened the door.

The house was strangely calm. Not hard to guess why.

One more minute, you thought as you grabbed the radio to your right. Turning the dials left and right, you managed to catch a frequency. Nothing of importance, just a vague mention of casting out the evil spirit within you or something. Good luck with that.

One second more, you thought, putting the radio back and turning your gaze left, towards the blinds. For a second, you were tempted to open them, but thought better of it. The sticky and thick smell of death was lingering.

A door opened somewhere in the house. You tore your eyes away from the dirty cream colored window. The bar guy stepped out of the living room. His hands were too clean, had clearly been washed, but on the cuff of his dress shirt, a stain remained. Brownish in color, with the faintest edges of something deeper, a hint of crimson that barely had the time to dry.

He stopped in his tracks.

Your eyes trailed up towards his face, and you found he was looking at you just as intently. There was something weary in his face, like the lines running across his skin had deepened overnight. You stared at each other, no one daring to break the silence. You, with the shotgun strap clutched tightly in your palm, him, standing still in the middle of the hallway.

You didn’t know what to say. He probably didn’t either.

Eventually, he let out a sigh, closing the door behind him. His body sagged even more. A small part of you was glad he was still here. “Someone died.”

Your throat went dry.

You had to know.

“Who?”

He glanced towards the kitchen. “You must have let them in last night. A man and a woman, though with the state the bodies were in, one could barely tell. Everyone else is accounted for.”

The couple.

You let out a breath you hadn’t been aware you were holding.

He didn’t seem as relieved as you were. His mouth twisted into something unkind, clouded by worry. “We have a visitor in the house,” he spat out, like the evidence was too much for him to bear.

Like this, with the two of you face to face in this long hallway, you felt something akin to kinship. The burden was easier to bear, shared with someone else, and you felt lighter, guiltily.

“I know,” you said, readjusting the shotgun.

He glanced at it, before checking over his shoulder. You took a few steps towards him, stopping just before the kitchen door. He towered over you, easily one head taller, but you discerned no ill intent when he leaned in, speaking lower. Too assertive to be a whisper.

“Got any ideas who it might be?”

You had no answer for him yet.

You opened the kitchen door, slowly, and almost recoiled from the smell alone. A few trashbags were piled up onto the tiles, stained with bits and pieces that had to be organic, given the color and shapes. An oozy brownish liquid leaked from under the dark plastic, into the tile’s crevasses. Some had managed to reach the fridge, and there was no way you could make it clean as new. Hopefully, the smell would fade by tomorrow morning.

“I cleaned up,” he explained bitterly. You couldn’t bear to look at him. “Well, clean is a strong word.”

You closed the kitchen door, hoping the gratitude would be conveyed through your words, if not your demeanor. “Thank you.”

He paused. “You don’t seem affected.” There was no aggressivity in his voice, no reproach. Just a cold, clinical analysis of the situation at hand. You supposed he was right, in a way. 

“I have had experiences with bodies.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You have had experiences with murder?”

I’ve been killed once, you wanted to say, I have as much experience with visitors as anyone could achieve.

You only nodded, grim. He made a face, like he wanted to know more, or perhaps like he didn’t believe you, with your shotgun, your small house outside of the city and your clean clothes, but he didn’t push.

“We’ll wait for the nighttime, then I’ll throw the bags out.”

You didn't know what to say, the atmosphere was tense. You had no idea if everyone blamed you for this, but you weren’t about to fall victim to paranoia’s whims. It wasn't your fault. It was the sun’s fault, the visitors, this hellhole.

The silence that followed was uncomfortable, to say the least. The air still smelled faintly of rot, even with the kitchen door shut, and you clutched the shotgun strap tighter, more to ground yourself than with the intent to use it. Footsteps echoed in the living room, light, yet uneven.

After a few seconds, the door opened and the teenager appeared in the doorway, her face tight, eyes restless. She must have thought about that night. Perhaps if she had stayed in that kitchen, it might have been her who would have had to be tossed out in small parts and trashbags.

“You finally woke up,” she accused bitterly, closing the door behind her with a heavy slam that wasn’t necessary nor pleasant. “Did you sleep well, while those guys were getting murdered?”

Was she under the assumption that you liked this situation any more than she did?

“Casualties are unavoidable,” you said instead, looking at her face. Her expression fell, twisted into something outraged.

“Shit, man. Couldn’t you have said that people died and it was unfortunate and sad, or something instead?” She threw her hands in the air, before bringing them back to her sides, defeated. “Way to creep me out.” She made a movement with her head, as if deciding whether to leave. Her eyes darted from you, to the bar guy, and eventually she scoffed, before walking out. You didn’t think you had phrased it so terribly as to warrant such a reaction.

Two pairs of eyes were locked onto her, even as she turned the corner.

“You think it’s her?”

You glanced at Yesenin. “No. But I don’t have a choice, so I'll run a check.”

Not on her just yet though, not if you could help it. You had already tested her twice already, and those things wore you out. The logical option was to inspect the other stranger in the house first, the man who had wandered in yesterday with bloody lips and a lost look in his eyes.

The bar guy was safe, and so were the sisters, that much you remembered from the first run.

You took a few unhurried steps in the direction she had gone. Behind you, the tall guy’s footsteps retreated toward the living room, followed by the sound of the door clicking shut. So much for building trust among your guests.

The teenager sat on the floor in the square patch of space by the front door. Her long hair fell over her shoulders, a few stray strands veiling her face. In one hand, she held a soft red ball, tossing it at the bathroom door just to catch it again as it bounced back into her small palm.

“Here to kick me out because I went against you?”

Again with that. The kid had some serious trust issues. “Why do you always jump straight to that? Kicking you out wouldn’t help anyone.”

“I don’t know,” she muttered. The ball came bouncing back and slipped past her fingers, rolling off limply across the floor. She didn’t move to grab it back, just stared down at the linoleum, at that horrendous carpet sprawled over it.

God, you were bad at this.

You took a few steps closer and sank to the floor, your back against the wall opposite her, right beside the bathroom door. Picking up the ball, you rolled it in your hand, feeling the soft, spongy give of the material.

“I’m not kicking you out,” you said quietly. “You haven’t done anything.”

She hesitated before meeting your gaze. Her eyes were startlingly bright. “Then…you don’t think I did it either?”

You shook your head.

“Oh God. Fuck, man…” She pulled off her backward cap, ran a hand through her wavy hair, then shoved it back on. “I’m kinda freaking out, you know? I don’t exactly trust you or anything, but, well, you’re the one with the shotgun. So you’ll make the right call, yeah?”

“There aren’t many people in the house right now,” you said, noncommittally.

It seemed she didn’t care much for your answer.

“It can’t be me or Yesenin, right?” She waved her hands around as she spoke, a hurried flow of words tumbling out, like she wasn’t even thinking about what she was saying. “I mean, we already know it’s not me, but we were safe the first time, so it can’t be him either.”

Maybe they did form some sort of kinship, after all. Or perhaps she was just unwilling to see another human go. You wondered if death scared her, more so than other people. Youth didn’t equal fearlessness.

“You like his company?” you asked, curiosity getting the better of you.

She shrugged.“I mean, I ain’t about to say we're best pals or anything. He’s an asshole, really, but he listens to me.”

You faintly recalled the bar guy on the other side of your door the first time around, mentioning a vague interest in conversation. Or was it about finding good conversation partners? No matter.

“It’s probably that guy, the one with the bloody mouth,” she kept on going, a slight twitch in her fingers. “I almost pissed myself when I saw him this morning. He freaks me out.”

You perked up at that, curious. “You saw him?”

“Yeah, by the phone. He tried calling someone, I think, but I didn't pay too close attention. Because of…you know, the bodies in the kitchen.”

There it was again, that guilty twinge in your chest. You pushed it back down.

“I tell you, it’s gotta be him! I tried talking to him, but he didn’t even answer, just walked right back into the closet! Super rude! I ain’t scared, but if someone killed that dude and his wife, that’s the guy.”

She looked sure of herself, but she was just a kid, held back by discrimination against people she couldn’t understand. You didn’t know what outcome would be best, for the foreigner to be a visitor, or for him to turn out human, after all.

Still. “I’ll check him. Thank you for the advice.”

She lighted up then, straightening herself. Her shirt dragged against the wall, shoes squeaking against the bunching carpet as she tried to regain her footing.

“For real? You’re really going to check? I mean, heck yeah, you’ll see.”

You tossed her the ball back, and she caught it expertly between her fingers. If the smile on her face was anything to go by, you weren’t as bad with small talk as you had expected.

It was easier than anticipated, walking up towards the closet door. You didn't know what to expect, because the guy had been a strange sight, but so had you when you considered that you had let a man with a stitched mouth enter your home.

The wood of the door was faintly discolored, with marks where your father had inadvertently scratched the protective wax as he removed boxes from inside the closet. These days, you tried to forget about your father and the closet door, but now it seemed you had no choice left then facing the bad memories tied to this small, uninteresting room. 

"Hey," you said as you entered, "apparently you tried to make a phone call?" 

The guy was standing up against the tall row of shelves, one hand clasped over his bleeding mouth. When you came in, leaving the door open behind you so he wouldn't feel trapped, he straightened up and his eyes widened by a fraction. They were green, held surprise in them, and you found yourself staring. You knew you wouldn't get much of an answer, but it felt worse not to fill up the space with words, anyway.

In this small space, cramped between those four walls, you had the certain urge to turn around and leave. There were no windows here, like in most parts of the house, but somehow it felt even more suffocating than in the other rooms. Maybe it could be attributed to the smell of old clinging to wallpaper, or perhaps it was the boxes sitting on the shelf, like presents full of coal waiting for you to open them.

“(I know we can’t understand each other, but maybe we can try? What should we do, make up a new language?)”

The foreigner had just said something  long, completely unintelligible to you, and in equal parts confused and tired. You couldn't stop thinking about how many games of charades you would have to be a part of in the next few days.

“Ok, this is going to be an issue,” you deadpanned.

He let out a scoff tethering on the edge of a smile, but you had no doubt it wasn't something borne out of righteous amusement. It sounded bitter, a little bit clipped, and as he spoke once more you could tell how exhausted he truly was. “(This is a nightmare. I don't even have the words to explain how awful this trip has been.)”

The wounds hadn't closed just yet, but you could see dots of blood had dried up and crusted on each side of his lips. Maybe it was why he had hidden such a sight with his palm, or maybe it was as painful now as it had been the previous night. 

You tapped your own lips with your index finger to get his attention, and you could see him focus on your face. Then you pointed to his own and made the universal thumbs up, thumbs down sign.

That would be something you both understood, right?

He blinked once, expression somewhere between disbelief and understanding, before letting out a small laugh that sounded genuine this time. His eyes, slightly crinkled at the corners, lingered on your lips for just a second longer than necessary.

“(If you are asking about how I'm doing, I hate to disappoint, but it's not looking so good.)” When he answered, he tilted his hand from left to right in a so-so gesture that you would be equally as likely to understand.

It would be so much easier if he, at least, could understand a few words. But then again, you didn't understand anything that he was saying either, and it would be hypocritical to ask of him something you couldn't even do yourself. 

No matter. If he didn't understand you with words, he would understand you by gesture only. You could try and pick up a few words, right? You had never been the biggest language nerd, but it couldn't be that complicated, especially when you had nothing else to do except checking people and sleeping all day long. 

You had half a mind to go back into the bathroom and pull out the plastic box that you had put away last time. That was the most basic of info that even children knew about, to wash one's wound for the following days after being injured.

That would have to wait.

It would serve no purpose to check his teeth. All of it would be bleeding, and the whole experience would be both useless and painful in the end. Hands were also off the table, as you could see from here the yellowish stains from the disinfectant where he had touched his bleeding lips. No photo aura as long as it hadn’t been made available…Christ this was difficult.

“Eyes,” you decided, pulling on the skin above and beneath your own to widen them. You didn’t know if they were red now. You hadn’t been lacking sleep recently, but doing all of this again could be considered stressful on many accounts.

“Eies?” he repeated. You pointed at his own and only then did he get it. “(Oh, eye, you’re asking about my eye!)”

He imitated the gesture, and you were met with the vibrant green of his iris.

“(I still don't get why you are doing all this… Eyes are just eyes. Why try to scare me?)”

You gave him another thumbs up.

He smiled. “(Are you complimenting my eyes or something?)”

You couldn’t understand a lick of it, so you just ignored him. One sign of being a human was promising, but not foolproof. Even guests with two or three signs had turned out to be visitors, in the first run. You had to check something else.

You weren’t exactly the most comfortable asking him to take off his shirt just so you could check his armpits. Maybe you would wait a bit longer for that one.

“Ear,” you asked, pointing towards your own. This whole spiel would become a whole lot more tiring when you would have to explain important things down the road. If he wasn’t a visitor, that was. Then, the issue would be solved much faster.

He understood that one rather quickly, turning his face to the side. You let out a relieved sigh. It was just that, an ear, no bugs, no skin rashes, no anything. You wouldn’t have to shoot this guy.

You made a move to show him another thumbs up, but you could tell before he even opened his mouth that something was wrong. His shoulders were drawn up tight, his hands restless at his sides. When he spoke, the words came out low and quiet. You didn’t understand a single one.

“(They are simply ears,)” he murmured, almost to himself, fingers brushing over the small earring at his lobe. “(An earring from my dear friend…)” His accent was thick, and his voice caught on the last word.

You blinked, hand half-raised from where you had stopped in the middle of your inconsequential gesture. You didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t. The only sound was the faint hum of the lights and the soft drawl of his voice as he went on, pauses breaking his speech like he was trying not to say too much.

“(I tried calling him, but the line rang dead. I don’t want to believe that he’s gone, but…maybe I shouldn’t dare hope.)”

You didn’t get a word of it, but something in his tone, defeated and shaken, made the topic clear enough. It wasn’t enough, knowing that this guy was probably human, you also had to hear about some important stuff prior to this. Or maybe he was just breaking down, in a stranger’s closet.

“(We got separated, back at that house… You can’t even understand me, so I can talk about him all I like.)” He bitterly smiled again. You were standing so close that if you reached out, you could touch his shoulder in a comforting gesture. “(I don’t want to think about him possibly leaving me, the thought would be too painful. But then, if he truly fled, leaving me all alone to fight off those people…)”

“I don’t…” you started, then stopped. What were you even trying to say?

He kept on talking, undisturbed. There was no way he hadn’t heard you in the quiet, but he chose to ignore your words just as you did his. “(I would give anything to see him again. I miss him so much, but at the same time, he might just be a coward.)”

His eyes avoided yours, and his voice shook in the way that meant he was either fighting back tears or losing the fight altogether. His mouth trembled, and he looked down, swallowing hard.

You panicked a little. You weren’t good with this kind of thing, grief, or emotion, or whatever it was sitting heavy in his heart.

Maybe speaking to you was enough for him, but what good could it truly do in the end if you couldn’t even answer back, give advice, or ease his worries? Were you making things worse, just standing there, eyes wide, like a wild animal about to be noticed by a hunter? Or maybe you were the hunter, watching this man cry in front of you with no shoulder to lean on. It felt voyeuristic, somehow.

The tears started to f all, then.

You didn’t care much for people, but you also didn’t care about them being miserable under your roof.

You searched for something to do, maybe a gesture, or a word he would get, anything that didn’t feel useless. After a beat, you took out your handkerchief from your pocket, and held it up towards him. A small sort of help, maybe. A distraction.

He looked at it, hesitated, then accepted it. His fingers brushed yours, quick and accidental, and you paid it no mind.

You hesitated before putting a hand on his shoulder. Not too tight, or too long, just enough that you could feel the warmth of him there, and he could guess the comforting intention behind it. He looked at your hand, then at you. He didn’t move away.

You exited the closet not long after, only when he had calmed down and stopped crying. You didn’t have the heart to ask for the handkerchief back.

Outside, right as you closed the door behind you, you heard someone on your left shuffling closer.

The teenager tilted her head in the closet’s direction. “So?”

You shook your head.

The expression on her face got somber again, and she threw her head back against the wall, defeated. You could hear a mutter escape her lips, something that sounded awfully close to let’s all just die, then, or an equally cheerful variant.

“You should change your bandages,” you informed, before walking down the hall to open the living room door. You hoped she would listen to your advice.

The living room was more spacious than the closet, of course. There was a cross hanging on the wall that you had never cared about, but your father had insisted and you never took it down, even after his death. The green couch on the far wall of the room was big enough for three people to sit side-by-side without their thighs touching, and was currently being occupied by the bar guy on one end and the older sister on the other. 

In the big plush chair right beside her, her sister was hunched, her legs drawn tightly towards her chest, her arms swamped in the white clothing encircling them. 

You approached the bar guy, who didn't even make a move to stand up.

“Show me your teeth.”

The look he gave you was nothing short of condescending. 

“You think it will be helpful? How stupid of you.”

You didn’t answer, waiting patiently. You both knew in the end that it was either the soft way, or the hard way, and you had been intentionally vague up until then on what the hard way could be.

“Okay, take a look,” he finally complied. “Take in that odor of sadness and smoke.” With two fingers, he pulled open his mouth, showing off his yellow teeth.

Clear on that front.

“You’re fine,” you informed.

He remained silent, but must have been thinking of a rather crude insult, for his face to sour like that. No use justifying yourself. If he was uncomfortable, so be it, but you were about to risk everyone's safety over some misplaced pride.

You had more urgent matters to take care of.

You had checked nearly everyone in the house, all of the strangers, and still you were no closer to knowing who the visitor was than before. Would you have to spare everyone, just to send one of your human guests to be slaughtered like a sacrificial lamb during the night?

The thought was horrifying.

Time for a smoke, your mind helpfully supplied.

You just wouldn’t be able to catch a break today.

It felt wrong, somehow, to smoke in the living room. The woman on your couch was managing just fine, but she didn’t have a lifetime of memories tied to this place, wasn't aware the very spot she was sitting in had been your father’s.

From a moral standpoint, it was even worse to smoke in front of a teenager, but you didn’t care too much about that.

Your mind drifted to the post-its clinging to your wall. You had to give your neighbor a call, and it was the perfect excuse to step out of the room. The eyes of the three people resting there bore into your back, burning and scrutinizing, and those days, it didn’t feel like the house was yours anymore.

Like it had ever been.

The teenager didn’t make a remark about you pacing through the rooms and hallway like a man possessed, shotgun on your shoulder heavy and cumbersome. She didn’t say anything when you dialed the man’s phone number, each phone button beeping in a high key as you pressed them.

The phone rang once. The teenager’s ball bounced against the wall. The phone rang a second time.

Finally, he picked up.

“Hey neighbor.”

His voice was steady, but on the last syllable he sighed, and you understood that just like last time, things weren’t going to get any better for him.

“Hey. Just checking in, see how you are doing.”

“Not that good,” he said with what must have been a faint smile. There was a brief pause, like he was considering what to tell and what to keep to himself. “You saw what happened out there? Those teenagers got killed. I thought the streets weren't that dangerous… Guess I was wrong.”

You remembered the night before, the happy picture he and his daughter painted, laughing and walking in the tall grass. The first time, you could only think of how strange such a thing had been, to willingly put yourself in harm’s way like that, all for a bit of fresh air.

Now, you weren’t the same man, and despite how scary the thought might be, you understood why they had done it.

“My daughter talked me into going out again,” he explained, with another sigh. You had never been to his house before, despite his few invitations. You didn’t like people, and families even less. You wondered where the phone line was, if your neighbor was sitting or standing up, if he had post-its on the wall just like yours. “It didn’t seem too bad…until I saw the bodies. That’s the last time I risk her life like that. God I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to her. She’s my whole world.”

If it burned, like last time, you would never get to see his house.

“Was it the tall pale man?”

You already knew the answer, but it wouldn’t hurt to check.

“Yeah,” came the predictable answer. “I thought it only killed people who stayed inside...”

“Why would you think that?”

“...” For a second, you thought the line might have disconnected, but when you checked the phone stand, the numbers for the phone call time were still blinking higher and higher with every second. After a long pause, he spoke again. “You’re right. I don’t know, it’s just…my cousin informed me on some things, and I interpreted them my way.”

Must have been the wrong thing to say.

“I’m not trying to imply you could have gotten your daughter killed,” you backtracked. “Just that these things are new, foreign to us. It would be suicide to think of the outside as someplace safe.”

“I know. I just…thought I had it under control. Figured if I ever saw that silhouette, we’d head straight back home. But I didn’t think about what else she might see…”

You shot a glance at the teenager. She was playing, bouncing the ball again, but you noticed her aim was worse than before, the throws quieter as she pretended not to listen in. “Is your daughter okay?”

Your neighbor took a second to answer, and when he did his voice was an octave lower, like he was squeamish about saying it when his daughter could hear. “I don’t know. With all these weeds, I was hoping she wouldn’t notice. But back at home she said she saw a face in the grass… I’m trying to convince her it was her imagination, but…she’s not really biting.”

“You know you are always welcome in my house,” you said, perhaps more thoughtfully than you had in a long time. You didn’t really know why you had taken a liking to the man. Perhaps he was the closest thing to a friend you would ever have, and you wanted to honour that relationship.

“I know,” he said, but you knew he wasn’t considering it. He had explained why, last time, and a face in the grass wasn’t about to change his plans. “You are, too.”

But you weren’t considering it, either, and perhaps he knew that just as well. Two stubborn men, you were.

“Be careful,” you only answered, smiling faintly.

“Thanks. You take care, too.”

You hung up first.

You dialed For Rest immediately after, and someone picked up after barely the first round of ringing. Business was going well, apparently. Not that it was a surprise to anyone.

“Hello, you’ve reached For Rest food delivery. Would you like to place an order?”

You thought of the two corpses slowly rotting away in your kitchen. Of the prophetic bald man and his misleading words. Of the tacky calendar on your wall, with eleven days more to go by.

“Two cans of cat food, please.”

“Fuck you need cat food for?” the teenager piped up from behind you, her voice puzzled. So she had been listening, after all. You didn’t know children could swear so much. “You don’t even have a cat.”

“I’m considering getting one,” you answered curtly.

On the other side of the phone, there was a clicking sound. “Thank you. Your order has been accepted. Please expect your delivery tomorrow night.”

She snorted, a clipped laugh that rang through the air. You hung up.

Hopefully, what she thought to be a crazy idea would turn out in your favor. You remembered well the ballerina who had brought it to you on behalf of the bald man, that guy who spoke in riddles and prophecies. She had been a visitor the last time, but hadn’t killed anyone, at least no one that you could tell.

If she entered the house a second time, you would have to kill her in the morning.

You took out that cigarette. You really needed the added energy. The teenager made a gagging face, waving a hand in front of her nose. Probably the smell. You ignored her. It’s not like you could open a window, or step out.

The closet door creaked open, and out came the foreigner.

He blinked in the bright sunlight peeking through the blinds, spotting the two of you standing there. His eyebags had only worsened, and his cheeks bore the faintest tear streaks. If the teenager noticed, she didn’t say a word about it.

His eyes lingered, then he gave a small, uncertain wave toward the girl. She didn’t wave back, lips tightly pursed and expression sour, crossing her arms over her baggy t-shirt.

You sighed, exhaling smoke, and watched the thin trail drift between you. What a long two weeks this would be.

The man came closer to the both of you, standing like he wasn't sure if he was welcome. You didn’t know if he had even left the room for longer than five minutes, prior to this.

“(Hey.)”

“I can’t understand you, man,” drawled the teenager, unimpressed. She started gesturing with her hands, trying to mime whatever she was saying, or maybe mocking his accent. The word understand was proving to be quite a challenge. The foreigner didn’t respond, just watched her with attention, clearly struggling to keep up with her nonsense.

Finally, he seemed to understand she was making fun of him, not really trying to be understood, and he raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement showing on his face. He said something, short, fast-paced, as he crossed his arms over his chest. You didn’t catch the meaning, but you understood the tone. You’re not as funny as you think. Fortunately, she only looked at you, puzzled.

Man, this was painful to watch. “I think that was supposed to be a hello, or something.” You turned towards him, smiling as you pulled on your cigarette. The taste was clinging to your teeth, coating your tongue in the best of ways. “(Hey?)” you tried in a botched accent, “Hey?”

He brightened up, like you were finally getting somewhere. “(Are you trying to repeat what I am saying? Does it mean hello?)”

The teenager groaned. “How do you get him, old man? I can’t understand a thing.”

You shrugged.

You stubbed out the cigarette and went towards the living room once more. The teenager got up abruptly, intent on following you, and the man did the same, scratching at his neck with one hand. You felt like an instructor in some messed up hunting game, and the thought was more bitter than the taste of cigarettes.

Three checks more, and then you’d have to make a decision.

When you entered the living room, the bar guy focused on you instantly, eyes narrowing in what might have been suspicious defiance. "Have you finished your little inquisitories," he asked with more venom than what was necessary in his voice. 

"Hey man," said the teenager, pushing past the foreigner to look Yesenin in the eyes. "Not cool. You're being an asshole right now." 

He turned towards her, face devoid of any sort of emotion apart from disdain. "Are you on his side now?" 

"There ain't no sides here dude," she scowled. "You think I didn't notice the way you looked at me as if I was the visitor? You know someone here killed this guy and his wife and yet you don't think we should do anything about it?"

He looked put on the spot, then. Like this girl less than half his size had spoken some grand truth in a debate that even he hadn't been aware of. "I don't know," he admitted, "but I think if we have to shoot someone here and now, it won't be thanks to some signs that the radio told us to check. It should be proven with something more tangible than white teeth."

You had been pushed aside in a conversation that was supposed to be centered around a decision you would make in the end.

You didn't mind, really, and instead exchanged a glance with the foreigner above the teenager's head. You shook your head slightly, almost unnoticeably, and made a face as if you didn't understand a word of what they were saying. You had never been the funniest individual, but the joke seemed to land somehow, and you saw his mouth brighten up with just the barest of smiles. He shrugged, then made a gesture with his hand, twirling his finger on the side of his head as if to imply the people in this house were insane. Maybe they were.

"Let's stop arguing," said the oldest of sisters from her spot on the couch. A cigarette burnt at the edges was clutched tightly between her fingers and she brought it up to her lips with the lack of ease only a recent smoker would have.

Fortunately, that did the trick, and the room fell silent, the teenager scoffing one last time in what was sure to be a silent protest.

You looked at her face, expression grim and yet almost elegant. “What do you think of all this?” you asked.

Her eyes bore into you. “Do you mean the visitors or the sun?”

You made a vague gesture, a wide motion towards the poorly furnished room. Your childhood toy seemed to mock you from his spot on the shelf.

She took a drag of her cigarette, the end lighting up with each inhale, before exhaling curls of smoke. She looked at her sister, impossibly fond, and she smiled when their eyes met.

“All of this went to hell a long time ago. After the death of our parents, my sister got a whole lot sadder. She’s lived with it most of her life, you know? Depression is a tough burden to bear, but she’s my darling sister, of course I’ll always be there for her.”

“You don’t have to,” drawled the sister from where she was hunched in the plush chair. When she readjusted her legs on the soft cushioning, you could see the material give under her long limbs, the blanket you had left there bunching up at her ankles.

The first sister let out a hum, but it was a loving sound, an assured answer.

You couldn't help but faintly reconsider your position on family. This was all so very useless, you had thought, but for one to give themselves so freely to the other, to help because of love only…

This was a faraway concept for you now, too faint to grasp properly. You vaguely remembered your father holding your hand as a kid to get to the other side of the road, small, clutched in a bigger, rougher one, or your wife holding you in a warm embrace as you both drifted off to sleep in the comfort of your shared bed.

In the first run, there had even been that woman with long, shiny ginger hair. She was beautiful, and soothing, the closest thing you had to a calm, optimistic companion, but it hadn't been love between you. Not in the way it was supposed to work, you thought.

“Show me your hands,” you asked.

“As I’ve said, my sister isn’t in any shape to take care of herself right now. So my hands are always full.”

She put the cigarette aside, on the lingering ashtray by the couch that you had never cleaned properly. Ash fell onto the bottom, the surface already deeply stained by years of use, and she opened her hands wide, palms facing down.

You got closer to get a better look. Her fingernails were dirty with filth and blood.

Blood that hadn’t been there before.

Not in the first run, nor when you had accepted her in your house yesterday. You had seen her fingers up close, when you helped her carry her sister inside. The habit of someone who had tried to survive for two weeks in this nightmare.

You looked at her fingernails long and hard, silent under her gaze.

It was probably nothing.

She closed her hands, grabbing her cigarette back, before looking straight at you, a bitter smile on her lips. “How should human hands look when they’re responsible for two lives at once?”

You didn’t know what to answer.

Instead you turned towards her sister, blatantly avoiding the rhetorical question.

“Show me your eyes.”

She shook her head, the gesture small, like it was taking up all of her energy to react. “My sister and I have similar eyes, but hers aren’t so empty.”

Probably nothing.

She pulled her skin down, showing a perfectly normal human eye. Or perhaps the color was too dark, but at least there was no redness, and that was enough for you. You wouldn’t have enough energy to check all that you would have liked to check, anyway.

Maybe she was a human. You glanced towards the couch.

Was it probably nothing?

You made your way back towards the first sister again. Her gaze followed you across the room as you came to stand in front of her.

“I need to check you again,” you said.

Behind you, the teenager stopped talking to pay close attention. The foreigner, who had kept quiet until now, watched the whole exchange go by, perking up.

She glanced towards her sister, before straightening up. “You make me think of my husband. He has the curtest way of speaking, like the world would fall out of his axis if he dared waste words.”

From behind you, the bar guy spoke. “Where is he, now?”

“My husband?” She let out a small laugh, but not quiet enough to hide the nervousness hidden beneath. “Good question. He should be coming for us soon. I hope he can find us a safe place to stay. Somewhere we can wait out the Visitors' attacks and the sun's heat.”

“Places like that exist?”

“He said they do. And he also said the sun isn't exploding. That if it was, we'd all be wiped out in less than 10 minutes.” She smiled then, something oddly sad. You didn’t know what to make of it. “I think he's right.”

Yesenin didn’t answer.

“What do you want to check?” she asked, looking back at you. She had left the cigarette in the ashtray once more, but it was now half the size it had been when you had entered the room.

“Eyes,” you answered.

Nodding, she got up for you to be closer. Like this, you could see her eyebags, the faint greenish tint of her skin in this sterile light, could pick up the strong smell of the cigarette she had been smoking just a second ago. The grip on your shotgun tightened as she pulled down the skin beneath her left eye.

Dark, almost black, but with the faintest circle of blue on the inside. Slow movements, not a hint of redness. You couldn’t remember what they had looked like on the first run, but the sight was oddly familiar. That only made things worse, because her eyes had remained the same but her hands were different, somehow. Could previous humans now be visitors?

You couldn’t afford to risk it.

In a second, the shotgun was pointed at her face.

The tension in the air seemed to break into something frantic. The teenager stumbled back. You heard her body hit the doorframe in her hurry to distance herself. “Shit, man! She’s a visitor?!”

The foreigner made a sound, something unintelligible that you didn’t care to focus on.

The bar guy stood up abruptly, and you could feel each of his fingers as his hand gripped your shoulder, trying to shake you back to your senses. “Are you insane?! You’re going to shoot her because of her eyes?”

Shoot her, you thought.

The sister took a step back, and even though she was clearly distressed, her voice took on a pacifying edge, something meant to be soothing. But you weren’t the cornered animal here. “I understand,” she said, holding her hands up, and you didn’t tear your gaze away from her face even for a second. “You have been put in a difficult situation.”

Shoot her, the voice said again.

Her sister made a sound, and Yesenin let go of your shoulder slowly, as if unsure how to proceed. The fabric was warmer where his hand had been. She kept speaking. “But if you panic, are you really any different from the visitors?”

Shoot!

“You think you're the only one who's got it rough? You think you can point a gun at whoever you want?”

You recoiled under the power of the shotgun firing off.

The blast hit hard enough to lift her off her feet, if only by a fraction. For a second, her body stayed upright, but the force carried through, in a dull, heavy motion. You heard it more than you saw it, the thick percussion of impact, the air sucking out of the room. When she dropped, it wasn’t graceful. Her legs folded first, the rest following with a weighty thud.

A hot, iron smell clung to your tongue. Smoke curled from the muzzle. You caught flashes of color and texture, where her flesh had been torn apart under the force of the blow. There was only a gaping wound where her upper body should have been, and the jutting edge of a broken rib, like a watermelon that had been cracked open in the heat of summer. 

Something stuck to her mangled body, liquid spreading through fabric, and there was the barest hint of slickness in the light, but your brain refused to separate one thing from another. It all blurred into heat and noise and stillness, a bloody lump of meat.

Your ears rang. The shotgun felt heavier than before as you lowered it down. You stared down at your hands, realizing you hadn’t breathed in nearly a minute.

You heard someone run off and a door slammed somewhere. When you turned away, you noticed it was the guy with the stitches who had left.

Next to the bar guy, the teenager heaved, a hand thrown over her mouth, before throwing up. There were tears clinging to the corners of her eyes.

You looked back at the corpse.

The blonde woman’s face seemed to smile up at you from the mess of entrails and wet remains.

You tore your eyes away. The body was twisted wrong, limbs bent in ways the living couldn’t manage. The blood had no doubt already started to cool, spreading in streaks along the floorboards. It didn’t look anything like human blood. Too thick, too dark. You didn’t linger on the sight, you’d seen worse, and yet it still pressed something cold into your chest.

Her sister hadn’t screamed. She just stood there, hands half-raised. Her expression was frozen, caught somewhere between terror and disbelief, and her eyes were already clouded with grief. You knew that look all too well, especially on her. You’d seen it before, maybe even worn it once. There was no salvation you could offer, barely sympathy or understanding.

No one moved.

The air in the room was heavy. No sounds to disturb the silence, like another terrible thing would happen if someone dared speak. In the ashtray, the cigarette was still hot.

You became aware of the blood on your face then, warm where it had splattered across your cheek, sticky where it was starting to dry near your mouth. You wondered what they saw when they looked at you, someone empty, detached, dangerous. Were you?

You turned toward the bar guy. He looked pale, his eyes darting between you and the body, and adjusted the shotgun against your shoulder. There was gunpowder all over your hands.

“I’ll help you put the body in bags,” you said, voice low but steady.

No one answered. Somewhere next to you, the sister made a sound. A muffled sob, or a disbelieving gasp. It was the only thing in the room that sounded alive.

Chapter Text

A knock woke you up. Slow, and deep, but there was no chance you could miss it.

The pale visitor was here.

You blinked, once, twice, very slowly. You were still exhausted, perhaps more so than the day before. A low green light came down in a wavy pattern onto your carpet, carved by the curtain blocking most of it. Comforted by the light weight of the sheet shielding you from the outside world, you considered staying in bed and resting for a few more hours. The material was soft, and you pulled it up towards your shoulder in the reflexive gesture of someone who didn’t want to get up.

This isn’t how this works, you thought through the haze of fatigue, and a few seconds later you steeled yourself and painfully sat up.

It wasn’t cold in the room, but the air was thick and uncomfortable, and you shivered all the same. You slung your shotgun over your shoulder once more, and entered the hallway, closing the door behind you.

You wished it rained, every now and then. This had been a dry summer, unkind to fruits, trees, and humans alike. Outside, the grass had turned an awful shade of yellow, like hay never to be picked up again. You wished for clouds, dark and heavy, bearing fresh water for the earth to breathe again.

The glass of your windows was stained, too, dirty, blurry in patches at the corners. From your spot in the house, you could see men in hazmat suits wearing black gas masks by your neighbor’s house. Trouble was arising, it seemed, more so than previously, and you could only hope he and his family would be safe. 

You slowed down as you passed the living room door. After spending an hour bleaching, scrubbing blood from your couch, your wall, your face, the room was as spotless as it could be. Someone was sobbing inside, choking gasps and muted whines all too apparent in the quiet. You willed yourself to ignore it, and pushed past the sounds of despair and grief.

The door to the bathroom was ajar, and inside, spilled on the floor, rolls of bandages and medication half-hazardly shuffled back into a pile. Maybe the teenager had dug into your supplies, or perhaps the foreigner. The only thing bothering you was that they hadn’t thought of cleaning up after themselves.

The bar guy was sitting in the chair next to the door, in a position eerily similar to his one on the couch. No matter where he was, he always seemed physically uncomfortable.

“Yesenin,” you greeted, a tone as expressionless as your face.

His eyes followed you as you got closer. “You’re up,” he only replied, but there was no surprise to be found, like he knew you would, a ghost haunting this house, bearing the mask of a host.

That someone knocked again. You had half a mind to get close to the peephole and tell him off. You could just never have a conversation that wasn’t interrupted by urgency, and it was starting to wear on you.

“So are you.” Again, no surprise, no pretense. Everyone in this house was restless, especially after the day’s events.

He shook his head, a great weariness present in his movements. “I couldn’t sleep. Both of them are crying, and I like conversations, as depressing as some might be, but where to begin with one like this?”

“What about the foreigner?”

“The guy in the closet? I have no idea, but I would say he isn’t faring much better. No one can be that silent after seeing someone getting blown to pieces.”

You looked him up and down, but couldn’t find any hints about how he himself was doing. He didn’t like you all that much, you had gathered from your previous days’ interactions, but he was also the first person you had ever accepted into your home.

“That teenage girl is scared, but I think she’ll go back to the kitchen tomorrow, if the smell isn’t too bad.” You made a mental note to spray some perfume or room spray (maybe both) inside the room, just in case the bleach’s scent was too nauseating. “I’m not sure about the other one.”

If only things hadn’t turned out that way again.

“She looked like she was going to break down into sobs any second, but she didn’t,” the bar guy said, something bitter in his voice. For a man who seemed rather unfit for human interaction, he had a better grasp on what was going on in your house than you did. “ It was even worse. She had this expression on her face, with her mouth downturned like she was about to cry, and she was clutching her hair between her hands. Kept tugging at it like a woman gone mad.”

He passed a hand over his face, then, the skin of his cheeks dragging against his long fingers. They were red where he had scrubbed raw blood and filth. You found yourself thinking that a sad story was even more disheartening if it was told by a discouraged man who had experienced it firsthand.

“I tried to get her to stop but she didn’t. Just looked at me and went “I can handle myself.” I was trying to help her. It pissed me off, so I left. Don’t know if she’s crying now.”

He didn’t need any consoling, not in the way a child might have—and you thought of your neighbor’s daughter then, who had cried her eyes out in your kitchen, following her father’s death, and how you had ignored her out of awkwardness.

You hoped she was doing better this time around, aside from the face in the grass. You hoped all them were. Better than you, at least.

Another knock.

You slammed your fist against the door, startling Yesenin so badly he flinched. His whole body went tense, head snapping toward the sound. “Come on, man!” You yelled, uncaring about the other people in the house. No one was sleeping anyway. “I’m not alone, God, can’t we just have one minute here?!”

His eyes darted to you, wide, confused, and worried all at once, his posture half-caught between moving toward you or backing out toward the hallway.

You took a deep breath, your hand falling away from the wood slowly. It hurt where it had collided with the hard material, fingers reddening. You shook the feeling away, clicking your tongue.

“Sorry about that. What about you?” You asked as if nothing had happened. “Are you okay?”

Yesenin didn’t speak right away. He was watching you, chest rising and falling, expression a careful mix of concern and restraint, as if afraid that saying the wrong thing might make you angrier. More unpredictable than you already were.

“... I think I should be the one asking you that. My good man, what is that all about?”

“Just someone I don’t want to see,” you muttered. “Someone who keeps pestering me.”

He raised an eyebrow, visibly thrown. “Pestering you?”

“Yes,” you gritted your teeth. “Can’t seem to leave me alone, even after death.”

He looked as if he didn’t know what to say, but you saw the faint crease appear between his brows, his gaze flicking toward the door again. At least the knocking had stopped, and that was doing wonders for your mental health.

“So?” you asked.

“So?” he repeated.

“How are you doing?”

He looked as if he had swallowed something wrong. “Not that good, but better than the others here, I suppose. Or maybe I don’t know what good means anymore.”

Were you doing well? You thought you were but clearly some underlying issues in your behavior had yet to be addressed, and you were too tired to even begin now.

Unfortunately for you, Yesenin clearly thought it would be the appropriate time to start. “It’s not anyone’s fault, but you sure threw everyone in for a loop.”

What an accurate yet ironic choice of words, you thought. However, you weren’t about to take the blame for this hell you had been pushed in. Moreso, everyone here was experiencing it for the first time only, and you didn’t know if it made their situation better or worse.

“Should I act ashamed? I’m not,” you said, turning your head to the side. You couldn’t hear the living room’s sobbing from this part of the house.

The bar guy sighed, as if you were an unruly child having some difficulties understanding the point he was trying to make. “It’s not about being a visitor, or a human,” he corrected. “It’s about you waving that gun around like you enjoy frightening good folks.”

You didn’t know what to answer.

You took no pleasure in taking that responsibility, but you also weren’t about to hand over the shotgun to just anyone and let them do the dirty work for you. Somehow, you felt as if every word, every justification would ring hollow, because in the hardened cut of Yesenin’s eyes, you were already a guilty man.

Another knock, harsher this time.

You got closer to the peephole, sighing. On the other side of the door stood the pale visitor, that tall man with odd skin that hung loosely over his ribs and a cold wide grin, with clasped, bony hands. Great.

“What do you want?” You said, hoping your disinterest would be conveyed through your voice, if not your words. “I told you, I’m not alone.”

“Spacious house you got yourself here,” drawled the man. His teeth were painfully white, and his body stood out against the dark of night in stark unnatural shapes.”I like it.”

“Yeah, I know you like it, you’ve told me already. I’m not letting you in, piss off.”

Why wasn’t he leaving? You had made your point very clear already, and by his own admission the twisted rules he intended on using wouldn’t be broken yet.

He looked intensely at the peephole, like he could just reach out and peel you inside out. “I know,” he said again, a peculiar, unreadable look in his eyes. “It’s strange. I feel like you’re ready, but you shouldn’t be, not so soon.”

“What is that supposed to mean? When it comes to you, I’m ready for everything.”

“So sweet. Overconfidence is the favorite defense of the fearful man. Don’t think you can change anything, you are not the one in control. Is there anything waiting for you, at the end of this long road we call life? Why not find out?”

You didn’t feel like this man was a stranger anymore. Like many things, he had been one of the most recurrent things in the few weeks preceding your death. He was still terrifying, but you were playing the game he had invented for you out of thin air, and the outcome would be nothing but fair.

Next to you, the bar guy was muttering words that sounded suspiciously like a prayer, a litany for you not to let this guy in. 

“I don’t want to find out,” you answered. “I’m not alone.”

His smile fell. “I can hear someone whispering inside. But who knows where they'll be in a few days?”

“Yeah, right. In here, probably,” you added, out of spite. 

You waited until he was out of sight to turn back towards the bar guy.

“What was that about,” he asked, leveling a glare at you that oscillated between puzzled and suspicious. He had changed positions as you spoke with the pale man, elbows now resting on his knees and hands clasped together. He looked oddly serious, like this. More focused, somehow.

You shrugged, and when you understood he wasn’t about to let it go unless he got an answer, you sighed. “I’ve seen him before. He’s seen me just as well. He just doesn’t remember it.”

“You saw each other? How so?”

Wasn’t about to start explaining that one. Maybe later.

“He threatened me. Said some cryptic stuff. Usually how things go, these days.”

Yesenin glanced towards the door. “Scary.”

You almost laughed, but held yourself back at the last second. You didn’t know if he had meant it as a joke or a thought voiced aloud, and you didn’t want to risk breaking the small amount of connection you were starting to grow together.

Someone knocked at the door, and Yesenin turned his head towards the sound.

“You do this every night?” He asked with thinly veiled interest when you got closer to the peephole, shifting in the chair. When you shrugged in the affirmative, he sighed. “No wonder you are starting to lose it.”

A man was standing on the other side of the door, bare-chested and huffing. You could see beads of sweat roll off his body in cringe-worthy streaks, and he was trying to fan himself with how hand, to no avail.

“Damn... It's boiling out here. Boiling, I tell you.”

The house wasn’t exactly cool, but it would no doubt be a respite to the boiling temperatures outside.

“Feels like my damn skin is melting. Melting, I tell you! God... it's hotter than any tropical resort I've ever stayed in. Ha!” You still hadn’t answered, making him flounder. He let out a nervous chuckle. “I just need a cold soak. Mind if I, ahem, borrow your shower?”

You didn’t want to let him in, not really. Before, you had too few people in the house, so you had to concede and offer him a place to stay, but now, you had more than enough. You hadn’t been able to determine if he was a human, but it didn’t matter anymore, you supposed. You wouldn’t take the risk, couldn’t afford to rely on memories anymore, just cling to your gut feeling and misplaced sense of certainty.

“You should leave.”

He choked, eyes narrowing pedantly. “I'm serious boy! I... I don't feel well. I need cold water, now. I dragged myself all the way out here, and for what? Hm? An insolent upstart to turn away an important man. I used to run this shitshow! I was a minister!”

Yesenin scoffed.

“Come on,” he kept going, fumbling around. “I can, ahem, make it worth your while…”

He shoved a pack of cigarettes close to the peephole, already open and torn at the edges, but unmistakably holding some smokes. You hesitated. You already had a few, but during the apocalypse, what was just a few more?

Yesenin looked indignant as you opened the door. “You let him bribe you?” You ignored him.

As soon as he was in, the man thrust the pack of cigarettes into your hands, and as you struggled to hold onto it before it fell onto the floor, he closed the door behind him in a slam.

From up close, the sight of his flesh weeping warm sweat was even worse.

“I’ll tour you,” you started slowly, tilting your head towards the nearest door, which happened to be the bathroom’s. “Then you can pick–”

“No need,” he cut you off, rather rudely might you add. “I’ll go straight for the bathtub! It’s so hot out there I might just die!”

Almost shoving you out of the way, he shuffled towards the ajar door of the bathroom, kicking a bandage roll involuntarily as he went, and closed the door behind him. He had left deep imprints on the linoleum and the carpet, and the bar guy had looked at him come and go without a singular comment.

“Guess that means we won’t be able to use the bathtub while he’s there,” you said half-seriously, trying to lighten the mood.

Yesenin made a disgusted face. In the dark, his features looked sharper, a clay sculpture carved with a knife, and you laughed. He took a quick look at you, visibly unsettled by your reaction, like the sight was alien to him, and you supposed you hadn’t shown the most joyful side there was to you in the last few days. Then again, he neither.

There was a noise coming from the bathroom, a resounding splash you knew all too well as the bathtub filling up, and water rolling over someone’s skin like the gilded edge of a blade sinking into butter.

Yesenin stayed silent, but you could see in his eyes he wasn’t too happy about the recent development, though it couldn’t have been the bribe alone that discomforted him. You put the cigarettes away, emptying the half-filled pack the man had given you into your new, For Rest-delivered pack from two nights ago.

“You’re a light sleeper,” you said, more a statement than a question. Yesterday, when you had entered the living room with the two sisters, a sound had barely been needed before his eyes had opened, checking for trouble.

“I am,” he answered, following your movements by the phone receiver. 

“Even before the apocalypse?”

“I’m restless. It’s been a while since I drank, but maybe a beer would help.”

You considered the implications of giving a beer to a guy who had trouble staying away from bars, and even more so managing not to be kicked out. Maybe it would help him unwind, or maybe it would worsen his state, but you weren’t about to make a gamble as to which it would be tonight.

“Why would you accept a bribe?” he finally accused, a rhetorical question quietly spat out. “Every man for themselves, and no safety for anyone, then? Just so you can smoke some more.”

You didn’t really know what to say. “I–”

“Don’t bother,” he cut you off, jaw flexing. “You try and act all-mighty, but you’re just like all the other self-serving assholes.”

Right. The sight of the cigarettes was now leaving a sour taste in your mouth.

“Let’s go dispose of the bodies,” said Yesenin, with no glint in his eyes. When he got up, one of his knees made a popping sound he didn’t acknowledge, and you nodded.

“Thank you, for helping,” you added, looking him in the eyes. He was a stern man, but a rather thoughtful one, perhaps more than you in many aspects. You hadn’t bothered with the bodies before, didn’t even know who had handled it. You wondered off-handedly who had taken care of his body. That cashier girl, maybe.

He glanced towards you for a second, and you didn’t know what he saw, but his face shifted for a split second into something you couldn’t read. He didn’t answer, only walked towards the kitchen door in long strides. His body was dragging itself slowly across your house, lethargic, numb, so tall he could have touched the ceiling if he so desired.

You opened the kitchen door, and almost turned away because of the smell alone. It was a rancid, acidic thing, with hints of iron and spots of dried blood. Three trashbags, one more than in the beginning of the day.

It will get better, you tried to convince yourself.

“Should we bury them?” Yesenin asked, more to himself than you.

He made a move to enter the kitchen, grabbing the closest trashbag with an expression that bordered on disgust. The dark plastic crinkled under his fingers, a soft rustling thing that was too out of place given the situation.

“Maybe it’d be best,” you answered, grabbing a bag of your own. “We have time, and I have a shotgun for anything that might be waiting outside.”

He looked skeptical. “You know how to use it on something farther than two feet away from you?”

“Ha-ha, very funny,” you said, but your sardonic smile fell when you understood he wasn’t joking. “I don’t know, yes? I think, maybe.”

“Very reassuring,” scoffed Yesenin.

You thought of your neighbor’s body, who had gotten up and walked away from his daughter after his death. Maybe it wasn’t about buried bodies, or unburied ones. Visitors crawled from under the ground with dirt staining their fingernails, and visitors didn’t.

The corpses of the husband and his wife wouldn’t get up anyway, not in the state they were in, and you wondered if a dead visitor could come back to life. Probably not, you hoped as you set the trashbags by the front door in a common effort.

Long dark streaks had followed you, serpentine on the floor.

“I probably have a shovel or two somewhere,” you commented, trying to think about where you could have put them away.

“Why would you have two shovels?”

“I don’t know, maybe I don’t even have one,” you replied. You checked the peephole again, half-expecting that pale figure to be waiting on your porch. Nothing. Just the empty, grainy dark. “But I swear I remember the idea of shovels in this house.”

It turned out that somewhere was probably the closet, as you didn’t have the use for it in a long while, and all your useless junk either ended up in the trash or that small room.

“Do you think he’s sleeping?” you asked, pointing towards the closet door.

The bar guy raised an eyebrow, lanky arms by his side. A few other stains were now adorning his dress shirt. You wondered if anything you could lend him would suit his height. “What does it matter if he’s sleeping? We enter, find the shovel, get the hell out.”

“I’ll knock first.”

He huffed. “Whatever makes you feel better.”

You tapped lightly on the door, just enough to warn but not startle, then pushed it open.

The small room smelled of dust and old cardboard. The foreigner was on the floor, propped up against a stack of boxes, half-awake. His eyes followed the light that spilled in, then you. He was rolling something between his fingers, a bus ticket maybe, a slip of sturdy paper he had folded into a small frog. You had seen these before, when coming home and passing by the park, with one child explaining to another how to replicate it. The frog could “jump”, apparently.

“You’re sleeping here?” the bar guy asked, appalled. “That’s awful.”

The sight was a bit disheartening, you had to admit. “He’s the one who chose it.”

He sent you a glare, like that was the worst excuse he’d ever heard. “A rather terrible thing, if you ask me. You should at least give him a mattress or something, I would go insane if I had to stay in here like a rat.”

“I didn’t even think about that,” you said with shame. “I just…forgot.” How do you forget a person, even briefly? Or maybe you just weren’t paying as much attention as you thought you were.

“Well, I think if you have anything resembling a blanket or a pillow, you should give him that, at least. We are human beings, we deserve to retain our dignity, if nothing else.”

The foreigner’s gaze flicked between you both, steady, unreadable, before he turned back to the object in his hands. A small movement of his fingers, something like a shrug. He didn’t look offended. Just tired.

You crouched down and started moving boxes out of the way, pushing through layers of dust and junk you hadn’t seen in years. The air smelled old and damp, made you want to sneeze. Beside you, the bar guy cursed when a box corner caught his arm and fell onto the floor.

The sound made the foreigner stir. He blinked himself a little more awake, then shifted out of the corner to make space without being told. When a box got stuck behind his foot, he crouched, grabbed it by the sides, and slid it toward you. The gesture was quiet, efficient, as his eyes followed where your hands went and cleared what was in the way.

Dust rose up again when he dragged another crate aside, and he covered his mouth with the back of his wrist. His eyes met yours briefly, and he tilted his head toward it. “(This one, too?)” When you nodded, he shifted it closer to the wall.

The bar guy made a small, almost grudging noise. “Well, at least he’s helpful.”

The foreigner didn’t react, just gave a short exhale through his nose, maybe amusement, maybe nothing at all, and went back to sorting through the mess. Perhaps he had guessed Yesenin was talking about him, or reacted out of habit.

After a few minutes, the search came to an end. “Found it!” You said victoriously, grabbing the handle of the shovel and pulling it out of its spot behind the mess.

It was dusty, cold, and a little bit disgusting. You could see a coppery discoloration on one edge, and the handle had lost some of its luster since the last time you laid eyes on the object, gone rough with neglect.

However, it was still sturdy.

The bar guy made an appreciative noise, eyes as dim as ever, but you were starting to become familiar with the few tells of his mood. You left the shovel on the ground, instead grabbing the box nearest to you to make some space.

“(Are you burying the bodies?)”

The foreigner was back to sitting cross-legged on the floor in the very far corner, hands resting in the back of his neck in what could have been a nervous gesture.

He was probably asking what you were doing, what all this searching was amounting to, and you tried to imitate someone digging a hole in the ground, before touching your forehead, chest, and two shoulders. 

Was this guy a Christian? You weren’t either, but he would certainly know the sign of the cross. The concept of religion was pretty worldwide.

“(I thought so.)”

Thankfully, he seemed to understand, nodding, perhaps helped by the sound of the trash bags being dragged to the front door barely a minute ago.

“(Let me come with,)” he said, tone low and as enunciated as possible. “(It’s only right I help out, if I am to stay here.)” He looked straight at you, like he was expecting you to understand, for you to get his meaning without even knowing the words.

You wanted to, but you didn’t know him well enough to guess, and he seemed to notice your puzzlement in your expression, rubbing a hand over his nape again. You busied yourself by closing a box, waiting.

“(Come with? How do you say that again…)” he muttered, before looking back up. When he spoke, it was hesitant. “Go?”

“He’s making more effort than I would,” commented the bar guy grimly.

In a swift move, he pushed back toward the shelves the box that had fallen to the ground. He kicked it too, just for good measure and perhaps out of spite, and you didn’t care enough to fuss over the dented cardboard.

“Go?” you repeated, trying to interpret his words. “Do you want us to leave?”

There was a beat.

“(Oh, to hell with this.)”

With a roll of his eyes, he grabbed the shovel from the ground and pushed his way out of the room.

You looked at the door, left wide open, like he would somehow come back. The awkward conversations seemed to be getting to him more when he was tired.

“Maybe he wants to come with,” you ventured, getting up. Your knees were hurting from the position, and you passed a hand over your legs, trying to smooth out the creases in the fabric.

“If it’s the only shovel we have, let's hope he does,” remarked the bar guy.

A knock at the door.

The foreigner was standing by the trashbags, shovel clutched tightly in both hands. His back was straight, but his shoulders tense, and he had that same nervous look in his eyes as that first night, when he was on the other side of the door.

You put a hand on his shoulder to gently steer him away from the peephole, to estimate how much of an issue this guest would be. His skin was warm, even through the fabric, you noticed off-handedly, and he didn’t shy away.

You let your hand fall away, a huff on your lips. “Sorry, but I’m kind of busy,” you said, opening the door for the bald prophetic man.

He took in the sight of you just as you did him, but not much seemed to have changed since your last encounter. The same clothes, the same face. The only thing that might have changed was your outlook on life, but if his had shifted, you couldn’t tell from his appearance alone.

His cheeks were slightly drooping, and he hadn’t gotten rid of the yellow hoodie yet, the soft fabric hanging loosely on his body. His skin caught the moonlight in blueish hues, and you could smell the faintest traces of rain on his clothes, but you knew it hadn’t rained in a long time in these parts of the world.

Behind you, the bar guy had stopped in his tracks, perhaps wondering if he should just ignore the two of you and mind his own affairs. He probably dreamed of doing so.

“If you’re worried about that visitor coming back, let the issue bother you no longer,” said the man with a kind, faraway look. “They did send him to your house, but tonight he has business elsewhere.”

You had heard about They and She in cryptic terms more than once, but tonight you were no closer to finding out their identities than you had been for the last two weeks.

“Killing soldiers, maybe,” you ventured dryly.

He smiled, more at your quip than the idea. “Maybe.”

He had that air about him, a calm sort of way that would make you more relaxed than usual. Behind the soft eyes, and the cryptic words, he had perhaps tried to guide you, in his own way. What the digging in your basement’s dirt would have amounted to in the end, you didn’t dare ask. Or was it just that, hidden under your floorboards, the end?

“(We should go anyway, right?)” said the foreigner in what sounded like a question, taking a step forward.

Maybe he was trying to move things along. It seemed to work, because Yesenin pushed past you with the bag, and the foreigner trailed after him with the shovel in one hand and a trashbag painfully dragging across the floor in the other.

“So, we meet again,” said the prophetic man, humming thoughtfully. “I remember things were a bit different the last time we crossed paths.” They did, didn’t they? “Yet we remain alive.”

You stepped outside and left the door ajar behind you. The bar guy came back to take the last trashbag, and you followed silently, keeping an eye out for any trouble that might arise. The shotgun was heavy in your hands.

“I’ve met Death,” you said in a low voice, unsure if your words even made sense. If anyone were to understand, it would be him. “She rejected me.”

The man hummed, as if he did understand, but the expression on his face turned ever so slightly intrigued. “How strange,” he replied, eyes unfocused. “This house is very tied to Her, and so are you.”

“Do you know anything about that?”

“I see only what I am allowed to, and even then, cannot interfere. I am an observer in this world, and hope doesn’t reach it most days.”

Yesenin picked a spot not far from the house, dropping the bags onto the dry grass. The ground was cracked under your shoes, with the slightest exception of a place where a few cans of beer had been dropped, not too long ago. They were empty, but the spot was still wet.

“I’d like to start out conversation…with a divination,” he asked, pulling out a worn thing thickly bound. You didn’t have the will to do this again. “Tell my fortune by choosing a page in this book. Where should I open to?”

There was a group of FEMA agents not far from your house. Most of them lingered around your neighbor’s house, in what you hoped would only mean no harm, but your heart wasn’t in it.

“I don’t know if it helped you, last time.”

The man hummed, like the question was a valid, albeit inconsequential one. “Does it truly matter? It is a form of advice, not a cheat.”

You scoffed.

He held up the book, fingers fluttering over its leather jacket, expectant.

“The end,” you said, watching Yesenin dig into the hard ground. It splintered under the shovel, brittle and broken into thousands of pieces, like brown sand.

And so he obliged, flicking the pages rapidly without even looking until he got to a random spot near the last ones. The sound of the paper was grounding, in a way. “It was so long ago. Perhaps it was a dream. Maybe you, I, and the fish only exist in the memory of a person who is long gone. Maybe no one really exists, and it's only raining outside."

You paused. It was a different passage, one you hadn’t heard before, but as cryptic as it might be. What was the fish supposed to be in this twisted metaphor?

“Hm… It feels like things might truly fade away so very, very soon.”

He turned toward you, deep eyes boring into you, scrutinizing your very being. The sight was eerie, and yet not the least bit frightening, as if being seen was the very privilege of existence.

“What do you think?” he asked, closing the book. “Do we inhabit the dream of another? Or are we the one who dreams?”

You had no answer to give him. “If nothing changes, what does it matter?

He nodded, as if understanding your point. “It's an interesting thing to think about. Anyway, I came here to tell you something–”

“I know, the cat.”

Not far from the three of you, a pitter-patter sound was heard, like a hare fleeing from indiscreet eyes. Suddenly, the sense of security was gone, and you were left deeply aware of your surroundings.

“It’s good that you know.” Then, observing the way your shoulders had tensed, “You seem on edge. Do try and let go of things that no longer serve you.”

What was that supposed to mean?

You glanced towards the other two, and found that the bar guy, for all his height, didn’t seem to have much stamina. After only a few minutes of digging, he was already red in the face.

“I’m going to have a deep ponder about the deeper meaning of your divination.”

“(Here, I’ll do it while you rest,)” said the foreigner, eyes even greener under the moonlight’s kisses.

The bar guy, clearly in need of a break, agreed easily, and the prophetic man, with a soft smile only you caught, shoved the book into his backpack. 

The foreigner started digging, orange jacket on his shoulders slipping every now and then with the harsh motions. “(I wonder if the same thing is happening in my country. What a nightmare.)”

The prophetic man nodded one more time in your direction, and turned away, a silent farewell as he disappeared, eaten by the night. By your side, Yesenin had been observing the foreigner for a good thirty seconds now, only occasionally glancing at the first hole in the dirt coming along, not paying any mind to the man that had walked away.

“What are you thinking about?” you asked, hoping the question wouldn’t come across as too personal, as you tried not to linger on prophecies about fishes and conversations about Death.

The bar guy didn’t take it this way, glancing at you, then back at the foreigner. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he said, impossibly quiet in the dead of night, “but he’s probably Georgian.”

Hmm. “How can you tell?”

“I had a drinking buddy who reverted back to his mother tongue after a few pints too many. The consonants sounded similar, but I could be mistaken.”

“You know how to speak Georgian a little, then?”

“Hell no,” he answered, an amused smile on his lips. “I only learned two or three curse words.”

It was to be expected, but you couldn’t help but feel let down. “And where’s your drinking buddy now? Maybe I could give him a call?”

“What, you think I share a tab a few times with a guy and suddenly I go ask for his number? That’s not how it works,” he mocked.

Again, with the small defeats.

“I thought it would turn out easier to understand each other.”

“It will be, eventually. He probably got the gist.” It sounded so genuine you thought you might just believe his words. Then, turning towards the foreigner, with a grin on his lips. “(Fuck shit,) am I right?”

The foreigner laughed, a clipped sound, but genuinely amused, before clasping a hand over his mouth, wincing. The move had probably pulled on some of his wounds, and you bit back your concern.

That didn’t seem to deter him, however, and he made a move to jab Yesenin in the arm, like a friend might, but hesitated. A second later, he had retracted his hand, a stunted smile on his lips.

“What did you say?” you asked the bar guy, eyes lingering on the foreigner as he started digging again.

“Fucking hell or something like that,” smiled Yesenin. “But I’m not going to be able to teach you more.”

“How do you say yes, then?”

He didn’t have to think about it much, for someone who only knew a few curse words. “(Yes.)”

“(You probably don’t speak Georgian at all, but I am glad to hear some of my language,)” said the foreigner, digging his shovel in a bit deeper. “(We are literally neighboring countries, and yet in the week I was here I didn’t encounter a single person who could understand me.)”

He looked at you, then, gaze lingering.

“(Or that I could understand. But thank you for trying anyway,)” he shrugged.

The second grave, or rather the hole in the dirt, was halfway done, but you looked at the three trashbags, and something sour spread in your heart. “Let’s not bury the wife and the husband together,” you suggested tentatively.

Yesenin made a move to grab the shovel, and the foreigner handed it to him just as readily. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

You raised an eyebrow, keeping your attention focused on the bushes not far from the main path leading to the highway. No screeching tires or loud music to be heard nowadays. “Why so?”

“The same reason as you, I suppose. He might have been beating her.”

He probably was. Everything checked out, from the bruises to the oddly meek demeanor, even his switch in attitudes from the day he had entered the house yesterday. Maybe even the first time, but you hadn’t noticed, then. Hadn’t bothered.

“How do you know that?”

Yesenin made a sound, a disapproving click of his tongue, and you shifted your focus away from the treeline for a second. “You think you are the only one to notice things around here, my good man, and that conversations always involve you in some way or the other. The teenager told me about those two last night.”

The foreigner, having given up on trying to pick up words, held out his hand to reach for the shovel back, even though he had been digging just a moment ago. The bar guy straightened up, swiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, and passed it to him. When he turned, you saw a dirt stain on his right cheek, highlighted by the moon in matte colors.

“She came into the living room and explained how uncomfortable she was, having to share a space with them. That the sight of them reminded her of her parents, with the bruises matching and everything. It wasn’t hard to piece two and two together.”

Observant, you thought.

“I know what misery can look like on people,” he continued, but it’s not my role to take care of that, went unsaid.

The foreigner stopped digging, talking all of a sudden, and you both turned, understanding the caution in his voice, if not his words. “(Someone is coming this way.)”

A FEMA agent had wandered away from his group, the eerie yellow of his hazmat suit almost fluorescent as he got closer. On his shoulder was a rifle, and you tightened your grip on your own weapon, ready to make good use of it if it came down to it.

Given as the soldiers were still around, you hoped it wouldn’t.

“What are you doing here?” asked the FEMA guy, eyes under the gas mask barely visible through the thick plastic. His voice was muffled, and you could tell it was probably a man, but had trouble picking up on his age.

“Burying a body,” you answered, matter-of-fact. It would be of no use pretending, and these guys were pro-killing anyway, as long as it wasn’t one of them six feet under.

“A visitor, I hope?”

Yesenin and the foreigner stayed silent, but you could see how one clenched his jaw, and the other tightened his grip onto the shovel handle almost unnoticeably, as if readying himself for a fight.

You wouldn’t have pegged the foreigner, with his build and demeanor, as confrontational, but you supposed appearances and assumptions could be deceiving in this new world.

“Well, it doesn’t matter to me, really,” continued the agent, brushing off the silence. “We are going to move across the neighborhood, we’ve been dispatched in teams to inspect the people. If you have suspicions about anyone, don’t hesitate.” He looked at the three of you, took in the sight of the shotgun, and handed you a FEMA slip. You reached for it without thinking.

“Don’t you have anyone else to go bother? Fuck off,” spat Yesenin, when the guy took a second too long to leave.

You readjusted the shotgun on your shoulder, clutching the small paper in your hand. The movement stopped the FEMA agent in his tracks, where he was about to retort something no doubt scalding. All the times they had come to your door, the only thing they had known was to abduct people and talk down to you.

“Remember my words, and help us fight this invasion,” he said, tilting his head towards you.

The bar guy muttered something that sounded like a curse word, and the foreigner eased his grip onto the shovel handle as the man walked back towards his group.

“(Fuck shit,)” said Yesenin, pointing at the guy like one would stab an enemy.

“(Fucking shit for real,)” replied the foreigner, sighing in relief. (“Don’t know what that was about, but I was getting nervous.)”

With the three of you combined, the trashbags were rolled and pushed into their separate graves, thankfully not catching on any rocks that could have torn the plastic.

The heat stuck to your clothes, and maybe the sweaty man, that ex-minister, was right. Night or day, what difference did it make if the sun’s effects were still unbearable. A branch cracked further up the path, and you turned toward the sound, alert.

Someone was taking shape slowly, carrying a huge backpack that seemed all too familiar. He had probably waited until the FEMA agent had turned away, and to be honest, you had completely forgotten about him.

The delivery guy took a few uncertain steps towards you three, reading what was no doubt the address on that small stained notebook of his. “Hey guys, everything uhh…good in here?”

He was trying very hard to avoid looking at the trashbags, or the graves, for that matter, eyes darting between shovel, you, notebook, house.

“You’re in the right place,” you nodded. “It’s a mess, I know. How are you doing?”

The sound of the shovel came again, tearing into the dirt in loud chunks. You hoped the graves would be covered up soon, and all of you could go back inside and sleep. This whole situation was starting to get tiring, and you weren’t even the one digging! The others were probably far worse off.

“As good as I can be, I guess… But I’m seeing more and more weird shit as time passes by.”

The weird shit in question was probably behind you, being buried by a guy unusually tall and a man with bloody lips.

He had told you his family was far away, that he had only come in order to study at the local university. He was probably young, more than you at least, but the deep eyebags gave him a more mature vibe. “Is this job still distracting to you? You’re not feeling too isolated?”

It was meant as a harmless question, but his face scrunched up distastefully as he glared at you. “Is that supposed to be funny? I know I’m on my own, and for sure it’s wearing on me.”

You scrambled to pick up the pieces. “I meant, at least you’re doing something. And you have coworkers, yeah? Friends.”

“I guess,” he mumbled, running a hand through his thick hair. “Anyway, I’ve got a delivery for you.”

He seemed eager to end the conversation and you couldn’t blame him. Your neurons were fried from how late it was, and even then, you weren’t sure you could have handled this any better.

“Cat food, yeah? Two cans.”

“Yeah.”

Yesenin made an appreciative sound. The last parcel of earth was thrown onto the graves with a resounding thud.

You signed the notebook, and the delivery guy took off with a much less enthusiastic wave than last time.

“Let’s get back inside,” you said with a careful eye on your surroundings.

No pale man, just as the prophetic man had said. Perhaps he really was off murdering those soldiers. The door closed into the night, leaving only three less than neat graves behind, bearing no names and no cross, not even a singular flower. All that would mourn them would probably not remain alive much longer, you thought.

Being back inside the house was a strange feeling, like a bubble, cut off from the outside world. You felt like the fish from that man’s book, waiting in a crooked tank.

“Good night,” you said to Yesenin, who was already walking back towards the living room.

The faint click of the door closing was your only answer.

By your side, the foreigner was waiting, before handing you the shovel, covered in dirt, grass and drying mud. “(Here.)”

“Ah,” you let out, taking it back and leaving it upright by the coat hanger. On it were an old hat and a big coat, which you probably wouldn’t ever get the use of. “Thank you,” you said gratefully, and hoped the smile would reach your eyes.

There was a beat, as if neither of you really wanted to go to sleep yet.

“How are you managing here?” You asked awkwardly, while waving a hand around the house. “Good? Bad?” Thumbs up, thumbs down.

He hesitated for a second, before repeating the gestures. “Good, bad.” Up, down. “(Good, bad.)”

“(Good?)” you tried your luck in what was probably a botched pronunciation, pointing up. You hoped the meaning would be conveyed clearly enough, you already felt immensely stupid as is.

The foreigner smiled bitterly, and it did reach his eyes. “(Three deaths in just the first day? Not the best track record.)” A so-so gesture with his hands. “(You get bonus points, just because you’re trying. It’s cute.)”

Well, that wasn't bad, at least.

You laughed softly under your breath, readjusting the shotgun on your shoulder in a mechanical motion. “So-so,” you echoed, mimicking his gesture. “I’ll take that.”

The house felt smaller now, and the air was warm. You swore you could pick up on the faint smell of mud and beer still clinging to your hands from when you had grabbed the shovel, but maybe you were just exhausted.

Somewhere in another room, something creaked. Maybe the floor, or someone turning in their sleep. He glanced toward the sound, then back at you, tired but alert. His eyes looked softer in the low light, rimmed with red at the corners. When you gestured toward the hallway, he nodded once, like he understood.

“We should get some sleep,” you said quietly, more to yourself than for him.

He followed you quietly, slow steps muffled against the worn carpet. When you stopped by the closet, he hesitated, gaze flicking to the small space, then back to you. You could tell he wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea of curling up there again, and honestly, you couldn’t blame him.

“Not the most comfortable spot,” you muttered, looking at the few boxes still scattered around. You crouched and pushed a few of those out of the room and into the hallway, just to make some space, but in the end it wouldn’t change much and you knew it.

He gave a faint, tired sound, and crouched down anyway, reaching for the switch. He sat with his back against the wall, drawing his knees in slightly, the faint light catching on the wounds and the dry blood.

You stood there for a second, chewing on the inside of your cheek, then turned away without saying anything. A minute later, you came back with a folded blanket and an old pillow tucked under your arm. He looked up, confused, as you reappeared down the hall.

“They’re not that clean,” you said, handing them to him. You had left the shotgun in your room, and found you were moving much more easily without its weight lingering. “But they’re better than nothing.”

He stared for a moment, eyes unreadable, then reached out to grab the blanket. When he finally met your gaze again, it was softer, tinted with something. Not gratitude, exactly, but you wouldn’t have been able to tell precisely.

You lingered there a second longer than you meant to.

It felt as if you had to say something, but you were out of inspiration, and kind of embarrassed. Why were you acting like you didn’t know what to do with your hands or where to look, as if you didn’t just stand guard while he and Yesenin were burying bodies just a minute ago?

“Good night,” you said finally, straightening your posture.

He looked up, the faintest of nods. “(Good night.)”

Two more words for you to remember, you smiled.

Then, with a sigh and one last wave, you left the closet, went to your own room, and quiet settled over the house again.

Chapter Text

The return to reality was a soft thing.

No deaths, that much you could be certain of. The greasy sound of people on the radio outside your room, once again. The blanket was gone, and so was the other pillow, the one by the nightstand, and you had to jog your memory to remember where they had gone. Right, on the floor of the closet, you finally recalled.

The world was tearing itself apart around you and rearranging itself every morning, in a display as simple as the TV and its host. Today the topic was about bloodshot eyes, but you knew already, and more FEMA propaganda, that you loathed. Reliable hands, spouted the host, big eyes bright behind even bigger glasses. The FEMA slip you had been handed yesterday was a burning temptation, like a beckoning mistress.

You liked your guests. FEMA would come for them, and you wouldn’t be able to refuse.

Sweat was clinging to your body, and the smell of gunpowder to your hands. You wanted to wash off, but there was a sweaty man in your bathtub, and no other options available. Maybe some other day, you consoled yourself. For now, you’d settle for rinsing your hands and face in the kitchen sink.

Right. The kitchen.

A good scrubbing was in order. Of everything. Floors, counters, fridge, whatever the hell had started to rot in the corners. You just hoped the smell had mellowed out since yesterday.

One foot in front of the other, you walked towards the bedroom door. So tired. Focus! Cleaning would help.

The radio crackled in the background, still muttering about nothing important, nothing you hadn’t heard. You barely listened. Nothing important… Then, halfway down the hall, you remembered. Today was the day your neighbor’s house caught fire. You made a mental note to call him later, assuming he’d still pick up.

The thought was worrying you more than you’d like to admit.

The living room door was open when you passed by. The teenager sat cross-legged on the floor, her back against the couch, while Yesenin slouched beside her with the usual grim expression on his face. In the plush chair, the sister was haggard, looking pointedly towards the floor. Her expression was unreadable, in this posture. No one said anything.

The teenager barely acknowledged you, but the bar guy tilted his head in the slightest of greetings, as if to signal he had noticed your presence. You ignored them. It was your house, your responsibility, and right now, the kitchen floor took priority. It reeked.

You never had to wash off blood from your black and white kitchen tiles before. It had seeped in between, colored every crevice brown and red, coated the ceramic in what you hoped would only be a temporary disturbance.

You opened the cabinet door under the sink, the hinges whining, and started rummaging around the bottles and sprays. Why did you have this many? They all displayed labels with various degrees of legibility, some straightforward, the others needlessly confusing.

Finally, you settled on three different bottles shading from blue to acidic clear, and settled them by your shoes. You ripped open the packaging for a brand new sponge at the same time, the disheveled plastic crumpling onto the floor. Under no circumstances would you grab to wash the dishes a sponge that has been used to clean blood and dirt, that had soaked in things you would never want anywhere near your mouth. You had the regular old one for that.

From the living room, Yesenin and the teenager were watching you struggle, kneeling on the floor, and scrubbing with some amount of difficulty. It felt like a sick humiliation ritual, if only given by the fact the teenager leaned in every now and then to whisper something towards the bar guy you wouldn’t be able to hear.

Then again, if she was making fun of you she would probably say it out loud, leaving no doubt as to whether she wanted you to be aware or not.

The cleaning was coming along much faster than anticipated, especially now that you had tossed aside the shotgun. It was upright against the fridge, out of the way so you wouldn’t kick it accidentally, but close enough for you to reach if needed.

Something colorful caught your eye.

“What’s that?” you asked, curiosity getting the better of you, jutting your chin towards the teenager’s fingers.

She stilled, as if realizing she was being addressed to, before stiffly holding up the cheap stretching coil toy she had been playing with. “I found it in the boxes in the hallway,” she said, her voice defensive, already bracing for scolding.

You forgot you even had that thing.

Maybe it dated back to your childhood years, or you had never touched the toy before, left by someone else entirely. Some lost relic in a house that kept collecting other people’s lives. The bright plastic spiraled from one color to the other in an almost hypnotizing pattern.

You had half a mind to tell her not to sneak into other people’s belongings, but she was a child, she was bored, and to be honest, there were worse ways to pass the time.

You’d have to check if there were useful things in it later, even if the thought unsettled you greatly.

“Find anything else?”

“Uhh…yeah,” she replied with a nervous glance towards the bar guy. As if she needed reassurance to keep going, or confirmation that you were acting like a weirdo. “A bunch of papers, and pencils. Toys. And, uh, a lot of junk. I didn’t like most of it, so I left it there.”

“Hmm.”

“...You’re not mad?”

You dipped the sponge again, leaning back toward the last dark stain of dried blood on the tile. “No. Even If I would have liked for you to ask first.”

You sat back on your heels, hands tingling from the harsh cleaner, the smell sharp enough to make your eyes water. It was clean. Actually clean. You were almost proud of yourself.

Straightening up, you put away the bottles under the sink, wiped your palms on a rag, and took a moment to admire your work. The tiles looked whiter than they had in weeks. For a second, it almost felt like a normal day, a random summer.

You were hungry, though. You thought back on that very first day, with the teenager eating an apple in your kitchen because she didn't know how to turn on any of the appliances in the room. You felt oddly invigorated, now. Maybe today was a good day to fix that.

“I’m going to show you how to use the stove,” you said, gesturing for her to follow.

The bar guy looked as if he didn’t whole-heartedly approve, but kept quiet.

He stayed seated for a beat, then stood up too, following the teenager across the hallway. Maybe he wanted to see the show, or maybe he was just as bored as any of you, even though it didn't look like it. The sister stayed in her spot, and you said nothing, feeling the pang of guilt shoot through your heart.

“For real?” exclaimed the teenager, cracking two of her knuckles in a sound you didn’t particularly enjoy. “And I can cook whenever I want?”

“Within reason,” you said cautiously. Some boundaries were necessary when it came to cooking, even if it was the end of the world, you supposed. “Let’s see how it goes first.”

“Neat.”

You could tell she was trying not to look too excited, but her expression was giving it away. Maybe a cooking session could show best how things worked, as well as provide a little bit of distraction for everyone. Or well, the three of you, at least.

It would be good for the foreigner to know how to use it as well, but the thought of you giving what was essentially a cooking lecture to three people felt dizzying.

Maybe you’d show him later.

“So,” you asked, “what do you want to eat?”

She thought for a second, lips pursed. “Pirozhki,” she said at last, crossing her arms over her red T-shirt.

That wasn’t too hard to do. Not really suited for a full meal but you had been surviving on boiled potatoes and canned meat for at least two weeks now, so you could afford to try and put something together.

You almost smiled. “Alright,” you said. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

You opened the cupboards, listening to the shuffle of her feet and the soft creak of Yesenin settling into a chair.

“One and a half cups of warm milk,” you read the recipe out loud, leaning over the stained page of an old cookbook. The teenager was perched on a chair beside you, chin propped on her hand, expression on her face like she didn’t entirely believe how this would work.

“We could warm it in the microwave?” she offered.

“Just add it cold,” came Yesenin’s voice from behind. “It doesn’t make any difference.”

You leveled a blank stare at him, turning your head. “Do you cook often?”

“You don’t value my opinion?” he snarked.

“Not when it comes to cooking, I don’t,” you said, turning back to the bowl. “You don’t strike me as the type who likes spending time behind an oven.”

“Well, you don’t really either,” he mumbled.

You heard him nonetheless.

You turned back to the counter, trying not to think about how domestic this all was, how wrongly normal, familiar, it was to reach for another ingredient with someone next to you. You used to cook together. She’d do the measuring, and you’d take over when she got impatient, pretending it was all a game instead of a daily thing. Back then, your cat had slowed down the process in more ways than one, sometimes jumping onto the counter, other times rubbing against your legs and meowing to try and earn your pity in the form of a small bite of ham, raw egg or yogurt. Your wife always fell for it.

You blinked, forcing the memory down. Not the time.

You cracked an egg into the flour, mixing it in with a fork that bent slightly at the handle. It was cold between your fingers, under your palm, and the motion was a gentle pull on your wrist. The dough came together slowly, if not perfect. The radio muttered in the background again, faint static and a voice reporting something meaningless. You didn’t want to turn it off but it seemed as long as you hadn’t picked up to listen to all the broadcasts, it would remain a persistent chatter.

The teenager was measuring salt, overpouring it, then scraping some back into the jar with her fingertip. “Like this?” she asked, unintentionally dropping some of the flour onto her red shirt in a faint streak.

You looked at it. Could be better. “Yeah,” you replied instead. “Close enough.”

Her eyes flicked to you, searching for approval, and something in you softened. You pushed the mixture to her side of the counter, stirred the mixture once, twice, showing her the right consistency, before leaving the job to her. She grasped the bowl with one strong hand, the fork in the other, and started stirring.

It was almost endearing.

Yesenin watched from the side, slowly peeling the label off a beer bottle he hadn’t even opened, toying with the edge. When had he gotten that? 

His expression was somber, and as you turned back toward the teenager, you could feel his eyes on you even before he spoke. “You think because we’re talking to you, we’re not still thinking about yesterday?”

Way to be blunt about it.

You didn’t look up. “What should I do, then? Go sob in a corner?”

“No, she does that,” Yesenin replied, nodding toward the sister, who in the living room had fallen asleep on the chair. “Because it was her sister you killed.”

A visitor, you wanted to correct, but you knew it wasn’t the right thing to say. “Weren’t you the one who told me that those people in the bar were blaming everyone but themselves? What happened to that moralist point of view?”

It seemed to strike something. “You’re right, I did say that. Everyone has gone insane. I thought it was alright, visitors getting killed, but they look just like us, speak in the same tone, with a life and family just as you do. I have half a mind to walk away from here, in the burning sun.” He had muttered that last part, hunched over the table. The unopened beer sat on the table, a stark reminder of where he had come from.

You didn’t say anything. If words left your mouth right now, whatever they might be, he would get up and leave. You liked the man, but he was a contrarian, and seemed to hold onto life as precious as one would a rotten apple.

“I don’t think I’d have anyone to cry over like she does,” he said in one last sigh. I don’t care about any of you, went unsaid, but you couldn’t tell if it would have been veridic, or meant to hurt, lash out.

You looked down at the dough sitting in the bowl, at your dirty hands.

The teenager was having none of it.

“Go cry about it, man! We’re all in the same boat here, I didn’t choose to get thrown into this nightmare either,” she said, voice rough. “But I’m sure as hell gonna come out the other way alive.”

At least someone here liked living, you thought bitterly. The bar guy didn’t answer, his eyes clouding over like fogged glass. He had those moments, you had noticed yesterday night, in which he’d stare off into the distance as if there was an invisible goal further away meant for him only. You didn’t like that look. Had seen it in the kindergarten teacher’s eyes in the days leading to her reaching for your gun and blowing her brains out.

Silence stretched again. The teenager broke it, her voice small but steady.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, speaking to no one in particular. The whole room was her audience, or maybe it wasn’t meant for anyone. “I heard shouting last night. And banging on the door. Then nothing. I thought someone might’ve died, but there was no gunshot. It’s scary.”

You stilled, fingers tightening around the bowl. That had been your fault, hadn’t it?

She went on, voice determined. “Yesenin’s right. Everyone has gone crazy. You have the shotgun, and it’s your house, but we don’t have anything. We can’t fight back. Not against them, not against you.”

Somehow the anger and blame in her voice had shifted from the bar guy to you, but it didn’t sound cruel, just honest. Still, it stung. Some small, pathetic part of you had thought they might’ve warmed up to you by now, after almost four days and nights under the same roof.

“Do you really think you need something against me?” you asked, voice low.

“Don’t be stupid,” the bar guy picked up again sharply. “I told you, trust doesn’t amount to anything these days. You might think you’re a good man. Maybe you are. But you’re still a stranger. Just like the rest of us.”

You looked at him. His expression didn’t shift. The lines around his mouth were sharper tonight. He looked like a man holding in too many thoughts at once, and failing at keeping all of them in check.

Was everyone that unhappy here? Had one visitor thrown off all of the progress you had made?

“Then we’ll just have to share a kitchen like strangers,” you said, reaching for the dough.

The texture stuck to your palms, gummy and warm. You took a bit more flour, poured it in. Not quite there yet. Maybe you could salvage this.

“Here,” you said, pushing a lump of dough toward the teenager. “Roll it out, not too thin. Like this.”

She mimicked you, more focused than you would have imagined, coming from her. The dough gave way under her hands, uneven in places, but she didn’t ask for help. You could respect that.

When the dough was ready, you showed her how to roll it out, fill them with potato and leftover meat. She worked clumsily at first, then steadier. A fast learner, you thought. In everything, because as soon as you showed her how to use your old, complicated stove and oven, she immediately took it upon herself to fry the things.

Not that complicated, in the end.

She blew on the first pirozhki carefully, fingers already reddening from the heat. You had tried to get her to wait, with little to no success. Behind you, Yesenin had remained silent, and you didn’t want to pry. He had seemed tired, yesterday night, and still, he had helped you out.

“Tastes good,” mumbled the teenager, mouth full.

You smiled faintly.

For a few minutes, no one said anything. The smell of cooked dough filled the air, almost unbearable. You thought again of your wife. Her, standing in this same kitchen, hair tied back, sleeves rolled up, smiling in that way that wasn’t quite happy but tried to be. You hadn’t made anything grand or special since she left. Couldn’t. Not all the memories were bitter, but all of them hurt.

You set the last pirozhki onto the plate.

That was when the floor creaked near the doorway. You turned your head back. The foreigner stood there, shoulders hunched slightly, taking in the odd sight of the three of you, with his hands behind his neck. A nervous gesture and a habit all in one, you had noticed.

The teenager noticed him too, but she didn’t look pleased. Her gaze darted between you and him before she spoke, and she hesitated, like she wasn’t sure how to ask. “Can we talk? Alone?”

You blinked, surprised.

Yesenin caught the look and straightened. “Alright,” he said, too quickly, brushing off his hands. He walked toward the door, nudging the foreigner’s shoulder as he passed. “Come on, let’s give them space.”

The foreigner looked like he wanted to say something, but Yesenin was already pushing him gently back into the hall. The door shut behind them.

You raised an eyebrow. What was it about? Her hands messed together for a second, a nervous gesture she suppressed immediately. She wasn’t meeting your eyes, but you knew shyness wasn’t a part of the package, with her, especially to such an unnerving degree.

Clearly, she had something important to say, or words she was too ashamed to spit out in front of Yesenin, the only person she somehow respected in this box of a house. You hoped the bar guy wouldn’t take it the wrong way.

“I guess you did good not to have listened to me, yesterday.”

Yesterday? Was she talking about her suspicions towards the foreigner? It was the only thing you could remember her sharing a strong opinion about. Something that could almost be called a confidence, if it hadn’t been said at such a loud volume, with such bravado.

“I did listen to you. Checked him. Your advice was useful, even if you were wrong, but I  could have been wrong just as well.”

You thought she might have wanted to talk about the visitor you’d killed, how the sight had frightened her, maybe the way in which she held a deep grudge against you for not respecting life.

“If it had been me with the shotgun, I would have killed him,” she said instead. Guilt tainted her voice like spoiled milk. “Would barely have hesitated before pulling the trigger.”

Yeah, maybe. But then again, did it really matter? She didn’t have the gun. She didn’t shoot anyone. But perhaps this wasn’t what she needed to hear. “Because you’re not an adult yet, you don’t know any better. It’s alright to figure things out as you go, you don’t have to rush into everything.”

The slight condescension seemed to uplift her a bit, at least. “Pshh, yeah right, like you ain't as lost as the rest of us.”

“Maybe I am, maybe not. Who cares? We all try to survive. Don’t be too hard on that guy, he looks like he’s been through a lot.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, maybe.”

You paused. Did she want to talk about it? Should you ask? When people asked you things, it didn’t make you want to tell them about it, like spilling secrets and thoughts had to be a personal contract with yourself, not an answer to someone’s curiosity.

Thankfully, she spoke before you could make a decision.

“I tried to explain what was going on, you know? I think he understood the problem with the sun, but the visitors, not so much. It’s hard when people don’t speak the same language as you. I kept trying to make scary faces, then nice ones, even asked Yesenin to help me out, but I think he just thought I was crazy. Or a kid trying to scare him.”

To be fair, the concept of visitors was a pretty tough task to take on and try and explain, age or not. You thought of his face, under the low green light of the moon, a sickly hue onto the trashbag holding the body of the sister.

He had seen the blood, that dark viscous liquid much too thick for it to be anything close to humanity. Had felt how her body seemed heavier than most, despite her lanky frame.

You had seen the understanding dawn in his eyes, even if you hadn’t commented on it. There was no explaining to be done. It wasn’t because he spoke a different language that he was clueless.

“That’s the issue with age,” she kept going, gaze hardened but voice wobbling. “You never get taken seriously. Even when I try to be honest, or I threaten someone, because trust me I will hurt you if you're being a creepy psycho, people never listen.”

I listened to you when you warned me about the foreigner sounded conceited, and You can always talk to me if you want, was probably too mushy for the relationship you entertained. If one could even call it that.

“Yesenin seems to enjoy your company.”

“Ha!” She barked, and the sound was too harsh for a teenager. “Yesenin doesn’t enjoy anyone’s company. I stick with him because he doesn’t try to engage in my interests, and listens when I speak, even if he probably doesn’t care.”

“Maybe he does? Why wouldn’t you want him to engage in your interests?”

“Because the last person who did so was a fucking creep,” she spat out. “I’m being careful now. I’m watching my back. And I’m watching you, too.”

You were expecting it too much to be taken aback by the sheer hostility in her voice. Yesenin and her, two humans that had been in this house for days now. Both seemed to oscillate between calm and joyful to grim and accusatory.

As if walking on eggshells, not really waiting for the moment they would switch, but knowing with certainty it would come regardless. They didn’t look too well, the two of them. Maybe they needed a day off, without you checking them for signs, questioning and pushing for conversation.

Maybe that was why they got along so well, despite everything the teenager was saying.

You grabbed one pirozhki, and took a bite. It was soft, a bit chewy in a nostalgic way, and like the teenager had said, it really did taste good.

You left as soon as you finished eating, leaving behind an almost full plate and a silent girl sitting on the counter.

The door shut behind you in a faint sound, and you noticed with great disappointment that all the doors in the house were closed as well. You got the message. People wanted to be left alone for a while. You could at least give them that.

The only door left ajar was the bathroom door, and inside was the man you had let in the night before. Perhaps the bar guy was right, and you truly had no morals left in you, to house him after a bribe.

“Cold water. Now that's more like it,” he said enthusiastically as you passed the doorway. 

The water had turned a faint shade of yellow, no doubt from the massive amounts of sweat his large body produced, and his greenish hair was matted on one side of his head, as if he had slept in an uncomfortable position the night before. The parts of his body that weren’t submerged sported discoloration in patterns, be it from the sun or the sweat, and he held his head high with all the bravado only a government official could sport.

You needed to check this guy for signs, anyway. All the better.

“Where were you, before coming here?”

He waited until you went still to speak, akin to an interviewee leaving time for the journalist to settle. Perhaps he had a flair for the dramatics, or it was simply his personality. 

“Ha! Would you believe it, boy, if I told you I was wandering around town, hiding like a mere rat wherever I could find some salvation from the burning sun? Knocked on doors, too, yes I did, just like yours, but people…even with a minister like me, they can’t show proper respect.”

“Visitors are becoming a problem,” you replied, not picking up on his conceited train of thoughts. “They might have feared you were one of them.”

“This is a ridiculous affair, if you ask me,” he shook his head, piercing beady eyes boring into the ceiling as if it would crumble into dust by will alone. “Even offered them ahem… compensation, just as I did you, but no. I was lucky, stumbling upon your house. I might have been fucked, if you hadn’t let me in.”

You leaned onto the washing machine, facing him, arms crossed over your chest. “Some people are unwilling to compromise. Some things can’t be bought.”

This man wasn’t a child, claimed to have been a minister, and yet, he made no sense, as though the most basic of concepts needed reshaping until they were digestible. Or perhaps he understood very well how the world worked, and decided to put himself first.

“Preposterous!” he exclaimed, shoving one hand into the air. The gesture sent drops of dirty water everywhere, and you couldn’t keep the cringe from your face. “Everything is for sale! Love, things, people…even principles! People are just scared to make choices when it truly matters. Have you made a tough decision yet, boy?”

Plenty. Not enough yet.

“Before or after the apocalypse?”

He scoffed, as though your question was ill-mannered. “Before, after, what difference does it make?! You know, I made plenty of hard choices since my first day as a minister! Ha!”

“Like what?”

“Like what, like what,” he repeated with a mocking edge to his tone. “Everything! I made every decision, and every decision is a difficult one when you are an important man. There are always consequences, even when you think things don’t matter. They do, to someone at least,” he added, almost an afterthought. The water rippled around his large body as he sank lower. “And people do love to complain…”

That, they did.

“Let me check your teeth,” you asked, straightening up to get closer.

He looked as though you had grown a second head. “You serious? Me? A minister? Pfft… Go on then, take a good look…”

With two fingers, he pulled open the corners of his mouth to reveal a row of slightly uneven, faintly yellow teeth. No clearly visible bleeding gums, just a stain of something that might have been wine, if you squinted.

Clear. Maybe.

“I used to go for cigars…but, well, good luck finding those now,” he said without humor, voice choked with indignation. Then, he let out a bark of laughter, as if to remember things were supposed to get better in the end.

That might explain the yellow teeth.

“Your eyes next,” you replied.

Might as well be sure.

Scoffing, he pulled down the skin beneath his eye, revealing a deep dark green iris, and all around, white sclera dotted with red at the corners. Shit.

“Back when I was on the council things were, ahem, different,” he coughed, sighing deeply. “Now it's murder, chaos… An absolute nightmare!”

You almost rolled your eyes. As if politics didn’t entail a certain level of chaos and corruption. In some cases, even the murder part could be relevant.

You couldn’t tell if he was human or not. He could be both, but were you about to risk it? You didn’t feel too lucky, after last night, and letting this man stay in your bathtub didn't seem like the right idea. Rude and suspicious, all at once. Then again, most of your guests were rude, and that didn’t mean you were ready to toss them out your front door.

He scratched at his hair, having perhaps given up on making conversation.

You had a way that didn’t involve shooting him in the head or leaving him here to possibly eat your guests during the night.

The sheet of paper burned in your pocket.

You thought again of the yellow hazmat suits. You had to make a decision, and as he said, decisions never held a good ending in this world. Taking out the slip of paper, crinkled at the edge, you handed it to him as wordlessly as you took it from the black gloved hand of the FEMA agent.

His eyes narrowed, like a blind man’s would without his glasses. He concentrated on the paper, as if studying the neat letters all printed out nice and proper, then onto you. The ink smudged under his wet thumb.

“What is that? Wait, isn’t it a FEMA slip?”

“You know of it?”

“I’ve signed more papers than I would have wished to. I’d recognize that logo anywhere. I can’t really remember what they did in much detail, never had a use for it, but tough times mean first times. If you gave it to me, I’ll hold onto it. Maybe they can get me to a safe zone.”

It is done, you thought without pride.

“You think they might?”

“Don’t know,” he shrugged. “I wonder if they are ever going to clean up this mess. It’s like they were founded to stand around and look pretty!” In a way, you kind of agreed with him, except that you were certain they made things actively worse for everyone. “Tch! none of this crap happened back when I was in administration, I tell you!”

Probably did.

“Then again, perhaps they just need time. Yes, yes, yes…” he trailed off, a nervous twitch in his eye. “Everything will sort itself out in the end.”

You knew they didn’t, or maybe in the far future. But you also didn’t have the heart to speak your mind aloud, so you left.

You lingered outside the closet door longer than you meant to. Everyone else had made it clear you weren’t welcome in their grief or paranoia, and maybe the foreigner wouldn’t take too keenly to you either.

You knocked once, quietly, and pushed the door open. You didn’t know what would be best, what you wanted to say. Maybe a hello, a good morning or whatever else he wouldn’t understand anyway, or perhaps you just wanted to check on him.

He looked better. He’d slept, apparently, blanket and pillow folded neatly off to the side. Without the three boxes in the hallway cluttering the room, there was a lot more space, and for a second, you considered chucking everything out. Shelves, boxes, whatever remained, create something else in this cramped closet. Another room maybe. A nice one, this time.

He offered a “Good morning” back, and after a few seconds of you standing stiffly to the side, he held out the handkerchief. “(Here. I used whatever I could find.)”

The corners of his mouth tugged upward, something gentle and wry. Somehow, it lifted you up a bit, looking at the expression on his face. More than you’d like to admit, anyway.

He had washed the handkerchief, with that soap you had been given a while ago and never used. It smelled like lavender, something all too familiar. No matter. It was better being alone anyway.

“Keep it,” you muttered, pushing it back towards him, distracted.

You sank against the wall, beside him, so close your shoulders could brush against one another. The surface was cool through your long-sleeved shirt, and he shifted slightly, perhaps wondering if you needed space, before stilling.

His eyes bore into you, as if searching your face for something. “(I got that,)” he said after a beat, before folding the handkerchief into your hands like it was contraband, “(but it's yours. I shouldn’t have it, it feels too personal.)” You let your fingers gently close around the fabric. Too obligingly, maybe.

There was silence, then, something comfortable, almost alive in the room with you. When no one spoke, like this, you could pick up sounds you didn’t typically notice otherwise. The creak of the floorboards, a deep sob, two people whispering in muffled syllables.

Someone said your name, somewhere in the house.

When you turned your head back, you noticed the foreigner had been listening as well, but if he remembered what your name sounded like, he didn’t make a comment about it. Perhaps you had imagined it.

His eyes slid from the door to you. When he wasn’t speaking, there was a slight downturn at the corners of his mouth, as if the memory of the wire remained in the way his lips pressed together. Because of his slightly hollowed cheeks, his jawline stood out more, firm, not overly broad, but defined.

He looked good, even with the wounds not yet turned scars.

Something bubbled up your throat. “I didn’t want…” You stopped, tearing your eyes away from his face. There was no common language for regret.

But he was listening, made a small gesture with his hand as if urging you to keep going. “Everyone seems convinced I did wrong,” you said finally, as if speaking would cleanse you. “I don’t know what else I could’ve done. It was a visitor pretending to be human. It would’ve killed them. It did kill.” Your words tumbled out faster. “And now they’re scared of me. Like I’m the one they should lock up.”

You tried to explain. Or apologize. Or justify. It all bled together.

“Do they think I took pleasure in doing this? I knew this woman. For days she was here, in my living room with her sister, sharing anecdotes of her life before all of…” you waved an arm around, sighing, “this. I liked her, she was one of the more extraverted guests, and had a positive attitude that I didn’t appreciate enough last time. Even bonded with that fortune teller. Said she didn’t care much for the stars but there was something nice in listening to the way it was always supposed to work, if you believed and knew how to read the universe.”

The handkerchief’s fabric was stupidly soft. It transported you somewhere else, a memory long begone, a hand in yours, a cat bumping into your shin, sunlight so clean it made your face hurt. You closed your eyes before the warmth could turn to ache. It did anyway.

“And now, she’s gone, and I killed her. I can’t get it into my head yet, didn’t entirely realize.”

You let yourself exhale.

The foreigner didn’t speak at first, and you had half a mind to storm out of the closet, head hung low in shame. What were you doing, pouring your heart out to a stranger, one who couldn’t understand no less? He nudged your knee with his own, imperceptibly gentle. “(You’re tired),” he said softly. The feeling vanished. You didn’t know the words, but the tone was enough.

Maybe he was right. Maybe you had been tired for years.

Neither of you moved. He pulled his knees up, hugging them loosely, and tilted his head toward you.

“I’m just trying,” you murmured. Useless words. He only frowned with sympathetic confusion. “I died once, you know, and now I have to do all of this all over again. I thought that maybe, my end would come in a peaceful, meaningless way, in my sleep or after a wonderful moment spent with friends, with family. But I have no friends left, no family to call during the holidays.”

The foreigner listened, brow tense.

“I came to the awful realization that without the shotgun, if someone were to assault me, I could do nothing. Used to think that I’d have adrenaline pumping into my veins, and in the heat of the moment, that I’d use my nails, grab a bottle, an object, whichever, and smash it onto their head. But I’ve been in this situation, and where was the bottle? I couldn’t even reach the shotgun. Are your hands free, for you to use your nails?”

You must have had quite the look on your face, then, in the suffocating arms of Death. “It never ends the way you would like it to.”

The foreigner knew all of this already. There was no point spouting it out like this, to a man who had been assaulted no doubt and forcefully silenced. He couldn’t even understand a lick of your words, and still, he was listening, in a disarming display of human empathy and support. The absurdity of it pulled a laugh out of you, quiet and helpless.

He smiled in a way that told you this situation wasn’t funny, and yet, his expression remained warm. Your arms brushed, casual. Maybe too casual.

“(I can’t understand a single thing you’re saying, and honestly, you look really sad right now. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that much emotion on your face,)” he said, eyes shining with dry amusement.

Still, sitting there with him made the house feel less haunted. You straightened against the wall, the shotgun sliding off your shoulder with a low sound. I don’t know if I’d still rather have people disappear, you thought bitterly.

The foreigner cleared his throat, eyes flicking between you and some point in the middle distance.

“(When I was very young,)” he said in his own language, “(I used to believe thunderstorms were giants living above the clouds. Stupid, I know, but a friend of mine had mentioned it at school, and said the rain was their tears as they looked at us from above or something. I don’t know why I clung to that particular tale for so long, but I suspect I was just a very bored child with a creative imagination. I thought they were scared for us.)”

He was telling a story, or making one up, but the soft rhythm of his voice was soothing, a lull to hold onto. He didn’t look at you, hands twisting with shame. He might have been embarrassed to share, remember something personal. You didn’t want to interrupt.

He smiled faintly. “(My mother found this all very funny, and would indulge me every chance she got. I mean, I was young, very gullible, and we had fun. She would tell me not to stare at the lightning, that if I caught the giant’s eye, it would fall in love with me.)” He laughed once, short and breathy.

His fingers drew tiny arcs in the space above and you looked at his hands, his now clean fingernails. The disinfectant stains had faded to almost a blur under the lavender soap.

“(As I got older, I got sadder, and tried to be funny. Louder, too. Thought maybe people would like me better this way, and it would hide the ache in my heart.)” A pause. “(It worked, but only for a while.)”

His voice dropped.

“(People can love something bright and loud until they decide it’s too loud. Too strange. Where I’m from…it is not always safe to stand out.)”

One hand curved into a fist. His jaw twitched.

“(Sometimes, you forget to hide. And people remember for you.)”

Silence stretched.

“(I came here to visit a dear friend of mine. I thought I could understand him, who had similar experiences as me. It turns out, maybe made-up monsters are easier to understand than people.)” A bitter smile. “(Would my giant lover have ruan away?)”

He looked at you with something like recognition, and somehow, you were vulnerable all over again. “(I know you think you’re doing harm.)” He tapped your chest gently, twice. “(Maybe you are, but I can’t complain.)”

He tapped his own chest, right above his heart.

“(I am tired too.)”

His voice softened to an almost-whisper. “(I don’t believe in all of that anymore, it’s kid’s stuff, but I have to trust monsters exist, if only with what is happening out there.)” He explained, lips pressed thin. “(When I first entered your house, I thought I might have ended up in a place where people would want to hurt me again…)”

He swallowed hard. “(So far so good, I guess.)” Then, with a tiny, crooked smile, “(I hope my mother is safe, wherever she is.)”

You looked down at his hands, trembling less now, watched his shoulders settle into a slower rhythm. You didn’t know how to answer, not with words he’d understand, not with any you trusted yourself to give. Slowly, the moment washed over you. You wanted to reach out and stretch an arm over his shoulder to pull him close, like one would a friend. But you weren’t close, you weren’t friends. And you had never been good at closing distances without regretting it afterward.

You settled for something else, something smaller. A lighter exhale. A shoulder angled nearer his, enough that your sleeves brushed in a parody of comfort. That was as close as you could get.

In the silence, you started to notice other things as well, new details aside from sounds. The faint stain in the corner of the room from the old pipes, the specks of dust wandering through the thin light. The foreigner no doubt caught your gaze on the small room and gave a curious, questioning hum. You shrugged, and wondered if he could hear your breathing or the fast beating of your heart. You couldn’t hear his, but it did little to ease your worries.

You pushed the handkerchief in your pocket.

Maybe you could turn this depressing day around and do something useful for once. Anything to stop spiraling. You could use the pencils the teenager found and ask for her help, create cards with drawings or words in both languages.

It probably wouldn’t help much, but hey, whatever gets you going, right? The effort alone sometimes counted.

You stood, feeling the ache in your stiff legs. “Wait a second, I’m coming back, okay?” You should perhaps use less words in the future, just to get the point across more succinctly. He nodded anyway.

Leaving the closet felt like stepping out of a bunker, safe, sterile, closed off.

You could hear the man in the bathroom singing an odd tune to himself, and paid him no mind. The floor creaked under the carpet, reminding you all too much of the basement. All of the doors had to be opened once more, you thought, a tremor in your hands as you went from room to room, the closet, the kitchen, the living room.

The teenager was tracing circles into the carpet, creating faint shapes with the fluff. Her posture was stiff, back hunched and head down. She looked bored out of her mind, with no one to talk to, and she wasn’t by the bar guy’s side, for once. In the chair right behind her, the sister has stopped crying, and looked at the shapes with intensity, as if they would come alive any second now.

Yesenin sat on the couch, book spine faded between his fingers, attention fixed on the pages like the world beyond had nothing left to offer him. On the cover, in sharp lines, The dark man was printed out.

“Do you like it?” you asked, rediscovering every crack and dent etched into the book.

Yesenin replied without looking towards you. “Rather, yes. It was in one of the boxes.”

“Not you too,” you groaned.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Next to him, the teenager snickered. The air was thick, rancid with exhaustion. A draining ambiance, to say the least.

“I never cared much for poetry,” you tried again.

“I can tell. You are a rather practical man.”

You gave up. Nothing worth pushing.

You turned towards the teenager instead. “Do you want to help me and the foreigner make drawings? So we can understand each other.”

She brightened up, interest flickering in her eyes despite her attempt to smother it. “Depends. What’s it about?”

“Anything you can think about,” you answered.

That was enough for her. She stood, already listing objects to sketch as she disappeared down the hallway. Good. Let her mind linger on something harmless.

You approached the sister next, just to check her once more. She refused before you even formed the question, grief turning her shoulders inward. She looked awful, eyes red and cheeks stained with tears. She seemed to have fiddled with her hands, picked them raw around her fingernails, and you let it go.

“Her sister mentioned a husband,” said Yesenin, with all the curtness of a man who didn’t really want to talk. He flipped the page without looking at it, and you could tell his eyes weren’t focused on the words on the paper. “Maybe he’s coming back for her?”

“He’s not going to come.”

His head angled just slightly, and when he spoke, it was not exactly interested, but curious, still. Cautious. “What do you mean?”

“I had him on the phone,” you said, as vague as possible. “He was planning on killing himself, I think.” You knew. It sat heavy behind your molars, souring the back of your tongue.

A curse took shape on Yesenin’s lips, but never got out.

You had spoken to the both of them a few times before. Had opened up about many things. Now, the only one remaining, the sister sat, a hollow figure, a shut off woman. History repeated itself, first as tragedy, second as farce, the saying said.

“That’s a shame,” muttered the bar guy, just low enough so she couldn’t hear. “I was hoping he would come, after all, but dogs and humans look more alike by the day, howling and ailed by misery. She was grim, but she was responsive. Even talked about herself a bit. She mentioned her parents, and the future.”

His eyes were firmly pointed anywhere but her direction.

“She won’t talk now.”

“Oh yeah, I wonder why that is.” His voice slid up an octave, mocking incredulity. “You killed her sister, dipshit. Of course she wouldn’t want to talk to you.”

There it was, that well-deserved feeling again in your heart. It was colder, now, but it couldn’t, not under the burning sun. An odd feeling took hold of you.

Another beat.

“I’m sorry,” you pushed out, breaking the odd stillness.

The bar guy raised an eyebrow, halfway between unimpressed and puzzled. “For what?”

Everything. For her. For his death, the first time around. For everyone that had entered your house and left in trashbags, all that had been on the other end of the shotgun, pleading or goading. Not being good enough at expressing your emotions in a way that made people comfortable around you.

“Being an asshole,” you said instead.

He put the book down properly, this time, looked straight into your eyes. Said nothing, even though you knew he was thinking very hard about his answer. His expression was unreadable.

“You’ll be an asshole again,” he finally settled on.

———

“Hey, long time no see,” you teased, voice lighter than you felt.

“Hey, neighbor. Thanks for calling.” His voice crackled through the line, tired around the edges, like he hadn’t slept in a week. He sounded better, yesterday. You could barely remember how you sounded at the end of the two weeks.

The foreigner and the teenager were drawing in the closet, but you would try and convince them to come by the entrance for more space. The three boxes still in the hallway had been rummaged upside down by the girl, and the crinkled cardboard had even torn in its bottom right corner.

“How are you doing?”

A sharp exhale. “Honestly, I'm still shaken up by all this. The murders, the soldiers, FEMA…” You heard him shift the phone, his clothes rustling. “They even showed up at my door last night. Asked about the people staying here, scribbled something on a tablet, and then…”

There was silence long enough for unease to crawl its way up in your stomach.

“… One of them took someone out of my house.”

It might have been a visitor just as much as it could have been a human. You didn’t know which one was worse.

“Hell if I know where,” he continued, scoffing. “They said it was for "tests." I thought all these soldiers and government officials would fix things. Should've known better than to think they'd help us or get us to a safe place.”

Even the Ex-minister in your bathtub couldn’t shed light on the situation, of course there'd be no information available for the public. The TV and radio were useful, but beyond that, nothing.

“I guess you were right, the other day,” he laughed, humourless. “I thought you might have reacted too harshly, but now? I can’t even begin to imagine if they had wanted to take my daughter, or my wife.” His breath hitched. “I wouldn’t have let them. I’d have torn them apart.”

He’d have died. He might, still.

The soldiers were still roaming the place at night, just as deadly as visitors.

“Never thought we'd end up living through interesting times…” he murmured. “The sun, the Visitors, and now FEMA… So many questions, and not a single damn answer.”

Something was stuck in your throat, words almost heavy as they passed your lips.. “Listen,” you began slowly, measuring your voice. “Last time, you thought I was paranoid, remember? But I was right. I don’t ask for much, and I know we’re not close, but… don’t let anyone in tonight. Not soldiers. Not strangers. Not even someone who looks familiar.”

You could feel him stiffen on the other end.

“I can’t do that,” he muttered. “There’s no one left in my house anymore, not really. I’m worried for my family. What if FEMA comes back and demands us open up? What if a visitor arrives and tries to force its way inside? Safety lies in numbers.”

You weren’t above begging, if it came down to it.

“I… had a dream your house was burning,” you continued, voice low. “Remember your daughter sobbing on my doorstep, saying you had died. You have a good heart, you’ll pity humans crying, asking for shelter. Visitors do that too. They take voices we trust, faces we want to help. Letting anyone in is a risk. Please. For one night, shut your door.”

A long pause.

“You can’t ask me to gamble with my daughter’s life,” he replied, voice clogged with emotion. “If someone knocks on my door, begs for respite, what am I supposed to do? Pretend I don’t hear it?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

He took a deep inhale, one you could hear even on the phone. “Jesus. You sound… different. Scary, even.”

“I’m trying to be useful.” Your thumb rubbed nervous circles into the phone in your hand, the dark plastic cold at the touch. “Better scared than dead.”

He muttered something, inaudible whispering and worried whispers. “I don’t have a choice,” he said finally, defeated. “All I can do is hope. I hope… you’ll be safe tonight.”

You swallowed the bitter taste rising in your throat. “Yeah,” you said. “You too,” and hung up before he could hear the shake in your breath. The dial tone hummed against your ear.

Outside, something scraped against the window, and you lit a cigarette with unsteady hands. You leaned back against the wall, exhaled slowly, and told yourself not to imagine flames licking down his hallway again.

You failed.

You decided to split the remaining food in two and bring a plate to the living room, and the other to the teenager and foreigner still sitting in the closet. It was down to an uneven pirozhki number, but you were an uneven number of people as well. Two to three. You corrected it on the plate with a frown. Fine. Equal enough. 

You had gone through the whole cigarette, and lit another one, purely by reflex. 

The living room plate went untouched as you offered it first to the woman, then Yesenin, but you knew they’d turn around eventually, and left it on the shelf by your childhood toy, Toto. You took the other into the closet, leaving the cigarette on your lips just long enough to open the door with your free hand.

“You reek! Don’t smoke,” exclaimed the teenager immediately, scrunching her nose and making a shooing motion with her whole arm.

Next to her, the foreigner tried to stifle a laugh. It escaped as a tiny snort, hand rising over his mouth. You couldn’t even get mad that you had to stop smoking in your own house.

“Sorry,” you muttered, stubbing your cigarette on the sole of your shoe.

For half a second, the foreigner’s eyes followed the way you put the cigarette out. Something quick and curious sparked in his expression like he found it way more captivating than he should’ve, before he straightened as though he hadn’t reacted at all.

You knew what interest looked like on someone. You pretended not to notice.

“(Great! I thought you might have been cooking, but Yesenin pushed me out of the room before I could check for sure,)” he said with a smile, eyes darting to the plate.

The bar guy’s name stood out to you among all you couldn't understand. Had this guy been spreading his name among everyone except you? He hadn't been very eager to introduce himself, those last few days. Or perhaps the teenager had told the foreigner, just as she told you, which was funnier considering he may not have wanted to share, then.

You lowered the dish between you all. The teenager snatched another one, hand outstretched like she hadn’t eaten multiple in the kitchen already. The foreigner helped himself as well, and soon, all three of you were sitting on the floor, eating away your worries.

“(I guess you’re having special one-on-one conversations with everyone here,)” he mumbled, having taken a bite out of the food, “(and that’s why we had to leave. Didn’t think you were the sociable type.)”

Pages and sheets of paper were littered all around you. At first, it looked like there might have been an attempt at organization, but the piles had crumbled into messes and the pencils rolled into oblivion. Since when did you have all that stuff? Scary how much the human mind could forget, if it deemed the information inconsequential.

The teenager talked between mouthfuls, unconcerned with crumbs gathering on her shirt. She looked better than previously, and the foreigner as well. Between chews, they passed scrap papers around, sometimes drawings, or half-finished lists, and a few poorly spelled guesses at translation. More chaotic than you would have expected, but comforting, somehow.

Eventually, the foreigner picked up one of the cards, with a crudely drawn apple on it, and underneath, two words. Zkkov, and apple. He held it out for you to see, one hand nudging your knee to get your attention.

Did you even have apples in your house?

“(I don’t know, it’s funny,)” he said with a badly concealed smile. “(I’m not going to do much with them, but she’s a child, and she’s trying to help. Who knows, maybe those few unimportant words will bring us closer.)”

Not bad. You took it from his hand, turned the paper around between your fingers. The color had bled onto the other side in the spots she had used a green marker. “Who did this one?” You asked, pointing to another one.

“Wireface did,” the teenager piped up.

The foreigner seemed to understand, and brightened up timidly, as if shy to be put under the spotlight for his artistic abilities. He rubbed the back of his neck the way people do when they’ve never expected praise.

You turned toward her, raising an eyebrow, then back at him, studying the puncture marks around his lips. The wounds were healing slowly. “That’s a rather mean-spirited nickname,” you finally replied.

She shrugged, unapologetic. “I can’t pronounce his real name, anyway, so I might as well give him one of my own.” Then, as if to add onto her reasoning. “He can’t pronounce mine either.”

You took another drawing card from his hand, then another. Most were simple, some charming, in an effort was made kind of way. The teenager nudged the foreigner’s elbow every time the rhythm was slowing down, urging him to show off more.

It turned out they were a very prolific duo.

Next, the foreigner held up a drawing of five figures. There was a clear artistic interpretation, and you had never properly watched anime before, but the big eyes gave it away. You’d seen enough of the internet to recognize the influence. Under each person, clearly the occupants of the house, it read in order Sirin, Yesenin, Me, That guy, Wireface.

You tried not to focus too much on the implications of you being that guy.

The foreigner pointed at the smaller figure, with wavy hair and a blue thing that might have been a backwards cap if you squinted, then at the teenager.

“I can see the resemblance," you smiled.

You took your time looking it over, and the teenager scooted closer, eager for your reaction and trying to hide it, scribbling some more. You felt like a teacher about to grade his student.

“She’s called Sirin?” you asked, pointing to the drawing of the sad-looking lady dressed in flowing fabric. The teenager had tried to render the shirt, but white on white rarely worked, and she had only managed to crinkle the paper.

“Yeah. I heard her mutter it last night,” she replied, not looking up from her new artwork. Her sister was called Alkonost, I think.”

“Did she say anything else?”

The teenager shrugged, avoiding your eyes. “She cried. A lot.”

You kept quiet after that.

You rummaged through the box beside you as the teenager kept drawing, pulling up scraps, old paperwork, a key you didn’t remember, a deck of cards missing most of its suits. Sometimes, when you turned an item between your fingers, the teenager pointed excitedly at it, making commentary you pretended to follow. Some were bad, some good. The foreigner listened too, perhaps amused simply by the rambling. Everyone needed a distraction here, and if she was happy to provide, you’d take it.

Your fingers grazed glossy paper.

An old photograph of you and your wife. Younger. Softer. Smiling like a couple who believed in beautiful things to come. You looked happy. You hated it.

“Who’s she?” the teenager asked, leaning over your shoulder without permission. “Wasn’t there a photo of her in your office?”

You wanted to shove the picture back into the box, to bury it underground and forget about it forever. “My wife.”

Her face scrunched up in distasteful surprise. “Wife?”

“Ex-wife,” you corrected quickly. “I don’t really want to talk about it. She’s not in my life anymore.”

“You made her run away?” she asked, tone too bluntly curious.

You gritted your teeth. The answer would be too harsh, if you spoke right now, too tainted by emotions you couldn’t manage properly.

“Ok, sorry dude, jeez. You didn’t have anyone else? It’s never too late, you know, even if it might be kind of difficult for you,” she added, a hand tapping on your shoulder, like one would a sad ugly dog.

“What is that supposed to mean?” You asked, but regretted it immediately. You didn’t want to know the answer.

The foreigner tapped your other shoulder, misreading everything. “(You’re very handsome,)” he said warmly, an odd tilt to his voice. “(Anyone with eyes could see that. Even if the apocalypse makes things complicated.)”

Somehow, you could tell it was kind words, a sort of cheer up pep-talk. Comfort wasn’t what the teenager had meant, but you would take an easy way out where one was given to you.

“I was with someone else afterwards,” you admitted. “Briefly.”

The teenager gasped into a grin, and her hand shoving you again, this time playfully. Soon enough, you were pushed back and forth between her and the foreigner, who indulged her childish demeanor with a smile.

You couldn’t begin to explain the no-strings attached stuff to a literal teenager. You thought of the lady with ginger hair and a calm demeanor, who had kept her composure even through a literal apocalypse, and tried to shake some sense into you at times.

“C’mon,” she said. “Give us details!”

“No. Let’s not talk about it.”

Eventually, you snapped out of it, swatting their hands away, and their expressions told you how complicated this whole together in one house situation would become if you let them find their amusement in pushing you around. Literally.

“Who was it?”

You sighed.

“She left you?”

You hoped God, if He did exist, would give you strength.

“In a way,” you sighed. “Things happened, but maybe we’ll see each other again.”

You didn’t really know which one you hoped for, and couldn’t let go of the idea until the teenager fell asleep on the floor an hour later, tangled in the blanket now covered in accidental pencil streaks.

When you made a move to stand up, lifting the plate, the foreigner grabbed your wrist. “(I hope you feel better, after what you’ve said to me,)” he smiled, the sight almost sad. “(It sounded important.)”

You swallowed. Hard.

He waved something small and friendly as you went, a botched and muttered “Good night!” trailing after you as you closed the door with a preoccupied expression.