Disclaimer - I do not own the Host. Only my OC and her plot.
The Host
Subjugation
They come at dusk. Just as the tip of the sun touches the horizon, when the streets are cold and the sky is overcast with relenting black clouds. The streetlights are kept permanently off, the lights of houses terminated beforehand by fearful residents. There is nobody on the streets. No late night joggers, dog-walkers, workers or homeless drunks. They all know what the risks are.
You can see the headlights of their cars from miles away, although you can never tell how many there are until they're close. Usually twenty or thirty show up. They're searching for survivors of the initial waves of colonisation. They say humans are destructive, unpredictable, harmful to the environment. That love, hate, desire, sadness, anger and other such feelings are what inherently make the human race a weak, tumultuous species.
They've been coming here for two weeks now, ever since they discovered our little town in Luisianna. During the first week they found my neighbours. Monday this week they found two others. I saw them taken away in their silver vans, arms flailing, legs kicking out, shoes digging into the earth; any form of restraint almost never works. Even my neighbour, Stephanie, who I remembered was a black belt in karate was taken, however not before she was able to get a couple of them to bleed. But afterwards they healed their wounds in an instant using their high-tech medicine.
This time its a small group, maybe ten or so, who turn up. When they get out of their dark-windowed cars they immediately get into formation, their movements uncannily robotic and faces grim with resoluteness. They carry with them the aura of beings with an insatiable impulse to hunt. With a smaller, widely sparsed group however, it will be difficult for them to flush us out. Besides, they won't get me without a fight.
I've taken refuge in the family bunker, huddled with my sister's old teddy bear, whose company provides me the only comfort. That, and the loaded shotgun lain beside me on the wooden floor that once belonged to my father. He showed me how to operate it once, actually three days before he was taken, and it seemed simple enough. But now, bereft of his reassuring presence, I'd feel more secure without the gun in my possession. Weapons would only attract more of them anyway, lest we forget their main purpose is to revoke humans of any dangerous sustenance, including humans themselves.
Inside the bunker it's dark and dank. A musty smell permeates throughout it, emerging and re-emerging in transient swells. Strange shadows jump into life before my eyes, dancing in the flaring moonlight like wild animals. I have the sense to remain absolutely still, however the fear inside me grows to the point my body starts physically trembling. I apprehend the prospect of being captured and taken back to their labs and turned into one of their own. To have a parasite inserted into my brain and take control, read my thoughts, abate my feelings, analyse my memories and use them against me.
Yes, that's what they are.
Parasites.
From another world. Rational, heartless, obdurate parasites called Souls. I hardly know anything else about them, other than they arrived wanting to preclude the destruction of Planet Earth by populating it, and won't rest until every last pocket of resistance, ie., Human Beings, are extinguished. They want a perfect world, and they see us as an obstacle to that vision.
Booted footsteps clunk nearby, reaching closer towards the bunker entrance. I hold my breath, my hand groping in the darkness for the metal barrel of the shotgun. The footsteps come to rest at the foot of the bunker, and through the miniscule gaps between the wood of the entrance, a face materialises against the black-blue starry sky. At a first glance you'd instantly recognise it to be human; at a second however, would make you think entirely otherwise. The truth is in the eyes. A formidable, tell-tale ring encompasses the pupil, indicating the take-over of the host's body. Never could the pun "The eyes are windows to the 'Soul'" be more obvious, if not emphasised. There's something horrifically mechanical about it, the way they glow in a ghostly phospherous blue and flicker open and shut like the shutter of a disjointed camera. It is a trait that screams apathy in my mind. The host is a young woman, and I vaguely recognise her being a resident in our little town, a fact which makes her of value to the group of Souls due to her host's familiarity with the place. A name comes to mind. Susan. Yes, Susan, the young French woman who'd escaped capture along with her husband, who too, had suffered the same fate only days before. Ever since they'd discovered our little hidden society, they haven't missed a day of searching. I can't help but wonder as to what lengths these creatures will go to restore entire peace, yet alone be satisfied.
Silence encloses me in a shell devoid of receptivity, leaving me only to the feeling of my heart pounding in my ears. I stare at the face of the enemy, unblinking. My hand finds the cold hard metal of the shotgun, and clenches it in a firm, sweaty grasp. An odd sensation pulsates through my body; not one of fear, nor sadness. The feeling churns up inside me, bringing itself into recognition, and I realise that I'm angry. Vengeful for the deaths of my family members. My mother and sister were killed by scavengous theives who'd raided our old house in Ohio two years ago. Yes, and my father included, as he is no longer more the man I once loved and aspired too, he might as well be dead also. The Souls took him away from me. I have nothing but hatred for them.
I try really hard not to accept that sometimes I can hear my father, calling my name in the darkness, searching for me. His soft, calming voice has transformed into the cold haunting howl of a ghoul, scrutinising the earth for me. The man who'd once comforted me as a child against dancing skeletons and monsters under the bed has been unmade, turned into a weapon against me in an attempt to drive me insane and reveal myself. And honestly sometimes, I can feel myself going crazy.
And the worst thing is, I can hear his voice tonight.
"Jennifer? Jenny baby, come on out and meet your daddy!"
His voice trails softer than the midnight breeze flowing into town.
But the instant I regard his voice in kindness, I know I'll be giving up my body forever. Likening his voice to that of a perverted drunk seems amusing and terrifying enough to keep myself emotionally and mentally intact.
"Jennifer! Jenny!"
He sounds closer. Thankfully he doesn't know my old hiding spot. Nobody does. Either that, or he does know and he's giving me a chance to give myself up. But why would he do that? He's a Soul now. The young woman above me moves somewhere off to the left.
"Jenny honey, I know you think we're monsters. But you don't understand. This is the future. Join us," the voice of my father pleas, belonging to another body.
He's at the house. The bunker runs half the length of the house; there are no entrances or exits apart from the main doors under which I am stationed, kept under lock and key for safe measure. I have a vast collection of lanterns stored in the bunker's depths, but none would flare tonight - maybe even forevermore. They won't stop. They know I'm here. What used to be my father knows I'm here. Most of the remaining people in this town know I'm here.
I hear the doorknob of the front door above twist, exhaling a heavy metallic sigh as it ground against accretion. But he doesn't venture in. I hark intensly for the distinctive creak of foot against wooden floorboard, but there is none. Not even the click of the locked doorhandle. Is he afraid? Does he - it - expect me to be at the door, awaiting his arrival with a shotgun in hand?
"Jennifer!" He calls.
Though sooner or later, I must accept the frightful truth that they will discover the bunker eventually. It could be weeks from now, it could be days; even hours, but they will find me. As long as I remain here, I'll be as obscure as a sitting duck.
But I have nowhere else to go.
I know of no other settlements for survivors. The adjacent woods of the East offer hostility. Out West is a barren wasteland of destroyed townships from the everlasting war. South is the coast, facing the Mexican Gulf frontier, and I don't know how to swim, let alone maneuver a ship. To the North is one of the hundreds of Soul colonies positioned around America. There is talk of building a tunnel underground for use as an escape route, to make use of the old subways. But there is no collaboration. The risk is too great. Cellphone and radio towers have been tapped, the roads are almost always patrolled, the internet and network providers have been terminated. All airstrips and docks have been seized. The Souls have us exactly where they want us. Deprived, desperate for a better life. A life without strife or war, deception or greed. A life they promise lies with them. As fortold by many scientists before, us surviving humans have been sent back to the Stone Age, only in the wake of something exhibiting a higher intelligence, not global warming, a flu epidemic, chemical warfare or technological disaster. No, this was a fate far worse.
I can hear footsteps crunching outside fading into the distance, indicating their leave. I remain sedentary. My hand is frozen still on the shotgun. In my other, my sister's stuffed teddy bear is choking in a death grip. Even the plush fur isn't enough to dispel my overcoming fear. The shaking worsens, my voice comes hoarse and croaky, mumbling words of jibberish in unending sentences. They will find me. They will find me, and kill me. Some part of me likes the idea of my demise. How wonderfully bliss death will be compared to the torture of my unmaking. Since the death of my father, a voice has awakened inside of me, clinging and feeding from my fear, ingniting feverish dreams in my sleep. A voice that makes the false reality and reality untrue; a voice that furrows, embedding itself into my conscience, attacking the side of me that forgives and forgets. Ergo these murderous thoughts.
Somehow I manage to drift into sleep.
For the thirteenth consecutive night, evil pervades my dreams. Clouds of ubiquitous darkness swirl, suffocating me in the hot, colignous buried earth and simultaneously leaving me exposed in the coldness of empty space. Each good memory I try to grasp a hold of crumbles before my eyes, transforming into horrifying fabrications of fear and hatred. Rather than soar, I am dragged helplessly through a pastime of happiness-turned-terror, forced to watch my own unmaking. Images of my father recur, emerging first as the man I loved and trusted then converting into a haunting demonic villian who heckles me in taunting whispers, trading fiery spit in his fits of laughter that burns my ears.
I wake to high-pitched screaming. It emanates in an undying stream, at a painful, wavering pitch from somewhere in the bunker. It's only until I realise I can't breathe that I discover I am the source of the noise. A warm liquid trickles from my nose. I smear it with my finger - it comes away red. Blood. Morning light peeks through the wooden slits of the entrance, throwing long shadows of objects in the room. How long was I screaming for? How long was enough to make me bleed?
I don't know.
I stand up, struggling to find my balance, and grasp the cabinet edge for stability. Dizzyness persists, and I try to relax my neck to expluse the strain. I hang my head for several seconds, feeling my senses gradually return to regularity. Nobody appears to have discovered me, despite my screeching. With care, I push open the entrance, enough for my good left eye to see through because of the minute slack in the chain. From what I can see, the area is clear. No Souls, no people. Grabbing the keys from deep within my blue Levi's jeans pocket, I unlock the the door and rise ceremoniously into the light. I prepare myself to bolt back inside anytime, but no danger reveals itself. The street is empty and quiet. Almost too quiet. Even the familiar birdsong chorus is absent, their assigned outpost rooves, drainpipes and powerpoles unemployed by any living thing.
An abnormal quietness has consumed the streets where the children play football and shout, where the watchful parents congregate around outdoor tables with mugs of coffee and/or cigarettes. Sometimes they throw public barbeques - especially on cloudless nights, where the stars are brightest, and view from the lookout posts is optimum. I almost never attend. Without my father's protective arm, I mostly feel apprehensive around people and abide my time in solitude, however there are times when isolation doesn't help. After a while, it feels like a sickness, eating away at the persona within. Eventually it regresses to melancholy and despondency, where even in the welcome warmth of the sun it can feel like the sensation of skin burning in the fiery depths of hell.
I move towards one of the houses which I'm confident holds a family of five survivors. Inside, there is a complete lack of evidence suggesting human activity. No footprints in the fine dust. No light from upstairs or down. No food, perfume or any distintive scent, other than the malodorous stench of wood that has begun to rot. I check every nook and cranny, every loose floorboard, calling the names of the family. Nothing. They must think I'm a Soul.
"I'm not one of them!" I call into the emptiness, listening to my voice reverberate against the walls.
Silence.
The next house I check is much the same. No sign of life. Nobody responds. Listening to my voice echo in the starkness.
I continue this way, the evidence becoming worse and worse, and soon the eventuality sinks in.
They'll be back, and they'll know where to look.