Friday Nov. 3, 6812; Sector 3
Quiet. Too quiet for comfort. No, he didn't want to move just yet, not until he was sure…
It had been like this for weeks, with each day creeping by with an ever growing tension that was near about unbearable. Twenty-five days, each seeming longer than the last. Every bone in the poor boy's body felt frozen stiff, as if an attempt at movement had been made then later aborted. His fingers felt numb, but he didn't loosen the death like grip he had on the handgun pressed against his chest. Cradled, like a sleeping infant. A cold, heavy, lethal infant.
"Ri…ku…"
A whisper. Very faint, and yet he managed to catch it. It sounded like the speaker had forgotten how to breathe and talk at the same time. She sounded pained and raspy, her voice carrying into the chilly air with an unnerving echo. It grated against his ears. The boy shifted on his bed, aquamarine eyes darting towards his bedroom door tiredly. It sat slightly cracked open, offering a view of the darkened hallway he'd grown so accustomed to avoiding at night. There was a clutter of overturned tables, broken bits of glass and cotton strewn about, food crumbs, wood chips, shredded pieces of clothing—all of this, and a trail…
A trail of blood.
He stared at the door for a long moment, at the shadowy figure he could see approaching through the crack, and wrinkled his nose at the spiteful wave of stink her presence brought. One would expect to hear a dragging sound, the way the figure was crawling about, but there was none. One of the things that freaked him out; you never heard her coming. Before long the source of the rasping voice was sitting outside the room—a woman's figure dressed in a peach colored night gown—poking a sickeningly thin finger inside in a shy fashion. That was as far as she ever went. It was too bright inside the room.
In fact, he had dragged away just about every lamp he could find in the house ages ago and promptly plugged them up in his room. Seven in total. Two floor lamps, one from his father's office and the one in the living room; three desk lamps, one from the same office, his brother's room, and the one already plugged up on his desk; a table lamp from the hallway; and a spider lamp with five arms that his mother had originally packed away in the garage. (Extension outlets were a wonderful thing.)
The lamps stayed on the moment it got slightly dark outside, and when they were off during the daylight hours he simply opened the windows as widely as possible, letting sunlight seep in. Even then, he kept the door locked. It was only at night, nights like this, with the lamps on full blast and his father's gun in hand that he felt safest.
"Ri…ku… Open… Open the door, please?"
That whisper again, much louder this time. It was a challenge to look at the pitiful excuse of a woman. And who could blame him? It was like staring upon the living dead.
Once beautifully pale skin was now such a light gray that it almost looked like paper. Cracked and splotched in several places, revealing a layer of grimy red that he assumed was blood trying to slip through. The mess of silver hair on the woman's head was just a darker shade of gray, caked with dried blood in some spots, making her even more ghostly. She was thinner than he remembered—he hadn't seen her in about three days—yet her face still held some of its youthful roundness. But no, it wasn't her paleness or her matted hair, or even the skeletal frame she had acquired over the weeks that bothered him the most. It was her eyes.
They were completely gone.
That's how he liked to think of it, anyway. Someone had taken a net of thinly woven nerves and stretched them on either side of her eyes. Then they'd stretched her sockets to their limit and scooped out her eyes, replaced them with golden orbs that held an ethereal glow. Golden orbs that seemed three times too big for her face. Orbs that had a marbled look to them. And when they moved, they made a slimy sound. They swiveled about like a lizard's. It unnerved him in a way he couldn't possible describe.
And the woman just sat there, staring at him but not really seeing him, eyes glowing dully in the darkness. Even from his bed, laden with pillows that formed a wall around him, he could see her cracked mouth opening ever so slightly as she pressed it against the door.
"Riku? It's bright… It hurts…my…my eyes."
"That's the point."
Dear God… Was his voice really that hoarse? He didn't even recognize it—it was almost as dry and croaky as hers, but it didn't echo, nor did it send chills down his spine. He'd gone so long without speaking that it hurt his throat.
She scratched at the door, still whispering. "Turn…turn them off… Let me in, baby. Please?"
Riku gripped the gun tighter, pressing himself further into the backboard of his bed. He could feel his back muscles ache, but he ignored them, unable to take his eyes away from the woman.
Five fingers now. Her hand was gripping the edge of the door. "Pl…ease… You could…come out instead?"
Every demand posed as a polite question. Somehow that just made it harder to listen.
"Go away, Mom."
"Just turn off the light… It burns, baby…my eyes…"
"Go away."
Ten fingers. Both hands were gripping the door. "Please?"
"No."
"Ri…ku…"
Tears slid down his cheeks, surprising him with their wetness. Look away, he kept telling himself. Look away now…
But he couldn't, and that's what killed him. Seeing her like this—as some barely breathing, walking corpse—scared him to the point where he didn't dare venture outside of his room, not even during the day, unless he needed food or water. And, occasionally, the bathroom. Hearing her speak gave him nightmares, made him paranoid, and he couldn't stand it.
"Riku?"
It was getting hard for him to focus his vision, the way he was crying, but he let the tears fall. Then he found his hands were moving on their own, lifting the gun. Pointing it.
His mother stopped moving, staring at the weapon.
"Baby…?"
"Go away.
"I just… We can…talk… Come out…"
He didn't hear the gun go off, merely felt it, which was strange. He didn't give it much thought, however, nor did he care for the sudden shock of pain that zipped through his arms. It was almost as if the weapon had a life of its own, thrusting him back. A burnt smell mingled with the rusty one, assaulting his nose. For a split second, Riku wasn't sure what had happened. It was only when he saw the fresh spots of blackish red staining his carpet, a lone finger resting on the floor, that he realized and accepted. A chunk of wood had been chipped off of the door, circular in shape where the bullet had ricocheted.
The strangest thing about it was that his mother wasn't shocked. If anything, she seemed a little soothed by the events. She stared at her finger with those slimy, lizard's eyes, unblinking before lifting her injured hand to stare at the stump where her ring finger used to be. Blood dribbled from it, coating her mangled hand. Then she looked back to her son, cocking her head to the side. "That hurt…"
"GO THE FUCK AWAY!"
Silence. A blank stare. More tears raining down.
Then the woman crawled off, trailing more blood as she went.
~x~
Saturday Nov. 4, 6812; Sector 3
The next morning crept along slowly, but when those first few rays of sunlight slipped through the blinds Riku was grateful. He hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. That was probably why the teen remained in bed until noon, eyelids heavy but never staying closed for more than ten minutes at a time. Paranoia did that to a person.
The poor boy lay on his side, one hand cushioning his head and the other draped loosely over his father's gun. His eyes swept over the room. Dozens of water bottles were scattered here and there, some halfway filled, most close to empty. Crumpled snack wrappers and plastic bags crammed in between personal items on the dresser. The room was a downright mess, but he didn't feel inclined to straighten up. Or to do much of anything, for that matter. His stomach chose that moment to start grumbling, too, causing him to grumble as well.
A sigh left his lips as he leaned over the edge of the bed and grabbed the closest bottle. He was slow sitting up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before screwing off the cap and taking a short drink. This… He couldn't keep doing this. He'd be fine for now, but eventually—no, very soon—he'd run out of water. There were more drinks in the fridge downstairs, but soda and juice would only last a person so long. The food, what little there was, would dwindle down afterwards. Snacks didn't count, but they'd be next on the list. The electricity would run itself dry, and then what? Day time was fine, but night?
And then, right as he thought this over, he heard a sharp noise from outside his door. It was somewhat distant. Was that…breaking glass?
She's not downstairs, is she?
That was his first thought, and it brought on a sickening wave of anxiousness—until he remembered that it was light out. He had taken care to draw back every curtain, open every window, and flip on every light switch just a week ago when the idea first struck him. So she'd be stuck upstairs during the day and out of his way. So he wouldn't have to see how far she'd fallen, or those…those eyes. No, she wouldn't be out right now.
His second thought was, if it wasn't his mother, then it was a wild animal. Or one not so wild. A cat or a dog?
"Only one way to find out."
He muttered it to himself as he pushed his way out of bed, heading for the door. He padded out into the hallway—not before briefly eyeing then stepping around his mother's finger with a look of disgust—legs stiff from lack of use and gun gripped in one hand. (On the handle, of course, not the trigger…not yet.) The air was cool and welcome against his skin, causing him to shiver ever so slightly. Empty hallway. One door across from him, the bathroom, and three more to his left and right. In order, a closet, his room, his brother's, and his parents' room. A long stretch of worn down carpet that was an odd shade of red. (Or was it pink?) Then there were the stairs, the top of which looked as if something had sat down for hours and did nothing but gnaw at it. The carpet was frayed beyond repair, leaving a gaping hole and splinters of wood and spittle for the entire world to see.
No. Just me.
At least, he had thought it was just him. But yet another glass object was broken, this time louder. Followed by a faint, "Shit…"
That's what stopped him in his tracks.
He peered over the banister, seeing nothing but stairs yet expecting more. Something else. There was a man down there… It wasn't possible. Shouldn't have been possible. Was it? And yet he was hearing—
Another noise. Shuffling, this time. Running water, briefly. They had to be in the kitchen, whoever they were. But…
Everyone's dead. Either sick or dead. There can't be…
But there was.
His initial instinct was to refuse to believe it, even as he started tiptoeing down the stairs, down the curved corridor that split two ways. The one on the right towards the living room, and the one on the left into the kitchen. He went left, careful not to make noise, poking his head slowly around the corner.
There was a man—maybe not too much older than him—crouched right in the middle of the kitchen with a small broom and dustpan in his hands, sweeping up broken bits of glass. He had a shock of red hair on his head, so vibrant that it looked surreal, with spikes sticking out in every which direction. And, from the looks of it, he was wearing one of Riku's brother's t-shirts, a deep gray one with a gold and maroon grunge design of a lion. He must have picked it up from the pile of clothes in the living room…
Riku put the thought out of his mind. Instead, he focused on his growing confusion. And anger. The stranger hadn't even noticed him yet, even though he was facing in Riku's direction. Too busy sweeping. And the teen took advantage of that moment to approach, pressing the mouth of his gun to the young man's forehead.
Only then did he take notice of the teen, green eyes widening and looking up. He froze, gripping the broom and dustpan tightly. "Whoa, whoa… Easy." Then he got a good look at the boy's face, thin brows scrunching together and a curious expression crossing his own face. "How old are you?"
"None of your business."
"I think it's my business if there's a minor pointing a gun at my head." In spite of his situation, the red head actually cracked a grin, a sort of smirk and grimace at the same time. His eyes swept down to the glass before looking back up. "Look, I broke it, I'll buy it. Make you feel better?"
Riku glared at the stranger then at the mess he'd made. His feet were an inch shy of the yellow shards, the brownish liquid underneath that had been mostly but not completely soaked up. Coffee. When he spotted a coffee stained piece with what looked like a sunflower painted on it, he felt a sharp pang in his heart. Those were his mother's favorite mugs. "You're supposed to use the heat resistant glasses, idiot."
Still, that grin. "Well excuse me for being ignorant."
Screw it. This guy was pissing him off. He let him know, too, pressing the weapon a little harder into the man's skull and pulling the trigger ever so slightly. Not enough to fire it, but enough to get the message across. "How did you get in here?"
"You're joking, right?" A look of disbelief. All traces of a smile vanished, and Riku felt a bit of satisfaction as the stranger's eyes narrowed and fixated on the gun. "Window. Living room."
"Why?"
"Food. As in, breakfast. I haven't eating in two days, bud. Is it too much to ask for a bowl of cereal and some coffee?"
He didn't know what it was, but for some reason he lowered the gun. Maybe it was the man's tone, strangely calm, considering he had a sleep deprived teenager on the verge of blowing his brains out. Part of Riku still didn't want to believe the stranger was here, was talking to him as if this sort of thing happened all the time. It wasn't possible, it couldn't be. Maybe he was dreaming? Maybe…
"Name's Axel, by the way."
The boy snapped out of his thoughts, staring at his intruder with something akin to awe. The red head was sweeping up the last of the glass heading towards the trash can next to the counter. When he was done, he set them down, returned to the cabinet he had left open, pulled out another mug (heat resistant this time) and set it beside the coffee maker Riku was surprised still worked.
Was this guy for real? He was introducing himself after nearly being shot to death? And, for some reason, the boy was introducing himself as well. "…Riku."
Axel nodded slightly, pouring what was left of his coffee and checking to see that the mug didn't explode from the heat before glancing back at Riku. And the smiled returned, along with an amused tone in his voice. "Wow, your face looks evil. What, you hate me or something?"
"I have to be dreaming… I'm not sure."
"So you were gonna put a bullet through my head to find out?"
"It crossed my mind, yeah."
"Rather you didn't."
They went about this as if they were discussing the weather. Back and forth while Axel sipped his drink, while he went back into the cabinet for a bowl then skimmed the kitchen for cereal. Riku found himself watching as the stranger shook out what he could from a box of Cheerios. Before said stranger could get to the fridge, he said, "There's no milk."
Axel paused. "Ah… Orange juice?"
"No. They both went bad."
That didn't stop Axel from searching the fridge anyway. Riku just stood rooted on the spot, watching him with an unreadable expression. "Bottled water and soda. Fun… Whatever." The man shut the fridge and went back to his cereal, grabbed a handful of pieces, then tossed them in his mouth as if he didn't have a care in the world.
And Riku just stared.
It wasn't until Axel was about halfway through his bowl that he gave Riku the same stare, perhaps a little disturbed. "What?"
"This…this is a weird dream."
"Not a dream, kid." Another handful, followed by a sip of coffee. "So, how long've you been squatting here?'
What? Wait. Riku narrowed his eyes angrily. "This is my house."
"Ah! No wonder you're so mad." Axel shook his head, pointed to the ceiling. "I heard a bunch of noise from upstairs last night, right after I settled in. I thought, maybe…it was one of them, you know? But I guess it was you?"
Last night? Right after he'd settled in? So, he not only broke into the house—in a way that didn't entirely count as breaking in, with the windows open and all—but he spent the night as well. With the lights on he wouldn't have had to worry about Riku's mother, either. His mother… The silver haired male clenched his free hand into a fist, loosened it, eyed the floor absently. "N…no."
"There's someone else?"
"My mom." Why was it so hard to get those two words out?
"Her hair graying too?"
At that, Riku's head shot up in shock. How did he…? He couldn't have known, unless he was guessing. And then it occurred to him that Axel was staring rather intently at his hair with a look he couldn't quite describe but still put him on edge. A dangerous look. Absently, he ran fingers through his hair. "I'm not sick. My hair's naturally this color."
Axel still had the look in his eye. "Uh-huh.'
"Think. Even if I was sick, would I be out in the sunlight right now?"
He couldn't argue that point, falling silent, silent for so long that Riku almost thought he wasn't going to speak again. Then he came back with, "And your mom?"
Riku's pause was only slightly shorter. "She's probably…locked up in her room. She wanders at night, but stays hidden during the day. It's the only room where I left the lights off."
"And the curtains closed."
"Yeah."
No question, now. Axel was fully aware of the situation, continuing to give him a thoughtful look. "How long have you been here, Riku?"
Why does it matter? "Almost a month."
"And you haven't left, haven't been outside at all. Not even once." It was a statement, not a question.
Riku gripped his gun slightly. "Do I look crazy?"
"I've been out on the streets, and I'll tell you now, I'd rather take my chances out there than in here. Especially with one of them locked up with you."
"She's my mother."
"She's got the virus, right?"
What if she did? What did he know, this mystery man with his strange hair and his strange eyes and his strange words? What did he know at all about the woman, about Riku? What was the point of his questions? And what was it that made the teen so defensive all of a sudden?
"Look." The man's voice was soft, almost apologetic. He set the bowl down, wiped his hands together and brushed them on his jeans. "The best thing you could do for her is put her to rest…"
No.
"You want me to kill my own mother?"
"She's already dead. The only thing that's 'alive' is that virus, or parasite, or whatever the hell you wanna call it. And it's using her body to screw with your head."
He couldn't possibly know…
Riku didn't say anything, merely stared. Hostile—but understanding what was being said.
Axel went on. "It tries to act like her, doesn't it? Tries to talk to you, convince you to get closer? Especially at night."
He couldn't possibly know, could he? How did he know? The question must have been clear in the boy's eyes, because Axel took on a look of pity right then and replied, "My brother got sick. Then my friend and his family. Then his girlfriend, and her family, her friends, and so on."
He illustrated with his fingers, counting them off as he went down the list. No longer joking or lighthearted. The red head was all seriousness now. "Do you see? It spread and spreads until, BAM, we're the only ones left in this dead man Wonderland. Well…maybe not the only ones. It's like a frikkin' Stephen King novel come true, or some shit."
"You think there are others?"
A nod. "How many people live—lived—in Sector 3? Now, out of all those people, just about 99.9 percent of them kicked the bucket, by my estimations anyway. What're the chances that I'd come across someone else—you—in that remaining 0.1 percent?"
"Slim. Extremely."
"And yet here I am, talking with you."
Yeah, but…
Riku was just one person. Just one, out of… There couldn't be others out there. Not with so many dead. But how could he know? He'd never actually gone outside himself and looked.
He frowned. "Is that why you're moving around?"
"Have been for the past few weeks. It's a routine. I wake up, scrounge for food, drive as far as I can for that day, then stop for the night and shack up. That is, if I can find a place to stay."
"If you can't?"
"I sleep in a tree. Boogers usually don't think to look up high, unless they smell blood on you. And even if they got close—" He stuck a pale hand in his jean pocket, pulling out a pocket knife. Not small, but nothing to write home about. Large enough to do serious harm if you knew how to use it. Though Riku would've preferred something long range. "Doesn't hurt to be too careful."
Again, the teen grew silent, eye balling the pocket knife, then Axel, then nothing in particular. His mind was partly there, partly in his own world, and partly nowhere at all. The green eyed stranger watched him with concern. "Riku…you shouldn't stay here."
"No." Why had he answered so quickly?
"You and I both know you can only last here so long. Your mom would understand, I'm sure."
"You don't know the first thing about her." What was he so afraid of? Why was he starting to shake?
"I do know that, eventually, you're gonna run out of supplies." Axel's voice was a bit cold now. Cold in a way that, somehow, signaled to Riku that he actually cared, that he was trying to talk some sense into him. "What happens when you run out of food? Water? Who's gonna fix your plumbing when the pipes finally clog or rust up, or when the electricity is on the fritz. Hell, what if it goes out? What then?"
Riku didn't say anything. He couldn't. Hadn't he just been thinking along the same lines not that long ago?
"You can't keep living here and expect it to be alright. Now, what you can do is come with me, and we can see who else is lost out there. Or you can sit here, perpetrate, and pretend like what I just said doesn't bother you."
Riku didn't say anything.
Axel let out a deep breath, scratched at the back of his head. "Do or die, but. Do or die. Your choice." He waited a beat for a response, and when there was none he replied, "Thanks for the food." Then he stepped out of the kitchen.
Riku still didn't say anything.
~x~
Saturday Nov. 4, 6812; Sector 3
Riku never said a word when the man took his pack and slung it over his shoulder. Not when he took three cans of chicken and rice from the cabinet and tucked them in his pack, or when he snagged an extra soda for the road. Not when he patted Riku on the shoulder and gave a somewhat cheery but mostly tired, "Thanks, kiddo." Not when he slipped out the door after making one hundred percent sure Riku wasn't going to change his mind. All that time and not one word. He was still a bit shocked, still very confused. After their conversation had died, his speechlessness just refused to leave.
He had a hard time shaking it now, as he stood by the front door and peeked out the window. The red head was by the curb, swinging a leg over his hovercycle, (Why had he suspected that it would be the same green as those eyes?), securing his bag carefully on his back. He caught Riku's gaze for a moment. Smiled slightly and lifted his hand in a salute-like wave.
And for a moment a feeling of dread washed over the boy. He couldn't explain it—didn't quite understand it. Milky green eyes were fixed on that cycle, though, and they didn't dare look away. Do or die, bud. Do or die. Your choice.
But he couldn't just abandon his mother, sick or not. ...Dead...dead or not... This was his mother. The woman who had carried him for nine months and birthed him, who had taken care of him all seventeen years of his life. The woman who wasn't the sharpest tool in the box, but still very lovable. The woman who always fussed at him to stop annoying his brother, and at his brother to stop bullying him. The woman that was old fashioned enough to still make bag lunches for her kids. The woman who loved them unconditionally.
The woman who'd fallen ill, whose hair had started turning grayer and grayer until it lost all color. Whose skin had paled to that sickly white, whose eyes had… This was also the woman who'd attacked his brother in the dead of the night, when they hadn't been careful enough, hadn't been paying attention that night in the living room… The same woman who'd infected her husband but then ripped him to pieces for food when her hunger had become too great…
You can't live with that. First Sephiroth. Then Dad. And…you can't kill her. You wouldn't even try it. There's no way you could.
You'll be next if you don't go.
And before he realized it he was gripping the window sill, leaning out of the open frame. "AXEL!"
The man had already started his vehicle, already started floating those eight or so inches off of the pavement, but he didn't leave, shocked by the sudden call. He arched an eyebrow, earning a determined, if somewhat desperate, look in response.
"Give me a few minutes to pack some things."
He was quiet for a moment. Then that damned smile broke out on his face again. "Pack light, kid."
~x~
Redone: Jan. 3, 2012
Edited: Jan. 5, 2012