Spencer is gone when Billy wakes up.
It's morning, so the room is illuminated. Billy's eyes adjust when he wakes, blinking sleep away. Everything feels sticky and distant. He slides his tongue around in his mouth and parts his lips, taking in his first breath of the day, before sitting up and slinging his legs over the side of the bed. He can't even smell the blood or vomit any more, which he's thankful for. He rubs sleep and dirt from his eyes and yawns, not ready for whatever is happening around him.
He looks around for Spencer. The door to the hallway is hanging open, so he walks out into the unknown, calmer than he expected. It's strange to be outside of that room again. His whole house is like a dark, humorless pun on what it once was. The hallway is dusky, and although most things are illuminated by windows, everything is dusty. Some rooms are locked or untouched, while others have doorknobs covered in dry, bloody handprints. Billy doesn't go into those rooms.
He makes his way downstairs. Everything in his house is disorientingly different; it looks like the place might've been looted, or maybe just torn apart. Where once there were lively parties, now there are only the remains of a life, one Billy can't remember completely. The chandelier hangs crookedly from the ceiling, its glint dulled by dust. He wonders if there's any water in the pool any more.
He wonders a lot of things. He wonders what happened, how he died, why all the lights are off, why there's no running water, why Spencer is here.
Why Spencer is here alone.
The downstairs windows are more thoroughly boarded up than the ones upstairs. Billy isn't even sure why the upstairs ones are that way. Some of them have chicken wire or metal grating over the boards, and some have bullet holes. Maybe that's why the upstairs windows were boarded up.
Billy finds his cousin sitting at his kitchen counter. It's fairly dark, but his eyes have adjusted. The room is dusty, the door to the patio boarded over but clearly openable, held in place by a large plank. Spencer is sitting at the table, axe propped against the leg of his chair, eating peaches out of a can with his bare fingers. He's staring blankly at the wall, eating slowly. His gaze is oddly heavy and meaningless, like he'd be looking at someone across the table except no one is there, just the wall. Billy almost doesn't disturb him. He notices for the first time that Spencer is wearing a black tank top and a pair of Billy's pants, rolled up at the ankles, too long and slightly baggy. His feet are clad is running shoes that have taken a beating, the soles peeling and stained with blood and dirt and other unmentionable things. The laces are tied so tight Billy thinks they might never come off. Spencer has sharp, freckled shoulders and strong arms, his fingers long like his lily arched neck. The light hits him oddly, and he looks so dusty that he almost glows.
Billy clears his throat. Spencer jumps, breath quick, eyes wide, before he sees that there's no threat, no new invasion, and sighs. He licks his lips clean of the peach juice and puts the can down. His fingers are glossy with the remains. He licks them clean, too.
"Good morning." he says. Billy isn't really sure what to say to him. He's totally different now than he was yesterday, no hint of his previous despair on his features.
"Yeah, good morning Spence." Billy mutters. "You got grub?"
"Yeah. Peaches." Spencer brandishes the can. The boy swallows thickly, licks his lips. The air is thick with what Billy doesn't know. For a tense moment, Spencer is silent and still. "It's bath day today, as of now." Spencer says suddenly, eyes tracing Billy before landing on the can again. Billy blinks, slightly startled by the change in the mood. It's jarringly normal compared to everything Billy has experienced thus far, a ray of human expression among bloody doorknobs and bullet holes. Spencer jiggles his knee, and his eyes sweep the room for the fifth time since they started talking. Billy wonders how long he's been doing that, and if it makes him tired.
"Okay." Billy says, and then pauses as Spencer slurps the last of the peach sugar water from the can with a wet gulp. It's gross in a way. "How are we gonna do that? I don't think there's running water." Billy wonders aloud. He's had running water all his life, and hasn't had to think on his own in years. It's strange for it to be just him and Spencer. It's an odd, frightening sort of liberation.
"Oh, I get water from the creek behind your house." Spencer licks his lips again, eyes darting to the boarded over door. "I boiled it yesterday, so it's clean. Cold," he cracks a wry smile "but clean."
Billy pauses. He'd forgotten about the creek. He had a pool, so there was never any reason to leave his yard in search of swimming areas, and the creek is only a few feet deep anyway, the water always sort of muddy and suspicious.
"It's not drinking safe. Up stream about a mile, there's a big burn pile of the bodies. The guts got in the water and came downstream. It looks a little like tar or oil, the burned fat." Spencer says. Billy grimaces. "It won't turn anybody, but it can make you sick as a dog if you don't boil it." Spencer throws the can of peaches over his shoulder, and it lands with a clink in the trash can, which looks almost full. Billy's kitchen isn't an especially large room in the house, the island table functioning both as an eating area and a counter top. Billy never really cooked anything, so it didn't need to be big. He never mixed his own drinks, either, which was probably stupid.
"So," Spencer sits up, his chair scooting back with a wail against the floor. "we're going up stairs for a bath. I need it, you need it." he says, walking out of the kitchen and through another room to the stairwell. Billy just follows his lead.
"What happens after that?" Billy asks.
Spencer sighs. "Well, then I give you the rundown of the place, set a few rules. I need to get you acclimated to this as quick as possible, I don't want deadweight." Spencer snorts. "Though you kinda already are, all things considered." Billy doesn't say anything about how this is his house and they should be his rules, even though he wants to. He supposes he's just grasping for straws. He's never especially wanted control of his own life until now, but it seems to matter. He feels strangely optimistic.
"Come on." Spencer flashes him a short, tempered smile. "Lets go."
Billy follows Spencer's swaying back up the stairs, watching him from behind. He seemed so broken yesterday, wailing like a struck dog, but now his shoulders seem not small and weak but wide and strong. His hands are brass knuckles, his collarbone a breastplate. He looks older than he is, Billy's eyes tracing the bruise on his shoulder, wondering how he got it. His steps are light and quiet, and although Billy can't see his face, he knows he's checking all windows and doors and they pass them.
Once they get up stairs, Billy follows Spencer into his own bathroom. It's not the main one, just a small bathroom in a guest bedroom, but there are buckets of water by the door, so he supposes its for proximity's sake. There aren't any bedrooms on the first floor, after all; he winces, wondering how Spencer managed to get the buckets from the creep to the house and then up the stairs. They look heavy. There's a crowbar by the door, the metal hook teeth of it caked with blood, but Billy doesn't say anything about that, either.
"Get the water, you're going in first." Spencer says, sitting on the toilet lid. Billy stops, but then nods, walking over to the buckets and lifting one. They're the large kind, used for carrying pool chemicals. Spencer must've gotten them from the garage. Billy carries one, with difficulty, into the bathroom, setting it down with a thud and exhaling, his newly awakened body creaking with the effort, muscles sliding. It feels strange, unlike simply walking, like all the sinews of his muscular structure are slipping into place. He shivers, and Spencer stands up.
"You want me to help?" he asks, unblinking. Billy stares at him for a second, and then grins.
"You wanna see my-"
"Shut up." Spencer slaps a hand over Billy's face, the full palm. It's oddly warm on Billy's cold cheeks, but he can see Spencer's mouth curl into a odd, quirking smile through the gaps between his fingers. He smiles, too.
Spencer does stay, though. He sits back down on the toilet lid, and Billy slips his shirt off. He feels safe with Spencer there, oddly enough. It's a strangely nostalgic experience to look at Spencer, like seeing a corpse. When Billy's mind thinks the word 'Spencer,' it is not the boy in front of him who appears. it's the bright faced child on new years eve, glass of non alcoholic champagne in his hand and his first girlfriend at his side. He's warm and smart and funny, with the brightest smile Billy has ever seen. He's a cousin Billy could be proud of, a family member who didn't reject him. Looking at the boy now is like looking into a casket; real, and yet not. It's like he's been airbrushed into something resembling his former self, replacing the precious with the empty. It's like looking at a dead man.
Billy gets into the tub, stark naked but oddly comfortable, and Spencer grimaces, dipping a washcloth into the bucket of water.
"You're lucky I'm not squeamish." Spencer says shortly, and Billy looks down. He admits, he's been in better shape. He quickly looks up again, not wanting to even see himself; his skin is a sickly pale yellow, greenish at his joins where the skin is thin, blotchy purple at his veins. It's almost white in places, like it's devoid of blood. His skin sounds odd and foreign when it comes in contact with itself, like sandpaper, and seems reluctant to hold or absorb moisture, though it doesn't feel dry. He's covered in a thin film, some dust, some sweat, accumulating in foul residue in some places. He gags low in this throat, and looks at Spencer, who, to his surprise, smiles.
It's a soft, tiny smile, unlike the one from earlier, laced with a strange compassion. The washcloth makes a distinct sound as it dribbles cold creek water on the floor. It's almost deafening compared to the silence between them when Spencer runs it over his face. He isn't gentle, his palm pushing the flesh, but he's not rough, either. Billy hears something chip off of him and fall into the hollow of the tub, and winces.
"Yeah, I know." Spencer says, running the cloth over Billy's ear. "It's not easy. But nothing is going to be easy from now on." Billy looks down again and watches the now muddy water run tracks down his chest, pooling in dark puddles at the floor of the tub, leaving clean flesh in it's wake. He hadn't known he was this dirty; he supposes there were more pressing things on his mind. He sees the color of the water though. On his face, it was blood. Dried, chipping away, but blood no less. He licks his lips and tastes foul copper.
He lets Spencer wash his chest but then takes the rag from him, deciding for the first time in his life that it's enough pampering, that he'd like a little dignity. Spencer just nods and strips his own shirt of, producing another wash sponge and dipping it into the bucket. Billy watches him from the corner of his eye as he cleans his face. Billy realizes, with half amusement, that a third of his freckles were flecks of dirt and blood. He's still dotted with them, over his shoulders and down his chest, which is sinewy and strong. His bellybutton is an innie. Billy is glad for that, for lack of anything else to be glad about.
It feels strange, but good to be clean. It takes him time, and when he's done a trail of muddied, filthy water leads to the drain. The washcloth feels good on his skin, and even just the simple contact is nice, like his whole body is waking up again, touched and moved over, kneaded to life like clay. The water is cold, but it doesn't bother him.
Water dribbles from Spencer's lip onto the floor. He's leaning forward, elbows on his knees, wrists crossed in front of him. His head hangs down, face limp and expressionless. Billy shivers, and feels goosebumps erupt on his skin, to his surprise. If Spencer is breathing it's too quiet and shallow to hear. But then his head snaps up and he's alert all over again. Billy realizes, in a wash of piercing pity, that he fell asleep. He fell asleep, just for an instant, sitting there.
"Okay, we're done. I'll get you a towel." Spencer says, standing up and crossing the room. Billy watches him walk. There's a bruise on his hip in a strange shape that Billy recognizes as a human hand. His heart sinks.
Spencer brings him the towel, throwing it unceremoniously over his head. It doesn't smell especially clean, but it's clean enough so Billy dries himself. Spencer takes it after him, and they get dressed in silence.
"Alright, I suppose now you get the rundown." Spencer says as they walk back downstairs, tidied up. Billy nods enthusiastically from behind him, though he can't see it. He feels like he needs a rundown, something to ground him. Rules would be nice, he thinks, for the first time in a long time.
"For starters, I guess, don't ever go outside, at least not without telling me. Your yard is fenced in, but the gate is a weak spot. Don't go out if you don't have to, and if you do have to, ask me to go with you." he says, rattling off things on his fingertips. "Food and water are valuable. Don't waste them." Another finger. "If anything spoils, throw it out immediately. If anything in the house gets mold, get rid of it immediately. Illness here can be fatal. There are no doctors."
They reach the bottom of the stairs and Billy watches Spencer walk through his living room and back into the kitchen, returning with his axe once more in tow.
"No loud noises or bright lights; they like those." he approaches Billy, eyes trained on him. Billy swallows. "And don't, whatever you do, ever start any fires. Ever. We do that on the balcony, which is stone, where it's less likely to burn our shit down, but it can be seen from a distance. Don't do it. That's my job. If we burn this place, we burn with it." he says. Billy shrugs weakly and nods, quirking a half hearted smile. "It attracts them. People, and the others." Spencer mutters. "I'm not sure which is worse."
Spencer gives him a tour of the place, though it is limited. He doesn't visit some rooms, either because they're locked or simply on what Billy assumes is a whim. He gives Billy the crowbar from upstairs and tells him to clean it and keep it on him; to avoid hitting himself with it. He shows him where he's keeping basic medical supplies, bandages and peroxide, in a cabinet in the kitchen for easy access. Billy follows him in a daze; it's strange to get the rundown of his own home, but the conditions are so different from what they once were. The metal of the crowbar in his hand makes him feel heavy and sick. Spencer tells him, with a slow, deliberate intention, that they don't have any guns. Billy thinks it means something extra, the way Spencer blinks, but doesn't ask about it.No guns.
"It's your first day here." Spencer says with a small smile once they windthe tour to a close. "It's important that you understand everything." Spencer puts a hand on his back, a warm gesture, but Billy's blood runs cold. The look in Spencer's eyes is worryingly sympathetic and tender, as the hand on his back presses gently. They're in the kitchen, but this door, the one that leads to the patio and pool at the back of the house, isn't completely barred up. Spencer pushes him to it and lifts a heavy plank from it. It's open. Billy realizes that this is the first time he's seen an open door since he woke up.
Spencer looks at him over his shoulder, eyes frighteningly soft. Billy swallows.
"I thought you said not to go outside." He says.
"I want you to understand." Spencer replies. There's something terrifying in his voice, the way his grip tightens around the axe, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "And the only way is all at once," he pulls together a weak smile "like ripping off a band-aid."
Spencer puts a calloused, rough hand on the door and, with his weight, pushes it open.
The patio is splattered with blood. Air wafts in, and Billy immediately gags; it's grotesque, reeking of flesh and rot. The raw sunlight is almost blinding and he squints as Spencer leads him onto the patio, looking out onto the pool. For an instant, Billy's mind supplements a mirage of the enormous concrete basin being as it was, clean and full of crystal clear water. For an instant, his mind won't let him see what the sliding, dark dread in his stomach knows is there.
All of his breath rushes out of him. The pool is full of bodies.
The water has been drained. Blood, long, dark tracks of it, lead to the pile, catching on the spaces between the tiles and lining out a checkerboard of dark red. His vision blurs and comes back into focus. It's positively full, full with bodies in a way Billy's mind can't understand. He's seen things full, cups, trucks, baseball mitts; but not this, not full of this. His breath comes in quick, painful gulps of foul air. He's suffocating standing still, and feels Spencer's hand reach out, warm, human fingers curling around his own. The gesture of support does little to stop the oncoming hurdle of fantastic, simple horror.
He hears the flies but can't see them. Maggots turn in the corpses like weaving thread, sliding among greasy, grey, rotten meat. Some of the corpses are burned, bubbling black fat curling at their lips, which peel back over yellow, bloodstained teeth. All of their heads are snapped open or missing completely, dark brain matter against the bodies of their brothers and sisters, snagged in matted hair, white flecks of skull fragments strewn about. One, sprouting from under a large pile like a tulip in spring, has its guts hanging from its mouth, throat full and bloated with them, glossy and crusted together like an art project. Another, a woman with child, her belly pulled open, the back of her head hanging from her body by her own bloody, matted hair. Another, a police officer, another, a girl scout, another, wearing nothing but socks. Another, another, another. If Billy's heart could beat it would be racing, his breath coming in rasping, staggering sobs. The blood on the tiles, the blood on the bodies, the blood on Spencer's axe. Billy feels lightweight. He can't close his eyes, afraid the nightmare will be printed on the inside of his eyelids.
He doesn't hear himself start screaming, just feels Spencer's hand clap, with bruising force, over his open mouth as something burns in his lungs and throat, sliding down his cheeks. Images, scenarios, nightmares flash before his eyes, his mind rushing frantically to explain what it's seeing, his cold, dead heart breaking. He hears Spencer's voice, feels himself being held tight, hand over his mouth, muffling the sound, and his world bleeds black at the edges, like worms or lace. He loses consciousness.
many days later i find the time to do thing! im applying to college rn so busy busy (gonna graduate from highschool soon like a proper adult)
hgghg idk if this chapter is any good? but i guess ive committed to making this a thing now so
also thanks to the peeps who reviewed for saying nice things even tho i dont deserve it uvu makes me smile
this is probably gonna continue in Billy's pOV i guess 5ever unless i decide it wont in which case it wont lmAO
this ones kinda gross whoops