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His first mistake. It hadn't happened the first time they met, but he'd been lucky. At first, he'd shown his teeth, and everything was fine. The next time they met, he decided to show him his aura, so he showed him a photo taken with his auracamera, but that wasn't enough for the madman to confirm he wasn't a visitor. The man wanted more proof. Strange, because he looked like he only wanted just one, where anyone he met could have been a mistake and not necessarily mean they were this damned visitor.
This time, he had pearly teeth, so he didn't show them. His eyes were red from drinking too many energy drink cans. He did that to be more alert and active during the day. He regretted it, because what was the point? He decided to show his ears, which was a truly stupid mistake. Why hadn't he at least shown his armpits? He knew he was up against a mentally unstable person who had once been sane and hadn't killed everyone in his path when he failed the test. The warning that he possessed a weapon had no effect on the dark-haired man. In fact, he saw a spark of adrenaline and fearlessness in his eyes. Swallowing hard, he feared that one of his fingers and teeth would be next on that necklace, that unclean neck, and that alone would be proof of his existence.
He trembled as he raised the shotgun, aiming it at the door. He pretended it didn't frighten him. These words came from the mouth of a madman who screamed that this door wouldn't stop him from killing him. Calming his pulse, he opened the door, demonstrating that he wasn't even afraid of death, despite the trembling of his fingers. Had the madman noticed? He probably did it in the split second before they could look at each other and shoot at the same time. A loud shot was heard by every person who had lived in his house for moments or days.
A bang and two gunshots at the same time. A hard, violent fall to the floor; a terrible cry of pain; and the door opened. A night that could have entwined the entire house. He screamed again in pain, taking a bullet over his stomach. Painful, his strength failing, he focused his blurry gaze on the deep wound. He touched it, and blood quickly stained his hand. The gun lay near the wall, too far to reach. No one came to help, because how could anyone do this during this agonizing apocalypse? Surely everyone was afraid to go out and help him. What if, they thought, it was a visitor who might also come for them?
It was hard to move. He had no strength left. His ears were pounding, and he didn't know if the cat he took with that strange-looking lady was beside him. Pressing one hand against the bleeding wound, he braced himself against the floor with the other to stand. The gun was in the same place, and the cat was sitting on the dresser next to the photo, looking at him, but he wasn't sure if he was worried or waiting for the cat food.
With faltering steps and mounting pain, he reached the open door. He leaned against it, feeling his body weakening with each passing second, demanding rest and attention for the gunshot wound. He simply wanted to be sure he was the only one alive who survived this fight. He hadn't focused on whether the madman had also screamed in pain, but he watched his limp body. He seemed to be the only one alive. He only saw blood, but in the darkness, it was harder to see the wound on his body. He was about to push away from the door, close it, and refuse to let anyone in or speak to anyone, but madness awakened his feeble senses.
It wasn't the wind that stirred the grass, but the body that stirred on the ground. The groan was barely suppressed. This madman was still alive, but he wasn't about to finish him off. He decided to approach and retrieve his weapon, which he had taken earlier from FEMA. The rifle hung on his shoulder. With difficulty, he bent down and knelt, his wound still bleeding, knowing he couldn't remain like this. It was only a brief hesitation, but he raised his arm to take his weapon. Before he knew it, another hand reached for his right wrist and squeezed gently before he could grab the weapon. He turned in shock to attack but found himself locked in the eyes of a madman, having no limitations. At that moment, he had no strength to fight or say much. The madman grip weakened, and when he finally released it, he closed his eyes.
In that moment, it was noticeable. The bullet wound from his shotgun was lost in his arm, but a large amount of blood stained his dark coat. He realized that this apocalypse and this intense fever were turning each of them into monsters. Some were worse, and he had always craved solitude, peace, and silence. These nights were not peaceful, and the time of the apocalypse allowed him to see people different from himself, terrifying stories, and deaths. He was not indifferent to this. He saw it within himself. This time, he didn't want to be either. He pressed both fingers to the madman neck. There was a pulse, and this madman still had a chance to survive. He had no strength to left him, but he tugged at him, holding him tight, even though it was damaging his own wound and could have harmed others in the house as well. But should he be pressured into this when no one seemed to care about the gunshots? In that moment, all he could understand was his neighbor's daughter, whom he had promised to protect. Would this apocalypse end or not?
Everything had been taken away except for the large pool of blood on the grass. He didn't worry if the pale man would ask. Perhaps he had already seen their fight, and perhaps he was watching with a smile. He noticed nothing but the two of them. He had no room for his own thoughts.
No one came. No one knocked. Everyone was probably afraid of those shots. That was the simple reason.
The night was too long. He could only be greeted by that delivery guy, who was less than happy with every encounter. He said nothing else could happen to him, so he abandoned his future plans.
For almost the entire night, only the little girl's cries accompanied him. The guy from the bar's coughing became less and less audible. No one was in the bathroom, so he grabbed the supplies he needed to treat his wounds and soothe the already growing pain. Once he could say goodbye to the blood on his clothes, he attended to the unconscious but still alive long-haired man. It was much heavier, because his body wasn't as light as a feather. He left him,w with no coat and t-shirt, on the bed, breathing a sigh of relief that it was over. Eventually, he fell asleep beside him without realizing it. He was afraid and wanted to choose another place, but it turned out the way it did.
The day greeted him with a better feeling. The pain was bearable but still there. It was difficult for him to stretch. He sat up in bed, noticing the dent on the right side of the bed. He'd almost forgotten. This fight wasn't a dream, though, but reality. Fear gripped him. This madman could have gone out and killed everyone, or he could still be here, but would he really stay? It was a doubtful thought. It wasn't hard to guess what a guy like that might have decided.
He hadn't killed anyone today. Everyone asked about the gunshots. Everyone noticed his wound. He didn't talk much about it, but he saw fear and doubt in almost everyone. He had it too. The lady with the cat had much more to say than the rest, and she talked a lot about the cat. Wasn't that a sign of worry? He did what needed to be done. He fed the cat, cared. This time, he didn't call anywhere, replaced the bloody bandages in the bathroom, and tested those who still could.
This time, he hadn't had enough rest. He decided to get more rest. As he skirted the rooms along the corridor, he heard a loud clearing of a throat. The sound was nowhere else but in the storage room, which he almost never intended to look into. This time, he did it again. He wasn't prepared for the gun to point at him, but it happened quickly. There was no gunshot, nor another loud bang. He noticed the madman in front of him. Bandages were on the floor, and more blood was soaking into his clothes.
“Oh, it's you…” the madman said, less pleased, slowly placing the rifle on the floor. He was much weaker than he had been much earlier.
“You still here? I thought you left without leaving anyone alive,” he replied quietly, moving closer to him.
“I planned to, but this damn wound won't let me do much. I gave up,” he said with a hiss, feeling the pain. He could barely move now. “You could have finished me off, but you didn't. How weak a Visitor are you? Are you one of those who don't kill?”
He could hear the faint laughter of the madman piercing his ears. He'd been through so much that he no longer cared.
“I'm not one of them,” he denied calmly, holding the weapon in his right hand. The madman's gaze focused for a moment on that grip.
“You showed me something so ridiculous, something I've never even heard of, and I listen to the news just like you do. They can camouflage themselves, but you don't. How on earth are the people you let in still alive? Doesn't the bloodlust seep through your bones?” the man asked, coughing heavily.
“Only someone like you could say that. Believe it or not, because I know you don't give a fuck about my explanations anyway. Be careful what you want, but I can't let someone who's still breathing die.”
The madman wanted to argue and mock him further, but he stopped talking for a moment.
He returned to him with bandages, knelt before him, and lifted his t-shirt after he had removed his coat to disinfect and dress his wound.
It wasn't the fight it had been at the beginning, but he didn't want to be touched by the visitor. When he finally did, madman let go. Kneeling, he checked to see if the wound was properly covered, but it was still bleeding. The long-haired man didn't want any help putting on his coat, but he did it anyway.
“What are you going to do when you're up to it?” he asked, slowly standing this time, adjusting his grip on the shotgun. He disliked guns, especially this one, just like he disliked this house, but under the circumstances, he had no choice.
“I will do what I always do. I said before that I didn't find that pale guy, but I will search some places more thoroughly. I'll also continue searching for this brat my brother couldn't protect. Maybe I'll find her, maybe I won't. Either way, I won't stay here long, and I will kill every Visitor in my path, if that's what you mean.”
“You can stay here if you want. I don't think your body will allow it anytime soon,” he replied, unsure why he wanted to change this guy mind. His necklace of fingers and teeth was disgusting and smelled of rotten flesh from those he'd killed and taken as souvenirs. Who knows who was human and who was a visitor?
“Stay? Didn't that fight make me realize it was better to stay away from you? Don't think I believe you're human,” the madman hissed in disbelief. He didn't trust anyone so easily. Since the apocalypse, everyone had been a danger to him, and this house could herald another evil coming.
“It's not that important right now. I won't stop you, but don't hurt anyone. And not yourself,” he warned, holding the door, looking at him with those cold green eyes. He didn't want him to go crazy here and hurt them all.
The silence between them grew longer, but neither of them reached for their weapons. He didn't reach for it when the man in front of him stood up, grabbed the first-aid kit, and headed for the door. He hadn't killed him, and he was alive. He had been bandaged and was lying on his bed, yet he could have so easily left him outside, let the visitors tear him apart, or let him tear him apart. Neither of those things happened.
“Thanks for not killing me and leaving me to my fate outside,” the dark-haired man said more calmly, this time holding the rifle close to him. The weakness and fever were slowly ebbing away.
“I'm not as much of a monster as you think,” the man said bluntly, his grip on the shotgun loosening. He left the room without another word, leaving their further conversation for later.
His wound was again beginning to bite on him. They both needed more rest. There was no telling what the next night might bring.