Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ever since the news of the cataclysm had aired, being a taxi driver had seemed like the safest job at the time. Nothing changed. If anything, it had improved; more and more people needed transportation out of the city due to the sweltering heat, resulting in an increase in passengers. And money– money was always good to have.

Though bills were useless these days, when the sun stopped its tantrums, everything would return to normal. He hoped it would, at least. Briefly, he takes a look in his mirrors and uses them to check on his appearance. Long shifts had dried his sullen eyes out, and his nightly insomnia helped little with the red spots darkening his vision. Maybe he shouldn’t have been driving so late, but going out in the day was not an option, and he still needed an income.

Trying to tune out the radio's endless chatter about Visitors, the Taxi Driver turned the dial over to the next station, light music flowing throughout the cab.

Silence had always unsettled him. His backseat rides with his pops were filled with constant chatter and a light music station accompanying them. If they weren’t, he wouldn’t have had anything to reminisce about. That’s how a drive should be, he thought, adjusting the volume. Not uncomfortable silence that was loud enough to hear a pin drop.

Not air that seemed to close all around you, suffocating you, as that devil– he shook his head. Imprints of his nails were evident on the rubber of the wheel where he’d been gripping too hard. A sigh left his lips.

Thinking about his father always ended with thoughts about him.

There was no way to prevent what happened; he’d come to terms with it years ago. But there was, his mind would insist, cascading down into a deep pit full of ‘what-ifs’. If his father had just accepted the fare and driven that bastard around, then they wouldn't have—

His foot moved to slam on the brakes, almost missing the figure flagging him down. The force startled him out of the spiral he’d sent himself into and had him gasping for a breath he didn’t know he was lacking.

“Sorry pal,” he starts, glancing at his rearview mirror as the back door behind him opens. “Lost myself for a minute there– where’re you headed?”

This would be his last fare, he told himself. Though as the man opened his mouth, he wished he had driven off instead. Perfect whites. The sight has him reeling.

Perhaps his thoughts were trying to warn him; he thinks he sees the man mouth ‘outskirts’, and he nods numbly. The silence bothers him much more than it ever had.

Paranoia had run rampant in him after what his old man experienced. What if he picked up the wrong fare one day? Would he end up with a slit throat– or worse? Suddenly, all that paranoia didn’t seem to be for naught. He eyes the guileless face in the backseat, and his mind is made up for him. FEMA. The thought of driving a Visitor around makes him sick, his mouth clogging up with cotton, but there’s little else he can do.

Seeing that perfect smile, lined with billboard-white teeth, his foot grinds into the gas pedal. He’s been meaning to get more of that, but this could end up being his last ride. No use fretting about the blinking fuel light if there’s no car to fret over. Or, hell, no driver to do so. That was a more likely option, and it terrified him. He’d already had everything taken from him prior to the sun exploding– he couldn’t go through that a second time.

Distantly, the complaints of his passenger ring in his ears, hot and loud– he knows they’re not going to the city's outskirts. They never were. An excuse or fumbled apology might’ve left his trembling lips if he didn’t spy the government facility looming ahead.

There’s a struggle– violent tugs at the door handle and frenzied shouting. At one point, the Taxi Driver has to free his arm from the tensile grip forced onto him. Visitors don’t give up easily, he thinks. Just imagining them like this, roaming through the streets, in other people's homes– it unnerves him. Glad he was doing the right thing…

He swerves through the barbed wire gates, catching the front fender of his cab on the sharp edges. The hiss of industrial metal scraping off yellow paint is audible, but his mind is focused on one thing. There’s not a second thought he has before FEMA agents rush over, their bright hazmat suits illuminated under harsh lighting, mimicking the colour of his cab.

His elbow presses into his passenger's side, fighting against hands that reach to curl around his neck. His eyes are sharp, wide, with a white sclera, and his nails are clean– but what did that matter? He’s able to focus on who– or what– had hailed him, and the sight of a crisp suit further cements his distrust.

“What the fuck’s your problem?” He doesn’t say, moving to unlock both doors instead. “Where the hell d’you call this? Are you insane?”

“Get out.” His voice is level and calm, though his hands shake. It wasn’t worth risking his life for one fare– he and his father were alike in that way. They turned away anyone who was a visible threat.

When movement comes from neither of them, they’re both pulled out by separate agents. Air fills his lungs and he allows himself to rest. This was the best option, he reasons. The man was a Visitor.

“Thank you,” he exhales. “Man, I thought I was going to be left for dead then–”

“Come with us.” The barrel of a rifle that was once slung across the shoulder is now pressed against his back. It alarms him at first, but he knows they need to be thorough. It’s protocol, one says.

He takes what he isn’t aware would be his last glance at his classic car, which had once been his father's, and follows wordlessly. Silence is all that encompasses them, and it’s as unsettling as he remembers it being.

Shouting fills his ears. He can’t make out what is being said, only that they expect him to comply. No way in hell, he thought, gripping his chest tight.

His legs are numb. Breathless, he dry heaves, fighting with his lungs. Those lying FEMA fuckers…! Dawn was beginning to paint the starless sky with its unforgiving rays; he needed to get as far away from here as he could. It didn’t matter where he went, just anywhere other than here. They wanted to throw him into the slammer and leave him to rot, like he was one of those Visitors!

His knees gave way, sinking into the soft dirt below. His fingers grip the ground firmly until his bitten nails are stained with dried mud. Sucking in air dries his throat, causing him to cough. It felt like a million needles had pierced his skin, and he immediately regretted it.

It would be easier to let the sun cremate his body, but the thought of just lying, dead as a dog on the side of the road, brought painful memories to the surface. Those that he’d buried long ago, ones he tried not to think of.

In those quiet moments, he closed his eyes and let his thoughts swallow him whole.

Driving strangers around would always have its dangers, but without the threats of creatures crawling up from underground, it had been peaceful.

As a little kid, this meant sleeping in the back of his pops’ ride as he drove around town, picking up fares. Passengers knew him well and would gush over his son, who always rode with him in the backseat and looked just like his father.

Others weren’t too much of a conversationalist, but the silence never felt awkward or uncomfortable. There were soft tunes that played from the inbuilt stereo, which he’d often fall asleep to, ones he couldn’t put a name to nowadays. They were quiet enough not to wake him but loud enough to fill the quiet that remained.

Most of these trips escaped his mind, as it would be the same every night. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even remember entering the cab, sleep having consumed him long before then.

There was only one passenger he could remember as vividly as the present day. That, as he recounted, would make his thoughts run deeper and deeper till they could drill into his skull no further.

It was late, later than his father usually set off, but this hadn’t alarmed him. Maybe it should’ve; maybe he should’ve convinced him to stay home. Folks needed transport every day, especially taxis. They could leave it for the night— but he didn’t say any of that.

He’d been twelve, and with his mother away on a business trip, it’d only been him and his father. That hadn’t bothered him either; leaving the house alone didn’t bother him. He and his father had always been closer, so being without her didn’t hit as hard as it might’ve.

No. For the first time, it was the silence that ate at him. Sleep had woven its way through his muscles, but there were no tunes to lull him entirely. That kept him awake enough to pay attention to their fare and the darkening of the town around them.

Part of him wishes he hadn’t fought sleep off. Kept his head down and let the silence put him at ease. There was nothing his mind could come up with that would fit who flags them down, leans over and peers into their cab. He might’ve only been a young kid, but he knew who he was- everyone did. The look he flashes them is nothing short of predatory.

Nobody refused a ride from a man like that. Unless you were stupid or trying to be smart, what would the point be? His father made a choice that day, one that would lead to him lying on the side of the road, with no one giving a damn.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. He’d die, just like his pops could’ve, alone, with no one around to save him.

In the dirt, like he was worth little more than that. Not even worthy of his ashes being spread in the wind, like his fathers’ were…

The last image that flashes in his mind is that of pristine, perfect teeth, akin to his own, before he decides to keep moving.

Far away from the fires that engulf the towns and cities stands an isolated building that remained untouched. Hungry dogs are all that remain from the community that had once lived there, their houses now burnt to the ground.

Normally, it wouldn’t be of any note, but times were far from normal now. To Wolfhound, the animalistic need to survive draws him closer.

He’d gotten lucky– if you still believed in luck– with shelter. Every place he’d been to was run rampant with fear, fear that burnt as bright as the midday sun; it blinded them from the bigger picture. He never stayed in one place for too long till he moved on.

The cities didn’t know him like his own town would, which had dissuaded him at first. If nobody knew who he was, then what was he doing here? Nobody feared him like they should’ve.

They just killed, pulling excuses out of their own arse about ‘Visitor signs’. If it were up to him, he’d just pop the lot and be done with it. Most of the ‘Visitors’ he’d seen were weak anyway- even if they did kill, they never tried with him.

Suppose he got lucky there, too. He felt for his handgun, deeply wedged in the inside of his suit jacket, before stepping onto the porch.

His knocks ring heavy and loud, as if the door was the only barrier that kept him from barging in entirely. He tries the door handle before footsteps sound from inside, causing him to retract his hand. If not for the lights spilling out from underneath, he’d have assumed the place was empty, being as quiet as it was.

Any louder, and the homeowner might’ve believed the knocking to be from FEMA, or worse. His grip on the door loosened when it wasn’t who he’d expected it to be, leaving it ajar.

Wolfhound gives the man a sly smile, his golden caps reflecting off the brightness that came from within. Good thing those blokes knocked them out, he thought. Never would he have likened that to being a ‘good thing’, but perfect wouldn’t cut it in this new world.

“Oi,” he greets lazily, voice rough and haughty. The homeowner’s glad it isn’t FEMA– they last took two residents from him, and he needed people. Though… Did he need them this badly? Surely living on his lonesome would be better than letting in… He wasn’t sure, but something rubbed him the wrong way about this man. He keeps his shotgun in view, which Wolfhound takes note of and occasionally glances into one of the two barrels. He’s not intimidated by a little iron.

His own presses against his side. “Whole world's gone Pete Tong, eh?” The homeowner blinks at the unfamiliar phrasing, but doesn’t comment. He’d been a shut-in for most of his life, so he’d missed out on conversing with others who weren’t his neighbour. Maybe he would’ve heard a similar dialect on TV, but all he could focus on now was the news, and he had little time for anything else.

Wolfhound notes his lack of fear and little else. It humbles him to know his reputation didn’t precede him— the same one that had struck fear into the hearts of many.

Reaching up to adjust his navy suit, he’s briefly aware of the blood which coats his knuckles, staining his fingertips. He continues. "This ain't a society no more– the beasts 'ave come out to play. Finally...no more holdin' back.”

Of course, who else would look forward to a world filled with chaos and disorder other than, what he assumed was, a criminal? Now he had a reason for the prior discomfort he’d felt.

“I think you should leave—”

“Easy now, sunshine…” His expression sours as he inches closer, cigarette smoke clinging to his breath, and he goes on. “Ya should watch what you say round ‘ere… Askin’ a respectable bloke ta leave before you’ve even heard ‘im out… You won’t get far with that sorta talk.”

Green meets blue as they both stare at each other, like the tide washing over rolling fields. Drowning. The homeowner has to look away, which amuses him greatly.

“Good boy… Most can’t look me in the eyes.” His attitude changes on a whim, but the aggressiveness lines his words all the same. The pet name only further reinstates why he doesn’t want to let him in. One thought troubles him– if he doesn’t, then what will happen? Everyone he’s turned away thus far have either been understanding or pissed off, an effect of the sun. Eventually, he’d have to run into the more hostile sort– which he did. That crazed lunatic with a gun, the pale visitor… neither wanted to take shelter like this one did.

His brows furrow, letting none of his inner conflict show outwardly. “Go on.”

Wolfhound takes a step back, his steps heavy with purpose. “You been to any of these other houses?” He knew he hadn’t; he didn’t look like the type who would. His gaze often escaped him, focusing on the ruined city behind him and the smoke which tainted the sky a gloomy grey. His words were short and simple, painting a pretty picture of who it was he was dealing with. A recluse, likely.

He liked the quiet ones. Never made a fuss… Those who don’t react when the weak snuff it were the ones he wanted to keep around. Strong, unflinching – all good qualities for a leader and ones he himself had.

“All your rules and morals have gone up in smoke, sunshine.” Just like everything else had. “Don’t mean nothin’ no more. It’s simpler that way, innit? Tear a bastard’s throat out and it’s winner-winner chicken dinner.

If the state of his hands didn’t spell it out for him, he’d just confirmed the worst– a murderer was on his doorstep. In any other circumstance, the homeowner wouldn’t have opened the door at all. But in this new world, blood was on everyone’s hands, including his own.

The words of his neighbour breached into the forefront of his mind, about how he’d been getting worried about him, how he’d known something was going on with the sun before anyone else had caught onto it. That he needed people in his house; it might be the only thing that kept him alive.

…With that pale freak roaming the streets, these people were his only chance at survival.

He thinks he hears the man say something about order, but he can’t catch it as his memory drifts to the Pale One. Last time he’d peered out from his hall window, it had been standing there with a dismembered head hung from its hand like a trophy. With folds in its skin that protruded from all the wrong areas, and that creepy smile that seemed inhumanely wide. Everything about it was uncanny and wrong.

Silence fell till all that could be heard was the rage of the blazes attacking the city. Until he realised he’d been staring, and the beast in front of him expected a response.

Hands clammy as they clutched the shotgun, the homeowner slowly allowed the door to open fully.

“Come in,” he relented, understanding the danger that he posed. Would he really kill so openly, knowing he had a weapon of his own? He’s not sure he’d like to find out.

“Smart choice.” Wolfhound invites himself in, shoving his shoulder into that of a blue turtleneck before walking off. His steps reverberated throughout the house’s thin walls, alerting the occupants of his arrival.

For Bar Guy, he’s been here long enough to have seen it all. His hand curls around what he thinks to be his fourth beer when the footsteps stop inside of the living room. Whatever reaction the owner of them hopes he elicits, he does not. Instead, his presence is majorly ignored by the other residents.

The look on his face is akin to dissatisfaction, but he takes a spot in the corner nonetheless.

Yesenin takes note of this and mumbles, “Office’s free.”

“Hm?”

“Behind you.” He deadpans, gesturing with his free hand to the room across the hall. Bar Guy guessed it was the company which was bothering the man, and that suited him just fine. He didn't budge. Instead, he’s met with little less than aggression.

“Nah, I mean, I wasn’ askin’.”

He himself could be abrasive at times- he knows he can, and perhaps it’s hypocritical of him to be bothered by others' bluntness when he’s just the same. Still, it irks him and makes his right eye twitch.

“Didn’t say you were, my good man. You seemed bothered by us.” He wasn’t drunk enough to argue and not sober enough to be unfazed by his attitude. If he had been the homeowner, then he'd gladly make him stay outside and be broiled alive by the sun. His hand tilts the can upwards, his tongue lapping up the taste of shitty beer and sadness as it trails down his throat.

“Sure,” the suited man shrugged. “You’re jus’ a bunch of softies to me. If I was the one runnin’ this pack, you lot’d be dead.”

Blinking, Bar Guy lifts himself up and off the sofa, which had previously been made a meal of by countless moths. He has to hunch down so his head doesn’t collide with the ceiling.

“You’ve been here for not even five minutes and you’re already pissing me off. Congratulations.”

Assuming the height difference is meant to scare him, it doesn’t. Wolfhound wasn’t concerned about physical attributes. If you were weak, you were a weak fuckin’ wolf, that’s that. He simply scoffs and looks away, not willing to entertain this.

“I don’t know who you think you are–”

“Listen ‘ere, sunshine.” The lines on Bar Guy's forehead crease downwards into a frown, clouding the sharp look he’s giving him. Both of their irritated gases meet each other, one lacking a clear desire to kill. He’s dangerous; what did the homeowner see in him? Bribing was the only idea that made sense, but he hadn’t taken his good man to be that shallow. Threats? Plausible, but the man carried a gun. Whatever the reason, it can't have been good enough.

“I used to run the streets. People feared me, respected me.” His hand, which had once been coiled around his jacket to keep it closed, now lay by his side, digging into his palm. “If he can’t run this pack–” He’d been doing fine, the taller man wanted to bite back. They were all alive and that’s what mattered, but he held himself back. “-I bloody well will. Alright?”

It wasn’t, but Bar Guy caught a glimpse of the handle of a shotgun, nestled deep and obscured from regular view in his jacket. His view of the world was far from regular, so he picked up what others couldn't. He knew when to pick his fights, and this was not one of them.

“Alright.” In his drunken haze, the words come out sharper than he meant them to, but they fit how he felt all the same. “You’re no better than any one of us, though. I don’t care who you are or used to be.”

The tension doesn’t dissipate between them, but he doesn’t stay around long enough for it to get any worse. Instead, he leaves for the kitchen with a crumpled beer can in hand. Wolfhound watches him leave but stops himself from spewing the insults he desperately wanted to. No one got away with treating him like scum; he made sure of that.

The idea of luck swirls around in his mind until the energy from the sun weighs him down, and he's unable to think about it anymore.

Sleep often evaded the homeowner, meaning he’d get little reprieve from the unrelenting, overwhelming heat. It’s early when he’s briefly aware of hurried knocks that come from the front door– but they can’t have. His body sits up in what had once been a bedroom for two, and his spine cracks from the movement. With a tired groan, the clock confirms his initial assumption: 5 AM. It's too early. Even if the worst of it wouldn’t appear till later on, the thought of anyone being out at this time unnerved him.

If it wasn’t a Visitor, that is. Even then, the brute force exerted by those heat rays would surely render even the inhuman immobile, no? He could hardly imagine how anyone could be alive out there– Visitor or not.

A yawn escapes him despite the lack of sleep, and he pushes himself up, taking his shotgun in hand. His home, though it didn’t feel like one, had always been quiet at night. Not anymore– he’d pass by rooms and hear sounds of life from within. It makes him pause, if only for a moment, to reflect on his current situation…

If the cataclysm hadn't happened, he’d never have thought of letting people he didn’t know into his private sanctuary, letting them see behind closed doors. Even inviting his neighbour over was a chore; his hand would grow clammy as it gripped the landline's handle. If he struggled to talk to a man he's known since he was a little kid, then how would he deal with complete strangers?

Survival is what drives him now, what gets him to look through the peephole, taking in who- or what- stands on his porch.

The Taxi Driver pants, looking behind him haphazardly every so often. His run from FEMA hadn’t been without its close calls, and he couldn’t imagine making it all the way to some semblance of shelter only for them to be right behind him.

“Hey, pal,” he’s breathless. All he carries is his leather jacket; FEMA had taken everything else from him. His car, most notably… God, he missed his car.

“Listen… I'm kinda knee-deep in shit right now.” He wrung his hands together, trying to stop the tremors that ran throughout his body. His nerves had been shot to hell and back. “Mind if I sorta...lay low here for a bit?” Getting home would be near impossible in this heat– coupled with the fact that he had no means of getting there on foot, and all public transport had been brought to a standstill…

Visitors were desperate. Enough to be outside during the day, the homeowner couldn’t say, but he knew they were. Again, he’s reminded of his neighbour telling him not to jump to conclusions.

“What happened?” This man didn’t look dangerous, at least, not like the last one did. He takes note of the dirt which had stained the denim of his trousers a murky brown and coated the undersides of his nails. The whites of his teeth stand out against the early dawn like a sore thumb, eyes flitting about, dark with red spots.

Three signs, but did anyone believe in signs anymore? Yesenin complained about them endlessly, and he had every reason to.

“Where do I even start…” He lowers his head, face obscured from the worst of the sun by his cap. Even he couldn’t begin to wrap his mind around what had happened, hadn’t yet come to terms with it. His pops’ car was gone– the last thing he had to remind himself of him.

And if the heat continued to worsen, which it would, fires would spread. Soon, he would have nothing– nothing at all. That choked him up, it did, but he finds it in himself to begin explaining.

“I’m- I’m driving this fare, right? But I noticed his teeth were white. Waaay too white, y'know?” How stupid that must sound, coming from him. His folks had told him a good impression lasted forever in someone's mind– that he had to keep up appearances. He doesn’t miss when the homeowner's gaze goes from his eyes to his mouth either.

Seems someone did believe in them after all.

“Didn't think twice, just drove him to FEMA.” The weight of his words comes crashing down on him. He wasn’t thinking— that could’ve been a human, just like him, who cared about their teeth. Something had screamed at him in that moment, hammered at his skull, telling him he was a Visitor, that he knew he was. Didn’t he?

It was the silence that drove him to it. His thoughts got louder and louder until they consumed him, his foot pressing down on the pedal. Didn't think.

“At first, they praised me,” he recalls. They’d taken him away from his car that would never be his again, led him further into the facility, and talked of nothing but what a great job he’d done. Help us help you, they'd said.

He believed it– ate up what they were telling him like it was being served to him on a silver platter. He had done the right thing. He had.

“But then… Jackasses wanted to haul me in along with whatever I'd brought 'em. So I bolted.”

And he retched and heaved and tugged at the jacket which hugged him tightly, constricted his breathing, until he lay deep in the dirt outside of the barbed fences, tear-streaked.

What could’ve happened if he didn’t take that passenger to FEMA? If he was— which he knows he was— a Visitor, and he allowed him to go free? Other than his will to survive, these thoughts had plagued him relentlessly.

Despite wanting to judge, the homeowner doesn’t. He’s had to make his fair share of risky decisions and have the life of someone else thrust into his hands.

“Come in.” There’s little reaction to his story other than the door being opened, yet still the Taxi Driver is filled with relief. A grateful sigh leaves his lips, and it feels like he’s able to breathe for the first time.

“Thanks, pal.” There’s so much more he wants to say, but he lacks the strength to do so. Instead, he takes one step inside; the silence which greets him is comforting.

"Just- don't trust them fuckers in yellow. Blink and they'll snatch you up."

Being on the harsh, unforgiving, dirt ground had provided him with little relief from the shock FEMA had given him. If anything, it had worsened it— brought back memories of his father after their run-in with him.

They struggled with debt for a long time afterwards, yet what his young mind couldn’t forget was the look of his old man, beaten and shaken on the side of the road. He’d wanted so badly to get out of the car and stand his ground, but fear cemented him to the plush comfort of the cab's backseat.

That was his fear response, he found out. Freezing.

You couldn’t get any hotter with what was going on with the sun, yet still, he managed to freeze.

When he hits what he’s sure was just a pothole and instead sees a stocky man running after his car, shouting expletives, with an injured dog at his heel, he freezes up and runs. Speeds off, doesn’t think twice.

When those FEMA officials talk about putting him in one of those ‘Quarantine Zones’, at first the shock freezes him, and then he bolts.

When he opens the living room door gently so it doesn’t make a sound, he freezes. Blood turns an icy, cold blue, like the suit on the figure that greets him.

Wolfhound studies the sleeping forms that are sprawled out across various furnishings. He stands with his back turned towards the Taxi Driver, until he doesn’t.

Until the same face that had been engraved into his brain meets his own.

It had been 15 years. Fifteen gruelling, painful years that weren’t made any easier by the threat that one day, they’d have to meet again.

Not in the only shelter for miles, please, God, no— that can’t be him. Because if it was—the homeowner had let a murderer into his home. The world was letting a murderer run free. If it weren’t for him, the injuries that ailed his father wouldn’t have led to his death.

He would still be alive. That hits him the hardest— his pops talked about getting to see him grow up, about entrusting his cab to him, grandchildren—.

There’s no fight in him anymore. He freezes like the coward he knows he is, powerless against the predatory gaze that bores into his retinas. They’re around the same height, yet he feels like a small, powerless child all over again.

That same set of perfect teeth greeted him like they did his father, now lined with gold. It’s good to think somebody had punched his lights out— but still, the fear grips him tightly.

He’d run if the midday sun would allow it. Instead, he stands there like a deer in headlights— useless. His hand moves up to grip the door handle, but is stopped by a squeeze of his wrist.

“Oi, where’re you goin’, pup?” He grins sickeningly, voice dripping with contempt. The hold he has on him feels like it could cut off the blood flow rushing under his skin. His heartbeat rang loudly in his ears, deafening.

“Not gonna stop fa’ a chat?”

“...There’s— nothing I want to say to you.” It’s a struggle to speak. He wants to tug away from his grip, to shout and to make a scene, to grab someone’s attention— but he doesn’t. Everything he had is gone, or is going to be.

“Nothing that would matter. You wouldn’t care about my struggles, the shit you put me through…”

“I wouldn’t,” he confirms, voice lowering to match his volume. His tone is almost light, like he’s proud to feel no remorse. Everything around them became a blur until all he could focus on was that bastard and the pain that seared through his arm.

When he pulls away, the skin is tender and bruised. That’s not what hits him at first, but rather everything that had built up over the past few days. It plummets into his stomach at unstoppable speeds, spreading throughout his chest.

“Why—” his breath catches in his throat, resulting in him coughing and spluttering. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes but fail to shed. “God— why me?”

His knees drop down onto hardwood flooring, the pit in his stomach deepens, and his cheeks feel wet as his body convulses. Shaken, just like his pops, and nothing had even been done to him yet.

“You’re a fuckin’ mess.”

His haphazard mind could barely register what was being said.

“A joke.” The man above him frowns, disgust present in his eyes. He looks down on him like he's the scum of the earth. Hell, it sure feels like he is.

“I know,” he hiccups. If he had someone to hold, maybe he wouldn’t have ended up here. Wouldn’t have picked him up, wouldn’t have lost it all…

“I don’t have anything left. What you didn’t take, FEMA did.”

“If you want to kill me, then I won’t beg.”

But Wolfhound knows better. He’s here for the same reason they all were. Humans were animals, and an animal's base instinct is survival. Easy prey is no fun, but even so, he reaches into his jacket and produces a small handgun. Might makes right.

“Ya won’t?”

“No.”

“Your father did.”

That gets him to shut up, for the shaking to persist. Wolfhound went on.

“He looked me in the eyes, beggin’ fa me to stop. Even said he’d drive me ‘round the block for free, but I ain’t that stupid.”

“I…”

“Coughed up blood an’ mucus. Watched the colour leave ‘is face, draining the life outta ‘is body. Tried to fight it at one point. An’ what were you doin’?”

“Don’t…”

“Sulkin’ in yer dad’s cab while he’s out there, dyin’ on the street?” The gun isn’t raised; it sits idle in his hand. He’s taunting him, wanting to gauge a reaction, and it works. God, did it work…

He swallows, trying to stop his throat from closing up and drying out. For once, he doesn’t want to run. Instead, he stands back up and creates as much distance from him as possible. Walls closing around him, chest tightening.

“That was years ago.” The Taxi Driver curls his hand up into a shaky fist, fingers digging into his palm. “I would’ve done more if it had happened now…”

“Would ya?”

He hates the way Wolfhound looks at him, hates how the corner of his lips raises into that mocking smile. Hates how well he knows him.

“I was young and scared– anyone would’ve frozen up.”

“You still are.”

Whenever he relived the past, the fear was still as visceral and raw as it had been back then. It would still cripple him, no matter how long had passed; he knew he’d never be able to save his father. The thought alone makes the pit in his stomach drop.

“Can’t even look at me, can ya, pup? ‘Cause you’re weak– always ‘ave been. It's all you'll ever be.”

It’d be pitiful if it weren’t so pathetic. They both knew it was the truth, that there was nothing he would’ve done differently. He’d have sat, wide-eyed, until everything was made better by forces that weren’t his own.

There was nothing I could do, he tried to convince himself. Nothing that would’ve mattered. He couldn’t ward off death or defy, stop the fires or the floods– all he could do was try to survive. If that made him selfish, so be it.

“You ain’t worth it.” He spits, moving to store his gun away. Even though he despised defiance, at least his father had put up a fight. This pathetic excuse of a man would kiss the ground where he walked if that ensured his safety. While respectable, it was fucking sad. The kid needed to grow a backbone.

“You never were.”

A click of the door shutting behind them resounds throughout the deathly silence, with slow, but steady strides following suit.

The Cab Driver looked up from where he sat on the edge of the sofa, eyes wearily blinking to keep himself awake. He was exhausted, but sleep wouldn’t come to him, not in a place like this. There were other rooms, but silence would only worsen his train of thought, so he stayed put– even if Wolfhound kept glaring at him. Safety in numbers, that’s what they say. That bastard enjoyed an audience, but acting irrationally would get him sent out into the unforgiving sun. It's not worth it.

A lanky and tall – impressively so – figure emerged, eyes lidded. His gaze drifted over to where he had been sitting, lips pursing into a straight line at the new face which sat there instead. He's not sober enough to come up with a remark, and it only mildly irritates him, eye twitching. With uncoordinated steps, he takes the seat beside him; the lack of a beer can in hand causes him to idly fuss with the collar of his shirt. When he turns to look to his right, he hunches down, slowly registering the sight he’s greeted with.

The man looked utterly defeated, his cap held in his hand, the other combing through his black hair fitfully. Bar Guy doesn’t know when he started caring about others, but it’s starting to piss him off.

“Everything alright?” He gruffs out, his voice causing the other to startle.

“...As alright as I can be with him here, I guess.” The Cabbie shrugged, trying not to think about it. “Almost got caught in the sun, so, I’ll take any shelter I can get.”

An eyebrow raised at that; so that was who he’d heard at the door… Nobody should’ve been outside at this hour.

“What were you doing out there?”

“Drivin’ people around,” he offered lamely. The memories were already becoming melancholic, the wounds fresh in his mind. “Ran into the wrong guy… Took him to FEMA, and those bastards took all I had.”

When he says it out loud, he's not as confident with his decision as he had once been. If he were human, did that make him a murderer? The rational part of his mind argued against that; it was FEMA making the decisions after all. He only defended himself. Was he going to risk his life over someone else’s?

He’s glad when he’s pulled out of his thoughts by the voice next to him.

“Didn’t think anyone still trusted them,” Yesenin breathes out, his hands fumbling with a pack of cigarettes. “You believed in their bullshit?”

“...It’s all we have to go off of– look, man, I ain’t exactly feelin’ too great about what happened.” There were more pressing matters at hand. Even if he wasn’t a Visitor, being under the same roof as the man who’d ruined his life… It isn’t a comforting thought.

“No one feels great these days, my good man.” The lighter flicks on, lighting up his sullen face, as he presses it against the end. “I’m not judging– it just surprised me.”

“What else was I supposed to do?” He doesn't give up, does he, the taller man notes. “He was a Visitor.”

“Everyone is— if you believe they're ‘visitors to the surface’, or some nonsense like that.” Smoke left his lips, trailing from out of his mouth. “We all are; we'll leave this world one day, coming and going, just like they will. It's all just one big fucking mess.”

By now, he was talking to himself more than anything. His eyes lock onto the low ceiling and don't break away until he has to hack up ash from his lungs.

There's nothing the Taxi Driver can say to that, nothing that would matter. He doesn't think the words are meant for him, but they hit him all the same.

“Guess so. I never really…thought about it, y'know? What the Visitors are…”

“Human,” Yesenin supplies. “This heat’s making us paranoid. The worst of it turns us into one of those beasts, but outwardly, they’re still human. Maybe there's a reason behind it all, but that doesn't matter now.” The cigarette burns out, stubbed into the old, patterned fabric of the sofa.

Even if the talk was dreary, it was depressingly relevant. Any regular human could be mistaken, like he was, like he mistook, for a Visitor. Regret seeped through his pores; when had he become so selfish?

When the cataclysm first hit, and he immediately raised his prices? He was risking his life for others' benefit; he had to make a living after all.

When he judged anyone who showed a single sign, despite himself having multiple? Caution, that's all it was.

When he drives away from a grieving man, caused by his own inaction, too consumed in his own grief to stop to help, he remembers feeling guilt.

Guilt, because he could've— should've— done more, and yet he ran.

He always does.

A gunshot sounds from outside, startling him awake. He can't remember closing his eyes. The previous night was all a blur; a mismatch of memories he couldn't piece together.

First, he notices that the living room is vacant, but hushed conversations from another room confirms he's not alone. The thought comforts him, and then settles into confusion. Daylight hadn't fully encroached the sky yet, letting a steady glow of sunrise paint the sparse indoor furnishings in its golden hues.

Pushing his elbows up, he takes a peek outside. It’s the same, dreary view as always, heat waves clouding his vision. Something runs in the distance; a blur of deep blue is all he can make out. A Visitor? He didn't think the homeowner would let them leave alive.

Without jumping to conclusions, his body carries him out and into the hallway. Insomnia had taken its toll on him; without it, he might’ve woken up sooner from the constant chatter.

That tall guy from earlier stands in the foyer with the homeowner, still with that turtleneck on. The Cabbie hadn’t thought much of it, but it struck him as odd, especially when the heat inside was only slightly more bearable than it was out.

“...Idiot got what was coming to him,” he makes out, stepping closer and hoping he isn’t intruding. They don’t say anything when a creak in the old floorboards makes his presence known- except for the quick glance from Yesenin.

Light coming from the windows bounces off the metal on the double-barreled shotgun, except it’s not the owner who holds it. Lying limp by Bar Guy’s side, he discards it, throwing it towards the ground.

“He wouldn’t have left peacefully– I fucking knew he wouldn’t.”

He had a good idea, but it was wishful thinking at best. Instead, he clears his throat that had become hoarse overnight. Over the day? Was daytime considered the night now? His head spun trying to make sense of this new world.

“Who’re you talking about?” He breaches the subject slowly, heart hammering in his chest. It feels like he’s overstepping, but they must’ve known a sound like that could’ve woken the dead.

When they both turn to look at him, it does nothing to soothe these feelings. They’re notably unbothered by him, but it still makes him feel uneasy when the silence lingers longer than it should.

“Doesn’t matter now. That guy in the suit– never got his name, and I don’t care for it.”

The Taxi Driver had tuned him out from the moment he’d said ‘suit’. In that moment, he could forget about the cataclysm, about the Visitors. His worst fear was the knowledge that He had been out there, the prisons closed for risk of contamination, scum like Him walking free…

But someone had dealt with him, someone other than himself, and he didn’t have to put up a fight. Any moment now, and he’d wake up from this heat-induced dream.

He doesn’t.

“You serious?” It’s a foreign feeling to finally be at ease in a place that isn’t his own. Yesenin gives him an odd look, turning to face him fully, groaning at the pain caused from hunching so often.

“Yeah. Something wrong?” He’d already been chastised for raising a gun to someone– ironic coming from the man who waved it around, holding the lives of others in his hands. If it’s unsafe to be alone, the homeowner could go and drag that devil back himself, but he knows he won’t. It had happened so suddenly, and he couldn’t have known of the others' own iron until it was pointed at him.

You can’t reason with everyone, especially not when they resort to violence to get their way. Things like that disgusted him to his core, and he wouldn’t let someone be so obviously disrespected in their own home.

“No– nothin’. Just…Hard to believe, is all.” He scratches his forearm, wondering why it was so impossible to believe. Wolfhound wasn’t some unstoppable force– he just acted like he was.

“I overheard what he’d said to you last night. Fucking crazy if he thinks he can say that to someone.”

Nobody had given a damn about his old man; rightfully, nobody should for him either. Not when he admitted to being so single-minded, with his only drive being survival.

Perhaps, if someone had shown they’d cared, such simple words wouldn’t have floored him.

“Didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but he’s not exactly quiet…”

“That’s fine,” he stops him from saying any more. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, well,” Yesenin plummets his hands into his pockets. First his hangover, now this… He needed a drink. “You’re welcome.”

After he takes his leave, the homeowner grabs his shotgun. He’d seen the way Yesenin shook as he took it off of him, shooting at nothing in particular. Close enough so the man knew he meant business, but it was obvious he’d never held a gun before.

Wolfhound knew he hadn’t, stood and watched him fumble, amusement glinting in his eyes. He left all the same, and didn’t look back. Good riddance.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” the homeowner breaks the silence, heading after where footsteps had trailed off not long ago. His concise words seemed to be a part of his personality, and the Cabbie didn’t mind them. Plenty of his folks said very little, but meant well.

“Alright— thanks,” he calls after him, still perplexed by it all. Had Wolfhound really just…left? It was difficult to imagine. Not on his own terms, no, he’d have stayed forever otherwise. But he wasn’t coming back now. Never.

All of his life, he struggled, moving from place to place— all because of him and his ‘pack’. They’d find them, money would get tight, and they’d have to move on.

But now, it was only him, with nowhere to go back to.

There were people here who cared, and that’s all he’d ever need. If they kept people like him out, then he could rest easy for once. All he’d ever wanted was to feel safe.

But, if he was thinking about it truthfully, not clouded by recent events, he’d wanted to be twelve again and to have his father live.