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A real menagerie’s marched through the homeowner’s doors. Burnouts, doomsayers, nervous wrecks and con artists. Any type you could imagine. The homeowner had let so many of them in, but now he’s even more cautious, because bodies keep piling up. He’s cleared out a few Visitors by now.
But he doesn’t know about Yakob.
The owner of this place had let him in after an initial rejection. The promise of some reveal about the origin of the Visitors had swayed him. And he, eternal, had stepped through the door with a smile so benevolent.
“I’m Yakob, by the way.”
The homeowner’s stare had made it obvious that he didn’t give a shit about this information. Yakob didn’t press him, instead going where he was told– the office. So far, he still doesn’t know the homeowner’s name.
They speak in the room he’s been assigned the next day.
“Immortality, yeah. That’s what I mean. We never actually die. You think this body lives and rots and that’s it. But it’s not.” The homeowner doesn’t respond much, only idly pushing the conversation along. “– It’s not just me. It’s you, too. You get what I mean, right?”
The homeowner closes his eyes and seems to swallow a sigh. “... Sure. I need to test you.”
So it goes.
Yakob’s heart jumps when the pale one arrives. Not at all happy to see him, but to advance his own goals. It’s steps closer to his destiny. The purgatory where he’ll wait for his daughter. Because now, Death’s clarified: You won’t find her. She’s miles and miles away. You’ve missed your window to save her in this life. But she isn’t gone from you. Twice, the pale man’s knocked at the door. Twice, the homeowner denied him entry. He’s the white horse heralding the end. That tall shadow had cascaded over the curtains as he left the house, watched by the other tenants in frozen horror.
But he keeps hanging around instead of breaching the door. He seems fixated on the homeowner. Yakob can’t tell why. It’s probably not for him to know.
Right now he shares a space with a gunshot victim. His wound bleeds onto the couch as he tries to gulp down miserable groans. And there’s an undertaker who rocks back and forth on the floor, his skinny back hitting the coffee table again and again. Finally, a paper-white enigma in a black sweatshirt who talks to himself more than anyone else. The only person whose company Yakob had enjoyed was a schoolteacher, hands and forearms bubbled with burns that she’d hid under a turtleneck. They’d spoke about their children. Her, a class of kindergarteners. Him, his daughter. She’d preferred to distract her grief with his, and she’d tried to comfort him, even though he knew there was no point.
And then she’d killed herself.
Headaches consume his day. The one in the black hoodie mutters, “Two and two… add another. That’s supposed to be ‘trust’, I think. It’s a lie. If he shows up one more time, we’re all dead.” Yakob humors him. “What are you talking about?” The guy shakes his head. “It’s a sequence. Angel numbers.”
Yakob has no idea what that means. “Wow. Interesting.” It isn’t to him. It’s desperation for some kind of social interaction.
“Shut the fuck up,” says the guy with the bullet embedded in his guts. Can’t tell if it’s directed to hoodie-guy or himself. “No one wants to listen to you. Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”
The gravedigger picks at his nails. “Enough already...” Then he looks over at Yakob like he’s been snapped from some trance. “Wish they were all like you.” He flashes a grin half-gold with fake teeth. Must mean the way Yakob’s mostly friendly and keeps his voice down. He’s given a faint smile back.
There are too many people in this room. Yakob has to get some air. Still stale, still hot, but away from the exhaust of three others. He slips off the cabinet he’s made his seat. On the way to the kitchen and hoping to be allowed a beer, he sees the homeowner standing at the counter. His face is in his hands. Yakob watches him rub at his eyes. He doesn’t even turn around when the door opens. Yakob observes him. Being a Visitor doesn’t stop him from wanting intimacy. Now it grates even more. He’s been wandering around for so long that the days have blended into nothing. He sidles closer, and he reaches out, placing a hand on the homeowner’s shoulder with a reassuring pat. “You good?”
The homeowner whips around and shoves him hard enough to send him crashing backward against the table. Yakob hardly manages to stay on his feet. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
Standing back up straight, Yakob lifts his hands in submission. “Sorry. I’ll go.” He turns and he leaves.
Now he really won’t get that beer.
The next day, returning from the bathroom after brushing his teeth the best he can, Yakob comes upon him in the hallway. The homeowner opens the door to the living room and leaves it so. Usually he keeps all the rooms shut away from each other. Yakob is so terribly bored that he takes the gamble of following him in.
No one’s left in here. A couple of the residents had chosen to leave, and the homeowner had shot the rest. Blood spatter stains some parts of the walls; no amount of cleaning could get it off. The occupants are dwindling. There’s someone in the closet and someone who haunts the kitchen when she’s not trying to do some ‘protection ritual’ in the basement. The homeowner glances over his shoulder. There’s unfathomable fatigue in dark circles that surround deadened eyes. Yakob isn’t told to leave, so he takes a few more steps in with a tame smile. He doesn’t say a thing until the homeowner blurts something out. “I didn’t mean to do what I did yesterday.” Pause. “Just on edge.” Yakob relaxes, folding his arms. Calm now, right? “Hey, don’t worry about it. We’re living through the end of the world– probably.”
There’s a quiet huff of acknowledgment. The homeowner barely speaks to any of them beyond examining them for Visitor signs. He retains an aura of resentment toward them all, searing as the sun. It feels strange to be alone in the room with him like this, as if they’re playing some clumsy dance around social expectations that the homeowner doesn’t care for. Yakob’s going to test the waters. He can’t stand the silence.
Searching for some topic, he eyes the shelf, lightly dusty. “You keep the place... minimalist.” It’s all so empty, which adds eerieness to the memory of whoever was here before. He notices the form of a book nearly invisible in the corner of that shelf. A small, thin one bound in scratched black leather. Nothing on the front or the back. Might as well continue filling up this noiseless room. Yakob takes it and opens it to a random page, skimming it before reading aloud.
“I regarded you on the gallows as the only spectator left. You were a sad pendulum. I stood in your shadow until you ceased swinging. The body, suspended so heavily, was no longer you. In the dirt you would stay bound as nutriment for the worms, and nothing ever again.”
His eyes flick up to catch the homeowner with a look almost mischievous. "Pretty morbid.”
“I guess.” Finally, some response.
“You like reading that kind of shit?”
The homeowner scuffs himself toward the door. He closes it. Then he returns and sinks into his couch, staring at the ceiling. “It’s just a book.”
What’s this? Carefully, Yakob mirrors him, moving to sit some distance away from him on the couch. He laces his hands together and leans forward, elbows on his knees, waiting for the homeowner to lead.
“Nothing feels real,” the other man says.
“Reality’s subjective, anyway. Remember what I told you.”
When he turns his head to meet the homeowner’s eyes, he realizes the man has already been staring at him. Yakob keeps it, curious. The homeowner’s lips are parted as if he’d wanted to say something and thought better of it. Words might shatter the glass, so Yakob says nothing as he chances scooting closer. The homeowner is reclined back into the cushion. He doesn’t rebuff him, and Yakob gets near enough to feel his body heat. This isn’t unusual for him. He likes men and women both. Still there’s eye contact, and he catches the homeowner’s gaze drift down to his chin and back up.
So delicately, Yakob reaches to place a palm on his thigh. Light as a feather: “Gets lonely, doesn’t it?” He’s waiting for a punch to the face. It never comes. The homeowner doesn’t even tense up. Instead he shifts enough to spread his legs, just a little. Then he sits up.
The homeowner tilts his head in and leans forward, abrupt and starving. It’s like he’s been given permission to destroy a dam of restraint he’s set upon himself and it comes bursting out. When their lips meet, Yakob wastes no time reaching for the button of the other man’s slacks, then his own. They aren’t soft; their teeth bump and their tongues are combative, each met kiss so desperate. The homeowner exhales, hot, and Yakob rubs along the other man’s stiffening cock through his pants. Ravenous.
God, he needs this.
Yakob unzips the homeowner and then himself, reaching to grab for his length. Pull it free. The homeowner echoes this, his hand closing over a dick only just bigger than his own.
Really, Yakob had thought the homeowner would be one of those awkward types who kept themselves quiet during sex, but the guy is moaning and panting right into his mouth at the first few strokes of his cock. He goes slow at first, contrasting the way the homeowner jerks him off with a fumbling need. When Yakob teases him, the homeowner only presses harder into him, closed eyes narrowing as he sucks at his tongue.
After toying with just the base of the shaft, Yakob relents, his strokes hastening. He’d like to murmur about how eager the other man is, but the kiss doesn’t break. The homeowner barely lets him breathe, his mouth nearly swallowing his as his hand pumps along his length with such pressure. He urges him with a little roll of his hips, crushed up against Yakob’s thigh. It’s getting highly difficult to stop himself from prematurely blowing his load with the way the homeowner is stroking at him so hard, so Yakob pulls back. The homeowner follows, violent, demanding his mouth again. Yakob breaks away once more to veer himself away from the edge. He wants– more than this. For a second, he glances up to the door. There’s no lock on it. Maybe they can be quick enough. Penetrative sex would be too complicated right now. He doesn’t want to delay this to get prepared, anyway. They can make do with something else.
“C’mere,” Yakob breathes, pushing his pants a little further down his thighs. The homeowner copies this. He grabs for the homeowner at the hips and encourages him close, watching their cocks glide up against each other, small twitches leaving shared strings of precum between both tips. Yakob tugs him into sitting on his lap, and without needing any further lead the homeowner is already grinding up against him, noises full of want hummed onto Yakob’s cheek as he bares all of his pent-up desire. Yakob supports him in place, hands groping at his ass. Christ, he wants to fuck him. Maybe he will some time after this. He holds both of their cocks in place, jerking them against each other while the homeowner keeps rutting himself forward.
Yakob growls into his mouth. “Yeah… fuckin’ like that, don’t you.” He’s met with a needy little sound, and he stares at the way the sweat beads on the homeowner’s face. And then the homeowner is sliding to the side, grabbing for Yakob’s shoulders and pulling him right overtop his body. Yakob is quick to position himself so that they can keep frotting, his palm closing around the two of them as precum spreads slick all over his fingers. They’re making a mess. When he raises up on his knees for just a second to adjust how they lay, the homeowner reaches for his wrist. Guided along, Yakob relaxes it enough to be pulled. The homeowner draws his hand over his throat.
Choking? Yakob holds his palm there for a few seconds without an ounce of weight. His hand drifts away, settling instead on the homeowner’s collarbone. With a frustrated sound, the homeowner yanks it back in place. “Do it,” he whispers, licking his lips and squirming around under him.
Yakob’s not used to being any sort of rough, but it doesn’t turn him off. Unsure of how forceful the homeowner wants it, he’s tentative at first, continuing to jerk the two of them off as he presses, carefully, into the bones of his throat. Under his thumb he can feel his pulse, rapid and excited. And the homeowner thrusts himself upward, fresh spurts of precum coating Yakob’s palm– he really likes that. Yakob’s reluctant to press down any harder, concerned about breaking something, but the homeowner seems satisfied as he lets go of Yakob’s wrist. He gags once, and Yakob lets go before the homeowner grabs at Yakob’s hips and fucks himself up against him a few more times. He climaxes, a heady groan stuttering out from his chest. Watching him come with such urgency sends a jolt through Yakob’s dick, and he speeds up, catching that moment to get himself off at the same time. He’s several seconds late; his endurance is better than the homeowner’s.
They pant against each other. They bask in the glow of it. For minutes not nearly long enough, the outside doesn’t exist. There are no fires and there are no corpses. It’s only this.
The world creeps back in as they both rise from the couch. They clean up in the bathroom and then the homeowner allows Yakob into his bedroom. When he slumps onto the sheets, Yakob accompanies him on the opposite side of the mattress. They sit in silence before Yakob scoots near and props his back against the headrest. It’s clear that the homeowner isn’t cuddly, but Yakob squeezes him into his chest, one arm over his shoulder. He kisses at his forehead. The homeowner doesn’t reciprocate, seemingly distracted with his own thoughts– or maybe he doesn’t really like being touched post-fuck.
Yakob offers some comfort. “It’ll be alright.”
The homeowner refuses this. “I don’t think it will.” Pessimism from a bottomless pit.
“... You should sleep,” Yakob tells him.
The homeowner tolerates being held for only a minute or so before he shifts away, his back turned to Yakob as he curls, fetal, to do just that. Sleep. At the very least, Yakob feels grateful that he’s trusted enough to be in the room most vulnerable. At some uncountable time of night, failing to fall asleep himself, Yakob, listlessly, caresses at the homeowner’s back with idle fingers. The homeowner isn’t asleep either. He turns over and they’re tangled in each other again. One more round to knock each other out. It’s more of the same they’d done in the living room.
Then the sun bakes the room. They wake up.
Still yearning for some kind of physicality, Yakob rolls himself over and drapes an arm atop the homeowner. He’s the big spoon. “‘Morning,” he sighs into the homeowner’s neck. There’s barely any acknowledgement in return. “Mmhm.” Undeterred, Yakob’s hand strays over the homeowner’s torso, gliding down toward his abdomen. Lower. His fingers find his cock and he strokes his fingertips across the shaft before trying to take hold of it. He still wants to fuck him.
But the homeowner sits up, immediately grabbing the remote at the nightstand and turning the TV on. The news blares its latest. Denied, Yakob looks up at him from the sheet below before he pushes himself to his hands and knees. He should get dressed.
And the day begins to drag on again.
The mood of the house is wavering. The homeowner’s getting so antsy. His growing paranoia makes him pace all around, shotgun in his right hand as, it seems, he’s struggling through who to get rid of next. If anyone. Yakob doesn't think it’ll be him. Miraculously, he’s spared for longer than the others. There’s some guilt. Yakob’s sure that the homeowner is playing favorites. It’s because of this small shred of a bond that’s formed between them. But it hasn’t been purposeful manipulation– honest. The homeowner had already set a boundary and showed hostility more than once. The guy is some unknowable steel wall. He isn’t interested in making friends with any of them. Just being nice to him and jerking him off wouldn’t have done shit. Yakob thinks he may be the one closest to him right now, though. This desire has been earnest. It just happens to coincide with a strategy to keep himself alive.
At one point he’s on the chopping block. Later on, he stares down the barrel of the gun and tries to keep his cool. The wounded man’s already bled to death and the gravedigger is off in the shower. The one in the hoodie is completely zoned out, his upper half buried in his legs. Yakob displays an expression almost sympathetic, like he’s more concerned about the homeowner’s mental health than getting his head blown off. “Are you serious? If I was a Visitor, I would have killed you by now.”
The homeowner doesn’t budge. His hands shake.
“... Don’t be stupid.” What a risk. Yakob thinks it might make him seem more authentic. He’s not a fucking weirdo like whatever tenants have come in nearly begging to die. “You haven’t seen any real signs on me, have you?”
When the shotgun lowers, Yakob stands and approaches with caution. Seeing no resistance, his hands slide around the small of the homeowner’s back and he nuzzles his face into his ear. His temple. “Do what you have to, but I promise I’m not one of them.” Lying is painful. The homeowner is rigid in his grasp, looking downward at Yakob’s sweater before gently backing away, breaking the cradle of his arms.
The sun sets so fast. On this night, the pale man comes calling for the last time. He is unstoppable. Fill him with bullets and he gets right back up, if you can even aim before he’s on you; one blink and it’s something immeasurably powerful. Fast. Decimating. It doesn’t matter what the homeowner does to try to save himself. The intruder asks that same question he keeps asking from behind the door.
“You alone?”
Such a long pause.
“… I’m alone.”
Does he think this is a sacrifice? Does he really have stake in the fates of strangers that have lurked in his home after he let so many in– a decision astonishingly naïve?
Maybe he just wants to die.
Yakob stays in the office. He has nothing to be afraid of. There’s noises of some kind of scuffle out by the door and then a heavy collapse. Is the homeowner dead? Something jabs him between the ribs. They only barely knew each other, and Yakob is sure the man didn’t particularly like him beyond some surface need for release, but he’d be heartless not to care.
The pale man angles himself in past the office doorway. A marionette with no strings. There’s a connection between them: mycelium of the mind. Yakob doesn’t need to be told anything. He’s spared, but that’s what he knew was going to happen. Even if Yakob’s confident in his safety, the image of the pale one is unnerving enough to make anyone tremble. Fear carves and hollows out his chest with a cold knife. He rolls his hands together to stifle it.
“Sooo… he never suspected you.” That awful voice.
Yakob cants his head. “A couple times.” It was only that he managed to persuade the homeowner.
The intruder’s gaze fixes on him for just a few seconds. This thing, this creature.
And he overtakes the gravedigger, tearing him limbless inside the cacophony of a dying scream. That agony will last for at least a few minutes. He lunges faster than the insomniac can react and smashes his skull into the wall, leaving him to bleed from his ears– his nose– his mouth in one long downward spiral. Then the intruder turns back around, paying no mind to Yakob and sweeping the house for whatever’s left. Doing his best to ignore the bodies convulsing and wheezing around him, Yakob slides off the cabinet he’s been perched on. He’s about to leave when the pale one stalks past the door’s threshold and back to the foyer.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?”
Something else. Must be talking to the homeowner. Yakob isn’t paying much attention because blood’s rushing in his ears. The adrenaline beat. There’s a dragging sound, a shuffling sound. Yakob waits it out before striding toward the door frame, catching one last glimpse of the homeowner being slung like a fresh catch and carried from the house. The pale one is hauling the man elsewhere. For a moment, regret lingers in him at the sight.
And then it washes away, because it must.
With that, Yakob has no reason to concern himself with either of them anymore. He stalls for some time, listening for the all-clear outside. No gunshots. He inhales, deep; he needs to find another house before FEMA gets on his ass. He steps past carnage piled upon the floor of most rooms. Makes him sick. It’s not like he’s much better. Death compels him to participate. But when he does, he tries to be merciful. To be quick, and to not relish in the way his targets experience that primordial terror of knowing they’re about to die. A snap of the neck is all they need, not mutilation until the shock rips them from this earth. It’s nearly impossible to push Her to the wayside when She runs Her fingers up the back of his neck and makes his stomach knot in hunger. But as Yakob walks back into the dark, he keeps his head down. Tonight he can get away with fighting it off. If he looks at the ground as he walks, he can’t see the stragglers that wander the fields, seeking the same shelter he is.
He never wanted to be cruel.