Chapter Text
It's been two months. I’m alive.
The traveler kept count, of course. For the first few weeks, he’d written long and detailed log entries into his journal, along with the day’s date. However, it hadn’t taken very long until the entries all started looking the same, at which point he just started scrawling: ‘It’s been X amount of time. I’m alive,’ one after another.
Beside this riveting new hobby, the traveler had settled into a very elaborate and carefully catered routine: wake up, stay alive, sleep. It actually wasn't that different from his life prior to the incident, which he found only slightly worrying. Even though he had always cared deeply for other people, he had never considered himself a people-person, as he preferred to spend most of his time alone. He’d thought that being stuck in a bunker would be a walk in the park. He had been wrong.
Loneliness had already settled underneath his skin like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Sure, he could distract himself–numb his mind with old magazines and sleep, but he couldn’t do anything about the fact that he was completely and utterly alone. Not only was he miles underneath the ground with no way to contact anyone, he wasn’t even sure if there was anyone to contact anymore.
Memories of his parents, friends–everyone swirled around his brain endlessly, to the point he couldn’t discern what was real and what was his own self-loathing. I could’ve saved them, he thought as he got up from his armchair and sluggishly approached the kitchen counter. I’m never going to see anyone ever again.
An incessant fatigue followed the traveler, despite him sleeping a full 8 hours every night and doing mostly nothing during the day. He felt like a shell of his former self. He opened a cupboard and pulled out a can of beans and rice, which was the only food he’d packed into his bunker. It had once been his favorite meal, but after only eating it day after day after day–it had started tasting like ash.
He ripped the top off the can and poured the contents onto an already-used plate, before unceremoniously depositing it and himself at the dinner table. Glassy-eyed, he sat down and stared at his dinner. I don’t deserve this. Even though his appetite was long gone, he shoveled some of the rice into his mouth and chewed mechanically. I let them all down.
The deafeningly loud screech of a crow crashed his train of thought.
The surprised inhale he took abruptly sucked the food straight to his windpipe, blocking his airway. He hacked and coughed as he quickly staggered to his feet, pressed his abdomen into the back of the chair, and began thrusting against it in a one-person Heimlich manoeuvre.
A particularly hard shove eventually dislodged the blockage; spit and rice landed on the table and dripped down his chin. Light-headed and heaving, the traveler fell backwards onto the floor. He’d been close to death more times than he could count before, but all the previous times would’ve been dignified ways to go. Beans and rice were not going to be the thing to kill him.
Once some oxygen had gotten back to his brain, the traveler slowly got up and turned to face the doorway that led to his bedroom. A thin layer of sweat formed over his forehead. I heard something. He snatched up his knife and cautiously approached the doorway. I know I heard something. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.
Clutching the knife white-knuckled, he peeked into the bedroom. Aside from the usual furnishings in their usual places, the room was empty. The traveler let out a sigh as he fully stepped into the room, but it was not one of relief. A horrible sense of dread misted the air around him. Why would I have heard something?
He knelt down and looked under his bed. Nothing. He chewed the inside of his cheek. I swear I heard a crow, or–
Just as he was about to rise, his blood ran cold. An overwhelming feeling of horror anchored him down. There’s something behind me. Something like a shotgun aimed at his head, or a tiger ready to pounce and kill its prey. Yet all his survival instincts dissipated into nothing; he merely screwed his eyes shut and waited for the inevitable to happen.
But it didn’t. He blinked his eyes open and glanced back at the empty room behind him. He felt violently ill. What’s happening to me?
***
It’s been about a week since the hallucinations started.
The words lay at the top of a mostly-blank page in a mostly-blank journal. The traveler nervously fiddled with his pen, before continuing:
It hasn’t been that bad so far. The crows are still the most common, same with the growls. The laughter and weird dog sounds are new. Sometimes I hear whispers, but I can’t tell what they’re saying.
The traveler paused. He didn’t know why he was writing anymore, much less why he was embarrassed to do so. Still, he added one final sentence:
I don’t know what to do.
With that, he closed the journal and leaned back in his chair. What am I going to do? It’s not like he could see a therapist or read a self-help book: nothing of the sort existed in his world anymore. He’d been too focused on preserving his life to think about the quality of said life.
A sudden yip made him flinch. He refused to admit the hallucinations were bothering him, but he couldn’t deny the blatant fact that he was growing more agitated by the day. It made him feel weak–something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Unfathomable pig-amalgamations used to cower before me. Now I'm scared of things that weren’t even there.
The training he’d gone through had briefly touched up on how to handle mentally ill evacuees, but it hadn’t gone in-depth into any specific symptoms. He couldn’t remember any specifics, either; just “stay calm” and “do not escalate”, among other non-helpful jargon.
He’d been good at his job. Hell, he’d been one of the best, even if he didn’t believe it anymore. Frowning, the traveler crossed his arms. He focused hard on trying to remember if he’d ever helped a person experiencing hallucinations, but his mind was much too hazy. Sleep didn’t come to him so easily anymore, and he’d been skipping meals more often than not.
Regardless, the attempt was cut short by a chain of overlapping, indistinct whispers. The traveler groaned; he’d grown to hate the whispering, even if it was one of the rarer and newer additions to his roster of hallucinations. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make out what was being said.
Sir?
The traveler’s eyes blew wide open. It was spoken by a voice much louder than the rest, clear as day. He instinctively whipped his head around to scan his surroundings, but there was nobody in the bedroom aside from him. The whispering had stopped.
Hesitantly, he got up and walked to the living area, which was desolate as well. The sound of footsteps crept up behind him and he instantly spun around, staggering backwards in the face of nothing. He only barely managed to keep himself upright. His head was reeling with delirium and exhaustion.
In the corner of his eye, he caught a swarm of pitch black birds flying across his bedroom. A disgusting mixture of disbelief and terror coiled in his chest. He clutched his head and cursed.
***
I haven’t slept in days.
Strained and struggling to stay open, the traveler’s eyes bore into the only words he could muster to write. He hadn’t exactly lost count of the time, but he wasn’t exactly on track, either. He scribbled a ‘4’ in the blank space and hoped he was right.
Everything ached. He hadn’t moved an inch for many, many hours, simply letting the wonderful flashes of color flood his vision. He didn’t bother fighting it anymore. There was no reason to. His muscles were atrophying. His brain was decaying. He was going to die.
Sir, with all due respect, don’t you think it’s time to do… well, anything?
The traveler didn’t budge.
Or, you can just sit there, like you’ve been doing for who-knows-how-long. That’s fine too, sir. I trust you fully!
Eventually, the traveler solemnly placed his head in his hands. What am I doing? Warm tears swelled in his eyes.
Oh my, the voice exclaimed. Please, sir, don’t cry!
The traveler could barely hear the faint footsteps approaching before he felt an enormous weight placed on his shoulder.
His gaze shot up and piercingly yellow eyes stared right back. An unfathomable, yet unmistakably real figure was crouched down beside him. It was at least three times his size, with pitch black skin and jagged teeth stretched into a far-too-big grin.
The voice came again and the thing’s mouth moved: I’m here for you.
In a sudden panic, the traveler scrambled backwards, managing to tip over his chair. He was thrown painfully onto the floor, and he pushed and kicked at the ground to get away from the creature. Curious eyes followed the traveler as the figure rose to its feet. Its head was slightly tilted in confusion, before it seemingly realized something.
Oh! Forgive me, I forgot to introduce myself! You may call me Ik.
The traveler’s back hit the wall as the creature started walking towards him. He covered his face again and frantically shook his head. It’s not real–this isn’t real.
“Don’t kill me,” he rasped. Unused for so long, his voice felt like sandpaper as it tore through his throat.
The thing paused and shot him a puzzled look. What are you talking about, sir?
“Go away,” the traveler spat out, refusing to look or even answer. The room went quiet for a moment, spare for the traveler’s hysterical breathing.
Okay, sir.
The traveler sat there for many more moments, clutching his head and shuddering with shaky breaths. It was at least five minutes before he found the strength to uncover his eyes. The figure was gone, and he was alone again.