Chapter Text
"Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven..."
"Whosoever therefore shall break one of these least commandments, and shall teach men so, he shall be called the least in the kingdom of heaven: but whosoever shall do and teach them, the same shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven..."
"Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be subject to judgment."
...
Last days within familiar, decaying walls. He was used to considering each day his last: his rifle, obligingly hung by his father on the living room wall, tempted him like anything desired, a sweet forbidden fruit that - just reach out - would be yours. But the moment he would take it, or, which was even more terrifying, feel the tender maternal embrace of the dank emptiness, he would shamefully drop to his knees. His mind conjured vague images of his mother's eyes, judgmentally meek; his heart clenched at the thought of sin. His fragile faith was his last bastion of hope, the only thing that kept him going. Now everything was cracking and tearing apart.
World began to crumble, fear to grow. Perhaps God was angered with humanity for its slavish repentance of sin, and the merciless heat of the sun, like a Great Flood, was passing judgment on the rotten and corrupted. His home became a kind of ark. All who became unwitting hostages of the enraged elements could take shelter here. He wasn't sure he was fit for the role of savior, and even less sure he liked it. Help was merely an egoistic desire to postpone the inevitable. This is a human nature, and this is he himself - wretched, steeped in sin, but still, for now, a human.
...
The first to appear on his doorstep was Tall Man. This is how Homeowner privately called his new housemate: he was strapping and rail-thin, probably over 200 centimeters tall. This gave him advantage of about two heads, which was a very noticeable difference. The guest complained about the low ceilings, but tossed it off rather casually: he was used to it. The man, having found his spot on the dusty sofa in the living room, was unsociable and looked tired. His dark eyebrows were knitted together, his lips pressed tight, his eyes framed by shadows of sleepiness. He was grim and often rude, but Homeowner couldn't blame him for it. He himself wasn't without fault: was often overly blunt and didn't think before saying what was on his mind. Tall Man never minced words: he spoke directly, sharply, judgmentally, but always to the point. Sometimes the truth was harsh, but that's its nature - not always easy to accept. It was hard. News, FEMA, radio broadcasts - all instilled terror, speaking of dangerous creatures resembling humans. The committee found more and more signs and, as Tall Man himself once sardonically remarked, "worked tirelessly." He would also frown and make annoyed remarks every time Homeowner asked to see his teeth or eyes, but always reluctantly complied. When the signs didn't match, Tall Man would tiredly say something like, "Convinced? Now fuck off," and turn away, at which point conversation would cease. Homeowner quickly became convinced that Tall Man was not a Visitor, did not wear another's skin, and was not a threat. Then a guy appeared on the doorstep, shivering, freezing, wrapped in layers of clothes and, despite them, uncontrollably trembling. Stuttering and chattering his teeth, he spoke of the cold that was his constant companion. He took a spot next to Tall Man, on the same sofa, hunched vulnerably and clutching his head with trembling hands.
...
The house slowly filled with people. The bathroom reeked of weed: result of a rash decision to let the sick-looking guy with dreadlocks stay. The young man with empty eye sockets settled down in the kitchen. He was nicer than the others: polite, reticent and silent. Homeowner was grateful for that. Gravedigger and Immortal man took the office; pantry was taken by weird, unpleasant guy in a blue tank top. The only bastion of solitude was his bedroom, where Homeowner spent fused together days and nights, venturing out only to check the guests for signs of Visitors. He tried to keep to himself, but it didn’t always work out. Immortal man often tried to drag him into some pointless conversation that was far from gripping. Stoner - which was far worse - could talk for hours, not even being afraid to take the bullet right between his eyes. It was less exhausting with others: the silent presence of a man with a loaded rifle in the range of a cannon was enough for them to keep their distance. Slowly, Homeowner started to get into the rhythm of his new life, if this existing could be called that. After waking up, he smoked a cigarette and drank one can of beer, checked the signs from the morning news broadcast, did some chores, like washing the dishes, smoked another cigarette, then locked himself in the bedroom to do whatever was needed (including things like cleaning the rifle, watching old “Treasure Island” tape, and everything that helped him forget about guilt and suffocating loneliness), ate something that came to hand, smoked a cigarette, drank another can of beer, and went to sleep. That’s how days were passing, hard and slow. Despite the routine, any action was followed by nervousness and precaution. Especially on those nights when Homeowner was woken up by familiar, insistent tapping at the door. He slowly got out of bed, grabbed his rifle, and dragged himself into the hallway that seemed too long. Moonlight barely oozed through the closed blinds. It was dark and sweltering. Quiet waiting outside the door was making him more worried by minute. Knocks on a wooden surface were getting more desperate and greedy.
“Good night,” was heard outside the door. The Visitor’s voice, sweet as honey, didn’t match his appearance: pale, emaciated body, which, what was paradoxical, was capable of horrible, cruel deeds. He looked like a caricature of a passive smoking victim, though Ministry of Health didn’t warn about such consequences. “You’re so welcoming. So much space and people everywhere. Do you have your corner at least, hm?” Homeowner, looking at the distorting into a smile face, was able to angrily, but with obvious tooth-crushing horror, spit out:
“The fuck you want?”
“…Can’t wrap my head around one thing. What are you clinging to?” The Pale One started, and his smile scarcely faded. “Nothing is left here. Look around – it’s empty! You keep kicking, keep trying. If you were watching and not looking through, you would already point this… - The Visitor gestured towards the door, carelessly, indulgently. He was obviously referring to the homeowner’s gun, tightly clenched in his trembling hands. - …toothpick… to where all the rot spreading from. The most important thing is to eliminate the hearth, don’t you think?..”
“Why don’t I point it on you then, huh?” – Homeowner muttered through his teeth. The Visitor, to the landlord’s disgust, was too close to the truth, although his words grazed it only in the act of a teasing prelude.
“I just do what is required. Do you think the world would be reborn from the ashes if you kill me? You think it’ll change something?.. There are things you can’t grasp.” His cold grin stretched out unnaturally wide. His skin was gathering in folds decorating the incision of his mouth, opened in undisguised bliss. Eyes, careful, deep, the irises of which melted with the pupils, creating two black voids, pierced his body in a greedy desire to absorb, almost touching even through the door. “I’m your dual pastor. You don’t see… But when you’ll be left alone, we both will savor this agony.” Homeowner didn’t know what to say. Words died in his throat, their stiffened from fear corpse wouldn’t even let him to take a breath. The Visitor left his porch; his unnaturally thin silhouette disappeared in the lingering blackness.
Homeowner recoiled from the peephole, his eyes came to rest on the window. Outside, the careful night slept. If you could look only at the sky… Vast, unfathomable, tempting. Sullen and grey before, torn by the rays of the sun now, it always was something you couldn’t reach but was condemned to watch. And it watched you back. Not like the icon on the wall, not like father, not the way people look. Its gaze was full of divine acceptance. He liked the sky. How majestic it was at night, calm by day, its morning sleepiness, and how blindingly gorgeous it looked when the sun was setting. He loved stars, loved how gently the clouds touched its blue expanse, loved how the sky caressed the land with a pitying ray of the sun that wasn’t warm yet, a crack of sunlight that broke through the dark clouds… He loved how lonely it was. The land itself was depressing. Studded with bodies, soaked with blood, disfigured with scars of burnt forests and scorched grass, it was purely disgusting. He felt something unbearably heavy in his chest when his gaze stopped on the horizon-stretching steppe. He was born here, in the space smeared by men, and this is the place where he would spend his last days: lowered into the ground, rot in its heartless embrace, he would become one with it, take his shameful place that is always waiting for him, there, under the naked three’s frame, near two gravestones. He didn’t think that he deserved his heaven. He was ashamed of how he craved it, ashamed of imagining the face of the Saint when he thought about something wrong and unholy. But the sin was already a part of him.
He wasn’t a good person, but the usual pattern was repeating itself over and over again. Slowly, he looked away. Something vinegary flavored lingered on his tongue, as if he just emptied his stomach. Recoiling from the door, he walked towards his bedroom. He won’t let anyone in; not tonight.
...
The morning greeted Homeowner with a nasty headache. His lower back also hurt, but it wasn’t new: he was already over 30, and the mattress on the parents’ bed, he could tell, had been there since Lenin’s death. He got out of bed not bothering with making it, and glanced at his palms. Gunpowder residue… His gaze slowly moved lower, to the forearms. Homeowner winced; recently he noticed that areas of his skin affected by rash began to grow bigger. It made him nervous, which was creating a vicious circle: this rash was a result of stress and anxiety he felt constantly. He pulled on his blue sweater, adjusted the collar. The illusion of comfort is always in something familiar. The hall seemed too long. The doors, exhaustingly hanging on the rusty hinges, were barely splitting the house into rooms: it was a single mass, an old photo album that smelled like dry herbarium and rot. Each door hid its spread, but none of them brought pleasant nostalgic feelings or made one feel longing for home. It was simple but painful to the point of tears: those walls were full of sorrows and scorched on the residents’ bodies humility that wasn’t born out of hope for changes (you couldn’t even dream about such things here), but out of servile biblical fear, nurtured by generations. It was always punishment, never reward. His father treated children like dogs: with strength that never left questions about authority and taught better than any preach. “For a fool, it’s easier to show. Explanations are useless.” – He would say, glancing at his son’s fragile silhouette that was shamefully standing in the corner. Why neighbor was a friend of his at all? Habitats of the house opposite seemed so kind hearted and nice. Their daughter, – Homeowner knew – was bright, nurtured in love and care child. Didn't neighbor see the father’s predatory look, didn’t feel how thick the fear was, how rooms were swelling because of it, didn’t he see how pale Homeowner’s mother was, utterly wretched but accepting of her fate, and him, small and stiff, afraid to say a word?..
Homeowner opened the kitchen door. It sighed heavily, giving in. Hanging his head, Blinded man was sitting at the table. His hands were shaking, black strands flowed down his forehead, clinging to his glistening with sweat skin. Homeowner quietly mumbled something meaningless so the guy would know who came. Inkblots of his empty eye sockets turned towards the newcomer.
“Good…” – Blinded Man paused for a second, “Don’t know if it’s day…”
“Day, day…” – Homeowner nodded even though the man couldn’t see him; he walked towards the fridge, eyeing its poor content. Three beer cans, a half-empty jar of pickles, a dried lemon half, in the fridge door - lotion for dermatitis. Frowning, he squished the cockroach and closed the refrigerator. If he remembered correctly, he had some canned fish in the cellar. The potatoes were making him sick even before the apocalypse, and now he couldn’t even look at it. The amount of people under his roof was growing, and there wasn’t enough food for all of them.
Homeowner sighed, smoothing his slightly overgrown hair, and glanced at the guest who was awkwardly crouching against the wall.
“You hungry?”
Blinded Man hesitated, forcing a polite half-smile. “No, thank you. Not really."
“When was the last time you ate?” – Homeowner asked, receiving only meaningful silence in response. “…Mhm.” Soon he was already standing next to the oven, tying an age-yellowed apron with a stupid flower pattern – feminine thing his that had belonged to his mother. She always seemed to be wearing it. At least that was the image his mind had created. She wasn’t tall, just like him, and was standing quietly and stiffly. She only smiled in photos made before wedding. And with his father – never. So her lips were curled into a grimace of apathy, bordering with visceral parasitic longing; she didn’t dare to say a word, even her tears were silent. Wrinkled face that aged too soon looked exhausted. She always wore her hair in a bun: her locks, golden, sumptuous before, became dry and their color faded. The last time his mother gave him a smile for the first time in many years, as he subsequently realized – was in farewell. Thin, warm hand lightly touched his shoulder, her skin looked like it regained its color. She flared up only to go out. And then nothing was left.
Homeowner shook his head, banishing unpleasant memories. Here, at the table, sat the guy, shivering from cold. Homeowner gave him a knife and few small, weighty potatoes. Blinded Man, settled into his seat, was listening to the one-sided conversation of the bar guy, who in turn was helping Coat Guy with peeling potatoes.
“They all had gone mad!” – Tall Man growled, frowning. “People lost their humanity. The fuck knows what’s going on.”
“Times we live in…” - Homeowner mumbled, striking a match over the gas stove burner. The blue flame flared up, and he hurried to turn it down.
“Times…” – Tall Man winced, “We should stay human. People should be treated as people. Especially now.”
“If people had something human in them, they would.” – Homeowner replied flatly, taking cast-iron skillet out of the kitchen cabinet.
Coat Guy’s fingers gripped the handle of the dull knife. He was carefully peeling the skin off an unsightly potato, looking everywhere but at people in the room.
“Sounds w-weird.”
“Human can be different.” – Homeowner replied, - "There’s nothing worse than people. Sin is human. We’re guilty for whatever happens now.”
Tall Man, wrapping his skinny fingers around a can of beer, looked at him sideways.
“How so?” Homeowner felt a pang of something unpleasant. Talking about the Saint Sun, purifying the world of sin, was stupid, and he doesn’t really believe it, only considered. Blaming humanity for everything was also weird. He didn’t want to look like a misanthrope or a lunatic in the eyes of people who lived under the same roof as himself. He didn’t even understand why he decided to open his mouth today, knowing how bad he was at it.
“…Never mind.” – he bit his tongue, looking at the oil sizzling in a pan. Tall Man gave him a look, bur waved him off, returning to the peeling potatoes. His long thin figure wouldn’t let him feel comfortable in the house that was too cramped for him. So he had to hunch over the table; in his spidery finger the knife looked almost comically small.
“I als-so think…” – Coat Guy started quietly, “Th-there’s not m-much… kindness and understanding left in p-people.”
Blinded Man, resting his cheek on his palm, retorted.
“Depends on how you look at it… What were my chances to find someone who would let me stay in the middle of an apocalypse? Person without eyes, likely a Visitor.” It seemed no one decided to argue; the room fell silent for a moment. Homeowner looked down, pursing his lips. The young man’s gratitude was pleasant, but he felt like he didn’t deserve it. A hot shame washed over him, and he turned towards the table, asking too abruptly:
“You done here?”
“Yep. All done, my good man.” Homeowner threw out the peelings and got to cooking. He never had onion here, so he fried it just like that, in oil. He hated onion anyway, and the guests… Well, they could appreciate being fed at all.
...
After breakfast, everyone went to their rooms. After smoking a cigarette, homeowner went to his bedroom, having grabbed two cans of beer. He turned out to be more closed-off than Tall Man originally thought. The hermit’s silent presence was somehow noticeable for everyone, but Tall Man noted that Homeowner was more a victim of circumstances, having unwillingly found himself at the wheel, rather than a cruel, demanding subordination master. Even calling him one felt somehow wrong: he didn't set any rules in the house, answered all the questions in monosyllables, allowed to go wherever, expect for the bedroom (moreover, he hadn’t forbidden it verbally, but the residents had enough common sense to understand everything themselves). “Stay wherever you want.” – Homeowner had waved Tall man off the night he arrived, and he, not being used to walk around in other people’s houses like he owned it, firstly felt lost. Low ceilings, empty rooms, dust, cracks, torn wallpaper, chipped plaster: the house was uninhabited and this was painfully obvious. Halls seemed narrow and abandoned, especially at night. Not that anything changed in the morning: Tall Man just could take a more careful at the ugly wallpaper pattern.
A poster on the wall also caught his attention. It was an illustration of a tiny lonely building with a fun “Loneliness & Isolation!” title that caused mixed feelings. This day Tall Man had sat down at the sofa in the living room, hunching over in an uncomfortable pose, and had spent most of his time there since. Not that he had a choice – not at the end of the world. Above him, past the top of his head, there was a wooden cross. On the wall opposite - the hooks where, it seemed, the rifle used to hang. A little further away – a lonely icon. A crack was spreading up the wall from under it. Everything in the house evoced not even sadness, but something heavier and deeper. It was something sacred, something kept unwillingly, ugly but precious. There weren’t anything bright in here besides the poster, but it, in its turn, was screaming about the inevitable and terrible with reverence, with ardent willingness and want, as the ones who want to escape from captivity scream for freedom. All of this, in general, fit with Homeowner and his mechanical existence. Maybe Tall Man should have thought about himself and his own life, but it was meaningless. He knew everything about himself, and the fact that he would die – well, this no longer frightened him. It didn't really matter how it would happen either, too – the outcome would still be the same. But, as long as life hadn’t charged him, he wanted one thing: a companion. Maybe even a drinking buddy, if one had to be completely arrogant. He couldn’t talk with Homeowner, and even if something like a dialogue started, it would always be one-sided and would fade shortly after it began. The hermit was always silent when it came to sharing something about his life and himself, and all of his replies were vague and seemed disinterested. And after some time, the man from the bar got a neighbor: a guy, around 20-25 years old, reserved, quiet a little awkward in his movements, always shivering and, - Tall man didn’t have second thoughts about it – unmistakably a Visitor. Homeowner checked the guy once or twice, but still wasn’t entirely sure. His eyes weren’t red, but teeth – pearly white, even, like in the dental advertising. All these signs, of course, were complete nonsense, so identifying a Visitor in the poor guy’s - or actually anyone’s - case was just impossible. It’s always a deal with conscience. A conclusion based on prejudice and fear, an action that leads either to the salvation or to the fatal mistake, which, alas, would stay with you forever. And Tall Man saw, how uncertain Homeowner was. One time he even aimed his rifle at the poor guy, but the shot never came. None of them ever mentioned it again, but the tension in the air was almost palpable. Now Coat Guy was sitting near, hiding his face in his hands. The sight became familiar.
Sometimes Tall Man wondered how the guy could sit like this for hours, almost never moving. Actually, the presence of a Visitor’s this close should’ve made him afraid or at least wary but, against his better judgment, Tall Man couldn’t bring himself to be terrified of this trembling, scrawny kid, wrapped in three layers of clothes. There was something more concerning: the room was small, windows were constantly closed, in one word - it was stuffy, the air was unbearably heavy and stale. Once, Homeowner and Coat Guy had a small chat, in which they found out that the latter, apparently, doesn’t shower. At first, Tall Man didn’t even pay attention, but now, after all these days, it was becoming harder and harder to ignore the smell.
The man from the bar glanced at his roommate. In the yellowish light he looked like a gray spot; closer to the tips, his fingers were almost purple, the skin itself appeared greenish, rough and dry, creases and small cracks were reddening on his knuckles; his hair plastered damply over his forehead and shoulders in dirty greasy locks.
“Settled in?” – Tall Man asked. The guy shrank into himself, feeling lost.
“H-here?” – he asked uncertainly but understood everything from the man’s gaze. “D-don’t know. I f-feel uneas-sy.”
“Life in plenty,” – The man from the bar stated sarcastically, nodding. “Well, we have no choice. Consider us well-settled.”
“I’m t-thankful that t-there’s a p-place for me, but…” – the guy paused, looking at his burly hands clenching the fabric of his worn trousers. “I’m a b-bystander again. As if I s-shouldn’t be h-here at all.” Tall man looked at him with a hint of pity. It was hard for everyone, but Coat Guy, it seemed, had unwillingly ended up in a situation with only way out – a way that would sooner or later be amiably suggested by the owner of the house without the possibility to object or refuse. It felt weird to talk to someone who was doomed to die twice.
“All of us are bystanders. When were we ever asked about anything? Bullshit always comes from the outside, and we’re the ones to cover it up. Those,” - Tall man waved his hand scornfully, “in yellow suits, the guardians of the… law… People are losing their minds without them just fine, and they’re pressing… Teeth are too fucking white, nails too dirty… Makes me sick.”
“FEMA t-takes people f-from their homes…” – Coat guy drawled out quietly, “To t-the quarantine zones, I b-believe.” The man from the bar frowned, cursing under his breath.
“If we won’t die on our own, they’ll always lend a helping hand.” In a moment, the conversation died down. For Tall Man this joke of a government agency - FEMA – was nothing but a funeral home in disguise. He didn’t want to think about what happened to the people in so-called quarantine zones, but in the speeches of those with uniform and weapons only one word was clearly heard; on the fake reporter’s lips remained trace of something never said; letters were lining up like soldiers, falling one after another like dead bodies. People trusted their government, they trusted the news, but screens never shoved anything meaningful. The naked king promised everyone warm clothes. The onslaught of the winds was only becoming stronger. Tall man, putting aside his unpleasant thoughts, got up from the coach, stretching his stiff limbs.
He slumped into a hunch, looking at Coat Guy tiredly.
“Get up,” the man from the bar ordered. The guy looked up at him, confused.
“Why?”
“To take a shower.” – Coat Guy tensed up and probably was going to say something, but Tall Man shot him a colorful look. Objections, obviously, were not accepted. “Like in a gas chamber…”
...
Tall Man carefully knocked on the Homeowner’s bedroom door. The silence behind it was stretching mockingly long, so the man from the bar knocked again, this time more persistently and loudly. Some tired fuss was heard from behind the door, and after a moment it opened.
“What?” Homeowner’s hoarse voice sounded annoyed. He was squinting his reddened swollen eyes, wincing from the daylight. The riffle already took its rightful place on its owner’s shoulder, the steel muzzle gleamed menacingly. His old blue sweater looked messy, and Tall Man once again wondered how he could wear it in this heat, and in particular – sleep in it, when even at night the air was disgustingly thick and viscous as tar.
“Do you have a towel?” – The man from the bar asked, nodding towards the quiet guy beside him. “Maybe a change of clothes, too.” Homeowner’s gaze moved to the awkward guy. It was already clear: The End brought with it a lot of problems, alongside the matter of hygiene, which would become an urgent issue sooner or later. In Coat Guy’s case this topic was more than relevant, since his imaginary hardships did not affect the physiological functions of his body. Homeowner fell silent, thoughtfully looking somewhere at the floor.
“…Yes, in the…” He ran his hand over his face, sighing. “…closet.” He left, and for about a minute he was rummaging through the room, while Tall Man was looking at the nasty maroon wallpaper with boredom. Slightly annoyed, Homeowner went out, slamming the flimsy door too abruptly. He gave the thin terry towel to the Coat Guy and dragged himself towards the closet. The narrow space of the room was dusty and the smell of antiquity was particularly pungent; in the corner, near the wooden shelves, filled with boxes, crouching down, sat the guy. He looked nervous and was smiling weirdly, baring a row of yellowed lower teeth. His gaze was fixed on Homeowner. He set up a rickety stool, standing on it and reached towards the upper shelf, taking one of the boxes.
“From college.” The hermit mumbled, taking grey wool trousers out of it. “Should be fine.” Coat guy took it without much enthusiasm; Homeowner returned to the searching. The creepy guy’s eyes were observing him too closely. He pressed himself fully against the wall, stroking his knuckles with the fingers of his other hand. His breathing was uneven and rapid, and Tall Man for some reason remembered that he hadn’t seen him before. Quiet steps towards the bedroom he automatically attributed to Homeowner, although sometimes they were heard too often, especially during one night. Maybe this guy had appeared here recently… or only left when everyone was asleep. His shameless looks were also unsettling, even though they were focused exclusively on Homeowner.
“And you’re cold…” – the hermit mumbled, annoyed. He handed a hand-knitted grey sweatshirt to the Coat guy.– “How do you even manage. The forests are burning outside.” He shrugged stiffly, clutching the clothes in his hands. Homeowner knelt down, pulling out a leather suitcase with rusted metal corners from under the bottom shelf. It was lined faced with fabric inside, with a small torn pocket on the lid. He took out a heavy overcoat; it was made of baize, grey, with two rows of buttons and a warm wool lining. And you could wrap Coat Guy and Homeowner both in it, that’s how huge it was. A small smile touched Tall Man’s lips unwillingly.
“Where did you get this from?”
“It’s father’s.” From Homeowner’s dry tone it was clear that he wasn’t going to develop the theme. But Tall Man asked anyway:
“A serviceman?”
“A scumbag.” Homeowner snapped, putting the suitcase back in its place. Tall man wanted to ask something else, but was interrupted by someone’s uncertain voice.
“It seems a b-bit too b-big.”
“Beggars can't be choosers.” – The hermit grunted, and Coat Guy pursed his lips, falling silent.
“You put your clothes on the washing machine. Shampoo is on the shelf on the left, soap too. You’ll figure it out.” The guy nodded, and they left the closet. Soon the bathroom door shut; Homeowner closed his eyes, tiredly massaging his temples. His feet carried him to the kitchen.
“My good man?” Tall Man started, and was met with an indifferent look from a pair of tired green eyes. “The forests are burning outside, as you said. And you have a lot of people here. Like fish in a barrel.”
“So?”
“There are as many people as at Stalin’s funeral, it’s boiling hot and we don't even wash our clothes.” Homeowner slowly blinked, exhaled, and hid his face in his palms. He was sitting beside his companion; an opened can of the cold beer was already standing opposite. Tall Man was also holding his own.
“I know.” Homeowner breathed out, “I’m sick of it.”
“That’s an understatement. The whole world is ending. It was fucked already, and now… The darkness would be getting darker. Sometimes I’m thinking that this is the natural outcome. How it was supposed to end.” Homeowner gave him a bored look.
“It gets worse year by year. It’s scary to wake up, but going to sleep is even scarier. Always thinking about when it would end. Thinking, thinking… About the same thing. Tighten the mesh to spite the world, no one will remember anymore. We’re going to die anyway, if not because of the sun, then because of the Visitors, if not them, then FEMA will help, and if not them, there’s still a load of bullshit.” Tall Man brought a can of beer to his lips and took a sip. He wished he hadn't seen everything that was happening around, but even with closed eyes frames of the decaying world burned the cornea. He sighed. His gaze found Homeowner, who was dejectedly staring at the table’s surface.
“…Do you think something will remain?” Words of the other made Tall Man ponder.
“Maybe it will. But for how long? And I doubt it’s good, my good man. Who would want to live in a world full of the stubs only?” For a moment the room fell silent. The lifeless kitchen décor exuded a dank sadness. Maybe they exuded it, too.
“…Don’t know.” Homeowner averted his gaze towards the fringe door. “What if everything started over. And everything wretched would be gone.” Tall Man just snorted, but his voice lacked even a hint of mirth.
“What, only the ones who were baptized by their parents and didn’t jerk off before wedding would survive?” Homeowner rolled his eyes, sipping his own beer.
“Fuck you.”
“…It’s fucked, my good man. There’s no place for good anymore.”
...
The next evening, the landlord came into the living room as usual. He looked stiff and was too harsh. Coat Guy had to take off his overcoat and shamefully show his armpits. When other inspection procedures made some sense at least theoretically, this was too marasmic; Tall Man, being an ardent opponent of such events, actually thought that FEMA had come up with those checkups in a state of bender or delirium. Especially uneasy he felt when Coat Guy tensed as he was approached with the obvious goal – to search, turn him inside out. The guy, which wasn’t surprising in such case, treated death as a matter of course; one time he mentioned that if he got a hold of Homeowner’s rifle, he wouldn’t hesitate. But as Tall Man himself knew, talking is one thing, and being at gunpoint is another. So Coat Guy flinched when rifle was in other’s hands; he wasn’t human, but was afraid just as Tall Man would be, as Homeowner himself would be, as terrified as any human would be when reaching their end.
When Coat Guy and Tall man talked for the last time, the younger one mentioned that he was only 22. An art college student - some unclaimed, narrow field. He lived in a dorm room in a cold, concrete, five-storey building on the third floor. He described the last winter he remembered: severe frosts that were getting worse at February nights; how his coat was over 7 years old and he couldn’t buy the new one: he barely could afford food on his scholarship. He remembered smoking “Astra”, how his matches got dump and it was a miracle he managed to light his last cigarette. Coat Guy said it was too dark that night, so he walked from the kiosk to the metallic fence in blinding blackness. The snow was falling in large flakes, making it even harder to see. He talked for a long while, scoffed at the memories of his shabby college: scuffed walls, windows with rusted-out bars, concrete steps, almost completely destroyed; mangy trees and diseased bushes all around, slush and mud-blackened snow underfoot… Dark inside, crumbled plaster on the walls, the ceiling painted with grey mold. This winter evening he was walking to his dorm, but didn’t remember why it took so long. The last thing flickering in the back of his mind – a sharp pain somewhere under the ribs and then nothing but horrible, bone-crushing cold. Tall Man felt sorry for him. Especially now, when he knew he could do nothing to help this kid.
“Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be subject to judgment." - echoed in his mind as white noise through deafening high-frequency sound. Heat was coming from the muzzle, and the incapacitated body rolled from the couch to the floor. Tall Man hurried out of the room, covering his mouth with his hand. Homeowner’s empty gaze bored into the corpse. This morning he had walked into the office, already foretasting routine checkups. Now he would have to listen to Immortal Man’s dull rambling, then, in a low, hushed tone, Gravedigger would tell some story that sounded like yarn which Homeowner could hear by the campfire during the summer holidays at a pioneer camp. But he froze as he entered the room. The floor was covered in blood. The body looked like it was gnawed by starving dogs. He had seen dead people before, even mauled ones, but something like this – never.
And now… he shot human being for the first time. Though Coat Guy wasn’t human – he was just pretending, and moreover – he was dangerous. But Homeowner felt disgust that was tearing him apart; disgust towards himself and towards the body of the guy, whose head was turned into a bloody mess, soiling the coach and the wall above. The wall with the wooden cross. Homeowner felt nauseous, he flew off in a rush. He never left his room that evening. His rifle was left in the living room, near the body; he had slammed the door shut while leaving. Turned out, Tall Man had spent some time smoking in the kitchen. Passing by, Homeowner stopped just for a second; the last few hours had become one viscous mass; everything was foggy and felt like was happening to someone else. The weird smell that lingered faintly he preferred not to acknowledge… Cold light seeped through the thin crack, and he couldn’t see anything but the corner of the table and Tall Man’s hand propping up his sunken cheek, covered in thin stubble. His tired eyes were lidded, face expressed something painfully exhausted, thin fingers rubbed the bridge of his nose. He seemed slightly annoyed, and Homeowner had no one to blame but himself. Tall Man brought smoldering cigarette to his lips. He flicked his hand slightly; the ashes scattered on the table like gray powder. Wrapping his lips around the filter, he breathed in; the flame of a lit cigarette danced in the dim light. Homeowner knew how it was. Over time everything becomes stale, and smoking, which once brought long-awaited release, now was just a nasty habit. Tall Man, it seemed, also treated it this way. A moment after he breathed out with the same dolorous humility that guided his every movement, every word, and, arguably, every thought. Homeowner’s thoughts instinctively shifted to the icon, lonely hanging on the white wall. The saint’s face expressed nothing but empty detachment, but the eyes always looked right through him. A cracked image on a wooden plaque, smelling of mold and antiquity. But eyes burned through.
Coming to his senses, Homeowner moved away from the doorway. Where was he going? In the hall, in the top drawer of the locker, lay a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He had wanted to smoke one or two, but now this haunting desire had vanished. Why had he wanted to smoke in the first place?.. He had spent a lot of time in the bedroom, suppressing the gag reflex and swallowing back tears, couldn’t fall asleep and decided to calm his nerves and soberly think over…
The bodies. No one ever knocked on his bedroom door nor reminded him of the bodies rotting in the stuffy rooms. Although he might not have heard. He had been too busy self-flagellation, too focused on his hatred and weakness. He tried to calm his throbbing heart and erase alternating images of the dead bodies from his memory. But it all came down to one thing: to him, who irretrievably lost remnants of humanity. Was he any better than Coat Guy? This kid was a Visitor, he couldn’t be blamed for murder. People kill animals because otherwise they themselves would die – because starvation does not know morals, starvation does not think about righteousness or leniency. But Homeowner was human, at least he thought so. What was the great difference between him and a Visitor if he could kill? He might be worse. A few minutes had been enough for him to decide, and the only reason was his fear. He wasn’t a savior even when he tried to help. As his father used to say, you can’t get rid of some things; and he couldn’t get rid of himself and the stigma attached to him. He felt sick, but it made him to look at his rifle differently: what was stopping him now? What could stand between him and his desired redemption? He had people in the home, but they could take care of themselves. He was no one, no one to himself and to everyone who had ended up on his porch in a moment of desperation. And he relished this thought. It was aggressively-obsessive, yet so desired; it felt like he lived through everything just for this and now he could finally be free. He was ashamed and disgusted, but at the same time he felt some ignominious lightness. Did it matter?.. He decided that it didn’t. Nothing really mattered in this world. Especially now. And yet, he was here. He had to deal with the bodies; he wasn’t going to leave it to his tenants - after all, it wasn’t their fault. Homeowner entered the kitchen, studiously ignoring Tall Man’s unreadable gaze. Blinded Man was nowhere to be seen, but it was for the better: Homeowner didn’t want to meet anyone else face to face. He took out a bundle of black trash bags from the kitchen cabinet. Just one glance towards them made it feel like worms were crawling under his skin: it was vexing and appalling. The hermit froze near the living room door. A sweetish odor was already oozing from under it.
Wincing, he pushed the door and walked in.
...
It turned out to be worse than he had imagined: despite the non-human origin, the Visitor’s body was rotting like any other. Giving the air temperature that was abnormally high even at nights, the decomposition process was much faster. To his horror, Homeowner realized that trash bags alone wouldn’t be enough. The disgusting smell of rot filled his nose and he hurried out of the room. He had to think fast: in the pantry he found duct tape, a stack of soviet newspapers and a white sheet with a cutout in the middle. He had to tear off a large piece of it and moisten it with vodka he had hidden in one of the kitchen drawers. Tall Man was watching him: his gaze slightly concerned, but he didn’t say a word while Homeowner tied garbage bags around his hands and securing them with duct tape. The makeshift gloves didn’t guarantee protection, but there was no other choice.
The body - greenish and puffy - he had to wrap in the sheet. It was challenging since his eyes were watering from the awful smell and the nausea was rising in his throat. An alcohol-soaked cloth covering his face didn’t help much either. After tying the body in the sheet, he wrapped it in bags and sealed it with duct tape. Later, he took the corpse outside and left it near his porch. Cadaveric secretions were a bigger problem. The floor was soaked with tthe other’s biological fluids; the bloodstains were still prominent on the wall, having covered the back of the couch and went lower. Homeowner put newspapers on the floor; they would have to absorb some of the liquid. In the bathroom, he found some soap remnants, threw them into a basin of hot water: it turned out as thick, slimy mixture. Homeowner remembered how his mother used laundry soap and water for washing clothes and bed linen. There, in the bathroom, he also found a bottle of bleach. Homeowner also tried to wash the couch, hoping his efforts will not be in vain. There were only blood and bone fragments mixed with flesh, but compared to the floor it was almost clean. Yet he knew such thoughts were stupid. He wasted a lot of time on the floor, scrubbing it with a washcloth, even pouring vinegar there, but the smell still lingered. He opened a window, clearly understanding that it wouldn’t help. He decided to think about it later.
Now he needed to deal with another body… or with whatever was left of it. When he was done, it was a few hours before dawn. He took out the bags with the remains and everything that had contact with the corpses. After this he felt nothing but a strong desire to drink. Two people met him in the kitchen; Tall Man, giving him a hard look, for some reason followed Homeowner outside.
...
It was unusually warm at night. It hadn’t been like this even in the summertime: on hot days, as soon as the sun went down over the horizon, it would inevitably get colder. Here, the nights were cold, around 12-15 degrees. Now the red liquid in the thermometer bulb was reaching a mark of a full 40. The daytime temperature was unimaginable: only skeletal fragments were left of people, they no longer had faces or names. Everyone was united in the face of death, and, perhaps, humans had never been so close before; the earth had become one mass grave… A Fiery Gehenna – the vale of Hinnom, but everyone could be sacrificed. Although, comparing the suffering, which now appeared before you in all its solemn glory, to a thick ancient book was foolish. On the other hand, it didn’t matter. Everything was burning to the ground. It was stuffy, which made one’s head feel like cotton wool. And Homeowner was wearing a turtleneck sweater.
“Don’t know if you want to return to the living room. I cleaned it as best as I could.” he said suddenly. His gaze was fixed on something ahead, somewhere in the darkness of the night town located away from his paper prison. The ugly Khrushchev buildings looked devoid of life: ever since they were devoured by fire, all that was left of them – foundation and ashes. If Tall Man’s memory wasn’t deceiving him, there used to be a kindergarten. An elementary school – big concrete building, always evoking some heavy feeling. What happened to the playground? Even before the End everything seemed lifeless, but in those dull, tired buildings, in the grey sky suffocating from factory smoke, in the courtyard verandas with all the paint long since peeled off, in the faceless balconies and entrances - there had been life in all of this, there had been humanity. Back then, the streets were filled with the voices of people who no longer were there. Faces that could not be remembered flashed before eyes.
“You had the body rotting on the floor, my good man. In a closed room.” – Tall Man’s voice didn’t sound judgmental, rather humble and calm.
“It’s not a hotel.” Homeowner countered, bringing the can of beer to his lips. He was blowing cold. Tall Man thought if it was good or bad considering the abnormal heat. “I cleaned the floor, the couch. The body…” Homeowner took a big sip of a bitter – which Tall Man knew from personal experience – beer. “Took it out. I have nothing else to offer.”
Sometimes he was appalling. A dark shadow always fell on his sharp features, as if depersonalizing him. But Tall Man was illogically ignoring his fear unfolding at the sight of potential danger – a man with a gun. He ignored it now, too. In those rare moments when Homeowner was next to him, Tall Man saw how tense his shoulders were. The hermit was taut like a string about to snap. Everyone silently noted the methodical nature of the owner of the house, his cutting gaze, eating into body parts, eager to identify a sign. But Tall Man saw how his body relaxed when the guesses were refuted. Homeowner was carrying a burden that he had placed on himself, and it seemed he could barely handle it.
“You’ve killed a person.” Tall Man noted lazily, but he was interrupted:
“Not a person, a Visitor.”
“How do you know?”
“Want to look at the body?” The hermit nodded off to the side.
“…No, my good man. I don’t.”
“If I hadn’t killed him, you would be in his place. Or someone else.” he continued, “Want to die – go ahead. Take the gun and deal with it. For some reason the words stung him. Tall Man frowned in return.
“I don’t need that. I, my good man, don’t care if it’s a Visitor or no. If it kills me – good. At least there are no sins on my soul.”
“I had to,” Homeowner stammered, squeezing an aluminum can, “It’s not a human! Born of fire,” he stared straight ahead, “will die in a fire. Speaking through the mouth of men, but not people. If they recognize you, if they look like you, it doesn’t mean they won’t turn on you.” Tall Man arched an eyebrow in a silent question. Homeowner hunched over, running his hand over his face. His lips tightened into a thin line, his Adam’s apple twitched as he swallowed a nasty lump in his throat. Tall Man, examining his profile, slowly asked:
“And if it was a child?”
“How does it change anything?” Homeowner blurted out, shooting him a direct glance. A chill went down Tall Man’s spine; perhaps he was too hasty, allowing himself some sympathy for the hermit.
“You’re fucking insane.”
Homeowner didn’t answer. He stood up and left, slamming the front door loudly. Tall Man stayed on the porch, wondering if he should return to the house; getting up, he sighed and reached for the door handle. He was too sober.
...
Homeowner ended up in the bedroom, blankly staring in the emptiness. He lay silently for hours again, just thinking, hating and deciding. He didn't think he had done the right thing; but hearing it like this: harshly, straightforwardly… He was mad, mad at himself, at Tall Man, who himself understood that he could die… The hermit had been aiming at the Visitor but ended up dead himself. Homeowner was as exhausted as the hard laborer; his bones ached as if they were broken. He glanced at his rifle. Nothing could stop him now; he could finally rest. He wondered how it would be: would he meet God Himself? Would He look at him with mother's eyes? Would He be disappointed or forgiving? Homeowner wished he could be forgiven. He didn't deserve it, but the selfish desire never left him. He wanted to be alone; so the sky is large and wide and smells like spring, so there's noting but the endless expanse around, the expanse that led to somewhere he would never be. And it's just him and the rustle of trees, just his quiet exhaustion slowly replaced with a pleasant drowsiness. Without disturbing anyone, alone with himself, he would finally fell asleep. It was unlikely he would see that, but staying here was worse. Homeowner's eyes found the door; when would they find him? Probably in the morning, almost after… His hand twitched, fingers almost grabbed the muzzle, but something made him stop.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock. Homeowner felt a familiar surge of depressing impotence. The sound was quiet but persistent. He squeezed his rifle, feeling a rush of shame and a heavy, ugly melancholy. His desperate gaze lingered for a painfully long time.The knocking made his head throb annoyingly.
Standing up, he slung the rifle over his shoulder and took a step towards the door. He breathed in, entering the hall. It was dark and fearful.