Annihilation

Dream

With the road clearer I took my time, stopping to rest more, my legs and feet aching from so many hours of walking. It didn't take long for the beginnings of a developing subdivision to come into view, the foundations for several homes started and a single, model home with a post that acted as an invitation for tours.

The door creaked when I opened it and I banged against the drywall to suss out any noise or people, alive or once dead. The sound reverberated through the open bottom floor as the door closed behind me, the house appearing empty with minimal furniture and stock photos of a family that filled prop frames.

I stayed alert, dropping my bags by the door and taking my own little tour of the house with a weapon at the ready. I checked every bedroom, closet, bathroom, storage closet, behind shower curtains, under beds, and even in an empty toy chest staged as being for a child, until I was sure the house was clear, flopping onto the couch with a long sigh.
 
I didn't stay still for long, tugging a fitted sheet off the bed downstairs and moving to my knees on the ground in front of the porch, digging through the soil with a knife. When I'd pulled enough dirt that there was a hole so big that a person would surely fall in if they tried to enter, I placed the sheet over it, dressing it so that it was disguised with a layer of soil and grass.

There was a plethora of bottled water and juices left over in the refrigerator for potential home buyers. My fingertips and nails were packed with dirt so I poured water into the plugged sink, using a rag for a quick wash up before collapsing onto the couch for bed.

In the silence I was left the constant sound of gunshots, an audible memory implanted in my mind that I couldn't shake.

At some point the noise in my head became like the sound of a ceiling fan, or waves crashing outside the window during vacation, somehow lulling me into the deepest of sleep. I couldn't be sure of the time but I knew that I slept longer than usual, reminding myself of where I was after waking through the night four times, sure that I was first back in the comfort of my apartment, then in the utility closet of the prison, on the bed in my cell, and finally in the woods with just the crunch of leaves on the ground as a cushion.

I treated myself to the chili mac MRE in my bag of food, the agreed on best variety of the meals between the boys and I.

There wasn't much to do outside of waiting. I counted every sunrise to keep up with the number of days. I set up a tripwire that would trigger the empty bottles I collected to clang against one another in case of an intruder. I daydreamed a lot, about morning runs, water fights we had when there was plenty, and shared pouches of chili mac. I pictured them walking up the road together, worn but unharmed, and imagined that we'd reunite with a purpose to continue on and share moments of remembrance for Hobi.

I counted every sunrise to keep up with the number of days. Eleven had passed, the daydreaming of them becoming so agonizing as my hope diminished that I started to imagine things as completely new. I envisioned that the outbreak never happened, that Shelby and I both found jobs in New York, and that the nine of us met in some completely cliche way, in the line of a coffee shop or with the offer of an umbrella in the rain.

Four quick, hard taps against the door woke me on the twelfth day. I grabbed my gun from the coffee table, skipping over the part of the floor that I found creaked and keeping quiet as I approached the door, half sure the knocking was a delusion.

When it sounded again I leaned past the dining chair propped beneath the knob, peering through the tiny peephole in the middle of the frame.

I pressed my forehead against the cool wood of the door, my breath shaky as I tossed the chair aside with so much force that it clanged against the floor. I couldn't get the door open fast enough, my arms around him and tears trickling down my cheeks as he lifted my feet from the ground, his katana slipping from his hand with our embrace.

When he set me down I cupped his cheeks in my palms, wiping at the dirt on his face with my thumbs. He bent down to place his sword in the holder, wincing as he pulled it from across his back.

"Are you hurt?" I reached out for Yoongi's hand, leading him inside while he still craned his head toward the end of the street.

"My stuff." He pointed as I registered the pale color of his lips and dried blood that'd seeped through his jacket. I pulled the fabric away from his shoulder, noticing that he'd ripped the sleeve of his shirt to tie around his chest, covering and putting more pressure on the wound.

At the sight of the small, open circle just at the meeting of his shoulder and chest I moved to examine the back side, clear except for a bit of dirt.

"We'll get your things after I clean this up." I supported some of his weight as we moved into the kitchen. I left him leaning against the counter to grab my medical kit, returning to fill the large fruit bowl on the counter with water.

I made him hydrate and he sucked down a bottle of water in seconds while I ripped at the rest of his shirt, pulling at the seams until I could see clearly.

"I dug the bullet out." He informed me, sucking in his breath as I wiped at the puncture using a rag wet with disinfectant.

"All of it?" I raised a brow, looking up at him with worry.

He nodded and I felt relieved, making quick work of examining, cleaning, and suturing the gash with a piece of fishing line.

When I finished I replaced the blood-tinted water, dragging a clean cloth across his face, neck and hands so that he felt more refreshed. I kept my head down as I did, until he took hold of my hand, stopping me from moving on. "Ask me." He sighed, his forehead pinched together in thought.

I wasn't sure if I wanted to know, but the temptation of blissful ignorance wasn't enough to halt the need to. "What happened?"

His eyes were sad, clouded with the recollection. He recounted it in the same way I remembered him giving instruction in an emergency, his tone clipped and factorial. "First Hobi. Then you got out. I couldn't run. Namjoon and Jin took the ones coming from the side of the prison. Jungkook and Taehyung went back through the prison. Jimin and I got separated, but I had to kill them all. I couldn't run. I stayed until they were all dead, Leon and his men. I had to bury Hobi. I checked all the bodies for the others."

I remained quiet, attentive until he took so long of a pause that it caused me discomfort. "And?" I pressed, his eyes finally flickering up to meet mine.

He shook his head. "I didn't find them outside, but by then the undead were coming, too many of them, so I took the bike and ran. I don't know what happened to them, Alena."