From the Darkness

3. The Fouls

His promise to return kept Wooyoung going. He stubbornly fought against the dread constricting his chest as he dragged his feet through the spills of time. The air was stifling and his skin clammy, but he wandered on. Yunho would need bandages. Until he wasn't taken care of, Wooyoung couldn't rest.

He escaped the fouls when dawn birthed another day. As the fungus-infested trailed back into their hideouts based on their instinct rather than a scheme of mind, Wooyoung could take a breather. His thoughts spun at a nauseating pace, tickling anxiety and fear in his stomach. He wanted to curl up into a ball and press his hands to his ears to shut them out. Yunho would come then. He would come to assure Wooyoung nothing had happened and they would be fine.

In all those years Wooyoung had known Yunho, he had never been alone. Splitting was risky and together, they were strong. Now that he trailed the familiar desert by himself, Wooyoung felt foreign to them. Where should he search for bandages? When should he eat? How far should he round the floating orbs of water that attracted the water gatherers? Suddenly, all experience was wiped from Wooyoung's brain. He was alone, and he felt colder than ever.

A lot of convincing himself was needed to keep him moving. He didn't do this for himself, but for Yunho, so they could return to normal. That was his purpose.

By some miracle, Wooyoung didn't break down in fear for his boyfriend. He trudged forward stubbornly and though he couldn't stomach any sustenance; he took a little sip of the precious water he found.

The ducked hut that appeared in the distance pulled him from his spinning madness. In a flash, his instincts returned to him and he crouched, approaching it subtly.

It was a ramshackle house constructed with anything the desert offered. Corrugated iron sheets, rotting wooden posts that had nails sticking from them like crooked teeth and a tarp for a roof. This was somebody's hideout, created by a survivor's hands. Though it was likely empty, Wooyoung wouldn't risk stumbling into a fungus infestation.

Knife in hand, Wooyoung made his way past the windowless walls. No sound came from inside, so he made it quick. Positioned behind the door, he tugged it open. The little resistance of a rotting bolt broke under his strength. Wooyoung let a beat pass, then he peered around the door, ready to flee if a gun pointed at him.

But few had the luxury of one.

The house wasn't empty after all, but no bunch of fouls stared at him with big, soulless eyes.

A family of three was huddled on the ground, two women and a child. They clutched to each other with pale faces, expecting death to dawn upon them. Though they eased when they spotted the young man instead of a foul, they didn't dare move from the wall they pressed into. A fellow survivor didn't mean safety. It was a world of taking what one could get, be it provisions or lives.

Wooyoung's heart sank as he took in their bleak surroundings. It smelled of unwashed bodies and their cheeks were gaunt, clothes slipping from bony shoulders.

"W-what do you want?" The woman to the left asked him, bravest through her voice trembled.

Wooyoung glanced around the area, made sure no one trailed after his unprotected back. Barren, the wasteland stared back at him. He lowered his voice to offer his peace.

"I need bandages. My friend got hurt."

"We don't have anything," she hissed, tugging the child closer to her chest. The sickly green hue of his skin might be the fungus festering already.

Other raiders might have slaughtered them, could have eaten their flesh, or crafted bandages from their clothes. Or even claim the shack. But Wooyoung couldn't strip them of the little they had. He was too painfully reminded of his parents, who clung to his survival with everything they had.