Chapter Text
You hear the barking long before the knock on the door. That's the thing about existing during an apocalypse. It's relatively quiet compared to what movies show it to be. No longer do birds sing outside your window or crickets chirp throughout the night. Though your house wasn't very close to the city, it'd been close enough that the sounds of traffic and construction always provided some semblance of background noise. Now that the city was functionally abandoned, and the wildlife gone, the only sounds that remain is the occasional wind gust that rustles charred tree branches (and screams, on really bad nights).
With no other noise to cover the sound of the barking dog, it alerts you to something's presence outside. And by the way the barking grows louder, it's getting closer. The heads up is far more preferred than the unannounced knocking every other hour anyhow. You make your way to the door, shotgun in hand, and look out the peep hole.
Outside, a young woman trudges up the pathway to your home while a small white dog squirms in her arms. How a dog so small can be so loud is beyond you. Despite the darkness, you try to do a cursory once over of her to see if there’s anything immediately out of the ordinary. Nothing externally screams ‘visitor’. Her face, though hard to fully make out through her shaggy black bangs, isn’t outwardly distorted, and her hoodie and cargo pants seem to only be stained with dirt. At the very least, she doesn’t have any signs indicating hostility.
You wait till she’s on your porch and knocking before announcing your presence. Before you let anyone inside, you make it necessary to interrogate them. Mostly, it’s to see if the person outside will slip up and say anything that sounds ‘off’ when visual appearance says nothing. When you get to talking, you try to keep the conversation light. You ask her why she’s here, even though the inevitable answer is a no-brainer. It’s always the same reason that everyone else who’s shown up in front of your door has. For survival, or safety, in some form or another.
“I just need somewhere to rest until tomorrow evening. I injured my ankle earlier.” She says. A quick glance down at her lower half does reveal her left foot positioned to be on its ball, as if to avoid pressure. That would also explain her relatively slow gait while walking earlier.
You absent-mindly listen as she continues to talk, debating the pros and cons of letting her inside. That’s another reason you question the people who show up. To determine if they really need a place to shelter for the night. As cruel as making such choices is, it's an unfortunate necessity for survival. Even if she wasn’t an visitor, too many people means depleting resources faster than they can get replenished. Between you and 2 other people, your reserve was wearing thin. Not just for you, but everywhere else too. It’s getting harder to pretend you haven’t noticed supply drops taking longer and longer. And if she was dangerous, well, it wouldn't bode well for you and the other guests.
But, there was always some merit in letting in more people. For one, it was easy to hand them over when FEMA came knocking. You’d got lucky thus far that they hadn’t taken the neighbor's girl, but there was no telling when the yellow suited assholes would be back for more people. Last time they took two. Who’s to say they wouldn’t want another two the next time they arrived? It wasn’t the greatest, but bringing in the woman outside meant she and the kindergarten teacher could act as a buffer. It probably said something about you morally that your ‘pros’ for letting someone in came down to how useful they’d be to turn over to FEMA. You didn’t want to think about that for too long.
Plus, having more people inside meant keeping the pale bastard at bay. Always a net positive. Though if you did let her in, you were going to have to find some way to get that dog under control. You watched as its little muzzle snapped open and close, barking as if trying to intimidate an invisible force. The cat wouldn’t be very fond of it.
In the end, you never had to actually make a decision. Headlights that pierced through the darkness appeared from down the road. They grabbed your attention, and you turned to look at the approaching vehicle. You didn’t even have to get a good look at it to know who it was. Who else would have a working automobile in a time like this?
Seeing it hadn’t worried you at first. FEMA often drove through your area as a means to reach different ‘test zones’ (though you never seemed to see research actually occur.) As long as whatever they were off to do didn't start anymore fires (you got really lucky the neighbors house fire died down before it spread into something uncontainable) you could continue to ignore them.
It was when the vehicle slowed down, and stopped in front of your home that you actually began to get nervous. The vehicles tended to stop at the end of the road, rather than directly in front of your house. Were they coming to collect more people? If they were, now was going to be a really inconvenient time. Usually there was a bit of break in between each visit. Did this mean they were going to start arriving more often? Just your luck.
Two hopped out of the back seat, while a third slid out of the passenger side door. They marched up your pathway, guns positioned at their abdomens, looking ready for a fight. The young woman who’d been there first had gone silent watching them approach. Before either of you could say anything, one of the FEMA agents unceremoniously shoved her and the pup to the side. It was a rough push, and it was fortunate she managed to stay up right considering her injured foot. None of the agents paid any mind to her or her agitated yells, instead focusing on your door and aiming their guns right at it.
Alright. Now was probably the time to be concerned.
“What’s your deal?” You shouted, adjusting the shotgun in your hand so that you held it at the firing position. It was pointless to do so, seeing as it was a three versus one kind of deal. You’d maybe get lucky and get a shot in before the other two turned you into swiss cheese. But the stance gave you a small bit of courage, so you’d keep it up.
“We’ve been given special instructions from the higher ups requesting your presence. As such you will be required to leave the residence and come with us. You can come willingly, or by force. How easy you want this to be is up to you.” The man in the middle says, annoyance in his tone palpable.
“I thought because I was the home-owner you guys wanted me to stay?”
“Things have changed. New orders have been given.”
They can’t be serious. The way FEMA has chosen its victims for testing has always been random. There was no correlation you could find for who they selected, often just showing up and demanding a person to be handed over, your opinion on who that got to be not a deciding factor. And now they’re saying they’ve been told to get you specifically?
But… they hadn't actually said they were taking you for testing. Just that your presence was needed. That seems like a bad sign. If they just wanted to chat, wouldn't standing on your porch not be sufficient?
“Am I going to be taken for observation?” It can’t hurt to ask. Two of the agents turn slightly, as if to stare at the other.
“That information is confidential for now. You will be briefed on the matter at hand when you arrive at the base.” The same agent as before answers. Your eyes flick up towards the ceiling exasperation. Of course they wouldn’t give you an actual answer. They’d yet to tell you when exactly they’d be bringing back all the people they’d taken so far. Not that you're confident that any of them will return. Your mind wanders back to the things you’ve heard from the widow and ex-FEMA agent. None of them painted a positive picture.
The phrase ‘lamb to the slaughter’ has never seemed more fitting. You want to tell them no. To tell them what you really think of their whole operations instead of giving yourself up. Because if you do go, there’s no doubt you’ll end up in some random laboratory for ‘testing’. Where your corpse will eventually be left out in the sun to be burnt and forgotten about. The thought of it all makes the anger seep in.
But it’s the creak of the floorboards behind you that extinguishes the feeling as fast as it came and moving your finger off the trigger. You glance behind you to look at the kindergarten teacher standing in the kitchen door frame, watching you, the little girl peeking out behind her. The two of them look upset. Neither have a clue on what’s going on. You wish you could say something to reassure them, but comfort has never been your strong suit.
Instead, you turn back to the door. As worthwhile as the idea of telling them to fuck off is, and perhaps even fighting back, it’s a losing battle. The reality is there’s not enough of you, nor amo, to do anything meaningful. And where exactly would that leave you? As a bloody mess on the floor. In front of the two people who have already seen far too much.
You can’t do that to them, especially the little girl. You’ve taken great caution so far to avoid letting her see the gory aftermath that comes with killing visitors. Even trying to shield her from the less pleasant sides of her father’s disappearance. It felt like a necessity, with her mind still processing watching her house burn down to ash. What would an event like this do?
Ignoring that, there’s too many people around that could get in the crossfire. FEMA doesn’t care about injuries or casualties, they care about getting what they want. And if that means potentially getting everyone in the vicinity involved, they’ll do it. The safety of the others takes priority, especially for the little girl. You swore that to her father, and if you can manage to do one thing right…
“They just want me?”
“Affirmative. Any other guests in your residences may continue to reside here during your absence.” Your body is screaming no. There’s an understanding deep inside of you that you won’t be coming back. Despite that, you force yourself to lean the shot gun against the wall. The others will need it for safety.
You turn back to the two behind you, and meet eyes with the teacher. You never learned her name. It's easier to lose people when you don't know their names. But you're confident she’ll protect the little girl in your absence. An apology is probably in order, for putting her back into a situation that’s reminiscent of the school, but you can’t find the right words to say.
“There’s a basement.” You say instead. No point in covering it up anymore. You're sure they’ll find much more use out of it than you ever did. “It has a stock pile of food and supplies. If you ration it right, I’m sure you can make it last for a while.”
“What’s going on?” The woman asks. She looks deeply confused and troubled, no doubt starting to pick up on the severity of the situation. She holds back the child, who has begun to grow distressed. Whether or not the young girl gets the full scope of things, you aren’t sure, but she understands enough to know that you’re leaving. Tears run down her face, leaving streaks against her dirty cheeks.
Your heart hurts for her. You're the last tether she has to her late father, and now you're going to disappear too. It isn’t fair, but there isn’t any way you can think to avoid leaving. Her arms fly out towards you, as if trying to get one more hug. Or maybe she thinks she can make you stay if she holds onto you and never lets go. You aren’t sure.
You don’t give her a hug though. If you do, it’ll make things harder for everyone. Instead you pry your eyes off them and back towards the lock of the door. By the sound of banging on your door, the agents outside are getting restless. Seeing as them breaking down your door would be a pretty big inconvenience for the others, it’s probably high time you got outside.
You open the door slowly, taking in the scent of the outside. It smells earthy, with the signature scent of ash that now permeates every corner of the earth. The scent is familiar, like cigarettes. It makes it vaguely more pleasant.
The agents don’t waste a second. They’re on you before you can step outside the frame, roughly yanking you outside onto the front porch. The regret sets in almost immediately. One of them grabs your arms and pulls them tightly behind your back, while another attaches a pair of handcuffs. Which, really? They had never handcuffed anyone else, to your knowledge. Did they determine you to be such a big threat that cuffs were needed?
The sounds of crying grow louder from inside the house, but your position makes it so you can’t turn around to check what's going on. An agent has his gun pointed at the inside to likely keep the others at bay. If only you could get a good kick at the asshole. Who points their weapon at two defenseless people? Well, excluding you. But you have far more reason! Sort of.
You glance over to the side, and meet the gaze of the young woman. You’d forgotten she’d been there, too caught up in everything. Her expression isn’t one of dismay or worry, but anger. She probably has the same thoughts towards the FEMA agents as you do. That, at the very least, makes you feel a little better. You hadn’t been able to finish your assessment of her, but deep down you know she is human. And there’s something about the way she carries herself, her posture, that tells you she’s strong. It brings you a bit of comfort. The teacher and child will have someone to rely on, who will fill the void you’re leaving. The dog in her arms wiggles slightly, its barking having been reduced to a low, almost protective growl. It stares intently at the agents, lips pulled back in a snarl to reveal tiny, sharp teeth. It may not be an actual guard dog, but it certainly has the spirit of one. It'd bring a bit of joy to the little girl inside, anyhow.
You don’t get to see much more, because a sack is roughly shoved over your head. Its texture feels grating against your skin, and it smells terrible, but there’s nothing you can do about it. The agents stick their arms underneath your armpits and hoist you up to your feet. It takes a moment for you to get situated on your legs and not fall face first.
You're dragged off the porch and presumably towards the car. It isn’t long before the sounds of crying and growling grow distant, becoming faint as you're hauled inside the cramped space. You're stuck in the middle, squished between two agents as the second one climbs in. It’s probably a good thing, since neither move to try and buckle you in place. As the car door slams shut, the vehicle moves with a sudden jolt.
As they drive down the road, directions become meaningless. Mentally you attempt to map out the path in your head, but after a few turns it becomes difficult to follow along. None of the agents try to talk to you, and you do the same. You doubt anything productive would come out of a conversation.
There’s no other signs to indicate where they’re taking you. To a FEMA base, you supposed, but where that is is the question. You’d never bother to learn that information. It wasn’t very well known either. FEMA instructed people to call them should they need to be picked up, rather than attempting to travel there alone. You’d never needed to be taken there, nor had you ever been incentives to locate it and retrieve any of your stolen guests.
A bump in the road has you bounce forward. It only takes one soldier to yank you back into place, his gloves feeling cold against your neck as he grips the neckline of your blue sweater. Ignoring the fact there are four different people surrounding you with guns, this whole thing feels unsafe. The driver doesn’t seem to have any concept of a ‘brake’ based on the way the vehicle is swung around corners. As if you needed more to worry about, a potential crash would not improve the situation.
The drive feels long, much longer than it probably is. The combination of not being able to see and nerves not helping. The way your arms are restrained behind your back makes your shoulders sore, and the cuffs are beyond tight. You might have another half hour before the circulation in your hands is gone, if the tingly pricks stabbing your nerves is anything to go by. At the very least it wasn’t a walk. The pain from your legs from that would have been unbearable.
A smell that’s almost suffocating breaks up the monotony. It seeps in through the vehicle’s vents, getting stronger as they drive. It’s a musty, rotten kind of odor. You have a good idea what might be causing it but you’d rather not find out. You try to breathe in through your mouth, but that only serves to make the inside of the sack hot and humid.
Lights flood your vision as it illuminates the surrounding area. Through the small holes in the fiber they appear as abstract, jagged shapes. They don’t improve your ability to distinguish anything regarding the landscape. The car slows to a stop, and one of the windows is rolled down, letting in more of the pungent air and night breeze. A hand finds its way to your tricep, gripping it tightly. Like they're worried you’ll attempt to dash out of the car. As if you could ever hope to make it any meaningful length of distance before getting gunned down.
There’s a set of thumping boots that appear from somewhere to the left of you. You squint to try and see something through the mask, but it's fruitless. Definitely more FEMA agents though. Just how many, you can’t be sure. The soldiers give a quick greeting before the topic shifts to you.
“Do you have the subject?” Rude. You have a name.
“Yes sir. Got him without a struggle.”
“Good. Take him to the holding cell and start preparing. Quickly.” With that, the engine roars to life and the drive continues. They’re presumably going to take you to the ‘holding cell’. Whatever the hell that is. Is it a code word for something else? And why do you need to be prepared? Do they mean that as preparing to debrief you? The thought makes you vaguely amused. Who are you kidding? There’s no way FEMA will actually tell you why they brought you over here. They probably only said it to get you out of the house. They’re good at giving the runaround. What was more likely was that they just got tired of the trouble you gave them every time they showed up, and this was the quickest way to get rid of you.
Your hands tighten into fists behind your back. They’re unbelievably sore, and feel close to popping. Even if you save your escape attempt for when they throw you into a cell, your hands won’t be of any use. Is now a good time to start begging? The idea leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, but there are few options that remain for your survival.
It's a quick drive through what might be the camps center. It’s not long before the car stops again, and you're hauled out of the seat. You barely manage to catch yourself and avoid falling face first. The same position from earlier is applied, two soldiers on either side of you forcing you to move. They take you up a set of stairs, your feet awkwardly dragging across each step as you struggle to find your footing. The men holding you up aren’t much help either.
The building you enter is significantly warmer than outside. Quieter too. It smells stale. Before you can assess much else, the bag on your head is ripped off and you're shoved into a seat. Now you breathe a bit better. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the sudden onslaught of visual simulation. Your gaze falls on a nearby FEMA agent, the sack held firmly in his hands.
“Stay seated. We’ll be with you shortly.” He orders, and turns on his heel out of the room. One follows him, while one stays behind. It’s probably your ‘guard’. You can’t see his face behind the mask, but you can feel the intensity of his stare. As if he wants you to give him a reason to use his gun. How assuring.
The agent slams the large wooden door beside him shut. The bang that follows reverberates through the room. If you weren’t trapped before, you officially are now. To take your mind off that thought, you take in the details of the room.
If you had to guess, it might have been an office building of some kind that got renovated to hold people. To your left, rows of wood planks are nailed to the wall, likely to cover windows. The walls themselves have torn wallpaper that peel to reveal beige paint underneath. Bright fluorescent lights hum gently above you, the intensity of its rays making your head sore. And the carpet… it might be the most dirty thing in the room. Various stains darken the grey fibers, ranging from little patches to large ones that cover whole sections. Gross.
Beyond that, there isn’t much else in the room. It’s bare beyond the chair you sit on and the one in front of you. No pictures remain on the wall, and nothing that could give you any sort of leg up against FEMA.
With not much else to observe, you go back to thinking. Why do they want you? The vagueness of why they needed you, to the hostility they showed indicate that this isn’t a usual pick up. Were they going to kill you? Maybe they’d come to the conclusion that somehow, you were a visitor and needed to be eliminated. Though if that was the case, why hadn’t they just killed you in the middle of the woods? It’s not like anybody would have gone out to search for you. There had to be a different reason they’d go through all this trouble to get you.
Not that meant you were safe. Any type of association with FEMA didn’t bode well with the safety of those attached. The threat of death still felt imminent, the question being how soon. The possibility of it makes you spiral the more you consider your fate. You can only sit and wait, and hope they give you a genuine answer for all this.
You look back at the guard, who hasn’t moved from his position by the door. He certainly didn’t seem like the type to provide you any information. Maybe if your hands were free, you could go on the offensive and try to disarm him, but at your current predicament it’s nothing more than a pipe dream. You feel ridiculous just sitting there, having given yourself up so easily to FEMA. Sure you had a reason to do so, but now…. It’s maddening that you can’t even cause problems for them, as a final fuck you.
When the door finally opens again, only one agent walks in. You can’t tell if it’s one of the ones from before or a different guy. It’s hard to tell with the uniformity of their hazmat suits. Not that the person behind the mask really matters in the long run. His gun is slung back on his shoulders, which tells you first hand he doesn’t seem to be expecting any sort of disobedience. He’s not wrong.
He slumps into the seat in front of you in a tired sort of way. You don’t feel bad for whatever exhaustion this place puts him through. Serves him right. He stares at you for a moment (or maybe at the wall behind you, who knows) while seemingly trying to gather his bearings. You don’t let him prepare.
“Why am I here?” It comes out far harsher than you intend for it too. You don’t care. If they want to treat you like a criminal, to restrain you and threaten you, then you’re in no obligation to provide them any sort of respect.
“You are aware there are far greater creatures out there than just visitors, yes?” He asks. The question leaves you stumped. That wasn’t the direction you expected him to begin with. You're not even sure how the subject applies to you, but it somehow must if it’s being brought up. The thought of something dark slithering through the tall grass crosses your mind. You slowly nod your head.
“We understand them even less than regular visitors. And that’s a problem. How can we save the world when there are things that wander it far beyond every known limitation?" Yeah right. As if you’ve seen them doing anything that could be considered ‘helping’. The man shifts in his seat, one legging crossing over the other to be pulled tightly against his chest. Then he turns back to you. “Are you familiar with the Pale One?”
Assuming the agent is referring to the pale creature that loves to pester you, then yes. Unfortunately you are very familiar with it. Its game is maddening, and one of the biggest reasons you haven’t turned into a hermit. Hell, the fear and irritation it brings is probably why the lanky bastard does the ritual in the first place. Its own form of entertainment in the hellish landscape.
“It's constantly outside my house, asking if I’m alone. It’s always disappointed when I’m not.” You reply. The thought of the visitor standing outside your door, rows of perfectly straight teeth exposed like it's ready to bite isn't hard to dredge up. Just thinking about it gives you the creeps.
“We’ve been observing it. We noticed it visit your house many nights while agents were surveying the land. It was odd. Never have we seen any other visitors go to the same place twice.”
“At first we were going to approach you. Just to ask some questions about its behavior and if you knew anything of interest. But it stumbled upon us first.” The knowledge they’ve apparently seen the pale thing outside of your house is a bit surprising. You hadn’t noticed FEMA in the area unless they were right outside your door. Keeping your curtains closed all the time probably didn’t help. You can’t fault them for keeping their distances. The mangled remains of an entire platoon that littered your lawn is a stark reminder guns don’t work.
“One of the researchers tried to bargain for some information. Fortunately, it didn’t outright attack us. I don’t know why. Maybe it appreciated not being shot at.”
“What did it say?”
The man in front of you gives a dejected shrug. “Nothing we didn’t already know. Things stronger than visitors existed. And vague nonsense about ‘dogs ruling the world’. Whatever that meant.” The phrase rings a bell in your head. It was the same one the thing had said to you too. Of course it wouldn’t cough up any valuable information.
“It once told me it was only following orders.” You say. The man’s head snaps up to look at you, obviously unaware of the previous information. You have no loyalty to the pale bastard. There’s no qualms in telling them what you know, even if it’s very little. Because even if you dislike FEMA, the presence of the pale visitor and the danger it brings is more counterintuitive to your bottom line.
“Interesting. A potential hierarchy? That implies far more intelligence than we originally thought. Did it share anything else?” The man asks with a curious tone. You can only shake your head. The man sighs and turns away. “No matter. It offered to be more forthcoming in exchange for something in return.”
You sit there, waiting for the man to follow up with what exactly the pale man wanted. But he doesn’t. Just sits in the chair, fingers lightly tapping against the rubber of his yellow suit.
“I don’t understand. Why does any of that involve me?” If they wanted more information about the thing, you’d already said all you knew. What more was there to be said? There’s a sinking feeling starting to emerge that tells you you know the answer, and it doesn’t involve what you know. You shove it down, refusing to listen. There has to be some sort of logical explanation. “What did it want?”
The agent’s head slowly tilts to look back over at you. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. A cold sense of dread makes your throat tighten.
“You understand why we need to do this, right?” The man goes off on a spiel, something about ‘the great or good, but you don’t hear a word of it. His hands move erratically as he talks while you watch, feeling detached from your body. It's the reality of it all hitting that makes you feel numb. This is why you were suddenly ‘special circumstances’. Why were you so heavily restrained and monitored. They needed to cut down the risk of you escaping, and make sure they got you back alive for the Pale Man.
Where was that asshole anyway? Standing just outside the room, waiting for the go ahead to come in and tear you to pieces? Or were they going to drive you back out to some nowhere field and drop you off there? Let it stalk through the woods until it finds you on the ground before pouncing. Less clean up for FEMA if it's the latter.
There’s almost a deranged sense of humor in how you’re about to die. You never really believed you would make it long in this apocalypse. Either supplies would run out or you’d accidentally let in a visitor who would get you before you could get it. That, or step on a rusty nail and die of tetanus. No matter the scenario, long term survival in an apocalypse didn’t seem manageable. You started counting your life in days, rather than years, because it seemed more sensible.
In all the scenarios of possible death you felt on some level there was always your choice somewhere in the matter. Even if that meant just deciding to end it should a sickness get too severe. If you accidentally let in a visitor, the choice to let anyone inside your own home was still your choice.
And this was it. Being handed over to the Pale Man by FEMA themselves. You didn’t get to decide anything, they did. And they decide you dying was worth it for what they’d get in return. It feels anticlimactic. No going out in a blaze of glory, or by your own hands. You hadn’t even lost the game! People had always been in your house, numbers varying, but always enough to where it couldn’t come in. If it wanted you so badly it’d make a deal with FEMA, why not just break down your door, guests be damned, and come in? Did it consider itself too righteous to break the self-assigned rules?
Nasua starts to creep up on you. It makes your stomach turn and mouth fill with saliva, as you try and keep the meager amount of food you had today down. Is there any way you can flip the situation? There’s obviously no changing their minds, but you don’t have to be a sitting duck. Hell, you’d rather piss off the agents and have them shoot you, just so the Pale thing wouldn’t get the honor of killing you. Not that they would. Even if you just made a run at the guard, they’d probably sedate you. No way they’d risk the anger of the Pale Man by killing you first. But if they took you back outside, you could try and escape then. Sure they’d brought you over with a bag over your face, so you hadn’t actually been able to determine anything about the surrounding area, but it was the closest thing you had to a chance.
You didn’t have to go out that easily.
You're snapped out of your thoughts when the agent in front of you stands up. He does so with the same tiredness as before. You get ready too, in case there’s any window of opportunity you can nab. He turns towards the guard by the door, apparently done with his rant justifying your upcoming martyrdom.
“Are we ready?”
“Yes sir. Just waiting on you.”
“Alright. Bring it in.” The guard goes to open the door and step out into the hall. Ok. So there’s a bit of a miscalculation on your part. Apparently they were just going to let it rip you to shreds in this room. Which meant no chance of making a run for it once outside. The small bit of optimism you previously held rapidly deflates.
You feel dumb for having even considered that an option. As if they wouldn’t have just put the bag right back over your head if they brought you outside. You’d run around blindly for a minute before they’d catch up to you and drag you back. And now there’s no attempting it anyway.
Still, if you can’t escape, then you won’t give the Pale bastard what it wanted. Your fear. It was always so jovial calling you a coward, taking great pleasure in the dread it brought. And that’s what it probably was looking forward too. For you to be scared, to mindlessly beg for mercy like all its other victims had. You wouldn’t do that. No matter how hard you had to bite your tongue to keep it in. If there was any choice you got in the matter, it was to make you dying as unsatisfying as possible for the creature.
Stealing yourself, you sit up straighter, hands clenched in fists. You're still consumed with terror at the approaching end, but you hope the scowl on your face is enough to hide that. When the guard steps back in the room, he does so with another agent close behind. You half expect the Pale Man to trail in after, crouching through the door frame to fit inside the room, but it doesn’t. Instead, the door is shut again and the other agent hands something to the one in front of you.
It’s a wedding dress. It sits inside a plastic bag, slightly yellowed from age but otherwise in decent condition. It’s long, if the bundle of fabric bunched up at the bottom is any indication. The sleeves are flattened puffs and the neckline is deep V with lace trim sewn onto it. When the agent holds it up to you, all you can do is wordlessly stare. It was so far out of left field that the tense in your body all but leaves.
“Get dressed quickly. We need to hurry over.” He says, laying the dress on the chair. Another agent walks behind you, and after some rough manhandling, unlocks one of the cuffs. With your arms and hands freed, you take a quick moment to stretch your shoulders. The knots in them were never going to come out.
“I still don’t understand. What is this for?” You manage to spit out. Everything you thought was going to happen has been thrown right out the window. The dress feels taunting as you glance at it.
“It requested you wear it… for the ceremony.” There’s no question who ‘it’ is. You know who they’re referring to. And it apparently requested you wear a wedding dress? For some ceremony? What kind of beliefs did this thing have that necessitated you wearing a dress while it killed you?
Unless… you don’t even want to consider the thought. Because somehow it's worse than just outright getting killed. But what other ceremony would require a wedding dress, other than a wedding?
You shake your head no, as if to discourage the mere idea. There’s no way that FEMA agreed to go along with this. There’s no way this is what is actually happening. Your reflection in the plastic tells you otherwise. The agent nearby must sense your disbelief and hesitation, because he moves closer, hand on the gun strap.
“This isn’t up for debate. Put it on, or we’ll get it on.” There’s no room for arguing. You don’t care.
“You’re all out of your mind if you think I’m doing this.” You still can’t even fathom the idea that they’re trying to make you a bride. Because really, a wedding? Sure, the Pale Man had made offers for you to join ‘them’, but you’d always assumed that that meant becoming a visitor. Has it always been a marriage proposal? How the hell did that thing even have an understanding of human marriage? There hadn’t been any indications you could think of that pointed towards it being… romantically interested in you. All the interactions had ended with the implications it was just waiting to tear you in half.
Your eyes flicker towards the door. It’s closed, but both your hands are currently freed and there’s no sack on your head to blind you. Better odds than you had moments ago. If you could just open it and get out… How far you’d get was debatable. Maybe if you could delay it enough, then the sun would rise before they could do anything. The boarded up windows gave no indication of time, but it still had to be pretty earlier in the night. You hadn’t been awake for very long before FEMA showed up, nor had you been held for awhile. Could you give them the slip for potentially several hours?
You were going to find out.
In a flash, you jump towards the door with your arm stretched out. You make it as far as getting your hand on the knob before the agent beside it is on top of you, violently pushing you down. His arm slides around your neck, tightening as the other wraps around your chest. So much for that. You should have expected to be tackled the second you neared the exit. Back to square one.
His grip on your neck is beginning to cut off oxygen from getting to your lungs. You dig your fingernails into his suit to try and get him to loosen up, but the rubber must be thick enough to where he can’t feel it. There’s no pushing him off, not with all his weight leaning against your back. Another agent approaches, the muzzle of his gun jammed painfully against the side of your head. Your face is starting to hurt from lack of oxygen.
“Unless you want to attend your wedding with a broken leg, I suggest you stop fucking around.” The agent says jeeringly. You can tell he isn’t joking. Being injured isn’t going to help you later down the road, so instead of continuing to struggle you go limp. You manage to grunt a ‘Fine’ between breathless wheezes, which is enough for the agent to release your neck. You take several deep breaths to make up for the lack of, before getting yanked back up by your sweater. The other agent still has his gun pointed at your head and it stays there as you’re shoved towards the chair.
There isn’t any more fighting this. There might be a chance later, but for now you’ve run out of options. You force your body to pick up the dress and remove it from the plastic. It slides out, the bottom hitting the floor with a quiet thump. Definitely long. Even at your height, the dress will probably drag on the floor. The middle of it is noticeably thin, likely tailored to fit whichever woman wore the dress previously. You’d have to take off your turtleneck if you had any hope of getting it on. Fantastic.
Begrudgingly you shrug off your sweater, well aware that every pair of eyes in the room are on you. You lay it gently on the chair beside you. Hopefully you get it back, but you probably won’t. Do they notice the marks on your back? If they do, no one says anything. To save yourself a little bit of dignity, you keep your pants on. They shouldn’t hinder the rest of the dress.
Picking back up the dress, you get a feel for the material. It’s silk, and feels cool to the touch. You’ve never worn anything with such a texture, preferring wool or cotton. Underneath the silk is tulle that has you fumbling around trying to find the neck hole. It’s decidedly less pleasant than the silk. Once you get both arms through the sea of sheer fabric, you pull the dress up and over your head.
It takes a moment for you to get it on. You have to suck in your gut and yank at the fabric until it's in place. You feel constricted in the fabric. The excess gathers at your feet, covering your shoes. There’s no mirror around, no way to tell what you look like, but you feel like an absolute fool. If only your father could see you now….
The agents don’t wait another minute. The cuffs are locked back into place, and you're dragged towards the door. You manage one last glance at your sweater before being taken into the hall. Not much is different out here. The carpet changes to tile, and the walls are the same beige as the room. Various doors line the walls, each end disappearing behind a corner. You can’t hear anything behind the other doors. Not a great sign. At least they don’t put the bag back over your head.
This is what it must have felt like to be taken to the gallows. It’s a quiet walk through the building. There’s nothing to do besides reluctantly follow along. Small mercies that there aren't many people around to see you like this. No one you’d run into would be of much help anyways.
Turning another corner, you're met with another wooden door. Slightly bigger this time. Positioned side by side, they’re darker than the other ones you’ve seen so far. An agent takes the lead, using both hands to push the door open. When he does, you’re finally greeted by the sight you’ve been dreading.
In the middle of the room stands the Pale Man, several other FEMA agents scattered half-hazardly throughout. You don’t have to see their faces to know they’re probably scared out of their minds, many of them nowhere near it. (Or maybe it’s the odor emanating from it that keeps them away. The smell of rot and iron is suffocating.) Its gaze falls on you, and its expression morphs into one of unadulterated glee. Its unnatural large grin grows even bigger, eyes zeroing in to stare at you. You half expect it to just grab you and run out, ceremony be damned. It doesn’t though. It continues to watch as you get walked down the ‘aisle’, hands clasped in that familiar pose.
And did it seriously have a bowtie on?
As you're pulled towards the center of the room, you think back to your actual wedding. At the time, you’d been the happiest you’d ever felt. It was a small event. Both you and your wife had agreed to keep the guest list light, easier to budget in doing so. Only a handful of people on each side, every guest an important person. Your neighbor had been there, long before his daughter was born. Your wife had looked stunning walking down the aisle, even if her dress was what many would consider to be ‘simple’. Her blonde hair had been adorned with little flowers that matched her bouquet, the same kind she said were her favorite. You’d never been so in love.
This feels like a mocking recreation. Like somebody studied the aspects of your wedding and pulled only the most general details from it. A bride, a groom, and an audience. None of it meant anything. Just a cheap portrayal to try and get the monster at the end pleased enough it’d cough up anything of value. You’re still not entirely sure this isn’t some sick joke at your expense. Maybe it only wanted to have a ‘wedding’ to further humiliate you, just to torment you a little longer. You wouldn’t put it past the Pale Man to do.
Once you reach the end, you’re situated in front of the creature, the agents standing a few paces behind. Probably to ensure you don’t try to run again. Not that you would. You’re positive the thing would catch you far faster than they could.
It’s only up close do you really get a good look at it. Details of it you never really thought about behind your door. It's tall, much taller than it had seemed on your porch. A good foot and a half over you. Your head has to be tilted nearly all the way back to look it in the face. You’d always figured its greyer skin was a result of the dark nights discoloring it, but no, it’s genuinely a very pale grey. Its chest is a weird mix of protruding bones and saggy flesh, as if it didn’t have enough skin to cover it all. The pants it wears are noticeably torn at the ends and how they stay up is a mystery. The smell does not improve.
“You look beautiful, dove.” The nickname makes your face burn. Never had it used such terms of endearment for you. You despise the way the word makes your stomach churn. Its large hand comes up to grab your face, holding your chin upright. Its hand feels cold and clammy. You try to back up, maybe get some distance because wow do you feel way too close, but the hand clenches painfully around your jaw. It's very obvious what it's trying to tell you. Don’t move.
You look out into the room to see what the fuck is supposed to happen now. Everyone is standing around silently. Are they just going to let it get weirdly touchy with you until the creature’s had enough and drags you back to whatever hole it crawled out of?
Its free hand finds its way to your hip and uses it to pull you closer. You can even put your hands out to give yourself room, on account of them being restrained behind you. If you were close before, you're uncomfortably so now. It stares down at you, eyes brimming with hunger. You can only hope for divine intervention.
If there was any god out there, it must have been listening, because more FEMA agents walk in through the double doors. They pull the monster's attention away from you, at least. While many of them join their fellow agents on the sidelines, one unenthusiastically walks up the aisle, a thick, black book in hand. That must be the poor soul officiating this mess.
Christ, they’re actually going to try and officiate you with this thing. How is this your life?
The agent passes behind you, taking center stage. They flip nervously between pages, hands shaking with every turn. The Pale Man side eyes the agent as its lips press into a flat line. Never an expression anyone wants to see on its face.
“Get on with it.” It says impatiently. The agent finally lands on the right page and clears their throat.
“Dearly Beloved and Honored Guests, We are gathered together here to join…” His voice trails off, realizing he knows neither of your names. You're pretty sure the creature doesn’t even have one, and you don’t feel obligated to offer yours up. The man is quick to continue once the silence becomes overwhelming. “...these two in the spiritual union of marriage.”
You zone the officiant out, losing track of his words about obligations and responsibilities. The second this is over, and the visitor drags you to where ever the fuck, you're going the bash its head in with a rock. Consequences be damned. Not that doing so would actually deal any sort of damage, but it’s the principle of the matter. It’ll make you a lot happier. Your arms can’t be cuffed forever, and hopefully they’ll be removed after this is over. Until then, all you can do is fantasize about the different ways you’ll beat the fucker.
“Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded… wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, in good times and woe, for richer or poorer, keeping yourself unto him for as long as you both shall live?” The familiar phrase feels like a bucket of ice water down your back. You know exactly what's next.
“I do.” It says, voice filled with uncontained smugness. You want to shoot the bastard so badly. Once you're done bashing his skull in, you’re going to find a rock of your own and do the same to yourself. Death is far more preferable than becoming whatever fucked up bride this thing plans to take you as. You’ve never thought much about the afterlife, but who knows. Maybe it’s pretty great over there.
The officiant turns to you, and starts the same spiel with minor changes and a few pauses. It’s difficult to describe the visitor in front of you as ‘man’ but he pushes through. You can’t stand to look it in the face anymore, as its expression turns more and more crazed. Its long tongue slides between its lips, wetting them and sending a bolt of revulsion through your body. You squeeze your eyes together tight, hoping that when you open them you’ll be in your own bed and this nightmare will be over.
“-keeping yourself unto him for as long as you both shall live?” You know what you have to say. It’s only two words, but your tongue is so heavy in your mouth you can’t. You refuse to be an active part in all of this. You won’t give it this, won’t let it take what you promised your wife many years ago. Your eyes stay shut, mouth pressed firmly together. Maybe they’ll take the hint and move on. God if that thing tries to kiss you…
You never answer. The sound of soft shuffling against the carpeted floor makes you crack an eye open to see a group of agents behind the creature. In their hands a long length of rope. You don’t really process what the hell is going on until they throw it around the Pale Man’s lanky body, using all their strength to pull it back. Its hands leave your body, flying up to tug at the thick rope. You use the freedom to back up several steps.
It doesn’t take long for the agents to tie up the visitor in the rope. The rope spirals around its chest in dozens of loops, locking its arms to its side tightly. Not so great to be restrained, is it? But the monster doesn’t seem very upset. Vaguely annoyed, but mostly amused.
“This couldn’t have waited till after we were finished?" It asks, long fingers coming to rub against the fibers of the rope. Guns are drawn and pointed at him, but everyone in the room knows bullets won’t do anything. It’s just to give themselves the illusion of safety.
“You didn’t seriously think we’d let you go?” The man might be of high status, if the medals that decorate his hazmat suit are anything to go by. You hadn’t noticed him walk in earlier with the other agents. He must have been well hidden in the crowd. That’s… smart. This whole thing is actually really smart. FEMA probably never had any intention of letting the visitor go. Even if they got the information they needed, the thing would just be a thorn in their side on the outside. Why wait to re-capture it? Go for it now while it’s distracted.
Of course, they probably could have done it without getting you involved, but as long as you don’t have to deal with it anymore, you’ll consider the night a win. Now if they could just let you go back home and drink until you couldn’t remember anything, that’d be great.
Agents slowly start to file out of the room, a few staying behind to discuss things with their leader. You assume he’s a leader. You don’t really care. What you do care about is the annoyingly mushy face the thing is giving you.
“You never said, ‘I do’.”
“And I never will. Go to hell.”
“Is that anyway to talk to your husband?” You have several things to say to that, because you are so far removed from being anyone's ‘husband’, but you're cut short by the approaching agents. Finally, it looks like they’ve come to free you. Will they let you take the dress home, you wonder. You’d burn in the fireplace.
Except they don’t unlock the cuffs. Instead, they drag you over towards the tied up creature, ignoring your struggle. You try vehemently to get out of their grasp, but too many of them have their hands on you to fight against. They press you up against the visitor's back, holding you in place as others wrap excess rope around you. It doesn’t take long before the rope is wound so tightly you can’t move. If the cuffs sucked, this is worse. Every breath you take is light, unable to get a full one in as the ropes press against your ribcage.
“You never mentioned this.” You say, staring daggers at the group of agents. So much for your freedom. You feel confused and betrayed. Had you not played your part? Sure, maybe you’d been a bit uncooperative, but would anyone else not have done the same? Was this some kind of punishment?
“I apologize.” One of them says. It’s a meaningless apology, you can tell. FEMA is never sorry about anything. “But we can’t let you go. Not right now.”
“That’s all you people ever say. What the hell is actually going on?”
“You need to stay with it. Keeping you around will act as an incentive for it to behave.” The fact you're getting used as a reward system makes your blood boil. Can’t they keep it in check on their own?
There’s a loud crack behind you, and when you crane your neck to look you discover with horror that the visitor has turned his head 180 degrees to stare at the agents. It shouldn’t be a surprise that it's so flexible, the ballerina had been, but it’s still unsettling.
“Don’t lay a hand on him.” It warns, face devoid of any amusement. The agents must have been unsettled by its sudden movement too, because for a moment no one speaks. Probably trying to debate the level of danger they might be in.
“As long as you both cooperate, nothing will happen.”
You turn back to the agents. “And I have to be tied up against it to do so?”
“I heard reports earlier that you were very… flighty. This is just to ensure you remain. Once we transfer you to our laboratory you’ll be separated.” The mention of your earlier outburst makes your scowl. How fortunate that that would come back to back to bite you in the ass. You want to continue to argue against this, because there's no way you're spending an unspecified amount of time wrapped up like a birthday present against this thing.
But the agents don’t stay long enough for you to start again. They break up into smaller groups, darting out of the room as the leader gives instructions.
“I need you to go get a vehicle big enough for transfer, you two to start radioing up to the labs, you four to stand guard…” Eventually, everyone is out of the room. They don’t close the doors, and you can see the few agents left out there to watch you. If you could move your arms you’d flip them off. For the time being, you relax against the binds. You feel exhausted. Nothing has been going your way.
“It’s just us now, my human.” It coos. This is the worst situation in the world.
“Can you shut up? This already sucks without having to be stuck here with you.”
“Aw, did you not enjoy our little ceremony sunshine? I went through so much trouble to set it up.”
“Yeah, and it ended with us being tied up.” The creature gives a shrug, and you can feel every muscle in its body move as it does. Gross. “And stop calling me nicknames!”
“Would you rather I use your name?”
“I’d rather you shut up so I don’t have to think about you.” You snap. It is not getting your name. You shift a bit, trying to find a comfortable position. Its back is boney, each vertebrae digging into your own spine. It takes the hint to be quiet though, and the room goes back to being silent. You try and think about your next move.
No shot they’re going to let you go at the labs. They’ll probably give you another bullshit speech about why you need to be there. And you have zero interest in finding out first hand what the widow and her husband went through at them. That means escaping, but that becomes a bit of an obstacle when you're tied to another being. You're much more impaired than before, so every escape route sounds impossible.
As insane as it is, your only hope is to rely on the creature behind you. It’s more durable than you, at the very least. Would running through a wall be an option? If it could just break the ropes, that would be great. But seeing as it hasn’t yet, maybe it wasn’t as strong as it portrayed itself. Every threat about breaking down your door being nothing more than a bluff to intimidate you further. Aren't you just so gullible.
But would it be willing to help you? You assume so. It’d gotten weirdly aggrieved when the agents implied they’d hurt you for its disobedience. That’s got to count for something. And that thing still had to have some sense of self-preservation too. You couldn’t fathom it just sitting around and letting itself be experimented on.
But you guys need an actual plan. Every other plan of yours had to amounted to ‘run and hope for the best’ and obviously that wasn’t working. It was probably time to start trying offensive attacks, but that would rely solely on the creature to do all the hard work. Not that you didn’t believe it wouldn’t be on board to kill agents, just limited in what attacks it could do. The best you could give was maybe a kick to the head if an agent was close enough.
You looked back into the hall. Only four agents remained, and none of them seemed to be paying much attention to the two of you. You’d seen the remnants of the large squad it'd beaten, four agents should be a relatively easy take down for it. Even if it was lacking the use of its arms. Yes they had guns, and while you’d have to try your best to avoid bullets, the thing already had some kind of invincibility against them. It seemed like the better option than continuing to sit and wait for more agents to return.
“Look, we're not in the best place right now. And it’s going to be a lot worse if we stay here. So we should… work together to get out.” The last part is the hardest to spit out, but you manage. The weird cracking noise reappears, and you don’t even have to turn around to tell it just snapped its neck again. You can feel its warm breath on the back of your neck.
“Work together, hm? What’s in it for me?”
Now you turn around to glare at the thing. Its face is showing off just how smug the bastard is. Does it seriously think it deserves more? It already had you in a wedding dress and a fake wedding for god's sake! What more did it want?
“What’s in for you is not being another one of FEMAs test subjects.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t mind that.”
“You’re lying.”
“Want to find out?” The answer to that is , no, not really. It's always been stubborn though, showing up at your door every so often for the chance that you might be alone, so it might actually follow through with the threat. You don’t want to piss it off further and have it try, because you need it far more than the creature needs you. And the asshole is well aware of that fact.
“Fine. What did you want?”
“To come inside your home.”
“Seriously?” You ask, because you can’t accept that that’s all it wants. There’s probably some kind of back door meaning it plans on praying upon the second it comes inside. Like eating the other guests.
“Of course. You let everyone else in except me. It seems cozy.”
“I didn’t let you in because you kept killing people and leaving the mess in my yard.”
The face it gives you is not one of remorse. That probably isn't even an emotion the thing can feel. That would be far too human of it. “They were threats.”
You’re not entirely sure how teenagers fall into the ‘threat’ category, but in the interest of not sitting around arguing about it, you press on.
“Look, I’ll let you inside but you can’t hurt any of the guests. In any way.”
“Tsk. Still holding on to them? Why bother? You’ll have me, firefly.”
“They matter to me, alright? And if you want inside, you have to leave them alone.”
The creature goes silent, as if debating the conditions of the deal. That, and probably considering ways to bend it later. It annoys you that you’re apparently going to have to be on the look out to make sure it doesn’t screw around, but that can be saved for later. Right now, you just need to ensure the monster agrees to help you escape.
“Do we have a deal?” It’s quiet for another moment, and you half expect it’ll tack on another term, but thankfully it doesn’t.
“We have a deal.” It agrees. Thank god. You’re getting somewhere, now. Looking back at the hall, the agents continue to mill about, apparently not having paid much attention to the two of you chatting inside. Good. Now's the question on how you’ll get to them…
“I can’t wait to come home with you, dove.” Ok, so it's still on that train of thought. But that’s fine. Because honestly, you can’t wait to bring it back either. Hopefully your shotgun is still laying by the door where you left it. Just so you can get a shot in before it ever crosses the threshold. As a little retribution for getting you stuck in this mess, of course.