842

The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here. What I do know is that the room is dim and green and there’s a gaping gash in my side. Well, there was a gash, it’s just haphazardly sewn up, sending waves of unbearable pain throughout my body. My only relief from it is the steady hum of the singular fluorescent light on the ceiling. It flickers occasionally and the hum wavers, so I focus and count the seconds in between. It could put me to sleep if it didn’t hurt so damn much. Hell, if it didn’t hurt this much I’d be long gone, but I wouldn’t be able to fight off whatever’s lurking outside, let alone sit up. 

I remember a guy, probably. He looked like death himself. I remember the feeling of his cold needle puncturing the raw nerves of my skin, tugging flesh back together. If not for my sore throat and sewn skin, I’d assume it was all a dream. Or a nightmare, really. I remember how I wailed and wailed, and between consciousness, I saw the cold, lifeless surface of his militant gas mask. Maybe he’s from the government, but I hope the hell not; I wouldn’t be able to squeeze my way out so easily this time.

As much as I don’t want to find out, I know that If he doesn’t come back, I’m as good as dead. Minutes feel like hours, I really don’t know how long it’s been, but he wouldn’t save me just to let me rot, would he? Maybe that’s what death does. Maybe it looms over your shoulder for a while to make you appreciate life before it gets you. I sure as hell don’t appreciate life right now, not when all I have is constant pain with a faulty fluorescent light as my only friend.

One, two, three, four, five, flicker. One, two-

Click.

I nearly jump out of my skin as the door creaks open. My heart pounds like the heavy clunk of his boots. Cold air rushes in through the opened door and I can’t suppress a shiver.

There he is. Death himself. He looks different than you’d imagine, not like a spindly skeleton in a robe but instead a man in combat gear. Don’t get me wrong though, he’s still intimidating as hell. Even in the dim light, it’s obvious how many scars litter his powerful arms, how the light shines off of the blades on his belt. It’s no military uniform though, thank god.

My eyes follow his movements, my thoughts interrupted by the blood pounding in my ears, but he only walked over to the desk across the room. He doesn’t even look at me, or at least I think so; I can’t see his eyes under that stupid gas mask, not from this far. The silence stretches on and it’s starting to aggravate me. I can hear the soft hiss of his breath leaving the mask. The light, his breathing, and the rustle of paper. He slides something out of a file then turns to leave.

“Hey!” I try to snap, but my voice is hoarse. I ignore it. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?!” 

Halfway out of the door, he pauses. His head turns slightly to the side, but I don’t think it’s enough to fully look at me.

“…”

“Where am I?” I try. 

He turns forward again, shutting the door behind himself. 

And just like that, he’s gone as quick as he came. I’d punch something if I could.

I wake up for the thousandth time in who knows how long. I don’t know how long it’s been or how many days have passed. There’s no clock, not even a window. My pupils dilate as they adjust to the lack of light. I take in my surroundings, not expecting to find a table next to my bed. It has a tray with bread and a plain chunk of meat, and next to it is a bottle of water. I painfully push myself upright. I’d usually be more wary, but the pain in my side had made me forget how absolutely famished I’ve been. I scarf the tasteless offerings like I haven’t eaten in years.

I set the tray down and curl up uncomfortably as my stomach painfully adjusts to the sudden intake of food. I hear footsteps echoing in the hallway. My head snaps up towards the door as it clicks open and in comes death. Just like before, he completely ignores me in favor of his desk, except this time he’s sitting down. It seems like he’s planning to stay a little longer this time since he’s pulling out papers and a pen.

“Hey!”

“…” He ignores me.

“Where am I?” I try again. I don’t care if I end up annoying him, that’d just be returning the favor. He’s got no reason to be all mysterious, this pretentious ass-

“You’re at a camp.”

Huh. So the man does speak. More importantly, I’m not hallucinating this whole thing. His voice is gruff and cold, no surprise there. His mask muffles it a little.

“Government or rogue..?” I ask warily. 

“Rogue.”

I go weak from relief. I don’t know what I’d have done if I landed in a government base. Too many close calls lately. My eyes flit back to the man, his back turned to me. This guy’s difficult, but I’ll squeeze as much as I can from him.

“What’s your name?”

“…” Nothing. Just the quiet hiss of his breath. 

“Why do you wear that thing anyway?” 

“…”

“God damn, am I talking to myself here?!” I groan, exasperation lacing my voice. This man may just answer what he feels like, probably ignores anything he deems pointless. “Could you at least tell me when you brought me?”

“Two days.”

“Damn…” I sigh, burying my face into my knee. I lazily look back up at him. “What’s your name?” I ask again. Nothing better to do around here. 

The writing comes to a stop, his hand clutching the pen, and I can’t help but grin. I might’ve pissed him off already. 

“Go to sleep.” The taps of pen across paper resumes.

“If you don’t tell me your name, I’ll make one up y’know. I’m already thinking of some good ones. So, what’s it?” 

His pen stops again. “842.” Even he can’t keep the irritation from creeping into his words.

“Codes don’t count, reaper. Hey, that’s a good one isn’t it? First name Death, last name Reaper?” He can probably hear the smile in my voice. 

The sound of writing intensifies as he scribbles down the rest of his notes. He slides the paper into a filing cabinet before standing up abruptly. For someone so reserved, it’s awfully easy to get under his skin. I think this as he steps out and shuts the door, taking my momentary fun along with him. I feel oddly disappointed. 

It's just me and the fluorescent light again. Flicker.

Five, six, seven, eight, flicker.

Going off of how many meals have been dropped off, I’d say it’s been two days since that encounter. I haven’t seen the guy since then. That only leaves me with my usual activities: sleeping and counting.

Thirteen, fourteen, flicker. 

I spoke with an actual doctor today, and she told me I’d be good to go soon. However, as much as I despise this dreary place, I know that If I leave, this stupid wound will make sure I don’t last long. The doctor told me I could stay at the base until I fully healed, so long as I take up a job. I weigh my options.

Pretty much everything is telling me to stay for a while, but either way, it seems my days of counting seconds are over soon.

967 is my number, hunting is my job. I wander through the endless maze of rooms with only the faded signs on the walls and a crudely drawn map from the doctor. After an eternity, I finally reach my froom. I use my keycard to get inside. 

The hotel sector of the abandoned conference center is pretty standard, nothing extravagant, but god… anything feels luxurious when you’ve spent months in tents, dirt, and hospital beds. There’s even a real shower!  

In the room there’s two small beds separated by a nightstand. I know I’m supposed to have a roommate, but the room is so desolate that it doesn’t feel lived in. The only thing indicative of another human is the plaque above the bed with the engraved number “842”.

842? I know I’ve heard that somewhere, at least I think so… dammit, why can’t I remember?! 842, 842… I try my hardest to remember why I know it as I open my bag, but nothing’s coming up. I finish unpacking and slump down onto my bed.

“842, 842, 842….” I mumble to myself, willing myself to remember. As if I’d just chanted a summoning ritual, a beep comes from the door, followed by the click of a door handle.

In walks a man, mid to late twenties, dressed in full black and tanned skin littered with scars. Most notably of all, around his neck hung a military gas mask. 

Oh. 

842.

Death Reaper.

He seems to recognize me too, judging by the way he tries to muster up a glare but ends up being too exhausted to bother. Before I can say anything, he disappears into the bathroom. I hear the shower turn on not long after.

God, why him? Not only did I manage to piss him off, but I’ll be stuck with someone who’s damn near mute! I might as well just talk to imaginary friends. Whatever. I’ll just try my best to make peace with the guy. 

I take over the shower once he’s finally out, and by the time I’m finished, the sun is down. I leave the bathroom and find him sitting on the edge of his bed, inhaling out of what seems to be a nebulizer machine. I haven’t seen one of those things in ages, I didn’t think they’d still be around, and I can’t help but be curious as to why he needs it. 

The silence is deafening. This time, there’s no fluorescent light buzzing to distract myself with. I hear him click off the machine and store it away.

I let out a sigh. “Hey.”

“…” Ignored.

“Listen, I know you don’t exactly want to get friendly with me, but I’m still gonna ask for your name. I’m not a fan of referring to you as a number, and you’re sure as hell not a fan of the name ‘Death Reaper’.” I attempt a joke.

“…” He stares at me irritably as he switches off the nightstand lamp. He turns on his side, facing away from me.

I inwardly groan. This difficult bastard, god forbid I try to be nice. Why do I even try? I know I’ll never get anywhere with this dude… what’s his deal anyway-

“It’s Salem.” A rough voice abruptly cuts through the silence. “My name is Salem.” 

I look over at him in surprise, but he’s still turned away. I feel a little bad now for thinking of him that way. I can’t help a smile. I like the name Salem.

“Hey, Salem. I’m Xavier.”

It’s been three weeks since then. Having my life revolve around hunting is more rewarding than I thought it’d be, it’s nice to help feed people. Even the daily inspection at the gate is much less daunting than it was before. With every person that goes through, their number is called through an intercom. What follows next is a long beep at best, and a gunshot at worst. In my time here, only two people have been put down. 

Best of all, though, is Salem. At first, trying to talk to him was still like trying to talk to a tree, but with time, he’s become more relaxed around me. He’s still a man of few words, but a conversation is actually possible unlike before, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t what I looked forward to most every day. Going back to the room after a long day, showering, then ranting about whatnot to him. He doesn’t reveal too much about himself, but I can piece together a few things.

I’ve come to the conclusion that he’d been in a fire a few years ago and damaged his lungs. It would explain why he never goes on missions without his mask, why his voice is prematurely gruff, and why he takes the medicine every night. Most notably, though, is the wide burn scar that covers his entire side. I see it when he changes, starting beside his chest and disappearing beneath his hip. I’ve decided it’s better not to ask about things like that. I don’t know why, but I can only stick to surface level conversations like missions or whatever else doesn’t matter. But god, do I want to know more than his opinion on the weather.

I want to know how he grew up, did he have a family? What kind of person was he before the apocalypse, how old is he? I want to know what he hates, what he loves, what scares him, what makes him feel safest. I wish he’d tell me about the fire, or let me point to every single scar on his body and tell me how he got them. I wish he wouldn’t fall asleep with his back facing me, I wish he’d ask me more about myself. I want to tell him that I no longer feel like he’s the intimidating embodiment of death, that I admire how hard he’s fought against it. I hope that one day I can talk to him about all of these things, then ask him if it’s normal to feel this way, then maybe he could tell me he was just as curious about me too. 

I could ask Salem if he’s just like me, if he looks at me and feels affection some days, but others it’s a pang of melancholy. I could ask if he wants to see me happy too, if he wishes he could have met me in another world without the apocalypse, because I sure as hell do.

It’s what I’m wishing right now as I lay down flat on my bed, staring at the ceiling as I listen to the rustle of his bed sheets from across the room. The room is cold. I wonder if Salem is cold too.

“I’ve been feeling like eating rabbit lately, but I can’t find them anymore in the places I hunt.” I complain meaninglessly. 

“…” Salem always takes longer to respond. He likes to think over his words. “Come with me tomorrow. The forest I go to has rabbits.”

I perk up in a mixture of surprise and giddiness. I feel childish, but I don’t mind right now. “Holy shit, really?!” 

He nods. “I’ll cook it when we get back.” 

I can’t help the stupid grin that’s covering my face, nor the warmth that’s now coursing through me, but I decide to indulge in it because Salem’s going to cook me a rabbit tomorrow.

Leaves crunch under our boots as Salem leads me into his forest.

“Why’s it that you come all the way over here for your job? What do you do?” I ask idly. 

He thinks over his words for a long time.

“Back when I wasn’t fit to be a hunter anymore, I was switched to being a gatherer. One day I brought back a random flower. Since then my job has been to find more of them.” He pauses again. “They told me they can finally make an antidote.” 

In my shock I nearly trip over myself, I mean, who the hell wouldn’t?! An antidote?! “Holy shit Salem, what?! How haven’t I heard of this yet?” 

“It’s classified.” He shrugs casually, as if he just revealed his favorite color. “The only people that know are me, the scientists, the council, and you.”

‘And you.’

I walk back to the clearing where we agreed to meet. The weight of three nice, plump rabbits sit beautifully in my bag. I lean back against a tree, waiting for Salem to come back. 

I’m guessing it’s been fifteen minutes of standing there when I hear staggering footsteps behind me. My heart drops to my stomach when I turn around. 

“Fucking hell, what happened Salem?!” I rush over to steady him, but I jerk my right hand away as I feel his blood soaked sleeve. He’s making an expression I’ve never seen from him, he looks terrified. 

He’s shaking and coughing and his left arm is limp, tied up by a bloody piece of cloth.

“It’s fine, It’s- COUGH! There was… it was a fox…” He stares into the ground.

I can hardly hear him over the blood pounding in my ears as I rush him back in the direction we came from. All the way back to the base neither of us says a word. As we wait in line, we’re given no more priority than anyone else, we wait and wait and wait as every mere second feels like a nauseating hour. It’s unbearable. I can almost collapse with relief as we approach the inspection area, closer to the medics, closer to our room, closer to safety.

726 inspection. 

BEEEP

Salem weakly shrugs off his bag, handing it to me with a trembling hand. 

960 inspection.

BEEEP

I don’t question it. His despondent gaze focuses for a moment. He looks so human when he looks back at me.

135 inspection.

BEEEP

“You’re a great guy… Xavier…” he rasps. “But we shouldn’t have met In a place like this.” 

“What?” 

143 inspection.

BEEEP

“But I still can’t regret saving you.” 

“Salem, wait! What the hell are you saying?!” 

842 inspection.

BANG!