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Leaving the bar, Yesenin had been pissed. He’d been more than pissed, actually- he’d been just about ready to cut off from everyone else and go live in some shack in the woods, alone for the rest of his days.
…but he didn’t have one of those, so he’d gone walking. Walking, stumbling, whatever you label it; he was still better off than those other drunken idiots, all wandering aimless and laying about- falling asleep on the streets, where they’d all burn come morning…
Anybody could have seen that things had been getting worse in recent years, but could they have known things would go to hell this quickly?
In the city, things are still loud. Despite the heat, the dark, and the thickness of the air, some people are still dedicated to making what could be their last night on earth a good one. Going out with a bang, they’d say. They’re all idiots, too. Cowards too afraid to face the truth.
Like the man in the bar, spewing smoke like a chimney and throwing so many names around, all people to blame- as though cussing at the air would do anything.
Like the man who’d sat beside Yesenin at the counter, blubbering and crooning. Complaining about the loss of the fabled ‘good life’ he’d believed to be rightfully his-
And like woman who’d hovered by that man’s shoulder, telling him that it would be alright. That it would all blow over soon. Lies people had been telling themselves since the dawn of time- in all plagues and droughts, over and over, ever still as mortality rates for those natural disasters continued to rise ever higher.
Could be the cities at fault. Too many people in one place, all stacked on top of each other and crammed in elbow to elbow in their buses and trains, or else crowding the streets with their cars, all spewing smoke, like that man in the corner, not minding where it all goes.
People sure were ignorant. What had his grandparents moved to the city for; ‘opportunity’? A chance to be there- to watch all the smoke rise up from houses and factories and people on the street? A chance to push through the crowd and land in a filthy bar full of miserable men, all weeping over a the same sweet “opportunity” they’d all been promised? All promised themselves. False promises, all of them.
Yesenin was just in a bad mood, maybe. He had every reason to be, of course, but justification didn’t exactly make it more tolerable. The anger felt like a shadow over his shoulders, or maybe like an energy under his skin, not buzzing but just settling, like how the heat clings to him. Like how his shirt sticks just slightly. Just another thing stuck to him; making him feel… inhibited. The beer didn’t help. It was sort of like a swirling in his head… the kind you only feel when you’re turning; where there’s the movement of you, the movement of the air over you, and then some third movement that you can’t quite grasp, twisting around and making everything feel hazier.
They say there are things out there. Inhuman things, wearing human skin, hidden among the crowds. Yesenin, he feels like there always have been. All those heavy gazes, from people in the halls and strangers on the streets, those that looked at him like he was something else. It made his skin crawl, sometimes. Made him feel like the whole world was watching, like he’d turn around some day and they’d all he stopped there, staring. Just staring.
But they never were. And anyway, there were all sorts of people in the world- murderers, rapists, sadists… what was it that made these ‘visitor’ things so different?
He wasn’t afraid. Not of the visitors, at least. Frankly, they were the least of his concern right now. More important was finding shelter. He wasn’t going to be able to make it back home, not with the time he had left, and with all the busses stopped. And even if he could… there were too many people there. Bodies on the streets outside the apartment, already, and there was no chance in hell that the little cooling power offered by his cheap hovel over there would be enough to get him through the coming days, if things kept going this way.
He needed to get away from the city. Away from the asphalt, from all the solid surfaces, all reflecting heat up- windows like magnifying glasses, perched and ready to fry the ants below.
He imagines the roads as one big griddle; once crafted to help people reach each other, now better suited for feeding the birds. Fresh meat, pre-cooked. He could see it, the days to come. Would the vultures survive, in their nests? What of the strays- the wild dogs on the streets? Would they adapt- learn to wait in the shadows, so they might claim the spoils of death without any of the hunt? Would the world become ruled by flies and maggots- or would they all be burned, stuck off to basements and homes, as all the corpses burned and dried, rather than rotting?
He keeps walking. It takes some time to get out of the city. Finally, the asphalt begins to shift to gravel. He keeps walking until he reaches weeds. A field, out in the country. He’s impressed it’s still standing. Would have thought all those reeds would have crumpled & died, with the weather they’d been having, out in the full sun as they were. And yet, they still stood. It’s almost like a sign. A sign that here, life could survive. So he decides to conclude his search. He almost goes to look for some place abandoned- to go hide in somebody’s barn or something, hope that the roof would be enough to spare him from the heat. He quickly decides that’s a shitty fucking idea, and anyway, he didn’t actually want to be alone. He’d spent a fair days like that; sat alone in a room, the closest thing to human contact being the droning of his radio, all static and muffled as it usually was… it was the worst feeling in the world. One of the worst, at least. He imagines it would be worse in this heat.
So, he stops at the nearest door, and knocks. Then knocks a few more times, when no answer comes. He’s almost ready to turn away at try the house next door, when finally, he hears the sound of footsteps, coming up to the door. They’re loud; creaking noises telling the story of an aged house, the kind that’s probably been there longer than most people have been alive.
The man who answers does so with a heavy dousing of discretion. He’s got a dim voice; not exactly dull, but definitely short of bright. It’s hard to tell wether he sounds that because of suspicion, or if thats just how he is. Yesenin worries as they speak, wether this will be any better than the bar. But it’s too late to turn back now. This was as good of a chance as he would get.
…He’s sort of surprised they actually let him in.