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"Sir, we require you to come without resistence," the hands that hold the gun pointed at the hermits chest shove further into his sternum, "or you will be put down—"
The hermit irritatedly pushes the gun to the side, glaring at the FEMA officer standing at the threshold of his front door. Like usual, he came and asked for two people from the hermits house, a stupid cycle of giving away guests and taking more in, except for some reason the hermit himself was also asked to come along.
Obviously he refused, he had a house and guests to take care of and better things to do other than sit around in a quarantine center. It doesn't help that he doesn't trust them very much.
"I have guests to take care of," he grits out, "I would suggest that you take that gun of yours, and shove it real far up your ass—"
Before the officer can reply, a white blur passes through the hermits vision across his doorway and to the right, taking the officer along with it. He hears the porch railings snap and fall to the grass from the impact.
The sound of bones cracking and ligament crunching follow not long after.
The fuck?
After a brief moment of shock, the hermit grips his own gun tighter and leans out of his doorway and looks out and onto the grass on the right of his porch, pieces of the wood barrier scattered around a figure on the wet soil.
Well shit.
It's the visitor thats been terrorising him—annoying more like—since the apocalypse had started.
Pale and lanky, and freakishly tall. There's rigid looking nubs on its back that trail the line of its spine and stop just below the small of its back, thin shoulders that he knows are stronger than they look, he's never seen its lower half, always cut off from the peephole. Its wearing black pants, splattered with mud and dirt and reddish patches he'd rather not think about. Long arms and spindly fingers hold the officer tight as it crowds over the officer, caging and trapping him between its body and the soil below. It feeds on his head, or whats left of it anyway, the disgusting, wet sounds of slurping and chewing come from it.
Mikhail reloads his shotgun.
At the sound, the chewing stops and the visitor looks back up, mouth and chin dripping in gore and blood, dripping down its neck and pooling in the crevices of its collarbones.
The hermit stiffens, poised and tense with the shotgun pointed right at the visitors chest. He's illuminated by the light coming from his hallway through the open door, shrouding his right side in warm yellow light, the visitor notices a silvery scar cutting through his left eyebrow and stopping right at his eyelid, how pretty. His brows are furrowed, a deep crease between them that the visitor has an odd urge to smoothen. Sharp and narrowed green eyes with pin prick pupils glare at it, flickers of saccharine jade appearing and disappearing as Mikhails eyes bounce between the body and the visitor.
They're as green and vivid as emeralds.
And so, so pretty.
It wants to drown in them.
They're as green as the grass near the river banks, as the moss that cover and curl around and up the cracked and cracking ghosts of brick buildings, consuming everything in its path, as the fern and foliage that grow on the damp soil in the forest, protected and unblemished thanks to its protection from the thick tree canopy above.
They consume every inch of space in the visitors mind, creeping through its nerves and into its ichor, leaving fire in its wake, it felt as his eyes roamed its figure, burning lines into thick skin, burning worse and better than sun and leaving it with a hunger it doesn't know how to satiate, trailing to the corpse below it and back to the visitors eyes, a shiver of delight racking its body, pupils dilated with curiosity and awe, trying to take in as much as it could.
It had only ever seen its humans eyes through the glass orb at the door, frosted and blurry, this was something else.
It felt trapped under his gaze, something primal in its body growling and agitated at the caging. It wanted out. It was exhilarating. It was claustrophobic. It was wonderful. It was terrible.
It was right where it wanted to be.
Being shot won't kill it, sure, but if it was human, it would die a happy man if it was shot with its last memories being of cleen cut green eyes and the scent of its human, something musky and metallic and sharp, with citrusy undertones masked with the smell of sweat.
It can hear each blink, how his heart pounds against his chest, yet there is no change in the stoic expression of the hermits face, it can hear a droplet of sweat roll down his spine, dampening the cotton turtleneck he wears as the droplet pools at the small of his back, he can hear each breath, stuttering on its way in and raspy from smoking, the smell of nicotine ever present.
He drove it crazy.
It shifts, moving its center of gravity to its hips to stand up. It wants more. More, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, it needs—
And at that, the hermit turns and rushes into his house, slamming his shoulder on the frame with a grunt before shutting the door with a slam and clumsily locking it.
And the visitor is left with a burning meatsuit that is aflame without the suns prescence and unfed desires.
It isn't starving for flesh anymore. Turning back to the corpse on the ground, it kicks the body away watching as it ragdolls away from it.
It's hungry for something more.