a 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 @sonnenreich didn't ask for, but I couldn't help myself. oops.
The end of the world only meant the end of the world in the rarest of cases. For centuries, mankind had always been able to recover, had always found a spark of hope in dark times that never extinguished the will to live. Empires had fallen, cities had been engulfed by flames and civilizations had come to an abrupt end—and the world kept turning. Not because of the things they had tried to burn it down for, but because of the core values of every human being: Love, connection and care. It was never the struggle for survival alone that wrote human history, but what people did and felt in the lines in between. In times of crisis, they all made silent promises to each other that no one would have to be alone. And so it was this time.
The world had not died six years ago. It was still breathing, alive and thriving, just not for humans. Hollowborn had colonized the surface of the earth, only coming out during the day, moving from shadow to shadow and devouring their victims like a black hole. Rumour had it that these creatures were an echo of a failed civilization. And not much more was known about them. Witnesses met their abrupt end shortly after their first encounter. The sun, which had once given life, had become the scourge of human existence. Every sunrise was a death sentence for those who were outside. Hollowborns were neither animals nor humanoid. There were hardly any reports or scientific explanations, only rumors when he was laying in bed, telling the others scary stories.
Isaiah had found refuge in Sanctuary; one of countless shelters where people had come together. Most of them were in bunkers, he had heard on the radio. Isaiah, however, was fortunate that his sanctuary was in an old museum, secured to protect against anything that might come in from outside. It wasn't a claustrophobic facility, but a complex of its own with plenty to discover. And whether it was military bases, bunkers, lighthouses, theaters, museums or cathedrals, they all had one thing in common: they were refuges from the sun and from what came with it. Only one emergency exit led far away to the outside; a hatch that could only be opened in exceptional circumstances. And that had only happened twice before: Once to let a family member in and once when Isaiah had left.
Despite the dangers out there, there were always those who left the confines of their own community behind. Smugglers who traded between the bunkers. People who left for other reasons. Scouts looking for supplies or medicine. And Isaiah was one of them. Mother, the leader of Sanctuary, had given him the task of finding medicine, seeds and, first and foremost, a missing member of the community: A young adult, around 20.
And there was so much out there waiting for him that it was hard to comprehend. The world he knew consisted of sturdy walls and recycling systems, of old books that every resident had read a thousand times, of endless repetitions of the same games, the same conversations. Security, Isaiah had learned, had its price: stagnation. He wanted to know if there was anything else out there worth discovering. His task came convenient, even if he would never say out loud that these thoughts existed within him.
His journey had taken him to an old world that was not far in the past, but felt like it belonged to another era. Dilapidated cities whose streets were overgrown by merciless nature; bit by bit, it had reclaimed the urban habitat. Wild animals roamed through empty and looted shopping centers, in forests the trees lit up slightly as if fireflies were buzzing between them, he had seen animals that were not to be found in the halls of the museum. Deer-like creatures with snow-white fur and pink, flowering antlers, whose steps were so light that they left no imprint on the ground. Silent, cat-like hunters with deep blue fur that shimmered silver in the moonlight. And birds whose wings were not made of feathers, but of threads of light that moved gently through the darkness, as if they were lighting the way for lost souls to a bright future. Even though he admired the safety of the night, he was curious to see, what earth looked like at daytime.
When the attack happened, Isaiah had heard it before he saw it—a sound that didn't quite fit into this world and this reality. What followed was the cold, though he dashed into a nearby house and barricaded himself in, hoping he was by himself and safe. It was a cold that settled in his body, paralyzing his limbs, and slowly his feeling returned as the adrenaline subsided. Because then there was only pain.
He didn't know what had attacked him. He only knew that his blood was running over his skin and seeping into the fabric of his shirt, his jacket and his trousers, that he was standing up, staggering, pacing. Restless, knowing that, if he didn't find any help, he would die out here and he would succumb to his wounds. He found new strength, as high walls loomed before him, tall and unyielding, the first sign of human presence since days of wandering.
This refuge was more of a fortress than anything else. From his current mental state, he couldn't even tell if it was an actual former military base—the massive metal panels and the searchlights that cut glistening paths into the darkness suggested it was—or if the inhabitants had actually built all this themselves. In front of him, a bastion loomed into the sky, barely tangible. Isaiah staggered into the cone of light. For a moment he just stood there, as his blood dripped onto the leaf-covered ground. “Who are you? What do you want?” a sharp, suspicious voice echoed over the high walls. Then he ran on, leaning against the cool metal with all the strength he had.
Isaiah felt hands reaching for him after he muttered that he had seeds and medicine in his backpack, an offer in exchange for help. The world moved around him, he was dizzy, his legs kept giving in, the voices around him sounded muffled and distant. They became one with the night air and the faint sound of—music. There seemed to be some sort of festivity, he smelled food—roasted meat, freshly baked bread and herbs and—life.
Loud laughter, conversations, the clinking of glasses. Voices and impressions that knew nothing of suffering. Isaiah tried to concentrate, to grasp the surroundings, but everything became a blur. The lights were too bright, the noises too much. “He's bleeding out,” a woman spoke next to him. “Can someone get Zeev? I saw him at the back of Block A. Did he drink a lot?” There was no reply. And if there was, Isaiah didn't hear it anyway.
The last few steps to the hospital bed felt surreal and distant; he only managed them with the help of the three others who had accompanied him. His head ached and it became increasingly difficult to concentrate, let alone keep his eyes open. As he laid down, someone held his head carefully. Someone else put a blanket over him, trying to ease his freezing, but to no avail.
“Can you hear me?”, a voice spoke to him, only being able to make out the direction it was coming from. “What is your name? Where did you come from? What happened?” she continued to ask and Isaiah looked silently at the ceiling, his teeth chattering and his eyes rolling back slightly. “Can you tell me who you are?” she tried again. “Twentytwo,” he stammered absentmindedly. Carefully, she brushed a strand of hair hanging into his face from his forehead. “It's going to be all right. You're safe here, I'll take care of you.”
His chest heaved with difficulty. The pain seemed to get worse with every breath and each inhale took more and more strength. Darkness flickered at the edges of his vision, shadows with which he was fighting a very personal battle. Then another touch, someone opened his jacket, carefully yet firmly. The fabric was stuck together with dried blood, tearing easily as it was released, causing Isaiah even more pain—but he didn't speak, his mouth slightly open as he looked up at the ceiling, remembering the beautiful things he had been allowed to see in the last few days.
A man towered over him, putting something aside, speaking with the others. Dark blond curls, prominent cheekbones and jawline, dark eyes that studied him intently. “Where did you get that?” he asked the wounded man, who only looked up at him in confusion and had no idea what he was talking about. The question was asked twice more, and the third time the man towering over him pulled slightly on the necklace, holding it in Isaiah's field of vision. He turned his head slightly to one side, looked at the sun-shaped pendant and saw that Zeev was wearing it too. Tired and weak, he smiled, coughed and spat up blood. “Zeev, he's dying!” a woman's voice pleaded. “Zara...” Isaiah mumbled absent-mindedly, smiling drunk on pain, his breathing heavy and stertorous. Then the dizziness hit, he grasped desperately for something and found Zeev's forearm. And as the world went numb, the shadows took him, too.
