His nose twitched. The jerks of his face muscles made his lips lift in a snarl. Boulevard had learned something new today. He learned what the worst smell in the world was. He crouched down and stared at the pool of rotting flesh and sewage that seemingly sizzled and popped on the floor of his bathroom. Every breath was cut short; he didn't want to add any natural cleansing to the pot.
It was more of an annoyance to Boulevard at first, but as time went on, he knew that even he couldn't live with such filth. He'll need to find a strong enough material to patch up the bottom half of his boat he cut into yesterday and empty out the horrid concoction in front of him. The yacht must have had a full tank of every morsel of trash Boulevard threw away backed up, it bursting the floorboards of his boat when he stabbed the waste tank. This situation paled in comparison to other abhorrent actions he had to do physically in his life, so it was more of a daily chore.
But for some reason, even though he got nose blind after a while, this smell was fouler than any other. Most possibly because, during other incidents, he was able to laugh such disgust off with past acquaintances or that he dealt with the blood and guts to get somewhere. This time, it was just a nuisance that had to be cleaned up, caused by a suicide attempt.
Boulevard didn't think of what had happened yesterday. His struggle in the ocean blue. It was another displeasing event in a life full of them. He's alive now, and his home needs to be patched up.
Winter was approaching. There's always a cold front that drafts upwards to the peninsula each year. What a satisfying feeling that wind is – pulling Boulevard to the endless forest.
Drenched clothes and a day used for searching in the woods beget one thing. A gust held out its hand to Boulevard. He pulled his shirt and pants off and let them hang over the rails atop his boat. Shaking back and forth like a wet dog, he was dry to the point where the dirt under his feet wouldn't become mud.
There was a plateau that shadowed the inner curve of the cone shaped beach. Two exits upwards were on the left and right sides of the sand's end; hills led to the top of the cliff and into Unmei National Park. Boulevard constructed a staircase up from the beach straight down the middle with washed up wooden supports from sunken rafts. Being able to keep track of where those sea vessels were and diving for them was like a field trip. Boulevard was a man of the sea in every way.
He taught himself how to make fishing poles and how to use them, he learned the mannerisms of different species of fish and their migratory patterns, and he can hold his breath for three minutes straight. Motorboats and jet skis are fresh with spare parts for Boulevard to tinker with. He can explore the undiscovered depths of the ocean with a single jump or even a flick of the wrist. That's the main reason he's been able to live in the peninsula for so, so long. Even he realizes that he won't live long enough to make a submarine. "Disheartening." Boulevard said on his climb to the border of trees.
When Boulevard had first discovered the yacht years ago, the outside was shaved away by the passage of time. Paint and portions of the exterior were scraped and bent. While those juts of metal were great for Glutton protection, it was a harsh contrast to the yacht's formerly wealthy exuberance. This small beach was maintained like a painting: no blood, no bullet shells; not even a single indentation in the sand. Only the yacht and the horizon.
Boulevard had his first drink in the built-in bar when he was seventeen. Pristine glass covered a variety of liquors that would be shaken and stirred to appease partygoers. There were no parties on the yacht, only drinking in silence. Red wine is Boulevard's favorite. He felt classy when holding the fancy glass betwixt his fingers, it reminding him of communities he once lived in.
The forest is akin to red wine on a white carpet. In some patches of fallen amber leaves, you can hear the holts of baby birds and see the sun make stencil patterns on the floor. This was the white carpet. He would read whatever he could get his hands on for hours in this sanctuary. While nothing of interest happened in this maze of bark, it was enough to label it a modern sanctuary of peacefulness. A couple steps forwards, and he'd see a Glutton. That was the stain.
That's all it took. The quietude was shattered at the showing of their murky eyes, ravaged bodies, and ear wrenching screams. When people started to become walking dead, it was a horrifying sight. "The world erupted into mass panic." Boulevard was told by a farmer years ago. He was too young to remember the beginning stages of the chaos. One feeling he can recall well though was the heat of napalm in the distance.
As Boulevard approached a Glutton in a parking lot near the entrance to the park - no bottom half of its body present - he scoffed in vexation. "What a drag." He whispered. The once towering threat known as the hive of Gluttons were now reduced to practically nothing where he lived. When a bloodlust infused husk is now welded to asphalt, it isn't much to worry about. The sounds they made were paramount in Boulevard's decision to either let them lay or make them die.
A mix of curdling blood and whatever else had made its way down a Glutton's throat is like a roar of a lion in its prominence. Their "voices" always sent shivers down any battle-hardened soldier's spine. If they were just the moans of an exhausted soul, Boulevard would pass them. If the wails disrupted sleep, just a child's amount of force into the monster's temple with his pointer finger would cut off all life remaining.
"Exhausted soul?" Boulevard thought. His musing was halted at that thought. "Are former humans conscious in their now hijacked bodies?" Staring at the Glutton in the parking lot, who just turned its head around to have its eyes meet Boulevard's, he decided to go with the best-case scenario. Just that miniscule neck movement made the right side of its face tear off and flop downwards into a fold of flesh.
Boulevard had arrived at the park station. Rails that once raised and lowered to let cars pass and enjoy the nature within served as reminders that he's content enough to the peninsula's embrace. The outside is unknown and incalculable to him now.
If he ever wished to venture out farther for whatever reason, he won't go headfirst into the world feeling dubious without a familiar boat to fall back on. And he needed clothes.
This station was scavenged before by a passerby who knows how long ago, but it held uniquely useful items the common man would leave behind. Like tools for woodworking; phones – wireless or not – for salvage, and some needed sealing spray. This small rectangular box for former workers always seemed to please in aiding Boulevard's endeavors.
He opened the oak wood door of the post and looked forwards at a window, with one pane broken and the other not. As if held out on a silver platter, a full canister of Omega Stick Spray was in the sunlight next to the glass. Just a line of this waterproof slime and repairs will be smooth sailing. Boulevard didn't chuckle at his pun.
After one step closer to the windowsill, he grasped the spray, but he felt his foot get pricked by something. He raised his leg to see a keychain, undone and bent with fresh blood at its tip. Connected to the chain links was a game of sorts. It had a small screen and a little character staring up at Boulevard. It was saying in big text, "Feed me! Feed me!" "How can it be functional?" Boulevard said to himself.
Someone other than the voice in his head responded. 'How are you so hairy? Like, from the base of your monster toes to that scraggly, full pirate's beard, there's strands everywhere. Doesn't that get annoying? I heard girls are supposed to wax, but this is ridiculous for a guy." She chuckled.
Boulevard peered downwards underneath the desk and saw sneakers with jeans torn into jorts. That's all he needed to see. He steadied himself, can in hand, and said, "Take care." He slammed the door in the rising girl's face.