Inside the building, dust hovers in every breath. But shafts of dim, fractured light fall from scratched windows and sweep away little from this disturbed stillness as the SWAT team edges in with the soft probing beam of a flashlight or a laser sighting system piercing into dust and darkness. Creaking noises, usually small sounds not made out on the normal ground, magnify across the halls since senses seem on the point of a twitch within every breath of caution and silence that pervades in such labyrinths within decaying insides like those: peeling wallpapers, shards of broken glass, unidentifiable stains and many silent testimonies to abandoned dwellings.
They reached the room at the back: A cold draft crept down the hallway through a window that was shattered. Their leader gestured toward the door—a silent signal to go check. One member joggles it open with the nozzle of his rifle, and as the door slowly swings out, they freeze at the scene before them.
In the center of the room, a boy lies across a crumbling mattress covered by several layers of wilted, threadbare blankets. His white hair shines slightly in the flashlights that fray around him against the darkness: pale as his skin is and touched neither by grime nor decay. His face is serene, as if untainted by the world, it's in tranquility that it defies the setting. Long pale eyelashes frame his closed eyes, and on his small delicate face, even his features seem almost otherworldly, as if he belonged more to the shadowy quiet than to any reality they knew.
But their eyes move to the body lying alongside him, strewn lifelessly on the other side of the mattress. A woman, judging by the appearance, though her face is turned away, her skin mottled and bluish in death.
Dark stains seep into the mattress beneath him, the sickly sweet scent of decay mingling with the damp, musty air. It's obvious she has been dead for quite a while; her clothes are crumpled. Her face was peaceful even in death, as though she was one with her end.
The members of the team share nervous glances among themselves, all stiffened by the unspoken silent question—how is this boy alive, untouched, sleeping beside a corpse? One of them can't resist; he stretches out and shines his flashlight closer to the boy's face, and in that instant, the boy's eyes snap open. His eyes are a bright, unnatural red, like embers glowing in the darkened room. For a moment, the soldiers pause, transfixed by the piercing gaze that seems to see right through them. The boy doesn't scream or cry out only stares, his red eyes unyielding, filled with ancient knowing that sends a chill through each member of the team. It is as if, in that silent, loaded moment, he has been waiting for them all along.
Their leader as if finally back to his senses raises his rifle towards the young boy. At that instant, the boy jumps out the window. Dumbfounded they wait for the thud that should accompany one who had just jumped out of a window, but they never hear one. They slowly approach the window and glimpse outside instead of seeing the boy on the ground they see him flying in the woods his white hair fluttering behind him in a beautiful display leaving them awestruck.
Dumbstruck at the occurrences the team slowly leaves the house silently retreating back to their vehicles.
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The figure emerges from behind, outside, where the SWAT team vehicle has been parked in very dim moonlight, moving with graceful slowness, almost unsettling. At first, he appeared to be a bunch of rags blown by the wind, but as he drew closer, his form started taking the shape of a shriveled man, skin clinging tightly to his bones, so thin and emaciated that he was all but skeletal. His tunic and leggings are faded, hanging loose, and torn about his emaciated frame, as if they too were from some other age, rotting along with him.
He extends a gnarled hand to the car, long and thin, with dry papery skin stretched taut over knobby joints. His nails tinged yellow and cracked, brush along the surface of the vehicle with a slow, almost tender caress. His head is tilted to one side, and a grim smile stretches across his cracked lips, exposing teeth jagged and yellowed, more fang-like than anything human.
With each stroke, he seems to savor the touch, as if the metal were some sort of rare and precious artifact that his fingertips trace over. His other hand follows, pressing a bony palm to the window and leaving a faint, oily smear. He leans close, fogging up the glass with his breath as he peers inside, his sunken eyes gleaming with some strange, feverish hunger. He mutters to himself, the words indistinct, but with a twisting sort of affection, as if he were murmuring to a lover instead of to a cold dead machine.
The man circles the car, his fingers tracing along its edges, lingers on each door and handle, every movement long and drawn out. It's ritualistic, almost the reverent tracing of his fingers as if he's savoring every sensation, every ridge, and curve as if the car holds some dark, personal significance. As he stoops to stroke the tire, his brittle hair falling over his face, he pauses, his hollow eyes rise and look behind. He senses them watching, a faint grin spreading wider across his face, wordlessly acknowledging the team waiting.
As they get closer and closer to the vehicle his smile grows to the point that he becomes ecstatic.
"A survivor! Quick apprehend him make sure he doesn't leave this place."the commander shouts as soon as he sees a man's figure.