Chapter Text
Jimin’s always been afraid of the dark. At eighteen he still needed to sleep with a night-light. His roommate grumbled and groaned at him for it, so Jimin would wait until he fell asleep to turn it on. So each night while waiting, he would huddle under his heavy duvet cover, eyes not daring to peek upon the darkness of the room.
His night-light was in the shape of Noah’s ark, little animals edged onto the top. It was passed down from his mom. It was a comforting beacon of light (literally) during the distressing times of school.
So yeah, Jimin’s always been afraid of the dark.
And then the creatures came- vast in numbers, spreading their disease from cities to towns, then from country to country. The only safe place was in your head, and even then your head wasn’t completely trustworthy; your brain couldn’t decipher what was real anymore. Then the lights went out. For Jimin, that was the worst. The power died all along the country, people too busy worrying about surviving the next day to fix it.
Jimin was one of the few immune to the creature’s disease. He found that out after his roommate bit him while Jimin was bashing his head in. He kept waiting for the sanity to seep out of his mind, for the hunger they talked about on the news to take over, to consume.
Some called him lucky. But how lucky can he be if he’s living in a world gone mad? Jimin calls himself a sinner. He took a life and didn’t have the time to beg forgiveness from our father thou art in heaven. Though as time passed and fewer and fewer were left, it got easier to sin.
Each sin he partook in slid off his shoulders because who believed in a God now when there was no church to uphold beliefs? Who had the time to pray to a God with his ears covered? Who had the time to kneel by their bedside while creatures from hell were banging at the door?
Not Jimin.
His mother would be ashamed of him. Wherever she is, whether she’s in hell or heaven or just drifting along the cosmos, she’s shaking her fist at him.
As much as Jimin sins and sins, he still keeps his cross tucked around his neck. It’s an item to clench in his fist at night when it’s too quiet watch your back and Jimin can’t tell what’s lurking out there. Even though the world has descended into a war, everyone is dying, and the sins stack a mile high on his shoulders; Jimin’s still afraid of the dark.
He’s not too sure how long he’s been on the road. It may have been months, maybe even years since he’s been in his own bed. He can’t keep track between the running and the fighting and the desperate search for food.
He doesn’t even know where he’s headed. Only passing road signs give him a glimmer of hope for civilization. While he walks and wanders, he wonders if there’s a camp of survivors out there, living in harmony with tall walls surrounding them.
Jimin longs for walls now because he’s sick of being free.
He wanted to be a doctor, so he got himself a scholarship from the best school of medicine in South Korea. He was going to save lives, but now he just takes them.
One thing he didn’t think he would miss is the sound of sirens. It wasn’t a comforting sound to him before. Everytime he heard an ambulance he’d hold his cross and pray for the safety of those in danger.
Now he realizes, with sirens playing the distance there was hope that everything was going to be alright, someone was coming to save you, to help you. But there’s no one left to save you now in this man-eat-man world. No ambulances to play their haunting tune.
A while back Jimin met a group of people traveling towards a haven. They offered him a place in their group, which he readily took, not bothering to tell them their idea was ludicrous since he finally had company.
(Traveling with them, he almost let himself hope that there was a safe-haven.)
But then they were ambushed in the night.
Everyone got bitten, including Jimin.
Everyone died, not including Jimin.
He shot them all in the head before they turned, in compliance to their wishes. None of them wanted to take the chance to find out if they were immune to the bite. Jimin didn’t stop shaking that night, bile resting in the back of his throat. He has two bites now, permanent marks that he adds to the list of scars on his body.
With the way things are looking, Jimin will never find someone else like him. It’s tiring, waking up with an empty stomach and knowing he could just wait it out and die like that. But his mom didn’t raise a quitter. That’s the only thing that keeps him going in a world tainted with the smell of death.
The past week he’s been camping out in an abandoned house, living off of the food that hasn’t expired. The house itself is still frozen in time; a woman’s glasses perched on a bedside table, dishes in the sink waiting to be washed, a box of cheerios left out on the table in preparation for breakfast. The family must have been getting ready to start the day when tragedy struck. It makes Jimin nauseous to see a kid’s blue crocs sitting by the front door.
In respect to them, he carefully folds the glasses into a drawer and packs away the cheerios in the pantry. There’s no water to wash dishes with and he can’t bring himself to touch the shoes by the front door, but he takes care in making one of the beds after he’s slept in it.
And then he’s back on the road with some food and water stored away in his backpack, along with a journal, some pens, and his handy night-light. He swings his bat in his hand and can’t help longing for all the things he left behind.
"And he meets you by the river with a hand full of ash. Spare him a glance or some change and he’ll let you pass!” Jimin’s always been fond of this song; it was his mother's favorite, she’d sing it to him as a reminder. A reminder for what, he doesn’t know. "Cross the bridge and don’t fall prey! Lurking under is the smell of foul play! Don’t look back, for the grin on his face is not one of the day!”
The song used to give him chills, the phantom feeling of someone behind him whenever he turned the lights off. He heeded his mother’s warnings and didn’t dare look back.
"I didn’t give him any change, Jimin. I looked back. Don’t look back, Jimin.” her fingers dug into his wrist, no doubt there’d be bruises. Tears leaked from Jimin’s eyes, her frail arms couldn’t have had that much strength left.
“Don’t look back!” she yelled one last time as they wheeled her away. Apparently she learned her lesson, for she couldn’t even bring herself to look back at her own son.
“Don’t look back!” he chants, “ Don’t look back !” and by the end he’s laughing, stumbling over his feet, mumbling the rest of the song. He trips off the road and swerves into the grass to cushion his fall. He spreads his arms out like an angel, staring up at the untainted white of the clouds. Even if man has fallen, nature still perseveres.
Don’t look back for the grin on his face is not one of the day!
The demons wandering in the forest hear the tinkling of a fairy and listen in a daze. The fog lifts from their mind just to praise the best song they’ve heard all day.
And Jimin, he gets back on his feet when he hears the groans start up from somewhere nearby.
(He ignores the voice in his head telling him he’s going insane.)
-
He’s running out of water, the last drop made its way down his throat two days ago. His only saving grace would be a creek, but lately the creatures have been venturing into the forest more, in search of fresh meat. He scavenges the abandoned cars he passes by for anything useful, but he only finds children's toys and dead phones.
Blisters cover his feet, never getting the chance to heal. Healing means stopping, and stopping means going without water for a day, and he only has so long left before he starts to feel the dehydration.
Three days without water, three weeks without food, three minutes without oxygen; the deadly threes. Jimin knows the signs of dehydration, soon he’ll be light-headed and wobbly on his feet.
He wipes the sweat from his face with the back of his hand, sighing. The sun doesn’t spare him any mercy, but she’s just doing her job and making sure Jimin has enough Vitamin D, so he can’t blame her.
He happens upon a small farm, hidden off the side of the road down a dirt trail. It sits quaintly upon an open field, resembling the ones he’d see in movies giving wandering strangers a place to stay for the night. If it weren’t for the licked-clean bones of animal carcasses lying around, Jimin could almost pretend he’s a weary traveler just passing by.
He raises his bat as he steps on the front porch, wincing at every creak the floorboards make. The screen-in door has already been clawed away, leaving a sizeable hole for Jimin to step through.
The first things he sees when his eyes settle is himself. Placed directly five feet in front of him, hanging above the front-hall table, is a mirror. His grip on his bat loosens in shock.
It’s been so long since he’s caught his reflection in anything but the metal of his bat. The picture of his white smile and well-fed frame has been the go-to image when he thinks of himself. A part of him has been unintentionally avoiding looking too long at anything reflective so he wouldn’t have to face this.
(His eyes aren’t empty and relief sweeps through him.)
Hesitantly, he steps up to the mirror, tracing his fingers over the cleft of his jaw and chapped lips. His skin is red and peeling from the sun, his dark hair in desperate need of a wash. The mirror’s not long enough to reflect his whole body, but from the way his collarbones jut out from his skin, he can imagine the rest.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers.
“You shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”
Panic spikes in Jimin’s chest as he whirls away from the mirror, bumping the table in his haste.
The man--boy? From the deep baritone of his voice Jimin was expecting someone more buff. The boy can’t be much older than Jimin, stained jean jacket and camo pants hugging his frame. His red hair draws Jimin in the most, the stark contrast between it, and the broken windows and creaking floorboards of the room.
“You can go to hell for that, you know,” the boy raises his eyebrows, adjusting the grip on his gun.
Jimin’s gaze falls quickly to the movement, muscles tensing, “Aren’t we already in hell?” he replies. The boy laughs in his deep voice that should not sound pleasant to Jimin.
“Touché,” the boy says, “Kookie, I’ve found someone!”
Kookie? All the plans running through Jimin’s head involved distracting this guy and high-tailing it out the door with whatever energy he had left. But when the man calls out to someone else, they all go to shit.
“You have a pretty voice,” the boy states, “Probably even prettier than Kookie’s, and that’s hard to do. Can you sing?” he looks expectantly at Jimin.
“I’m decent,” Jimin replies instead of the what the fuck what the fuck mantra running through his head. Are they going to kill me? Eat me? Why is this boy’s hair so red what the fuck.
“I’m serious, you could be a singer! Or-- well could’ve, I guess,” the boy’s voice trails off into a murmur as he scratches the back of his head. “What’s your name?”
At least when they kill him they can write his name on his gravestone. “Jimin,” he replies.
“Drop the bat,” comes a gruff voice from behind him, and the cold barrel of a gun presses into his shoulder.
“Ah, Kookie! Took you long enough, I was running out of things to talk about.”
“Drop the bat,” the figure behind Jimin chooses to ignore his counterpart, digging his gun deeper into Jimin’s shoulder. Jimin flinches away.
The boy with clown hair still stands before him, sighing. “Relax, Kookie. He’s chill.”
“Not taking any chances. Now drop the bat ,” the other boy hisses.
Jimin complies, letting it fall out of his grasp. It drops in a pile of broken glass. “Two guns against one bat, not fair,” he lets out, voice shaky.
The boy behind him dismisses Jimin’s words, keeping the gun steady on his shoulder, “Tae, search him.”
The red-head now deemed Tae bobs his head and steps up to Jimin. He drags his hands across Jimin’s shoulders and down his chest to his waistband, rucking up Jimin’s shirt. His touch is gentle as it runs across Jimin’s chest, skimming across his protruding ribcage.
“No bites up here. I don’t know about down there though. You don’t by any chance fancy taking your pants off do you?”
“What the fuck .”
“Didn’t think so. Kookie?”
“Take your pants off before I blow your fucking brains out.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jimin whimpers, curling in on himself.
“Kookie, language! He’s just a kid!”
“I’m twenty so fuck you,” Jimin mutters, scrabbling at the buckle on his belt. He’s got it it half-way done when he notices the silence in the room, fingers halting their movements.
He looks up to meet Tae’s pensive face.
“Do you think he’s ours, Kookie?” Tae asks, gaze pointed past Jimin.
“He looks like he could be ours,” Kookie responds, “His hair is soft and his voice is even softer.” The gun inches away from Jimin.
“I don’t know what you want, but if you could just get it over with please,” Jimin says and shuts his eyes tightly. All the touching all the speaking about his appearance, Jimin can guess what they want. Do you think he’s ours? “If you kill me, do it quickly, please.” God, he hopes they only kill him.
“We only kill monsters, baby,” warm breath gusts across his face, “You’re not a monster are you?”
Jimin bites his lip, not daring to open his eyes. “We’re all monsters now.” His cross is a heavy weight on his chest, reminding him it doesn’t belong on a sinner’s neck.
"Good answer." He can feel the laugh before he hears it, the puff of air making him flinch. "Even if he’s not ours, we’re keeping him.”
The heat emanating from the bodies he’s trapped between is stifling. There’s electricity crackling in the air, and Jimin knows it’s not the good kind. At some point the gun on his shoulder had been replaced with a hand, gripping tightly.
“Alright,” comes the voice from behind him.
That’s the last thing Jimin remembers.