Still Human

The heat was unbearable—the kind that clung to your skin like an unwanted lover. The sun burned away any ounce of energy a person could have. Sweat dripped down the back of Rolen’s neck as he walked beside Damon, his sweaty palms sticking to the bikes steering wheel.

Small droplets of sweat slowly trickled down his brow, causing Rolen to wipe it away with his sleeve, though it barely helped. The black sleeves of his shirt clung to his pale skin like a magnet to its opposite. His white hair—an unruly curtain—fell into his eyes, sticky and sweaty. The silver choker at his throat felt heavier than usual, a small dragon pin shining in the bright sunlight.

As they rounded the corner toward the building entrance, a strange sight caught Rolen’s attention.

A military vehicle, a large matte truck, it had dented along one side. It sat half-parked on the side of the road. A flimsy line of yellow caution tape fluttered in the light breeze, doing a poor job of keeping people away. Two uniformed soldiers in partial hazmat gear stood near the back, the country's flag proudly displayed on their sleeves, one swearing under his breath as he slammed the truck’s hatch shut. Whatever they were doing, it seemed like they were having a bad day.

Rolen raised an eyebrow in interest.

“What the hell is that?” Damon murmured beside him, pressing a hand to his nose. “Smells like bleach and—fuck me, is that metal or meat?”

Damon brushed a hand through his sweat-slicked dark hair, the long strands sticking to his sharp cheekbones. He was tall, unlike Rolen, who was a head shorter than him, yet still handsome in a way that always made strangers look twice and old ladies offer unsolicited life advice.

“Don’t know,” Rolen said, frowning. “Probably a spill or something”

“Yeah, well, I just felt my last braincells suffocate from walking past that thing.” Damon fake-coughed into his arm dramatically. “If I grow a third nipple, I’m blaming you.”

Rolen rolled his eyes and chuckled softly. Yet he could help to glance back once, just for a second. One of the soldiers was crouched over a box on the ground, wiping something from the cracked container with careful precision.

Then they were inside the tunnel, dragging the old bike up the narrow incline of the tunnel-like entrance to their new apartment complex.

Rolen's deep blue eyes glanced over to one of the windows lining the side of the tunnel, the strange feeling that something was wrong gnawing at the pit of his stomach.

He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone, pretending to check a notification. No service. Of course, as if this place didn't look like a serial killer playground all on its own.

"Is this place even legal?" Damon asked, his voice snapping Rolen out of his thoughts. Rolen turned to look at his boyfriend.

Damon was glancing around the decrepit building that they could now call home. The tunnel's slope opened into a dim hallway where flickering lights cast long, haunted shadows.

"I feel like we’re moving into a Silent Hill loading screen," Rolen stated, trying to shake off the eerie feeling.

Damon snorted. “Keep talking and I’m leaving your ass to get eaten by asbestos.”

"How romantic." Rolen grinned and watched Damon brush sweaty curls from his forehead.

The building was old—older than either of them were comfortable admitting. Paint peeled from every edge, and the hallway smelled faintly of wet concrete and regret. There was probably mold growing somewhere too. But the rent was cheap, and it was theirs.

“Okay,” Damon said, stopping at the door to their unit, still catching his breath. “We unload this stuff, I make you celebratory chicken drumsticks, and then you owe me a long, nasty shower.”

Rolen rolled his eyes. “You make it sound like a punishment.”

“You love my punishments.” Damon’s words were followed by an eyebrow wiggle and a sexy wink.

He opened the door with a dramatic flourish. “Home sweet probable death trap.”

Rolen smiled at Damon’s dramatic flair despite himself and took the bike back down the tunnel to grab the rest of their boxes from the sidewalk. After locking up the bike outside, Rolen bent down, grabbing another pair of boxes.

That’s when it hit him.

A flash. No—a vision.

The sidewalk vanished. Heat turned to cold stone. He wasn’t standing—he was kneeling. Bound. Knees and elbows pressed to the floor, locked in place by some kind of cold, metallic harness. His body shook, as if it knew what was about to happen.

He couldn’t see what was behind him—but he knew something was there. He could feel its ragged breathing in the darkness behind him.

Rolen staggered slightly, his heart hammering against his ribs. That uneasy feeling in his gut surged. Something was wrong.

He tried to shake it off again. Just a trick of the heat. Or nerves. Moving stress. Right?

He barely had time to register it when the first scream tore through the air like a knife.