Loving Husbands at the End of the World (Inevitable Event #1)

The City shall be made hollow. Of those who rest in hollowness, they shall not be seen.

I do not like the days when Conan’s screams fill the air and Arthur's bones break through his skin.

It is the end of the world. The sky is a pale, lifeless gray—but, then again, when isn't it? It's always gray—or red. There are red days, too. And pitch black. Those days scare me because of the monsters.

But today is a gray day, and it's filled with screams and bones.

I hate these days.

Traveling on these days—the days foretold in the Miseries—is never a good idea. They'll be sitting ducks.

You know, with the screaming and the bones.

So right now, they’re enduring in the basement of an abandoned home. Flakes of chipped paint fall to the ground like black snow. Mold and mildew consume every inch of the walls and surfaces. If this wasn’t the end of the world, they’d have a lot of health concerns after leaving here. But they’ll be lucky to survive the next week, so I push it from my mind. I don’t want to think about them dying.

It's already been picked clean by scavengers, so they have no hope of foraging for supplies. Not that I would want them to use the rusted tools they might have found here. But at least it's safe. For now.

Arthur can't move. I mean, he can, but if he does, it'll hurt. A lot. He’s sprawled out on a dingy mattress on the floor, far away from the window slit that lets in some of the gray sunlight. Springs jut out like Arthur’s bones, tips of both covered in blood. Some his, some not.

While Arthur's bones are busy trying to flee his body, Conan is left suppressing his screams in a corner. He sits hunched over, head buried between his legs and his hands. His pain is more internal—in his head. On these days, he tries to put on a brave face. He doesn’t feel as if his torment is as bad as Arthur’s.

Well, he’s right. I should know.

It’s worse. 

He's being shown all of what was, all of what is, and all of what will be. Ever since midnight, the onslaught hasn’t stopped. Every second of the day, filled with death and despair and…misery. It's a lot for one person to have thrust upon them. It’s painful to watch. I want to help them but I can’t. This has already happened, a long, long time ago—I’m seeing this in my head. I’m being punished for…interfering.

I’m just lucky my punishment is them: two loving husbands at the end of the world. Maybe I can learn from them and help prevent this from happening again.

Because it will happen again.

"She's in a better place," Conan says between grunts. He must be talking about Rudy again—their daughter. They lost her. They won't discuss the details, but even behind the pain of their current troubles, I know that pain is somehow much worse than what they’re currently experiencing. 

Arthur repeats Conan’s words. He chants them repeatedly to himself and I can see his pain ease, even for just a moment. It pains me to know that this is how they have chosen to cope. How they must cope. Lying to themselves, denying the truth.

Anything to survive, I guess.

Rest does not come easy for them. But, thankfully, it does come.

The next day—I'm not sure how they know it's day considering it's still black as night—they leave their safe space. They’re always on the move.

"'The City shall be made hollow,'" Conan quotes as they step foot outside of the abandoned home. The city they are in is deserted. Maybe dead is the better word. It’s silent. No animals howling, not even the wind blowing. Yeah. Dead is correct.

All of Arthur's bones are back inside of his body where they belong, and Conan can only see what's in front of him. Mostly. He knows a few things that will happen today. His reward—and cost—of being infected.

As they walk, they look through their belongings. Arthur puts on this face that I've come to learn means the same thing as cursing loudly. They must be low on supplies. He won't say it aloud. Conan knows the look all too well, and he gives him some gentle reassurance. They probably have enough to get them through another day or two. Arthur readjusts the heavy sack he carries with him. It's filled with monkeys.

Yes. Monkeys. 

They've had them since before I was forced to watch. I would love to question what the monkeys are for but I’m only an observer.

As they travel, they fill the time with tales of happier moments. Days long before the world began to end. Days when they were three, not two.

"I miss her." Conan smiles. Arthur, ever strong, rubs his back as they walk. I can tell he misses her, too, even though he doesn’t show it on his face. I think he's trying to be stronger for Conan. I feel the same, about my life. I miss when it was three of us—my mother, my brother, and me. I miss my family. I hope to see them again one day.

"But," Conan says, "I...I'm glad we did it. I wouldn't want her to be here for..." He doesn’t have to say it. He just looks around at their surroundings. Arthur nods.

From my time watching them, I've come to a conclusion: they killed Rudy. Probably.

They’ve been running since before I was forced to watch. The way they speak of her makes me think they must have killed their daughter and fled. They've tried to convince themselves multiple times that it was the right thing to do, but I can see that deep down they are only saying that because her being alive, with them, would be much worse.

And, I think, because they killed her, people are after them. That's all I've got. They have no real destination in mind except away. Far, far away. I feel sorry for them. I'm also a little angry. I was taken from my family and I miss them terribly. And for them to have ended their daughter's life because of a little apocalypse?

Okay, not "little."

I know how their apocalypse ends.

Conan does, too.

They continue on in silence, holding hands down a well-used road. Bringing up Rudy tends to make them quiet afterwards. Up ahead, a fight has broken out between some of the survivors. It's too far away for me to tell what they're fighting about, but I can hear metal clashing against metal, like small localized thunderstorms.

Thunder…storms…As I think it, Conan looks off to the side, as if he’s looking at me. Directly at me. Something about that word resonates. Conan quickly recovers, though, and he pulls Arthur off to the side out of sight. It’s clear they can't take them. Arthur could handle one or two, but not this many. And Conan’s not much of a fighter. 

Conan stares off vaguely to the side again, but this time it’s not towards me, the observer. No. He’s seeing something that hasn’t happened yet, this time on command. He looks back the way they came and points. Arthur knows better than to question what Conan sees. They hold their breath and make a dash for it, taking a different path they had overlooked earlier. 

Hours pass without incident. Without fear looming over them, they seem to breath easier. Conan nibbles on some berries they've found while Arthur leads on, solid as ever. He doesn’t eat much, leaving more meat and sustenance for Conan. Sometimes, I see him eat bones. I think it’s an odd benefit to his infection. But it helps them split their rations and push on.

"We need to get food soon," Conan says. He has on another one of his looks. This one says, "I know what's about to happen.” The expression is soaked with…regret and pain and ache.

What did he see?

Arthur adjusts the sack on his back, the one with the monkeys. They've been really silent, but that’s to be expected. They drug them as much as possible so they don’t give away their location to every scavenger or cannibal. What I still don’t get is, what's the point of keeping drugged monkeys during the apocalypse? If they have to spend that much time sedating them, they’d be better off just letting them go. It’s not like they’re keeping the monkeys as pets. I mean, yes, if they were set free, they’ll probably end up eaten by some—

Oh.

Ooooooohhhhh.

I also know what's about to happen. I try to turn my attention away, but…I have to watch. I don’t want to see what it is they are about to do to survive. 

Conan places their lantern down, it’s fire dim and barely lighting much around them, and Arthur does the same with the sack. One of the monkeys slowly crawls out, the drugs having worn off. It’s still pitch black outside; maybe it thinks it’s still night. It looks around, confused. The other two monkeys eventually crawl out as well, sporting similar looks.

Poor things.

"What have we become, Art?" Conan is staring into the pitch-black empty sky. The sun and moon are absent. That happens sometimes. They should be back tomorrow...Maybe.

"Survivors," Arthur says without a hint of emotion. He refuses to let them show, knowing that if he does, he could fall into a heap of tears. Emotions don’t change what must be done. And crying during a Misery is only asking for more misery. He’s learned to hide away trivial emotions. The only one that serves him is love. 

And survival.

Arthur removes his shortsword from its sheath on his hip. There's a hint sadness in his eyes, a temporary break in his facade, but he trains them on the monkeys all the same. "I'll handle this one, you take another, then we'll deal with the last one after." He lifts the opposite hand—his left, his dominant hand—with his fingers splayed. He narrows his eyes, training them on the first monkey to leave the sack. And then he brings his fingers in like he's crushing something.

The monkey screeches.

I hate watching him use his abilities: he can manipulate bones. From the scars on him, I can tell that Arthur used to use his abilities defensively. He was—is—a protector. His bones are sturdier than most, and he can take a beating pretty well, even without armor. But Conan is not—was not—a fighter, so Arthur learned to use them offensively to protect the man he loves. How did he learn that he could crush someone’s bones, though? What did that feel like for them?

What did it feel like for him?

I can't blame him, though. I understand the feeling, doing horrible things to protect someone you love. He’s making sure they survive. 

Conan wants to look away, like I do, but while I literally can’t, Conan forces himself to watch, to participate in this. To him, this is what has to happen. This is their life. He doesn’t let Arthur take the brunt of the emotional trauma by himself. He takes it all in. Besides, he knew this was going to happen. His face telegraphs his feelings again, that "I know" look. He grips his staff, looking at another monkey who is still kind of drugged but also now on high alert after its friend just screamed bloody murder.

Conan raises his staff and brings it down onto the monkey as hard as he can. Arthur lowers his left hand and raises the sword, approaching the monkey with shattered bones. It has stopped screaming but is actively trying to figure out what happened to it. He swings the sword down before it can think too much longer. It avoids the sword, then immediately screeches and jumps to claw at Arthur's face. The monkey has apparently gotten wind of what hurt it: the humans who kept them in a sack.

Arthur bats the monkey away with the sword like a pesky fly. The monkey that Conan swung at does the same as its friend, jumping to retaliate on the ones who had formerly taken care of them. 

The third monkey has seen its friends by now in the midst of being slaughtered, and it manages to scramble to its feet before running up to Arthur and doing whatever it can to harm him. Arthur kicks it out of the way, in the same direction as the one with the shattered bones.

Speaking of, Arthur reaches a hand out to that same monkey—the one with the massive internal injuries.

And he crushes its bones again.

I've grown attached to these two and seeing them have to kill like this to survive is difficult. But I want them to survive for as long as possible. So, I root for them.

The monkey’s screams fill the air. Yet somehow, its bones shattering is louder. Both mingle into a horrifying cacophony, piercing me to my core. I don't want to watch this anymore. It's gruesome. There is blood dripping from the monkey's eyes and mouth and ears. The monkey who was kicked is screaming now. Not from being injured, but from fear and sadness. Its friend was just killed and now there's a pool of blood beneath it.

This is too much.

I want out. I want OUT.

...

I am not allowed out. I have to watch.

Conan inches towards the monkey he attacked and brings his staff down on it for the final time.

The last monkey doesn't stick around. It leaves the mangled bodies of its friends for the humans to pick through. It knows that there is nothing it can do now but protect itself. I feel sorry for that monkey. And I also hate the monkey. It's running away. Yes, Arthur and Conan are big and powerful, but it could do something. I did. Even if doing so landed me here, I'm glad I intervened.

And I'll do it again.

"...we had to." Conan’s calm quiet voice terrifies me. 

"I know. Let's just..." Arthur doesn't have to finish his sentence. They know what else they need to do.

They are survivors, so they have to survive.

When I watch, I can't "turn around." Not really. My subjects are the focus, and it stays in focus. But I've learned to focus on the things around my subjects if they're having a private moment or things are getting too gruesome—and things are always getting gruesome in an apocalypse. Like right now. The sounds…The squishing and crunching and gurgles of life. Arthur suffocates one of the monkeys, though I'm pretty sure it was dying anyway. It tries to thrash and there are little monkey cries and then…silence.

While they prepare the monkeys, I focus on the sky. There are clouds, but the stars are gone. Mostly. This world has been through so much since the infections started—since the Miseries began to come true. One by one, the world fell apart and no one noticed. And then, when it was too late, it began to crumble to what it is now. Part of me wishes I could see just how it all started, just what broke this world. But if I can't handle two men skinning monkeys for food so they can survive, I doubt I can handle watching the beginning of the end of the world.

My world is currently in the first half of this. It is falling apart, inevitable events demanding their place in history to usher forth the end.

Humans always find a way to survive. It's one of our best qualities. I think that's why the infection chose them—humans, not Arthur and Conan specifically. Humans survive despite all odds. When I first started watching these two, I learned that some humans were surviving this apocalypse by leaving the planet behind. They boarded ships and left, leaving these unlucky survivors behind to watch the world burn.

Maybe...maybe that's why they killed Rudy. Maybe they couldn’t save Rudy…so they saved Rudy.

"Thank you, honey,” Conan says as Arthur hands him meaty chunks. Arthur keeps mostly bones, but keeps a monkey chunk for himself. Such a gentleman. “You're always so good to me." Conan smiles despite the situation, and they share a brief intimate kiss. Something nice and positive amidst the wretched hell they are forced to endure.

"Let's get ready for bed, my love." Arthur wraps up their rations and the two begin making preparations for the night.

I don’t get to sleep while I watch. The end of the world is playing non-stop until I serve my time. So, while they sleep, I watch over them.

And the unnamed enter the earth, passing through the Veil as it is sundered by Daejmon, the left underling of Nechrubel.

I hate—hate—these days.

Arthur can't move. His bones have pierced his skin yet again. They are both brittle and solid, all at once, all over his body. Merely breathing seems to be a task for him. I'm glad he slept on his back, or he'd be stuck in an uncomfortable position all day.

Conan's not screaming today. A small victory for my soul. Maybe he doesn't want to make an already bad day even worse?

I wonder what he's seeing. There are tears. He wants to scream out in pain, but he's keeping it in. Every once in a while, his eyes will widen. I can't tell if it's from the pain of knowing it all, or the fear of living through whatever he's seeing. Is it like me? Can he not focus on the things around his subject, or is he forced to watch all the terrible events unfold with eyes glued forward?

I want to reach out to him, let him know that it'll all be okay. Teach him how to unfocus. Maybe the Miseries will be less painful for him.

He’s mumbling something. I can barely make it out. But I hear the word “tick” over and over.

Tick tock? Is time almost up for them—for this world?

Despite their individual circumstances, they huddle together for warmth as much as Arthur’s bones will allow. They had chosen to sleep outside, but Conan failed to predict the Misery and the rain, an irritating drizzle that seeps through their clothes, goes past their skin, and chills their insides.

What is Conan doing…? I see him sit up, hand clutching his head. They typically rest on Miseries. Moving is not a good idea when one would hurt himself with every move, and the other can't move without running into something or making things worse.

He looks to see a fork in the road far up ahead, though something tells me he can't tell if it's part of his visions or not. He looks intently, as if waiting or anticipating...

Ah. Right. They're being followed. 

"Are...they...close?" Arthur’s every breath sounds painful, his voice croaking. It looks as if he was stabbed by a vampire hunter with too-long stakes, the jagged bones in his chest protruding at all angles as they sought freedom.

"I think so...Or not...I don't know. We...we can hide out here for the day..." Conan eventually lays back down, the strain of sitting up too much for him. Something soars by in the sky, a pure-black monster cloaked in shadow.

"She's...in a...better...place."

"I know," Conan says softly, a tear breaking free and falling down the side of his face. Arthur can't see it, but I can, even though it's mixed in with the drizzle.

For five days and five nights mothers flesh shall be the cloak of demons.

They typically improve with a good night's rest.

They do not improve this time.

Arthur's bones are farther out of his skin now than the day before, leaving him like a malformed porcupine. His face is swollen and he screams out upon awakening, which only causes him more pain. Every puncture is bleeding, mixing with the rain-soaked ground beneath him. His chest is bulging like a maw waiting to open and devour all those around. How he is still alive through all of this? Another curse, or benefit, of his infection?

Are they what the other creatures in the sky are? Infected who succumbed to their disease? 

They cannot stay here, out in the open, exposed to the elements and…everything else. But moving is not a good idea. To make a shitty day shittier, what was a drizzle is now a torrential downpour. There are...monsters lurking around. They look like demons—not that I know what a demon looks like. But the descriptor fits. It's inhuman, made up of a mass of...something. I can't tell. Snakes? Vines?

For once, I only want to focus on Arthur and Conan. 

With hushed tones and through suppressed screams of agony, they debate.

"We have to...We can't stay another day here like this," Conan says, attempting to stand for the fifth time to no avail. The visions are stronger today.

"I...can't..." Arthur croaks between labored breaths. Conan manages to make it to his feet on the seventh try and does his best to lift his husband, who somehow weighs significantly more than he normally does. The bones seem to be gaining mass. It takes Conan a few moments to find a suitable location to grab Arthur but he manages to help him to his feet. Arthur buries his face into Conan's body and screams as he stands. Conan does his best to not scream at being poked by a bone shard coming out of Arthur’s cheek.

There is a snap, but it does not stop them.

I root for them as they press on, leaving their safe haven behind. They make their way to the fork in the road Conan saw yesterday, and they go right. The two loving husbands, fighting back against their infection at the end of the world, travel down the road, following narrow wagon tracks. I hadn't realized they'd left the city. Or did someone with a wagon venture into the city? The world is such an odd place—

Corpses. On the side of the road.

Yikes.

Conan props Arthur up and gives him a stick, then slowly makes his way to the dead bodies. Before Arthur can question him, Conan says, "They might have food...or something." The monkey wouldn’t be enough to live on forever.

Conan fumbles about the bodies, tossing useless pieces away. I try to unfocus from him. Something had to have killed the poor soul, and I don't want whatever it was to return. Not that I could warn them. But perhaps there’s a way I can get through to Conan, if I try hard enough. When I refocus, I see a small key and some silver in Conan's hand. No food. In sync, we curse—and he steals a glance in my general vague direction, as if he heard me—and he heads back to his husband.

They begin walking again. It’s slow, one step every few seconds. Arthur is biting down on a piece of bone that is at a decent enough angle, and I see a tear. They stop a few minutes later when Arthur points—more like nudges vaguely in a direction. He cracks a smile and then instantly regrets it. He's pointed out what seems to be an abandoned building of some sort up ahead. Something safe and away from the elements.

The visions of the day are particularly taxing on Conan, and Arthur can only moves a few inches at a time without causing him great pain, so it takes them another hour to get there even though it would normally take an uninfected person maybe ten minutes. Luckily, Conan already has the key because the door is locked.

Locked…

Conan looks directly at me, somehow, even though I’m not there. Something about the word feels…familiar, though from the looks of it, he can’t place if it’s a memory, the lock in the door before him, or something in the future. Something important. But then the look is gone and they enter.

Inside it’s pretty dry. There's a small leak in a corner, but overall the place is in decent enough shape. Enough for them to rest for the night, which is all I could hope for. Conan gently helps Arthur down onto a couch—I can see the pain from the movement in his face, but Arthur keeps his screams inside. He’s denying the pain of what he feels. He’s strong, a lot stronger than I could ever be.

After a few moments of stumbling around, Conan curses loudly. Arthur shifts, grunting as he quickly begins to stand to his feet. Conan quickly interjects and tells him to stop. He doesn't need his lover rushing to his side for a small cut.

"I'm sorry...Just cut my hand on some glass. But," Conan says, raising the blanket high as he rejoins Arthur. "I found us a blanket."

Conan, amidst his haze of visions, prepares their sleeping arrangements for the night, and the two tell stories to pass the time. Most involve Rudy. It's not hard to sense the feeling of longing between them. I can almost touch it.

"I love you," Arthur says.

"I love you, too."

Is this what awaits us? If those inevitable events come to pass, is this the future that we’ll be forced to endure? I don’t know if what I’ve shown you will help, but maybe there’s something in this I missed. Something that will help you figure out how to put an end to all of this. A clue that only the greatest detective could decipher.

I cannot let history repeat itself.

You cannot let history repeat itself.

Wake up. Save everyone.

I’m rooting for you.