“It’s cold.”

Sometimes, Sunggyu can still hear Sungjong’s voice in his head. He can hear it as clear as day – colourless and a bit on the high side, with the way he usually dropped his –d off with a little breath. It was only a few nights ago that Sungjong was still curling himself into Sunggyu’s side, whispering, “It’s so cold…”

“I know,” he had said frostily, trying to keep the note of exasperation out of his voice; “we’re all cold. Go back to sleep. You’ll be on watch soon.”

Silence.

“Even if he doesn’t catch us, we’ll die from the cold.”

Sunggyu suddenly shifted to look at him, blinking his eyes in the darkness. “Sungjong,” he said, taking on a warning tone.

“The temperature will just keep going down as winter approaches,” he murmured.

“Look, he won’t catch us. We won’t freeze to death.” He had squeezed Sungjong’s hand and rubbed warmth into the boy’s frigid knuckles, something very uncharacteristic for him. “We’ll be okay. Just keep on doing what you’ve been doing.”

“What’s that?”

“You know,” he had said, “surviving.”

Sunggyu feels the grip of the pistol in his hand. According to Sungyeol, it’s a Smith & Wesson Lemon Squeezer, Model 40 – the antique kind that people collect for aesthetics but still packs enough power to blow someone’s head off. A little scratched up, with a five-round capacity, 1 7/8 inch barrel, .38 S&W cartridges, all topped off with a case hardened finish. He salvaged it from an abandoned house only the day before yesterday; kicked the attic door right down with Sungyeol’s help and spotted the gun case lying among the piles of moldy books. Now Sungyeol is dead – shot at point-blank range in the head.

He looks through the dusty cabinets. There’s a slim possibility that the previous residents left something behind before the End came. He remembers that every time the group had stumbled upon a house, all of the shelves were usually picked clean.

That never comes as a surprise because just like them, what’s left of the human race is trying to stay alive. If the group got lucky, they’d find some dented cans, and if they got really lucky, they’d find a new weapon like that Lemon Squeezer. Sunggyu would’ve preferred if that of luck had been spread out evenly over a few days, maybe even a whole week. Their luck had run out pretty fast.

He runs the pads of his hands over the shelves. Empty. His stomach sinks even more. He doesn’t know if it’s because he hasn’t eaten properly in days or because a holder of a Desert Eagle is hunting him.

Sunggyu isn’t the sentimental type. He doesn’t stop to dwell on feelings because it wastes time and makes him lose his focus, but when he closes his eyes, he can still see the silver nightmare burned into the back of his eyelids, cocked in the air with a savage grin. Gods, he had never known a simple smile could be that scary. The way the guy’s thick lips stretched back and up over his gums, revealing a whole mouthful of white incisors, each curved and tapered to a wicked point like a bird’s beak. They intermeshed perfectly, one by one, point in between point.

“Who the are you?!” Woohyun had screamed hoarsely, his hands pinned underneath his back. “What the do you want from us?”

The guy had smiled even wider. “My name is Dongwoo. I’m hunting.”

And then he –

“Finally. Thank god,” Sunggyu breathes to himself. A can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup winks at him from the shadows. He glances out the window, checking for any strangers or Endlings, and stuffs the can deep into his jacket pocket, and he’s careful not to touch anything else in the house. There’s a trail of bloodied fur clumps on the floor and scratch marks all over the cupboards. It looks like a rabid tiger ripped through the kitchen, but Sunggyu knows better. Definitely means Endlings.

Then he fingers the edge of the can in his pocket and grudgingly remembers that Woohyun would’ve liked the soup.

Nam Woohyun was tough on the outside, but on the inside, he was a mama’s boy. An overgrown twenty-two-year-old mama’s boy with a taste for comfort food, a penchant for hugging, and a fear of silence. He wrapped his arms around Sunggyu a lot, burying his head into Sunggyu’s neck. He talked whenever he could about whatever he could, even when Sunggyu told him to shut the up because they couldn’t tell whether anyone could be nearby. He had been running his stupid mouth off when Dongwoo had caught them.

But Sunggyu still feels a hollow dread when he remembers Nam Woohyun’s brains splattering against the pavement and his ever-moving jaw falling slack.

He shakes his head and reorients himself. He needs to get moving. Sundown is approaching, and he has to put as much distance between him and Dongwoo as possible while he can still see since he lost his flashlight a couple days ago. He had been searching for it when he first met Howon—now lying facedown on the ground with drying blood pooled around his head.

Oh, did he forget to mention that? Yesterday afternoon, everyone in Sunggyu’s makeshift survival group was annihilated.

-

When Sunggyu finally leaves the house after washing his hands carefully, he feels lightheaded and wobbly. Forget about saving the soup for later. Putting away the gun and fumbling with the Swiss Army pocketknife Sungyeol gave him (seriously, Sungyeol had always been too generous for his own good), he pries open the top of the can and gulps the contents down. The vegetables slide down uncomfortably and the noodles taste like cold rubber, but it’s the best he’s eaten in a while.

Sunggyu used to have to share beef jerky and stale trail mix and canned tomatoes with five other people because they had all agreed to abstain from eating wild plants – or any fresh plants, really – until they reached the city, where Myungsoo promised he’d get into the lab he worked at (“It couldn’t have been broken into; it’s practically a fortress,” he had insisted) and properly analyze the Endvirus. Everyone calls it either the Endvirus or the Metavirus, the mutating virus, the changing virus.

“From what I’ve seen, it gets into your cells and tells them to start multiplying like crazy. Cancer except worse,” Myungsoo said. “You don’t grow normal tumours; you grow parts of whatever you catch the Metavirus from. Catch it from a bird, and you’ll start sprouting feathers and random wing growths all over. Catch it from a tree, and your fingers will start to stiffen up and turn into bark and branches.”

“Which is why we’re not eating wild plants,” Sunggyu said.

“Exactly. There’s a chance we’ll eat an infected plant and all become plant Endlings. The Metavirus reprograms your entire DNA. It’s most likely an oncovirus – meaning it causes cancer. That’s what makes you become an Endling.”

Sunggyu throws the empty can into the gutter and pulls the jacket tighter around himself, muffling a series of hacking coughs with his sleeve. They’re dry and coarse, forever tickling the back of his throat. He sounds like he’s dying. He feels a little bit like he’s dying, too, but he’s only twenty-three and has survived the beginning of the End. He hasn’t endured the past couple months just to die by a cough. To die from the cold!

But he will admit that it is freezing. There’s a bone-deep chill he can never seem to get rid of, no matter what he does, not even if Woohyun hugs him or Myungsoo kisses him. He’s wearing all of two layers of pants and two shirts and a tanktop under his jacket, and he stole a scarf from someone’s house earlier on—but he’s still cold. He can see his breath floating in grey puffs through the air, and his chapped lips smart like raw ice. He crouches down by a dead tree to catch a quick breather and warms his hands.

He shoves them under his jacket and presses them into his armpits. So cold.

He stands up and begins to follow the sun towards the city in hopes of finding another well-stocked store. He needs more food. He needs nutrition to support his failing body. Maybe grab some heat packs and a flashlight and a new lighter on the way. Vitamin C supplements to stave off scurvy, and extra Neosporin and gauze to wrap wounds. Gloves sound good, too. An extra scarf. Maybe he can find the other rumoured survivors in the city.

“I’m going to stay alive,” he tells himself, and he tries to believe it.

-

The boy takes off running like a shot, and the air has never felt so good in his mouth. He opens it wide to drink the air all in, clean and cold. It sends a sparkling jolt of energy through his veins. He can feel every muscle in his legs, in his feet, taut and coiled with a ferocious power, and then he jumps.

He snaps his arms open and fans out his feathers. He laughs into the empty sky.

He’s on top of the world.

this has been sitting on my computer for a while....I managed to finally clean it up and put this part up today. more is coming soon (because the deadline is also soon)! so my other stories - which haven't been updated in a while anyway - will be pushed back in terms of priority. and actually, this was written before The Chaser...so....no inspiration from The Chaser. haha. even though Dongwoo's chasing Sunggyu. 

it might be confusing as to how this story has anything to do with the lyric prompt, but I think it'll become clearer later on. 

also, I don't know anything about guns. other than shooting one (but I don't even know what kind of gun it was). so...credits to Wikipedia for all of that information about the Lemon Squeezer!

thanks for reading the first chapter! C: i hope you enjoyed! <3

edit: I redid the chapter. here's the updated version.

edit 2: redid it again. :'D....