warnings: very graphic despcriptions of blood and gore, loss of loved ones, the inviabilitty of death, brief mention of animal abuse, and what may be perceived as suicidal thoughts. this whole story is going to be triggering, so please stay safe and only read if you are comfortable with it. enjoy! —ash

             Terror dug it's sharpened nails into the boy's throat, it's calloused bony fingers locked on the idea to cease the boy's breathing. His throat was raw with silent screams, his mind horsley commanding his body to move, but his limbs remaining unresponsive and in an almost paralyzed state. Salty tears streaked down the boy's pale cheeks, traveling down to his jaw before sliding to his trembling chin. The drops fell in an unsynchronized pace to the cracked tile below, nobody there willing to wipe the boy's distress and pain away.

Philip was scared, hopeless, and alone.

His heart pounded furiously in his rib cage, like a small blue bird desperately trying to escape through a closed window. It was futile, the constant fluttering and flaps, his fate had been sealed when he heard the piercing shatter of the café's front window breaking into millions of microscopic glittering shards. He was doomed when the first wave of dark thundering clouds advanced on the city, when everything that had mattered became worthless, useless even.

His grades became nonexistent, his phone became a cold lump of wires and metal in his palm, staying alive became the main priority, the focus that everyone's attention was forced to. Appearance was destroyed by bruises that littered legs, sores that scorched the roof of feet, and dark circles rimmed around bloodshot eyes, veins webbed past scarred irises.

Nothing mattered anymore, nothing but staying alive: surviving one more day.

He was trapped in a constant state of mind, his worries and distant nightmares becoming reality. Philip couldn't do anything but desperately gulp for air, his Adam's apple bobbing, and struggling wheezes slipping past his chapped lips into the freezing air. His lanky pale arms covered his head, his knees tucked so tightly into his chest they dug into his heaving rib cage: in one last desperate attempt to protect himself from them.

The Outsiders.

They seemed to exist only to extinguish humanity, to collapse everything that man perceived to be true. It had started out insignificantly, so small that scientists hadn't discovered it until civilians were begging for death, their skin rotten and flesh boiling after exposure to sunlight. Doses of bacteria had been implanted by them into public water systems, the multiplying vermin changing the quality of water, and tinting it a slight gray. The diseased liquid had already been drunk by millions before the symptoms began and the bacterium had decided to reveal their ultimate goal—the terrorization of the human mind.

It started out with a mild headache, a normal occurrence until the victims found themselves locked in an endless loop of shrieks, unable to complete simple actions. Propaganda from The Outsiders was circuited into the depths of the host's mind, their purpose to proclaim their arrival and slowly turn the human against itself. Within days, the most necessary component to survival became a poison, water into inescapable sickness, and sunlight into fatal rays that penetrated deep past the skin and slowly stripped the human of until their muscle was exposed, flesh burning.

The ill were dismissed as incurable, their mouths unable to form understandable words, saliva spilling down unhinged jaws. The foreign bacteria left the host an empty shell of rotting flesh and a mind plagued with inhuman lies from them. Loved ones wept as the ill clawed at their clothing, screaming nonsense and foaming at the mouth. They couldn't be saved. No one could.

At least that's what everyone had thought.

Millions had already accepted and reached their end by the time a vaccine was procured, a small substance of combined acids and elements that aided the humans integumentary system as well as the digestive system by reversing the unfamiliar bacteria and changing it's RNA against itself. It's copies becomes weapons against its own goal, and soon the illness ceased to inhabit it's host. Yet a new problem arose within the midst of this supposable miracle of medicine.

War.

The possibility to survive, to last one more day on Earth, was what ultimately drove people to the edge of all hope. Disputes exploded over quantities of the vaccine, the price for each small vial climbing higher with each purchase. There was rumor of rebellion—of overtaking governments and establishing a new rule with hopes of ridding the world with the foreign disease. Before long, officials decided to take action- to keep the population contained and under control.

New laws were set into place without any representation, the rules harshly enforced to the point where it didn't matter who you were if you were one toe out of line. There were riots, but they all ended in the same way—fire licking up the mangled corpses that were left to rot by the 'soldiers'. There was no escape from the tight hold that kept everyone captive.

The guns started firing as soon as Russia threatened the United States for the amount of vaccine held underground—safe for authorities and not the citizens that clung futily to life. Tension grew thick between the two powerful nations, leading many to believe that WWIII was teetering on the verge of action.

It was a calm afternoon when the news became public—the President of the United States had been assassinated. The photographs of the murdered president—slumped over his desk as his crimson blood seeped through his prim dark suit and onto the light wood of his desk, his face tilted slightly, eyes wide and blank, shreds of the American flag littering the death scene mockingly—would remain trapped in the depths of his mind forever.

The day after, the devastated country declared war, on not only Russia—but its allies as well. The stock market plummeted, the limited amount of jobs almost nonexistent as the U.S. drafted thousands of men in their late teens and early twenties to go fight, and 'protect' the nation. Families were torn apart for the second time—first with the death of their loved ones from the contaminated water, and then with the cold blooded draft.

Buildings crumbled, highways were stripped of anything that could be used as a weapon, poverty struck all of the fighting countries, children scavenged faded coupons from abandoned shopping centers to purchase rations from black markets. The familiar glow of the world faded, as The Outsiders watched from above as their little performance played out, adjusting and cutting off actors when necessary. The United Nations tried to band together it's still loyal, but weak allies to fend off the intruders—but to no avail.

Meanwhile the war came to drastic measures. In an attempt to subdue the other countries into following their rule, North Korea dropped a secretly developed nuclear bomb onto Hollywood, wiping out millions: shadows haunting where civilians once stood only seconds before. This only angered the nation more—but they were powerless. There was nothing else America could do but hope that their lightly trained soldiers would be brave and survive while they sat, letting the fumes and poisoned air seep into their lungs—death sweeping the frail and broken country into a chilling bone-crushing embrace.

They gave up.

The effect that America's surrender gave was similar to a trail of falling dominos. Countries began questioning their own power, and how they would survive if someone attacked them so mercilessly. Nations began to drop out of the war, following those who promised to not harm them—unless necessary of course. Governmental systems fell, citizens started to starve within their own homes, ribs protruding dangerously from torsos, and stomachs swelling from the lack of nutrition.

England strained to still remain intact, to keep her people human. They constructed quarantines out of rotting wood and moth-eaten bed sheets, the ground nothing more than dirt and sharp rocks. They deemed certain cities 'safe', where no infected was allowed to pass—despite the water disease not being contagious, other deadly sickness traveled around due to uncleanliness and poor hygiene. Going outside was a death sentence. Crime rates scored despite the Queen's attempts to keep her country calm and collected. People stole, smuggled, and kidnapped. There were no rules when the certain inevitably of death was so close it was inescapable, and even futile to even try to live.

Thieves reined, murderers overpowered the weak, and evil's grip tightened on the frightened.

It was around this time when The Outsiders decided to present themselves once again. Clouds were traded for dark looming ships, the metal disks whirring so loudly it was deafening from miles away. Eerie green lights glowed against the gravity defying vessels, the silver plating glinting harshly against the sun. Unorganized armies tried to storm the intruders, only to meet an unimaginable end—heat ripping apart bodies as beams of blinding white light struck down, an electrifying crackle shocking the victim so they were unable to move, helpless and struggling as they disappeared into a shoot that opened only to accept meals.

Soon, the small leftovers crowded the streets, decaying bodies half burnt and unrecognizable—discouraging those who still wished to fight. There was no such thing as innocence anymore. Every child witnessed the world tumble into a dark abyss, even though their explanations were different from the cold truth that stung those who had the unfortunate case of growing up too early. In the end The Outsiders wanted Earth, whether the ground was stained with human blood or not.

People tried to flee, tried to escape the clutch that the invaders held everyone in so tightly—but few made it. The human race couldn't have cowered more, yet they reeled back when the monsters from the ships emerged from hiding. There was no safe place. Massacres became uneventful, the metallic scent of blood too common. People hid in their homes, praying that the creatures would spare them, pass by without a second thought.

Freedom was chained by the wrists, justice bowing down to them in hope of surviving.

Philip lost his mother to them. He lost so much. He would never feel the comfort of her hands running through his hair again, her small little quirks, her constant humming, her motherly reassurance that things were going to get better. But they weren't, because he watched as his mother was mauled by one of them, her screams echoing in his terrorized mind. He remembered crawling up beside her limp body, shaking terribly, curling into her side and sobbing, violent sounds ripping out of his throat as his brother desperately tried to pull him away.

It was then when he gave up.

He lost all hope for the future, succumbing to the destroyed world around them. There was no sense of pounding rage and revenge urging him to kill every last one of them; no, there was only a dark pit in his heart that constantly swallowed his thoughts until he was washed in blissful numbness. A black hole in which he welcomed, wished to be ripped away into complete nothingness.

He had decided to venture to the small café in one last attempt of regaining who he used to be. He knew the danger, but in his conflicted mind he couldn't care less. His long nimble fingers breezed through the the routine of tying on the shop's apron, the cloth scratchy where it rubbed his bare skin. He then turned towards the counter, breathing in the faint smell of coffee beans that lingered on dirtied cups and expiring bags. He tried to imagine himself with an actual smile, his eyes lighting up as he handed over a customer's steaming cup of coffee, the steady chatter and clatter of plates a melody to his ears. He ached for the feeling of happiness, the bright feeling that blinded sadness so quickly.

But his old past didn't return. They couldn't. His past had been permanently taken away from him, the content version of him had disappeared, only a few scattered memories remained that refused to be dug up. The realization that he would never be the same struck him as if he had just been punched in the stomach, the air from his lungs crushed. He doubled over, gripping the edge of the counter tightly as he tried to regain his breath. There was a sudden ringing in his ears, the sound echoing in his mind. He scarcely recalled hearing a shatter before he was showered with sharp pieces of glass, the counter doing little to shield him.

He fell down to his knees, scraping his skin as shards of glass sliced his knees. A crunching noise advanced into the small café and freezing fear doused his broken body as realized that he was going to die.

He was going to die.

His body would be torn as one of them feasted on his innards, dark blood coating the monster's lips as it devoured the boy, relishing another snack. That's all humans were now, meat to satisfy The Outsiders dark desires, blood only a savory sauce that thickened the rich taste. Philip could practically feel the sharp pain as they gnawed on one of his bones, scarfing down the flesh as deep guttural sounds escaped from his throat, his arms thrashing and writhing under their grip. He would lay on the cold tile as a corpse, no different from his mother who tried so hard to protect him from a similar end.

There was nothing left that he could do, he would die by the sharp teeth of The Outsiders or by his own hands. Within the fear and rapid thoughts that coursed through the veins in his body, the monster had reached the him, it's dark eyes glinting as it stared at the scared boy.

Philip had had it. The pressure of all his emotions overwhelming as a scream erupted from past his chapped lips, his tears blurring his vision as he blindly attacked the monster with his bare hands. His fingernails scraping against the thing's skin, his elbow hitting it, causing it to shriek. It's skin was cold and damp, opposite of the scorching adrenaline that pumped through the frail minded boy. All of a sudden he felt as if he was winning, as if he had a chance to live another day—yet that thought was fleeting as fingers wrapped around his neck, the pale gray flesh of The Outsider barely contrasting against the pale skin of the boy that struggled beneath it.

Then Philip stopped fighting. His limbs flopped to the cold floor uselessly, the pounding adrenaline fading as hopelessness crept in. There was no point in resisting, not anymore.

The thing grinned wickedly, lowering it's head as electrifying pain raced across Philip's nerves. He stared at the cold eyes of The Outsider, the reflection of his terrified face mingled with a deep cut that stretched from his left eye and into his damp hair, his eyes wild and desperate. He whimpered, sounding like an abandoned dog that had been reminded of the abuse it received from it's owner.

Philip managed to part his lips to cough, hot blood pouring from his mouth making it almost impossible to breathe. He choked and sputtered, unable to turn over and attempt to rid himself of his own blood. Dark spots danced in his blurred vision, as the life left inside him slowly seeped out as if it was tree sap.

There was only red. Red staining his hands, his arms, his sight, his mind. There was no escape, nothing but the darkness that suffocated Philip as The Outsider plunged it's teeth into his side.

Now there was only black.