And he dwelleth in desolate cities,

And in houses which no man inhabiteth,

Which are ready to become heaps.

JOB 15:28

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One could claim that Helmer Jackson was scandalously intimate with death in these past few months, and the teenager wouldn't dare contradict you.

He had become quite accustomed to the slumped over corpses on the sidewalk, the vacant stares, the black handprints, and of course, the flies. They came in great swarms, buzzing incessantly in that annoying way he was used to. The black clouds descended after the first day, blanketing the dead and devouring the rotting flesh. At first, Helmer hoped that the disease would transfer, and the flies would die off, but unfortunately not.

They called it The Devil's Plague. They said the black handprint was because Lucifer was dragging you down to Hell. Of course, those theorists were too busy being dead to come up with any wilder conspiracies. He hoped The Devil's Plague hadn't spread to any other countries, and sometimes, Helmer thought he was the last person on Earth.

And often times it felt like it. He walked carefully, avoiding the cracks in the concrete, skirting the broken buildings. He didn't know what caused the abrupt structural collapse, only that it happened quickly; almost as fast as the disease.

On his way, he walked a large circle around some chained up dogs in someone's yard. They barked in a frenzy, their eyes glinting. Their fur was mangy and patchy, their claws worn down from scratching at the fence. Once he threw them a few steaks out of pity, and now they seemed to think he always had treats with him.

He stopped at a small store and shattered the windows with a hammer. Inside, he found a few apples that hadn't rotted yet, which he shoved into a bag. He also picked up a butcher knife for extra protection.

A few stray cirrus clouds drifted lazily above, on that lovely summer day. Early September brought blooming tickseed and lavender buds, flourishing in abandoned gardens. He had a patch of soil behind the church that he used to plant flowers. Liquid trickled from his watering can, and he knew he was wasting his water, but he didn't care. The yarrow and catmint plants were his mother's favorite.

The church was emptied of all furniture besides a blue couch he had dragged in. There was dust collecting on the windowsills. Helmer wasn't religious, but he couldn't bear to take down the crosses. That might have only been what was left of society, and he didn't want to ruin it. Jesus Christ's face twisted up in a grimace. Once, he might have felt bad, but now he didn't care as he used the "holy water" to take baths. Feeling clean outweighed his guilt by several miles. The church boasted copious amounts of candles, perfect for creepy nights when he swore he could hear something scurrying in the rafters that wasn't Shirley, the possum that sometimes stole his food.

That night, Helmer tucked his stuff under the couch, as he always did, then curled up on the cushions. A worn teddy bear rested in the crook of his arm, devoid of one eye. He had long since forgotten what he named it as a child, so he called it Bear.

"D'you reckon we're the only ones left, Bear?" Helmer whispered, his voice echoing through the empty place. "Cause I think we are." He slowly made another tally mark on the wall with his knife, adding to the large collection of gouges. Exactly three months and 12 days had passed since the first day, when his tallies was wobbly and jagged. Now the lines were stiff and smooth.

He clutched Bear tight, his fingers digging into the coarse fur. "Don't you ever just want to grab a coil of rope and swing from the beams just to get it over with?"

Helmer Jackson wasn't certain of a lot of things, but one thing was sure of: he couldn't last alone much longer.

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The next morning, Helmer could barely muster the energy to move from his spot, but he managed to get up and change clothes. He took his clothing from the day before and dropped them into a bucket of water outside to let them soak.

He ate a meager breakfast consisting of beef jerky and water. Staring into the mirror, he frowned at his reflection.

Mild acne. Brown hair, swept across his forehead, so it sort of covered the zits. Hazel eyes, set just a little too wide apart. His irises were flecked with a collage of different colors, like green and even crimson. He half-heartedly tried to fix his hair, but who was he fooling? There was no one left to care if he brushed his hair or not.

The stained glass windows cast brilliant light shows on the floor in the early morning light. Reds and greens shimmered across his face as he prepared to leave for the day. He fished a paper bag out of his stash, shooing away the spiders that he knew were lurking within the brown folds.

The day was blisteringly hot. His feet slapped against the twisted pavement in the wasteland that was once New York City. Each step echoed like gunshots. He wove around the crashed vehicles that dotted the street, pointedly ignoring the passengers slumped over the wheel, each one possessing a stark black handprint on their left wrists. With all this exposure to the dead, Helmer wondered how he wasn't infected. Whatever the immunity was, it sure as hell wasn't a blessing.

He was so lost in his thoughts, he almost missed the flash of movement in the corner of his eye. Instantly he was alert, raising his nail-studded baseball bat defensively. He didn't hear the cackling of crows, so he assumed dogs, but when he slowly rotated, his weapon held high...

A teenage boy stood on the hospital steps, staring at him with a sort of detached surprise. He was wearing a hospital gown and clutching an IV pole.

Helmer froze. He was absolutely sure the guy hadn't been there a a few seconds before, and now he really felt like a victim of some horror movie. He prayed for the director to yell, "Cut!" and end the scene already. The skin on Helmer's arms began to prickle, and it was definitely chillier.

"Hello?" Helmer called out uncertainly. His voice sounded too loud. The boy didn't answer him, just staring blankly with sunken eyes. Helmer cast a glance at the hospital to make sure it wasn't a place for loony-bins, and sighed with relief at the faded letters on the door declaring it for sick patients. The boy took one lethargic step forward, then another.

"Hey," Helmer said, moving back. "W-What're you doing?"

In that shuffling gait, the emaciated teen tottered down the steps. His eyes looked like shards of glass from the old church, a glittering shade of violet, whose gaze never shied from Helmer's face.

Helmer was rooted in place, stuck by horrified fascination.

When he reached Helmer, at the base of the stairs, the boy fixed his stare on the ground, almost sheepishly. His face was so pale it was almost translucent, and his hair looked like a black shirt bleached a million times, turning it white. He must have been albino.

"Are you okay?" Helmer asked. This time, he received a head shake. "What's wrong?"

Silence.

Helmer sighed and sat down on the steps, waiting patiently.

Eventually, the boy lowered himself down too, maneuvering the pole so he was comfortable.

"Can I see your bracelet?" Helmer asked gently, as if he were speaking to a skittish animal. He had just found perhaps the only other person on earth, and he definitely wasn't giving up easily. The patient gingerly held out his wrist. Helmer was surprised to find only a name: Samael. No surname. No date of birth. He was simply "Samael". Helmer even took off the band in an attempt to figure out more, but if anything, he was more confused than before. He reattached the bracelet, unsure if Samael would be offended if he threw it away.

After looking the boy up and down, Helmer extended a hand and tried for a smile. "It's nice to meet you, Samael. I'm Helmer Jackson." Samael warily considered him for a moment, then shook his hand. His grip was like ice, cold even in the hot summer weather, and Helmer tried to hide his unease.

Helmer slowly got to his feet, discreetly rubbing his palms together. "Well, before we get on our way, I want to know if you any like, sicknesses, or something, that might affect me." He gestured at the IV pole and gown. "I wanna know what I'm dealing with."

The patient gave him a scrutinizing look, before he held out the arm with the IV needle in it.

A black handprint wrapped around Samael's left wrist, and Helmer's mouth went dry.

"I'm way in over my head."

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