Chapter Text
The Killers… Are Not Humans!
He glanced at the bold headline in today’s Daily Mail that the passenger beside him was reading, but quickly lost interest. The news felt repetitive at this point. Despite everything happening around them, people still had their own lives to live.
Eight-thirty.
He checked his watch again. It was a second-hand watch he had bought for himself to celebrate his graduation after saving for quite some time. It wasn't anything extraordinary, just a decent watch to present to potential employers to show that he was serious about his new role as a hardworking individual. His stomach panged with hunger in the early morning. After facing one rejection after another, a new uni graduate like him, whose finances had already been drained by rent, had simply given up on the idea of maintaining a balanced three-meal-a-day schedule.
This isn't good.
He clutched the flimsy document bag, made of cheap synthetic leather, tightly to his chest amid the crowded morning commute on the tube. It was already the middle of September, and he found himself in the same situation as several weeks ago—jobless and without a source of income.
Once the train reached a stop, a crowd of people rushed past the young man standing near the exit. He held the bag tightly, carefully avoiding any potential squishing from those passing by. He glanced up at the route map, squinting as he tried to see how many stops were left.
Still a lot.
He sighed to himself, silently praying that he wouldn't be late for the upcoming interview. He had never heard of this company or business before. When he received the phone call from the employer, he was somewhat alarmed by how young the voice sounded. The employer didn't provide much information about the position, only stating that they needed an able-bodied man willing to undergo some self-sacrifice. It seemed like it might be a start-up desperate for anyone passionate. Frankly, he had no idea what to expect. Regardless of how sketchy it sounded, he hadn't had a single job interview in at least two weeks, sending out numerous resumes.
As the train made each stop and passengers came and went, he gradually realized that he was leaving the part of London he knew well. The people around him were dressed in construction uniforms and safety gear, and the floor was dirty and muddy. He tried to imagine what kind of view awaited him outside—perhaps chimneys spewing smoke and large construction pits scattered around. It certainly didn’t sound pleasant.
The young man began to wonder if he was being deceived into taking a factory job. Perhaps that was why the employer was so eager to give him a chance. They might need some more reliable components for their mass assembly lines, but that was certainly not what his degree had prepared him for. As he contemplated whether he should walk away from this questionable opportunity, the train arrived at his stop. He reluctantly got off the tube, clutching the bag tightly to his chest. As he stepped into the bright morning sunlight after emerging from the underground, he felt himself start to sweat. It was hard to tell whether it was the heat or the nerves about the upcoming interview he was still unsure about attending.
Despite his hesitation, he chose to go ahead. It's just an interview; it wouldn't harm him. If he found the job offer unappealing, he could simply walk away.
That’s right, he reassured himself, there's nothing to stop him from doing so.
After taking a turn at the crossroad as instructed by his employer, he discovered rows of warehouses and what seemed to be abandoned buildings lining both sides of the road. There wasn’t a single person in sight, and the silence was unsettling.
Not a single person, besides—
“Hello!”’
A person leaned against a brick wall and called him. His voice was bright and energetic, just like the one he heard on the phone.
“You must be Jimmy, am I right? You’re here for the job?”
He seemed to be around the age as Jimmy. The man wore a red woolen vest over a long-sleeve white shirt, and his blonde hair was a few shades darker than Jimmy's. As the man extended his hand toward him, Jimmy took it instinctively.
That hand was icy cold, however. It almost stung him.
“That’s me!” Jimmy awkwardly withdrew his hand, trying to hide his discomfort. “And—?”
“Oh? Me?” The man halted for a second. “You can—uh, call me Mr. Poultry.”
Jimmy almost laughed but swallowed it instead. Sometimes, people had unfortunate names that they couldn't easily change. He really should be more mature about that.
“Mr. Poultry,” Jimmy said politely. “Nice to meet you. Could you show me the way?”
Mr. Poultry appeared to appreciate his attitude. He smiled at Jimmy and gestured for him to follow. Although the smile seemed kind, it made Jimmy uneasy.
After walking in silence for several minutes, he finally pinpointed the cause.
It was those eyes. Mr. Poultry had a pair of black eyes, and there was nothing unusual about them, just like anything else about him. However, people—almost everyone on Earth—tend to move the muscles around their eyes when they interact with others. This could be a simple movement of the eyebrows, a slight raise of the eyes, or any number of subtle expressions.
They say the eyes were the windows to the soul, but this man had none.
“How long is the trip?” Mr. Poultry suddenly asked, turning to Jimmy with another of his uncanny smiles. “Which part of the city do you live in?”
“I—I live around Hyde Park,” Jimmy said, stuttering slightly. “It was a forty-minute commute. It wasn't terrible.”
“Oh, that’s great news to hear!” Mr. Poultry exclaimed, clapping his hands. His voice remained upbeat, but there was an underlying emptiness to it. When his eyes quickly scanned Jimmy’s tense expression, Jimmy felt a shiver run down his spine. “Mind if I ask you a few questions along the way?” After Jimmy nodded in agreement, Mr. Poultry continued, “Are you—let’s think of a word—athletic?”
“Uh… Do I do sports?”
“Yeah. Any sports in general. I count jogging as a sport, too.”
“I’m afraid not…” Jimmy said, disheartened. “Not recently.”
“Ah, that’s fine. I wasn't expecting much from you anyway, Jimmy.” Mr. Poultry laughed loudly, leaving Jimmy unsure if it was meant as malicious mockery or just a friendly tease. “What about your health, then?”
“Perfectly healthy.” Jimmy nodded. “Perfect working condition, one may say.”
“Is it?” Mr. Poultry halted his footsteps and eyed Jimmy up and down. “May I see your triceps?”
Jimmy wrinkled his nose. “Excuse me?”
“Can I?”
“That—what—no!”
But he wasn't quick enough to escape Mr. Poultry; a hand was already gripping his arm.
“Oh, nice.” Mr. Poultry released him soon after and gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. “Love seeing that.”
Jimmy was too stunned to speak. He glared at Mr. Poultry, who seemed unaware of any issue with his behavior and smiled while placing his hands behind his head.
“What?” Mr. Poultry continued, “I’m giving you a compliment. You have great muscles for someone who doesn't exercise much.”
He began to question whether this person was truly human. Mr. Poultry certainly did not feel like one.
Perhaps he should just run away at this point. Find any excuse, no matter how foolish, and get out of there at full speed. Yet—
“I love your energy, Jimmy. We definitely need someone like you in our business.”
He gulped.
It was still a job opportunity, nonetheless. Hopefully, Mr. Poultry would become less creepy as he got used to it.
He returned an awkward smile to his potential employer, who gazed back with those vacant eyes.
“Right,” Mr. Poultry said, standing in front of a scroll-down storage unit at the ground floor among the warehouses, hands on his waist. “Here we are.”
“Uh… Is this?” Jimmy spoke with alarm, which caused Mr. Poultry to burst into laughter.
“We don't have an office yet; this is the best we have,” Mr. Poultry said as he leaned over to reach for the handle and pulled it up with surprising ease. For someone with such an unremarkable physique, it seemed almost too easy. The inside of the building was pitch dark, illuminated only by the sunlight streaming through the entrance. Mr. Poultry held the rolling door open for him and let go of the handle as soon as Jimmy stepped inside.
The door fell heavily onto the concrete floor, echoing in the storage unit.
It was empty, with a single folding chair in sight and a light bulb hanging above, which Mr. Poultry turned on snappishly.
“Take a seat.” Mr. Poultry gestured toward the chair. “Please?”
Jimmy followed instructions in silence. He suddenly remembered something as he began searching for the bag he had been carefully holding the entire time and handed a resume to Mr. Poultry, who took it and glanced at it.
“Impressive. Hhm. All very impressive.” Mr. Poultry tapped the paper with his knuckle. “I believe you'll be a great fit. But let's have a chat first, shall we?”
“I—I—Sure!”
It was certainly a rare comment from any employer he had heard. He nodded eagerly.
“What do you think about, let's say—” Mr. Poultry began pacing back and forth in front of him, his eyes unblinking. “Are you religious?”
“…I wouldn't say I am?”
What kind of question is that?
“You know about the Good Book, don't you, Jimmy?”
This is definitely a cult, isn't it.
”The—the Bible?”
“That’s right. I'm a big fan of the Old Testament. I’m nothing but a fairy tale lover.”
What a bold thing to say.
“I—is it the one with Genesis?”
“That’s right. Genesis 22:8, God will give us the lamb for the sacrifice, my son.” Mr. Poultry began to laugh. "What a funny story! Abraham was actually going to do that—kill his son for a god. Oh, man!”
Mr. Poultry then stopped by Jimmy’s chair and leaned down toward him, locking eyes with him. “What do you think about the idea of self-sacrifice?”
“For—for a job?”
Jimmy blinked quickly, feeling uneasy with the eye contact.
“That’s right.”
“I…am willing to do a lot, but—but maybe not this—”
As he was about to get up, Mr. Poultry placed his hands on Jimmy's shoulders. It seemed like a gentle gesture, but Jimmy found himself unable to move.
This person was too strong.
“Jimmy, Jimmy,” Mr. Poultry said with a broad grin, repeating the name. “You see, I'm a nice guy. I always look up to holy figures like Abraham, yet I ponder what I should do. It’s challenging to serve a being with such a grand appetite, whose hunger feels like a bottomless void. It fascinates me. It truly does.”
Jimmy tried to pull away from Mr. Poultry’s grip, but all he received was a shake. Mr. Poultry continued speaking in the same calm, chirpy voice, “One day, I know for a fact that he’s going to swallow me whole. But I don’t want to die—not like this. It scares me. Just look how scared I am!”
Jimmy's eyes widened as he looked at the man. His lips trembled.
“Please don't,” was all he managed to say.
“‘Don’t’ what?” Mr. Poultry mocked with a tilted head. “Alright, maybe that’s enough. I don’t need to be so cruel, do I?”
At that moment, Jimmy took a move.
He pushed the bag forcefully toward Mr. Poultry’s face, which loosened the grip on his shoulders just enough for him to escape. It wasn’t graceful; he stumbled to the floor and struggled to get up onto his knees.
“What’s that for?” Mr. Poultry exclaimed. “Wait—did I scare you? Oh my, I’m so sorry, Jimmy.”
“You! You are so going to kill me, aren't you!”
Jimmy raised a trembling finger at the man standing nearby, who simply shrugged with his hands held up in the air.
“Come on,” Mr. Poultry said, resting his hands in his pockets. “I’m really hurt by that, Jimmy. I’m a nice guy.”
“You seriously want me to buy it?!”
Jimmy stood up and leaned against the rolling door, trying to search for the handle in the shadows. Mr. Poultry sighed deeply to himself.
“They said I lack social skills,” Mr. Poultry continued, sounding distressed. “Or maybe I often miss social cues—whatever that means. Is it the way I talk? Or because I touched your triceps?”
“Please don't use words like that!”
“You do have good triceps.” Mr. Poultry said with a nod. “Very tender.”
“Oh my go—” Jimmy slapped his cheek. “Just stop talking! You’re making it worse!”
“I’m sorry!” Mr. Poultry chuckled, then his voice softened. “See how lacking in social skills I am? I didn’t mean it; I promise.”
“Wait,” Jimmy said, lowering his hand. “So, you’re not going to kill me?”
Mr. Poultry blinked several times, uncertain what he was thinking. The silence extended for a while.
“You—Mr. Poultry…” Jimmy wheezed with a laugh. “Do you know how terrified I am? I thought—you were a killer for sure!”
Mr. Poultry laughed along with him. “I am!”
The laugh ceased immediately.
“…Huh?”
Jimmy finally made a noise.
“And yes, I'm going to kill you.”
Mr. Poultry went on happily.
Suddenly, a flash of silver darted towards Jimmy.
As he barely dodged the attack and collapsed to the floor, he realized it was a folding knife. Mr. Poultry quickly dropped down and raised the blade above his head, thrusting it downward before Jimmy even had a chance to scream.
But it’s not over. Or at least Jimmy hoped not. He rolled to the side as the blade dropped, and cut deep into a part of him.
“Oh no!” shouted the killer. “Your triceps! Now they are going to taste awful, aren't they!”
Then, Jimmy finally started to feel the pain. It was numb at first, but then it grew more and more unbearably sharp. His heartbeat began pounding in his eardrums. He heard a whimper; it was coming from his own throat.
“Alright, stay still.” The killer pulled on his hair to force Jimmy to look toward him. “Now it's for the throat. You better behave, Jimmy. I don't want to ruin your taste.”
His eyes were blurry with tears. He looked up toward the black eyes above him, with the blade aimed down. Those eyes lacked all soul, as usual.
“…Please…”
He murmured.
Then, something warm was hitting his eyes.
Sunlight. The morning sunlight of September.
Someone lifted the rolling door.
“Grian?”
A voice called.
“What are you doing here?”
The door was fully rolled-up, revealing a man holding it up with one arm above his head against the bright sunlight.
“Bloody hell, what is this?”
He glanced at the pair on the ground over the top of his sunglasses. He wore a black Mackintosh trench coat that reached his thighs, paired with a plain white shirt underneath that resembled a tunic. There was nothing particularly striking about his appearance, except for a strand of bright green hair peeking out from beneath his dark brown locks.
“What do I look like I'm doing?” The killer—Mr. Poultry—Grian looked up toward him, still holding the knife. “I’m making you breakfast!”
“What—in my base? You’ll get blood everywhere, you moron.” The man said with dispassion as he pushed the door all the way to the top. “Get the hell out of here. This is my property. I paid for it.”
Jimmy squinted his eyes at the man wearing sunglasses. He thought that the voice sounded familiar, but it took him a while to understand why.
“…Joel?”
The man jumped a little in response.
“What the hell, Jimmy?”
“Wha—this is my base too! Joel, we are in this together!”
Yet both of them ignored Grian as they exchanged confused glances at one another.
“Joel! Help!” Jimmy extended his hand toward the man and yelled with all his remaining strength. “He’s—he’s trying to eat me… I think!”
“Does he?” Joel lowered his sunglasses slightly to look at the killer, who was still holding the knife. “Huh. What a surprise. Grian, get off him.”
Grian did not follow the order. He looked back at Joel and the man beneath him, and the knife still hovered in the air.
“Grian.”
Joel called again.
“…Fine—”
Grian lowered the knife with a quick eye roll, while Jimmy immediately clutched his wound and edged away from him.
“Ugh, he’s crawling away!” Grian slapped his forehead and shook his head. “Weren’t you starving? Is this how you treat your diet now?”
“‘Diet’? Heh, that’s funny.” Joel leaned against the concrete wall of their unit, crossing his arms. “Then find someone else who’s not this idiot for me.”
“Joel, just…” Jimmy pressed onto his wound harder as he felt the blood was still seeping through his sleeves and was unable to lift his arm. “Call an ambulance—”
“An ambulance?” Joel spat out the word. “Not happening, Tim. You better stop bleeding or God help you. He’s right. I'm starving.”
“Oh,” Grian giggled, “he doesn’t know, does he? Why do you have the misfortune of knowing him, anyway?”
“He used to be my part-time clerk,” said Joel, eyeing the wounded man. “Oh, look, you finally saved enough money to buy that watch.”
Jimmy glanced at the second-hand watch he wore. Joel was right; he had bought it with the help of the savings he earned while working at that tiny flower shop. However, that wasn’t at the top of his priority list, especially as he felt his vision growing darker with each passing second.
“Ah, how moving!” Grian remarked. “So, we really are his employers!”
Joel shot him a dirty look and said nothing.
“Please… Just…” Jimmy tried to get some necessary attention from his former boss once more. “Someone calls an ambulance… I don't feel so good…”
Grian returned to Jimmy after hearing it. “Oh my god, shut up. You’re so annoying,” he said with dispassion. Then, he addressed the man leaning against the wall. “What should we do with him, then?”
“He’s not going to die like this.” Joel moved his eyes away. “It’s not lethal.”
“It sure feels like one…” Jimmy said weakly. “I’ve just been stabbed! Why isn't anyone helping!”
The other two quickly exchanged a peculiar look without saying a word.
He shut his eyes and shook his head. He held his wound, then made an effort to stand up.
“What, where’re you going?” Grian said, still with a bloody knife in hand. “Joel—your breakfast! It’s running away!”
“I’m trying to get help, of course!” he said, limping towards the rolling door. “Have fun with whatever you have going on...”
But he didn't get very far before he collapsed to the floor, his consciousness fading quickly.
As the world darkened around him, the last things he heard were—
“You better keep him alive, Grian, or God help you.”
“Wait, are you leaving too?”
“I can't stay here any longer. It's making me hungry.”