Out in the scorching sun and never ending heat, the days only begin to get hotter and unbearable. Who may know how durable the roofs actually are when everything around them crumble in flames? Night time, when the sun takes a moment to hide and the earth to seek peace, many would think it's safe to come out, but not many knew that their first steps outside might be their last.

Visitors, you call them. Government says they came from underground, monster as such, the undead coming back to collect what's theirs. Mindless creatures, would they be, but in this case they unfortunately are not. Smart, agile, some malnourished, other malformed beyond recognition. Even they are afraid of the sun, it seems.

Most seek out shelter at night, only for them to murder innocent, more or less, lives amidst their own homes. But even with all this "monstrous", "alien" and literally just "horrifying" reality about the visitors, one out of ten of them might just seek peace, lost in their own misery, in a body they once knew thoroughly, only for now it to be hollow and painful to possess.

You see.. that's how someone with little, if not what's left of any empathy would think about the visitors. This household's owner, instead, could not give any more fucks about them.

He's been more left in the darkness for, what, months? years? Who would care anymore. Even he wishes the sun to boil them faster. To hell with everyone, he would say as he drank his days alone.

Recently, FEMA started doing investigations on the visitors, including more useless advertisements appearing on the TV.

As night began to take form on the skies, people, he would hope they were, started banging on his door like it was made of gold and not just some old, rusty wood. He denied many, he did, but at some point, little with little he became more compassionate to let it people in need inside.

Unfortunate to him, few were visitors, and some maybe.. perished. Cleaning the remains and burying them was never something he thoroughly enjoyed, but it was needed. Days passed, more shit came on the news, nights passed and more visitors showed up. Seemed like this house really worked in Death's favour.

One unfortunate night, the homeowner woke up, just as he expected, for new rounds of door banging. Sounds bad, but that's how he calls them now. Door bangers. With little energy he had, he made his usual route towards the door, a double barrel residing in his hand. Taking a peek through the peephole in the door, just as he expected, there stood a person. That person, was him. Following his usual 'checking in people' routine, before he had questioned the person

“Howdy!”