Beasts of Burden

Chapter 1: The Monsters

The world had ended and in Brent Taylor’s mind that truth could either be accepted with grace or denied at your own peril. Sure, pockets of humanity still endured. Lingering like an extant disease in the darkest corners of the world. But as far as he was concerned, the world which they had built was long gone. The cities had fallen, the suburbs were empty and those who survived were either stubborn shut-ins like he and his family or they were cold hearted monsters, no better than the animals which lurked in the dense forest surrounding his small cabin home.

Brent sat, whittling away, his reading glasses resting precariously at the edge of his nose. A skillful diligence guided his knife against the wood. What had started as no more than a ten-inch cylindrical chunk of oak was slowly and methodically taking the shape of a medieval knight. It would fit in nicely with his collection of homemade knick-knacks. His eyes drifted briefly to the space upon the bookcase where it would remain once he was finished. Right beside the surprisingly detailed dragon he had completed only the week before, it felt perfect. Each shelf on the bookcase had its own theme, a theme which mirrored the genre of books lining that same shelf. The ornaments for the mystery, science fiction and nonfiction shelves were already done and properly placed. He was now in the process of finishing his figurines for the fantasy shelf. Works like King’s Dark Tower, The Lord of the Rings and, of course, The Hobbit all resided there.

His daughters often teased him about his bizarre hobby. But it was a hobby that, in the last nine years since the world went quiet, had given him a sense of purpose. A meager amount of solace in an otherwise crushingly static existence. Besides, as much as they enjoyed teasing him, he knew they found the figurines charming, even admired his devotion to the craft.

It was the dead of night; a rainstorm beat against the roof top of the cabin as he sat working by lamplight. Returning the true meaning to the phrase; burning the midnight oil. Despite the morning nuisance that storms often left in their wake, the mess he was sure he would need to right come morning, he still enjoyed them. There was something oddly calming about the sound of rain on a rooftop, perhaps it was a simple reminder that as much as things had changed, some things would always remain the same.

His wife and two adult daughters were already fast asleep. Well, except maybe his youngest daughter Marie. She was very much like him and was, in all likelihood, swimming inside the words of a good book beside her bed. Brent smiled too himself. The world of Man had ended, but his world was still here. Fast asleep in three separate beds.

The wind kicked up outside and the front door buckled and braced against it. Brent’s eyes tracked to it and then slowly fell back to his work. Passing the blade over every curve and cut, the model steadily came to life. He would start by giving the wood shape; mold it into a knight. Something generic and recognizable and then he would give it his own personal flair. That was the difference, he felt, between imitation and art. It was not about concept, but character. Anyone could make a knight but only he could make this knight. Originality, like beauty, was in the details.

Another strong breeze rolled through the night air and rattled the house.

Christ. He thought. That’s going to be a goddamned mess.

               Just then he heard the door behind him open, he turned his head and the wooden chair on which he sat whined somewhat. In the doorway to his bedroom stood a familiar sight. A thin, faintly aged woman in a white night-gown standing with arms folded and a gentle expectant smile on her face.

            “When are you coming to bed, Brent?” Her brown skin glowed in the lantern light granting an almost divine quality to her already sturdy character.

            Brent Taylor looked at his wife with an enduring and ever-resilient love.

            “In a moment. Just need a few more minutes.” He held up the figure, a modest pride mirrored in his eyes.

            Beth, the elegant woman in the doorway, smiled and shook her head. Gliding across the room she walked up behind her husband of twenty-four years and placed her hands on his shoulders. Brent rested his head against her left hand and kissed it gently.

            “You’re the only man I’ve ever known who could spend a whole day chopping wood, repairing a house and then carve wood all night for fun.”

            Brent chuckled, “The difference between work and play is purely circumstantial.”

            Beth laughed, “Well don’t play with your wood for too long, you have a beautiful woman waiting for you in the other room. Don’t’ forget that.”

            Brent turned with a muted laugh not to wake their daughters. Always having loved his wife’s vulgar whit.

“How could I possibly forget that?” He beamed up at her. “And don’t you worry about me, I can go all night. I hope you don’t forget that.”

            Beth wrapped her arms around his neck and giggled like she did when she was sixteen and they first started dating. “Well maybe you should put the figurine down, come to bed, and remind me.”

            “This is unfair.” Brent said kissing her on the cheek. “How am I supposed to say no to that?”

            “You’re not!” Beth said with a laugh. “At least you better not. Unless you want to spend the night out in that storm.” She warned him playfully as she broke away and glided back to the doorway with an alluring strut.

With latent lust, Brent watched her walk back to the room. She turned and faced him, with a teasing look of impatience.

            Brent looked from her back to the figurine. Reluctantly he raised two fingers and spoke with a sheepish grin.

“Two minutes?”

            Beth shook her head again and slumped her shoulders.

            “Two minutes. But even a second longer and I’m starting without you.” She spoke with an amorous authority and Brent felt the groin of his pants tighten.

            “Okay, okay. I’ll be there soon.”

            Beth flipped her head back and marched into the room, Brent sat smiling to himself. Thoughts of their many years together, memories of the old world and the new, flashed through his mind before he shook his head picked back up the figurine, the knife, and began carving again.

            Only two strokes later and the figurine was taking shape. Brent always felt there was no greater satisfaction in this world, or the old one, than when you take an image from your mind and will it into existence. Briefly he imagined what Beth might be up to in the bedroom without him and conceded that maybe there were some things which rivaled it. Still, creation really was something. Brent and Beth had two daughters to prove it. Those two young women were Brent’s finest work and he couldn’t have done it alone. They were beautiful, inquisitive and strong. Feeling a bit sentimental, Brent closed his eyes and took a deep breath in.

            Crash! Thump! Bang!

            Brent jumped in his seat, catching his spectacles before they fell from his face. His heart was thumping through his chest and his hairs stood on end. Then, quiet. Nothing. Just the sound of the fierce wind beating against the house. The rain descended in torrents over the rooftop and he was sure, by the sound of it, that his morning would be preoccupied by whatever just crashed outside. Placing the knight and carving knife back on the work desk he decided it was probably time to pack it in. Beth was expecting him after all, and the storm had shifted from tranquil to eerie. It wasn’t in Brent’s nature to be jumpy but there was something about tonight which put him on edge.

            Standing up, he pushed in the chair and was about to extinguish the lantern when the front window caught his eye. A crack of lightning peeled back the oily darkness. In the brief flicker before the roar of thunder, Brent saw something. A figure, standing outside in the rain. When the darkness overtook the front lawn once more, he couldn’t be sure he had seen anything at all.

            Just nerves. He told himself. This damn weather is getting to you.

            Try as he might to calm his mind, his eyes peered toward the window. Just another flash of lightning and he could be sure. Sure, that there was no one out there. It could be Clint; Brent was expecting him come morning, but Clint often kept his own time. His quiet, gruff neighbor from some miles across the pinewood. They would exchange neighborly pleasantries and perhaps he would bring his wife with him; Sophie, she was a pleasant woman. Considering Clint and Sophie and their three kids were the only neighbors they had, it helped that they were a good bunch of people. Their monthly visit was something he and his family looked forward to.

            Or, maybe… No. No, he’s well on his way.

            Brent’s mind recalled a strange face. A weary traveler who had made his way to their farmhouse only the week before. He had been young, barely more than a teenager. Not the loquacious type, as Brent recalled, a gaunt and ratty individual.

            What the hell was that kid’s name? Brent thought.

            The lightning cracked again, Brent’s eyes locked onto the after image.

            This time there was no denying it. A silhouette apparated and dissipated with the coming and going of the flash. Brent’s eyes remained fixed, as still and unmoving as the blood in his veins. Most nearly trembling, any thoughts in Brent’s head ceased, replaced with the twitchy, thoughtless void of instinct. The after image of the figure held him, while the rain ran thick in the night. Brent considered crying out to his wife and the girls when a faint concentrated glow came to life in the darkness, hanging feet from the ground. A lantern, the individual in the dark was approaching the farmhouse. Brent, with little time to act, considered what to do, the figure would be at his door in a matter of moments.

            “Damnit.” He cursed under his breath and walked to the door.

He shifted loose the shotgun beside the coatrack. Deciding it best to take a look for himself before worrying Beth or the girls.

            The figure was approaching, he could hear the slopping of their boots in the wet grass and mud, audible even through the storm. Brent’s hand trembled as he reached for the door. He pulled it back shakily before finding his conviction in two long, unsteady breaths. This time he reached out and opened the door, pulling it wide for the full effect. He hadn’t yet lifted the shotgun, but he made no attempt to hide that his hand was resting on something tucked out of sight. These days, anyone would get the picture.

            With the door open, the violent wind welcomed itself into the home of the Taylors.

            “State your name, your business and why in the holy hell you’re trespassing on my property in the middle of the night!”

            The cloaked figure staggered backward, seemingly startled by Brent’s forceful tone and posture.

            “My apologies sir! My apologies!” The man pleaded timidly. “If I frightened you or your family, that was not my intention.”

            “Could’ve fooled me.” Brent said, unconvinced. He peered from one side of the property to the other, but the darkness enveloped anything ten feet beyond the light of the man’s lantern. “Mind telling me what it is you’re doing traveling alone on a night like this? Dangerous times and all.”

            The man, coming more and more into focus, looked intently at Brent’s hand as it rested conspicuously on the shaft of a gun.

            “Dangerous times, indeed.” The man agreed eyeing the gun. “A man can’t be too careful, and I surely don’t begrudge you that, sir. However, it’s these dangerous times that have brought me to your doorstep. Those very same dangers which inspired me to make my way in the night. I’d rather take my chances in a storm on the countryside than on a calm day in the cities.”

            Brent studied the man carefully. He was of a like age to himself. His hair, largely obscure by the hood of the raincoat, was mostly greyed. The man’s face, deeply lined, placed him somewhere in a warried late forties or early fifties though Brent couldn’t shake the feeling that he was several years younger than he looked.

Physically, the man appeared capable, wiry and sturdy. His broad shoulders barely hidden beneath the poncho. Most off-putting was the way the man talked. He had a whimsical way about him, even while feigning fear and surprise. Brent didn’t trust him, but also couldn’t deny the man’s magnetism.

            “Can’t argue with that.” Brent said. “Still doesn’t answer my question. What brings you out this way? This way specifically. There’s nothing out here but trees and hills.”

            “I beg to differ.” The man said gesturing to Brent himself. “Besides, trees and hills are a far sight better than guns and torches.” The man said with another deliberate look at the shotgun by the door, which by now had slumped somewhat into view. 

            Brent understood the point the man was making.

            “Can’t be too cautious, stranger. I’m sure a man as well traveled as you could understand?”

            “Indisputably.” The man affirmed. “But if I may. Allow me to defuse the situation.”

            The stranger lifted a cautionary hand in Brent’s direction. Pulling back his long raincoat, the sleek metal and wooden handle of a revolver strapped to his side was made visible in the lamplight. Brent tensed instinctively and pulled the shotgun closer to him, but the stranger steadied him with meek pleas.

            “Wait! Wait! If I had any interest in using this I would have done so by now. Please, allow me…”

            Brent eased slightly and allowed the man to continue. The stranger slowly unhitched the entire sling holster from around his side and then immediately undid the leather strap over his belt. An apparatus fell onto the porch wood between them. It was lined with fresh shells and an assortment of knives, as well as the large revolver itself.

            A calmer Brent Taylor would have likely commented on the man’s striking resemblance to an outlaw cowboy from the Wild West movies of his youth, but nervous as he was, he settled for…

            “Fucking Christ.”

            “As you said, can’t be too cautious, aye stranger?”

“I suppose a truly cautious man would blast a fucking hole through you right now, while you’re unarmed. Aye stranger?” Brent did his best to sound cold, but his kind nature betrayed him.

“Maybe a cruel man would. But you don’t strike me as cruel.” The stranger replied.

I’m not sure what you strike me as. Brent thought.

             “There’s nothing cruel about protecting one’s family. Now answer the damn question. Who are you and what do you want?” Brent asked.

            The man looked at him for a long moment before replying.

            “Bastian. Bastian Lee.” He extended his hand. Kent looked at it, mud-caked and dripping wet. Then he met it with his own.

            “Brent Taylor. Nice to meet you.”

            “A pleasure.” The man replied. “As for what I’m doing out this way, I guess I’m just creating distance. Trying to get my way up north where it’s colder. Fewer people up that way, fewer troubles.”

            He had a vice-like grip which could make the devil wince. Locking eyes, Brent noticed that the man who called himself Bastian Lee had a pair of slightly different colored eyes. One was a sky blue, the other an oceanic green. Face to face, he certainly appeared younger than Brent had previously estimated. Bastian’s eyes drifted from Brent and locked on something behind him. He was peering into the house, an immediate sense of discomfort rushed through Brent who pulled his hand away.

            “Much as I pride myself on my hospitality Mister Lee. I’m afraid I’m not comfortable with you spending the night in our house.” Brent wiped his hand on his pants, the mud peeled away in streaks. “Just thought it best to take that off the table now.”

            Bastian’s eyes tracked back out into the storm toward the barn door to the right of the farmhouse.

            “Of course. Of course. I can only imagine the fright I must’ve given you.” He took a step back and drank in the image of the farmhouse. Lightning cracked behind him, Brent thought for a moment that he saw something, then ignored it. “But if you don’t mind my saying, Mister Taylor, you have a lovely home. No doubt a lovely family. You should be proud. It does my heart good to see such a brilliant reminder of the old world.”

            Bastian was beaming a smile at no one in particular as he stepped back into the storm, admiring the estate fully. At the edge of the steps, the water pelted him, sounding more akin to hail than rain. However, the man stood content in the storm, seemingly unfazed by the liquid bullets lashing against his raincoat.

            “Stunning.” Bastian said in awe.

Brent watched him, wondering if perhaps the man had gone mad traveling on his own. He would hardly be the first. The flighty way he regarded everything, the strange way he spoke as if dragging himself from the pages of an old Western novel.

“Would you mind terribly, Mister Taylor, if perhaps I spent the night in your barn?”

            Brent gave the stranger a disconcerted look. Bastian recognized the expression and waved it off.

            “You needn’t worry. I’ll be gone with the sunrise. No one needs to know I was ever here. Just looking for a reprieve from this ghastly weather. If it doesn’t sit well with you, I’ll be on my way. It’s your property after all.”

            Brent considered it, then considered it some more.

            “Alright. You can stay in the barn if you like. So long as you’re gone by morning.”

            The lightning cracked as Bastian brought both of his hands together in a religious stance.

            “You have my word. Thank you, Mister Taylor, you’re too kind. It will be the first time I’ve had a roof over my head in weeks. At the risk of pressing your hospitality to its limits, would you mind terribly if I brought my holster with me? I’ll need it come sun-up. There’s no telling what tomorrow might bring these days. Long dangerous road, etcetera…”

            Brent nodded and took an inviting step back.

            Bastian ascended the steps once more. Bending to retrieve his holster, Brent noted in the lamplight that the man had a deep poorly healed scar which streaked from his neck down his chest and out of sight beneath his shirt. Gingerly, the man lifted the gun belt between his pointer finger and thumb before bowing his head in gratitude.

            “Thank you again, Mister Taylor.” He said graciously.

            “For what?” Asked Kent.

            Bastian gestured to the shotgun beside him.

            “For not shooting me. I’ve met a lot of people on my travels and can’t say I remember the last time I actually trusted one. You’re a decent man. A kind man, just as I suspected.”

            Kent nodded. “Hard as it is to believe, there’s still a few of us left.”

            Bastian laughed heartily as though it was the cleverest thing he had ever heard.

            “Hear, hear!” He applauded with a shake of his fist. “To the last decent man in the world!”

            He spoke with great aplomb, before turning into the stormy night without any expectation of further generosity from Brent Taylor. Brent watched the strange man saunter away with the lantern shaking in the wind as his feet splashed and slogged through the mud. Sympathy, like a shadow cast in the evening, carped over his shoulder, disapprovingly.

            Damnit Brent… You must be as crazy as him. He thought.

            “Hey Bastian.” The man stopped in the mud. “How about you come inside for a drink. You can give me some news from the rest of the world, and I can put a roof over your head, at least until the storm calms a bit.”

            The lightning cracked; Bastian’s smile lit up in the flash of pale light.

             “You’re too kind, Kent. If you’ll have me, I’d love to sit and chat.” With a confident stride Bastian walked up the porch and Kent stood aside to let the man enter.

            Vampires… The thought struck Kent, provoked only on a subconscious level. They need to be invited inside.

            As Bastian made his way across the threshold, Kent noted the man’s sharp features. High cheekbones, greying hair and a narrow face. The vulpine smile he wore so politely only made the resemblance all the more striking. Once across the threshold and into the home of Kent and Beth Williams, Bastian removed his jacket and bowed his head in apology for the thick wet which was dripping off him and onto the wooden floors.

            “Don’t mind that. Just hang it up on the rack.” Kent assured him.

            Perhaps stirred by the commotion or merely driven by curiosity for why her eager husband had not yet joined her in their bed, Beth Taylor glided into the main room still cloaked in her nightgown. She began to speak to Kent, dawning the same flirtatious tone as before in an attempt to coax him into hurrying his ass up, but when she fixed her eyes on the front door she gasped.

            “Kent! Who is that? What’s going on?” She asked while her arms instinctively covered her breasts.

            Bastian began his apologies and offered to leave, even going so far as to put one foot out the door without his jacket, but Kent raised his hand.

            “Bastian wait.” Kent said, turning to his wife. “It’s okay sweetie. This is Bastian Lee, he’s our guest for the night. Like that boy the other day, he’s alone and just passing through. He’ll sleep in the barn tonight, I just felt wrong leaving him out there in the storm. I’ll send him back out when the rain dies down.”

            Beth looked anything but convinced, but she trusted her husband. She trusted his intuition. He had not steered them wrong yet.

            “H-hello there.” She said to Bastian nervously. “Nice to meet you, I’m Beth. Kent’s wife.”

            She didn’t approach to offer her hand; her modest demeanor mixed with the immodesty of her nightgown held her in place.

            “Wonderful to meet you, Beth. May I call you Beth? You have a beautiful home and a good-hearted man.” His words were cordial, striking Beth the way they had struck Kent. They disarmed you yet unnerved you all at once. It was as though he was reading from a script, a well written one, and he was an excellent orator. “I pray I don’t startle you or your family any further. I’ll be gone before sunrise, that’s a promise.”

            Beth softened at the man’s kind demeanor.

“That’s alright. I’m sorry, it’s just that we don’t have too many visitors these days. Now, you’re the second in a week.”

            Bastian tilted his head.

            “Am I? What a coincidence.”

            “Okay, well, I’ll be in the bedroom if you need me, Kent. It was nice meeting you… uh… sir.”

            “Likewise.” He said.

            She gave Brent a harsh glare and his eyes fell to the floor. So much for getting lucky tonight. Beth disappeared into the other room.

            Brent Taylor took the jacket, slick with rain and covered in loose debris from the forest, and hung it on the rack beside the door. His eccentric guest made tentative steps into the house. Wild eyes, each of a different color, darted about the room. Taking in the scene of the quaint dwelling the way a skittish animal might inspect for a suitable place to rest its head.

            “It only gets lovelier.” Bastian said under his breath. “You must be very proud, Mister Taylor. It’s no easy feat to have etched a small piece of paradise out of this dying world.”

            Aided by the loud crackling of lightning and torrential downpour which lay siege to the rooftop above them, Kent found the man’s comment to be highly presumptuous.

            “I’m proud of many things in my life, Mister Lee…”

“Bastian please.” The man said.

“Bastian… right. As I was saying, I’m proud of many things, Bastian, but this home is just a pile of wood and brick. It’s what we’ve shared under this roof and what we’ve managed to preserve among each other that makes this place home. The world isn’t dying, as you put it, it’s only our way of life. I like to think it’s on those of us who are still here and of a sane mind, to preserve the better parts of what made us human. I think enduring whatever this new world will bring about is the most noble and human thing that any of us can do.” Kent concluded.

            Bastian gave a wry smile, clearly intrigued by Kent’s philosophical pontification.

            “And he’s a scholar to boot.” Nodding his approval at Brent. “Well said, Mister Taylor. Possessions are fleeting. It’s interpersonal connections that give life meaning. The sharing of emotions, of kindness, of wisdom. What are we if we don’t hand something to the next generation? Assuming there is one. When we are finally gone, it will be the customs and morals that survive us, not our property.” He lifted one of Kent’s figurines from the bookshelf with earnest intrigue. “Make something meaningful. I always used to tell my students that.”

            Kent suddenly felt his interest piqued.

            “You were a teacher in the old world?” Kent asked.

            “I was.” Bastian nodded modestly. “Or, at least, I tried to be. Still do, in fact.”

            Kent gestured for Bastian to take a seat at the desk as he returned to where he had been sitting before the strange man had walked from out of the rain and into his life. Bastian placed the figurine back where he found it with a nod of quiet admiration.

            Falling into his seat with a grunt, Kent smiled across the desk. Bastian joined him.

            “So was I.” Kent said. “Nothing too fascinating. I was a professor at Boston Community College. History. Always had aspirations of climbing the ladder, though what chance of upward mobility I ever had I couldn’t be sure. Then, of course, life intervened.”

            “Life ended, is more like it.” Bastian clarified. “At least as we knew it.”

            Kent shrugged, “Some of us have still managed to endure.” He gestured to Bastian. “Some of us have managed to pull a type of ‘paradise’, as you say, from what’s left of the world. Me and my family abandoned the city before it was too late. We were fortunate to make it out fully intact. Not a day goes by I don’t think about what it was like. The screaming and horror as we made our way through the countryside. We managed to find this place; it was Beth’s father’s, but he never made it here himself. Despite everything that happened, everything that we lost, We were able to find normalcy, or the closest thing to it, and have been getting by ever since.”

               To the surprise of Brent, Bastian hung his head, seemingly crestfallen.

            “I’m happy for you. Truly, I am.”

            Brent looked on Bastian with pity, his eyes tracking back to the deep scar twisting like a snake down his neck. Guilt burned through him.

            “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to gloat. It must’ve been hard, getting by in the chaos alone.”

            Bastian waved it off.

            “Nonsense. I’m sorry. My troubles are my own and your point still stands. The Old World is gone, but we’re still here. It’s a beautiful sentiment. The better part of me hopes you’re right.”

            Brent continued reluctantly, “At the risk of being rude; how was it out there? How is it? As bad as I remember?”

            A cynical smile darkened Bastian’s face.

            “Worse. I’m sure.”

A moment’s silence passed between them. Bastian’s eyes tracked to the bookshelf; he noted the family’s broad selection of literature before running his fingers down the spine of one of the hard cover novels.

An edition of Dicken’s Great Expectations.

“The cities, the ones that aren’t completely empty save for the corpses, are overrun by the worst most depraved people imaginable. The ones with the coldest hearts and sturdiest stomachs. Those who saw opportunity in the madness of the early days took whatever power and resources they could. So, in some ways I guess not much has changed.” Kent returned a nervous smile at Bastian. “All the others who survived the early days infest the cities like rats. They were all… infected by whatever disease turns good rational people into savages. Most are just scared and hungry. Others are angry, looking for an opportunity to lash out. But some… some of them are just rotten to the core. Regardless of what compels them they’re all dangerous. I’ve traveled hundreds of miles since that day, and anyone I’ve found who was old enough to remember when everything fell apart has been too sick to save. Either just another corpse rotted from the inside out or too sick in the head to be reasoned with. Everywhere I traveled I found, to my dismay, that the disease which we might call human nature had outpaced me. Seemed, everywhere I went I either found monsters wearing the faces of human beings or the bodies of those they left in their wake.”

As he spoke, his eyes listed off into dreadful memories.

            Kent studied him, not certain if the man was more worthy of pity or trepidation. He and his family had done all they could to leave the horror of the old world behind them and now, sitting across from him, was a living reminder that things had not gotten better, and a new world was nowhere in sight.

            “That’s terrible.” Kent said weakly.

            “Terrible…” Bastian chewed on the word bitterly. “Not quite, Mister Taylor. ‘Terrible’ falls a significant way short. It defies words.”

            Kent sat back in his chair with a sigh and let his compassion speak for him.

            “Well, you don’t need to worry about any of that tonight Bastian. You have my word. You’re safe here.”

            “Thank you, Kent. I felt safer the moment I walked through the door. It was, I’ll admit, freeing to leave all of the horror behind me. You and your family are very lucky to have such a beautiful home. A comfortable buffer between yourselves and the real world.”

            “I try my best to keep my family ready, should anything go wrong, but I think- difficult as it might be for you- you should remember that this…” He gestured to his humble home. “…is part of the ‘real world’ too.”

            Bastian appeared to ignore Brent’s optimistic remark. The air in the room was beginning to turn and the stranger’s face no longer appeared jolly or gracious. There was a shadow passing over him, a darkness that lay under his eyes, he appeared morose. As though an inconsolable pain was burning in him, one he had felt for so long he no longer winced when it overtook him.

            “Let me ask you something, Kent.”

            “By all means.” Kent straightened in his seat.

            “Do you think things will ever return to the way they were? That we can ever go back?” His voice was severe.

            Kent measured his words carefully, feeling that there was some unknown gravity to this question which might frame the entire conversation.

            “It’s difficult to say. Part of me believes that the world has ended, and that’s that. Enough said. Believing it could revert back to the way it was before would just be naïve optimism. But, sometimes, I think back on all the horrors humanity survived during our lifetime and through history, many of them self-inflicted, and briefly I find hope. Maybe one day we can make it back. Maybe not you and me, maybe its too late for us, but perhaps my girls will see it someday. A return to the way things were.”

            Kent sat nodding; his eyes locked on the partially finished knight. It was a candid and calculated response. The best he could supply. One which, if he was honest, he had been wanting to share for some time…

            Bastian sat quietly, his fingers tapping on the desk. A restlessness was building in him. A distant, wild look in his eyes.

            “So, you believe we’d be better off if we were to return to the old ways?” He asked. “Go back to the way things were. You would see that as a positive outcome?”

            “Well, of course.” Kent said timidly. “It was far from perfect. We were far from perfect. But we deserve better than this. Most people do anyway.”

            Bastian scoffed, Kent tensed at the obvious shift in his demeanor.

            “That’s not my experience, Kent. Not my experience at all.”

            “And what is your experience, Bastian?”

            With the sharpest of glares, he eyed Kent from across the desk.

            He inhaled deeply, “My experience? My opinion? We got what we deserved.”

            Brent felt the urge to leap from his seat and yell out to his wife and daughters. A twisting sensation in his gut that screamed danger. The anxious propulsion of a field mouse when spotted by an owl. He felt an urge to tell them to run. To get out before it was too late. But, as humans have done now for centuries, he ignored that instinct.

            “Surely, you don’t mean that…” Brent said weakly. “You can’t.”

            Bastian’s face was cold and stoic.

            “Beyond the haze of nostalgia, Kent, do you really remember what it was like back then?” He awaited a response from Kent which never came. “You say we were far from perfect?! We’re no different now then we were then. We were then, what we have revealed ourselves to be now, monsters! Viscious, spiteful little creatures only looking for what we can steal from those weaker than us. Property, money, pleasure. Look at how we used to live? Politicians, getting away with murder and whatever other depraved crimes they wished to indulge themselves in! Celebrities we worshipped like gods, excusing every horrid indiscretion and abominable act as though it was the cost of greatness. We are apes, Kent! Nothing more. We just had too much time on our hands, too much comfort at the tips of our fingers, to remember that. We grew soft. Vulnerable. We became cattle for the most animalistic of us to feed upon. And, I’ll concede, that in the Old World that was almost okay. There was room to be moral, to be martyrs for pacifism, but not anymore. Not since turning the other cheek became turning a blind eye. In this world, if we want our children to see tomorrow, we can’t allow the weakness of the Old World to prolificate. It needs to die, Kent. We need to kill it.”

            The lightning cracked; this time Kent could hardly believe his eyes as his veins filled with ice. He was rooted to his seat, his hands trembling and chin quivering. Outside, sifting shadows could be seen moving beyond the windows. Their feet anow audible on the porch, preparing to breach the door.

            “P-please. Don’t do this…” Kent pleaded weakly. “You don’t need to be a monster like the others. You could be different.”

            Bastian erected himself from the seat. Not looking to Kent, he spoke dismissively.

            “No. That time has passed. You’re a kind man, Kent. But you’re a relic of the past. In this world kindness is poison. It spreads from you to your children, through outdated morals. Until that kindness not only gets you killed but them too.” He looked about the small farmhouse again. “You’ve managed to shelter your family from reality long enough, I think. It’s time you became acquainted with the real world…”

            Bastian raised his left hand overhead, the door burst open. The sound of shattering glass and feminine screams erupted from the bedrooms. Through the front door alone, a mass of six hooded figures in sopping wet ponchos marched in. Three to a side, fanning out behind Bastian. The last one snatched the shotgun by the door on their way through. Even beneath the hoods, Kent saw their twisted smiles. Their wicked intentions mirrored in their eyes. Cackling like hyenas, there was a jitteriness to them. It almost looked like it was difficult for them to stand still, the eagerness threatening to overflow if they weren’t given permission to proceed soon.

            Children… Kent thought. They’re just children…

            Then, “Kent! Kent! Help! Oh god, help!”

            It was Beth, her screams were halted by the unmistakable sound of a violent strike. He hoped she was okay, that they hadn’t hurt her too badly. He was crying, and hardly aware of it. His mind swirled with all the terrible possibilities of what they might be doing to her. Soon he didn’t need to imagine. They had dragged her out into the den. Yanking her by her dark locks of hair and her nightgown. The seams tearing with every jerking pull. Now, his eldest daughter was screaming. She too was pulled out into the den.

            At last, Kent leapt to his feet.

            “Stop this! Stop this now! God damnit!!”

             Bastian snarled and grabbed Kent. Balling up the front of his shirt.

“I said I’d be gone by sunrise, Kent. Now for your family’s sake, sit the fuck down!”

He pulled Kent across the desk, the unfinished knight falling to the floor with a thud and his many papers and knick-knacks crashing over top of the desk. Bastian threw him to the floor. Kent was stunned by the madman’s strength, his grip like that of a Pitbull’s jaw.

Kent looked back at his wife who was sobbing, the right side of her face bruised.

“I’m begging you, Bastian. Don’t hurt my wife… Please don’t hurt my children… if it’s me you want then so be it…”

“Martyrdom; the last resort of a coward.” Bastian mumbled. “We’re not here to hurt your children, Kent. And we’re not here for you or your wife. This is a rescue mission. Where are you daughters, Kent?”

Kent said nothing, his eyes wide and his head undulating in fear.

Dispassionately, Bastian pulled a dagger from his boot. Kent instinctively backtracked toward the bookshelf on his palms. Bastian yanked him back across the floor and pressed his knee into Kent’s chest. Kent Taylor felt the blood pressure build in his sinuses until he was sure his head would burst. Bastian did not appear to be a large man, but the force he supplied as he pressed his knee into Kent’s chest was immense. The other hooded figures snickered their approval. Beth cried out, as did his eldest daughter, as Bastian placed the knife to his neck.

“I’ll only ask once more, Kent. You make me ask twice and you’ll lack the windpipe to reply. Then, I’ll ask your wife. Understand?”

Kent nodded, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Where are your daughters?”

Kent’s eyes trailed to the young woman being held by the open bedroom door parallel to his wife. Bastian looked over at her vacantly.

“And the other?” Kent said nothing. Bastian pressed the knife to his throbbing jugular. “Kent!”

“Her room. B-but please…” Kent pleaded.

“Quiet.” Bastian ordered. “Anything in there Mitchel?”

A deep but youthful voice replied from inside the room.

“Nothing, Bastian.” She’s not in her bed. “Unless she knew we were…”

“Check the closet.” Bastian ordered while keeping his eyes locked on Kent’s. “Anything?”

“Nothing.” The voice replied. “Maybe she…”

“Under the bed, Mitchel.” Bastian said.

There was a long moment’s silence as Kent lay trembling looking up into the differently colored eyes of Bastian Lee. Until, the silence peeled back in a feminine shriek followed by the howl of a deep, masculine cry.

“That fucking bitch! Fuck! FUCK!” The voice of Mitchel yelled.

“There she is.” Bastian said with a smirk.

The sound of bare feet on wooden floors rushed across the bedroom before vanishing into the sound of someone leaping from the window into the swirling storm. Unflinching, Bastian called to another subordinate.

“Sonny.” A young woman stepped forward in a soaked poncho. “Check on Mitchel, clean up his mess.”

“Yes, Bastian.” She went into the other room.

She returned to the den with the hulking Mitchel. Large as he was, his acne spattered skin declared him as a young man no older than eighteen. His face was bleeding, three distinct slashes across his left eye and cheek.

“It’s all fucked, Bastian!” He roared. “She’s no child! She’s barely younger than me!”

Bastian’s stoic face dropped, a sudden melancholy took him.

“Kent. I have one last question for you. Then I promise we’ll be on our way.”

Kent looked up, a small ounce of hope in him that his youngest Marie had escaped. Fleeing into the storm and away from these monsters.

“How old are your daughters?”

Kent swallowed. Every morbid thought of what he might want with them came rushing to mind. Bastian read it in his eyes.

“It’s nothing like that Kent. Now answer the question before I’m forced to ask again.”

“Seventeen and twenty.” He said.

“Fucking Christ…”

Bastian mumbled, his eyes tracking to one of his own, standing nervously in the corner. A gaunt young man who Kent realized was the same teenager who had briefly stayed with them only a week earlier. The boy tried to hide himself behind the rest of the back while the others averted the eyes of Bastian Lee.

“I’m so very sorry, Kent.” Bastian said shaking his head. “There’s been a dreadful misunderstanding.”

In that instant, Kent felt the same twisted sixth sense from earlier, that keen instinct that lives quietly in everyone. Buried beneath years of relative leisure and saturated delight. That dormant feeling of impending danger which we swallow down every day in attempts to appear sane or polite. He felt it surge through him as Bastian raised the knife overhead and felt it briefly as the blade plunged into his skull. He lay twitching, convulsing, as Bastian pinned him down and delivered two more downward thrusts until Kent Taylor was no longer moving. The blood spilled from the gaping wounds in his head and chest, dispersing across the den floor. Beth screamed, as did their eldest daughter, Laura.

Ignoring their hysterical cries, Sonny stood awaiting her orders.

“What now?” She asked.

“Find the younger one. Track her down. Follow her into the storm if need be.” Bastian said, while looking to Mitchel’s bleeding face and admiring the claw marks about his cheek. “That one’s a fighter. She deserves a chance.”

Sonny, with similar dispassion to her elder teacher, looked at the two women crying by the doors to their respective bedrooms.

“And the others?” She asked.

“Cull the weak.” He replied.

“Build the strong!” The rest of the pack echoed with sickening conviction.

Beth and Laura Taylor, eyes alight with mortal terror, screamed out into the night as the knives were brought to their throats, silencing their screams shortly after. Kent Taylor’s vitality seeped about the floorboards. His lifeless body indifferent to the fate of his family. The unfinished knight lay precariously at the edge of the desk, its wooden visage looking down on it’s lifeless maker.

Brent Taylor’s world had come to an end.