BEASTS OF BURDEN

Chapter 1

The Monsters

When the fever hit, the world ended. Pockets of humanity still endured, clinging to life in the darker corners of the world. But the cities had fallen, the suburbs were empty, and those who survived the fever were either stubborn shut-ins like Brent Taylor and his family or cold-hearted monsters, no better than the animals that lurked in the dense forest surrounding his small cabin home.

Brent sat at his desk in the den, whittling away, his reading glasses resting at the edge of his nose. He guided his knife against the wood with skillful diligence. What had started as a ten-inch cylindrical chunk of oak was methodically taking the shape of a medieval knight. It would fit in nicely with his collection of homemade knick-knacks. His eyes drifted to the space on the bookcase where it would rest once he was finished, beside the intricately carved dragon he completed the week before. Each shelf was designed to mirror the genre of books it contained. The ornaments for the mystery, science fiction, and non-fiction shelves were already complete and properly placed. He was now in the process of finishing his figurines for the fantasy section. Works like King’s Dark Tower, Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, and, of course, The Hobbit.

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

It was the dead of night. A rainstorm beat against the rooftop of the cabin as he sat working by lamplight, returning the true meaning to the phrase “burning the midnight oil.” Despite the mess 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 would always remain the same. 

His wife and two daughters were already fast asleep. Well, except for his youngest daughter Marie. She was a night owl like him and was likely swimming in the pages of a good book. He glanced at the door to her room and saw the flicker of light seeping through the bottom. Brent smiled to himself. The world of Man had ended, but his world was still here. Calmly resting in three separate beds.

2

The wind kicked up outside and the front door braced against it. Brent looked at the door then slowly fell back to his work. Passing the blade over every curve, the model steadily came to life. He started by giving the wood shape, molding it into a knight. Something generic and recognizable, and then he gave 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 mess.

Just then, he heard the door behind him open. His wooden chair creaked as he turned to look. Standing in the doorway of the bedroom was a familiar but welcomed sight—a thin, faintly aged woman in a white nightgown, her 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.

            “In a moment,” he said. “Just need a few more minutes.” He held up the figure, a modest pride shone in his eyes. “It’s really coming along.”

            Beth smiled and shook her head. She glided across the room over to her husband of twenty-four years placing her hands on his shoulders. Brent rested his head against her hand and kissed it tenderly.

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

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

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

            Brent leaned back with a muted laugh so as not to wake their daughters.

“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 made out for the first time in the backseat of his Lincoln town car. “You’re such a dork. Maybe you should put the figurine down, come to bed, and remind me.”

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

            “You’re not!” Beth laughed. “At least you better not. Unless you want to spend the night in the barn.” With this playful warning, she broke away and strutted back to the bedroom.

Brent watched her hips sway. She threw a final teasing look at him. 

            He glanced back at the figurine and reluctantly raised two fingers with a sheepish grin. 

“Two minutes?”

            Beth rolled her eyes. 

            “Fine,” she sighed. “Two minutes. But even a second longer and I’m starting without you.”

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

            Beth marched into the bedroom and closed the door. Brent smiled to himself. Memories of their many years together, of the Old World and the New, flashed through his mind before he shook his head, picked up the figurine and the knife, and began carving again.

To Brent, there was no greater satisfaction in the world than taking an image from his mind and willing it into existence. Briefly he imagined what Beth might be up to in the bedroom without him, and conceded that there were some things that rivaled it. Still, creation really was something. Brent and Beth had two daughters to prove it. Laura and Marie. Those two young women were Brent’s finest work, and he couldn’t have done it alone. They were beautiful, inquisitive, and strong.

Feeling sentimental, Brent closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

            Crash! Thump! Bang!

            Brent leaped from his seat, catching his glasses before they fell from his face. His heart thundered in his chest and his hair 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 spent repairing whatever just crashed outside. 

Placing the knight and carving knife 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 that had him on edge. 

            Standing up, he pushed in the chair and was about to extinguish the lantern when a crack of lightning peeled back the darkness. In the brief flash of light before the roar of thunder, Brent saw something out the front window. A figure, standing outside in the rain. But when the darkness overtook the front lawn once more, he couldn’t be sure he’d seen anything at all.

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

            Still, he peered through the window. Just another flash of lightning and he could be sure there was no one out there. Even if there was, it could be Clint; Brent was expecting him come morning, but Clint often kept his own time. His quiet, gruff neighbor lived with his family some miles across the pinewood. He and his wife, Sophie, would come by sometimes to exchange neighborly pleasantries. Considering Clint and Sophie and their three kids were the only neighbors they had, it helped that they were a good bunch. Their monthly visit was something Brent and his family looked forward to. But not this late at night.

            Or maybe…Brent remembered a strange face.  No. No, he’s well on his way.

            A weary traveler had made his way to their farmhouse only a week before. He had been young, barely more than a teenager yet hardly more than a skeleton. Not the loquacious type, as Brent recalled. A gaunt, ratty individual. He only stayed for a quick meal on the porch before an awkward goodbye.

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

            The lightning cracked again. Brent’s eyes were locked on the window.

            There was no denying it this time.

A silhouette apparated and dissipated with the coming and going of the flash. Brent froze, as still and unmoving as the blood in his veins. All thoughts in his head ceased, replaced with the twitchy void of instinct. The afterimage of the figure held him in place while the rain thrashed down in the night. Brent considered crying out to his wife and the girls when a faint glow appeared in the darkness beyond the porch, hanging only feet from the ground. A lantern, bobbing and swaying. The figure in the dark began approaching the farmhouse. Brent’s thoughts scrambled. He had little time to act—the figure would be at his door in a matter of seconds.

            “Damnit.” He cursed under his breath and walked to the door, jerking loose the shotgun beside the coat rack.

Best to take a look for himself before worrying Beth or the girls.

            The figure was nearly there. He could hear the slopping of their boots in the mud, audible even through the storm. Brent’s hand trembled as he reached for the door, then paused. He pulled his hand back shakily, found his conviction in two long, unsteady breaths, 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 it. These days, anyone would get the picture.

            “State your name, your business, and why in the holy hell you’re trespassing on my property in the middle of the night,” Brent demanded, squaring his shoulders.

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

            “So sorry, sir—my apologies,” the man pleaded. “If I frightened you, that wasn’t 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 several 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, stared intently at Brent’s hand as it rested conspicuously on the shaft of the gun. 

            “Dangerous times, indeed,” he agreed, nodding toward 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 bring me to your doorstep. Those very same dangers that inspired me to make my way in the night. I’d rather take my chances in a storm on the countryside than a calm day in the cities.”

            Brent studied the man. His hair, though largely obscured by the hood of his poncho, looked mostly grayed. His face was deeply lined, placing him somewhere in a weary late forties or early fifties, but Brent couldn’t shake the feeling that he was several years younger than he appeared. 

Physically, the man was capable-looking, with a tall, fit, wiry frame. His broad shoulders were barely hidden beneath his poncho. What was off-putting was the way the man talked. He had a whimsical way about him, even while expressing fear and surprise. Brent didn’t trust him, didn’t trust anyone, but couldn’t bring himself to hurt the man in cold blood.

            “Can’t argue with that,” Brent said. “Still doesn’t answer my question though. 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.” He shot another deliberate look at Brent’s gun. 

            Brent understood the point the man was making.

            “Can’t be too cautious. I’m sure a man as well traveled as you can understand.”

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

            The stranger pulled back his long raincoat, revealing the sleek metal barrel and wooden handle of a revolver strapped to his side. Brent tensed instinctively and lifted the shotgun, 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 relaxed slightly and allowed the man to continue. The stranger slowly unhitched the entire sling holster from around his side and undid the leather strap over his belt. An apparatus fell onto the porch 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 when his voice cracked.

“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. 

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

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

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

            “Brent Taylor. Nice to meet you.”

            “A pleasure,” The man said. “As for what I’m doing out this way, I guess I’m just creating distance. Trying to make my way up north where it’s colder. Fewer people up that way, fewer troubles. Word is, the illness isn’t fond of the cold. The fevers are less intense. Of course, all the people who used to say that are dead.”

The stranger smiled as if there was some humor in that.

            As they locked eyes, Brent noticed that the hooded figure who called himself Bastian Lee had a pair of slightly different colored eyes illuminated by the porchlight. One was a sky blue, the other an oceanic green. Face to face, he certainly appeared younger than Brent had previously guessed. Bastian’s dichromatic eyes drifted from Brent to observe something behind him. As he peered into the house, an immediate sense of discomfort rushed through Brent. He 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 looked back out into the storm toward the barn 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 again behind him, and Brent thought for a moment that he saw something else in the shadows, but 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 beautiful reminder of the Old World.”

            Bastian beamed 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 like hail than rain. However, the man stood content, unfazed by the liquid bullets lashing against his raincoat. 

            “Stunning,” Bastian said in awe. 

Brent watched him, wondering if the man had gone mad traveling on his own. He would hardly be the first.

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

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

            “You needn’t worry. I’ll be gone by sunrise. No one needs to know I was ever here. Just looking for some cover 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, not wanting to turn the man out into the cold.

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

            Bastian brought both of his hands together as if in prayer.

            “You have my word. Thank you, Mister Taylor, you’re too kind. It’ll 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 permit me to bring my holster? I’ll need it, come sun-up.”

            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 poorly healed scar that snaked from his neck down to 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.

            “If you don’t mind, Mister Lee, I’ll hold on to the revolver until you’re ready to set off,” Brent said. “I’ll meet you by the barn before first light. Fair?”

            “More than fair.”

            Bastian turned the holster toward Brent, allowing him to pull it free himself in a gesture of good faith. Brent eyed it skeptically, then tugged it free. Unfamiliar with such a holster, it took him one or two tries. The stranger noticed but didn’t comment.

            “Thank you again, Mister Taylor.”

            “For what?” 

            Bastian gestured to Brent’s shotgun.

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

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

            Bastian’s face wrinkled into a sudden fit of hearty laughter.

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

            He turned into the stormy night without any expectation of further generosity from Brent Taylor. Brent watched the strange man saunter away, the lantern swinging as his feet splashed and slogged through the mud. Sympathy crept over him disapprovingly. 

            Damnit Brent… You must be as crazy as him, he thought.

            “Hey, Bastian,” he said before he could stop himself.

The man stopped in the mud and slowly turned around.

“How about you come inside for a drink? You can give me some news from the rest of the world, and I can give you a warm place to sit. At least until the storm calms a bit.”

            Bastian’s smile lit up in a flash of pale light.

             “You’re too kind, Brent. Too kind. If you’ll have me, I’d love to sit and chat.” Bastian confidently strode back up the porch steps.

            Vampires… The thought struck Brent, unprovoked. They need to be invited inside. He brushed the thought away with a shake of his head as he stood aside to let the man enter.

            Bastian’s vulpine smile, which he wore so politely, only made his face all the more striking. Once across the threshold and into the home of Brent and Beth Taylor, Bastian removed his jacket and bowed his head in apology for the muddy water dripping off him and onto the wooden floors.

            “Don’t mind that. Just hang it up on the rack,” Brent said.

            Perhaps stirred by the commotion, or merely driven by curiosity of why her eager husband had yet to join her in their bed, Beth Taylor glided into the main room still cloaked in her nightgown. She started to speak with the same flirtatious tone but when she fixed her eyes on the front door she gasped.

            “Brent! Who is that? What’s going on?” She asked, instinctively crossing her arms to cover 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 Brent raised his hand.

            “Bastian, wait,” he said, turning to his wife. “It’s okay, Beth. This is Bastian. 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. He hadn’t steered them wrong yet.

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

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

            “Wonderful to meet you, Beth. You have a beautiful home and a good-hearted man.” Bastian’s words were cordial, striking Beth the way they had struck Brent. They disarmed her yet unnerved her all at once. “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 candor. 

“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, Brent. 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 back into the bedroom.

            Brent Taylor took Bastian’s 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, eyes darting around the room. He took 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.”

            Considering the continuous crackling of lightning and torrential downpour laying siege to the rooftop above them, Brent found the man’s comment to be rather presumptuous.

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

“Bastian, please,” the man said.

“Bastian… right. Well, 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 that died. 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.”

They were words he wanted to say for a while but he couldn’t understand why it spilled out of him now. Maybe, he just had a feeling this man needed to hear it.

            Bastian smiled. “And he’s a scholar to boot,” he said, nodding his approval. “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’re finally gone, it will be our customs and morals that survive us, not our property.” He lifted one of Brent’s figurines from the bookshelf with earnest intrigue. “Make something meaningful. I always used to tell my students that.”

            Brent’s interest piqued. “You were a teacher in the old world?” He asked.

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

            Brent pulled a chair over and gestured for Bastian to take a seat as he returned to his desk. Bastian placed the figurine back where he found it with quiet admiration.

            Falling into his seat with a grunt, Brent smiled across the desk. Bastian returned the smile.

            “So was I. Small world,” Brent said. 

“Smaller than ever,” Bastian agreed. “What did you teach?”

“History.” Brent said humbly. “Nothing too fascinating. I was a professor at Boston Community College. 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.”

            Brent shrugged. “Some of us have still managed to endure.” He gestured to Bastian. “And some of us have managed to pull a type of ‘paradise’, as you say, from what’s left of it. Me and my family abandoned the city before it was too late. We were fortunate to make it out whole. More than most can say. Not a day goes by where I don’t think about what it was like. The screaming, the horror. Nothing was worse than that first day, when we made our way through the countryside. Luckily, 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 some normalcy—or the closest thing to it, anyway.”

               Bastian hung his head.

            “I’m happy for you.”

            Brent looked at Bastian with pity, drawn to the deep scar twisting like a snake down his neck. Guilt burned through him.

            “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend. 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. Really. The better part of me hopes you’re right.”

            Brent continued reluctantly. “At the risk of being rude; what’s it like out there? As bad as I remember?”

            A cynical smile darkened Bastian’s face. “Worse. I’m sure.” 

A moment’s silence passed between them. Bastian turned toward the bookshelf; he noted the family’s broad selection of literature before running his finger down the spine of a hardcover edition of Dickens’ Great Expectations.

“The cities, the ones that aren’t completely empty save for the corpses, are overrun by the most depraved people imaginable, those 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 and held on tight. So, in some ways, I guess not much has changed.” 

Brent cracked a nervous smile as Bastian continued.

            “All the others who survived the fever and the horror that followed, infest the cities like rats. They’re all infected. Not by the illness that caused all this, but by whatever disease turns good, rational people into savages. Most are just scared and hungry, but others are angry, looking for an opportunity to lash out. And 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’ve traveled I’ve found, to my dismay, that this disease outpaced me. Seemed that no matter where I went, I either found monsters wearing the faces of human beings or the bodies of those they left behind.”

As he spoke, he drifted off into dreadful memories. Brent could almost see those terrible images dancing in Bastian’s eyes.

            “That’s terrible,” Brent said weakly.

            “Terrible…” Bastian chewed on the word bitterly. “Not quite, Mister Taylor. ‘Terrible’ falls significantly short. What it’s like out there defies words.”

            Brent 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. You have my word. You’re safe here.”

            “Thank you. 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.”

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

            Bastian appeared to ignore Brent’s optimistic remark. The affable air in the room began to turn, and the stranger’s face no longer appeared jolly or gracious. A shadow passed over him, a darkness that lay behind his eyes.         

“Let me ask you something, Brent.”

            “By all means.” Brent 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 sharp. 

            Brent measured his words carefully. “It’s difficult to say. Part of me believes the world ended, and that’s that. Enough said. Believing it could revert back to the way it was 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 have faith. Faith that maybe, one day, we can make it back. Not you and me, it’s probably too late for us, but maybe my girls will get to see it someday. A return to the way things were.”

            Brent sat with his eyes locked on the partially finished knight. He’d given what he hoped was as candid and calculated a response as he could. They were heavy words he had wanted to unload for some time.

            Bastian sat quietly, his fingers tapping on the desk. Brent could see a restlessness building in him, a distant, wild look in his eyes.

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

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

            Bastian scoffed. Brent tensed at the shift in his demeanor.

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

            “And what is your experience, Bastian?” 

            Bastian glared at him and inhaled deeply. “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 anxiety that propels a field mouse when spotted by an owl. He felt the urge to tell them to run. To get out before it was too late. But he ignored it.

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

            Bastian’s face was cold and stoic.

            “Beyond the haze of nostalgia, Brent, do you really remember what it was like back then?” He awaited a response from Brent, which never came. “You say we were far from perfect? We’re no different now than we were then. Vicious, spiteful 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 whatever depraved crimes they committed. We worshiped celebrities like gods, excusing every horrid indiscretion as though it was the cost of greatness. We are apes, Brent. 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 on. 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 endure. It needs to die, Brent. We need to kill it.”

            The lightning cracked; this time Brent could hardly believe his eyes. Outside, he saw shadows moving beyond the windows. He heard their many pairs of feet stepping onto the porch, preparing to breach the door.

            It was all so obvious now.

            “Please. Don’t do this…” Brent pleaded weakly. “You don’t need to be a monster like the others. You could be different.”

            Bastian rose from his seat. Not looking at Brent, he spoke dismissively.

            “No. That time has passed. You’re a kind man, Mister Taylor. But you’re a relic of the Old World. In this world, kindness is a sickness. It spreads from you to your children through outdated morals. Those malignant mores fester like tumors 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 above his head, and the door burst open. At the same time, the sound of shattering glass and screams erupted from the bedrooms. Through the front door alone, a mass of six hooded figures in wet ponchos marched in. Three to a side, fanning out behind Bastian. The last one snatched Brent’s shotgun by the door. Even beneath the hoods, Brent saw their twisted smiles, the wicked intentions in their eyes. They cackled like hyenas, there was a jitteriness to them as if it was difficult for them to stand still, their eagerness threatening to overflow if they weren’t given permission to proceed soon.

            Children… Brent thought. They’re just children…

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

            Brent leapt to his feet, but Bastian’s gaze held him.

            It was Beth. Her screams were halted by the unmistakable sound of a violent strike. Brent was crying, and hardly aware of it. The horror and shock made it all surreal, freezing him in place. His mind swirled with all the terrible possibilities of what they might be doing to her. Soon he didn’t need to imagine. They dragged her out into the den, yanking her by her dark hair and nightgown. The seams tore with every jerking pull. Now, his eldest daughter was screaming. She too was pulled out into the den.

            “Stop this! Stop this now, God dammit!” Brent pleaded.

             Bastian reached across the desk and grabbed Brent, balling up the front of his shirt with his fist.

“I said I’d be gone by sunrise, Mister Taylor,” he growled. “We still have plenty of time to chat. Now, for your family’s sake, sit the fuck down.”

He pulled Brent across the desk, the unfinished knight nearly toppling to the floor, but coming to a stop at the edge. Papers and knick-knacks flew from the desk and clattered on the floorboards as Bastian threw him down. Brent was stunned by the madman’s strength.

Brent looked desperately back at his wife. She was sobbing, the right side of her face bruised. He wanted to tell her everything would be all right, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe it.

“I’m begging you, Bastian. Don’t hurt my family. It’s me you want. Let them go.”

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

Brent said nothing, his eyes wide and his whole body trembling in fear. 

Dispassionately, Bastian pulled a dagger from his boot. Brent scooted toward the bookshelf on his palms, but Bastian yanked him back across the floor and pressed his knee into Brent’s chest. Brent felt the blood pressure build in his sinuses until he was sure his head would burst. Bastian didn’t appear to be a large man, but the force of his knee against his chest was crushing. The other hooded figures snickered their approval. Beth and Laura cried out as Bastian placed the knife to his neck.

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

Brent nodded, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Where are your daughters?”

Brent’s eyes trailed to the young woman held captive beside his wife. Bastian looked over at her vacantly.

“And the other?”

Brent said nothing. Bastian pressed the knife to his throbbing jugular. “Brent!”

“Her room. B-but please…” He 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 Brent’s. “Anything?”

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

“Under the bed, Mitchel.”

There was a long moment’s silence as Brent lay shaking, staring up into the cold, mismatched eyes of Bastian Lee. The silence abruptly peeled back with a young girl’s shriek followed by a deep, masculine howl.

“That fucking bitch! Fuck! Fuck!” Mitchel yelled.

“There she is,” Bastian said with a smirk. “A cornered animal.”

They heard bare feet slapping across the wooden floor, then the crunch of the window’s shattered glass being trampled underfoot. Then it was quiet, nothing but Mitchel’s whimpering and the wind. 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 and returned to the den moments later with the hulking Mitchel.

Large as he was, his acne-spattered skin revealed him to be a young man likely no older than nineteen. His face was bleeding, three distinct slashes across his left eye and cheek. 

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

Bastian’s stoic face dropped; a sudden melancholy took him. He sighed.

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

Brent looked up, a small bit of hope left in him that these monsters might leave him and his family alone.

At least Marie got away, part of him thought.

“How old are your daughters?” 

Brent 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. Now answer the question before I’m forced to ask again.”

“Seventeen and twenty,” Brent said.

“Fucking Christ. Dammit, Tom…” 

Bastian glared back at one of his own, standing nervously in the corner. Brent recognized the gaunt young man as the same teenager who briefly stayed with them only a week earlier. The boy tried to hide himself behind the rest of the pack while the others avoided Bastian’s fiery gaze.

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

In that instant, Brent felt the same twist in his gut, that keen instinct that lives quietly inside everyone. That dormant feeling of impending danger which one swallows down every day in attempts to appear sane or polite. He felt it surge through him as Bastian raised the knife overhead and plunged the blade into his skull. He lay twitching, convulsing, as Bastian pinned him down and delivered two more downward thrusts. Brent was no longer moving. The blood pooled across the den floor.

Beth and Laura screamed.

Ignoring their cries, Sonny stood awaiting her orders.

“What now?” She asked.

“Find the younger one. Follow her into the storm.” Bastian said, observing Mitchel’s bleeding face and admiring the claw marks on his cheek. “That one’s a fighter. She deserves a chance. We can give her that much.”

Sonny, with similar dispassion to Bastian, glanced at the two women crying by the doors to their bedrooms. 

“And the others?” She asked.

“Cull the weak,” he replied.

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

Beth and Laura Taylor, eyes alight with mortal terror, screamed as the knives were brought to their throats. Their cries were silenced in crimson. Brent Taylor’s blood seeped into 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 its lifeless maker until, at last, it fell to the floor. 

Brent Taylor’s world had come to an end.

3

Marie Taylor barely felt her feet beneath her as she dashed through the forest, barely felt her lungs burning in her chest. The wind swirled around her, great gusts pulling her to and fro, even knocking her to the ground as the rain pelted her nightgown. She felt nothing, not the pain in her feet from the shards of broken glass, nor the sting of the welts on her knees and elbows from each fall. Not even the cold chill or the lashing wind could penetrate the impassable numb that consumed her. And while she had no knowledge of it, she was screaming. The only reply was the crack and bellow of the spiteful sky twisting overhead. 

She sprinted as fast as she could, her home shrinking in the distance, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t moving fast enough. Something told her that she was being chased. She peered over her shoulder into the black of night. She didn’t see them, she couldn’t see anything, but she felt them. Bloodhounds on her trail. Battered and bruised as she was, they would be upon her soon. Turning back, her shoulder suddenly collided with something solid.

A tree.

She was sent reeling and collapsed in the dirt. In the moonlight, the shredded soles of her feet glistened with shards of glass through caked mud. Just as she regained her footing, she was tackled to the ground. 

Ropy, muscular arms wrapped around her. She squirmed and kicked as they pinned her lashing arms to her stomach and forced her into the dirt. Marie screamed, but there was no one left to help her.

“Let me go! Let me go!”

A feminine voice hissed in her ear, “Don’t move. There’s nowhere left to run.”

4

Morning arrived, revealing the damage to the house. The rooftop was a mess of loose shingles, leaves, twigs, and pine needles. The windows were shattered; the door hung on its hinges. A shadow darkened the front steps coming to a stop at the threshold of the farmhouse.

Clinton Meyers stood frozen on the front porch of the Taylors, staring blankly at the broken door and the dark, quiet atrium beyond. He wore a pair of blue jeans, hiking boots, and a white thermal, still damp from the storm that passed a few hours ago. His dirty blonde hair was short but messy, his physique broad and muscular. He had a scoped hunting rifle slung over one shoulder and an empty duffle bag over the other. Though fear and disgust twisted his stomach in knots, his face remained expressionless. 

With one final glance from right to left, Clint walked into the house. The sun clawed its way across the floor, only to be snuffed out by a thick darkness a few feet past the entryway. The heavy silence amplified the creaks from the floorboards as Clint stepped slowly through the room. Loose pine needles, leaves, and chipped wood scattered about the floor like a poorly sewn welcome mat. After a step or two he came to another abrupt halt. 

He said nothing as he looked down at the mess. The mess was Brent Taylor. 

Clint knelt down for a better look at the man. Brent’s eyes were left open. They stared, uncomprehending, up at the ceiling, a look of fear and surprise permanently etched onto his face. Clint unslung the rifle from his shoulder and stood up. His gaze spanned the dimly lit room. Off in the back left corner, he saw another figure slumped on the floor. He knew without seeing any detail that it was Beth. Her lower body lay across the threshold of the main room, her upper torso falling unseen into their bedroom. 

Room by room, rifle aimed out ahead of him, Clint pieced together the scene. The Taylor family had been slaughtered. At the sight of their eldest daughter, Laura, Clint swallowed back his pain. Part of him wanted to crumble against the doorframe of the bedroom and cry, but he didn’t. It would do little to weep for them now. He marched back to the center of the den. Bodies lay on every side of him. There was no sign of Marie, but the blood smearing the glass in her room didn’t bode well for her. A small part of him hoped she was dead—it was likely a better fate than whatever a savage group of marauders might want with a young, pretty girl. 

What was odd, however, was that nothing seemed to be gone. Scarcely anything was out of place. 

Something small, barely visible in the half-light, called to him from the floor. He knelt down and picked it up. It was a small wooden knight. One of Brent’s famed figurines, left unfinished. He turned toward Brent. 

“You were getting pretty good at this,” he whispered.

Clint pocketed the knight and looked once more around the room. Convinced that he was alone and that whoever did this had already left, he began to move about the house freely. 

The Taylors were dead. They had no more use for anything here, but Clint and his family did—especially if there was encroaching danger. Clint knew the others wouldn’t want to hear it, Sophie least of all. But they had very few options now. He would take what he could carry, whatever might be useful. He was filled with a terrible, tight anxiety as he raided the cupboards, bookshelf, and shed. It reminded him of how he felt when he was overseas, only worse. This was his land, the land where his family lived for the past nine years. There would be no backup, no aid, no date on the calendar when he got to go home. There was no home, not anymore. They would need to get moving, and Sophie would need to understand that.

He exited the farmhouse. No soft goodbyes to his old friends, just one sullen glance back at the newly haunted house. A deep sadness rose in his chest. Then, he swallowed it back down, adjusted the nearly bursting duffle bag on his shoulder, and prepped for the long hike home.