Speaker 1: I shot the buck just after dusk, beneath the stand
of ash trees mottled with rot. The sound of the
rifle cracked through the quiet in that empty stretch of forest,
and for a second everything stilled. Then the insects resumed.
It was in sport, It never was. The thing limped
when it moved back, Legs swollen at the knee, left antless,
split and jagged at the base, eyes already clouding. From
fifty feet away, I could smell the sickness. I've worked
enough control jobs to know the signs of chronic wasting
disease see w D for short. Before the field tests
confirmed it. Wasting is slow. It hollows them out from
the inside, leaves them standing in creeks with their mouths open,
drinking nothing. The state's mandate was clear. Any deer with
visible symptoms was to be put down and reported. I
approached with gloves on, took the usual post mortem photos,
and recorded the GPS coordinates marked the tag number AH
DASH seven seven sixty nine, clipped beneath the skin fold
near the right shoulder, standing insert deep enough that scavengers
wouldn't reach it easily. The retrieval team was scheduled to
arrive by morning to haul the body in for testing
and disposal. I stayed long enough to watch the flies settle.
Then I hiked back through the thinning trees and drove
to the ranger's lot, where I kept my temporary log book.
Entry made time, recorded, another task finished. The next morning,
I got a call. Nothing there, the guy said, through
the crackling line. Some bone scatattered, no hide, no carcass.
I told him. I bagged it clean, tagged it myself,
gave the coordinates again. Most have been coyotes or a bear.
You know how quick they are this time of year.
I also knew what was normal and what wasn't. Predators
don't clean up after themselves. There was no fur left,
no drag marks, no prints in the soil around the site.
They logged it as unrecovered. Told me not to worry.
These things happen. Still, I wrote a secondary entry in
my personal field notes, separate from the agency forms mail
estimate five years left ant LA fracture swollen rear joined
tracking tag ardas seven seven sixty nine confirmed, no retrieval,
carcass missing. It wasn't the first time something went off
script out here, but this one wouldn't leave me. Something
about the way it looked just before I pulled the trigger.
Not startled, not wide eyed, just still. Later that evening,
while transferring photos for filing, I noticed the last one
in the series, a frame taken just before I shouldered
the rifle. The bugs standing there, angled toward me, head tilted.
It almost looked like it was waiting. I wasn't even
thinking about it when it showed up again. It was
nearly midnight when I sat down with a trail camp footage.
We rotate through drives every few days, set up motion
triggered camps across the perimeter to catch anything sick or
staggering through the zone after hours. The forrest goes dead
quiet at night, but that's when the worst ones move.
The late stay each wonderers the ones the diseases already
hollowed out. That was my part of the job. Tracked
sig deer and called the population to reduce the spread.
We had an on site lap working on possible treatments
at the same time. I clicked through without much focus,
just background noise. While I compiled sample logs. One camera
had flagged motion across the ravine three nights prior. The
footage was grainy, black and white, timestamped just after one
a m. A deer across from right to left, angling
downhill through a dried creek bed limber but slow. I
paused on the third frame. Something about the shape caught me.
I zoomed in, rear legs slightly raised, the joint bulged
front left antler crooked backward at the base, not broken off,
but walked like the cor had splint. I already knew
what I was looking at before the shape got closer
to the camera. There was a faint glint behind the shoulder.
One of our tracking tags, iridescent under infrared, positioned exactly
where I had inserted our dash seven seven sixty nine.
It was the same book the one I shot, no mistake,
same wound, the same tag, same stance. I leaned forward,
rewound and let it play again. But this time I
noticed something else. The gate was wrung. The rear leg
didn't drag in the twitchy spasmodic way late stage CWD
sofferers usually moved. It swung smooth, unbroken, too clean. There
was no tension in the neck either. The head stayed
level even as it walked uneven terrain, as if something
else was moving the limbs, but not from within. No bobbing,
no tension through the spine. It was as if the
body was being pulled forward in segments, carried, not powered.
I went cold. I checked the GPS location embedded in
the file. It was within a quarter mile of the
same stand of ash where I'd shot it days ago.
It has the same elevation and the same forest density.
I crossed reference the tree formations behind the figure, thin
lines of leafless branches, a birch with a split trunk,
and matched them to my phone photos from the calling sight.
Too close, too precise. There's a coincidence, and then there's this,
which meant either the shot had missed somehow or something
else was walking around with a dear skin. I didn't
sleep much that night. I lay in my cot with
my laptop screen still open, paused on the frame of
that buck, standing still in the ravine, head, low limbs,
straight eyes, barely catching the light. It was facing the camera.
The footage kept coming. Each morning, brought a new flagged clip.
Each time, the same buck, same shattered antler, and the
same crooked back leg, always alone, always after midnight, always
brushing at the edge of the camera's infrared beam, as
if it knew just how much it could show without
being caught full on. At first I thought I was
looking for patterns out of paranoia, but by the third
night I started marking the appearances on a field map.
The dots were scattered at first, too scattered to mean much,
But on the fifth entry I saw it. It was
moving in a slow arc, not a wondering loop, not
lost or disoriented pattern. There was structure to it. The
deer was following a wide perimeter path around the zone.
Not random, not frantic, steady, predictable, as if it were
circling something or someone. I checked the camera's placement again,
laid out the route, and drew the circle. It wasn't perfect,
but it was closing. In the last three appearances had
all been a little tighter. I followed the progression and
placed a pushpin at the rough center. It was us
the base camp trailer, which meant either this thing was
tracking me or retracing the path of its own death,
maybe both. I packed a small kit and headed out
at first light, telling the team I was following a
trail report that was an unusual I'd done solo follow
ups before, and no one questioned it. I hiked about
forty minutes to reach the spot where i'd put the
buck down. The ash trees were still there, same slope,
same wingcarved patch of dead earth with the undergrowth had
never fully returned after the fires a few years back.
But there was no blood, no drag marks, not even
a disturbed pile of leaves. What I found instead was
a shallow depression in the dirt, ringed with brush and sticks.
Not a scrape, not a bedding spot. Something had arranged
the space intentionally. In the center a crude pile of
gathered debris, small bones, some snapped bird feathers, the twisted
remains of something that looked like a jaw. It was
almost organized. It had a rough symmetry, though not in
a way a deer should be capable of. They don't build,
they don't nest, they don't collect, which meant it was
acting on instinct. Something in it, whatever was walking that
body was aware, deliberate, maybe even learning. I took photos,
sent them to my field laptop, and marked the area
for follow up. But I didn't send the images to
the department, not yet. I wasn't ready to explain why
I was chasing a deer that should have been rotting
under six inches of dirt. When I packed up and
turned to leave, I swore I heard something shift behind
the tree line. Not the crash of a startled animal,
just the slow, deliberate shift of weight, as if something
waited until I looked away. I didn't turn around. I
walked back to camp with the sense that whatever this
thing was, it had built something, and it was only
the beginning. It was nearly three a m. When something
hit the cabin wall. Not a scratch or scrape, a thud,
heavy and direct. No follow up, no scurry of retreating hoofs,
just one single deliberate impact. The sound jolted me upright.
I stayed frozen for a moment, ear straining. Then another
noise came, much softer, this time a slight creak of
the pine frame settling or something leaning into it. I
grabbed the laptop and flipped through the most recent footage.
The cabin camp facing the entry showed nothing, just the
unmoving trail of crusted grass and the steel bare box.
I clicked over to the rear feed, one I'd set
up mostly to monitor raccoon activity. That's where I saw it.
Not close up, not detailed, but enough. The deer stood
just within the infrared glow, upright, not on all fours, standing.
Its rear legs were locked to the joints, thin but rigid.
The rest of the body sacked forward, front, limbs dangling
like dead weight. Its chest was bowed, the rib cage compressed.
The head hung far too forward before slowly lifting. Stiff
and unsure. It took one step forward, then another. Every
movement was strained, trembling with the effort to balance. It
moved like a puppet strung by hands that had never
seen a living thing. But it kept its head upright.
Even in the poor resolution, I could see it tracking
the lens. Its face had changed. The snout was partly
caved in, no longer a clean line of bone and fur.
Skin slumped over one side, sagging down past the jaw.
It looked heavier than before, swollen or softened. No glint
of eyes, just the hollows where they used to sit.
It didn't graze, didn't sniff, just stood there watching. This
wasn't a scavenger wearing a carcass. It was an instinct.
It was tracking something me. I closed the laptop and
went to the filing crate under the bunk. I dug
out the original kill log, the handwritten one, but not
the digital report I filed later. It had blood on
the corner from the tagging knife, but everything else was clean. Coordinates, time,
tag code, a quick field sketch, and then I saw
it scrawled in the side margin, a faint pencil, nearly
scrubbed away burn after disposal. I hadn't noticed it. The
retrieval crew had never shown there was an instruction left
by the lad team. I had missed, which meant whatever
that thing was, whatever was walking around in the hollowed
out body of that deer, I had left it there.
I had given it time. I grabbed the heavy lock
from the gear chest and bolted the front door, pushed
the chair under the handle out of some new tiless instinct.
He wouldn't stop anything with real weight behind it, but
it made me feel like I was doing something outside.
The wind had dropped, no forest movement, no insects ticking
against the window glass. It felt like the woods had
emptied out, like the normal rules of wilderness had paused.
I didn't sleep. I sat in the corner with the
camera feed open, staring at the second angle, waiting for
it to return. But it never did. Morning light led
through the close curtains. The print out still sat on
the counter, half crumpled burn after disposal. I hadn't shown
it to anyone, who would I tell. I just kept
refreshing the trail camp and waiting for another ping. Nothing yet.
My head was starting to hurt, probably from the stress.
My sinnesses felt swollen and pressure was mounting. Still, I
needed to see it again, not through a screen. I
needed something to confirm it was just the deer, some
rational explanation, something my brain could pin down. I hiked
back to the clearing in the late afternoon with the
same gear and the same boots. The air felt heavier
out there, still but watchful. I stepped carefully, scanning the
brush around the old kill site. No body, of course,
that was gone the first time, but something else had
been left behind. Near a thicket, I found a patch
of fur snagged along a thorn bush, dark coarse, unmistakable.
A few feet beyond that, I spotted a smear of
something dark on the flat side of a spilled rock.
Looked dry and waxy, not rot exactly, almost preserved I
pulled the sample with tweezers, wrapped it in foil, and
packed it for the walk. Back in my cabin, I
set up my old field scope. It was an high end,
barely better than a biology student's training model, but it
could still read enough at low magnification. I sliced the
sliver from the waxy tissue and placed it on a
slide with a sailine drop. The second I looked through
the lens, I felt the back of my neck go cold.
There were seams, not cuts, not scars, seam lines, tiny
symmetrical striations crossing in a grid pattern just below the surface.
The cells weren't dried out either. They were alive. More
than alive, they were organized, pulsing faintly. Something was knitting
them together, as if the tissue had been rebuilt rather
than preserved, which meant it hadn't died the way I thought,
or if it had, it hadn't stayed that way. No
dear tissue behaves like that, especially not after sitting exposed
to weather or scavengers for days. It should have been
dust by now. I set up a quick test with
what I had, some ammonia base cleaner and a few
protein indicators crude, sure, but good enough for basic reactivity.
I placed another tissue sliver in a shallow dish, added
the cleaning agent, and watched. The reaction was instant, violent bubbling,
a hiss of vapor, and a reek like scorched air
and formaldehyde. The tissue turn black, curling in on itself
like it had nerves. The smell was chemical, but sharp
enough to sting behind my eyes. I rinsed the dish
and flushed the sample. My hands were shaking, but I
couldn't stop thinking. I couldn't stop asking myself what regenerative
mechanism could survive that reaction? What kind of biology could
fake life that cleanly? I searched for anything similar, fungal colonies,
synthetic graphs, parasitic worms that repurpose host tissue, but nothing matched.
By nightfall, I was just staring at the wall, mind blank.
The camera feed pinged. I tapped on the app the
clearing cam had triggered. There it was again. The deer
stood at the tree line, just standing. But something was different.
This time. I had to squint to see it, but
I couldn't unsee it. Once I noticed it. The left
foreleg was gone, not chewed or torn, just missing. The
skin along the shoulder was smooth, pale under the moonlight,
stretched tight like clay. But the thing didn't limp. It
stood evenly, shifting its weight like the limb had never
been there at all. I assumed. In further, as much as
the grainy frame would allow, the deer turned toward the camera.
I froze. The neck didn't turn smoothly. It cracked sideways,
fast and unnatural, the rest of the body remaining still
a snap in the joint or somewhere deeper. But it
didn't recoil, didn't blink. It just stared directly at the lens,
and for a moment I had the horrible impression it
saw me, not the camera me. Then it walked off screen,
not limping, not struggling, just walking purposefully. I shut the
app and sat there until sunrise. No new alerts came
in that night. I stopped sleeping for more than an
hour at a time. The headaches were worse, now, full
pressure behind the eyes, like something swelling beneath my skull.
My nose wouldn't stop bleeding that morning. It was just
a thin trickle that ran whenever I tilted forward. I
couldn't hold food, couldn't hold a thought. I told work
I was sick. I didn't go in. I didn't tell
them why. I just wanted to be alone to figure
it out, to run the test again. I kept telling
myself this was chronic wasting disease. I had studied it,
after all, that's why we were here. But this didn't
match the spread pattern, no drooping ears, no emaciation, and
the regeneration didn't make sense. The movement, the fact that
it stood. I pulled up the trail camarchive, a new
ping two nights ago, camera twelve, the farthest one facing
the southern edge where the old logging road ends. At
first I thought it was a poacher, human shape movement,
slow head tilted too far down, but the figure was shirtless,
stumbling with hands twitching at his side, knee stiff. Then
he turned slightly toward the lens and I froze. I
recognized him, not the face, the posture, the build, the
way one shoulder hunts slightly from an old break. It
was Nathan, one of the seasonal hires who helped with
retrieval and sight clean up. He hadn't shown up the
base in over a week. New angle camera thirteen, same
clearing thirty seconds long. The deer came through first from
the left, limping, dragging one hind leg. Then it stopped,
just stood there. Seconds later, the man entered from the
opposite side, crawling hands and feet in the dirt. He
stopped a few feet from the deer. Neither reacted. There
was no fear, no sound. They simply coexisted, standing and
swaying in the same poisoned wind. That was the last clip.
No new alerts came after that. I closed the app.
I sat there for hours, waiting for another pin. The
room was still, but I couldn't hear birds anymore, no
buzz of summer insects outside the cabin. Even the trees
looked off. The underbrush is too low, too quiet. I
checked my nose, another streak of blood on the back
of my hand. I hadn't even felt it. I felt woozy,
so I lay down and passed out. The final trout
cam clip was still frozen on screen. When I woke
I shut the laptop. My nose had started bleeding again,
slow and steady. Using a warm smear down past my
upper lip, I wiped it with a sleeve of my hoodie,
staring at the wall for a moment as my breath
came in shallow polls. The air felt too heavy, or
maybe my lungs were slowing down. I tried calling Nathan,
the assistant I thought I had seen in the footage.
A call rang twice, then cut the voicemail. The backup
tablets still had access to the DNR field office network.
I logged in and pulled the remote track of logs.
No check ins for thirty six hours, not from the
monitoring team, field counters or even the auto flagged deer cams.
Nothing hyping the emergency contacts. All three admin names came
up offline. In the bathroom mirror, I didn't look right.
The skin under my eyes was drawn and waxy. My
face pale in a way that life couldn't explain. A
red burst had crept into the white of my left eye.
Capillaries bloomed outward like roots. When I pressed a knuckle
to my cheekbone, the pressure dulled slowly, without edge. I
didn't need a blood panel to confirm it. Whatever was
in the deer, whatever it kept it moving, was in
me now too, And if I was infected, it meant
I was on a timer. I didn't bother calling the
office again. I didn't report symptoms. There wasn't anyone left
to explain it to. If I waited for help, I'd
be a walking corpse before anyone arrived. I packed fast
cold packs, the preserved sample trail notes, ammonia strips, and
field accelerants, every drive that had footage, a USB with
basic microscope imaging software, enough canned food to last a
few days if I needed them. The wind outside had
gone still. The cabin didn't creak. No birds called, no insects,
just the low hum of trees remembering their weight. The
main lab was seventy miles north d n R, affiliated
but independent. It had a backup generator, cold storage, and
a sterilization hood. If I could get there before my
symptoms worsened, maybe I could finish what I started, trace
the spread, burn out whatever I had learned to wear skin.
I locked the cabin door behind me one last glance
at the tree line. Nothing moved, but the silence felt aware.
I got in the truck, started the engine and drove
without checking the rear view. If I didn't make it
in time, no one would. I reached the lamb just
past dusk. The trees pressed in tight along the road,
branches clawing at the truck as I rolled up the
gravel path. No signs of field biologists or late shifts,
just the wind and the low hum of the backup generator,
struggling to keep rhythm. The front doors were unlocked. Inside,
the overhead fluorescence flickered behind stained plastic covers. A couple
bulbs buzzed in their sockets, casting long, uneven shadows across
the tiled floor. The air smelled faintly of bleach and
something else, something deeper, damp, iron, sweet. No voices greeted me,
No motion, just the slow, steady beap of a security
door stuck half a jar. In the back hallway, the
reception desk was abandoned, a mug of coffee. They still
steamed faintly. The room stained with a half finished sip.
A pair of reading glasses sat beside it, folded neatly,
as if someone meant to return. They hadn't. I moved
deeper into the facility. The surveillance room was unlocked, which
wasn't protocol. The wall of monitors stuttered with looping footage
from around the building. Front gate, access hall generator room
exterior trails. One feed caught my attention. A shape crouched
in the tree line behind the lab, not human, broad shouldered, hunched, unmoving.
Another monitor showed a figure walking shirtless down a staff hallway,
bare feet, pale skin. He was dragging something behind him,
a metal pole clattering against the tile. There wasn't a
patient wing in this building, no beds, no IV stands,
but I knew what I saw. I killed the feeds,
no need to watch more than I had to. The
freezer lab was worse. The door stood open a few inches,
cold air spilling out inside. The stainless steel racks were
half empty. Tray overturned vials cracked across the floor in
a fine glitter of broken glass and thawed residue. The
walls glistened with condensation. Fingerprints smeared into the frost. I
found a catalog of samples similar to the ones I
collected myself. Had they been working on this the whole time?
If so, to what end? I checked the surrounding shells
for any signs of tampering. One broken violet spilled down
the side of the unit. The trails stopped at the floor,
but didn't pull instead it split streaks, drawn outward by
something moving low and slow. That's when I saw the prince,
not boot treads, hoof prints, but not natural ones. Each
was split, yes, but too long, too narrow. The pressure
pattern was wrung, centered toward the toe, as if whatever
made them had been balancing, creeping. They led away from
the freezer, across the lab floor, right to the wall.
Vent I stepped closer, the cover was off, bent to
the corners. Inside the docked was streaked dark. A few
long strands of fur clung to the inner rim, not
dear fur, something coarser, almost wirelike something had already been
here before me, or someone had led it in. I
stood a moment listening somewhere in the back wing. Something
metal scraped across tile, then nothing. I closed the freezer
and sealed the remaining samples in my personal cold case.
My hands were shaking as I locked the lab door
behind me, and now I wasn't sure who or what
had ever been running this place. By morning, my hands
were shaking. It started small, just the fingers, but I
couldn't get a cap off a vial without fumbling. My
vision kept slipping out of focus, not constantly, just in
rhythmic flickers in the mirror above the lab sink. I
watched my pupils expand and shrink, back and forth, like
they couldn't decide whether they were supposed to do. My
gums had started to wake. I tore a sheet from
the back of an abandoned chart and pinned it to
my jacket. If I loose speech, burn the body, do
not touch the skin. Then I made for the biology wing.
Only the emergency lights were working in this part of
the lab, casting dim, jittering gold across the tiles. The
carts were overturned, papers had been scattered, trampled, or soaked
through from a broken pipe in the ceiling. Breath fogged
in the air. It was cold. I pulled the log
book from the wreckage of a desk. Most of the
pages were useless notes about wildlife counts, nutrition breakdowns, half
finished hypotheses. I flipped to the back. There, wedged between
two damp pages was a loose sheet of paper with
sharp handwriting. Secondary hosts showed accelerated symptoms after exposure to
decomposing infected tissue, delayed infection, corald with chemical disruption, ammonia
and alcohol treatments. I stopped. My symptoms started after handling
the sample, but I had stumbled and using ammonia while
doing rudimentary tests. Whatever concoction I had accidentally breathed in
hadn't cured me, but I delayed what had happened to
the seasonal higher I saw skulking with the deer. It
bought me time a buffer. The others they worked under
protocol sterile precise direct exposure. I followed the note and
slipped it into my jacket. There wasn't a cure, but
at least I now understood why I was still walking,
and this inspired my makeshift idea. I found one last
working autoclave near the end of the wing. It rumbled
to life when I keyed in the over. I scraped
together everything I could, what remained of the preserved tissue,
anything I touched, old gloves, even the container, and loaded
it all into the chamber. The inside was coated with
black residue, not mold, something else. Maybe someone had already
tried this. I set the burn, locked the hatch, and
stepped away before the heating cycle could even start. My
legs were slower now, not numb, just heavy. Every step
felt delayed, like the signals were moving through sludge. I
touched the glass in the hallway. I couldn't feel it.
I couldn't feel the chill against my fingers. I left
through the back. The woods were still gray, The clouds
hung low over the canopy, and somewhere behind me pissed
with steam. I didn't know if the sterilization would do anything,
didn't know if it was too late. But I had
one more thing to do. I packed everything I needed
and worked on the move, not a cure, just a
final step, and started walking where it all began. I
didn't follow the trail cameroots this time. The clearing where
I shut the box with a carcasse vanished where I
should have burned it. I carried everything with me, my pack,
an improvised cocktail cleaning ammonia and accelerants. I cobbled together
materials for a makeshift device, powdered rust scraped from the
back of hinges of old equipment, and aluminium shavings pulled
from trail signs. It wasn't a perfect There might mix,
but it would ignite enough to burn tissue, enough to
destroy whatever was rewriting it. The walk was longer than
I remembered, or maybe I was slower. My joints ate,
my fingers tingled. The fever behind my eyes pulsed in waves,
clouding the corners of my vision. But I was still
thinking clearly. I could still make decisions. That meant I
still had time. I used this time to make improvised devices,
crude but functional. The trees changed before the path did.
At first I thought it was just fog settling through
the branches, but the bark had a sheen, not wet waxed.
A fine spread of pale threads ran between the trunks,
and when I brushed past one, it stuck to my jacket.
I reached the clearing, it wasn't a nest anymore. It
had blown, and the glade was a full sprawl of
organic spires, sinew and fungal bloom. Long venous threads ran
between trees and into the undergrowth. The dirt looked bruised.
There were thick nodules the size of fists half buried
in the soil, throbbing fungal stalks that had grown into warped,
ribbed structures, almost like cages. But I couldn't tell if
they were meant to keep something in or out. The
smell was worse than any rot i'd encountered, a mix
of iron fermentation and something vaguely sweet, like ripe fruit
gun sour. The wildlife was gone, no birds, no insects.
But around the perimeter the ground was littered with corpses, rodents,
a raccoon, something small and canine, maybe a fox. Some
of them were twitching, breathing, spasming, as if their bodies
hadn't caught up with the fact that they were already dead.
One of them, a rabbit, jerked its head upright, jaw
twitching open. A sound came out, not a breath, a click,
maybe an attempted speech. I didn't stay close enough to listen.
This was what it had been doing, not hunting, cultivating.
It was rewriting the instructions that told muslin bone how
to be. In the center of the glade was a
mound flesh, hair, antler, segments of deer skull fused with
what looked like vertebrae, human ribs, tangled legs, some still
clothed in remnants of field pants. A name patch peeked out,
half fused into the tissue. I didn't go closer to
read it. I already knew. I dropped to my knees,
opened my pack, began assembling the ammonia. The heat was
rising in me, now internal pressing. I was sweating hard.
My tongue was thick in my mouth. The ammonia stung
my nose, but I needed it. I poured carefully, trying
to keep my hands steady. Just a few minutes, just
one successful ignition. I heard the footsteps before I saw them,
not hoofs, not claws, feet. I turned slowly. A fir
might charge. Half assembled in my lap. Three figures stepped
out from behind the edge of the nest. People, or
what it used to be my field team. Harris from
my old labrotation, Jenna, the intern who logged samples, and
one of the rangers I used to check in with
on morning rounds. Their skin looked spongy, water logged, and
blotched with gray patches that pulse beneath the surface. Their
veins ran black and branched across their arms and neck.
All three of them stared at me through clouded white eyes.
Lips parted in slow, shallow breaths that didn't sound like
breathing at all. They weren't charging. They didn't groan or howl.
They just stepped forward, their arms stiff, their heads tilting,
and their mouths slack, like they were still trying to
remember how movement worked to them. I just looked like
another infected returning to the hive. I took a shaky breath,
raised a hand without meaning to. I'm sorry, I said.
For a second, something flickered behind Harris's eyes, a twitch
in the cheek. His jaw shifted. I saw his lips
try to form a word, but all that came out
was a wet rasp, her throat too soft to carry sound.
There was still sympathy, a glimmer of humanity that was
rapidly fading. Then came the deer. They had no such feelings.
They emerged slowly, deliberately and confident from the trees behind
the team. The upright one leaned forward with a step,
spine trembling with effort, but its limbs moved cleanly. Now
behind it crawled another shoulder twisted, dragging its weight along
the patch of exposed roots. The last one moved worst
of all. It dragged a fuse limb that wasn't fully deer,
part bone, part human muscle, strung together with the wrong tension.
They made no noise. Their heads cocked with a mechanical curiosity.
All eyes locked on me, and they saw what I
was doing. Ahlf puffed out from their nostrils as they
ready to charge hoofs bracing to sprint. My hands shook
as I reached for the striker. The first scrape gave nothing,
The second sparked on a third it caught. I lit
the smallest flask of ammonia and hurled it at the
edge of the nest. It hissed on contact. The fungal
web sizzled, the black, veiny threads pulling back from the
chemical burn like they were alive. That did it. The
reanimated abominations stumbled forward, not toward me, but toward the
patch I'd hit. Twitching, compelled, pain, instinct rage, I couldn't tell,
but it told me something important. They had a choice.
They didn't lunge at me, not yet. They went for
the fire. I didn't give them time to rethink it.
I lit the thermite and hurled it toward the center
of the nest. The flash was instant and vicious. A
column of heat tore through the fungal bed, charring it
in a heartbeat. A few deer were caught in the process.
The smell made my vision swim something between spoiled meat
and plastic insulation. Instinct kicked in, and my old crew
sprang into action, rushing to save their colony. The mound
in the center shrieked, not with sound, but with pressure.
A thick static umb filled the air. My eyes pulsed,
my ears rang. Harris screamed, not a human sound, just
a rupture of voice. He collapsed midstep. Jenna followed, limbs
still jerking on the ground like fish on a dark
The upright deear tried to flee, but collapsed as soon
as their connection severed. I lit the final charge, the
biggest one, and rolled it into the heart of the nest.
It ignited on contact. The second explosion was worse than
the first. Trees caught, flames raised up the stalks. The
sinew network snapped and curled in on itself. A line
of fungus tried to retreat down the roots, but the
fire chased it. But most importantly, all the bodies caught flame,
destroying any remnants of this horror. I stumbled back, coughing
into my sleeve. My vision smeared. One eye darkened, hi white,
did it, but my hand came back red blood. The
glade thrashed like a body in seizure. Then it went still.
I stood there until the flames reached the ridge, until
the entire bloom turned black and brittle, until the heat
burned the smell away. Only then did I turn and walk, burned, sick,
bleeding from both eyes, but lighter than I'd felt in weeks,
because I'd done something real, because I'd ended it, or
at least made sure it wouldn't spread any farther. And
if I was wrong, if something crawled out later, I
wouldn't be here to see it. I sat slumped in
the truck, throat raw, eyes blurred, my fingers barely were.
They kept slipping on the recorder's button before I finally
managed to press it down. Sample sterilized, the sauce, nest burned.
Secondary host transmission confirmed my voice didn't sound like mine
any more. I waited for a long moment, letting the
silence settle, before speaking again. My name is Elias ward Field.
I D seven two six o one dashbe contracted wild
life biologist, stayed assigned. I acted alone. I have destroyed
all known infated samples. The growth site has been neutralized.
There are no survivors. I paused, listened, nothing but the
low wind through the ridge. No movement in the trees,
no footsteps in the brush. If anyone finds this log,
do not come looking for survivors. There is nothing left
worth recovering. I clicked the recorder off and let it
drop into my lap. My head rested against the window.
The cold glass felt steady, almost grounding. The woods outside
were still choped in ash and fog. I took the
cassette and sealed it in a weather proof specimen case,
marked it clearly, left it outside near the truck, but
not too close. If any one did find this place,
they'd find the truth first. Then I sat back inside
and looked at the keys of my palm. I lied
I hadn't destroyed all traces. There was still one left me,
but that we'd be dealt with shortly. The fermite was rigged,
crude but functional, set beneath the seat, tied to the ignition.
I checked the fuse three times earlier before my vision went.
When the key turned, the reaction would start heat metal flame,
nothing left to spread. I took a final breath, no
last words, no dramatic farewell. I just turned the key.
I'd been after that damn thrush for a week. I
saw it once, skimming alone near the canal. It was
a nervous thing, with a chest like it had been
sprinkled with pepper. It was nothing flashy, but that glimpse
left me wanting more. I think it was the fact
it wasn't meant to be here. It was definitely, of course,
it probably caught the wrong gossip and where south and
ended up where it shouldn't have. I hadn't seen one
in this area before, not in all the years I've
been coming out here bird watching, so I kept coming
back every morning. I put boots on before the town
woke up, shoved my scope in my bag as well
as some snacks and a thermas of tea, and followed
the same muddy tracks through the trees. There's a battered
old notice board nailed up near the canal shelter, faded
from years of sun and frost. I never meant to
make a happit of checking it, but lately I couldn't
help myself. It used to be the usual mess of
dog walker ads, but now it was littered with missing
persons posters. I often glanced at it on the way in,
But on Monday I spotted Gareth with his uniform jacket
half buttoned up and radio clipped to his shoulder, leaning
over it with a staple gun. All right, yourd sword,
Gareth said, glancing sideways without turning fully around. Morning to
you too, I said, grinning. He snorted back again, you
trying to court that bird or marry it? If it
starts letting back, I won'll let you know. I stepped
up beside him. Who've we got to day? He tapped
the edge of the top sheet. It was a woman
in the mid twenties. The print out looked like it
had been taken off Facebook. Below her was a boy
about eight or nine. From the lock of him. Both
this week, Gareth said, it's been building real slow. One here,
one there. Woman and little heads always looked similar, but
they never related. Were meant to keep it on the hushburn.
Come on, it feels like someone's picking them out on purpose,
he rubbed to the back of his neck. Problem is
the sodd ale to go off on? I didn't know
what to say to that. Instead I gave a quiet
hum and watched him press the paper flat with a
side of his hand. I see you've got a busy morning.
A few more these the stick up around town, then
back to the station to pretend I know what I'm
doing for hours. Maybe sneak a cuppa if the phone
stops ringing long enough, living the dream, I said, Gareth
hoffed and laughed through his nose and stepped back. He
squinted at the board, making sure it all lined up,
then gave me a serious look. If you see anything
strange out there, you let me know, just me, but
you already knew I was a bit off. He gave
a dry laugh, then moved on and watched them go,
then turn back to the trees. The woods out here
go on longer than most people reckon. From the main trail.
It all looks neat and groomed wear, the couple of
picnic benches and the odd wooden sign pointing out butterflies
or fungus. But you only have to take a few
steps off the path and it all folds in on itself.
It all becomes a slow, thick mess of hawthorn, older
and nettles. You can't avoid. Where I'd seen the thrust
last was off to the left, well past the cut
of the canal and into the sort of tangle that'd
make most people turn around. But I'd grown up out
here when I was little. These woods were my patch,
way before mobile phones and the estate got bigger. I
used to spend hours getting lost on purpose. Me and
a couple of mates built a half rotten den out
there once, proper deep where the brambles got thick. We
nicked a couple of planks from a skip and a
bit of tarp we weren't meant to have back there.
It felt like a bloody fortress. I don't go in
as far these days, but that thrush wasn't going to
hang about on the edge trail, not after a week
of me stomping through. If I wanted another lock, I'd
have to push deeper. It was just past noon when
I took myself lower between a couple of twisted hazels
and a rotted out log that must have been down
for years. Bracken came up to my knees in spot
and nasty invasive plant that looked like it was slowly
infecting the entire woodland. Then I heard a clink like
metal on metal. It wasn't loud, but it cut clean
through the trees, and I started to ponder what it
could be. Maybe someone flipped out here though here'd it
take some effort, though I wouldn't put it past a
few of the scruffs that lived near my end of town.
Either way, you don't usually hear that sort of thing
that deep in. I stayed crouched and listened. It kept coming, clink, clink,
sometimes on its own, sometimes in twos or three. Each
one seemed to come from a different spot, first to
my right, then behind me, then dead ahead. It gave
me a jolt, scared me enough to stiffen me up
a bit. I stayed where I was, listening hard. Then
it came again, clink. I slowly lifted myself just enough
to see over the log. It took me a second
to find it, but there, perched on a low stump,
was a missile thrush. I watched as it tilted its
head and open its beak to make that same metal clink,
perfect and crisp. It threw me a bit. Sure missile
thrushes will copy the odd sound, but they're not known
for it like some others. And even if they were
why that noise out here in the thick of the woods.
There's nothing metal for miles. We must have learned it nearby,
heard it enough to copy it back. Like that, It
shifted once more, then took off his wings caught the
lights as it darted between branches, and dipped through a
narrow line of alder. I followed carefully. The ground here
was knotted with roots and soft underfoot, spongy in some
places where the moss was thickest. I kept low, stepping
where the ferns bent, smoothly, moving around the trees, Brambles
caught to my jacket. Occasionally I'd lose sight of the thing,
but hear it again, clink, clink, always just ahead. I
couldn't help but admire it, even with everything else going on.
It moved with that sharp, nervous grace missile thrushes have.
The patterning across its chest looked darker in the shade,
almost oily, and its eyes flickered back at me now
and then, like it knew I was behind it. I'd
watched the birds my whole life, but something about this
one held me. If he had left again then dropped
out of sight, I pressed forward pushing through a wall
of damp brush, and there it was, sat atop a
rusted metal roof, wings tucked in, head turning slowly. The
building looked more like an old shed. It was narrow,
sunken slightly into the slope, edges softened with age and dirt.
Tarps had been thrown over the top and weighed down
with camou netting, but they started to rot and curl back.
The thing looked forgotten, as if it hadn't seen proper
use in years. The door at the front was heavy duty,
bolted shut. A padlock hung from the frame. Rust crossed
deep into the mechanism. Then I heard it again, clink,
but the bird didn't move. It stayed still on the roof,
feathers flat, eyes fixed somewhere behind me. The sound hadn't
come from it this time. Clink, clink, clink, this time
more sporadic. I hedged closer, careful not to snap any
branches under foot. A smell, something like bleach hung in
the air. The noise persisted. I circled around to the side.
When one of the lower panels had walked out of
the frame, a gap maybe a foot wide. I dropped
to my knees, rushed the bracken aside and pushed myself through. Inside.
It was hotter than I expected. It felt wrong straight away.
The air hit the back of my throat in a
way that made me want to spit, And there wasn't
much light, so I pulled out my emergency torch. The
floor was concrete and sloped slightly. At the far end
was six cages, welded straight into the ground proper thick steel.
Each one had been lived in, no question about it.
Blankets pressed flat from use, bits of paper, and string,
trays with hairs in them, kid's clothes. One had a
muslin cloth baby sized. Another had what looked like make up,
just the stub of a lipstick and a broken comb.
None of it matched, None of it made sense. The
last cage had a little boy in it. He couldn't
have been more than seven. He was curled up in
the far corner under a blanket, blinking slow, like he'd
just woken up. His face was gone but clean. He
looked looked after in the way a pet might be.
No marks I could see. Then I notices the strip
of faded cloth pulled tight around the back of his
head and knotted hard enough to leave a mark a gag.
Once he got a good look at me, he started
moving quick and panicked, trying to talk through the gag,
pointing to the lock, then to the floor. The cage
was bolted shut. I rattled it gently, but he didn't budge.
I'm gonna get you out, all right, I said, trying
to keep my voice steady. Just hang on. I got
up and started checking the room. There was a grimy
and dented surgical table in the corner with one leg
braced on bricks. On it was a scalpel, a boning knife,
thin and stained tweezers, blackenedder the tips, and a jar
of cloudy liquid that looked like it was meant to
clean them, though it hadn't been touched in a while.
Most of the metal had what appeared to be dried
blood crusted in the grooves. Seeing the tools turn my
stomach a bit. I kept looking at them, trying to
convince myself they were just old junk and that the
blood was rust. But I couldn't not. With a boy
behind me, I stepped over a length of pipe and
crossed to the far wall. The freezer chess was low
to the ground and held shut with a thick rubber strap.
A mess of jumper cables fed out the back, still
hugged into the terminals of a car battery. It buzzed
faintly when I touched the lid inside, but plastic tubs
stacked tight about half a freezer full, and each was labeled.
The top one read Shannon scalp, Benjamin lower, left arm,
Shannon teeth. Even through the frost, I could tell they
were real. I slammed the freezer shot and held the
lid down for a few moments. Then I pulled out
my phone and started snapping. Flash lit up the space
as I took pictures of the freezer, tools and cages.
I felt clumsy doing it, my hands slick with sweat,
but it had to be done. I'd make sure to
delete them later. I opened maps, dropped a pin where
I stood, and fired it straight off to the Gareth
found something in the woods bad sent my location. Get
here quick and don't come alone. I turned looking for
the key and spotted two Mannikins tucked into the shadows
near the back wall, one adult sized, one child. Pinned
above them on the wall were diagrams polaroids of the
same woman and little boy scrap paper with rough sketches, measurements,
and a shopping list of different body parts. Then I
heard a lock shift. At first I thought the boy
had been able to free himself, but as I turned,
the sudden flush of light flash banged me. The shape
in the doorway stood stiff, its head tilted to its
left shoulder, like they were melted into each other. I
squinted to see more, but the light from outside made
it difficult. All I could see was the bull cover him.
Roared through the chest, with one arm hanging longer than
the other. He stepped in and I raised my torch slightly.
You don't want to do this, I said. My voice
came out quiet and pathetic. He kept moving. The shape
of him came into view. He was burned with twisted
but healed skin. He was big. He lunged with both
weight and power. I stumbled back, caught off guard, and
slammed sideways into the metal frame of one of the cages.
The torch clattered to the floor, spinning light strobing around
the room. He came at me again, arms wide, trying
to grab hold. I dug sideways and shoved my shoulder
into his ribs. He grunted and swung one arm to
the side of my head. I shoved back, using both hands,
pushing him off balanced toward the table. He knocked it,
sent tall scattering, but stayed upright. He came at me again,
clumsy but fast, leading with his shoulder. I grabbed a
bit of pipe or rod and brought it up between
us and slowed him and gave me just enough room
to back pedal and breathe. Everything in me wanted to run,
but I knew I couldn't leave the boy alone. He
charged again, faster, this time slamming me back into the cages.
My shoulder cracked the bars and sends a jol down
my arm. I swung the pipe and clipped the side
of his head. He roared, voice all torn up and broken.
Get away from them. The mine, my Shannon, my Benji.
He grabbed a handful of my jacket and yanked me forward.
I twisted, kicked hard, and landed somewhere near his shin.
He didn't go down, but he gave me just enough
space to wrench free. My ear was still ringing from
the earlier blow and sick the rock behind my eye
now as something had split. He kept coming every breath.
He tuck sounded like it hurt, wet and uneven, full
of rattling heat. The burns had wrecked his face, but
there was still strength in him, more than I had.
He was desperate, and desperate men don't stop easy. I
tripped trying to dodge his next swing, landed hard on
my back, ribs flaring. My grips slipped on the pipe,
and it skidded out of reach. He loomed above mouth,
working like he was trying to say more, but all
that came out was a dry, bubbling rasp. His boot
pressed into my leg, pinning me. I tried to twist
to roll clear, but his weight kept me pinned. My
ear was still ringing, and now my ribs were burning.
I couldn't catch my breath. The pressure on my leg
grew sharper harder. He was trying to crush me. The
door slammed open behind him. Down, Get the hell down.
The man didn't flinch. He kept going. There was a
crack of Gareth's bat and slamming down. The figure reeled
back a step. I kicked out hard and caught him
just above the knee. He staggered sideways. I said, get
on the ground. Gareth didn't stop, got behind him fast
and brought the baton down again, this time across the shoulders.
The man dropped. There was a grunt, and then Gareth
was on him, pinning him, coughing his wrists tight behind
his back. The figure flinched but didn't drop got him.
Gareth barked, you're right. I nodded, caught my breath and
sweat stung my eyes. I dragged myself upright, ribs aching
and used the cages to hold myself up. We need
bolt cutters, I said, voice. Horse now back up arrived quickly.
They helped pin improperly and hauled him out, kicking and
spluttering like an animal, while another stayed behind to free
the boy. Gareth helped me walk back through the trees,
mostly acting as a support over the rough terrain. Paramedics
were waiting near the path. They took me in, sat
me down, gave me something for the pain, then carted
me after A and E to check for concussion and
whatever else i'd rattled loose. I gave two full statements
that day, then another two later in the week. I
had to repeat some of it more times than I
felt like. A few days later, Gareth swung by my
place with a flask and some important cigars. We sat
in the garden out back, just like we used to
when we were younger. Eventually he said, ugly Bogger, wasn't he? Yeah,
I muttered. Gareth nodded, staring into his flask. Didn't even
know he was still around. Thought he'd left years back.
He used to live on the fringe near the old
paper mill. His wife and kid died in a house fire.
Poor Bogis didn't make it out. He did he always
that big, I asked. Gareth huffed, Yeah, he's a big lad.
Worked in salvage I think. Used to see him down
by the skip bins holding stuff no one else would touch.
After the fire, something just snapped. We thought he moved off.
I took a sip of my drink in that shed
those women and boys. He was storing certain parts, yeah,
Gareth muttered. He wasn't just storing them, he was trying
to put them back together, bit by bit. We both
went quiet after a while. Gareth cleared his throat, h'its sick,
But in his head he thought he was fixing something,
putting his family right now, fixing that, I said, not
what he did. Gareth gave a slow nod. Nah, there's
no coming back from that. Did you find that bird
you were looking for? I came back because someone had to.
The house was still in the family's name, but no
one else wanted to touch it. My mother had passed
away a few weeks prior, quietly in asleep. My father
was still alive technically, but no longer capable. The stroke
had taken most of his speech and all of his warmth.
He now lived in a small care home three hours south.
We hadn't spoken in years. I told the solicitor I
would handle the clearing out. Thought it would take a weekend,
thought it would feel mechanical. But standing in the entry
way now I could already tell the house hadn't changed,
not really. It was clean, even dusted in places. Someone
had been tending it, probably my mother until the very end.
I hadn't stayed over night in years, but instead of
sleeping in the guest room, I chose my old bedroom.
The nursery, the one we shared. Jamie's crib was still there,
up against the far wall. The other one sat beside it, untouched,
the blankets tucked in tight, A small stuffed lamb perfectly
aligned at the center of the mattress. The mobile above
the crib still spun when I opened the door, catching
the air just enough to turn. I stood there, watching
it rotate in a slow, silent circle. I found a
sealed box in the closet, buried behind old blankets and
a yellowed wedding dress. The tape was brittle with age.
One side had peeled slightly written in black marker across
the lid with five words Jamie dash, do not discard.
I don't remember the moment I found out I was
supposed to be a twin. I think it was always there,
just beneath the surface, a truth worn smooth over years
of soft retellings. His name was Jamie. He died the
day we were born. That's what the doctor said. A
chord around the neck, no heartbeat, nothing they could do,
but my parents never accepted it. They came home with
two of everything, two bassinettes, two name plaques for the
nursery wall, hand painted in soft cursive, one for me,
one for Jamie. They told everyone it had been a mistake,
that both babies were fine, a miracle, and no one
questioned it too deeply, not at first There are pictures
in the old photo albums that still unsettle me, and
some it's just me red faced and swallowed. In others
there's clearly been some editing, a second infant, clumsily duplicated,
or drawn in smudged at the edges. My father wasn't
much for computers. Most of the early ones were done
by hand, collage work, tape, and scissors. One even had
a second blanket with nothing in it next to me,
a shape outlined but empty. Jamie's crib was always kept pristine,
even after I moved into a proper bed. It was dusted,
re tucked. The mobile was wound every night until his
mechanism grew stiff. The stuffed lamb was moved from head
to foot, depending on the weak, as if some one
had been tending him. My parents said things in passing,
casual and habitual. Tom, say good night to your brother.
Don't wake him. He's finely asleep. Your brother's already eaten.
When I was young, i'd play along, I'd glance at
the empty crib and whisper just in case, But I
always knew something was wrong with it, something about the
way the air settled over that side of the room,
and when I stopped responding to their remarks and stopped pretending,
I remember the look on my mother's face. She didn't
look confused. She looked hurt, disappointed, as if I had
insulted someone who was standing right behind me. I was
raised to share everything, my room, my clothes, my name.
Even though Jamie never spoke, never moved, never grew. We'd
matching shoes by the front door. Mine usually scoffed his,
always clean. We had two toothbrushes in the cup by
the sink. I wasn't a lie to touch the blue one.
I was punished after I tried. I didn't try again.
There were rules. I wasn't to cross the center seam
of the rug in our bedroom. Jamie's side was to
remain undisturbed. I wasn't to move his toys. If one
of them ended up in my bed or under my desk,
it had to be placed back exactly where it had been.
And when things went wrong, the blame was mine. Tom,
don't be cruel to your brother, my mother would say,
if the stuffed bear turned up face down, he doesn't
like it when he moves things. At first I thought
she was joking. I thought It was a way to
soften the loss, a story that stopped when things started
happening on their own. I go to bed with the
closet shut, squeeze my eyes closed, listen to the creak
of the house, settle into its bones. But around three am,
almost every night, the closet door would slide open, slow,
dragging against the carpet, just enough to show the dark.
Sometimes the mobile above the crib would be spinning when
I woke up, not fast, but turning. The air always
felt colder on that side of the room, stale, even
in summer. More than once I woke up to find
my blanket half way across the floor, not kicked or
bunched up at the foot of the bed, pulled neatly,
as if someone had taken it while I slept. Once
I left Jamie's stuff lamb on the dresser before bed,
I found it tucked under his blanket in the morning.
When I mentioned any of it, my father grew distant.
My mother got stern, told me not to mock things
I didn't understand, told me Jamie had every right to
be here too. I stopped talking about it, but I
started watching, and the more I watched, the more. I
was sure I was not alone in that room. I
wanted to believe I was normal, that this was typical
of a family, but school ruined that illusion. Other kids
asked questions I didn't know how to answer. When they
came over, their faces shifted in that quiet way children
do when something doesn't sit right. Not fear, not yet,
just discomfort, A feeling that the air wasn't moving right
in the hallway, that the second crib didn't belong. One girl,
I think a name was Rachel, asked who the other
bed was for. I told her the truth, at least
my mother's version. It's for Jamie. Here's my brother, but
he's not here. He is, I said, he's just quiet.
She looked at the crib, then back at me, and
something in her eyes went cold. I never saw her
again after that. Her mom called to say she didn't
want Rachel coming over any more. No reason was given.
Another time, I tried to have a sleep over Matthew
from down the road. We played video games until late,
then got into our sleeping bags on the floor. He
kept glancing at the crib, said it was weird that
it was still up in the middle of the night.
I woke up to him shaking me. He looked pale
and sweaty. I heard someone whispering, he said, right in
my ear. I told him it was probably a bad dream,
the usual reason my parents told me when I had
the same thing happened to me. But he was already
stuffing his things into his backpack. He left before sunrise.
His parents never let him visit again. I tried to
ask my mom if Jamie could be quieter, or if
we could put some of his things away. She just
smiled and said, don't be rude to your brother. He
doesn't have much. When I said, very carefully that Jamie
wasn't real, her hand tightened my arm. Don't ever say that,
she said, do you understand? Never that kind of talk
hurts him. She looked over at my shoulder and then
towards the nursery, not at me. Her face changed softened,
as if she was waiting for a sound or listening
for one. I never said it again at school. I
stopped inviting people. I ate lunch alone. I didn't tell
stories about home. At home, I spoke carefully, stepped lightly.
I never crossed the seam in the rug. I didn't
understand the rules only that they mattered, and breaking them
made the house worse. I wasn't supposed to go in
the hallway closet. It was one of the few rules
that stuck. That door always stayed shut. The key hung
from a small brass hook above the frame, just out
of reach for most of my childhood. When I finally
got tall enough, I waited for the right day. It
was summer. My parents were downstairs arguing quietly in the kitchen.
I stood on a chair, slid the key from the hook,
and opened the door. It wasn't anything exciting, just coats
and cardboard boxes, musty wool, and an old vacuum. I
remember being disappointed until I reached into the sleeve of
raincoats stuffed to the back. My hand brushed plastic something
zipped and crinkly, a freezer bag inside a pale blue
notebook with a frayed corner and fading silver stars on
the cover. There was no name on the front, but
I knew it was my mother's the moment I opened it.
Her handwriting was neat at first, curved letters, tidy, mind udgens.
It looked like any baby book, milestones and feeding charts,
first steps, favorite lullabies, but the dates didn't match my memories.
The entries continued well past my first birthday, past my second,
past the point Jamie had ever existed, if he'd existed
at all, and they weren't just about me. At first,
it was framed sweetly. Jamie slipt, curled up next to
his brother. He's calm when Tom sings. They're so bonded already.
Then the tone changed. He won't eat unless they're in
the room. He cries when Tom leaves. He only sleeps
when they're together. I called Tom, staring at the mirror again.
He said he saw a hand. I told him not
to lie. One page was half torn out. The bottom
edge looks gorged, as if it had been pressed too
close to a heater. The entries after that were shorter, slanted,
let us leaning into each other, as if she'd written
them quickly. The night terrors are back. I hear him
at the door. I think Jamie blames me. That was
the last thing she ever wrote, No signature, no date.
I sat on the closet floor, reading it over and
over until the hallway went dark. The argument downstairs had stopped.
I hadn't realized how long i'd been sitting there. I
put the journal back in the bag, tucked it into
the coat sleeve again, and shut the door, hung the
key back on the hook. I didn't tell anyone what
I'd found, but from that night on I started facing
away from Jamie's crip when I slept, just in case
Jamie wanted to talk. I was eleven the night I
climbed into Jamie's crib. It wasn't a dare. No one
told me to do it. It was just me in
the dark, stewing in the quiet rules. I wasn't allowed
to question. Two tooth brushes, two chairs at the little table.
One name whispered with mine every bedtime, Good night Jamie.
That night, I sat on my bed, staring across the
room at his crib. The bars had been repainted twice,
were still splintered slightly at the base. The mattress was
thin and yellowing. Under the fitted sheet. A stuffed elephant
sat in the corner, perfectly upright. I told myself it
was just furniture. Then I got up and stepped over.
The mobile turned slowly when I brushed past it. The
little animals cast long, thin shadows across the ceiling. I
climbed in lay flat, crossed my arms like I thought
a dead kid might. For a moment, nothing happened. Then
I blinked. The light was gone. The air was tight,
something hard pressed into my spine. I was in the closet,
cramped between winter coats and a broken vacuum hose, curled
at the bottom, like had been stuffed there. The door
was latched from the outside. I sat up fast and
slammed my shoulder against it once twice, my throat burned.
It opened, and the third hit. My mother came in,
not surprised, not angry, just tired. Her eyes moved from
mine to my lap, then back again. I looked down.
A baby one sea lay folded across my knees, not
one of mine, pale yellow, with a little embroidered bear
over the heart. It smelled faintly off fabric, softna and
something else, something older, damp wood, closed rooms. I hadn't
taken anything into the crib. I knew that, but there
it was. My mother said nothing for a long time.
Then finally she spoke, her voice quiet and even you
disrespected his face. Then she turned and walked away. I
didn't answer, I didn't follow. I sat there for a
long time, staring at the folds in the WANSEAA, and
the scratch marks carved into the inside of the closet door,
some shallow, some deep, some trailing all the way down.
I found the tape while clearing out the attic, which
behind an old box of moth eaten photo albums and
Christmas ornaments that hadn't been touched in years. It was
tugged inside a shoe box with a cassette player, half
covered in lint and crumbling insulation. The tape was labeled
in my mother's handwriting just one word bedtime. I took
it downstairs, sat cross legged on the nursery carpet, and
set the player between the cribs. The machine groaned a
little when I pressed play. Then her voice came through,
softer than I remembered, calmer. She was reading the Velveteen Rabbit.
That part I recognized. Her tone was warm, almost musical,
like she was reading to a child. Then her second
voice joined, higher pitched, not a baby's voice, but definitely
a child. I know how I used to sound. The
child interrupted the story, whispered phrases that didn't match the text.
Speaker 2: Is it real if it hurts? I want to know
what it tastes like. Tell the rabbit to leave her
reading never paused, she just kept going, steady and unbroken,
as if she didn't hear him. Near the end of
the tape, she stopped reading. The room and the recording
fell quiet, except for the faint creak of bedsprings and
the rustle of fabric. Then she whispered, say good night
to your brother. There was a pause, then the child's
voice replied, good night Tom. The tape clicked to a stop.
I didn't breathe for a few seconds. I rewound it,
handshaking and listened again. Every syllable landed colder than the last.
The voice wasn't scared, it wasn't sleepy. It sounded amused.
I left the tape in the player and backed out
of the room, one step at a time, until I
was out in the hall. The mobile above Jamie's crib
was spinning again. I hadn't touched it. I left the
house at eighteen, No dramatic goodbye, no big sea, just
the quiet drive to university, with a back seat full
of boxes and a silence between me and my father
that neither of us had the vocabulary to fill. I
chose to school six hours away. No one questioned the distance,
no one offered to help me unpack. That first night,
in the dawn, I slept straight through, no blankets pulled off,
no creaking doors, no footsteps around my bed. I remember
waking up in the morning, light leaking through the blinds,
and realizing how long it had been since I felt rested.
No Jamie, no closet dreams, no nursery whispers.
Speaker 1: Just quiet. I started telling myself the story a different way,
that my childhood had been shaped by grief, not ghosts,
that what I remembered was trauma echoing in strange places.
Ritual turned into obsession, in obsession into fear, And it
almost worked until the phone call started, not often, once
every few months, always from my mother. He's quieter since
you left, she'd say, as if we were talking about
a real boy. He only plays in your room now.
Then a few years later she called me distressed. He
won't stop crying. It's every day. Please play with him.
I didn't answer when she called. After that, whatever lived
in that house, whether it was grief or something else,
I'd left it behind, or maybe he just stayed with her.
I didn't go back after there, I left, not for holidays,
not for birthdays, not even when Dad called asking if
i'd stop by when I was in town, though I
never was. I almost went back when my father had
a stroke and left him in need of care, which
my mother took on herself. But each time I was
ready to go, I didn't. I just stopped to the
front door, held the handle, then quietly unpacked, telling myself
it was a bad time. I told myself I needed
the distance, that it was healthier not to look back
for a while. It was true. I slept better, I
worked hard, I let the past become something vague and
far away. Then the call came. It happened fast, a
blood clot. They said she was gone before they reached
the hospital. Not much was said on the phone, just
that someone needed to handle the house. My father was
being moved into assisted living permanent this time. I hadn't
seen it in years, not since I left for university.
The drive back felt longer than I remembered. When I
unlocked the door, the air inside was stale, but still
held that faint antiseptic scent. I couldn't place. Everything was
as I left it, furniture frozen in place, family photos untouched,
no signs of a life winding down, only a life paused.
I made my way to the nursery. It was too clean.
The crib stood exactly where it always had, the same
folded blanket, the same mobile above, faintly trembling when I
opened the door. No dust, no neglect, not a thread
out of place. She'd been maintaining it, even after all
this time. A small envelope waited on the desk, yellowed
slightly at the edges, but sealed neatly, my name on
the front, written in her hand. Beneath it, five words
in faded ink, for when you come home. I opened
the envelope with a strange sense of calm. Maybe I
already knew what was inside. Maybe I didn't want to
admit it until I held the paper in my hands.
It was a torn page from the old baby journal,
the same handwriting I remembered from years ago, but it
had changed. The neat script had grown unsteady, heavier toward
the end, like the pen had been pressed too hard
into the paper. I tried to separate you. I tried
to tell myself it was never real. But I heard
you both, even when you weren't speaking. He cries when
you leave. He never cries for me. He only settles
when you're near. He needs a brother, and I can't
give him another one, only you. A second page was
stuck behind it, a glossy photograph, curled slightly at the corners.
I didn't recognize it at first. A hospital room, a bassinette,
two newborns, one red faced and howling, the other was
lying still, two still, eyes closed, lips parted just enough
to show the faintest shadow of gums. At the bottom
was a timestamp, five hours after jamie official time of death.
I didn't remember this photo. I shouldn't. I was in it,
but I wasn't alone. As soon as I put the
letter down, a sound burst from the far room, crying,
loud and shrill. I didn't jump to any theories. I
knew exactly who it was, Jamie. I crept over, easing
towards the bedroom I'd avoided for well over a decade,
and as I approached, the sound softened hicks between the
loud sobs, as if listening to my approaching footsteps. As
soon as my hand braced the doorknob, the sobbing all
but vanished, and when I opened the door and looked inside.
I was greeted by pure silence. Some of the toys
had moved from when I first looked in the room.
The blanket that was previously neatly placed was thrown aside,
like from a child throwing a tantrum. But my mother
was right. When I was around, he stopped crying. I
made the bed in the nursery before it got dark.
I sat in the chair by the window, wrapped in
one of the old blankets from the closet. The ki
that still smelled faintly of powder and time. Around midnight,
the mobile above the second crib began to spin. No music,
just a slow creaking turn. The temperature in the room dropped,
not a breeze, just a still sinking cold, the kai
that set behind your eyes. I walked to the crib.
It was empty, but the sheets were warm. The closet door,
the same one I once woke up inside all those
years ago, eased open with a soft groan. No rush,
just the quiet insistence of a door used to being
open from the inside. A small hand, pale and steady,
reached out around the frame. I didn't flinch, didn't scream,
I just looked down at the hand and said okay.
I sat down carefully and just held his little hand
for a while. His skin was ice cold. That was
all he needed. The next morning, the nursery was still
no footprints, no open doors, just the made bed and
dust dancing in the light. The house was silent. I
think she was right, he does just need her brother.
I always brought two drinks up the tower crane with me,
one thermos for coffee and a bottle for the strongest stuff.
I get to tuck deep in my rocksack, half wrapped
in an old flannel to keep it from clinking. I
sipped it slowly, just enough to keep the shake out
of my hands. As the moon rose and up there
above the trees, no one could see. The shakes had
gotten worse since I came out here. I wasn't proud
of it. Would you sit up in a steel box
one hundred and forty meters off the ground with nothing
but wind and birds for company, Eventually you'd need something
to pass the time I had a book. My daughter
erely gave me on my lap, a stiff little paperback
called Field Guide to North American Cryptids. In bright red lettering.
It was clearly a kid's book. She'd handed it to
me during my last visit back in Trurow and said
who was to keep me company? I laughed and told
her she was nuts, but she just rolled her eyes
and said, you'll read it when you're bored. She was right.
When I first opened it, there was a yellow sticky
note in a handwriting stuck on the front page. It read,
don't get eaten, dad, You're too grumpy for that. Her
mom doesn't let me see her much, not since the hearing.
Last year. I missed a couple of pickups while working
out west and couldn't get back in time, and she
used that to file for full custody. She's not wrong
to want stability for Ellie. I get that, but I'm trying,
I really am. I take these jobs so I can
pay what I owe for child support and legal payments,
and maybe show the court that I'm not some dead
beat and a hard hat. The best paying ones mean
coming all the way out here and sleeping in a
trailer six nights a week. But it's worth it if
I can pick Ellie up with something new in the
back seat and take her for ice cream without checking
my balance first. The past few nights have been colder
than expected. I poured a bottle from my pack and
took a swig. The whiskey did the trick and settled
in warmer my ribs. We were ahead of schedule. I
leaned back, thumbed the edge of the book and looked
out the glass. The radio mumbled in and out, tight
in that corner. Where's that extra bracket gone? Rob? Check
the clearance? By tower three? Same old stuff. I didn't
listen to most of it. I only kept my ear
open for anything meant for me. Then a new voice
cut in, Hang on, there's something down by the tree line.
Another voice crackled back, what do you mean? I sat up, frowning.
Lights near the equipment trailers were still on, stretching long
shadows into the brush. It could have been a moose,
maybe a black bear. With the voices on the radio
didn't sound calm. Movement by tower four, you guys seeing that?
Then came static, geez, what is that? It cut off?
Panic bled through. There's something out there, something's moving. Markabull
back now, I said, Paul. I stood so fast the
buck slipped off my lap and hit the floor. I
leaned over the control's fingers smudging the glass, breath fogging
the inside. I wiped it with my sleeve and squinted hard.
Too far to see faces, but I saw a movement.
People were running. One figure took off past the prefab stack.
Then something else broke out of the dark behind him.
Low to the ground, fast, it tackled him, limbs flying.
I couldn't see much, but the thing looked nothing like
the workers. Someone else came running into help. The thing intercepted,
lifted the guy clean off his feet, and slammed him
into the floodlight tower. It collapsed with a clang, smashed
into the fuel cage. Then there was fire, bright and fast.
Flames jumped from tarp to tire, tired to trailer. The
crew scattered, the thing followed. It tore through the camp,
and even from a pie I could tell it wasn't
just chasing, it was hunting. More screams crackled over the radio.
One was just the name over and over. Another came through,
crying for help. Then a wet, cracking noise and silence.
Then I saw it stop, just for a second. The
thing was crouched near the last standing fuel drum, half
lit by the flames and it lit it up elbow
joins too high. There were no clothes or gear I
could make out. It looked like it had huge antlers.
It stayed low, almost coiled, but when the fire crept closer,
it reared upright, took one step back, and crawled forward
again on all fours. As the fire surrounded my tower,
the thing backed up to my ladders and was so
far below me I couldn't see it any more. I
stepped back from the glass, heart pounding, then moved to
the rear door, the one that covered the ladder access.
I flipped the lock and pushed it open a crack there,
way way down the steel spine of the tower. It
was something moving. It climbed slow but steady, hooking each
limb over wrung half the rung. Smoke hit me in
the face. It was thick and full of heat. I
doubled back, coughing, my eyes watered, and slammed the door shut.
My hands slipped on the latch and I locked it again.
I wiped my mouth and searched the cabin. Strapped to
the side panel was a fire extinguisher. One of the
heavy steel canisters dented at the top. I thought, if
I could get a clean hit from this height, it
might cave the thing scullen, the fire would die down eventually,
or help would come. I could wait it out climb down.
Once the smoke cleared, I snapped the clips and pulled
it loose, cracked the hatch again, and leaned out. I
lined up with where it was on the right side,
aimed for that spot, and dropped it. I snapped the
hatch shut, stopping the smoke from pouring in, and watched
through the glass as the red cylinder fell briefly before
it ricocheted off one of the support bars and spun
once in the air. Then it clattered like a coin
down a drain and tumbled somewhere out of sight. Near
the bottom. The creature was frozen, one long limb hugged
on the ladder rail, the other hanging loose at its side.
I could see its head tilt slowly until it was
looking up its face if you could call it, that
was bone. From the collar, I could tell it had
no skin, no muscle. The shape was too long and
narrow to be anything human, and it appeared more like
a deer skull, but longer with black sockets. I couldn't
see from here. The antlers weren't wide like a buck.
They clawed back, thin and spun like charred branches. Even
with the smoke and distance between us, I knew it
had only just noticed me. I stumbled back. My shoulder
cracked into the wall. I searched the cabin for anything heavy,
like my rocksack, the radio box, even the goddamn swivel
chair if I could get it loose. But there was
nothing here that would hold against something like that. My
hands shook as I snatched the radio and clicked the receiver,
already backing toward the front window. Anyone copy, I swallowed hard.
This is Marcus up in Towan? Is anyone there? Only
static came back, and there was a slow clicking of hiss.
I tried again, anyone live down there? Someone answer me? Someone? No,
something is climbing the goddamn tower. I turned and looked
down again, hoping, just hoping for some movement, some sign
of life among the smoking flames. There was nothing. Then
Kyle came to mind. Three days ago, we'd been eating
the lunch out behind the trailer, sitting on the edge
of a pilot stack with our boots in the dirt.
He was younger than me by decades, with fresh boots
and fresh gloves, and still called the foreman sir, like
it was his first camp. He nudged me with his
elbow while I was half way through a sandwich. You
ever see teeth in the saw? Before? He asked, I
glanced at him like an animal's. He shook his head
and pulled a crumpled napkin out of his jacket pocket. Hesitant,
he unwrapped it and held it out. Inside was a
yellow tooth. It was sharp in one end. Christ Man,
I said that real? He nodded, founded by the west
tree line under some roots. Kept this one forget. No
one would believe me otherwise. I took a closer look.
Look's human, That's what I thought. There are a bunch
of them in the same spot. You report it, yeah,
he said, Radio did in as soon as we uncovered
the first view. They told me it was probably old
dental waste. So there used to be a field hospital
up here during the war. That doesn't explain some of
the weird bones I found out here. I remember squinting
past him out toward the tree line. The company had
us clearing a stretch near the back boundary of the site.
Apparently the land had been untouched for decades. Some investors
out east picked it up cheap and wanted the foundations
for condos before ski season. The last real record was
from the fire crew in the seventies, and even they
didn't go far too steep, they said. We sat quietly
for a minute. After that, he wrapped the tooth back
up and slipped it into his jacket again, looking like
he wasn't sure if telling me had been the right idea.
That morning, Ellie called just as I was ready to sleep.
See anything cool today, she asked, I smiled. You mean
besides frostbite and rusted steel? She groaned, No, like cool,
cool animals or anything. This place is full of wildlife, right, Actually,
I said, One of the guys found some old bones,
teeth actually, out by the tree lion. There was a pause,
then a voice got a little sharper. Wait, really, what kind?
I didn't want to spooker. Probably a coyote? Could your fox?
We get a lot of weird stuff out here, she hummed.
That's kind of gross but also cool. Can you keep
one for me? I'm not sure your mom would love that.
She doesn't have to know, just hide it like I
do with that frog skull. We'll see, I laughed. Might
be a while before i'm back. That's okay. Just don't
get eaten, all right, wouldn't dream of it? Good, she said,
cheerful again. I promised i'd call her the next morning.
Then I stayed sitting there long after the line went dead.
I checked down the ladder again. The thing had made
a lot of progress. It was maybe a quarter the
way up now. I wiped my damp hands and my
jeans and reached for my pocket, fingers shaking as I
pulled out my phone. One bar, then none. I held
it higher angle toward the window. Then I, unlike the screen,
thumbed nine one one and hit call. There was a
crackle and some words in between emergency. Hello. My stomach flipped. Yes, Yes,
I'm here. My name's Marcus Holt. I'm at a tower
site off Range six. There's something down here. People are dead.
It's coming up the crane. I need help. Location say again,
your Alberta north of Jasper. It's a lease sight towering stall.
You need to get someone out here. And now there's
a fire and something is climbing. The line fractured. There
was a low pulse of static, then nothing but random words.
You repeat climbing. I pressed the phone tighter to my ear. Yes,
it's climbing. I'm at the top. I'm trapped. You have
to hello. Can you hear me? Hello? I stared at
the screen, and after a few moments of silence, I
hung up and tried again. This time I couldn't hear anything.
I lowered myself onto my chair, let the phone drop
in my lap and stared at it. My chest was
tight and I couldn't seem to breathe right. My hand
trembled as I reached for the bottle again and took
a small sip. It didn't help much. Everything was shaking now,
the glass, my legs, the whole damn cab felt like
it was trembling under me. I slumped back in the chair,
letting it turn slightly on its swivel. The cab creaked
faint and hollow. I stared past the glass to where
the fire had started, trying to find shapes in the dark.
My boot knocked something, and I glanced down the book.
It had landed face down in the corner. The edges
were bent and some pages had fanned open underneath. I
reached down, picked it up slowly, and brushed the cover
off with my sleeve. The page was still dog eared
from earlier. That little yellow, sticky note stuck out. I'd
been using it as a bookmark. Don't get eaten, dad,
You're too grumpy for that. I ran my thumb across
the handwriting. She'd use one of those thick purple pens,
she liked, the ones that always seemed to bleed through
paper and made a note look messy. It hit me
harder than I expected. I thought about the last time
I saw her. She'd asked me to take her skating,
but I didn't have enough gas money. I'd promised the
next time, i'd take her up to the big rink
and let her rent the flashy white skates, the ones
that made her look like a figure skater. Now I
didn't know if I get to keep that promise. I
stared down at the book and my eyes blurred. I
wiped them with a heel of my hand, sniffed, and
let the book fully fold open. Through the tears, I
noticed a hand drawn illustration, rough, like something copied from
an old woodcut. It was tall, thin, crawling on all
fours with a skull face and sharp antlers are twisted
like burnt branches. I stared at the drawing and my
body ran cold. That skull looked exactly like what I
saw on the ladder. It was in the book with
the page titled the Wendigo. I read the paragraph under
the name. It talked about the creature being born of winter,
starvation and cannibalism. It could never be full, It only
stretched thinner the more it fed. I traced my finger
across every word it said. It brought the cold with
it and left a rot smell that never faded. My
hands tensed. I remembered we had a stench following us
all week. The first day I thought maybe someone hit
a buried fuel drum or septic gleek. We even talked
about it over a cigarette. God that stinks. Think we
had a sewer line, Kyle asked, pulling his collar over
his nose. Hell of a sewer system for the middle
of nowhere, I shot back, But the smell never left.
It was sour and meat sweet, like wet hide in
a hot trunk. No matter where we dug it came with,
we never found a bibe. Now I know why, and
the cold geez the cold. I remember checking the weather
on my phone a day before getting here. When I
climbed up the first night, it was supposed to be mild,
sweat weather, ten maybe fifteen degrees, a little breeze coming
off the ridge. I left my thick gloves in the
trailer and zipped my coat only halfway. By the time
I hit the cab, my fingers were stiff, and I
had to rub them together to grip the throttle. I
thought maybe the height was doing it, or that I
was just run down. But even in the cab, with
all that glass trapping heat from the floodlights, I stayed
cold to my bones. I peeked back down the hatch us.
It was closer now. Its hunger seemed to have fed
its speed. The shape of it came through clearer now,
just like the picture. It was more bone than skin,
all joints and angles, limbs that bend in ways that
made me feel sick just watching. Its spine stuck out
like a ridge of knuckles, and its ribs strained under
something thin and gray that might have once been flesh.
Its head would tilt unnaturally to the side every few rungs,
like it was sniffing me out. My body went soft
all over. My hands were wet with sweat but still
freezing cold. I pictured the thing making it to the top,
but I quickly got that idea out of my head.
I had something to do. I reached for the book,
and I frantically scanned through the pages. Come on, I muttered,
come on, come on. My eyes dropped the next paragraph.
My fingers gripped the page tight, almost tearing it. I
was desperate for anything that might stop it. Folklore varies
by region it read, but many accounts agree the creature
has an aversion to fire, and can be stopped by
burning it to death and or carving out its icy heart.
I blinked, reading it twice. I'd watched the tear through
those men like paper, wild and frenzied. But then it stopped,
just for a second, right when the flames roared and
surrounded my crane. It hadn't just turned away, No, it
had recoiled from the heat. And now, looking back, God,
it hadn't been climbing the crane for me. I've had
a sick pull in my got. The fire had been
closing in fast, licking through the trailers, pushing smoke through
the tree tops and circling the base of the tower.
It didn't charge straight for the ladder until after the
flames got too close. It had gone up the crane
because it had nowhere else to go. I stood there,
book in one hand, mouth dry, and suddenly wanted to
put my fist through the glass. If I hadn't dropped
the goddamn extinguisher, if I just stayed quiet, maybe it
would have climbed half way up, then waited it out.
Maybe it would have crawled back down once the flames died.
There was a chance it never would have known I
was up here. I stared down at the hatch door,
my chest rising too fast, my breath catching every time
it hit the back of my throat. I kept looking
for something, anything I could use. The extinguisher was gone,
the radio was useless. The fire outside had started to
smother itself in smoke, but it still burned hot along
the south edge just below. Maybe I could time it,
wait until the thing was close enough, and then shove
something heavy down, knock it off the ladder. It had
fall a long way, bounce off every steel bar on
the way down. Maybe the fire would finish the job.
But what the hell did I have to use? The
chair wouldn't fit through the hatch, and even if it did,
I wasn't strong enough to swing it without the thing
grabbing me first. My rucksack was too soft, and the
toolbox was bolted to the floor and had nothing solid enough,
nothing sharp enough, nothing that wouldn't guarantee it tore through
me before I got the chance to lift it. The
truth hit me then, real and raw. There was no
fighting this thing head on. I raised my bottle again,
hands trembling, and took a swig in hopes it would
calm my nerves. But the second the liquor hit my tongue,
I stopped, my jaw clenched. I spat it back into
the bottle and coughed hard. Then stared at the bottle
in my hand. There was still at least half left,
and for the first time I really looked at it,
it was flammable. I held the glass tighter. Could I
would that work? I'd seen molotops and movies through broken
up riots on the news. I remember seeing tom kits
and balaclavas throwing them at squad cars. It was just alcohol, right,
something strong with a rag and a flame. Was it
that simple to make one? Would it explode spurn? Could
I even get it lit fast enough before I blew up?
I pulled a lighter from my pocket. I'd swiped it
from Kyle earlier in the week when he left it
on the trailer step. It had a scratched up image
of a girl in bikini, all glossy lipped. I hadn't
meant to keep it, but it reminded me of the
old lighters from the early two thousands, and I had
lost mine earlier. For the first time since this all started,
a plan began to form. Not a good one, but
it was something okay, I whispered to myself. I pulled
the flannel from my rugsack and dug a knife from
the side pocket off my bag. I hagged a strip
from the tail of it and jammed it into the
mouth of the bottle, pushing it down far enough to
soak up the whiskey. I tilted the bottle, watching the
liquor run down the cloth, watching it darken and cling.
I heard it get closer. Its screaming got louder and
louder as it pulled itself up. I would have to
work quickly. I fumbled with the lighter. My fingers were
too wet and shaky to keep it alight long enough.
I drer ub it on my pants to get dry
enough to catch. Small but steady. The flame bloomed. Then
I turned to the hatch. I flung it open and
leaned out, nearly gagging from the heat and smoke that
rolled back in. I looked down and saw it very close.
It would be up in minutes. My hands moved before
I could think. I held the lighter to the soaked cloth.
The flame caught fast, rushing up the rag. Come on,
I whispered. I raised the bottle, aimed, and threw it
fell for maybe two seconds. That was all. Then it
exploded against the side of the creature's skull. The glass
shattered and flames surged. The whiskey caught and ran down
its neck and shoulders in rivulets, clinging to the skin
like oil, and the fire soon followed it. The windyghost
screamed a high, gurgling howl that punched up and bounced
off my CAB's walls, burst in my ear drums. I watched,
terrified as it slipped, caught itself again, and clung tight.
The fire didn't stop. The flames crawled over its back,
igniting it all over. He shrieked again, and I held
the edge of the hatch with both hands, knuckles white,
praying it would let go. It looked like it might
climb through the fire, Like nothing could stop it. For
a second, it just hung there, limbs twitching and every
tendon stretched and screaming. One hand lost this grip first,
then the other. The leg slid off the rail, and then,
like something snapping loose in its mind, it dropped. I
watched it fall. Its limbs caught the steel on the
way down, bouncing, spinning rips, snapping loud enough to hear
through the wind. It cart wheeled end over end, trailing
smoke and sparks, with the fire still clung to it,
until it disappeared out of sight. Below. The fire still
surrounded the steel of my crane, slower, now choking itself
in its own smoke. I could hear pops from the
tires going off in the equipment yard, one after another,
like dull fire crackers, Then just the wind, the creak
of metal cooling, the low distant whine of something ellectrical
shorting out. I closed the hatch leaned back with my
head against the cold wall and let myself shake. Every
inch of me felt wrung out, like I'd been running
a fever for hours, and finally crashed. My hands smell
like burnt cotton and cheap whiskey. My mouth was dry
enough to crack, and somewhere in the back of my
mind was the thought I couldn't push down that thing
might not be dead. I sat there, trying to slow
my breathing, listening for even the smallest noise. I clang,
a footfall, anything, Nothing came. I don't know how long
I sat like that. It could have been five minutes,
it could have been fifty. Time didn't matter much after
what I just lived through. My thoughts started to drift
again to Ellie, don't get eaten, Dad, God, what would
she think if she knew how close I came? Maybe
I'd win some Farther of the Year award. The glow
had shifted from violent to tired. A dark smoke column
stretched into the sky like a signal flare. Any one
within twenty miles would see it. Maybe someone already had
a ranger, another sight hell. One of the worker's families
might have called in when they didn't check in. Emergency
crews had to be on their way. They had to be.
I just had to wait, just had to stay awake.
I pulled my coat tighter and curled into the corner
of the cab, watching the hatch until my eyes burned.
The sky was beginning to lighten when I heard the
first sirens. It was faint at first, just to rise
and fall in the wind, but enough to jomp me upright.
My back cracked from being hunched too long. I crawled
to the window and pressed my forehead against the cold glass.
Flashing lights cut through the trees below, bouncing off smoke
and debris. A few figures in Hive's jackets moved through
the wreckage with flashlights and radios. I could see a
fire crew trying to smother the remaining flames, and some
one pointing toward the base of the crane, but none
of them logged up. Once I was sure it was safe,
I grabbed the hatch handle and stared down. The still
rungs dropped away beneath me, some slick wid dew and ash.
The whole ladder felt smaller now. The first few rungs
were agony. My knees were jelly. My palms slipped twice,
and each time my froze and clung tight, breathing so
fast I fell like I might pass out. I forced
myself to count ten rungs, pause, ten more. When I
was maybe halfway down, one of the responders looked up, Hey,
we got someone on the tower. Voices multiplied, lights turned upward,
suddenly blinding. A paramedic ran to the base, radio in hand,
calling for a backboard. Another firefighter moved beneath me, arms raised,
like you could catch me if I slipped. I kept
going ten, then five, then three, and finally boots on
solid ground. The second I touched down, my legs went out.
They caught me before I fell completely, but I hit
my knees anyway, coughing and trembling. I remember someone shouting
for oxygen, a hand on my shoulder, and a warm blanket.
But all I could do was look past them toward
the base of the ladder. It was there, crumbled in
the gravel and steel debris, a blackened body, long, twisted
and curled. The antlers had chatted against the lower bar.
One leg was missing entirely. The flesh a gun waxy
and gray, fused to the bone. It wasn't moving, It
would never move again. One of the crews stepped into
my line of sight, blocking the thing from view. We
didn't know anyone was still up there, he said, gently, crouching,
real lucky. I shook my head, voice horse, not lock,
I said, just fire. He didn't get it. That was fine.
I let them lift me under the stretcher and wheeled
me toward the waiting rig. I got a good look
at the damage the fire had caused, and they loaded
me up. And reached into my jacket and felt the
edge of the book still tucked there, and I rubbed
the lucky yellow sticky note between my fingers License and registration.
The driver flinched, blinked a few times, and scrambled for
the glove box. He panicked, missed the latch. When he
finally opened it, papers spilled out, and he sat there
frozen before scooping them up. I've been a police officer
for two decades. Night shifts out in the country usually
meant nothing more than drunk drivers, runaways from one of
the nearby shelters, or coyote calls from ranchers with loose
fig It was rare for anything to linger in my
mind after a shift ended. Most of it was the
same monotony, repeated again and again. But that night was different.
That one etched itself in slow, vivid pieces. I still
haven't managed to fully pull apart. The moon had been
high and full, casting a silver wash over everything. I
was parked off country Road eight, half asleep when a
car zoomed past me, going at least two times the
speed limit. I sighed and figured it was just another
guy out too late, probably drinking. I flipped my lights
on and found them pulled over near the bend without
much resistance. I walked up to the driver's side. The
car was an old Toyota, probably early two thousands, primer
patches and the fender muffler rattling. Both men inside looked wrecked.
The driver was gripping the wheel hard enough that I
could see the tenon pushing veins through the skin. His
hair was flattened with sweat. The guy in the passenger
seat stared forward, not blinking, hands in his lap. That's
where it all began. The driver handed me his license
with both hands. Finally, his voice cracked when he spoke,
can you give us a fine? Anything? Please? We really
we just need to go. I ignore the nagging, and he said,
asked what I always ask. Have you two been drinking?
They both answered, but not together. They looked at each other,
first silently, like they were trying to argue how much
to admit. Then the driver said no. Passenger echoed it,
his voice and scratchy. I looked them both over again.
All right, I'm going to run your information turn the
vehicle off for me. The driver hesitated, but ultimately killed
the ignition. I returned to my cruiser and ran the
plate in driver's name. Nothing suspicious, nothing at all. Actually,
the owner of the vehicle matched the driver. Everything came
back clean. When I returned to their window, they had
gotten significantly worse. The driver's head was twitching toward his
shoulder every few seconds, like a muscle spasm. The passenger
was in a similar condition. When the driver spoke again,
his voice had a strain that sounded close to breaking.
You don't understand. We have to go. We're out of time, sir.
Can we just go now? When I started getting angry,
everyone always at somewhere to go. It gets old. I
told him to keep his hands on the wheel and
to relax. This doesn't have to be a big thing.
You listen, I listen. You're making this worse by acting jumpy.
I'm going too easy to perform a field sobriety test
for me. The driver's eyes darted to the mirror and
then to the trees ahead. His leg was bouncing, now,
heel thumping against the floorboard. We don't have time, please.
I took a deep breath, stepped back, and started a
circle toward the back of the vehicle to get them out.
That was when the engine roared to life again. Tires
screamed against the dirt shoulder as they shot forward, fish
tailing back onto the road and vanishing around the bend.
I stood there for a second, blinking. My first thought was,
what the hell are you running from? I sprinted to
the cruiser through the door open and called it in.
This is Unit eighteen. We got a ten eighty fleeing vehicle,
silver Tiota heading eastbound on Country Road eight two occupants.
I'm in pursuit. The tires back gravel as I pulled
out onto the road behind them. The moon followed us,
both glaring and wide. The car struggled to hold a line.
It swerved out of its lane every time the tires
gripped over, corrected and skidded. The tail lights bounced in
and out of view. Ahead of me. Ahead of us
was a wooden sign camp Winding Pines Youth Retreat. The
trees thinnerhead and the gravel turned a soft earth. My
head lights caught the rear of the car as it
fished out sideways, back tires chewing up dust pine needles.
The engine revved again, but lost traction entirely. I saw
the nose of the Tyota swing off the road and
the whole car vanished through the tree line. A split
second later, there was the sound of branches snapping and
a hollow, metallic thud. I hit the brakes and threw
the cruiser into park. My boot hit the dirt. Before
I'd finish radioing the update, vehicles crashed east perimeter of
Winding Pines, approaching scene. Now my blood was hot. My
thoughts weren't entirely rational, because all I could focus on
was the fact that they'd gone from a routine stop
to endangering everyone at that camp and themselves too. I
pulled the flashlight and unsnapped my pistol holster, just in case.
People typically get dangerous when cornered, and this is about
as cornered as you can be. They had to have
a reason for speeding away like that. The car had
come to a stop against a thick pine, the front
end crushed in but not folded. Steam hissed from the hood.
A branch had punched through the back window and scattered
glass across the back seat. Put your hands where I
can see them, I shouted, no movement. I approached the
driver's side, light cutting through the cabin. The driver's air
bag had gone off. He was slumped against it, head back,
mouth open. A thin line of blood ran from his
eyebrow to his cheek. He was breathing. I swung the
beam to the passenger side. The guy in the passenger
seat hadn't survived. His arms were bent under him and
his legs were angled against the passenger's side seat and
away I didn't think was even possible. The neck hung
off his collar, bone head tipped unnatched with a jaw
slack and lopsided. It was a grotesque scene. That's when
the driver gasped awake. He fought with the seatbelt for
a second, then shoved the door open, landing on all
fours in the dirt. I stepped up fast and pointed
the flashlight at him. What the hell do you think
you were doing? You ran from a stop and killed
your friend over what? He didn't answer, He didn't even
look at me. He rolled onto his back, eyes skyward,
then suddenly turned over again and started scrambling to his feet.
I grabbed for his wrist, but he tore away, stumbling
once before crashing into the tree line. God damn it,
I snarled and ran after him. Low branches clawed up
my shirt. Pine needles filled my boots. The sound of
him moving ahead wasn't fast or steady. He was desperate
and clumsy. I caught up to him nearer slope with
a tree cover thickened. He was crouched with one hand
pressed to the dirt and the other to his chest,
trying to breathe. Sweat poured off him in waves, soaking
through the collar of his shirt and streaking down his arms.
His pupils were huge, swallowing almost all the color. I
grabbed him by the elbow and pinned him against the
pine trunk. Hey, are you on something? You high? I
held my grip and locked him over again. His pulse
was racing under my thumb. You need narkan, tell me now.
He didn't answer right away, and people that need narkan
usually never do. His mouth open and close a few
times before anything came out. What did make it out
didn't make sense. Listen you, if you just if you
hide now, maybe I won't know you are nearby. I'd
seen overdoses before, plenty of them. Some twitch and mutter,
others go still and drop. This looked like the textbook
interpretation of a situation. When Narkin was to be administered
at AESAP, I told him to stay with me and
started guiding him back the way we came. He walked
with me, barely. It almost seemed like he was trying
to fight my grip, but he was too weak. He
dragged his feet and his breath scraped through his throat,
eyes darting wildly. We made it to the tree line
and I got him to the cruiser. The back seat
was clean. I helped him in, closed the door, and
stepped back. I reached for the radio on my shoulder. Despatch,
there's is Unit eighteen. I've got one fatality the crash
sight and one possible overdose suspect. His incoherent requesting e
MS priority. I went around to the front of the
cruiser and opened the glove box, pulled the knark and
kit free checked the spray, and turned back. The shouting
coming from the back of the vehicle stopped me. It
was a low, thick, clicking sound, almost like wretching, but wetter.
I stepped around and aimed the flashlight at the rear window.
He was shaking. His whole body was moving with these
wild spasms, his limbs flailing against the seat and his
jaw snapping open and shut. He started to break apart.
It began at the arms, skin pulling apart in long,
wet lines. Muscles swelled underneath it, raw and coiled, growing outward.
Thick strands of fur pushed through the seams. His shirt
tore open at the chest, then peeled away as his
shoulders expended. Bones cracked and reset themselves. I heard them go,
one at a time, snapping like twigs under foot. His
mouth opened in a silent scream, and a second row
of fangs pushed out of his gums, while the original
teeth dropped into his lap. His face stretched forward as
the skull reshaped, eye suckets shifting as they sat further apart.
A snout forced its way forward, the cartilage crunching as
it grew. The cruiser exploded outward as it launched itself
through the window. The back half of the car ripped open.
Metals screamed, and plastic shattered. I staggered back and drew
my side arm, took aim and fired one, two, three.
The shots hit they had to have. I saw dark
burst bloomed through the fir, but it didn't drop. It
didn't even flinch. Then it started moving. Its nose twitched,
turning toward the direction of the camp. There was a
noise off in the distance, somewhere far beyond the trees.
It sounded like a bell or something similar. It heard it,
and it started running toward the youth camp. Its whole
body dropped low, and it moved on all fours, fast
and lopping. Each stride pushed it deeper into the woods
until I couldn't see it anymore. I stood in front
of the scene I just witnessed with my gun stallop
frozen in time. I raised the radio to my mouth
with a hand that wouldn't stay still. My finger hesitated
on the transmit button because I didn't know what to say.
My head was still ringing, but that wasn't why my
voice came out unsteady. This is Unit eighteen. I paused
and tried again. Someone is heading toward Camp Winding Pines,
a big, heavily armed. I think my vehicle is destroyed,
and he ran off toward the camp. I need back
up now, emergency priority. The reply didn't take long. Copy
that Unit eighteen. The nearest support is sixty minutes out.
Trapper sport is unavailable. Do you need medical? I stared
at the ruined back of my cruiser. I didn't waste
time trying to rationalize what I'd seen. If I stood
there thinking about it, I wasn't going to move. I
keyed the mic again, negative, unmed. I'm going in. I
let the radio fall back to my shoulder, then toward
the trunk. It took some force the pride open. The
frame had twisted when the back exploded out. I grabbed
the shotgun from inside, racked it to make sure it
was live and check the sling for rounds. I kept
clipped in a side pouch. I jogged up the trail,
following the dirt where its weight had torn into the soil.
They were wide at the front and dragged behind, deep
enough to catch a boot heel and trip someone if
they weren't careful. Up ahead, tucked behind a split rail
fence with a cheap floodlight flickering against the roof, I
went up and knocked hard against the window. A man
inside jolted awake and nearly spilled the styrophron cup from
the desk. I raised my badge before he had any
chance to say anything. Police Officer Dunley, something's loose in
the camp. I need you with me. Are you armed?
He blinked at me, still half way out of sleep,
then nodded, yeah, what's going on. There's something in the camp.
I don't know what, but the kids aren't safe. He
stared at me a second longer, and I could see
the disbelief behind his eyes. But a moment later he
opened the drawer and pulled out a pistol, tucked it
into a hip holster, and locked the door behind him.
We started toward the center of the camp. He finally
spoke behind me, are you going to tell me what
we're looking for? I didn't stop walking. You wouldn't believe me.
I just saw a police officer walk out the woods looking, mannic,
you might be surprised what I'll believe tonight, I didn't answer.
He picked up his pace to match mine. The kids
they're all inside right now, I asked, Yeah, we just
got here today. I drove the kids here most they're
probably asleep, staffed as lights out around ten. It's a
full week retreat. They get the run of the place
during the day, bonfires, archery, swimming, all that. At night.
The suppose the staying cabins. What's out here? I didn't
have answers. Every question he asked was something I had
already tried to ask myself and come up short. After
a while, I raised the hand and told him to
stop asking so many questions I didn't know. We cleared
the brush line and the tree cover opened. Ahead of
us was the center trail, wide enough to fit a vehicle.
On the left, two cabins faced each other across a
patch of lawn, and at the end of the trail
angled slightly toward the turnlop was a boss. As we
approached the cabins, I slowed and lowered the barrel of
the shotgun. The guard caught up beside me, still scanning
the dark. Tell me how this place is laid out,
I said. He glanced around and started pointing. There are
six cabins in total, all lined up in two rows,
three on each side. Staff buildings over there, past the
main trail, near the mess hall. We've got a generator
shared behind that, and the first aid hut closer to
the lake. No perimeter fencing, but we've never needed it.
And inside, I asked, Each cabin's got two rooms, one
for the kids and one for the staff assigned to them.
Usually a counselor or a teacher sleeps in the same
space or the next room. How many in each this
group is light? Maybe six or seven per right now?
We stopped outside the nearest door. The building was quiet.
A single bulb over the entryway flickered but stayed on.
I looked through the window, nothing but the outline of
bunks in the dark. Here's what we're doing, I said.
We go in quiet. Wake the adult first. You help
them get the kids up, no screaming, no explaining, Tell
them to head to the bus, stay low, stay quiet.
Once they're there, they crouched behind it and wait. He
swallowed hard, then nodded. I pushed the door open. It
led out a creak, but not enough to wake anyone.
The air inside was stale, heavy with the warmth of
sleeping bodies. I moved toward the back, where I could
make out a single adult figure in the bed along
the far wall. I leaned in close and shook their shoulder.
Once they starred and squinted at me. Please stay quiet,
I whispered, flashing my badge. Wake the kids, get them
dressed enough to move, Tell them as drill if you
need to lead them to the bus, and crouched behind it.
The teacher nodded and sat up fast, already calling out
in a low voice to the bunk nearest to her.
The kids began to stir. The next few minutes passed
without a sound louder than soft shuffling and half whispers.
The children dressed in silence, the teacher guiding them out
one by one, leading the group with a hand pressed
to the wall. I stood at the threshold and watched
until the last pair ducked into the dark, headed toward
the bus. The guard moved beside me, his hand on
his weapon, breathing unevenly. One down. I said, we didn't linger.
We moved onto the second location. We eased in flashlight low,
barely tracing the floor. Bunk beds lined both walls. The
kids in them were out cold, limbs tangled in thin sheets.
Some are toys on their pillows, shoes beside the frame,
an old paperback books slipped beneath mattresses. I stepped between
two of the beds, careful not to let my boots
squeak on the waxed floor. No movement, no sounds except
snoring and the soft click of the cabin window panes
shifting against the breeze. This cabin was bigger. We woke
the teacher up, gave them the same commands, and got
under way to the next room. In the third room,
it was the same drill on the fourth one. However,
the door's base had visible claw marks on it. I
motioned to the guard and we took our positions on
either side. I opened it slowly. I could feel it
before we even stepped inside, a drop in the air pressure.
My flashlights scanned the bunks. Kids were asleep, and I
kept scanning the room looking for anything. The security behind
me that had an audible gulp and touched my shoulder.
I turned to look at him, but he didn't speak.
He pointed up above us, pressed against the beams between
the rafters who was watching. Its claws were buried in
the wood, six of them spread outward to anchor its weight.
The arms were stretched long and sinewy joints bowed out
in unnatural angles. Its stomach rose and fell with short breaths.
Mucus hung from its mouth in strands. Its chest was
still wet from the transformation. Patches of firm matted to
beare swollen muscle. It stared at the smallest bed in
the room. The girl in it had a face turned up,
breathing through a mouth, one arm hanging over the edge
of the mattress. I raised the shotgun and fired. The
blast lit the room in one flash. The slug tore
through its shoulder, ripping the chunk of its back out.
It roared no. It screamed something deeper than anything I'd
ever heard to this day. Kids woke up instantly, and
chaos erupted. I pumped the shotgun and fired again. This
time the thing moved. It came down fast, not a fall,
but a lunge that ripped it free of the ceiling
and sent pieces of beam flying with it. I tried
to shoot once more as it hit the floor, But
before I could even so much as take another step,
it slammed its arm into my weapon and shattered it
clean in half. The guards shouted behind me. The monster
rammed into him and knocked him against the back wall.
Then it disappeared through the open door in a blur
of limbs. I stood there, holding the ruined half of
my shotgun, my arms shaking, lungs heaving. Get the kids
to the bus, I shouted, turning toward the guard. Now move.
He stumbled up, paled and wide eyed, but he nodded.
We yanked open the rest of the doors and started
dragging everyone awake. Anyone who asked what was going on
got told to move on. Some listened, some hesitated. I
shoved them forward. Screaming started in the distance, not children, adults,
someone farther in the camp, in a separate spot. I
turned toward it, but didn't move. I couldn't go. If
I left now, even to try and stop it, the
kids would be put in danger. Keep them moving, I
told the guard, Get them to the damn boss. I'll
follow go. I stayed behind them, waiting for it to
show again. The only thing I had now was my
nine millimeter. Nothing worth using, but I had to try.
The bus came to life, cutting through the noise of
crying children and panicked adults. The last few teachers climbed on,
pushing kids down the aisle. I looked out toward the
woods once more. The trees were quiet, and somehow that
was worse. I boarded last, and the door slammed shut
behind me. The guards sat in the driver's seat, white
knuckled on the wheel, eyes flicking between the road and
the mirrors. Awoke the aisle, gun drawn, scanning every window.
The bus groaned as it moved forward. I felt each
shift in the tires, every bump of dirt and gravel.
We got back on the road and kept moving at
a steady pace. I was near the back of the bus,
facing the left side, and suddenly, through the trees there
was movement. It was running, keeping up with the bus.
Its gate was off. One arm hung the limp at
his side, still dragging the arm I'd hit with a shotgun.
The other clawed forward with each leap, digging through brush,
flinging it behind. Its face was set forward, mouth open,
eyes locked onto the vehicle. I shouted toward the front faster, go,
don't slow down. The trees gave way to the slope
that led down toward the bridge. I could feel the
edge of it coming. It jumped. The impact shook the
entire frame. The roof blowed inward, and metal popped near
the rear. Kids screamed in every direction. The bus tilted
for a moment before rocking back into balance. Something's on
the roof. There's something on the roof, the guard shouted.
He slammed the brakes for a second, but the whole
chassis veered, wheels catching the edge of the bridge. We
can't swerve, I barked, Keep it straight and we're never
going over. The buss started to shake again. The weight
shifted from front to back as the creature moved. You
could hear the metal strain with every step it took
across the roof. In a split second, a massive claw
tore through the ceiling above the driver's seat, ripping down
clean to the thin steel. The guard didn't even have
time to scream. The strike came fast, and his head
separated from his shoulders in a clean diagonal motion. His
body twitched once, then slumped sideways, arm locked against the wheel.
The bus tilted hard to the right. Then it flipped.
Metal tore against pavement. Screams drowned everything. The lights inside
cut out, and my body slammed into the back seat
in front of me. I remember the sound of windows shattering,
a screech of steel folding, and the wet thump of
bodies hitting the walls. We slid to a stop. Smoke
seeped in from somewhere behind me. I was on my side,
face mashed against the wall, and my vision blurred. I
heard screaming, but not from inside. Through the cracked windshields
and side panels, I could see it. Its arms had
wrapped through part of the roof's metal lattice, caught in
the bend. Its legs thrashed against the air, claws tearing
through the breeze, searching for traction. It was still attached
to the bus with its arm. Its other useless arm
was dangling in the air outside. Its weight was pulling
the whole vehicle forward. The bus had stopped on the
slope near the drop. The concrete barrier outside was cracked
and sunken. If it tipped, we'd go over. The monster
screamed again, voice roar and furious, spit raining down through
the cracks. Every time it flailed, the nose of the
bus dipped a little further down toward the edge. I
pushed myself up, head swimming. If it kept pulling, the
bus was going into the river, and we'd go with it.
I grabbed my pistol from beside me and moved toward
the front. Every inch I crawled made the bus shift.
The people around me were mostly unconscious, but were slowly
stirring awake, causing the bus to list even more. I
pressed my shoulder to the wall and used the seats
to guide myself forward. The smoke inside the cabin had thickened.
The pistol up at an angle from the side of
one of the cracked windows. Aims sent a mass and
pulled the trigger until the slide locked back. Countless rounds
punched through it screamed, head snapping back once, but didn't fall.
It was completely stuck. I dropped the gun. It was
useless now. I looked around for anything I could do
or use. The shattered plastic and hanging wire offered nothing.
I looked at the front panel by the windshield. There
was a fire axe mounted. The bus was old, so
old that it still had a fire axe. The glass
over the case had already been cracked from the impact.
I slammed my elbow into it and broke through. My
fingers wrapped around the handle, and I yanked it free.
The blade looked older than me, but it was solid.
I didn't have time to second guess. I crawled the
last few feet, pushing through snap sat supports and shattered glass.
The closer I got, the more it thrashed. Its body
was angled down now, and it had made progress in
its thrashing. But I needed to send it down for good.
I brought the axe down. The first strike sank into
the muscle above its wrist. It screamed and flailed maniacally
enough to tear across my forearm. Warm blood poured from
the cut. I didn't stop. I raised the axe again
and brought it down where the elbow had bent backward
into the metal. The joint cracked, it loosened. I hit
again and again. The tendon finally snapped. The rest of
the body fell free, but the mangled arm stayed stuck.
The monster dropped away, screaming claws raking empty air, then
vanished into the dark gorge below. The scream echoed for
a few seconds, then cut off. The bus groaned again
and shifted. We needed to get out of there fast.
For a moment, no one moved. A teacher near the
middle broke the silence and began yelling for everyone to
stay calm and get out as soon as possible. I
limped back along the floor, holding the cut across my
arm with my palm to stop the bleeding. I helped
the nearest ones get out first, guided them through the
back panel as it opened. Other adults took over from there,
ushering the kids onto the road and away from the bus.
Smoke still clung to everything. My vision blurred from the
blood loss and the ringing in my ears. I could
barely feel my legs. Once everyone was off, I lowered
myself down from the rear of the bus. I remember
stepping onto the pavement, still carrying the axe, and standing
there without saying anything while the kids hulded together behind me.
Everyone was covered in ash and blood and smoke, but
we were alive. The bus led out a low groan.
Something inside popped. The weight had shifted again, its front
tilted toward the edge, the left side pulling down first.
I yelled for everyone to back up. The whole thing
tipped off the edge and slid forward. Tires scraped once
against the concrete, and it dropped. Red lights flickered between
the trees as the first cruiser appeared from the main road.
Then two more ambulance headlights swept the edge of the woods.
They finally came a blur of boots and flight lashlights
closed in. Radio is buzzing, Paramedics builed out, stretchers, officers
fanned out. I watched all of it as if I
were stuck in a tunnel. One of them called out
my name, Jesus Dneley. What the hell happened? It was Jameson,
someone I knew. He took one look at me, then
grabbed my shoulder and started leading me back toward the perimeter.
Come on, sit down, you're bleeding. You're out on your feet.
I didn't argue. I followed him to the back of
a cruiser, where a paramedic opened a kit and started
cleaning the cuts across my arm. Everything stung, but it
didn't matter. The paramedic asked something, but I didn't answer.
Then another medic approached through the clipboard. We need to
know where the first body is the one you radioed
in at the original crash. You said one fatality. I
nodded where Jameson touched my arm. You said there was
a wrecked car. Yeah, I said, My throat was dry
in the forest back on the shoulder, near the main trail.
It's not too far out. They helped me into the
cruiser and drove me down. He passed the broken fence
and came up to where the Toyota had hit the tree.
Two medics got out and moved toward the rear of
the vehicle. I stayed behind, leaning on the open door.
Then one of them turned back and called to me,
there's no one back here. I stood up straighter. What
he motioned again, there's blood, but there's no body. We
walked toward them, looked through the window myself. The back
seat was soaked, you could still see the pattern where
the blood had dried, pulled down to the floor mat.
The seat belt was stained red and stiff. But the
body wasn't there. Not a single bone, not a piece
of fabric, not a trace. I stepped back blinking. Jamison
stood next to me. Was he dead when you saw him? Yeah?
I said, Could he have moved? No? I loked past
the car into the trees behind the clearing. A question
rang in my head at that moment. Was it not
the only one? The ground out past the willow pulsed.
I remember how the moss peeled back to show what
looked to be a gray, pink veiny pit, which was
slick like raw flesh. I was just a boy, maybe seven,
chasing a rabbit through the wet grass. It wasn't mine,
or at least I don't remember having one. The rabbit
ran ahead, and before I could call it back, it
slipped on the moss and tumbled forward. There was a wet,
tearing sound, and it disappeared down into the pulsing pit.
I remember the way the moss fell back over the
hole like closing lips, and I ran back to the
house screaming. For years, i'd wake up in the middle
of the night, sweating through my sheets, that same nightmare
keeping me from a good night's sleep. When I called Rufe,
I was sitting in the server room watting the reflection
of the fluorescent lights pulls in my coffee. I let
the phone buzz out on the desk. She was my
nearest neighbor growing up. She lived half a mile down
the track and always brought casseroles over. When Mom passed.
I remember that she kept an eyeing me when Dad
got too rough. I'd been ignoring calls from home for years.
I'd blocked my dad after I'd answered to him yelling
about leaving him with a broken tractor and no one
to fix it. I'd been dodging her calls lately, too.
Credit card bills were doubling before I could pay them back.
My rent kept jumping each year, and I didn't have
it in me to lie and say I was fine.
I didn't want to hear the worry in her voice.
I never missed the farm each day before school. Dad
used to wake me up before dawn to hold feed
sacks almost bigger than me. He'd call me useless and
slapped me hard across the back of my head when
I dropped one or spilled grain across the barn floor.
I hated smelling like a farm. At school, the other
kids would wrinkle their noses and call me pig boy.
They'd shoved me in the halls too, and when I
told Dad, he said, maybe if I wasn't so soft
like Mum, they wouldn't. I remember once I asked him
why he never came to my school assemblies, and he
just looked at me and said what for, before walking away.
Another time, when I was about twelve, I spilled a
bucket of pig slop on the feed room floor and
he dragged me outside of the collar, slammed me up
against the grain silas so hard I saw stars, and
left me there in the frost till Ruth spotted me
during one of the walks. I spent years saving at
what little I could from doing odd jobs around the village.
I'd help old mister Keanes it would, and mock out
Ruth's chicken sheds for a fiver here and there, but
I never managed to save up enough money. As soon
as I was old enough, I took out a credit card,
packed my clothes in a bin bag, and caught the
first coach to the city. I caught myself a job
stocking shelves at a supermarket. I never touched the computer
back home, but at the supermarket they put me in
their tills for a while, and I picked up how
to fix the barcode scanner when it jammed, or reset
the till when they crashed. One of the supervisors noticed
I was quick with it, and showed me how to
do basic trouble shooting on the back office computer. I
realized I was good at it. For the first time,
I felt like maybe I wasn't useless after all, like
maybe Dad was wrong about me. Ruth left a voicemail.
Her voice was soft but tight, like she'd been crying.
She said, my dad was sick, worse than before, and
he couldn't keep up with the live stock or the
fencing repairs. She didn't ask me to come home, but
she said he needed help and there wasn't any one
who liked him enough to do it. I sat there
listening to it play out, feeling that old fear crawl
up in my chest. I was a grown man now,
twice as strong as i'd been back then, but par
to me still felt small just hearing his name. I
remembered one morning when I was eight or nine, crying
in the kitchen because Dad had called me useless again.
Mom crouched down in front of me, her hands still
smelling of dish soap, and she said, your dad's a
hard worker, love, it's tiring him out. Sometimes we help
people even when they don't deserve it. That's what makes
you better than them. It didn't make sense to me
when I was younger, but even though I understood it
in my adulthood, it didn't mean I believed it. Mom's
death left a gap in the house I was never
allowed to speak about. The last memory I have of
her was that morning her hair was tied back with
a red ribbon and she handed me toast. As I
pulled my boots on for school, she kissed the top
of my head and told me to listen to the
teachers and come straight home. When I got back, Dad
said she fell from the hayloft, all checking for owl
nests and broken neck on the old feed bin. He
didn't wait for me and buried her himself. On the
opposite side of the land from the barns, near the
poplar grove. He put up a small wooden cross with
the name burned into it. I used to guard there
after school, sit with my back against the tree trunk
and tell her about my day. Thinking about going back
made my stomach twist. The resentment was there, thick as ever,
thinking of all those beatings. How he only ever got
meaner after Mom died, But gilt pressed into if I
didn't go. Who else would help him? Ruth was right,
there wasn't any one else who he hadn't burned bridges with.
I took my old hatchback. I bought a Facebook market
place for cheap and packed it with my belongings and
a flask of instant coffee for the drive. As I
got closer to home, the road narrowed, hedge rows overgrown
and clawing at the paint work. The village sign was
rusted through at the bottom, leaning sideways into thistle clumps.
My pass shuttered shop fronts with blinds yellowed from the
inside out. The grain silo streaked red brown with rust.
The old farmhouse at the junction, boarded up with the
water to ply that flapped in the wind. It all
felt smaller than I remembered. The drive had been long,
My back was sore from the sagging seat, and I
spent half the time thinking about how I'd pay off
the credit cards now I didn't have an income. I
kept wondering what the place would look like now I
was grown, if the barns would seem small too. Part
of me hoped Dad kept Mum's old boxes in the attic,
even just a box or a Sunday clothes, something left
that still smelled like a soap and wood smoke. My
chest felt tight thinking about stepping back into that kitchen
and seeing him there. When I pulled up, Dad was
out by the porch, sitting on the old paint flake
chair with his flask tucked tight in both hands. He
frowned when he saw me step out of the hatchback
lined deep around his mouth. What are you doing, he shouted,
squinting at me like he wasn't sure I was real.
His voice was thinner than I remembered, rough like gravel.
He set the flask down on the poor trail, his
hand shaking a little as he did. I told him
Ruth called me, and he snorted spat into the dirt,
said he didn't need any charity from city boys with
soft hands. His eyes flickered over me, my jeans, my trainers,
the creases, and my shirt from the drive, and he
curled his lip like it all offended him. I couldn't
help noticing how his shoulders had shrunk into his frame,
how gray his skin looked under the old cap. There
were sun spots across his cheeks and the ridge of
his nose, and a smear of dried blood under one nostril,
like he'd been wiping at it. I thought about how
this was the man who used to lift me one
handed off the ground when he was angry. Now like
a strong wind could knock him sideways. He wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand, eyes flicking away
from mine. Well, he muttered, voice quieter, don't just stand
there gaping. Your bags won't carry themselves in. He pushed
himself up to a stand, hobbled down the porch steps,
and reached for the boot to grab one of my
duffel bags. His fingers trembled on the strap and he
nearly lost balance, catching himself against the car with a grunt.
For a moment, I felt sorry for him, seeing how
old and thin he gone, With the memory of him
dragging me across the yard by the collar flared up sharp,
burning the pity right out of me. I cleared my throat.
You're right there, I asked, trying to keep my voice flat.
He grunted and didn't look at me, still bracing himself
against the door. Don't fuss, grab your crap and get
inside before the flies do the way. His voice shook
under the words made something twist low in my gut,
but I didn't say anything else as I reached for
the rest of my bags. In the days that followed,
mornings came slow, the cold seeping through the thin windows.
Each day blended into the next, and it was over
the course of a week that these small changes built
between us. The first morning I caught him in the kitchen,
hunched over his mug, fighting with his shirt buttons, knuckles
swollen and spotted with age. I reached over without saying anything,
and fastened the last button for him. He grunted like
it annoyed him, but he didn't pull away. He muttered
city boys got soft hands, but clever things, and it
almost sounded like affection. By the fourth and fifth day,
we spent mornings along the rye Field fence. He showed
me how to wedge the crowbar under the rotted post
without splitting it, his wrinkled hands guiding mine, and for
a moment I felt like a kid again, looking up
to him before everything went bad, I found myself wondering
why he had been so cool back then. Was it
the stress of losing Mom, the endless debt and failing crops,
or was that just who he was, and now age
made him softer. When the tract ranged him back fired,
he flinched so hard he dropped the spanner, and then
he barked out a warm laugh. It was the first
time I'd heard that sound from him since I was
very young. I laughed too, and for a second I
saw him the way I had wanted to as a boy,
just my dad, not the man who bruised my ribs
when I spilled pig feed. That evening, as the day
settled in, he walked down the line of the new
posts I tamped in, testing each one with his boot.
Good job, he said, quiet, almost embarrassed. Didn't think you'd
get them line proper. His words settled into my chest,
heavy and warm, something close to pride curling low in
my gut. As the sun bled down past the barn roof,
he stared out towards the hollow, squinting at the shadows
pooling at its edge. Ye're stronger than I thought. His
voice cracked a little. The next week rolled on the same,
each day aching more than the last. I learned how
to split fence rails without wasting half the splinters. Had
to bull a stubborn car from a cramped pen without
getting kicked. My hands blistered in the first two days,
and by day three the skin peeled off in strips.
Every morning I woke with my back stiff and my
arm's throbbing, but I kept going, feeling something heavy and
guilty settle in my chest. I thought about how Dad
must have been doing all this alone for years after
I left, and it made my stomach groan with shame.
The work was harder than I ever imagined, and each
time I caught him watching me, his eyes clouded but proud,
it made me want to do more. I started picking
up extra chores without himsking fixing a chammed water pump,
and oiling the barn hinges before they squealed themselves off
the nails. Each chaw made my back ache and my
palms raw, but also gave me a sense of purpose
I hadn't felt in years. I found myself wanting to
prove to him I wasn't useless. Some mornings, as we
ate breakfast in silence, I'd catch him glancing at me
from under his brow, and I thought maybe he was
starting to see me as more than a boy who
ran away. But that old nightmare started coming back too.
I got used to sleeping right through the night when
I moved away. Maybe it was being back in my
old room and the smell of haydus and old varnish
seeping from the floorboards that let it crawl back in. Now,
every couple of nights, i'd wake up gasping, hard hammering,
and the sheets clamming with sweat. In the dream, I
was small again, feet sinking into wet grass, watching the
ground past the willow ripple and pulse like a throat.
The mass peeled back to show that graping flesh underneath
fained and slick, twitch with a life of its own.
I'd see the rabbits skit a forward here, its yelps
before it slipped and fell in, followed by their wet,
tearing sound that still makes my stomach clench just thinking
of it. I couldn't help but wonder why the dream
came back. As time passed, I noticed that every other
day my dad would hobble out to the pens and
tie a rope around a goat's neck, and he'd lead it,
quiet and bleating past the rye field toward the marshland.
He'd come back alone, wiping his hands on his jeans,
his face pale and eyes distant. The first time I
asked where he went, he snapped at me sharp, not
your business. But then he sighed and his shoulders slumped.
It's just old farm work. You wouldn't understand, he said,
his voice tired, almost kind. Let your old man take
care of the land. There was something in his eyes
that warned me off. I thought maybe he was culling them,
or selling to some neighbor. I didn't know, but the
way he shut down any question made me not one
to know. It was easier not to know. I couldn't
shake the feeling that maybe my nightmare wasn't just a
nightmare at all. Maybe it was something I saw once,
and my mind buried it because thinking about it too
long made me feel sick. The next time he went
to fetch a goat, I saw how his hands shook.
It was so bad the rope nearly slipped through his grip.
His face was gray, lips dry and cracked, and sweat
clung to the wisps of hair at his temple. I
put down the spanner I was using to fix the
tractor panel and said, here, let me take it out
for you to day. He paused, shoulders trembling as he
caught his breath, and his eyes flicked up at me,
dull and wet, like he was fighting something inside. No,
he said, voice low but shaking. You go fix that
south gate hinge instead, leave this to me. He tried
to stand up straighter, but winced, gripping the ropes so
tight his knuckles went white. For a second, I thought
he might collapse right there. I watched him shuffle off
across the field, the goat trailing behind him, but I listened,
and once I finished bolting the tractor panel, I headed
for the south gate. The hinge wasn't even loose, just
a bit rusted, so I oiled it and kicked it
shut the check. As I turned to walk back, I
saw the goat wandering free near the fence line, rope
still hanging from its neck. He lifted its head to
bleat at me, but I was already sprinting past it,
boots thudding on the dirt, the ground getting softer as
I reached the marsh edge. The grass there felt spongy underfoot,
damp moss pulling at my souls. As I scanned the
land frantically, I spotted him crumpled in the mud near
the cattails. His shirt pulled half out of his jeans,
like he'd fallen hard. His chest rose and fell in short,
shallow jerks, eyes half open. His body felt so light
when I lifted him, like picking up a sack of
feed too long left out to dry. His skin was clammy.
His breath rattled against my neck as I carried him
back towards the house. I felt sorry for him, then
truly sorry, and hated myself for it. He felt so
small in my arms. I laid him down on the
old brown arm chair by the window, the one with
a stuffing coming out of the arm rest, and pressed
the damp cloth to his forehead. It took nearly twenty
minutes for his eyes the focus properly. He gripped my
wrist weakly, his palm cold and thin skinned, and muttered
for water. After he drank, his head sank back against
the worn cushion. My time is nearly over, boy, he rasped,
staring past me at the ceiling. It's time you knew
about the land. He swallowed, his throat clicking dryly. Back
when you were little, before your mum. His eyes drifted
shut and for a moment I thought he'd fallen asleep.
But then he drew a shuddering breath. The lens started failing,
crops rotted in the rose, couldn't keep the feed barley
from mold. Even the hens stopped laying. Your Mum and I.
We fought a lot, then money, god, everything. He coughed weakly,
and his lip trembled. I tried everything, boy, fertilizas, burning
off top soil, praying. Nothing took. Then one day you
came and screaming about the rabbit. You were white as milk,
couldn't get the words out right. You said the earth
swallowed him up. I thought you were lying. But later
that evening I went out there past the willow. I
saw it. The mass all peeled back, the flesh underneath veined,
pulsing like something alive. He paused, staring through me. After
it ate the rabbit, the cell field came up green again,
peas like fists. I didn't think much of it until
a week later, when the leaves yellowed overnight, and I
thought maybe he needed feeding again. So I took an
old billy goat, slit his throat right over that hole
and threw it in his voice, cracked apathetic, thin sound.
The next day the wheat stood tall, barley heads thick.
The lamb came back to life. And that's how it's been.
The land feeds us. We feed it, Yo, mom, She
didn't understand. His fingers loosened around my wrist as his
breathing ease, the shallow rattle's eyes closing, mouth slah. He
stayed quiet for a long minute, eye is half shut,
then his brow pinched. I tried other things, you know,
he muttered voice. Horse rode, kill, rotted, hard carcasses, dead
crows I found in the yard. Thought if he wanted meat,
it wouldn't matter. But every time I feted something old,
the lanterned, sour crops came up yellow, the barley rotted
in the head. It needs fresh blood, boy warm, just
killed or still kicking. The first time I realized that
was when a calf was born, twisted with its cuts
half out. I didn't want it to suffer, so I
slit his throat out by the marsh and threw it in.
The Next day, the cloverfield came up thick as wool.
That's how I knew it isn't just any meat. It's
got to be alive or near enough. That's how it works.
His eyes rolled back, and his chest fluttered like a
trapped bird under his ribs. I sat there watching him,
that awful pulse of pity in disgust, throbbing under my ribs.
He swallowed again, eyes looking open just enough to meet mine.
You'll need to keep it fed, now, he whispered. Hearing
him say it like that made my mouth go dry.
All those years thinking it was just a nightmare, but
it wasn't. I really did have a rabbit. I could
see its scruffy ears in my mind, the way it
used to roll on his back, so I'd scratched its belly.
It wasn't just some blur from sleep. It was real,
and he died, swallowed up by some sort of flesh bit.
My chest hurt thinking about it, thinking about how it
suffered from the horrific nightmare, over and over again. And
my dad never said a word, just told me to
stop sniveling over nightmares. Tears burned in my eyes. He coughed,
wet and shallow, and swallowed hard. It's your job, now,
he said, voice rasping like gravel. His eyes flicked a
mine and softened for a moment, like there was still
a farther in there, somewhere. You're ready. I wouldn't ask
if you weren't. He closed his eyes again, his head
rolling to the side, but his chest kept rising and falling,
each breath, thin and ragged. I sat there for a while,
taking it all in, feeling my chest tight and my
hands numb. Before I stood up, I grabbed my coat
from the peg and stepped outside. The evening air cool
against my face. The fields were quiet, a few crows
picking at old straw bales. I spotted the goat wandering
near the ripe fence line, rope trailing behind it through
the mud. It lifted its head when it saw me coming,
bleated low and tried to step away, but its legs
sank in the churned up soil. My hands shook as
I untangled the rope from around its hearts as I
started walking it toward the marshland. When I reached the
edge of the marsh, I could smell the pit before
I could see it. The goat snorted and pulled back
against the rope, hoof skidding in the moss, ears flicking
back at the stink. But I yanked it closer. It
wasn't gray pink like I remembered. It was darker, now
streaked with a deep red brown. Folds of flesh ridged
like the inside of a gut. Thick yellowish lime wept
from its seams, pulling into the mud below. The center
of it dipped inward, twitching with slow pulses. The smell
hit me so hard I gagged. I stood there with
the goat shifting nervously beside me, the rope rough in
my grip. I thought about Dad's eyes when he told
me I was ready. That stupid flicker of pride in
my chest burnt through the fear. My hands were trembling
so hard I could barely loosen the rope. I slipped
it off and grabbed the goat by its back legs,
feeling its weight strained my arms. It bleated, and I
didn't have it in me to slit its throat. I couldn't,
so I just heaved it forward, flinching as its head
struck the fleshy rim. The whole pit convulsed, folds rippling
outwards as it suck. The goat down in one twitch
and gulp, leave nothing behind but the stench of blood
and bile, curling up into the evening air. I watched
the ripples settle and felt my knees go weak. I
turned away, wiping my mouth of the back of my sleeve,
showing the nausea away, But I could still hear that wet,
sucking sound as the goat slipped down and was swallowed.
By morning, the ri stood taller, dark green, and heavy headed.
The calves were born with bright eyes and strong legs,
the clover thick under their hoofs. Dad noticed it too,
He relaxed more, letting me take over the work. Unfortunately,
he only got sicker and he started sleeping longer. My
arms thickened and my back grew stronger under the strain.
Each night, as I washed the dirt off in the
cracked basin, I saw someone I almost respected looking back
at me that often watched me work from his chair
on the porch, his eyes softer now, his voice calmer
when he spoke. Some nights he'd tell me about the
farm when I was small, like how I used to
fall asleep in the hayloft with a bug propped on
my chest, And he'd smile a little when he said it,
like he actually loved me. Back. Then, as I settled
him in with his mug of warm milk, it reached
out and squeezed my wrist, and I could almost believe
this was how it was always meant to be. In
the weeks after, I kept feeding at things like chickens
that stopped lying, lambs born too weak to stand. One
damp morning, while hauling a freshly dead ewe across the
slick ground, my foot slid out from under me and
I toppled forward. My hands slapped down hard on the flesh, rim,
slick and hot, and I gagged at the texture. I
pushed myself up fast, but something half buried in the
slime caught my eye. Matted down under a thick yellow
smear was a scrap of cloth. I reached out with
shaking fingers and pulled it free. When I rubbed awa
a slime with my thumb, I saw the red shine through.
My chest went tight. My body recognized in the material
before my brain had a chance to It was a
piece of the bow Mom wore in her hair the
morning I last saw her. For a moment, the smell
of rot faded, and all I could hear was a
laugh echoing in my memory. Before It twisted into that pulsing,
sucking sound beneath me, and the world tilted sideways under me.
My hand shook as I clenched the ribbon in my fist.
The anger bubbled up sharp in my chest. But under
it was dread, confusion, grief, all twisted together. I thought
about the grave by the poplar grove, the little cross
he had carved the name into. My throat felt tight.
I stumbled back to the tool shed, grabbed the shovel
of its rusty hook, and trudged out past the fence
lines to her grave. The ground was hard from weeks
of sun, but I dug anyway, sweat dripping into my eyes,
dirt caking my arms. I dug until the shovel hit
nothing but dry earth below. There were no bones or
calf in. The anger built up heart behind my eyes,
and I've had my teeth clenched so tight my jaw ached.
All those years of being called useless, all those bruises,
and the fear and the small kindnesses that never made
up for it. I felt the rage burn up through
my chest, molten and unstoppable. He murdered her, He murdered
my mom. The bow was warm in my grip from
my sweaty, shaking hand. As I stormed back to the house,
the door slammed open against the peeling wall. He was
in his chair, the old TV flickering shadows across his face,
eyes glazed and distant. He looked up, slow, blinking at me,
like I'd woken him from a dream. I held the
soiled ribbon out, my voice trembling with fury. I know
what you did, I boomed, I know you killed her.
Why why the hell would you do that? He looked
at the bow in my hand, then back up at me,
eyes tired and hollow. He led her a long, ragged
sigh and slumped deeper into the chair. We were running out,
he rasped, his voice, like dry gravel. No cows left,
barely any sheep. Your mom. She wouldn't let me take
the horses. She kept praying, thinking God would fix it.
But the crops were rotting, the bank was calling every week.
We were finished. I stared at him, heart pounding so
hard in heart. She didn't understand, he wrote, eyes going glassy.
She said, would leave, sell the place for this land.
It's in my blood, my father's, his father's before him.
I couldn't just let it die. She said, I was
losing my mind, that it was just rot, just bad weather,
nothing to do with the land. Wanting blood, she said,
she was taking you and leaving. She said she call
the police if I tried to stop her. His breathing
grew shallow, rattling in his chest. I didn't plan it,
he whispered. I couldn't. I couldn't let to take everything.
I pushed her. She was standing near the loft opening,
yelling at me. She stumbled back, slipped right through, fell
down onto the feed bin, broke a neck. I thought
if the pit took her, maybe it would fix the barley,
the mold, the animals starving in their pens. So I
dragged her out there. He blinked, tears streaking down his
stubbled cheeks. She would have forgiven me, he muttered. She
always forgave me. Something inside me snapped. My vision went
hot and dark. I took a step forward, My breath ragged. No,
I spat, voice sharp enough to cut glass. That's a lie,
he flinched. You don't understand, he said, voice cracking, as
if he was arguing with himself just as much as me.
This farm was all I had left. This land has
always been my life. If I lost it, what was
left for me nothing? The anger in me boiled over,
then furious and cruel, I grabbed his wrist, pulling him
upright despite his protests, feeling how frail and light had become.
You murdered her, You murdered everything good that was left.
I grabbed his wrist. His skin felt thin. He gasped
as I yanked him upright. His legs buckled, nearly dropping
him back into the chair, but I held him up,
feeling how light it had become. And now you want
me to keep feeling this nightmare like it's some family duty.
My voice rose sharp with disgust. Fine feed it. He
shook his head weakly, tears dripping from his chin. Don't
don't do this, lad, he wheezed. I began pulling him
towards the door. There was a slight resistance, but nothing
I couldn't overpower. He stumbled, legs barely holding him up,
and when we reached the porch steps, he lost his footing,
collapsing hard onto the rough wood. I dragged him down
the stairs, skin scraping against splintered planks. He groaned in pain.
While gasping to catch his breath. But I kept going,
dragging him through the mud, his worn shoes leaving smears
in the soil. As he tried to push against the
ground and free himself from my grip. He twisted and strained,
a broken thing fighting a losing battle. But I had
no mercy. The cold marsh air bit to my face
as we neared the pit, and I could feel his
ragged breaths hitched with panic. His eyes met mine, pleading
and wild. For the fury that fueled me was a
tie too strong to hold back. Why, I shouted as
I dragged him forward, Why did you hate me so
much after she was gone? Was it guilt or just
the land telling you what to do? His eyes flicked
up to me, wide and glistening with tears. I don't know,
he whispered, voice breaking like snap twigs. I don't know.
We reached the pit, the ground soggy beneath my boots,
soft and slippy. The pit waited there, that sick pole,
steady beneath the surface. He leaned on me, fragile and worn.
I hauled him upright one last time. He tremed my grasp,
his body weak and brittle. His skin was pale and clammy,
vein standing out like dark cords beneath a thin flesh
of his hands. He gasped, struggling for breath, a rattling
wheeze that tore through the stillness. His eyes flickered wild
and pleading, filled with a desperate, fading life. I shoock muscles,
tight with fury. Please, he whispered, trembling in my grip,
and voice ragged, Hi am your father. I locked him
in the eye, voice cold and hard. What did mom say?
Did she beg you too? Did he give her any mercy?
He tried to look away, but I tightened my grip,
forcing him to meet my eyes. Tears whirled, mixing with
snot as his shoulders heaved in silent sobs. No, he sputtered.
The word was so small, so final, She deserved so
much more. I shoved him forward. He stumbled, caught for
half a second on the fleshy rim, then slipped into
the pit. It clung to him, dragging him down inch
by inch. His arms flailed, nails scraping uselessly at the
veined walls as the pit swallowed him whole with a wet,
socking sound. The folds quivered, then sealed over in silence,
and it was at that moment I realized I was
more like my father than I ever thought