When its your last

What is it about death that strikes fear into the hearts of men? Is it knowing that you end? Is it knowing that everything you left unfinished will stay just that, unfinished? Or could it be that people are afraid of change? Is it that people are so afraid of what may or may not come next, that they fear the very channel to get from here to a possible there. Death can creep up on you, it can come out of nowhere striking at any moment. It is everywhere and nowhere, it’s the nightmares that stay in the corners of your eye, never fully visible but you still see them in your peripherals. The scariest thing about death though, is not ending, its knowing if you did life right or not. Did you live it to the fullest, or did you take it for granted. Did you live life like each day...was your last?


7:50 AM, August 9th, 1945

The morning was shattered by the piercing sound of the air raid horns. Everyone scrambled out of their beds, preparing to leave. They were living in dangerous times. There had been rumors. Rumors of an entire city destroyed in seconds. Rumors of thousands upon thousands dying. But they were just that, rumors. Time moved by slowly, people still wondering when the bombs would be dropped. And just like that, forty minutes later, the all clear was given. People returned to their semi-normal lives, living in their semi-normal town. Realizing that the town was not obliterated, the people of this town decided to return to work. It was a port side town, with so many industrialized businesses it was a shock that the town wasn’t bigger. With a mere 263,000 people living there, it wasn’t quiet qualified to be considered much more than a large town or small city. But it was important. With its many industrial factories, they were able to pump out ships, weapons and other important equipment that would support the war effort. One such factory was run by a man named Tazuna Izumi. He started it at a young age, not expecting it to really go anywhere. And now, fourteen years later Tazuna’s factory had become a major help. He used to have his workers build the skeletons to use for boats, but the time for boats was over. He was organizing the building of tanks and jeeps. War had made a business man out of Tazuna. He was well respected by his workers, mostly for the fact that unlike other bosses, Tazuna would get down with them and work his manicured hands to a black and greasy pulp. He would help them and show them that he deserved their respect. And they followed him. He would work late into the night and came in earlier than he should. This was great for the business man Tazuna... but for the family man it had put a strain. His wife was tired of him coming home exhausted late in the night, tired of waking up in the mornings to find the bed empty. His son... well the strain of not having a father figure in his life, one that he could actually look up to other than having just the name, had changed him for worse. But he couldn’t think of them, he couldn’t think of personal affairs. Not now. Not when the emperor needs as much as possible. He settled down in his office to work.

10:53 AM August 9th, 1945
Tatsuya Izumi shuffled out of the house, his mothers’ words ringing in his ears.
“Show respect for your elders, for your father” She shouted.
“Why should I respect someone who is never here? He may be my father by birth, but not by right.” He had almost shouted back, but he bit his tongue. He kept quiet. Not for fear of his ancestors, but to keep his mother from being under too much stress. That’s all he had been doing for the past couple of months. Since his father had begun working at the factory more and more he had to take responsibility for the family, for his mother. By assuming this role at such a young age, being only 14, he developed thoughts in his head that no teen should be thinking. Thoughts of defying his parents, rebelling against their authority. He wasn’t afraid of disrespecting his ancestors, unlike his peers. Him being thrust into a role of responsibility numbed his feelings towards all of the old superstitions that kept kids in line.
“Why the hell should I care what they think?” Tatsuya thought bitterly. “They don’t control me, they can’t.” He walked down the city street, factories and houses built side by side. The town hadn’t really been planned; it sort of just sprung up. There were no defined zones of industrial or residential. If you had the land, you could do as you pleased. He walked down this haphazard road. “Its just so stupid... its all stupid” He thought. He tried to remember a time when he was happy with his family, happy to be alive. All he could remember were the countless hours of practicing with his abacus, the many times his father was gone and the expectations he had to live up to. Not a single happy thought could cross his mind.

11:00 AM August 9th, 1945
Arisu Izumi paced around the small room in the wooden house. The walls were paper thin, as was custom in their country. She looked at the clock on the wall.
“He should be here,” She thought “Tatsuya is out, and Tazuna is at work as usual. So where the hell is he?” He was the young messenger that worked for Tazuna factories. He also was her lover. When she first married Tazuna so many years ago, she loved him. She loved the idea that he represented, the traditional life and she was honored to be a part of that. But seventeen years later, the marriage had become stagnant. The time spent apart from each other had ruined what little was left. They lived in the same home, but they saw very little of each other. What ever honor that had come with being a house wife to a factory owner was lost. She had become confused, lost and above all else, lonely. She began refusing to go out, preferring the cool darkness of her bedroom. Then, with a knock on the door, he came into her life. Daisuke Nakamura was his name. He was delivering a package for her husband. She invited him in for a cup of tea, and he accepted. They began seeing each other as friends and for several weeks she had brightened up considerably. Then, two weeks ago, they began seeing each other as not only friends. Arisu knew it was wrong, knew she was disrespecting her husband, her elders, her very name. But it felt so right. Arisu wrapped in Daisuke’s arms, his lips intertwining with hers, it all felt too surreal and so different. But she loved Tazuna, she couldn’t deny that. But remembering Daisuke’s embrace, remembering his body near hers, she thought,
“Fuck Tazuna, screw honor and the traditions. Its time to not just be Tazuna’s wife, but Arisu.”
She stopped pacing the room, shocked at her own brazen words that went against everything that she was raised on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The stage was set. The business man who cared more about his beloved emperor and factory than his own family, the rebellious teenager who could care less about respecting his elders and cannot remember a day he was happy, and finally the adulterous wife who was fed up with her husband, fed up with her way of life, and just fed up. Each one took life with its joys and hardships, for granted.

11:01 AM August 9th, 1945

Tazuna sat in his office, papers cluttering every inch of his desk. It was going to another late night. Tatsuya walked down the road, wondering what was next, wondering if he would ever have that happy moment he longed for. Arisu stopped pacing, the doorknob turning.

11:01 and 43 seconds AM August 9th, 1945
The Bockscar flew away from the city fearing the worst as the bomb, codenamed “The Fat Man Weapon” detonated. The resulting explosion was only rivaled by that of its sister, which had been dropped on Hiroshima only three days before. Spreading from the hypocenter, an invisible barrier blew through Nagasaki. Winds registering 624 mph knocked down the flimsy wooden homes that most of the residents of the city lived in. Temperatures reaching 7000 degrees Fahrenheit obliterated any evidence of human life existing in the city. When it was over, 80,000 of the cities original 263,000 people were killed instantly and another 60,000 were injured. This does not account for the thousands of lives that were lost years after due to radiation poisoning. It was like a graveyard, without a single tombstone standing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What is it about death that strikes fear into the hearts of men? How can you answer that fully? It was befitting, the end of these three people. Everything they could have done, gone. The business man cremated in his office, the rebellious teen obliterated off the earth while thinking about his future, and the adulterous wife vaporized alongside her lover. All of them afraid to end. But they forgot a major premise behind death. The scariest thing about death is not ending. Its knowing whether you live life right. They forgot to ask themselves, Did I live each day, like it was my last?

The Sandman

You know me as I know you.
I visit you before you lay your head down
Drizzle sand into your eyes; to dream.
Dreams seamless like the vast openness
Of space.
What is real? What is not real?
Becomes blurred; running away
Like chalk in a sunstorm.
Sun spots, the roar of a cosmic
Wind that shuffles cosmic
Leaves and blows away worlds
Like dust in a storm.
Roaring, throwing, blurring,
Blinding your eyes.
You know me as I know you.
I am the sting of sand on your face.
    I am the grit stuck in your hair.
        I am the blood that drips from your open wound,
            Filling up time like air fills the sky.

You think what you dream is new?
    That your imaginary world is your own?

You were born on the intraweb of consciousness.
Flowing through new ideas at speeds you
Cannot comprehend.
You assimilate them, change them. But they are
    NOT your own.
Born of another time, another place
From someone you don’t know.

There is a vast wealth of knowledge
Held in that finite space you call the mind.
Information is stored for centuries; carried
Through time like hand me downs, discarded at birth
But always there.

You were born on it,
You live on it,
    The intraweb of consciousness.

You know me as I know you.
I visit you as you lay down to rest,
    Fill your eyes with dreams.
   
I am just passing through, take no notice
    Of the man with a bag filled with
        Grains of time.
Take no notice;   
    I am neither here nor there,
        Just a shadow hidden
In your thoughts.

I know you as you know me.
    The dreamer of dreams.
        The Sandman.

waking Dead

On the floor was a nurse, her blouse was soaked with blood, chunks of flesh torn from her arms. Arthur stared uncomprehendingly at the body. He dropped to his knees and rushed to her side.
“Are you ok, Hello, Hello??” He stammered, shaking her limp body. Her eyes, open and looking, stared out blankly. Arthur stood up, holding his head in his hands. “Oh god, oh god oh god,” the silent mantra repeating silently in his head. A slow scraping noise came from across the room, from the small dark hallway, the only exit. He strained his eyes in the bitch black room to see what was coming. He could barely make out the figure of a man. Scrape...Scrape...Scrape... Arthur stared at the oncoming figure, “Help,” He called out “Help, Please, sir, I need help over here” His words echoed around the room before drifting off into silence. Scrape...Scrape...Scrape... Neither slowing down or speeding up, the figure continued on. “Hello...?” Arthur squeaked. The figure limped into a beam of moonlight the broken skylight. He gasped seeing the figure in full light. Where his eyes were supposed to be, there were holes, deep gouges into his skull, but no blood seeped out... only this brown bubbly viscous fluid. Its skin hung loose to the bones, pale and gray. “Oh god, oh god, oh god” the mantra continued. The man, for lack of better words, continued forward. Scrape...Scrape...Scrape... Arthur could now see what the sound was, the ragged torn flesh of the mans feet dragged on the floor. It opened its mouth and took in a long breath, a long rattling noise, like wind blowing delicate curtains against sand paper. And then came the exhale, a long inhuman moan that drowned out the mantra, drowned out every thought. It lurched forward. Scrape... Scrape... Scrape... Arthur backed up with each step that it took. He looked around for anything he could use, any weapon. His eyes finally rested upon the dead nurse. Except...she wasn’t so dead anymore...

Children of Light CHPT 1

Here was is the first chapter of a novel I was writing... consider it a tidbit. This may become a scrap project, convince me otherwise if you wish.

Prologue

He stared at the words on the page, nothing seemed right, nothing seemed to fit. He scratched out the paragraph and started again. He wrote furiously for a few minutes, and in those minutes seven pages of ideas were on paper, in practice. Then... then he committed his first mistake. He reread what he had written. “Garbage, Rubbish” He thought, and he threw the papers away and started anew. This is how the next few years would continue, the idea haunted him but he had no good way to put it on paper. He finished a few chapters but then would drop the project for something else, something that didn’t matter as much. His fascination with this storyline, the idea behind it... the very concept, was so engrained into his subconscious, he dreamed of it in his sleep, dreamed of it when he put his head down in class; even though, he never remembered the dreams afterwards. After years of barely remembering, years of wondering what these dreams meant... that was when the world he was writing about became one of its own. Or, what he had thought as a fictional world was revealed to be exactly the opposite.

BOOK 1:

THE BEGINNING

Chapter One

The swirling vortex, a pink purplish void, stood out in the impenetrable darkness that was his dream. It always started out like this, the vortex, the darkness.

“Creator, it is time” A voice called, reverberating around the room. It wasn’t commanding, but it wasn’t pleasant either. “Either save what you have created, or send it to its doom.” He walked forward, towards the tear in space and time, towards the vortex. “You have chosen” The voice said, and then fell quiet. He reached out towards the portal...

“Jonathan!” A voice called from downstairs, “Jonathan get up, you will be late for school!” Jonathan got up groggily, the dream fresh in his mind, the sleep still in his eyes. He slowly put on his clothes and went downstairs. His mom was waiting in the kitchen

“It’s about time you got up, your going to be late, make yourself something to eat.” He grabbed a banana and slowly peeled and ate it. He glanced at the clock, six thirty-five... Minutes to spare before his bus arrived. He grabbed his stuff, a small black backpack and a composition book, and headed towards his Bus Stop. He sat down, and put his back on this brick wall that separated the main road from a house. He opened his composition book and turned past many pages of writing, and many scratched out pages too, and finally rested on the last page of writing. The top of the page said, “Children of Light??” and underneath this, character bios and plot maps. He read what he wrote and ripped the page out and threw it over his shoulder and pulled out a pen. He put the pen tip on the top of the next fresh sheet of paper, and began writing. This was his regular morning routine, read what he had written, and then, rewrite it. Totally absorbed in writing, he didn’t hear the screech of the busses brakes until it was already stopped. He put the notebook away and climbed onboard the bus. The bus driver gave a friendly nod as Jonathan moved to the middle seats of the bus, where his friends were. He looked out the window, thinking about the best way to add interest into the first chapter.

"Jonathan, what’s up?" Jonathan looked around and saw one of his friends in the seat across from him. The kid was tall and skinny for his age. He had spiked up hair, and one of those novelty t-shirts on with the odd sayings like "Silence is golden but duct tape is silver."

"Nothing much Freshie, nothing much." His friend nodded, and looked out the window. The kid really wasn’t a freshman at his school, but ever since his freshman year, Jonathans Sophomore year, he was christened with the name Freshie. At first he didn’t like it, but it eventually stuck. The bus finally made it to school in one piece, bolts creaking under the pressure of the anorexic cheerleaders exiting. Jonathan exited last, Freshie following close behind.

"What I don’t understand, is why don’t you just give up on it? I mean you have been trying for two years." Freshie said as Jonathan walked ahead, barely listening to Freshie, new thoughts and ideas whirling through his mind.

"It’s not that easy Freshie, when you have something that is great, you don’t want to let go." Jonathan said, taking out his locker key. He turned into a hallway and found his locker among the hundreds along the wall, and unlocked it, "You should know that, remember Devon?" Freshie looked away when he mentioned Devon’s name. "Yeah, the same way you couldn’t let go of her, that’s why I can’t let go of this story." He took out a binder and put it into his bag, and locked it again.

"But what happened between me and Devon, that’s totally different...” Freshie began before Jonathan looked at him with an evil glare,

"No, it really isn’t that different. Just like you loved Devon, I love this story, I can’t leave it unfinished." Freshie was quiet. He looked up for a moment as if he was going to say something, but he kept his mouth closed. As Jonathan finished zipping up his bag, the bell rang for first period.

There it was again, that damn Purple Swirling Vortex... In the middle of the empty classroom just floating there like it had always been there, was meant to be there. Today is the day. Jonathan looked around, looking for where the voice came from... but then he realized he hadn’t heard anything out loud, nothing was said aloud. Do not be afraid, I mean no harm. The voice wasn’t coming from the vortex; it was coming from his own mind... Today is...

“...Monday, and we all know that Monday is reading day, so take out your books and silently read.” the Computer teacher said, and just as quickly as he had spoken up, he disappeared. After a few minutes of reading one of the most confusing books he had ever read, he put it down and took out his writers notebook. He started to write on a blank piece of paper but in mid sentence, before his mind could process what he wanted the ending of the sentence to be, Jonathan got the urge to draw. He put his pen to the paper, and his hand flew, gliding over the paper, ink trailing behind it like an extension of his hand. Jonathan moved smoothly but determined each twist of the wrist and flick of the hand meant something. Now, you must understand, Jonathan isn’t an artist. Well, not in the traditional sense. His idea of good drawing is the stick figure characters that he made up in 3^rd grade. But this was different. It seemed like his hand knew exactly where it was meant to go, even if the hands owner had no idea. Soon the paper was covered in ink. In the span of 5 minutes the paper which was barren was now full of design. It was an aerial view of a meadow, the shadow of a castle in the distance. Around the edges weeds crept up, but most seemed benign. But in the center of the drawing was the oddest assortment of people. There were 5 of them, each one seeming to be from a different walk of life. Each one unfamiliar and different... except one, Jonathan himself. Some may think it narcissistic to include himself in a drawing, but he had no control over that, no control as to what he did during those 5 minutes. It was then that Jonathan realized... today was going to be different. And that’s when all hell broke loose.

The classroom was silent, everyone reading a book. There wasn’t a sound to be heard except for the turn of the page and the odd scratch of a pen on paper every now and then. But the silence was broken by a very small and light whining noise. Very few people noticed it, and those who did ignored it or just thought their ears were tricking them or something. But that whining noise increased, pulsating around the room. It was hard not to notice it immediately and even harder to concentrate on something other than the noise. After a minute or so, the whining noise continued to increase in volume, and every few seconds or so a crack that sounded like small forms of lighting could be heard. The class looked around, not sure what to think, what to expect. Jonathan was the first to spot it.

In the center of the classroom, a small dot of light hovered in the air, the whining noise the only indication that it was there. As the whining noise steadily increased, the size of the pinpoint of light increased as well, becoming more defined, more real. People began noticing it, this ball of light hovering in the classroom. Jonathan closed his eyes before looking at it, hoping to god it wasn’t what he thought it was. As most people turned away from the bright light, Jonathan looked directly into it... directly into the harsh purple light that comprised the swirling vortex. Today is the day...

Oh it definitely is.... it definitely is.

Jonathan stared at the light, hardly daring to breathe, hardly daring to think. There in front of him was the object of his fascination, the item that haunted his dreams. Everyone else in the room backed up, squinting in the light.

Thinker of Worlds and drawer of Maps. The beginner and the ender, we call upon you to answer. Send us the child; send us the one who will become. Send us Jonathan.

Jonathan looked around, stunned to hear his name being called from the swirling light.

Come child, and face the history that was written long ago. Come child, and become a man.

Jonathan gulped, feeling the urge to get up, to run at the light. He slowly stood from his chair, the drawing floating towards the floor. He put one foot out, and stepped forward. The closer he got to the vortex, the harder it was to move forward. Foot by foot he went, closer and closer. His classmates called out to him, but none could move, none could stop him. He reached the light, and slowly reached out to the vortex. His fingers lightly brushed up against the light. He felt the world around him stretch and skew, he saw everything turn around and melting before his eyes. In reality this was not happening, this was just how he perceived it. The world did not change, his perception of the world did. He slowly lost focus, the world around him a blur now... and then darkness. Jonathan was once again floating in the nothingness. But he was moving, flying rather, gliding down on an unseen string, one that led him to an undisclosed location, and guiding him towards it. And the nothingness gave way to the world. He saw flashes of green and golden hills, and then hard stone, he passed through it, through the mortar and the holes, through the armory and kitchen. Then he stopped. It took him a moment to find himself, to become re accustomed to normalcy. He looked around, taking in his surroundings. He was in a large cloister, balconies surrounding him. In front of him was a grand chair, and on it sat an older man. He wore blue robes that covered most of his body. His hair was dead white, pulled back in a pony tail. The old man stood, using a jewel encrusted staff to steady himself, and looked at Jonathan.

“Welcome Child. Welcome to Asgar.” The old man stepped down from the area with his throne and walked towards Jonathan, “Welcome to a place where wonderful things happen, Welcome to a world where evil does exist.” He stopped in front of Jonathan, leaning heavily on the staff “I am the High Lord of this City. You may call me Celac. And you, you are Jonathan. Much is known about you from the historic texts. It was written long ago that you would come. That you and four others would come and save us.” Jonathan still stood silently, still trying to comprehend what he was hearing. There was an awkward silence, before Jonathan finally spoke up.

“Wh-where am I?”

“Why child, you are in Celest, Capitol of Asgar.”

“Why...why am I here?”

“You are special. You are the hero spoken of in legend” Jonathan looked over into Celacs calm face,

“I’m no hero. I’m just a kid.”

“You are a hero, and you will save us all. It was written long ago.” Celac rapped the staff on the floor. It created a low hollow sound that reverberated around the room. On each of the balconies people came in, all of them wearing white robes. “Are all the Lords present?” Celac said loudly.

“Everyone is accounted for, everyone except ...except Charlie.”

“Where is Charlie?” Celac asked. Jonathan stood still, just taking in information.

“Charlie was sent to the Ramen-Va for advice. He has not reported to us through the talking stone yet. We expect a report some time later today.”

Celac sighed, closing his eyes. “The Ramen-Va cannot be trusted. They betrayed us in the first war, and they only came back because they saw Malic’s forces destroyed. They are mercenaries, helping the winning team. We cannot trust that kind of mentality. When you have gotten a hold of Charlie through the stone, tell him to return.”

“Yes my lord.” The lord who was speaking sat down

“I have called this emergency meeting of the Lords to discuss the Legend of the Newcoming.”

“High Lord, if I may,” One of the Lords on the lower balconies stood, “I do not think this Council has time to waste on false fairy tales.”

“Fairy tales they may be, but false they are not. The beginning of the prophecy has already been completed.”

“Which part?”

“The coming of a Child not born of this world.” The council muttered to each other, discussing the matter.

“What do you mean Celac? Are you telling us that you actually have a child who is not of this world? Have you gone mad??” Celac smiled at this comment.

“Yes, I do. I have a Child, not born of this world. And according to the prophecy, it will not be the only one. I sense more on the way.” The Lord who had spoken laughed, a dark laugh, a chuckle really.

“You have grown foolish, old man. You have let the old tales get to your head, and now you believe the unbelievable. Malic will always be a problem to the land. He cannot be defeated.”

“You speak boldly. You speak of me as the foolish one, yet it is you who are foolish. The child that stands behind me, this young Child, barely a man, is the one spoken of in legend.” The lords stood up to get a better look. Jonathan made that look, you know, the look you get when hundreds of people are staring directly at you. “Now that you have had a good look, I have a mission for you. I want you to read the prophecy again, I want you to analyze and scrutinize every line. In the coming days, it might be crucial. Now, if you will excuse me, I have pressing matters to attend to.” Celac grabbed Jonathans shoulder and led him out of the room. They entered a long hallway, carpets adorned with fantastical designs; the walls made from pure marble and shaped in such a way that made the light reflect all the colors of the rainbow. Celac took Jonathan down this long hallway and into a new room. Celac led him into the library. This library was not like anything that Jonathan had ever seen. It stretched up into the sky, the walls melting into one another the higher it got. It made the room seem infinite and grand. The bookshelves on the wall stretched up, and up. Light danced around, dust swirling like golden spheres. Celac lead him deeper into the library, past the bookshelves, past the tables covered in mountains of scrolls. He led him past the musty book smell, past the normal feeling of oppression that is felt in a library. Celac led him to a small golden pedestal in the center of the room. On the pedestal sat a book, the cover worn with age, the spine cracked with usage. The words “The History of Asgar” could faintly be read, the golden letters peeling off the cover. “You cannot understand why you are here without a history lesson.” Celac said, putting his hand on the cover of the book.

“But why am I here... this can’t be real, this cant be true... I gotta be dreaming.” Jonathan said. Celac chuckled, smiling kindly towards him.

“You are not dreaming. What you see around you is real. It is real to me, and it is real to you. You traveled here through what your world would call a Temporal Fluctuation of Time and Space, but here it is simply called a world gateway. Your world and ours are connected, connected in many different ways. But let us leave that for another day. Let me show you something, let me show you why you must fight.” Jonathan was about to say, “Fight?”, but was interrupted by Celac placing his hand on Jonathan’s forehead. In a flash of insight, he understood. In a matter of seconds, the History of Asgar flooded his subconscious, filling it to the brim of understanding. He wasn’t in the library any more. He was surrounded by darkness, nothingness really. He could faintly see the outline of someone working diligently, tirelessly, hidden in the shadows. Jonathan strained to see this being, when the nothing suddenly gave way to something. All the empty space around him became something. Stars twinkled into existence, and below him an entire world faded into creationexince. Trees and Forests covered most of the land. Green and Pristine, Innocent. He couldn’t help but grin at the sheer goodness that radiated from the land. He saw days turn into night, into day into night in fractions of a second. He saw the forests grow and grow. Then he saw something that made him cringe. A sore appeared on the world to the south of the main continent, and from that sore the good was tainted. The forests that once covered the southern continent, that made the world so green, began to die. They became skeletons of their former glory. He felt the evil that radiated from the sore; he felt it strike him in his very soul. He saw things pour out of the sore, mockeries of the original inhabitants of the land. He saw these malformed creatures form ranks and into an army. And at its head was a being of pure Malice. Every one of these creatures was a wrong in the land. They didn’t belong; they were not supposed to exist. Just looking at them made ones eyes hurt. This army of wrong moved forth from the sore, traveling across the great sea. The path they took boiled and swirled, creating whirlpools. They reached the northern continent and began traveling towards the heart of the land, killing all who stood in their way. He saw the plight of the land, he saw what had happened. And he couldn’t help but have tears form in his eyes. And suddenly, he was in the library again. Jonathan wiped the tears away.

“That is why, do you see now? Do you see why we need you?”

“How...how did you survive?”

“That is a tale for another day. Come along Jonathan, the others should be arriving soon. Then I can explain the reasons for you being here.”

Celac led Jonathan out of the library and back into the hallway. Celac moved with a spring in his step, even though he was using a staff.

“Why do you have that staff? You don’t seem to need it.” Jonathan said. Now that the shock had worn off, he was managing to think, to notice.

“Well, most Staffs in Celest are not made for recreation. In fact, from the first day you are four years old you decide your weapon profession. From that day forward you would train to kill with that weapon. I happened to have chosen the staff. Now as High Lord, we are given one of the Four Sacred weapons, said to hold power beyond belief. So that is why I carry this staff with me.” Celac smiled, “What weapon do you think belongs to you.”

Jonathan thought for a moment, “What weapons are there?”

“Well there are four main weapons, but there are subdivisions that branch from the original four. They are; Bladed Weapons, Blunt Weapons, Throwing Weapons and Torture Weapons. Under those there are; Swords, Staffs, Throwing knives, Whips, Daggers, Axes, Clubs, and Bows.”

“I always enjoyed fencing as a kid... I guess Swords?” Jonathan said. Celac smiled, nodding.

“I’ll have the armory bring something up.”

“If you don’t mind me asking...Why would I need a sword?” Jonathan said.

“How else will you survive? We are at war Jonathan. Every able bodied person needs to be ready.” Celac answered.

“At war? What do you want me to do? I’m not a fighter.”

“By the end of this... you will be.” Celac said, “But more of that later. I sense the others on their way.” He opened the door to the cloister. It was empty again, the lords off researching the legend of the Newcoming. “Any moment now.” Jonathan felt and odd tingling sensation prickling at his skin. He felt it crawl up his spine, Goosebumps rising all over him. Then he heard it again, the high pitched whining noise. Then in a flash of bright light, a young boy materialized. He was younger than Jonathan and had short wavy blonde hair. He looked around shocked, and then his shocked face gave way to a scared one.
“What’s going on, who are you, Where am I, wha...wha...” the young boy said in one breath. He backed away from Jonathan and Celac.

“Do not be afraid Samuel.” Celac said, offering him his hand. The young boy, Samuel, shrunk away from Celac.

“What is this?” Samuel said.

“Welcome to Asgar, Samuel. I am High Lord Celac.” Celac said. He moved forward, trying to calm Samuel down.

“H-...how do you know my name??” Samuel said. “What..where...”

“Please, Samuel, calm yourself. It is ok. Do not be afraid. I know of your name through the Legend of Newcoming. It was told long ago that five children would come, five young ones from a world that is not this one, and they would hold the key to defeating Malic. You are one of the five.” Samuel calmed down a bit.

“This has to be a dream, it’s got to be.” Samuel said, shaking his head. “It’s a dream, only a dream.”

“Well, if this is a dream Samuel, as you so adamantly defend, the fastest way to wake up would be to follow the dream through. So if you really believe this is a dream, get a hold of yourself and see this through to the end.” Celac said. Samuel stopped shaking his head. He just stood there for what seemed like hours, before he finally spoke up.

“Ok... I’ll do it. I might not believe this is real, but I guess I have to go through with whatever it is. I mean, what else is there to do.”

“That’s the spirit. Now wait over here with Jonathan. I will explain to you your task when the others arrive.” Samuel walked over to Jonathan and stood next to him. “Any moment now the others will arrive and everything will be made clear.” They stood silent, waiting for something. Jonathan felt it again, the tingling sensation. He recognized it right away and was not surprised to see a girl appear in a flash of bright light. She appeared to be about the same age as Jonathan. She looked around, her long brunette hair swaying side to side. Her eyes rested upon Jonathan. Her eyes shone a bright blue, and she made a face as if she was struggling to remember something. Celac stepped forward, and addressed the girl. “Hello Lauren.” She turned her gaze from Jonathan and turned to Celac. She wasn’t as shocked as Samuel had looked, but she still looked wary and uncertain. “I am Celac, High Lord of Celest. It has been awhile since I have seen the likes of you.”

“Do I know you?? Where am I?” Lauren said, stepping back.

“The necklace you wear, it was given to you by your mother was it not?” Lauren started to play with the necklace, holding it. It was made of a dark metal. It was a circle and in the circle was an odd wavy symbol.

“How did you know that?” She asked, out of curiosity more than anything.

“Well, I gave it to your mothers’ mother many, many years ago.” Celac said, smiling, remembering the days of old. “Back when she lived here.” Lauren looked at Celac incredulous.

“My grandmother lived here?” She asked, moving forward a bit, caution thrown to the wind.

“I will tell you everything soon. Right now we need to wait. Come over here and join us.” She walked over to the small group. Celac motioned to Jonathan, “This is Jonathan and he is Samuel.” Lauren gave Jonathan and Samuel a small smile and nod of her head. Less than a minute later, in another brilliant flash yet another person stood in the center of the room. It was an older boy. He had long hair that went every which way. He had hard worn hands and wore khaki shorts. He looked around, not out of shock but of fascination. He was grinning when Celac stepped forward. “Welcome Martin to Asgar. I am Celac, High Lord of the city of Celest.” Martin smiled and stepped forward.

“Hello High Lord, it’s an honor to meet you. I... I always knew I was different.”

“And Different you are. You all are. Only one more remains to appear before I can explain.” Celac said. “Join the rest of us, all will be explained later.” Martin walked over, acknowledging the others. As Martin turned around there was another bright flash of light. In the center of the room stood what can only be described as a dark skinned beauty. She was deeply tanned and wore a shell necklace. She had wavy brown hair that was pulled back behind her ears. “Rory, welcome to the land of your ancestors. Welcome to Asgar.” Rory turned at the sound of Celacs voice.

“Who are you? How did I get here?” Rory asked.

“Now that you are here, I can answer all of your questions. My tale begins eons ago, when the world was first created. Before our Universe existed, there were only two beings. We have come to call them the immortals. Both of the immortals were crafty and cunning and extremely intelligent. Now since they didn’t have a beginning we can not say for sure, but it is assumed that they were brothers. It can be said that siblings will fight, this was no exception. One of the two, who became known as the creator, gave birth to the universe. He crafted each world with love and care. The creator devised a way that all beings could live in peace and did not need to worry about aging, death or chaos. His Brother, who now is called Malic, saw what his brother had created and decided to create something that would come to be an integral part of our universe. He created death. He created chaos and pain. He created every wrong in the universe. The Creator saw what Malic had done and became furious. He attacked his brother and threw him into our universe and locked him in and threw away the key. When the creator had calmed down enough to realize exactly what he had done, it was too late. The creator saw that he had released an evil which could resist time onto the world the he himself had created. And in his infinite wisdom and compassion, the creator cried. His tears fell and became trapped in the web of time he had spun. His tears shown bright and still shine as stars in the sky. Now with the creator separated from that which he had created, Malic began to wreak havoc. He went world to world, destroying its inhabitants and making mockeries of them to do his biddings. His sight eventually fell upon our world, Asgar. We felt the evil that resided outside our world long before he appeared. When he did, we were somewhat prepared. He landed on an island to the south... what is now known as the Sore of Malice. Evil began to radiate from the Sore, tainting the soil, the sea... even living beings. He began to form an army from beings he corrupted.” Celac paused a moment, sweat dripping from his brow.

“But didn’t he already have an army? From the other worlds?” Jonathan asked.

“Very perceptive you are. Yes, he did indeed have armies on other worlds, but no means to move them. So he was left to create them himself. And create them he did. In 4 short years he had a might of 10,000 creatures. Malic lead his army across the ocean. The water boiled and frothed at every step the creatures took. Malic’s power made it so that they needed no boats, they could walk above the water. They invaded the land south of Quibbon Harbor. We sent our own army to meet theirs. It was the beginning of a war that is still talked about in whispers. Our army was...to put it lightly, slaughtered. What was left of our people abandoned the city and ran north. Malic’s army overran what was left of our city and demolished it. The High Lord at the time, Joline, instructed the five elemental sages to craft a weapon that could defeat Malic and any wrong that was in the world. The sages worked tirelessly for several days, combining all of the elements in new and curious ways. At the end of the third day, they were done. It was a sword that encompassed all five of the elements. It could slay any wrong in the world, and its power could match Malic’s. It was named the Sword of Light. The high sage, the sage of spirit, wielded the sword as his own. He and the other four went to meet Malic’s army head on. They fought mercilessly, slaughtering every one of Malic’s underlings that stood in their way. All five stood in front of the ruins of the city, covered in blood and sweat, and waited for Malic. They didn’t need to wait long. Malic attacked from the west. They sage of Spirit was barely able to defend, but he did. He fought back and each of his swings became more and more powerful. The last swing connected with Malic’s chest plate. The power behind that swing knocked Malic onto his back. That was where he lay when the Sage plunged the sword through his heart. But being an immortal, he did not die. Weakened as he was, he could not die. So the five sages built a spell which could trap Malic in a pinch of time. They basically pinched off a part of the time web, and created a small universe that was filled with nothing. What they did not know at the time was that a Universe that was not fully connected to the Web of time could not sustain itself forever. With Malic trapped for the time being, the people began the long process of reconstruction. With the old city still on corrupted lands, they built a new city, in the heart of the land. When the city was completed, the five sages left. They returned sixty years later, powerless and swordless but unaged. When asked what happened, they replied shortly “We did what needed to be done.”

“What did they do?” Martin interrupted.

“There are many different versions of the story, but they all have the basic premise. The five sages took the sword and hid it in a sacred spot. They took the power and split it into five parts and hid the power across the land. When they returned to Celest, they told me, the new High Lord, that it was dangerous for them to be there. One day, they or their ancestors would not be safe. So I permitted their dismissal from the lands duties. I gave them each a symbol of the lands gratification. And with that, they began to work. They crafted a spell that would eventually take them from our world, and put them on yours. Before they left they gave me a note. It said, One day Malic will return. One day when we are not here, the land will be in peril. But do not be afraid or tremble in fear. Children not born of this world will come and these children can and will save you. They will be named after the old sacred names taken from the texts found in the metal ruins; Lauren, Jonathan, Aurora, Martin and Samuel. This note is now called the legend of Newcoming. That is why you are here. To save us all.”

Monster in the House

Matthew rushed into the room, a blue blanket trailing behind him. He scrambled under the bed and held onto his only comfort, the soft felt of his blanket. There was screaming and sobbing from downstairs. His mothers scream echoed around the house but it ended abruptly. She didn’t make anymore noise. His breath quickened as he heard door after door being opened and then slammed shut. Closer and Closer. Bang... BANG... BANG! He closed his eyes and cradled his blanket as the door to the room burst open. He could hear everything. The heavy plunk of the footsteps as they worked their way around the room. The soft growl. He stopped breathing, wishing this thing away. He could smell it, a stench of many evils, a smell that would haunt him until his last dying breath. For what seemed like hours the thing stood there in the room, growling, searching for its prey. Finally...it left, leaving him alone again. He didn’t breathe in just yet, not until he heard the slam of the front door. He stayed under the bed for a few minutes more, his skin pale in the darkness of the room. He crawled out after awhile from his hiding spot, and left the room. He started going down the stairs. The first thing he saw was a spilled glass bottle on the table. It smelled exactly like that... thing. The next thing he saw made his blood run cold, made him stop in his tracks and sob a little. There, on the floor, was his mother. He rushed down the stairs and hurried to her side. Her shirt was covered in blood that ran slowly down her side onto the wooden floor.
"Wake up mamma" He said softly, shaking her gently. That is where the police found him two hours later, still holding his dead mothers body, still repeating the same words. When the police asked him what happened, he told them about the monster, the stench. The headlines of the local newspaper the next day read, "Mother found dead by her Son" and underneath that in smaller letters, "Husband admits to murder."

The Countess

“Lady Bathory will see you in a moment” the stout young man said to me, before walking away. had never before seen such a small man. It was as if god himself has come down and molded the clay that was this man, shaping him exactly the same way... but he ran out of clay half way through and made due. He had said his name was Janos Ujvary. Its funny how the countess would have such a young servant. Then again, how would I know anything about how Countess’s think, let alone how they choose their servants. I waited outside the gynaeceum for the Countess. I waited a long while in that room outside, thinking of how she would teach me to be proper, to act as a Nobel Women. That of course is why I am here, to learn from the Noble Erzsebet Bathory. Many a girl before me had come to learn from her, and many a girl before me left as ladies. My sister before me had come to learn, and left a much greater person. She never really did talk about her classes with the Countess much. She never really talked much at all really. I suppose its just part of being a lady. Speak when spoken to, that sort of thing. The door to the gynaeceum opened slowly and from the adjacent room stepped a gorgeous creature I can only suppose is Lady Bathory. She walked into the room, no it cant really be described as walking...it was more like she glided into the room. Her skin was milky white and had the appearance of the skin of a white lily. She wore a blood red corset, which hugged her waist and fit tightly across her, she wore an elegant blouse, also red in color in navy blue trimmed with embroidery and it made her look all the more beautiful. She smiled in my direction, and I attempted to smile back, but the most I could muster was a small half smile. She walked (glided) over towards me, her figure growing with each step, until she towered over me.

“You are here to learn. You will speak nothing unless asked, you will speak nothing of these lessons. Not to a soul. Do you understand” Her voice washed over me leaving me dumbfounded at how god could create such a creature of beauty. I thought to myself, This must be what Eve looked like when god fashioned her from Adams rib. I nodded, of course I understood. Not a word. And so my lessons began. I learned such simple things such as how to walk like royalty, how to talk like a lady, and such complicated steps, like which is the salad fork and which is the soup spoon. Everyday I woke up at 6 AM, and every day at 7 AM I was at Lady Bathorys door. It was always opened by either Janos, or like everyone else calls him, Ficko, or the other servant Dorrottya. We just called her Dorko. By 7:30 I was with the Countess in the gynaeceum. This routine continued for several more weeks, leading into winter. I rarely saw the same servants twice, save for Ficko and Dorko. It seemed that the Lady had a steady stream of servant girls ready and waiting. Winter came, and I noticed a change in the Lady I had come to know and respect. She was moody, and frequently lashed out at servants when they passed by. There was not a single servant in the house without at least one bruise, including Ficko and Dorko. I soon came to dread my time with the Countess, however beautiful she was. It finally came to a day, late into winter. The night had brought a snow flurry, and the landscape was painted with white caps. I woke up, as usual, at 6 AM and by 7:30 I was once again being taught by the Countess. She smiled at me, but the smile I remembered was no more. Behind it was a sinister mask. Her skin, what I once thought of as white and lily like was no more than a pale imitation of life. She grinned, circling around me. I no longer felt safe, I no longer felt like a lady.

“Such pretty skin” She said smoothly, devoid of any emotion. I blushed, a reaction to the words more than anything. “Such lovely skin, filled with so much life...” She cooed. “Lets walk” She uttered breathlessly. I wanted nothing else but to run away from this place, but I could not. I nodded, and she led me out of the room. She led me into the garden, to the side of Castle Cachtice. She began talking to me in a voice I had never heard before, the voice of a women who had lost something, who was craving something. “I have grown to love you, Anna. You have followed me so diligently over the months. It really is a shame” the Countess turned to me, grinning. She pulled from around her waist an ornate rope. I did not know what to think, what to do. Lady Bathory grabbed me, and at her cold vice like grip, I came to my senses. I struggled and screamed as she wrestled with me. I screamed loudly, screamed for anyone help me, and out of the corners of my eyes I saw Ficko and Dorko, oh my saviors here to rescue me. They rushed to my side, but not to save me from the Countess' grip, but to help her hold me down. They held me tight as I struggled and screamed, as the Countess tied the rope around my wrists. She looped it over a tree branch over head. With strength I could have never imagined she hoisted me up until I was dangling feet above the snow covered ground. She took out a pair of ornate tailoring scissors and snipped away my coat. She grinned all the while. Ficko and Dorko stood farther back, staring at the floor, taking every precaution to avoid my broken and sad visage. The monster I had known as the Countess left, and I praised that I was not dead. Moments later my praise was for nothing. The Countess returned with a basin of water. She dipped a cloth into the water and began rubbing it on every inch of my body. Before long I had no feeling in my feet or hands. It was weird knowing that they were there, that they were in pain but feeling nothing, no sensation at all. She poured the rest of the basin over my head, and stood back to watch. I shivered in the cold winter air. Ice creeped up my ankle, up my arms and onto my once bright and cheery chest. I breathed deeply, as deeply as I could with the ice constricting me. And all the while the lady I had once respected, the lady I had thought I had known stood there staring deeply at my frozen visage, staring and smiling her manic smile. My last thoughts were dedicated to her. I now knew why she seemed to have a steady stream of servants. And many a pupil will come... not all will go on.

Arthur's Last Stand

“Fuck” The bite mark was already turning yellow. “Fuck, Fuck, FUCK!!” Not now... Oh god, not now. Tears mingled with the blood. He closed his eyes. He had been through so much. He opened his eyes again, wiping away the tears. His eyes lost their watery appearance. In its place was a sense of conviction. Calmly, he stood up, hatchet in hand. He could hear them now. His screams attracted them, his blood excited them.

Arthur wasn’t going to be the only one to die.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Seven miles north of Atlanta. That’s what the radio said. Seven miles, Arthur thought. The war had taken its toll on Arthur. He was once a fat jolly man, with a short brown beard. If someone were to look at him, the first thought they would have would be, Holy crap that’s the guy from Home Improvement, Al. In reality, Arthur was far less glamorous. He grew up in Georgia and worked as a plumber straight out of high school. He married the daughter of a restaurant owner, and eventually had his own daughter whom he named Kathy. In the few short weeks that the war had lasted, Arthur was a changed man. He was lean, muscles were beginning to show. His once white shirt was stained yellow with sweat and splattered with brown goop. His beard had lost all of its jolliness. It had become ragged and peppered with gray. At his side he wore a hatchet holster he had made out of a leather belt. Oh how that hatchet had helped him. He patted the hatchet as he walked along.

The sky was gray. It had been gray every day for the past month. The grass was beginning to turn brown, shrivel up and die. Arthur walked along the edge of the highway, the grass crunching beneath his boots. Crunch....Crunch....Crunch....He found the sound to be hypnotic, even melodic. Crunch...Crunch...THUD. Arthur stopped and stood still. Thud...Thud...THUD!

“Ourgh”

The first one he had spotted in days. He had made it a habit to stop and kill any that he happened across. It was a hitcher. Some poor sap must have picked up a hitch hiker before he turned. Arthur circled the car, slipping the hatchet out from his belt. It was a Honda Odyssey, obviously built for a family. The back window was covered in stickers that had stick figures of family members; a mother, a father, a daughter... even a dog. He could see the streaks of blood smeared across the windows, he saw hand prints from where they had tried to escape, and he saw the yellow crust of bile. He could still see the outline of a small skeleton in the back seat.

“Ugrough”

It was still in the car, still hungry even after its dinner of three. Four if you include the dog. Its skin hung loose on its bones, hanging like wax. Pale and gray. One eye was fixed on Arthur, following his every move. The other eye was gone, gouged out. What was left seeped this brown bubbly fluid that dripped down its face like molasses. It scratched at the window with bloody nubs leaving even more streaks on the window. Arthur pitied the man. What was left of the man. He tried not to think about it, put a face to the evil. Who was he, what he did before; he tried not to dwell on the past. He tightened his grip on the hatchet and reached for the handle.

“Rouagm...”

He opened the door.

It leaped out like a feral dog to a bone and within seconds it was upon him. It scratched madly as his face, grunting and moaning with what was left of its lungs. Arthur held it by the throat, its jaws snapping madly, trying to taste his sweet flesh. Its one eye glared into Arthur’s as he brought up the hatchet. He looked right into it, right into the yellow bloodshot eye. And he faltered. This was a person... Then he gave himself a mental kick. It WAS a person, not anymore.

The clean metal of the hatchet crushed what was left of the mans head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Mommy said we’re leaving in the morning.” Kathy said, holding a small stuffed animal in her arms.

“Yes honey, we’re leaving tomorrow. Try to put all of your clothes into your Dora the explorer backpack.” Arthur said, messing with Auburn hair. Kathy ducked out of Arthur’s reach.

“Daaad, you know how I hate when you do that.” Kathy said, straitening her hair with her hands. “Can I bring Cuddles?” She asked, looking up at Arthur with her clear blue eyes.

“That won’t work this time.” He said chuckling, “Kathy, honey, please. We can only bring the things we need...”

“And I neeeeeeeeeeed Cuddles.” She said, pulling the stuffed elephant closer to her white nightie.

“Honey we can-‘” He started before he was cut off by a scream from downstairs. He heard the splintering of wood and that incessant moan. He ran out of the room to the top of the stairs just as the front door broke open. They began to pour in, one after another.

“Arthur!” he heard a scream. There. Across the room, on the couch. His wife. He saw them rush towards her, saw them pull at her, saw them...

Arthur screamed sitting up straight, hitting his head on the roof of the car. It was still dark out. Just a dream, he thought.

“Fucking Nightmares.”

The sun didn’t rise in the morning; the sky just turned a lighter shade of gray. He opened the door of the abandoned car that he had slept in, his hatchet already in his hand. Another day, he thought. The last one if he made it four more miles. Arthur had been living on his own for three weeks. He stuck mostly to the side roads, slept in the cars that people left behind. The night before he had thought he struck gold. A camper fully equipped with a stove, a refrigerator, and a radio. He quickly learned, however, that he needed a key to get into and use practically everything. Arthur was about to settle down to sleep when he heard a burst of static from the radio. He fiddled with the knobs, until he heard a voice, loud and clear.

“I repeat this is Thomas Hawkins of Atlanta, Georgia. I’ve made camp about seven miles north of Atlanta with a few survivors. We are well stocked and secured. Any and all survivors are welcome.” Before Arthur could respond, the transmission cut off, and no amount of fiddling would bring back the southern drawl of the other man.

“Four more miles” he said out loud, as if saying made it a reality. He opened his backpack and took out a small can of baked beans and a can opener. After filling himself with the pitiful and cold meal, and washing it down with water, he set off. He occupied his time with trying to remember every word to his favorite book, Robinson Crusoe. It was long and hard, but it filled the time. He was on the fifth chapter. It was better than what he used to do.

In the beginning of his nomadic existence he spent his time remembering his life. He thought of the dead end job he spent seventeen years in, going nowhere. He thought of his seven year old daughter, who still believed in Santa Claus. He mostly thought of his wife, who stuck with him and his mistakes... This of course, led to many breakdowns, many mistakes, many close encounters, and many thoughts of suicide. It still marveled him that he kept going. He had nothing. No home, No family or friends. Not even a damn dog. Why keep going? It questioned him, every few hours as he tried to remember what came after a certain word, why not just sit down here... and wait for the damn things. Join the ranks of mindless.

Instinct taught him to move, even when his own mind had given up.

Arthur stopped around noon, or what he figured was noon. The sun was still hidden behind dark gray clouds. He took out another can of beans and did a quick inventory. Enough for another day, maybe two. He ate the beans silently, thinking, I should nearly be there. He chewed methodically, savoring each bean, each dollop of gravy. He listened to the buzzing of the insects, the chirping of the birds. He found them soothing. He found them useful. If the birds stopped chirping or the insects stopped buzzing, he was ready. He thought of them as Nature’s early warning system. If he couldn’t hear anything, his hatchet would be ready. Silence rarely meant nothing.

It began to snow. Big flakes of gray began to drift down onto the trees, carpeting the already dead grass, landing on the windshields of cars. Snow. At least, that’s what it looked like. Arthur caught a flake with his hand, rubbing it, leaving a smudge of gray. He looked up at the sky, watching it fall, when it hit him.

“Fuuuuuuuccckkk”

It was coming from Atlanta. He could see in the distance the city outlined in red. The city in ashes. Gone. He had known it was bad there, that most were dead...or worse. He didn’t expect the city to go up in flames. He figured the government would save it, for when it was safe again. Then again, he hadn’t heard of any sort of government since the beginning. It was bad news regardless. No city meant no people. No people meant no food for them. No food for them...was a problem. They’d be on the move. He packed up and started on, moving faster than he was moving before. He kept his hatchet out and ready. He passed a car with one of them in it but he kept going. He needed a greater distance between him and them.

He moved so quickly he nearly missed it. A wooden sign, freshly painted, hanging off of the speed limit sign.

PEOPLE THIS WAY à

The sign said, pointing towards the woods next to the highway.

“Thank god,” he said with a sigh, brushing the ash flakes out of his hair. People, he thought, living people. He hadn’t seen any one since...since...no, he couldn’t think about it. He ran into the woods, the camp the only thing on his mind.

He ran straight, following the direction the arrow pointed. He moved so fast through the woods that he missed several things. He missed the log that looked oddly like a decaying body. He missed the insects and birds drift off into silence. He didn’t see the ground that was scrapped and scuffed up, as if something had been dragged through. His mind was only on the possibility of seeing other people.

He could make out the outline of several tents in the distance, bright blue against the background of the forest. He ran faster, ignoring the stitch in his side. He was almost there, almost...

He broke into the clearing. The tents stood in a circle, a fire pit in the center. He looked around, looked for the faces of the people that he would be with, expecting any moment for them to come out of the tents laughing and carrying on as if this war wasn’t going on, as if those damn things didn’t exist. As he waited, he started to notice things. Like the fact the fire pit hadn’t been used, the empty shoe that had some red stain on it, and the large streak of red on one of the tents. His excitement faltered. He finally noticed one of them stumbling in.

His hatchet felt alive, it strained against his hand, wanting to be used. It was a young one, a kid. A girl. A girl with auburn hair...and clear blue eyes. The fight within Arthur faded quickly. He felt a knot in his throat, he tasted bile creeping up.

“Kathy...” he whispered, the hatchet dropping to the floor. She stumbled forward. In the three weeks since Arthur had seen her, she too had changed. Her skin was gray, her mouth hung open. The front of her nightie was rotting away, covered with blood and god only knows what else. Chunks of flesh were missing from her arms. Brown fluid was dripping out, running down her arm, and wrapping itself around her fingers before finally dropping to the ground. She opened her mouth and took in a long breath, a long rattling noise, like wind blowing delicate curtains against sandpaper. Then came he exhale, an inhuman moan that drowned out the silence, drowned out every thought. She lurched forward.

No, he thought, not like this. She couldn’t live...like this. He picked up the hatchet, already blind with tears and stepped forward. This slight movement seemed to flick a switch in his daughter’s brain. Her eyes latched onto Arthur, her upper lip drawn back into a snarl. She rushed forward, teeth gnashing together, swiping with her hands. He tightened his grip on the hatchet. He had a split second to make the decision to raise the hatchet and leave the metal in her head. In that split second, he remembered her face. How she used to climb up onto his lap for stories. How she had to use a stool for the first five years of her life to reach the sink. He thought of the first book she read, green eggs and ham. He thought all of this in that split second. And it was enough to make him hesitate. This was his daughter. In that one moment of weakness the thing that his daughter had become attacked. Instinctively he brought up his arm to defend himself. He felt a brief sense of euphoria, and then blind and utter pain radiated from his arm. He felt needles plunge into his skull, he felt as if salt was being poured into his blood stream. With the little strength he had left, he pushed her back, and swung the hatchet, leaving it embedded in her head. She fell down slowly, to lie still once more.

His arm burned, he could feel his strength ebb away. He took in a deep breath, and then looked. He saw something he had never been able to see before that moment. He could see his bone, gleaming white amidst the torn muscles and ragged flesh.

“Fuck” The bite mark was already turning yellow. “Fuck, Fuck, FUCK!!” Not now... Oh god not now. Tears mingled with the blood. He closed his eyes. He had been through so much. He opened his eyes again, wiping away the tears. His eyes lost their watery appearance. In its place was a sense of conviction. Calmly, he stood up, hatchet in hand. He could hear them now. His screams attracted them, his blood excited them.

Arthur wasn’t going to be the only one to die.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arthur slumped over, tired and damaged. He was so pale. So pale. He couldn’t feel his arm anymore, let alone use it. This feeling of nothingness spread to his shoulders, his chest, legs, feet, neck, and finally his head. He knew he existed, he just didn’t know how. He felt free, tied down only by body.

Arthur laid in the center of the clearing, the dead spread all around him. He shivered. It wasn’t cold. But he was cold. Why was it so cold? He wondered, holding himself as he watched mist cover the ground. So cold....so cold...so...hungry.