Life After Death: Epilogue

It had taken the entirety of what was left of the armed forces, police, and every able-bodied person with a gun that could follow orders; but after five long years the dead were finally defeated. It had been bloody, horrifying, and costed many lives, and some would say it was all worth it. Oddly enough the revolution of the fall of the zombies began in the west, what used to be California. Small bands of people that had dared to own guns, despite the states laws, began to group together and started to clear out the state at the end of the first year of the apocalypse. It was a slow, arduous process, but it was continuing.

By the second year societal measures and pleasantries had all but died out, leaving the living with a survivalist mentality. Most people through the world had boiled down to the three types of survivors: The ones that created settlements, the ones that were loners, and the raiders. From what had been seen so far, with the effort of the restoration of the modern world, was that the raiders tended to outlive others. All of this was rhetoric at this point, none of the information was new to them, but they still had to remind themselves every now and again.

Dale had traveled so much of the country his head was unable to keep up. After he went to Florida to reunite with his family, and only meeting disappointment, he decided to continue his fight against the dead the best way he knew how: Violence. And he’d done a good job of it, racking up more kills than anyone in the “New Militia.” It had been tough to get everyone under the same roof and to fight for the same cause, but it was done. Old prejudices had tried to flare up anew, but they were quickly snuffed out. He stood in the frozen north, his new job was to find survivors. Luckily it was the middle of spring, nearly two years after he’d parted ways with that M kid, the last person he’d actually liked after all this began.

He wondered why he’d thought of the kid, but then remembered they’d come from that settlement a few hundred miles or so to the East, and they had talked about him with nothing but praise. Maybe they’d meet up again, maybe they would go back to protecting the world together. As he walked up the hill to this lone gas station in the middle of a high end neighborhood that was now awash in soldiers and gunfire, pillars of black smoke where the bodies were burning en masse.

Dale and a few other soldiers approached the small, boarded up establishment with caution, though nothing seemed out of place. Of course, that thought almost always precede some kind of tragedy. One of the soldier’s foot hit a tripwire, something above them in the canopy of the building made a ‘twang’ noise, and three arrows rained down upon the unknowing man. The first arrow missed his head by inches, the second buried itself in his bulletproof vest, the last one was the lucky one, it pierced his shin, going clean through. He screamed and clutched at the shaft, not sure what to do, screaming in pain. The rest of the crew paused, “We have an active trap situation!” The cry flew back in the ranks, the fifty or sixty soldiers behind Dale repeating it.

It took hours and three more injured soldiers to undo all the traps surrounding the tiny building. It put the entire party in a foul mood, Dale matched their dark outlook, and everyone was eager to get at the doors and take a look at who was inside. Crowbars pried off planks of wood, several windows at a time, and tear gas was thrown in. It was time to wait, again. After the billows of white had settled the team planned to enter, tossing in flash bangs before they kicked in the door. Cries of ‘Clear!’ Began to come from inside, then one of the senior crew stepped out, “Dale, you might want to come see this.” Confused, he checked to make sure his weapon was loaded and ready for use.

Inside the store it stunk, even past all the smoke and countermeasures that had been thrown in. Rotted meat, spoiled milk, molded bread, all their smells made the air thick with disgust. Dale walked in, grimaced at the overload to his senses, and followed the column of body armor and rifles to the back of the store. He was genuinely surprised when the room past the feces smeared door was pristinely clean. The manager’s office was almost perfectly cleaned out to make a shelter, a bed room, and even some kind of medical supplies were neatly stacked on a shelf. Now that the smell of the outside room was fading, it was being replaced by another smell: The dead.

In the tiny room there was no where to hide, even the rolled up sleeping bag was laid open, it’s bare interior open for inspection. But the door to the small bathroom was closed, a seal for whatever was behind it. Two men sidled the door and meticulously opened it, their weapons pointed at whatever, or whoever was inside once it had been flung aside. Dale watched their shoulders go lax and their weapons returned, and they parted to give Dale a look inside. It was probably the first time in a few years that he’d felt something, despair trickled down his body like cold rain drops. The corpse inside, still holding a blade was M’s.

Dale groaned softly as he approached the dead body, inspecting it. The young man’s muscles had withered, his thick chest now sunken, ribs protruding through the taught skin, his waist tiny, now. Dale kneeled before the shirtless cadaver that used to be his friend, looking up at his face through the waterfall of curled hair. The charming looks were gone, replaced by taught skin, sunken eyes, and all the color gone. In the hand opposite the knife there was a rolled up piece of paper, Dale took it with a quiet apology, “I’m sorry, buddy. I really am. Rest in peace, now.” Dale stood and addressed the men behind him without looking at them, “He gets a proper burial, you get me? He was a good guy. And whatever deity you believe in help you all if I find out anything otherwise happens.” A quiet respectful ‘Yes, sir.’ came from back.

Dale left the market, hearing the cause of death was starvation right before he hit the daylight again. Sentiment was the last thing he was good at, but he knew that kid deserved more, he belonged amongst the living. A curse blew the first plume of cigarette smoke out of Dale’s mouth. It had been the first time he’d smoked in more months than he cared to remember. The soldiers brought M out in a body bag, carefully, and set him aside for the burial. Dale could only shake his head as he unrolled the note that was in his friend’s hand. It was short, but it pained Dale worse than any other goodbye letter he’d read. He went over it twice and folded it up, then slipped it into his shirt pocket. Despite his loss he needed to get back to work. But those words haunted him, even after the world was fixed. It read:

“Dear Chelsea, I’m so sorry. I tried. But, it changed me, after all.”

Life After Death (Original Series)

The blue SUV that had sped by had woken up more than a few of the dead, leading them on a slow, but determined chase. Ryan watched them all, shuffling, rotting, half-frozen, as they all marched after a thing they couldn't hope to catch. He couldn't catch it, either, but he did have an idea where they were going. The least he could do was take a trip out of his way to warn the little community about their impending visitors, and possible doom. The harbinger of doom thing was not how he liked to be, but he figured the more people in this world, the better. Hidden in the woods, just off the road he began his trek, working his long legs through the slushy snow and mud. Though his frame was thin, he did have an exceptional coat, thanks to that sporting goods store in the town over, and some very nice boots and galoshes. What he didn't have was food. He was afraid that his stomach might actually tip off the dead.

Ryan'd been traveling for days, trying to find a place to hide out or sleep in, but nothing was available. Each place was soaked with dead or had some very inhospitable people living there. Almost every time he'd encountered them, either the living or the dead, he'd chosen the non-violent route. He was taller, thinner, faster, than most individuals still living, so it was to his advantage. He paused for a moment, letting the ghost of a memory scream across his thoughts. Ryan shook his head, his long hair swaying back and forth in front of his light brown eyes, some strands sticking in his ever growing beard. 'No. That wasn't his fault. He didn't do it on purpose. Circumstances are what they are, and they.....' A gust of ice wind carrying crystals that stung his face broke the thoughts. It was an easy decision to keep walking for a while in complete silence, physically, and mentally.

The rhythmic crunch, crunch, crunch, of boots on snow was comforting to Ryan, the moans of the dead interrupting the steady sounds every now and again. Although they were easy to ignore, each new one gave the snow trekking man chills, especially the children. Again his mind tried to go to a darker place, but he fought against it, changing his course deeper into the woods, but keeping the direction the same. This was more dangerous, but the moans were a lot quieter, and allowed him to think without having to think about what happened. The moaning picked up for a second, one moan, more specifically, rose above the rest. It was a single dead, shambling through the woods, turned towards the settlement before Ryan's crunching caught his attention. He seemed to be freshly turned, a young black man with a bow across his chest, and one hand. The dead bared his teeth and moaned, turning fully towards Ryan, reaching out with a hand and a stump.

He had to be quick, those moans attract other dead. The long-neck hammer came free of it's leather harness on his hip, ready for the kill. Crunch, crunch, crunch, his steps went as he closed the gap between him and the dead. Ryan's long arm arched from above his head, coming down on the dead's skull. The sound was dull, but it reminded Ryan of when he used to bite into an apple, wet with a snap. The dead went down with no further incident, and the victor began to collect his winnings. Out of all the weapons and useful things he got Ryan was the most excited for the food. So excited he climbed a nearby tree and slowly ate a half frozen can of peaches. He didn't believe he'd ever eaten something so delicious in his entire life. After making sure the entire can was empty he picked up his trek again.

Dusk loomed on the horizon like a threatening shadow, ready to swoop down and take away the light, and leave the world in darkness and turmoil. Ryan's weary legs had lead him back to his original course, closer to the road, his stomach finally stopped grumbling and groaning from hunger. Soon he'd have to stop and find a tree to sleep in, but he'd continue just a little longer. Ryan used to love the night, used to love the sunset, especially when it turned red, the same dark red as her hair. Those thoughts of what he'd done finally caught up with him, finally found him weak enough. All at once, though, the dead stopped their march. Collectively they turned around, facing the opposite way of the settlement. Ryan's blood ran cold.

The roar of three engines began as a soft purr in the distance, but grew to ear splitting levels as they approached closer. Whooping, yelling, heavy metal music, all made the air thick and violent. Ryan hid behind a nearby tree as the three monster trucks with giant tires began to clear through all the dead on the road, the ones that weren't caught under the tires were bashed with long lead pipes. The man hiding behind the tree was still, eyes wide and staring, and utterly terrified. The one man driving the lead truck leaned out the window and pointed towards that settlement a day out and shouted "Fresh meat, boys!" Again the engines roared and they rolled forward.

Ryan couldn't control his legs, his thoughts, his panic, he started running. The rumors of marauders were true. Cannibals seeking easy prey. As he raced to try and save them her image came back, the last one he had of her when she was still alive. His sweet Bea, his only daughter, bitten, but never turned. He made sure she never wandered the earth like that. He saw her matted hair, even redder with blood soaking through it, her pale skin, her lifeless eyes, her smile that she wore all the way until he buried her along side her mother, her sister, and her brother. Ryan wasn't a religious man, but he prayed, now. "Please, God, please let me save them! Let me save one! Just one, please!" His breath, in the forms of clouds, carried his pleas upward and onward.

The Burnt World: Part Two (Original Short)

Even with sunglasses on Job had to sometimes shield his eyes from the harsh sun above and the even harsher winds that blew across the sand laden landscape that he was walking through. Above him the sky was turning a dark purple and the horizon still shone white with a heavy tint of yellow at the edges, the clouds above crackled with blue lightning and thunder that shook the very earth beneath his feet. He'd been walking for two days since his run in with the three cannibals. He hadn't stopped. He didn't think he could.

The road before him must have been a freeway when the world was still alive. Sand had blown away in several spots, revealing the pavement and even a little bit of paint every now and then. The black pillar of smoke still rose off in the distance, his destination. Through waves of heat that danced up from the floor he could see creatures off in the distance, dark silhouettes that seemed to be twisted physically past anything he'd recognize. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but he was still too leery to try and take anything down, despite his new collection of knives.

There was no way to tell time, but Job knew that the day was waning. As he continued a billboard confirmed that the road beneath his feet was a highway. It was metal and bent in half from the winds, solid for the most part, but the writing had worn off except for a letter or two. With all the weathering the sign had been shaped into a pseudo cave. Behind the sign he studied loomed clouds that were pouring rain out on the horizon, but heading for him. The sign would provide adequate shelter for the storm. It seemed that nature chose for him to rest, after all.

With a great amount of caution Job approached the edge of the structure that stuck over the edge of the road. 'No impulses, this time.' he thought to himself as he thoroughly checked for booby traps and any kind of pitfalls. After a few minutes more than he thought were necessary the search was complete and all was safe. As quietly as possible a bed and a trap for the only way in was quickly put into place. Job considered a fire, but then reconsidered when true darkness fell and things began crawling out from hidden crevices and places safe from the rays of the sun.

Though night had fallen and the world was near pitch black the lightning that never seemed to stop lit the landscape rather well. Outside Job could see the things that crept in the night. Insects close to four feet tall, four legs on it's back end, two large ones on the front, skin as pale as the sand. Each one clicked and brayed as they combed over the soil, their mouths looked like the mouth of a bass lined large, white, sharp teeth. There were about a dozen, maybe more, littered across the highway, the closest to him less than thirty feet away. Job watched closely as the thing found his faint footsteps with it's eight eyes.

Silently a knife was pulled from a cloth sheath, ready for what may come. It kept sniffing, braying and chittering as it followed the path to the bent sign he was hidden in. His eyes went as wide as they could, trying to let more light in to better judge the distance between him and the creature. Ice was running through his veins, muscles hard and ready, panic trying to creep into the back of his mind as the thing raised it's terrible snout at the very spot he was at. 'This is it. Fight for your life.' Job thought as the creature opened it's double hinged jaw to spoil his hiding spot. As it's grotesque sides inflated with air to sound the alarm a long, black, slimy tentacle speared it.

The appendage descended from above, thick as a man's waist, covered in what seemed to be mucus, and black as the night, except for the bioluminescent strings of purple and blue light pulsating just beneath the glossy surface. Job's eyes didn't close a bit as the thing screamed and writhed at the end of the terrible spike. The sound caused the rest of the smaller monstrosities to flee. Job was at least grateful for that. With as little movement as he could he crept to the opening and traced the ascending one that had been caught.

Up and up and up his head tilted, following the inevitability. Four long, giant legs with knees that bent like an ostrich's hoisted a body that was also black save for the bioluminescence. It was hard to discern the creature from the sky, but the pulsing lights made it at least possible. The body looked like a gigantic fish with no tail, the mouth made of four muscular flaps that opened up to reveal a row of shark like teeth which proceeded to bite the thing it had captured in half once, spilling purple blood everywhere. Again it bit down, leaving only part of the head and jaws to be discarded as another tentacle zipped down after the fleeing horde to get another.

The slimy tendrils seemed to come from an orifice just beneath the thing's mouth, seven in all. The giant walked slowly, covering massive ground, the thick body swaying some forty feet in the air as it went. It trumpeted a triumphant blast, that sounded like a foghorn, as it scooped another piece of prey, the sound so loud Job had to cover his ears. All the things gone, for now, he slid back into his makeshift cave, panic replaced with genuine fear. 'Dear God what has the world become?' he thought to himself as his eyes closed slowly.

Unsure of the time that had passed Job opened his eyes to the pitter of rain on his cave roof. Ache still resided in him from walking and not eating, but he forced his burning orbs open as the rain moved past the mouth of his shelter. A fantastic opportunity had been afforded to him, he thought, as he grabbed an empty water bottle and began to crawl towards the falling water. He paused when he saw the droplets begin to hit the severed head of the creature that had spotted him. Another crushing feeling as his heart sank lower and lower as he watched.

The light brown skin and shell began to bubble and boil with each drop, in a matter of a minute or two the first layer sloughed off, smoldering to nothing in a small pool. Next the muscle beneath, following suit, as it smoked and roiled, then fell off or dissolved completely. The bone lasted the longest, after all the soft tissue had been washed and burned away, it soon would smoke and eventually pool into marrow and bits in the acid rain. 'No wonder there are no bones out there.' Job thought to himself as he resumed sleeping.

Heat made sleep impossible and a few hours later Job was on the move again. The sun shone harsh and the winds were dry again, as if the rain had never happened. Not being able to collect water made him wonder where the water he'd gotten from those cannibals had come from. Deciding not to worry about it he concentrated on moving towards that pillar of smoke off in the distance. He wasn't a scientist, but he tried to use logic to try and figure out what animals those things had come from. It helped pass the time.

Walking seemed to be the best way to cover ground, not too fast, not too slow, and at a pace where he didn't get thirsty. Though hunger was now an issue. In his pack he had a couple of cans with no labels, he was unsure of the contents and was hoping to save them for emergencies, but he was hungry now. The end of the freeway he was walking on presented itself, and an opportunity to rest in the underpass of the broken structure. It looked like he had hit an overpass and another highway lie beneath it. A line of skeletal cars stretched for a while in each direction, all abandoned, all rusted to near nothing.

Using a knife he cut open a can, smelling the contents. Job's face twisted as the aroma of what smelled like dog food assaulted him. It took a minute, but he decided it was better than nothing. To avoid a gag reflex he finished it quickly, cleaning the can and putting it back in his pack for further uses. About to give up his shaded spot to continue his journey he saw something he didn't expect: other people. They didn't seem to have seen him as they continued to walk right past his spot. The concrete between him and them, in a pile and rubble, had given him a vantage point.

It was a man and a woman, both dressed in tattered rags, each had a bag slung over their shoulders. Job stayed low and watched them, looking for weapons of any kind. The people moved slow and checked the cars for any supplies. A knife slipped it's sheath and was ready for anything that may come Job's way. It never did. Movement and screaming erupted in the valley he sat above, followed soon by violence.

The people were ambushed by four men brandishing clubs made from various materials, dressed in nothing but strips of clothing like native americans, and all four grotesquely misshapen and mutated in one form or another. They descended on the couple like a pack of dogs, whooping and crying at their new found prey. The two tried to flee, but it was too late, their pursuers moved way too fast. The male had his head bashed in and his clothing stripped away by two of the pack. The woman was not as lucky.

The other two of the pack tackled her to the floor and ripped off her rags, exposing her lightly tanned skin and healthy body, then she was held down. She pleaded with them, right up until the moment they began to bite at her flesh, ripping and tearing chunks away. Pleas became screams. Screams became strangled choking and gagging sounds as they tore open her abdomen, pulling out things to eat. Job couldn't look away from the carnage. Blood flowed from her mouth as she still tried to form words, but only made wet gurgles of pain. Her brown eyes locked with Job's for a moment. He watched the life leave them.

Job stayed a long while, as long as it took, for the cannibals to strip the woman's body down to nearly the bone. He stayed as still as the rocks that hid him, his eyes glued to the travesty that had happened right in front of him. The four left, laughing and wiping their mouths, tied the male up and dragged him along. One final look confirmed the man was still alive. There was nothing to be done. He was sure they were gone, but Job waited a bit longer. The climb down the small pieces of concrete was easy. He walked between the still cars, to the clearing where the woman's remains were.

He knelt and said a prayer for her, wishing her soul an easy journey into the next life. The want to search the cars was gone, the want to stay was gone, now he just wanted answers. The thoughts came like a torrent. If he'd known what would have happened to the world or what he would have woken up to he would have never volunteered for the program. He was only a convict by name. Court marshalled for killing killers that wore the same uniform as him. 'You don't have to be executed. We can make you part of the Cryo program.' they told him. He cursed their names. He'd sleep for 80 years and be reawakened and reintroduced into society. If the process was successful.

What went wrong? How long was he asleep? Why only now did he wake up? What happened to the world? His head swam with all the things that needed answering. Some noise nagged at him from the outside world. A clicking type noise. He couldn't be bothered with it right now. It persisted. Click click click click. The hiss is what brought him out of his thoughts. His body stopped and straightened, his head whipped left and right trying to find what made the noise. He found it. To his left, in the sand, and just a few feet away.

It looked like a centipede, but near twelve feet long, a deep red body with black spikes protruding randomly, eight black eyes, and long pincers coated with venom. It stood the first portion of it's body straight up, already the size of Job's six foot body. It hissed again and he slowly started to back away, moving in a deliberate retreat. Another hiss and he sped his retreat. Job guessed it wasn't satisfied as it gave chase. He ran towards the black smoke, hoping it would be another person, even cannibals would be acceptable at this point. Clicks and hisses from the angry insect were right behind him.

The pavement beneath his feet ended somewhere underground and now there was nothing but soft sand, which made running harder for him, but not his pursuer. It was gaining. Quickly. Options sped through Job's mind, all of them ended in his death. His legs pushed harder as he dared not look back, but let fear fuel him. Ahead of him, in the sand, was a sinkhole about six or so feet across. A plan formed quickly. He bee lined straight for it, hoping it would trip the creature up enough to let him escape. He was struck in the back, his pack absorbing whatever damage had been dealt. At the edge of the hole in the sand he leapt.

He rolled with his landing, but the sand was too soft for him to recover. He drew a knife and flipped onto his back, ready for the giant thing to descend upon him. Half it's body made it over the sinkhole, then it stopped dead in it's tracks and started screeching in pain as it suddenly folded in half. Something was living beneath the sand and was now making a meal of the insect chasing him. It's sharp claws dug at the sand, trying to get away, but to no avail. A plume of soft sand shot up as it got pulled further down into the sinkhole. Then another. It disappeared and the shrieking stopped.

Job panted for a moment, catching his breath and laying very still, watching the place where the centipede had been taken. Whatever lived beneath the sand was happy for now, he guessed. Cautiously he got up and moved further away. As he wiped sweat from his brow he began to wonder where the black smoke was coming from, but his question was answered before it was finished. Just ahead of him sat a church. A full, intact, church. It had it's bell, it's doors, and a fence around it meant to keep out invaders.

Black smoke came from the small apartment's chimney attached to the side of the structure in a steady pace. The fence looked to be made of sticks, barbed wire, razor wire, and whatever else might fit. Job didn't sheath his knife as he called out, taking a very big risk. "Hello?" It was a while coming, but someone responded, "Hello!" A man stumbled out of the doors, a cane in hand, sunglasses on, and clothed like a priest. His skin seemed normal, save for the left side of his face that looked like he'd been in a fire. The man looked around, craning his neck to listen better, his white, stringy hair waving around as he did. He appeared to be in his late sixties.

"Hello?" The man called again. He was blind. "Hello." Job responded. "Who is that? Who are you? I've not heard your voice before." The old man looked nervous and clutched his cane, ready to defend himself. "I'm not from here. My name is Job. I...I don't know where I am." Though the man approached, Job stayed very still. "Job? Like the Book of Job in the bible? Oh, good fortune. Oh, good fortune, indeed. What are you doing back here?" he asked as he hobbled forwards. "I've been travelling for a few days from back that way. I was following your smoke from your chimney."

The man looked very confused, "Back that way? That's the nethers, my good boy. There's nothing out there but death and fall out." Job looked over his shoulder and nodded, "Yeah. Tell me about it. Look. I woke up a few days ago in a facility a while back that way. I don't understand what's happened. Can you help me?" Suspicion creased the brow of the blind man and after a moment he spoke, "My name is Jebidiah. You'd best come inside if you're to learn, my son." Job thanked him and ducked through the fence, managing to dodge all the sharp metal.

The church was empty, save for a few pews made of rotted and rotting wood, a giant cross, and a few shelves with candles burning on them. Job sheathed the knife he had in his hand and followed Jebidiah to a pew at the front of the church. "Sit, my boy, sit. Tell me your tale." Job complied and did just that, explaining his military career, his imprisonment, and the things he'd seen. Jebidiah sat still, listening intently and carefully, only asking a question when he didn't understand something. After Job was done there was a long silence, which he broke, "What happened, Jebidiah?"

The priest nodded and sighed before he began, "Two hundred and thirty years ago there was a great war. The last great war. Not for politics, or land, or oil, or any other reason that had plagued mankind back then, but for religion. The economy had fallen to shambles and people sought answers, so they turned naturally to their churches. Each one claimed to know, claimed that they would fix all, claimed all would be well. Soon so many factions turned into just three. Christianity, Catholicism, and Trinidites. The Trinidites were a new church, founded by those with money and power, seeking to reclaim their throne atop the world. It didn't work. They all went to war."

"Holy money funded new weapons, new forms of killing, and in the end, the final weapon. The Christians wielded it, claiming to save mankind from itself. The thing was a double edged sword in the guise of a series of bombs dropped from orbit. 'Michael's Wrath', they called it. The first series of bombs were high impact EMP's, destroying all electronics. The second series....well." He sighed deeply before going on. "They were the real wrath. Hydrogen by design, but in the end nothing more than napalm fueled by nuclear power. They scorched the earth. Burnt it." Job sat back in a cold sweat, taking in the brief history of life after he'd been frozen. He felt sick and dizzy, lost and abandoned, speechless.

"I need to lie down. Is that okay?" was all Job could manage. "Lie down, son, lie down. You're safe here." Job stretched out on the pew as Jebidiah got up, but had to ask one last question, "Jebidiah, if the church did that why would you build one?" The old priest stopped and turned around with a gentle smile, "This isn't a church of God, son, it's a church of mankind. God and his followers promised us all would be well, all those years ago. It ruined us. Mankind had to build itself back up, find faith in something else. And because of them...all did not end well. Despite their attempts. All did not end well." Job was almost asleep as the priest left the room, but he had to repeat those words once more, they felt like the truth of his entire situation was distilled down to them, "All did not end well..."

Writing Competition (Deadman Entry)

Antiquities And Ash
By: Deadman

The two men in the dusty and torn jackets sat by the window of the small cafe. The lights flickered every now and again, dust fell from the loose ceiling tiles sporadically, obscuring the view for a few seconds. Despite the obvious turmoil that they were in the two men seemed jovial. John wore a blue suit decorated with rips and tears, and across from him sat Brian, a grey suit with burn marks here and there.

John was still smiling as he wiped a tear from his eye, brought on from laughter, “Yeah. I remember her. Judy. God she was ugly. Her boyfriend tried to pawn her off on me one time. I think you were there.” Brian thought for a moment, “Oh yeah! You were so drunk and what did you say...uh…?” They both rubbed scraped up chins with dirty hands as they tried to recall the phrase. The blonde man in the brown suit snapped his fingers as it came to him, “I remember! You said 'Dude! I don’t wanna fuck a dog!'”

They both erupted with laughter again, the grey suited one with dark hair added, “Yeah! You got in a fight with him that night.” They both laughed just a moment longer while each finishing off the beer bottle before them. Another rumble made the near dozen empties rattle against each other. A sigh ended their guffaws, the two men looking at the table between them, searching for another subject to discuss.

Soon their smiles melted to despaired frowns, a pair of bottles joined the others, and another rumble came. A few ceiling tiles fell, a light crashed to it’s spark-throwing end, none of it seemed to matter to John and Brian. The dark haired one spoke so soft it was barely audible, “Never thought those guys with those signs standing on the street corners telling us to ‘Repent or die’ would’ve been right.” John nodded his agreement, slipping the stolen glock pistol from his jacket pocket and placing it on the table. Brian gave a forlorn look from the weapon to it’s owner then did the same, producing his own pistol, a 1911.

“I have one round left.” Both sets of eyes went to the glock, then to the other. “Me, too.” Somebody screamed outside, long and bloody, ending in a gurgling sound. “Are you too drunk to pull that trigger?” John asked, keeping his eyes down. “No. Are you?” Brian responded. “No.” It was easy to understand what the blonde man with the grey suit was getting at. His blue eyes met Brian’s green ones. A window gave way on the other end of the diner, a sign that time was nearly up.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t save Becca and the kids.” Tears cut clean swaths in the ashes that covered both their faces as emotions bled through. “I’m sorry you had to watch your mom and brother go like that.” The two men looked at each other and nodded, their condolences said. John had always been the strong one in their 25 year friendship and now he had to use that strength, “At the same time. On three.”

Unsteady arms leveled weapons that only had a bullet each. Green and blue eyes stared down the barrel of a gun. “One.” They counted together. “Two.” One of their voices broke a bit. “Three.” Fingers started to squeeze triggers. Brian’s arm dropped to the table, not firing his last round, “I ca-” John’s gun flashed and the world went deaf for a moment, Brian slumped over in silence. The blonde man with no more bullets started screaming. He asked why over and over again. As he broke into sobs the windows next to him shattered. What looked like thick, black, smoke that was alive and writhing with purpose poured into the diner.

Everything shook again. Lines danced across the screen. The video ended. The time stamp on the corner of the screen placed it 160 years ago, to the day. The day now referred to as “Armaggedon”. Some call it “The Rapture”. But the few people left on this world agree that it was a day of darkness. Now the video footage of John and Brian is being sold in a slum market as an antiquity. A hard drive whirred loudly as a few buttons were pressed. Another video began to play.

The Burnt World: Part One (Original Short)

The sun was all but blinding. Without sunglasses or some sort of eye protection, one would be rendered blind in minutes. He sat at the edge of the now destroyed compound that housed him in his slumber for years and years. It was confusing. He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep, how long the world had been like this. But it worried him. A lot. From the last readable piece of written parchment that he came across he only could guess it had been centuries.

The wind was harsh and moved fast, unaffected by the little pieces of civilization that poked above the dirt floor. What could only be four-lane highways were now littered with rusted and empty cars, their occupants bleached bones or worse. His eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of humanity, any proof of life that might be able to help him piece together this mad world. Then he saw it: A smeared inkblot on the white skyline. Smoke. He wrapped the scarf he'd scavenged from inside the compound around his mouth and set his destination.

The building he was in was barely rubble now, but had probably been the earmark of an architect many a year ago. The world was a desert now and it was unforgiving. The sand had laid claim to all, the living and the stone monuments they had built. His walk was a steady pace and he took the time to drink in what his world had become. Where he imagined skyscrapers and blue glass were only broken stones and blackened skies. Every mile he walked he could feel hope slipping away, feel life abandoning him and never turning back. He steeled his resolve and kept forward, night falling and stealing away the sun’s harsh rays and replacing them with dark purple clouds filled with blue lightning that never struck.

He'd slept for too long. It was time for action. Time to get answers. Creatures he no longer recognized howled and screamed their cries just out of his sight, once finding something to eat. They ravaged the panicked animal and brayed joyfully. He stayed his course, worried only about being unarmed. He'd have to change that soon, if he could. The barely intact skeletons of cars rarely held anything worth taking, except once he found a military backpack. It had one or two useful things in it, things designed to be all but indestructible: matches and a foil solar blanket made as well as a bottle to carry water in, though long since emptied. And the pack, itself, of course.

He hoisted the empty carrier and kept going, the bones of a small town not too far in the distance. It was hours and dawn came quickly, bringing back the beating sun, but driving back whatever was in the dark devouring other creatures. He was grateful, but hungry, and wondered how hard it would have been to have taken down one of the beasts. Then he figured it was hard enough that he couldn't do it unarmed.

Sand and rocks crunched under his boots as he entered the dead town. The sand and wind had worn down the buildings to nubs and smoothed the wrought iron to a polished finish. No glass remained and the one or two doorways still standing were hollow. He kept moving, hoping that he could spot something to eat, or some water to drink, but there seemed to be nothing in sight. Then like a tomb it appeared a street over: an intact building. He thought long, deep and hard about the dangers that could possibly be lurking in the shadows of the one-story building. The idea of shelter and maybe food won over the scary thoughts of monsters and creatures waiting with teeth bared.

On his walk over, he stopped and picked out an arms length of rebar and made sure it was steady, swinging it around to get used to the weight. The small concrete shelter was near; he took a deep breath and sighed it out. The rickety door barely clung to the rusted hinges and swayed slightly in the breeze. He tried to listen for movement inside, but the wind made it impossible. His shaded eyes couldn't see clearly into the shadows with the sunglasses he wore. He approached the door and tried pushing it open with the bar, but it wouldn't budge. He fought with the possibility of a trap and decided shelter was worth it.

With another sigh of resolve, he kicked the door open. The cacophony drowned out the sound of the tripwire, the pulley, and the weight dropping. Wire coiled itself around his ankle and gripped tight. It pulled fast, so fast he couldn't react, and only had a split second to hear the sound of his head hitting heavy on the concrete below. Blackness took over.

Coming awake was painful. The back of his head hurt, the ankle that the cable had wrapped itself around stung, and his eyes were still adjusting to the low, amber light. Voices came through the fog that hung heavy on his senses. “What are we gonna do with him?” “What do you think?” “We’s gonna eat ‘im!” There were three of them. He was hoping for one, but luck didn’t think that would have been fair.

He wasn’t upside down anymore. He was tied to a pillar, another wire around his wrists, his back against the concrete and his legs stretched out in front of him. His eyes finally adjusted and he found himself in a dark cellar, probably underneath the one-story building. The walls were concrete like the single pillar in the middle of the room, giving nothing away and nothing to get himself loose with.

He twisted his hands in the makeshift wire shackles and hoped that they would creak or bend, telling him that the metal was old and rusty. WIth a little effort the wire did just what he hoped and popped a few strands. He smiled to himself; he had not planned on becoming someone’s meal. If he could work his way out of this, even if it cost him a few layers of skin, he would do it and get out. Above his head the floor creaked with motion from above and he knew he had little time. He gritted his teeth and began to twist his wrists.

The pain was slow to come, but it came. First it burned, then it grated like sandpaper on raw skin, but he kept at it. Working his hands back and forth in the wire restraints, he felt one fiber after another give way. Each second he was at it was another second of pain that was building toward searing. He kept his eyes up, searching the room for something to distract him from the growing agony, searching for a hatch or a trap door leading upward. He couldn’t see one, so he assumed it was behind him. Another pop, another level of pain. Now the snapped wires were biting into already sensitive flesh. Beads of sweat ran down his brow, his cheeks, and the back of his neck, making his brown t-shirt stick to his skin.

It was only a minute or two, but it felt like an eternity, that he was able to slip his wrists out and comfort them in the low light. He turned to see where it was coming from and his suspicions were correct: A badly built trapdoor at the corner of the small room was letting light through the planks and illuminating his temporary dungeon. The skin on his wrists was broken, but he couldn’t pay too much attention to that right now. The floor creaked and moaned as one of the denizens upstairs began to walk to the wooden planks held together with nails and such to imprison their meal. He had to think fast, so he stayed seated and put his hands behind the pole again and hung his head. Not a second later, the hatch was pulled open.

A ladder was thrown down and heavy feet carrying a heavy load thumped onto the dirt covered concrete floor behind him. Slowly the the footsteps made their way to the front of him. The man before him could, at one point, be considered human. Now he only bears the slightest of resemblances. The skin that was pulled taught over warped muscles was brown and leathery, hair was no longer covering, it came in blotches all over. Teeth were gaped apart, lips peeled back and split in some places, dark from recent openings. The man’s body was a practice in inhuman, gnarled and warped limbs clung to a frame that was human only in the most basic sense.

The man on the floor could feel rotted breath coming down him as the creature that was barely human inspected him. It was now or never. The man on the floor opened his eyes and tucked his leg back underneath himself, his captor barely had enough time to draw a gasp by the time his leg was kicked out from underneath him, the knee breaking with a muffled ‘crack’. The hostage wasted no time and pounced, letting his fists come down on the side of the face on the floor three, four, five times, making his captors breathing ragged. Then with slow and practiced precision the aggressor reached under the barely breathing head on the floor beneath him and wrapped his fingers together, pulling up, against the natural curve of the spine. Quiet grunts of effort escaped as quick, panicked pants came from the man on the floor. He pulled harder, things popping and giving way to the pressure, causing flailing arms to kick up dust around them. With a final, vicious ‘Pop’ the body beneath went limp. The captive pulled once more, making sure, letting out a long breath, trying to get the adrenaline out of his body so he could think clearer. He let the head thunk to the floor, watching as thick, dark blood seeped from orifices and began to pool beneath.

A voice came from above, the same thick accent as before, “Where’s the food, boy? We’re gettin’ hungry!” Mismatched footsteps that gave away a limp, more than likely from deformities, made their way to the hole in the ceiling above. For the first time the prisoner took into account what he had on: His dark brown cargo pants that he had pulled off a dead soldier, long rotted and gone, and the same colored tee shirt, his socks and boots were gone.

The thing above him dropped to its knees at the hole at the same time the captive decided to make a move: He got to his bare feet, ran the three steps and used the bottom rung of the ladder to launch himself upwards, his hands meeting the grotesque head that was now peering down. With all the strength he could muster he grabbed and twisted his body and the head in his hands with it. A sickening crack echoed through the air. Both bodies, one standing, the other slumped in a heap fell to the floor at the same time. He found his boots and socks.

After lacing up his reacquired boots he stayed down, listening for more footsteps or voices. None came. With all his muscles he made quick work of the ladder and hopped up and into the house he suspected he’d been captured in. Orange light from candles placed here and there upon old, broken furniture and fixtures lit a dusty room, it seemed like a basement. Three corners of the room were all but bare and one was more than gruesome. He stared for a moment.

Chains hung from the ceiling above the small corner, hooks up and down them, each with body parts that were easily identifiable as human. The world was new and harsh. People survived however they could. He heard the movement before he felt the impact. The piece of wood he was just struck with splintered into a thousand pieces, he moved with the momentum and rolled across the floor, finding his feet again, before another strike came.

“Ya killed ma’ kin! Ya bastard!” The escapee faced the biggest of the three monstrosities. Well over a foot taller than him, twice as wide, melted skin here and there, warts speckled throughout, one eye looked like it had fallen from place and found a new one in it’s cheek, lips that were cracked with thirst and twisted to expose yellowed and rotted teeth. “I’m the last of ma’ clan, now! Who are ya?” The monstrosity stopped just out of arm’s reach.

The man that was crouched down, staring up at the mutated thing, thought for a moment, then spoke, “My name is Job.” The entire basement echoed with a scream as the thing brought down another strike, but missed, as Job dodged easily. Legs that weren’t twisted kicked out the legs that were. Job pounced, raining down punch after punch upon the warped head of his captor. With a roar the man threw him off, Job rolled again. This time his hand landed on a blade that was covered in dirt on the floor next to him.

He gripped the handle and made quick work, pushing all his muscles to exertion. There was one more scream in the basement. Job stared at the new morning, the new world, everything in it, through sunglasses. His pack now had bottles of water, a couple of cans, and now he had more than a few knives. Someone had to know how the world ended up like this. He intended to find his answers.

The Blade of The Princess: Part 2 of 2

K'anda sighed deeply as she walked away from the shore of the lake, hating that she couldn't help more, but at the same time grateful for the sight she'd seen below the glassy surface of the lake. It was slow to begin, but her legs fell into the walking rhythm she was now used to. It felt like ages since she'd left her grand palace back in Zhu'ul, but the truth was she'd only been gone near three weeks.

She was glad, in a way, that she was traveling alone. She'd said less than a handful of words, not sentences, but words since she'd last seen her home land. It was a relief. From all the servants, cooks, tutors, trainers, her nine sisters, she thought she'd never know a moment of silence in her life. But the woods were silent, engaging, and all together deadly. K'anda didn't mind. She saw the beauty in all of it, even the black, twisted, dead trees that had fallen over years ago. Their rotted trunks were now home to a thousand more things hidden from sight.

The morning sun blazed high in the sky, only a few skinny clouds hanging around after the heavy rains last night. The air smelled sweet, like flowers and fresh grass, as the heavy dampness of the lake and its humidity grew further away with each step. The Princess followed the path back to the main road, quietly admiring the trees, the bright leaves, purple and yellow flowers, and all sorts of creatures that had made this place their home. Her golden eyes focused on nothing, letting time pass as she took her time getting back to the road, making her walk more than scenic.

At the main road, her boots kicked up small puffs of soft dirt, the Agaden Mountains her only landmark as she began to push her now experienced body toward them. Mid-morning had come, and with it, hunger. On the road there were no other travelers, and the woods cut back a few hundred paces to protect those on the path. It was a situation that would be troublesome, even to the most experienced travelers, but not to her.

As she walked her steady pace, K'anda bent down and scooped up a handful of rocks the size of her fingertips. They were black and smooth, ringed with sediment. She thought them to be pretty. As she walked, she discarded the few that weren't smooth enough, leaving only four from the bunch. Her long legs carried her at a measured pace, and just like her, things were alive and scampering about. She slowed her steps, studying the waist-high grass around her, looking for movement.

It only took a moment before she spotted her lunch: a Grassling. They were like rabbits, but a bit larger, and instead of white, fluffy fur, they were covered in thick, coarse, green, flat hair that gave them the appearance of grass when they laid flat. Apparently this one was unhappy at the proximity between it and her. It was a terrible mistake, on its part. The princess froze, her boot puffing up one last dust cloud as she made the decision to get her meal.

With practiced precision guided by her magic, K'anda pinpointed where the Grassling would be. She lifted her hand with the stones in it, keeping her golden eyes wide open, and flattened her palm and fingers. Her wrist was right before her face as she let her power awaken, focusing on one of the smooth stones and then drawing a slow, deep breath. Upon a cloud of air she had created, one of the stones floated, aimed and ready, then she blew a puff of air, which she magnified, accelerated, and pushed forward to a blinding speed with magic. The stone left so fast she could no longer see it past the line of the grass in front of her. An arrow could not have been quicker, had it been shot from the strongest bow pulled by the mightiest of archers. Nor could it have been more accurate. Without having to go see for herself, the Princess knew the stone had hit, and gone through, the head of the target. With a small, satisfied smile, Ka'nda lowered her hand and went to retrieve her lunch.

Noon had come and gone. The now full princess sat a few yards away from the road, licking the grease of her recently finished meal off her fingers. Using her powers and her sword, she'd divided the Grassling into what she would eat now and meat that she had dried and would store in the already tanned hide from the animal. She was grateful for the gift of her magic, and the things it allowed her to do. Now with a tight and tidy bundle at the back of her hip, K'anda pressed on.

Suddenly she was running. She hadn't paid attention to the sun and it set on her before she could find shelter. The heavy paws pounding behind her, coupled with hungry growling and frantic panting, let her know how close the Moon Wolf was. K'anda chanced a glance back and in the darkness only saw two red, bobbing eyes as it chased her and threatened to close the gap between them. She'd heard tales of how fast the creatures were, but until she had tried to launch a liquid ball of fire at one, she never knew. Tall grass whipped at her exposed thighs, stinging with each oncoming hit. In panic she'd lost track of the road.

K'anda's legs made for the nearest line of trees, hoping that the hungry thing behind her would be lost, but it kept up. She balked left, so did the wolf, she leaped over fallen trees, so did the wolf, she pumped her long, muscular legs as hard as she could, the wolf didn't care. Its pace was steady, keeping with her. Inch by inch, it gained. She could feel the oncoming attack, the animal letting loose a triumphant cry. K'anda's mind tried not to imagine what the final fight between them would feel like. Tried not to imagine the long teeth rending her flesh asunder. A low branch whipped her face, blurring her vision, another, another. She lost sight of the ill-lit woods ahead of her through the tears in her eyes. She saw the log, lying across the ground at the last second and leaped.

The ground gave way. She was only vaguely aware of the feeling of falling; the panic had driven her almost numb. As soon as she realized what was happening she hit the wall of the hole she'd just plunged into. With a flash of pain and a heavy grunt, the air was driven from her lungs and she was unconscious. She didn't know for how long she fell, or the time that had passed since she'd landed. Her body seemed a vague memory of a lifetime ago. All her senses crept back into her in waves, like things being washed ashore by the great oceans near her home of Zhu'ul. Her eyes saw nothing but dark, she tasted blood and dirt. She tried to breathe, but her nose was stuffed up with dirt and blood, too. Now her body was a rack of ache and pain as she fully came to, all her senses in place.

Before she moved she checked her body, sending tendrils of magic down her length to see if she'd broken anything. She was okay. It seemed the Moon Wolf was not hungry, or foolish enough, to follow her down the hole she'd accidentally discovered was hiding beneath a bed of twigs. She was lying atop something metal, the thin material scraping and sending echoes out into the cave she was in. With a moan and wince, she held her hand up, released her restraint of her ability, and created a ball of bright, yellow fire.

She sat up, trying to survey what she was laying on. She'd never seen anything like it: a carriage but squatter and longer, made of metal with glass windows and what looked like iron discs as wheels. Her face bunched with confusion as she stood, using her other hand to wipe away the blood and dirt from her face. She fed more of her gift into the ball of flame, letting it grow and brighten to the point where she could no longer hold it, even at arm's length. With a grunt of effort, she threw the ball up. It howled and turned and kept going, fed by her until it hit the roof. K'anda's golden eyes were as wide as saucers when it finally hit the ceiling, an impossible distance, and ignited to four times its original size. A prayer to the good spirits fell from her lips.

The cave was more than massive; the ceiling had roots hanging low from the earthen material it was made of. As far as her gifted eyes could see, there were rows and rows of the same kind of grey structure that was under the lake. It stretched for what seemed an eternity. Everything lit by the fireball above was grey with dust or orange with age. More of the short carriages lined veins of what seemed to be roads, their smooth surfaces cracked and broken. The taller boxes were barely standing, pieces of them hanging by wires to a skeletal frame. Metal poles, twisted and bent with age, punctuated the many lines that made up the grid where the rest sat. Flashes of yellow and red reflected off dirty glass sitting in the gaping mouths in the faces of stone towers. Even her entire land of Zhu'ul could not have compared to what was in the cave. Not the size nor the expanse of the dead world she'd fallen upon.

She wanted to bound through it, see and study every crack and crag, but caution crept into her. Apprehension wrapped cold and tight around her, freezing her muscles and pushing them to flee. She looked up to the hole or the direction she though it was and spotted a tiny yellow blotch of light. The wall next to her had been fixed with metal rungs, leading up and out. With a final look she limped toward them, her mind reeling with what she had seen.

It was now, and only now, that she wished she wasn't alone. She wanted to know about this dead world and what it was, why it was, and when the final flicker of life in it had extinguished. She vowed, after she obtained a mate, to return to this place and speak with the dead. Her hand gripped the first bar and aching muscles started pulling her up, toward the world she knew.

An Immortals Tale: Part 4

The Man in the Black Suit
Part 4
"This world is old and so am I"

The wall between the three kingdoms had been breached, artifacts that shouldn't be in the hands of amateurs were, and the devils Bible was here. This was a situation that was bleak at best. So Jon sat in his chair in the middle of his apartment, amongst his books, thinking on the past, trying to remember the last time this sort of thing happened.

Like an encyclopedia he ran through all his encounters in the order they happened, cataloguing anew all the information and events from his past. But nothing connected thoroughly, just bits and pieces, faces and names, parts of Scripture. The farther he went back the harder it was to find anything of relevance. Three days passed as he sat, the world outside moving as usual, the thousands of people unaware of the dangers that possibly lurked in the shadows with plans of....That was it. Jon remembered.

It was right before King Arthur took power in England. Somewhere around 470 A.D. It had been a harsh winter, the snow had killed many and many more sick, England was in dismay and seeking salvation. Twelve men rode horses a few miles outside of London, the countryside still cold although the cities had begun to warm. The night was cold, but it wasn't biting, and the moon hung full overhead.Heavy brown burlap robes cloaked ten of the men and the other two wore peasents clothing. One was young and had blonde hair, the other a man in his thirties with close cropped brown hair and grey eyes. They rode at the front of the two columned train of men and beast.

The young blonde spoke with curiosity and wonder, "Father Jon? How am I to save England?" Jon smiled at the boy and sighed deeply, preparing an explanation. "Well, young ward, there's a sword in an anvil atop a stone, ran through like a Knight ill suited at his job." He smiled and the blonde boy laughed a little, then Jon further explained, "The local folk and even some of the royal court believe that the bearer of that sword is the one and true King of England, chosen by God, himself. And you, my boy, are going to retrieve that sword." The young lad thought a moment then turned back to the Father. "But Father you didn't answer my question."

Jon laughed out loud and hard, "You are a clever boy, aren't you?" The boy beamed with pride. "Okay, okay. Like me, young ward, you've been in the care of the church and we have raised you with the love of God in your heart. With that sword in your hands and a crown upon your head you will help restore faith in God back into the people of this land. That's how, my boy." The ward sat contemplative upon his horse. Jon smiled and nodded, having sated the boys curiosity for now. But before the silence could last the boy asked another question. "Father Jon. Does heaven really exist and if it does...will I have a name there?" Jon expressed his appreciation for the question. He looked back at the ten men behind them, the only visible under the heavy burlap was a silver cross that reflected the moonlight. Then he turned back to the boy. "Yes it does. And though we cannot see it we live in Eden every day. God is all around us and so is the eternal heaven that he lives in. And you have a name, my boy. Your name is Arthur." Young Arthur chuckled and stifled his laughter, checking that the monks behind him didn't hear. "My name...is Arthur!" The young man was so happy silent tears ran down his rosy cheeks and into his wide smile. Jons spirits rose in seeing the delight that gave his young ward, something everyone took for granted so often: A name.

Arthur let the silence finally longer, the weight of his name settling in. The crisp night would hold some new and interesting things yet, Jon thought to himself. Arthur and his smile turned back to Jon, "Please, Father, tell me more about heaven. Why do you say we walk in Eden every day?" Jon nodded his agreement and chose a path of an easy to understand story for the boy, "This world is old, young Arthur, and so am I. Already I've existed for more than 300 years, living as a man, passing the word of God and the world we live in much, much older than even I can fathom. And I'm quite clever. Once. Far before you were born. There was a man who tried to unite heaven and earth. It ended very badly. But. In that very bad act we learned good knowledge: The kingdom of heaven is around us." Arthur didn't seem to understand, so Jon went further into explanation.

"The world is not what you think, Arthur. Heaven and earth and the inferno all exist. And they exist here, all at the very same time we do. But. There's a wall between the three kingdoms." The blonde haired boy looked at Jon with wide eyes, "Kingdoms?" Jon nodded and continued, "Yes, kingdoms. And as long as they are separate we can live in peace. Any breach of that wall and bad things will happen." Arthur drank the whole thing in, the horse beneath him walking a steady pace, then he asked, "Father Jon...If heaven falls to earth what happens to us?" Jon took a moment and decided the best answer was the truth. His tone was cold and hard, "We burn."

The words sent a shiver through the young lad. And he spoke with determination and courage in his juvenile voice. "If I'm to be king...I'll be sure to keep the three kingdoms separate and ensure that heaven remain standing. And I'll guard the gates of heaven and earth alike and make certain no one tries to combine them again." Jon offered the boy a sincere smile and a nod of approval. "Well said, Arthur. But first. Let's get you that blasted sword, yeah?" Arthur nodded and faced forward. "Father, you're very old." Jon winked and from then on the twelve men rode in silence.

Back in his apartment Jon smiled a sad smile for his long lost ward, and said a small prayer that heaven received their protector well. But. Arthur reminded him then and now what was afoot: Someone was trying to unite the three kingdoms.