Black Beauty by Anna Sewell illustrated edition
Author: Anna Sewell
Date: 1877-01-02 04:57:00+00:00
Keywords: Classics; Fiction; Childrens; Animals; Young Adult; Horses; Historical Fiction; Middle Grade; Adventure; Historical
Description: As a young horse, Black Beauty is well-loved and happy. But when his owner is forced to sell him, his life changes drastically. He has many new owners--some of them cruel and some of them kind. All he needs is someone to love him again... Whether pulling an elegant carriage or a ramshackle cab, Black Beauty tries to live as best he can. This is his amazing story, told as only he could tell it.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Act 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Act 2

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Act 3

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Epilogue

Afterword

Black Creek

Copyright ©2018 by Dan Kemp
www.midnightmouthful.com

Cover art ©2017 by Hampton Lamoureux
www.ts95studios.com

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN 9781976716706

Act One

The forest was dark, and all he could hear was his own breath and the pounding of his feet.

The ground was slick, yet somehow he kept his feet beneath him as he tore through the undergrowth. Branches bit at his face and arms, but he slapped them away and told his legs to keep pumping.

His chest was getting tight, and eventually he couldn’t help but to slow down. It was only then that his feet slipped. He landed hard on the muddy ground, sliding into the base of a tree with a painful thud. Now his head was spinning, so for a moment he could only lie still and listen.

He could hear faint screams off in the distance behind him. With a moan he heaved himself up against the tree trunk. Looking back in the direction he had come, a dim light filtered through the dense trees. Fire, he knew. His friends were likely all dead. He would be too, soon enough, unless he kept moving.

The sound of rustling nearby gave him a start, and he lowered himself to the ground once again. The sounds passed behind him. Whatever caused them, it was fleeing from the same thing he had been. He pulled himself upright but faltered, feeling a sharp pain in his arm as it brushed against the bark. A warm trickle of blood ran across his wrist. Instinctively he looked down, but in the oppressive darkness he couldn’t even see his own arm.

The screaming behind him had gone quiet, but the forest was not silent. There was a dull, heavy rumble echoing through the woods. He could feel it underfoot, too, like a slow drum beat deep within the earth.

Time to run again. He soon hit another tree, but spun off of it as he went and kept running. The sound was growing louder and the beat faster, and he willed his legs to go faster until they simply could not. Closer now. He got the sense of a break in the trees to his right, so he threw himself that way.

He hit something hard and pressed himself against it. The beast seemed to go past, its heavy footfalls moving off to his right and becoming faint.

He felt around blindly, trying to get his bearings, finding himself to be surrounded by thick vines. The only way out was right in front of him. He laid his head back and tried to slow his racing heart.

THUM

One single, earth-rending footstep. He closed his eyes and held his breath.

THUM

Another. He could hear it now, its moist breathing. Sniffing, trying to catch his scent. It was right in front of him now, close enough he could nearly see it in the darkness. The massive creature made a deep throaty rumble, almost like a purr, as it regarded him. There was no way out.

"Fuck."

When the monster roared, the trees shook and a wave of foul, hot breath washed over him. The man's eardrums burst and bled, and he never heard his own scream.

Joseph

1890

Prince William County, Virginia

Has the whole world gone to shit, or just this town?

Joseph Brooker hauled open the heavy old door and slipped inside, eager to escape the winter cold. He shrugged off his overcoat and hung it on the hook near the door. A fire was already burning in the grate across the room, and he was glad of it. For a moment he just stood silently, warming himself near the hearth.

"Are you okay, Joe?" His secretary sat at her desk just feet away, looking at him over the rim of her glasses.

Joseph turned to her. "I'm fine, Mabel. Just a bit of trouble in town.”

“There's always something,” she said.

"Always," he agreed, as she looked back down at her work. She was an older woman, quiet but kind, and had worked for Joseph's father for many years. She was still a valuable asset, although Joseph doubted he'd have the heart to fire her even if she weren't. He walked over to his office door.

"No visitors," he said, turning back with one hand on the knob.

"Of course," she answered. "Mr. Crawford came looking for you again earlier."

She didn’t look up again, expecting no response, and Joseph gave her none. He closed the door behind him.

His office was a cozy, circular room which felt more like home than anywhere else did these days. Against the back wall sat his desk, a fine oak piece his father had used before him. In the corner was a sofa, and atop it a pillow and blanket still tangled and untouched from where he had slept last night. The fireplace was two-sided, heating both his office and the main entryway. The flame crackled pleasantly as he slumped onto the sofa, so he closed his eyes, just for a moment.

He awoke what must have been an hour or two later, judging by the waning light at the window. The blanket was pulled up around him, and he couldn’t remember taking off his shoes, but there they were on the floor. Wiping a bit of drool from his chin, Joseph retrieved a small day planner from his shirt pocket and flipped to today's date. February 12th, 1890. There were only two tasks listed, scrawled in his own messy writing:

1- meet the new guy

2- kill jonah

This latter instruction was, in fact, written on every single day in the book, though he needed no reminder. In any case, it wasn’t what he was looking for at the moment. At the bottom of the page was an address. That he even needed a reminder of this, in such a small town as his, was just a bit disconcerting. Getting old always was.

He took note of it and put the journal away before pulling himself free of the quilt and sitting up. A faded photograph of a beautiful young woman stared at him from the top of a small side table. Joseph stared back at it. "Another day, my love," he said.

The fire had died down to embers, and Mabel was gone for the evening. Joseph locked the door behind him and set back out into the cold evening air.

The main street was empty, and a light flurry fell around him. He huddled into his coat and made his way south. Most of the shops were closed for the day, others seemingly closed forever. His town was long past its prime, but Joseph had never lived any place else.

A man hurried past. "Good evening, Mayor," the man said, his breath billowing out in front of him.

"Harry," Joseph replied, and the men went on.

Joseph's father, mayor before him, had often bemoaned the state of their town. Joseph himself had never seen those good old days, and as he got older he began to understand that neither had his father. The town had not been anything you could truly call thriving for at least thirty years before his father was born. Back in the late 1700s, tobacco imports made the port one of the largest in America. Since then, two wars had come and gone, and Joseph was now the mayor of a port town whose only shipping lane was silted in. The ships weren't ever coming back, but life did go on.

Joseph turned one last corner and found his destination, a new home which sat across the street from him, right on the edge of town. Its construction had been paid for, apparently, by some big-shot out of Baltimore. The man himself had moved into the home just days ago. New residents were not unheard of, but a wealthy man choosing this failing town as his new home did strike Joseph as a bit unusual.

Joseph crossed the street, noting a light on inside the home and smoke drifting from its chimney. He climbed the front steps and knocked on the door.

It was a long moment before any response came, and he was just about to knock again when the door finally opened. The man looked to be in his thirties. He wore a plain white shirt and trousers, and held a steaming mug, which he sipped after he opened the door. His brown hair was shoulder-length and pulled back in a bun, bangs hanging down to frame his eyes, which were a strikingly bright green. A closely-trimmed beard lined his face. The man didn't say anything.

"I'm Mayor Joseph Brooker, you can call me Joe. I make sure to welcome everyone to town when they move here."

The man set his drink down and offered his hand. Joseph shook it.

"Call me Hank. Nice to meet you."

"If you don't mind me asking, what brings you to the area? We don't get many new residents. Rumor had it you came out of Baltimore."

"I did. Retired, in a sense. Done with the city life. Hoping for a bit of peace and quiet, for a change."

"I hope you find that here."

"As do I,” Hank said, taking another sip from his drink. “Would you like to come in?"

"Another time, maybe. I'll be getting home. If you need anything, my office is just on the other side of town."

"Thank you, Joe," Hank said, and closed the door.

Joe went back down the steps and across the street. A strange man, he thought. Joseph, who counted himself a progressive man, was not perturbed by the man's unusual appearance. His story could be true, but he doubted it was quite so simple. In any case, Hank seemed nice enough. For now he had more pressing concerns, but he would keep an eye on him.

Back at the corner, he hesitated. Joseph had the distinct feeling that Hank was still watching him. Resisting the urge to look back, he set off down the road.

***

Joseph dreamed; it was the same dream he'd had most nights of late. The scene played out the same, night after night, and Joseph was powerless to make any change.

As always, Joseph came home from a long day of work, surprised not to find his wife there to greet him. An initially casual, then increasingly concerned, search from room to room and around the grounds. The uncertainty, an agonizing two hour wait before finally he threw on his coat and ran back into town.

A crowd was gathered in the town square, and some men tried to stop him from going in. He pushed past them, sent one sprawling to the ground.

In the square he found her, Mary's lifeless body swinging from a rope. His head spun, and he fell to the ground. That was still all he remembered of that day.

***

"You need to go home," Mabel said. She had just entered his office with two cups of coffee. Mabel put one on his desk, then took a seat on the sofa.

"I did go home," Joseph said. "I came in early to wash up."

"If you say so."

The lie was believable enough, with the mayor's office having recently been outfitted with one of the only indoor plumbing systems in the town. But Mabel's expression made clear enough that she didn't believe it. "It's been almost a month."

"I met that new fellow a couple streets over," Joseph said, changing the subject.

"Who is he?"

"Named Hank. Didn't get his last name, actually. As we'd heard, he came from Baltimore. Didn't say much else. Looking for a peaceful place to settle down, he said."

"What do you think?"

Joseph sipped his coffee and ran a hand through his graying hair. "I don't know what I think."

"That makes two of us."

They sat for a while, quietly drinking their coffee and enjoying the warmth of the fire. After some time, they heard the front door open. Mabel left without a word, closing the door behind her. Joseph could hear muffled voices from the other room. He couldn't make out who the visitor was, but he had a pretty good idea anyway.

"It's Mr. Crawford again," Mabel said, peeking through the door. "He knows you're here."

"Send him in."

Joe pulled himself up in his chair, as he had been slumped down almost to the point of falling out. A moment later the door opened and Gray Crawford walked in. He was bald, only three years older than Joseph but looking fifteen years his senior. He wore his usual policeman's uniform.

"Chief," Joseph said.

"Mayor," he replied, taking the chair across the desk from Joseph and pulling it out to a more comfortable distance.

"Sorry, I heard you were looking for me. I was avoiding you."

"I figured as much. You know if I could do anything about it I would. I'm sorry, Joe."

"I know." That much was true. His dread over seeing the man these past few weeks had less to do with any anger toward him personally than Joseph’s general desire to avoid the issue entirely. In fact, Gray had long been one of Joseph's closest friends. The longer he managed to avoid him, the guiltier he began to feel about his misplaced resentment.

"We'll get him eventually, I promise you that."

Jonah Shaw. The man had been a local nuisance for over a decade, one who Joseph's own father ran out of town. It was all over some minor offense—an overreaction, really, even Joseph could admit that. Whatever the former mayor had hoped to achieve, he hadn’t, and Jonah had been a menace ever since.

He and his gang were holed up somewhere nearby, though no one knew exactly where, and he reared his head two or three times a year. At first it was only simple vandalism and petty theft. As of late, he had progressed to more outright acts of aggression. Several local youths had recently gone missing, the boys apparently to join his ranks, the girls presumably for some more horrifying purpose.

"One way or another," Joseph answered, leaning back in his chair and lacing his hands across his chest.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Gray said.

He and Joseph had truly been on the hunt for Jonah for over a year now, but as of yet the two men had little success locating him. Twenty four days ago, Joseph came home to find his wife missing. She was already dead, as Joseph learned a few hours later. Jonah hadn't been seen since, but Joseph very much doubted he was actually gone. Not long after, Gray sent for the sheriff out of Manassas, twenty miles away. This had, so far, prevented Joseph from pursuing the exact type of justice he had in mind.

"He killed my wife, Gray."

"Probably," he said, with a grimace. "But there's no real evidence of it yet, and he has a right to a trial. If I were you, I'd want to do the same thing. And if I did it, a lawman would punish me for it just the same. Please, don't put me in that position."

"No promises." Joseph finished his coffee and set it down hard on the desk.

Gray sighed and stood back up. "I'll just have to find him before you do then."

Joseph was going to let him go without another word, but reconsidered. "Gray," he said. His friend turned around. "You meet the new guy down the road? Hank?"

"I did indeed. Odd man."

"What do you think?"

Gray stood quietly for a moment, apparently thinking. "I don't know," he said. "He seemed nice enough, but there's something more going on there, I suspect. Young man with a lot of money leaving the city to live here? A crook maybe, con man. Could be something worse."

"I thought the same. I’ve decided I’m hoping he's just a retired bank robber looking for a quiet place to settle down. We don't need any more violence here."

Gray laughed. "See, now, that's exactly what I was just trying to tell you."

Dorian

November 2020

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

"Good afternoon, Mr. Black, sir," the old doorman said, shooing aside a few people to make way for Dorian. "I hope you are well."

"Very well, Jack," Dorian answered, shaking the man's hand and palming him a twenty dollar bill. "It looks to be a beautiful day."

"Thank you, sir." He held the door open and Dorian stepped outside, clapping the man on his back as he went. It was, strictly speaking, not a beautiful day. The skies over downtown Pittsburgh were a stark gray. A light rain was beginning to fall, and a chill wind was picking up off the nearby river.

Fucking miserable day, he thought. His driver awaited him at the curb, opening the door for him as he noticed Dorian’s arrival.

"Sir," the man said. Dorian nodded at him and slid into the back of the limousine.

The driver, now back in his own seat, glanced at him through the rearview mirror. "NBC News building," Dorian said. A light rain began to patter on the roof as the car pulled away.

Dorian looked around his compartment. A bottle of water and a fresh chocolate chip muffin awaited him, as they did every time he rode. It was already nearly dinner time, but he wasn’t hungry. Several teleconferences with overseas clients and contractors had kept him up well past dawn, and he’d hardly been awake an hour at this point. "My newspaper?" he asked.

"Ah, here, sir," the driver reached back, passing the paper over the divider.

The front page was dominated by election headlines, as it had been for months now.

SINGH PRESIDENCY INEVITABLE, SAYS LATEST POLL

After a contentious debate season, Democratic candidate Martin Singh has pulled ahead to a double-digit lead in national polls. With election day less than a week away, there may be no time left for his opponent to gain ground. Singh, a Pittsburgh resident, has positioned himself as the everyman candidate—

Dorian never did have any interest in politics. He flipped past.

TWO HOSPITALIZED AFTER BEATING, SUSPECT AT LARGE

Police responded to a call downtown late last night and found two men brutally beaten and unconscious. According to police, the two were both armed with knives, and there is evidence they had attempted to mug a passerby, who has not come forward to police as of yet. When asked if this was a case of self-defense, Detective Jessica Neil said: "That's very much a possibility. We have a number of working theories. We’ll interrogate the injured men as soon as we are cleared to do so by hospital staff."

Both men are expected to live. It is unclear at this time whether they will be charged. Police continue to search for the assailant.

WOMAN ASSAULTED ON SOUTH SIDE

He closed the paper with a sigh and dropped it on the seat beside him. "So much violence," Dorian said.

"The two men beaten? I saw that. Terrible stuff," the driver agreed. He shot Dorian another glance as he rolled to a stop at a red light. "If I may say, sir, you shouldn’t let it get to you. Everyone knows how much you do for this city."

"Thank you,” Dorian said, finding his mouth suddenly dry and taking a sip of the water. “But there’s still so much left to do."

They arrived at the news station, a plain looking building which sat on the bank of the river. The driver let him out and Dorian hurried inside through the rain, which was falling even heavier now.

The lobby was equally nondescript, empty aside from a red-headed woman who sat behind a small desk, and a few chairs for waiting. "Dorian Black," he said. "I'm scheduled for an interview."

***

"Joining me today is Dorian Black. Thank you for taking the time out to speak with me." The young blonde reporter was radiant beneath the bright studio lights, which were already raising beads of sweat at his own temple.

"Happy to be here," he said with a smile.

"Mr. Black, over the last few weeks you've announced gifts of over five million dollars to local charities and other organizations. Just yesterday, over a million dollars to the Pittsburgh police department. Your philanthropy is well known here in the city, but our national viewers may have never heard your name. For them, let's start with this. Who is Dorian Black?"

"In short, I'm an entrepreneur. I sold a handful of tech companies in my twenties. I made my fortune and now I spend my time giving back in every way I can. That's about it, really,” he said. “I don't like to talk about myself too much."

The reporter laughed a polite but manufactured laugh. "Well, I'm sure that's not all. Just a bit more, if you don't mind. Did you grow up here in Pittsburgh?"

"I did," Dorian said. "I never knew my father. My mother was wonderful. She taught elementary school until the day she died, of breast cancer. After high school I joined the military, which straightened me out pretty well."

"Oh, really? Were you a troublemaker in school?" the reporter asked with a coy smile.

"A bit," Dorian said, feigning a chuckle. "When I got home, I got a job programming for a software company. I knew nothing about it, but I talked my way into the job and figured I'd learn quickly enough. I did, and before long I moved on to starting my own company. Next thing I know, here I am."

"Sounds like the American Dream,” she said, hitting the plot point her producers must have insisted she reach. “But we can move on to your Foundation. Improvements to local after school programs, school lunches, resources for the homeless, and policing are just a few of the areas to which you have devoted significant time and money. What is the overall philosophy of the Dorian Black Foundation?"

"My philosophy is to improve life for as many people as I can. Plenty of groups are out there focusing on one thing, and doing a great job at it. We hope to address as many different areas as we possibly can. Even if we can't make as great a change in a single area, I believe the net benefit is greater overall."

"Is that the same reason you've focused on your home city of Pittsburgh rather than national programs?"

"It is. Start small, then hopefully build out onto a larger scale."

"Now I have to ask you, then, about the rumors from this morning. It was reported that you are making a sizable contribution to Martin Singh's presidential campaign. Any comment on that? Is Mr. Singh someone who shares your vision for the future?"

Dorian paused. This was entirely news to him.

"Not at this time," he said.

***

Dorian seethed. The limousine door closed behind him and he rolled up the barrier between him and the driver's compartment. He snatched up the discarded newspaper. There it was, at the bottom of the front page:

SOURCE: BLACK FOUNDATION BACKING SINGH CAMPAIGN

According to an inside source, the Singh campaign may have just received a seven-figure donation from retired tech mogul Dorian Black. The source, speaking on condition of anonymity, said the deal had just been reached. The Black Foundation, as a 501(c)(4) designated charity, is legally allowed to make large campaign contributions with minimal public accountability. However, Dorian Black and his foundation have no prior history of any political involvement whatsoever. A request for comment was not immediately returned by either the Singh Campaign or the Dorian Black Foundation.

Dorian dropped the paper. What in the fuck is he doing?

The car pulled up in front of his building and he let himself out without a word. The doorman let him in. "Mr. Black," he said. "Mr. James has just arrived."

Of course. James wouldn’t have seen the interview yet, but Dorian still suspected the man somehow knew.

Dorian stormed across the lobby, which was laid out in ornate marble with a wall-height waterfall in one corner. The far left elevator was blocked off with red velvet rope, which he slipped past, slapping his keycard against a scanner next to the door.

The elevator carried him quickly up to his penthouse, where the doors slid open with a soft ding. The lights in the entryway turned on, sensing his presence. He could hear faint classical music playing across the apartment as he kicked off his shoes.

"James," he shouted. No answer. He found him in the sitting room, stoking the fireplace. Rain splashed against the floor to ceiling windows, obscuring the view of the city below.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Dorian said.

James didn't look up. "Making a fire," he answered after a slight pause.

"Don't give me that shit. How much money did you give this Martin Singh asshole? Why?"

James continued to stoke the fire for a moment before looking up at him. His eyes seemed to pierce Dorian uncomfortably, in the way they often did. "Two million," he finally said.

"Why?"

"Same reason we do everything else. I have a plan. And that was how much it took to get a face to face meeting with him."

Dorian's anger began to fade, and he sat heavily down on the nearby couch. "You know I don't care about the money. Just tell me this shit."

James put the fire poker down and sat across from him. "I didn't expect the story to leak. But, yeah, I should have told you."

Dorian put a hand to his own forehead, pulling slightly at his hair with a sigh. "It's alright, man. You gonna tell me what the plan is?"

"We're gonna kill him."

"Hell,” Dorian said with a laugh. “Why didn't you just say so?"

The two men sat for a while; the sounds of the fire, the rain, and a classical symphony Dorian didn't recognize all washed over him until he was nearly lulled to sleep. He hadn’t been sleeping well recently.

He wasn’t sure whether he dozed off or not, or how much time had passed. James was staring out the window, idly twisting a plain metal wedding band on his finger. He looked tired. Wrinkles around his eyes were the only sign of age on his otherwise youthful face. Dorian had known the man for many years, and he was the only person he would actually call a friend.

"Thinking about her?" Dorian asked.

"Always," he answered.

"How long has it been since you went to see her?"

"A very long time."

"What's stopping you?" Dorian asked.

"A great number of things, unfortunately."

“Sounds like an excuse, man.”

James chuckled quietly. “I could understand why you’d think that.”

The rain slowed, and then finally stopped. He absentmindedly watched whatever show was playing on the large screen TV across from him.

"You going out tonight?" James asked after a while.

"Yeah, I think so. It’s been a while; think I need some action.”

"I think I'll join you." Dorian looked at him, surprised, but James was still staring out the window. Dorian stood up and offered a hand to his friend, who took it and pulled himself up.

In the middle of the room stood a white carved pillar. James walked over to it and began to push. It took some heaving, but the pillar spun a half turn, then clicked into place. Dorian stepped back as a whirring sound picked up, gears clanking underfoot. The floor split and pulled apart, revealing a staircase down.

"Alright. Let's get ready."

***

The south side of the city was quiet at this hour. The last of the bars had just closed, only a few stragglers left roaming the streets. Dorian pulled his leather jacket in close, huddled against the cold and his breath rising in a cloud before him. After a bit of training and dinner at the penthouse, he had been on the hunt for an hour already. No success.

He turned a corner and nearly collided with a couple of stumbling drunk college girls. Dorian stepped aside, but one fell into him anyway.

"Oops," she said, giggling. Dorian only scowled as her friend pulled her off and they continued on their way. Dorian watched them go, with just a bit of disdain competing with their revealing skirts for his attention. Once they had disappeared around a corner, he turned back to his path.

Not a block later, he heard a yell. It came from somewhere close, just off to his left. As he rounded the next corner he heard another scream, from an alley across the street. He picked up his pace, jogging across the road before sliding into place against the wall, peeking into the alley.

There was another young woman. She was obviously drunk, and crying as a man was grabbing her, ripping at her clothes. She fought him, screaming and slapping him, but he grabbed her arms and forced her to the ground. Her screams grew louder, and the man hit her. When she whimpered, he hit her again. The man had his own pants down as he tore the girl's skirt away.

Dorian pulled a ski mask from his pocket, slipping it over his face as he stepped into the alley. The man didn't hear him. Advancing quickly, Dorian grabbed him by the back of the collar and ripped him off the girl, throwing him against the wall. The girl shrieked.

"What the fuck?" the man said as he tumbled to the ground. Dorian stomped on the man's hand, and he felt the bones snap beneath him as the man wailed. The girl scrambled out of the way, clutching her shredded clothing. Dorian reared back and planted his boot in the man's ribs. Once, twice, three times, each with another audible crack. The man turned onto his side and sputtered blood onto the ground. Dorian stepped back, pulling his shoes away from the mess.

"Oh my God, thank you," the girl said, still crying. Dorian ignored her. The man was crawling away. He reached inside his coat, where the cold grip of his .45 handgun awaited his grasp. He walked after the man, who looked back at him in terror, but seemed unable to crawl any faster.

"Pathetic," Dorian said. He planted his foot on the man's ankle and again he felt the joint break beneath his weight. The man howled, and Dorian shot him in his other leg.

"Dorian, don't." James had come down the other end of the alley and stood just feet away, looking at him expectantly.

Dorian looked him square in the eye as he aimed at the rapist's head, then fired.

The woman screamed.

Joseph

"They came through here."

The stablehand led Joseph and Gray, tailed by a novice officer, down the dirt path. At its end, an old wooden fence had been broken down and trampled. Gray lifted one of the cracked beams and briefly inspected it before letting it drop to the ground.

"Any other damage?" he asked.

"The stable doors, sir," the boy answered. "Six horses missing, all of the doors smashed in. They weren't even locked." He was in his teens, and looked generally uncomfortable in his own skin. With every question he fidgeted in a way that might have been suspicious, if Joseph hadn't already known exactly who was responsible here.

"How many horses do you keep here?" Joseph asked.

"Eight, sir."

Gray started to walk back up the path, the stablehand quick to follow him. "Any reason they wouldn't take the other two?" he asked.

"Not that I can think of."

Joseph followed them at a distance, kicking up tiny puffs of dirt as he walked. The old race track was one of the last remnants of a more prosperous time in this town. Horse racing still drew a fair number of visitors several times a year, and the small infusion of tourist money was all that kept a few of the local businesses afloat. He doubted the owners could recover from the theft of six thoroughbreds, and if the track failed, the town might just follow.

Just one more reason to find Jonah.

He met up with Gray back at the track, where he stood alongside the sheriff. A comfortable distance away, Gray's young officer was talking with one of the sheriff's deputies. Sheriff Jack Wilson had arrived just a week ago. He was a boisterous man, tall and stocky with thick white hair, a handlebar mustache to match, and a very large hat. Joseph had met him only a handful of times before, and until now there had been no need for his help in the town. Gray had always been fiercely protective of his own role as local chief of police.

The two men broke off their conversation as Joseph approached. Jack smiled broadly and offered his hand. "Joe," he said.

"Sheriff." Joseph shook it, though with less of a smile. "Where do we stand?"

"I just finished interviewing the owner and a few employees. I don't get the feeling they're in any position to gain from this."

"Not at all," Gray agreed.

"Seems likely enough this is our man," Jack said. "But we should still run down all possibilities. Gray, you should rule out any other locals while I keep after Mr. Shaw."

"Any leads on that front?" Joseph asked.

The sheriff shot him a quick, knowing glance. "Working on it. I know this is personal, Joe. Let me do my job. Trust me, I'll take the guy down."

Joseph nodded but said nothing. He turned and leaned on the fence, surveying the track. A worker whom he couldn't recognize from this distance was spreading dirt at the other end. A slight cold wind bit at his cheeks, and the sky was a dreary gray that threatened snow. For the first time, he noticed that a small group of residents had gathered by the front of the barn. Marlon Pressey, the owner of the track, stood among them. Joseph caught the man's eye.

"Joe," he said as Joseph approached. The track's owner was an old man, widowed some years back. His family had owned the horse track for several generations.

"I was very sorry to hear about this, Marlon," Joseph said.

"I appreciate that, sir." He ran his hands over his few remaining wisps of hair, flattening them atop his head, though they were knocked immediately back out of place by the breeze.

"They left two horses, I heard."

"They did, one of them my own. Thank God for that, at least. And, of course, that no one was hurt.”

“Amen. Who owns the other horse?” Joseph asked.

“A physician out of Richmond. He pays for the board and training, comes out once a month or so. Plus for the races, of course.”

“What about the rest?”

“Well, one was mine. Three are owned by locals, and the other two by out of towners. Same arrangement I have with the gentleman from Richmond. None of whom will be too pleased about all this. Not sure how I’ll tell them.”

"Hopefully you won't have to,” Joseph said. “We'll find Jonah before long. Maybe even soon enough to get the horses back."

"I know you'll try. I have a mind to get my hands on that little bastard myself. Can't imagine what you're feeling. Sorry for saying."

A man who Joseph recognized as a local reporter broke off from the crowd behind Marlon and called over to the two lawmen, who still stood near the track. "Any comment, chief?" he asked as he jogged over toward them.

"Is Hope here?" Joseph asked, turning his attention back to Marlon.

"Yes sir. In the barn."

"Alright. Thank you." The old man turned back to the gathered well-wishers.

"Marlon," Joseph said. He looked back again. "We'll figure something out. Even if we can't get your horses back. The town will pull together for you." The old man smiled, but said nothing.

The barn was strangely quiet, and his steps echoed on the hard ground. As the young stable boy had said, most of the stall doors were smashed and lying in splinters. When he reached the back half of the barn, he could hear a soft whinny coming from one of the undamaged stalls. Joseph peeked inside. A beautiful horse, and not a sign of damage on the door.

"Daddy!"

Joseph whirled, startled, as a young woman grabbed him tight around the chest. He hugged her back. After a moment, she released him.

"Hope," he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. She was dirty and sweaty, her reddish-brown hair pulled back but with a few strands of hair lying across her forehead. She smiled and brushed them back, in a way that reminded him painfully of Mary.

"How are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm doing okay. Just working," he said. He knew the lie was not believed, but she continued to smile anyway. "How are you? I'm sorry I haven't been home. I've been sleeping at the office."

Her smile faltered a bit. "I know. I'm not doing great, but I'm trying. Working helps. So would having you home,” she added, with a slightly accusatory look. As a child, that look of hers was endearing. At twenty, it still was, but held a bit more weight.

"Soon," he said. Hope hauled up a small bundle of hay and tossed it over one of the stall doors. She rubbed the horse's muzzle before it turned away to eat.

"What's this one's name?" Joseph asked.

"This is Pilgrim," she said. "He's the oldest." She brushed a tear from her eye. "It was Jonah again, wasn't it?"

Joseph put his arm around his daughter, and she laid her head on his shoulder. "Looks that way."

"What does he want?"

"Nothing. Jonah has never been anything but an entitled brat since he was a child. The way he looks at it is if he can’t live here, then he'd just as soon ruin the town for the rest of us. Me most of all."

"You knew him when you were young?" she asked.

"I did. Not well. Your mother and he..." he held back a bitter laugh. "They were friends actually, when they were children. Mary grew up and he didn't, so they drifted apart. I don't think they saw each other much even by the time he was kicked out of town."

Hope squeezed him tight, then pulled away. "I heard Mr. Crawford say they think they'll find him any day now." She picked up another bunch of hay and carried it several stalls down the hallway, where she tossed it inside.

"I'm sure he did," Joseph said as she went, sounding less genuine than he had intended to.

She was crying again as she came back to him. "Dad," she said as Joseph wiped a tear from her cheek. "Are you going to kill him?"

"Yes," Joseph said.

She sniffled and nodded. "Good."

Most of the crowd had dispersed by the time Joseph and Hope emerged from the barn. Gray and the sheriff were standing nearby speaking to the owner and, to Joseph's surprise, Hank. The men were laughing and smiling.

"Gentlemen," Joseph interjected. "Didn't expect to see you here, Hank."

The man's smile was warm, but his eyes almost cold. "I was just wandering the town and saw a crowd gathering. I was curious, and when I heard what happened, I had to help."

The owner turned to Joseph, beaming. "Mr. Thompson here is acquainted with several top-notch trainers in Baltimore. He's offered to cover the the cost of all our repairs and several new horses. Until I can pay him back, of course."

"I won't hear of it," Hank said with a shake of his head.

"Very generous," Joseph said.

His skepticism must have been palpable. "Mr. Mayor, I respect your concern about my motives here, and the chief has seemed no less suspicious himself. It’s plainly clear to me that I picked a particularly inopportune time to move to town, and tensions are high. I promise you, I mean no harm. I truly hope to make a home here. To be frank, I have more money than I could ever know what to do with. I’m happy to help the town however I can."

Joseph felt a pang of guilt, and his face softened. "It would be much appreciated," he said. "I apologize. Tensions are high, as you said."

"Hello, Hope," Gray said, changing the subject. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm okay," she said. "Better than him."

"Have you gone back home yet, Joe?" Gray asked.

"Sheriff, Hank," Joseph said, ignoring the question. "This is my daughter, Hope."

"A pleasure," Hank said.

"Well then," the sheriff said, slapping his hat back atop his head. "I believe Gray and I have some work to do. Back to the station, Gray?"

"Probably should," he answered as the sheriff sauntered off, his own eyes lingering on Joseph.

"Go home, Joe," he said, then turned and left. "Walk with us back into town, Hank?" Hank followed, and the owner ambled away with a nod, leaving Joseph and his daughter alone. Her eyes were moist as she looked up at him.

"Let's go home," he said.

***

Joseph's home sat sat at the edge of the forest, less than a mile north of the town proper. It was situated in a circular clearing just inside the trees. As the story went, Joseph's grandfather and his brother alone had leveled each tree and built the home with their own hands. Later in his life, he and his son, Joseph's father, had expanded the house to twice its original size.

One day, you and I will do the same. Joseph could still hear his father's voice.

Joseph and the late Mayor Thomas Brooker never did get to undertake that project, but the old home was impressive enough in its current state. It was, in fact, the largest single building for many miles in any direction. As Joseph and Hope plodded along the narrow dirt path through the trees and out into the clearing, he felt a tightness in his chest. He must have hesitated, as his daughter gave his hand a reassuring squeeze and led him forward.

The path carried them across an old but sturdy wooden bridge, a creek bubbling quietly beneath their feet, and straight up to the front porch. Hope stood aside as he approached the door. Taking a breath, he pushed the door open with a creak and stepped inside. Nothing appeared to have changed, of course, though everything had changed. Mary's favorite hat and coat still hung near the door. He made his way down the hall and into the kitchen. Only a single unwashed dish on the table gave any indication the home had been lived in these past few weeks. Hope scooped it up and carried it into the next room.

In the living room he found Mary's Bible undisturbed upon her chair near the fireplace. As he stood there he expected to feel a heaviness, some more profound sense of loss. He did feel some of that, but more than anything he felt happy to be home. And then he felt guilt; guilt for daring to feel comfortable in this place at this time, and then an even more terrible guilt for having left his daughter alone for so long.

"Are you hungry?" Hope asked from the doorway, her voice quiet.

He turned to her. "Yes. I am."

They ate together on the floor by the fireplace, a simple but still wholly satisfying soup.

"Tell me about when you met mom."

"You’ve heard this before, I'm sure," Joseph said.

"I know," Hope said, her eyes cast down at her bowl. "I want to hear it again."

"I was seventeen years old, your mother fifteen. I had gone into the woods with a few friends. Always a showoff, I was hanging by my feet from a tree branch. The branch snapped, and I broke my ankle. The other boys carried me back to town, straight to the doctor. He sent for my father, who had just become mayor, then he set my leg.

“After I got through screaming, I noticed a hand on my shoulder. It was the doctor's young nurse in training. Beautiful, brown hair. Blue eyes. Shy smile. She looked a lot like you. She took care of me that day, and by the end of it I knew she would eventually be my wife. She didn’t know it for a while longer.”

He felt the tightness in his chest again, and a pressure behind his eyes. He coughed. Hope was quietly crying, he noticed, and he scooted nearer to her, placing his arm around her shoulder.

"I miss mom," she said.

"Me too."

"Thank you for coming home, dad."

"I'm sorry I took so long. I didn't think I could bear it, coming back here. But that was selfish of me."

The fire cracked and sent embers dancing upward. The light through the windows was fading as the sun began to set.

"I just don't understand," she sobbed.

He kissed her temple.

"I don't either," he said. "I think Jonah probably envied our life. He hated my father for running him out of town. And he might hate me for being the man who married your mother. She said he always treated her differently than the other girls, even after they were no longer friends."

"If he loved her, why hurt her?"

He laughed softly. "I doubt he’s ever loved anyone. If anything, Jonah saw her as something he wanted, and once he couldn't have her, she was merely a tool he could use to hurt me."

"You shouldn't blame yourself."

"I don't," he said. "I blame Jonah. And I will make him regret it."

A frantic pounding came from the front door, and Joseph started. Hope stood up quickly. "No, let me see who it is," he said. "Just help me up."

Whoever was at the door kept knocking heavily as he ambled down the now-dark hallway. "I'm coming," he shouted, and opened the door. To his surprise, the young blacksmith's apprentice greeted him.

"Harry, what’s going on?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mayor, sir. Chief Crawford sent me. There's something going on in town."

"Alright. Just a moment." He went back into the hall, snatching his revolver down from its mount on the wall. "Hope, stay here," he said as he loaded the weapon.

"Be careful, dad," she said.

"I will,” Joseph said, turning back to the young man. “Let's go."

Eva

July, 1972

Richmond, Virginia

"Eastern Airlines Flight 480 from New York City, now disembarking."

The intercom echoed through the sparsely-populated terminal as Eva emerged from the boarding tunnel. She had only a small bag, which she dragged along beside her as she walked quickly, just ahead of the press of passengers emerging from the plane. As she made her way down the long terminal hall, she glanced around for a clock, finding one along a far wall.

7:20

Just in time, she thought, picking up her pace. She was to meet a buyer by the name of Frank at 8:00 PM. He was a wealthy evangelical preacher, a fairly famous one apparently, at least among people who had interest in that sort of thing. He was looking for something, and she knew where he could find it. Even better, he was willing to pay an awful lot of money to find out.

The problem was now that the whirlwind haze of a long, drunken weekend had been washed away by the stark, nauseating fear of her first plane trip, she was beginning to have a bad feeling about this whole deal. What had started as a flirtatious smile from across the room in a college town bar quickly turned into drinks, more drinks, and a blurry night at a hotel in which Eva had given up whatever bit of purity she'd had left, though it wasn't much.

In the light of the new day Eva finally got to know her mysterious suitor, and fortunately it turned out the two of them shared a number of interests. Chief among them was a propensity for a certain entrepreneurial spirit in defiance of the law. At least, that's what she'd let her new lover believe. Sure, she'd done a bit of thieving and vandalism in her time, but he was the real deal. He drove an expensive car and wore a suit that would have taken Eva years to save for.

If, for whatever reason, he thought her capable of being on his level, why would she correct him? So when he gave her an opportunity, an easy job that would bring in thousands and be done and over with in time for the two of them to spend the next weekend shacked up in another hotel, of course she took him up on it.

The other problem was that, now, Eva was damn near certain the information she was selling this preacher was fake. It wasn't so much that she had any problem with lying, but alongside the clearing of her hangover, it was all starting to seem a bit suspicious. She had tried to cancel the deal by phone but Frank had insisted, raising his price so much she had given in to the temptation. She didn't feel great about conning a preacher either. Eva was not religious by any stretch, but she also didn't usually believe in pushing her luck.

Eva made it out of the terminal and onto the sidewalk, where a slow trickle of other travelers passed her by as she hailed a cab. The driver made a move to help her with the small bag, but she waved him off and tossed it in the back seat alongside her.

The driver, an elderly Italian man who wore a flat cap and smelled vaguely of alcohol, turned around to look at her. "Welcome to Richmond, miss," he said.

"State capitol building," she replied and the driver turned back around, looking disappointed in her lack of engagement.

She rifled through her bag as they pulled onto the highway, pulling out a slip of paper with an address and map coordinates written on it. "Let me ask you something," she said to the driver. He looked at her in the rearview mirror. "Any idea where this address is?" She held the slip over the barrier and he glanced at it.

"Vaguely. About an hour outside of Richmond, way out in the middle of the woods. Not much out there, other than some old historic ironworks or something, that's probably what the address is. Can't imagine what business a young lady would have out there."

"I wouldn't worry about it," she said.

I knew that already.

The story, at least the one she'd gotten, was that they'd find some old fossils in the woods that this preacher wanted. Make the deal, split the cash, and abscond with her new, mysterious lover.

This isn't the best move I've ever made.

The ride into downtown was short, and she was glad of it. Not long after they exited the highway, the old, sputtering cab came to a stop along a main street, across from an old, stately white building surrounded by metal fences. "Be careful out here, miss," the driver said as she climbed out of the car.

"I'll be fine." Eva leaned in the passenger side window and handed the driver a fifty dollar bill, the last money she had. Hopefully, not for long. The cab pulled away, and when its dim tail lights disappeared around the corner, Eva was left in near darkness on a street which was sorely lacking for streetlights.

Before long, another car rolled to a stop in front of her. The passenger window rolled down, and she could faintly see a man alone in the driver's seat.

"Eva," he said.

"Frank."

He reached across and opened the passenger door, briefly illuminating himself with the overhead lights. An older man, he wore a suit and had a full head of neatly combed white hair. He smiled as she sat. "Nice to meet you," he said.

"Likewise. I have the information you're after. Have you got the money?"

"I do." Frank reached into the backseat and retrieved a canvas bag which he laid on his lap. He unzipped the bag and spread it open, briefly revealing stacks of bundled cash before quickly closing it again.

"Alright then." She handed him the slip of paper.

"Excellent," he said, examining the address. "Before we conclude, can I ask you a question?"

"What is it?"

"Have you heard the good word of the Lord?"

She laughed. "No thanks. Pleasure doing business." She reached over, grabbing the handle of the bag and moving to open the door.

"Uh-uh," he said, yanking back on the bag hard enough to pull her backward. He had a gun out now, she noticed. "I'm sure you understand," he said. "I have a lot of money at stake here. I let you leave with it now and I go traipsing off into the woods? Seems to me I could be getting scammed."

"You're not."

He smiled. "I hope not. And if that's the case, you'll leave with the money, unharmed. By my word, as a man of God."

"That wasn't the deal."

He gestured with his gun hand as if to say, 'Oh well.'

"Fine. Guess I don't have much choice."

"That's the spirit," the preacher said. "Seatbelt on."

When Eva turned her head to fasten her belt, he struck her hard with the butt of his gun.

***

Eva awoke in a dark room, tied to a chair. Her head was screaming, and colorful lights danced across her vision. She tried to shout, but found her mouth was stuffed with a rag. When she strained against her bonds, the chair rocked and cracked against the floor, but the ties held firm.

It was then that she noticed a young man across from her, and he too was bound and gagged. He looked much more calm than Eva felt, and he shook his head at her as if to suggest her struggles were futile. Nevertheless, she kept pulling at the straps, heaving and pulling until her chair fell over backward with a crash. Lying on her back, she continued making as much noise as she could, but nobody responded.

It felt like hours that she lay there, now unable to see anything at all other than the dark ceiling. Eventually, she heard the door creak open and the lights blazed to life, sending another searing pain through her skull. Eva heard a laugh.

"Foolish." Frank's voice. He heaved her chair back upright, her along with it.

"Look," he said, crouching down in front of her. He had his gun in hand. "I'll take your gag out. Don't scream, nobody will hear you. It will only annoy me, which will not get you anywhere. Got it?"

She didn't respond, only stared daggers into his eyes. He shrugged, and pulled her gag out. She didn't scream. "Fuck you," she said.

He walked over to the other captive and removed his gag as well. The young man said nothing at all, just regarded their captor coldly.

"Ronny, this is Eva. She sold me the information I needed. And it was a fair sale," he said, pointing at her with the barrel of his gun to emphasize his point.

"She will get every dollar if and when I get what I want. Eva, this is Ronny. He's a reporter. From the New York Times!” He emphasized this as if she should be impressed. There could be no better witness to what I am going to do."

"What are you going to do?" Eva said.

He turned to her, arms out and smiling. "I'm going to change the world. Using what you and your partner have sold me. Final proof of everything I have spent my life preaching."

"What is that? Never heard of you."

His smile dropped. "I guess you'll see soon enough, then. We're leaving soon." With that he left the room, the loud slam of the door plunging them into darkness once again.

"He's an evangelical preacher," the reporter said. "Young earth creationist. Nonsense. He tricked my boss into making me come here by saying he'd excavated 'definitive, undeniable proof' of his claims. Something about dinosaur and human fossils in the same strata. But it turns out he hasn't found anything at all, at least not yet."

"What would that even prove?"

"He believes dinosaurs and mankind lived together in the Garden of Eden, or something. Like I said, garbage. The funny thing is, he's so caught up in his own shit that I don't think he's even realized that finding dinosaur fossils in the middle of the woods in fucking Virginia doesn't help him at all. Considering the garden of Eden would have been in the Middle East."

Eva laughed. "Problem is, I was already pretty sure my information was fake before all this. And now I'm certain it is. So I get the feeling we might both be dead if that's the case."

Ronny nodded. "Sadly, I've been thinking the same thing."

Jess

November 2020

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

It was an unseasonably warm day, but a cool breeze rolling in off the river refreshed the stagnant air in her cruiser, which hadn't had a working AC for months.

Jess pulled to a stop across the street from the crime scene and rolled up her window before stepping out onto the road. She swung the door shut with a thud and made her way across the street, where yellow police tape and fold-up barriers blocked the entrance to a small side road. An officer stood behind the barrier warding off a few curious onlookers. He caught sight of Jess as she approached.

"Detective," he said as she bent under the tape. "It's down that alley."

She nodded at him and continued on, rounding the corner into a narrow, dingy alleyway. The scene here was more lively, though not by much. Two more officers milled about a few feet away, and a man she recognized as the medical examiner was kneeling down halfway along the alley. Beyond him, near the alley's other exit, one of his assistant investigators was on her knees looking at something. Jess stopped at the two officers nearby.

"Detective Jessica Neil," she said, shaking hands with the pair. They were an older man and a younger woman, neither of which she had ever met before. "Were you the first on scene?" she asked, as they made their way further down the alley.

"I was," the woman said. "Spotted the body when I was walking past the alley. Just lying out in the open, really."

Jess saw for herself now. A rough looking young man lay dead on the ground. Congealed blood sat in a large puddle beneath him and trailed away in thin rivers, pooling in spots at the walls. The man was face down, wearing a torn t-shirt and jeans. The medical examiner stood up with a grunt, taking notice of her.

"Detective Neil," he said, still grimacing from the effort of standing.

"Doc. What have you got?"

"White male, early thirties. One shot to the back of the head, one to the right calf. Blunt trauma to the side of the head as well, looks like it hit that wall." He pointed to a spot about eight feet back toward the entrance to the alley. "He's also got a left ankle and right hand that look like mush, both totally shattered, and his ribs are all black and blue."

Jess went back to examine the spot on the wall he had pointed out. Indeed, there was a small spatter of dried blood, even a couple embedded hairs. She searched at her feet, finding a few other spatters of blood on the ground nearby.

"So, there's an altercation here, victim gets beaten, starts running that way," she said, pointing. "Perp shoots him in the leg, walks up, executes him?" Jess mimicked the motions as she spoke.

He shook his head. "Good thought, but I don't think so. From the looks of the leg wound, victim was probably already on the ground, shot from above. Taking a rough look at the other ankle, I'd say that was stomped on in a lying position as well."

The assistant came back from the other end of the alley. "Nothing down there. Clean," he said to his boss. "But you didn't tell her the best part."

The coroner laughed. "Of course. How could I forget? Can't tell from behind, but his fly is down. Dick hanging out."

"Why?" Jess asked.

"Could think of a few possibilities. Doesn't look like it was manipulated postmortem though."

"Bottom line, then, is this guy was beaten, basically tortured while lying on the ground, then executed. And he had his penis out."

"That's about it. Brutal stuff."

“Any sign of anyone else in the alley?" Jess asked.

The assistant spoke. "Not really, looked end to end."

"I'm gonna have a look around," Jess said.

"Be my guest," the medical examiner said, turning back to the body.

As the assistant had claimed, the far end of the alley was clean, or as clean as alleys normally could be. That was one sign of a real professional, cleaning a scene enough to leave no evidence, but not making it so spotless as to be suspicious. And that was just the sort of man she was after.

Sweeping her way back toward the other side, she passed the body again, then the scattered blood markings. No shell casings, she noted, but this was no surprise to her.

Some filthy boxes and garbage were piled against one wall here. "Gloves?" she said to one of the officers. He handed her a flimsy blue pair, which she pulled on before beginning to rifle around the bottom of the trash pile. Something colorful caught her eye, wedged halfway underneath a soggy cardboard box. She pulled it out, a torn piece of fabric, several inches square. Jess smiled.

"Got something," she shouted over to the others.

"What is it?" the coroner asked. "Just some trash?”

"Not trash," she said. "This is part of a skirt. Not a cheap one either." She handed it over to the doctor, who inspected it.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. I've got the same one."

***

It was a quiet afternoon in the Pittsburgh Homicide Unit. The door swung closed and the blinds clacked against the glass, and the only other noise was the faint sound of a copy machine whirring somewhere across the office. Jess hurried to her desk, dropping some folders from under her arm atop the tall pile which awaited her there.

Jess settled in, logging into her desktop and rearranging some of the papers on her desk. A detective for only two years, Jess was still considered a rookie in her unit, and still felt the part too.

"Hey Jess, thanks for taking that body this morning."

She spun around in her chair. Donald Huffman, one of the senior detectives, leaned against the wall of her cubicle, steaming coffee in hand. "No problem," she said, spinning back around.

"You still on your wild goose chase?"

"Yep."

"Find anything good?"

"Absolutely," Jess said.

"Tell me." Genuine interest now, it seemed.

"Alright." Jess slid open her bottom desk drawer, pulling out a heavy binder. "This case today. Young guy, beaten bad, shot a few times, executed as he lies on the ground. Crime scene is totally clean aside from a piece of a ripped skirt."

"Rape?"

"Attempted, at least. Way I see it, killer stops the act, then takes the law into his own hands. Typical MO for my vigilante. Question is, where's the girl?"

"You get a line out to the press?"

"Not yet. That was my next thing."

"I'll do it," Don said. "How's this fit in with the rest?"

Jess flipped open her binder. Page after page was filled with news clippings, mugshots, and her own reports.

"Every page here is a different case. Dozens of them, going back years. Muggings, rapes, armed robbery, arson. In every one of them, the perp ends up injured or dead. Some of the time, the intended victims took credit for it, as self defense. In most though, they said a good samaritan saved them. A vigilante. All these cases, never once have we brought in or questioned anybody about it."

"Devil's advocate, weird shit happens. Why would you be the only one to see the pattern?"

"I don't know,” Jess said. “I've been asking myself that a lot. My other problem is this: these cases match in every way but one. General area, physical description of the vigilante if there was a witness, same general MO. Only difference is, in half these cases the perp just gets the crap beaten out of him. In the other half, they're outright executed."

"Any chance these cases aren't all connected? Two different suspects?

"I've considered that. It's possible."

"Look," Don said. "I'm not saying I buy it. But you've got a lot of cases here and if they're as connected as you say they are, you should at least get to sit down with the lieutenant."

"I've been trying that. Nobody wanted to hear it."

"I'll make it happen." Don winked and cuffed her on the shoulder. Her phone rang.

"This is Jess," she said.

"Detective Neil? Hey this is Abrams over in the Sex Assault unit. I've got a woman here, says she was attacked last night, but somebody killed the guy. You got any cases going like that?"

Jess looked up at Don and smiled. "Yeah. Bring her over."

***

Jess pushed open the heavy door to the interrogation room, Don following behind her. A young woman sat at the table. She was pretty, early twenties. She looked composed, her makeup and blonde hair seemingly painstakingly arranged. She wore a puffy pink jacket with false fur lining and leggings.

"I'm Detective Neil," Jess said, taking a seat across from the girl. "You can call me Jess. This is Detective Huffman."

"You can call me Detective," Don said.

"Sorry they put you in here, you're not in any trouble." Jess said.

"It's okay, I feel better in this room actually," the girl replied.

"Well we appreciate you coming in. What's your name?"

"Meredith."

"What happened, Meredith?"

The girl breathed deep, casting her eyes upward for a moment as if steeling herself. "So, I was out with some friends last night. We drank too much. They left me at the end of my street. I was almost to my house when a guy grabbed me. He dragged me into an alley. He..." Meredith hesitated, cleared her throat. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Jess said.

"He pushed me to the ground, ripped my skirt. I fought as hard as I could, but he was so strong. Just as he was about to... about to do it, it was like he disappeared. I didn't know what happened. But then I saw, another man had him. He threw him against the wall, kicked him a bunch of times."

"What did you do?"

"I was kind of frozen. At some point I crawled away, over to the other wall."

"Can you describe this man?"

"Not really. He had dark clothes on. Leather. He wore a ski mask. I guess he was about 6'2", muscular. Not fat."

"Then what happened?"

"The one who attacked me, he was crawling away. The other guy followed him, he said something to him and shot him in the leg. He was still alive. But another man in a ski mask came."

"There were two of them?" Jess looked over at Don, who raised his eyebrows in a slight look of self-satisfaction.

"Yes. He came down the other end of the alley."

"Did they speak to each other?"

"The new one did. He said 'don't'. The first man didn't say anything, he just shot the man on the ground again."

"Is that all he said? 'Don't'?"

"No, he said his name first. Like 'Matt, don't.' That wasn't his name though."

"Do you remember what name he actually said?" Don asked.

"I can't remember. I'm sorry." A tear was forming at the corner of her eye.

"It's okay. Take your time." Jess offered her hand across the table, and the girl squeezed it.

"I know. I know! He said 'Dorian, don't.'"

Jess scratched the name on a slip of paper in the front of her binder.

"What next?" Don asked.

"They left. The first guy, Dorian I guess, he didn't say anything else. The second guy looked at me for a second then went with him. I just went home. I was so confused, in shock. I didn't even know if it was real. But I woke up this morning and I knew it was. I saw you in the alley."

"Thank you, Meredith. This is extremely helpful. If it's okay with you, I'd like to get you to the hospital for a rape kit."

"He never put it inside me, thank God. But whatever you guys want. I just want to help."

"Let's just be safe, okay?" Meredith nodded. "I'll have one of the officers take you to the hospital. Thank you. Please call me if you need anything at all. Anything." Jess reached in her pocket and offered the girl her card.

A minute later she was gone. "Well how about that shit?" Don said with a chuckle. "Guess I was right. Two vigilantes, but maybe they are working together after all. Sounds like the one doesn't approve of the other's methods."

"I guess I've got a lot of work to do," Jess said.

"We're talking to the lieutenant. Come on." Don led her out of the interrogation room, across the office which was growing slightly more busy as the day went on. He knocked on the door to the lieutenant's office.

"It's Don," he said through the door.

"Come in."

"Wait here a second." Don let himself in, closing the door behind him. Jess could hear the two men's muffled words, but couldn't make much out. A moment later, the door opened. Lieutenant Harris, a balding man in his fifties, was settled heavily back in his chair. His jowls hung loosely beneath his chin as he gestured for her to enter and close the door behind her. She did so, and lowered herself into a plush chair opposite him.

"Alright Jess, tell him everything." So Jess did.

***

It was late, and a cold drizzle was beginning to fall as Jess finally arrived home. She clicked the remote to lock her car out of habit, momentarily forgetting it had broken weeks ago. Sighing, she turned around to lock the door manually before jogging across the street. Her apartment was just up a short flight of rickety old wooden steps on the side of the building.

It was warm, most of the lights off already off at this hour. Jess dropped her gun, badge, and keys on the entryway table, making slightly more noise than she'd intended. She felt her way through the dark apartment into the kitchen, where she swung open the fridge. Jess contemplated its contents momentarily before giving up and closing it again. Resigned, she went to bed.

Rachel was there, reading a book in bed under the soft light of her bedside lamp. As Jess entered, she closed the book and gave her a warm smile. Jess slumped into the bed next to her.

"Hey," Rachel said, putting an arm around her. "Long day?" But Jess was already asleep.

Joseph

The light of day had all but faded by the time Joseph made it back into town. It was eerily silent as he half-jogged down the road, much of his energy already sapped by his initial eagerness to run. Rounding a corner, he began to hear faint shouts coming from the main street. Joseph followed the sounds, which grew louder and louder by the minute.

The street itself was brighter, the town's two brand new electric street lights casting a glow out in wide circles. Halfway down the avenue, a small crowd was gathered outside the bank. Other onlookers peered from their windows or around corners. A few saw him approach, and seemed relieved to see him.

Gray, the sheriff, and Hank stood together across from the bank. The two lawmen had their revolvers drawn, leveled at the men across the street. For their part, there were four of them, dressed in leather. Joseph didn't recognize any of the men. In front of them, two more men knelt in the dust. These, Joseph saw, were the banker and his son. Then Joseph saw the body, a man lying motionless in the doorway of the bank. Blood dripped down the steps and pooled on the walkway.

"What in the hell is going on here?" Joseph heard his own harsh voice ring out, and he had his gun leveled across the street.

The men turned to look at him as he shouted, all of them aside from Hank. He was unarmed, but looked no more afraid for it. He stood with his hands behind his back, eyes focused on the men across from him even as Joseph arrived.

One of the robbers spoke. "Sorry for the disturbance, Mayor. We were just leaving with your money."

"That doesn't seem likely," Joseph said, circling around to stand alongside Gray. "That man behind you, he one of yours or one of mine?"

"Yours," the other man answered.

"Ralph Ennis," Gray said quietly to Joseph.

"Can't be letting you go anywhere then," Joseph said. "Jonah sent you?"

"He did." The man took a step forward, and Gray raised his weapon. "Now Chief, we don't want any more blood spilled. Let us be on our way and these men will see their families again." Time seemed to slow for a moment. The two hostages were only ten feet away, but they cast their eyes downward and he couldn’t make eye contact. The lead robber was only a few feet behind them, rifle at the ready. The three others stood behind. The street was otherwise empty. No cover for anyone.

"Not a fucking chance." Joseph raised his gun and shot the leader, who fell to the ground with a groan and a thud. In an instant, Gray and the sheriff opened fire. Joseph charged forward as fast as he could, hands over his head.

"Get down," he screamed at the banker and his son, but Joseph saw that Hank had already leapt toward them, dragging the men to the ground with him. Joseph continued his rush at one of the thieves, who was scrambling out of the way of gunfire.

The man didn't see him until the last second, and he dropped his gun as Joseph plowed into him, his momentum crushing the robber against the wall of the bank and taking the two of them to the ground. They struggled, and the other, younger, man managed to flip Joseph onto his back. Joseph found his arms pinned to the ground, his revolver pressed up against him, useless. Joseph strained and fought but only took a punch to the gut for his efforts.

Finally he managed to slip a knee up and into the man's groin. He shrieked and his grip on Joseph's gun hand loosened for just a moment. It was enough for Joseph, who pressed the barrel against the side of the man's stomach and fired. The man howled again, releasing him entirely. Joseph climbed to his feet and shot the man where he lay.

He turned just in time to see the sheriff gun down another man. The banker and his son had seemingly vanished, and Hank was nowhere to be seen.

"Joe!" someone shouted, and he wasn't sure who. Joseph whirled around, catching a glimpse of the final bandit stepping out of the bank doorway, where he had apparently taken cover. His gun was leveled at Joseph. He tried to raise his own, but he knew it was too late.

Joseph dove forward onto the dirt, hitting the ground much harder than he intended to. He rolled onto his back with a groan, his eyes searching above him for his attacker. Instead there was a boom and a flash, then fire erupted in the doorway of the bank. The robber was sent flying, screaming and flailing, across the street, where he hit the building on the other side.

What the hell?

Joseph clambered to his feet. Gray fired a bullet into the motionless man across the street, for good measure.

"What just happened?" Joseph said.

"An explosion," the sheriff said. "They must have brought some dynamite with them. Goddamn fools."

The face of the bank was, surprisingly, still standing, though there were deep, smoking cracks in the brick around the doorway. "Where are Hank and the others?" Joseph said.

"Right here, Joe," Hank was just behind him, the banker and his son looking no worse for the wear. There was some faint clapping and cheering coming from further down the street.

"Everybody alright?" Joseph looked around. The sheriff and Gray were haggard, but apparently unharmed. "Nicely done."

"On the roof!" the sheriff shouted, pointing upward, at the same moment as a bullet pierced the dirt between his legs. Joseph looked up and saw another rifle-wielding man crouched on the roof, peeking out from behind a railing.

"Quick, inside!" Joseph said, and they all sprinted forward.

"Look out!" Another shot rang out, and Joseph was knocked aside. His head hit the dust, and he saw black.

***

Joseph awoke in a strange place, on a thin cot in a very cold room. Light filtered in through a window above him, illuminating particles of dust which seemed to hover in midair. He lifted himself off the pillow and his head began to spin. It now occurred to him that he had a terrible headache.

He sat there for a moment, waiting for the spinning room to come to rest. Once it did, he looked around. There were several other cots in this room, only one being occupied. The man lying on it faced away, but his hair and clothing were unmistakable.

"Hank?" Joseph said, his voice a quiet rasp. The other man didn't stir.

"Oh good, you're awake." The voice came from behind him. He turned, too quickly, and his head spun again. Dizzy, Joseph laid his head back on the pillow.

"Careful now," the voice said. Joseph's vision slowly began to clear.

"Oh. Doc, it's you," Joseph said. Dr. Simon Wilson, the town's only physician, leaned over him.

Of course. I'm in the clinic.

"How is your head?" the doctor asked.

"Hurts like hell. Dizzy, too."

"You were badly concussed. You've been in and out since last night. What do you remember?"

Joseph searched his mind, drawing more blanks than he cared to. There was a gunfight, he remembered. An explosion. Then blackness. Someone shouting, "he's been shot!" Being lifted up by powerful hands and carried. Everything else was more blackness.

"Not much. Something exploded. Was I shot?" Joseph looked down, patting his body.

"No. He was," Dr. Wilson pointed over at Hank.

"Will he make it?"

"I expect so. Shot in the chest, through-and-through. Missed everything important, though. Miraculous, really."

"Is everyone else okay?"

"Yes. Well—you do remember Mr. Ennis was killed? And of course the men who attacked the bank."

"I do now."

"Here, this will help with your head," the doctor said, readying a syringe. "Hope will be thrilled you're awake. She’s been here all night. I only just convinced her to get some rest minutes before you woke up." He stuck the needle in Joseph's right arm. "Don't tell her that part."

Joseph laughed. "How long do I have to stay here, doc?"

"You don't have to. If you're steady on your feet, you can leave. I'd recommend you rest a few days."

"I'll do my best." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, steeled himself a moment, and stood up. A mild dizziness came over him, but he braced himself against the wall until it passed. Once it had, Joseph took a few tentative steps.

"Feel okay?" the doctor asked.

"Rough, but I'll make do." He walked over to Hank's bed. The man was sleeping, his chest rising with deep breaths. A large bandage was wrapped around his left breast. "Has he been awake?"

"He was awake all along. Seemed more concerned about you, to be honest. He and the Chief carried you here." Dr. Wilson peeled back the bandage carefully, inspecting the wound a moment before placing a new dressing. "Remarkable healing in just a few hours. He is a very lucky man. You both are."

"Thank you, doctor. I'm going back to work. When Hope comes back, send her along to my office."

***

"Good to see you on your feet." Gray closed the door behind him and took a seat. Joseph was, in fact, leaning back in his chair, feet resting on his desk.

"You too," he said. "What the hell happened last night?"

"Best we can figure, they had another man inside the whole time, still filling his bags. He must have snuck up to the roof once he heard the fighting. Took a few shots. Sheriff put him down quick, though."

"What exactly happened to me?"

"Hank, he pushed you out of the way. Caught the bullet himself."

"Jesus."

Gray raised his hands in a gesture of agreement. "Hell of a thing. He going to make it?"

"Doc said so."

"Amen to that. Reckon we had that man figured wrong."

"I'm willing to consider that possibility." Joseph put a hand to his head, which had again begun to ache slightly. "So what's next? How is the bank?"

"Going to need some repair. But it's doable."

"That's good, I suppose. Just another expense we can't quite manage."

Gray shook his head. "Personally I'm praying we'll take a fortune off of Jonah. Lord knows how much he's made stealing from us, or what he's taken from other towns."

"Anything on him?"

"A good lead, off one of the bodies. We think we know where he is." Joseph put his feet down and sat up. "Before you start, I'm not telling you. The sheriff and I will take a lawful party out there and take him down, one way or the other. Even if I had a mind to let you come—which I don't, by the way—you're in no condition."

Gray stood up. "We're heading out tonight, Joe. Let me take care of this. Get some rest. See your daughter." He left the room.

Joseph sat for a moment, hand on his head and eyes fixed on the door. Gray hadn't left him much room for debate. The worst part was that Gray was probably right. Joseph, determined as he was, could barely walk straight on his own, and his headache was worsening. He did need some rest.

There was a knock at the door, and Hope peeked in.

"Dad," she said softly as she walked over to him. "I was so worried."

"I'm sorry, Hope," he said. "I'm okay."

"Does your head hurt?"

"A bit," he said. "Did you come from the clinic?"

"Yes," she said, her moist eyes and soft smile now giving way to a more stern expression. "I was hoping you would still be there."

"Things to be done here. Plus, Gray and the sheriff think they know where Jonah is. I still don't know what I'm going to do."

"Maybe you should just let them handle it."

"Maybe," he said. "Maybe."

"That other man at the clinic," she said. "Hank. Is he the one you told me about? He saved your life."

"Yes. How is he?"

"He seemed fine, actually. He was awake. He wanted to talk to you."

"I should probably go see him. Thank him."

"Okay." She stood up, turned toward the door, but hesitated. "Dad, I know I can't convince you not to go after Jonah. I don't even know if I want to convince you. Just... please be safe. I can't lose you too."

"I'm not going anywhere, Hope. Not yet."

Dorian

The cameras flashed, and Dorian smiled. It was the sort of broad, pearl-white, genuine-looking smile that people loved. "You'll steal a girl's heart with that someday," his mother often told him when he was a boy. She hadn't been wrong about that.

He stood on a raised stage, oppressive industrial lights overhead, dozens of reporters and other onlookers crowded on the floor in front of him. To his right, the mayor spoke at a podium, flanked by the city's chief of police.

James stood just behind and to Dorian's left. He couldn't quite see him, but he knew he would wear the same blank face, with the slightly too intense stare as he usually employed in public situations. The man didn't quite have Dorian's gift for bullshitting, though he had some others of his own.

"Dorian Black is one of Pittsburgh's truly great native sons," the mayor was saying, turning to look at Dorian. "His example of charity and community service continues to be the bar for which the rest of us can only strive. It is with great gratitude that I award Mr. Dorian Black this honorary key to the city."

The reporters applauded as Dorian stepped up to the podium, accepting a handshake from the mayor. An assistant handed Dorian a large mounted key on a plaque, and the two men held it together, smiling as the reporters' cameras snapped. After a moment, he stepped toward the microphone.

"I am not a man of many words," he said to the crowd, some of whom, those who knew him well, laughed. "Thank you, Mr. Mayor, for this honor. It has been my pleasure to serve my hometown in every way that I can. But let me just say that I’m not the one deserving of your praise, it’s the fine men and women of the Pittsburgh Police, some of whom are here behind me." Dorian turned, gesturing back at several uniformed officers who were lined up behind the mayor and chief. There was more applause. "Thank you," he said, and stepped back.

The police chief, a musclebound man with close-cropped hair and a patch of vitiligo on his cheek, clapped Dorian on his shoulder. "Good seeing you again, sir," the chief said. There was a soft murmur of conversation behind them as the gaggle of reporters filed out of the room.

"The pleasure is mine, chief," Dorian said. James sidled up next to him. "Let me introduce James. A close friend and business partner." The men shook hands.

"Well, gentlemen," the chief said. "I'd like to offer you a brief tour of the station. If you have time."

"Absolutely," Dorian said. The chief led them off the stage and through a door into a plain hallway.

"I just wanted to say, once again," the man said as they went down the hall. "We cannot overstate how grateful we are for your continuing support, financial and otherwise."

"I'm very happy to help.”

They passed through a glass door and out into a small courtyard. "That building is mostly administrative offices as well as the press conference rooms. Across the way here is the main building, where the majority of our work gets done." The chief reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "Just a second. Pritchard," he said, stepping away.

Dorian looked around the courtyard, which was mostly just grass with a couple trees, a beat-up old picnic table, and two benches.

"What's that look for?" Dorian said, seeing James in the corner of his eye.

James laughed. "Nothing. It just never fails to amaze me how full of shit you are."

"I take that as a compliment."

"I know you do. But it only half was."

The chief returned, and they entered the other building. Here they were immediately greeted by activity as they passed through what the chief explained to be the center of their general operations unit. "Here we coordinate patrol, traffic enforcement, that sort of thing in all the city zones. But, here, I'd like to show you something special."

The three men left the room, going down a short hallway, up a set of stairs, and down another longer hallway. As they passed them, the chief pointed out the Narcotics, Homicide, and Arson squads. Finally they stopped at a plain door. "This is brand new," he said. "Have you followed any crime reports lately?"

"Can't say I have. All the negative news is too much for me," Dorian replied.

"Well, it turns out that over the past few years there has been a surge of vigilante activity. Beatings, a handful of murders. One of our bright young detectives thought she saw a pattern, thinking we might have a serial case on our hands. As of just a few days ago, we authorized her to run a special investigation unit, the first we’ve had in years. Not possible without your support."

As he spoke, the door opened and a young woman came out. "Ah, here she is," the chief said.

She was somewhat plain looking, but attractive in a way, Dorian thought. She wore her brown hair back in a ponytail, and a few freckles dotted her face. At the moment, she looked somewhat startled.

"Chief," she said.

"Gentlemen, this is Detective Jessica Neil. Detective, this is Dorian Black, who you may recall made a large donation to the department recently."

Dorian smiled and put his hand out. The detective took it. "Dorian," she said, her eyes briefly somewhat distant, then she smiled herself.

"Any luck so far?" Dorian said.

"Couple of leads. Nothing we can say publicly."

"Well, I wish you luck. If we can help in any way, my door is always open to you," Dorian said, looking at the chief.

"Thank you, sir," the chief answered. "I wouldn't worry. We all have faith in Detective Neil and her team."

The young woman smiled, not at her boss, but still at Dorian.

***

"I'll have my usual."

"Very good, sir." The waiter scooped up Dorian's menu and quickly disappeared. The restaurant was dim, most of its light coming from a single candle on each table. The far wall was a full-size window offering a stunning view of the city from the restaurant's perch on the mountain. Night had fallen, and now the skyscrapers were lit with scattered office lights which reflected off the river below.

He and James sat at a private table overlooking the rest of the dining room. Across the table, James nursed his drink and stared out at the city. Dorian appreciated the view well enough, but was even happier for the table's isolation from the other diners.

Dorian grabbed a piece of bread from the middle of the table, then dragged it across a plate of pesto. "How about that girl detective back there? Think she was just starstruck, or did she have a little crush?"

James looked at him with a rare smirk, one eyebrow raised. "What makes you say that?"

"I have a way with people," Dorian said, still chewing his bread.

James laughed. "That you do. Although I'll never understand how. She didn't like you. First of all, she doesn't like men. And she didn't even know who you are."

The latter of these revelations hit Dorian much harder than the others, but he wouldn't let that on. "Shame, that," he said, taking another bite of bread.

Dorian considered himself a pretty good reader of people, but he was no match for James. Many times he had seen the man silently listen to someone else speak for just a few minutes before being able to guess profoundly intimate details of their life and personality. It was damn near like a party trick.

Once, years ago, James had even done it to him. "I've known a lot of men," Dorian remembered him saying. "But you are easily the angriest man I've ever met."

A waiter wordlessly placed a salad in front of James. "Why do you care, anyway?" he asked, picking up his fork. "In all the years I've known you, you've never been in a relationship."

"Women offer so many wonderful things, why waste your time with a relationship?" For all his intuition, James always seemed oblivious to this particular facet of Dorian's life. Indeed it was one of the few sources of conflict between the two men. Sometimes Dorian would tire of his friend's judgmental looks whenever Dorian came or went from the penthouse with the latest young woman.

"You might know that yourself if you ever went to see that wife of yours. Or, you know, have her come here."

"It's a little more complicated than that."

"So you always say."

"Anyway, since you brought it up. That detective is going to be a problem."

Dorian nodded. "Probably. But that's what we do. Make problems go away."

"I would prefer that you didn't make this one go away in your usual way."

"We'll see what sort of approach the situation requires. I'm open minded," Dorian said, leaning back in his chair.

"Let me handle it."

Dorian shrugged. "What's to handle? That goddamn chief owes me so much he doesn't even begin to understand it. I tell him to cut the investigation, it's gone."

"Might want to be a bit more subtle than that."

Dorian leaned forward on his elbows. "My man, I am the king of subtlety." James laughed, harder than Dorian had heard in a while.

"There you go," Dorian said. "Finally lightening up a little. You know you've been a fucking downer, lately?"

James twirled his fork between his fingers, apparently thinking. "Let me ask you something as well. Why all the charity? I've thought about this for a long time. I understand why you want to go out every night, prowl around for criminals, beat them within an inch of their life or worse. But why bother with the nice guy act? Is it just a front, to protect you? Or is it to inflate your ego? Dorian Black, the beloved billionaire. Or is it the power? You think these people can't protect themselves, so they need a protector. I could really understand that. Yet you look down on them. That's what I don't get."

Dorian grabbed another piece of bread. "How many times have you asked me that question?"

James sighed. "Seventy five."

"That's what I thought. Anyway, what if it's all of the above?"

"Maybe it is. But I still feel like there's more to it."

"Just because you don't understand it, doesn't make it untrue. Some things might just be beyond even your comprehension."

"You're only a man, Dorian."

"Yeah, and we both know you're something more,” he said with a snort. “So don't be too hard on me."

The waiter arrived with their food. He stood behind Dorian quietly as he sliced into his steak, revealing a perfect medium rare. He thanked the waiter, who left once again.

"You want to know what I actually think?" Dorian said, pausing to swallow a piece of steak. James was cutting into his own food, but his expression encouraged him to go on.

"I learned a lot of things over there in Kuwait. You and me both did. But the biggest thing is, when I came home, I can't hardly stand to look at these people anymore. Half of them," Dorian swung his arm, gesturing over the balcony at the diners below. "They haven't got a fucking clue. They have no idea what the world is really like. How close this whole stupid thing is to falling apart. And if all this, modern civilization, ever falls down each and every one of them is completely unprepared to survive in a world without men like me."

"Ah, there's the missing piece," James said. "Bitterness."

"Call it what you want. People today think they have fucking problems because their phone doesn't work, or they can't afford every single luxury they feel entitled to. Or when a dozen people get killed by some crazy assholes halfway across the world, Americans just love jerking themselves off over how sad they are. The truth is we're fucking weak. One person dies in a hospital and Americans want to sue their doctor. Tell that to the hundred million people who died of the Spanish Flu. Ask the millions of people killed and raped by Genghis Khan if they felt empowered in their lives.

"People today have absolutely no perspective. The world is a shit place. Always has been, always will be. People think we’re one good presidency away from a fucking utopia. People think broadcasting how soft you are is a goddamned virtue. Something bad's gonna happen eventually. You might as well be ready for it."

"You know," James said. "I think that's the most honest you've been with me in a long time."

Dorian sipped his drink. “Do you disagree?”

“No,” James said. “But I don’t entirely agree either.”

A commotion seemed to begin down below. A louder hum of chatter could be heard, and some of the diners were turning toward the door beneath where Dorian sat. Now some flashes could be seen as patrons aimed their phone cameras toward whatever had caught their interest.

A moment later, an entourage of men emerged from beneath the balcony. Two muscular, black-suited men made way for the group, as two other bodyguards took positions on opposite ends of the room. In the midst of them all there was a tall, lean man, muscular in his own way, though dwarfed by his attendants. As he walked he paused to shake hands or take photos with a few groups of diners.

"Well, I'll be damned," James said, dropping his fork and peering down.

"Who’s that?" Dorian asked.

James looked at him. "Of course you wouldn't know. That's Martin Singh."

Below, Martin was gladhanding around a table of elderly men and women. As he left to take his seat, one of the men shouted. "You've got my vote!"

"Ah," Dorian said, chewing a piece of steak. "You still have to tell me why you want to kill him."

***

The night air was dry and cold. The two men stood on a small viewing platform next to the restaurant. On the street behind them, another suited man stood an unmoving guard next to a limousine.

"So what is it?" Dorian said.

James looked troubled. He wore a thick hooded sweatshirt and leaned forward on the metal railing. He didn't answer for a while.

"It's personal," he finally said.

"Yeah, I had figured that out."

They were quiet for a time, watching the city below. A few chunks of ice floated down the river. Somewhere, a police siren came and went.

"Look, man," Dorian said. "Maybe I haven't been the best friend recently. I'm not good at this shit, you know that. But I owe you my life. If you say this Martin guy has to go, I'll follow you. I'm just trying to say, you can tell me about it. If you want."

"You don't owe me anything," James said.

"You can keep saying that."

"He killed my friend. It might not have been by his hand, but he killed him. He's not the good man he pretends to be."

Dorian clapped him on the back. "That's it then. We'll deal with him easily enough."

James looked sideways at him. "It won't be easy. He's about to be elected president."

"Wouldn't be the first head of state we took down."

James laughed, still looking unconvinced. "Yeah. But this will be different."

"I'm sure that's true. We got it, though."

"Thanks," James said.

At some point, the limousine had left. A few diners were still filing out of the restaurant and down the sidewalk. A barge crawled its way down the river.

"Hell of a view," James said. "I've always loved it."

"It is nice. Could do with some snow."

James laughed softly, stood up. "You're right about that." James closed his eyes, letting his hands rest on the railing in front of him. His eyes still closed, he smiled. Then he opened them once again.

The two men stood there for a while, looking down over the city as a soft snow began to fall.

Joseph

As a child, Joseph had always feared his father. Fortunately for him, the man was rarely home, even before he became mayor. After that, as he recalled, most nights he would spend alone with his mother, and he preferred it that way. Sometimes Joseph would hear his father come home late, occasionally highlighted by the muffled sounds of a hushed argument on the other side of the wall.

It never seemed particularly strange to him at the time, and his mother would never speak of it other than to say that his father was very busy but that he wished he could be home with them more often. Later experience would teach him that although being mayor was a difficult job, it rarely actually required him to be away from home into the middle of the night.

When Thomas Brooker was home, he usually spent his evenings sitting quietly by the fire, drinking. If Joseph had to approach him, he would do so with a great deal of trepidation. That isn’t to say Joseph had no fond memories of his father, but most of those came from his teenage years. After Joseph's mother got sick, and later died, his father did become somewhat more attentive. He was still the same man though, and by this time Joseph was old enough to realize what was happening on the nights he heard his father sneak out of the house, after he thought Joseph was asleep.

When Joseph was fifteen, his father called him into the lounge one evening. Even at this age, Joseph felt anxious at the prospect of sitting down beside the man, the crackling fire reflected in his stoic eyes, casually twirling brandy around in his glass. He had been seeing another woman, he said. It had been several years since his mother passed away, after all. He hoped for them to meet soon.

There was no question there, no request for approval. The relationship didn't last, but the damage was quickly done. The woman, it turned out, was the wife of a local tailor named Roger Shaw. Their marriage didn't last long either. Exactly what effect this had on their son, a local ne'er-do-well of Joseph's age named Jonah, was hard to say.

Though the boy was no pillar of the community before, his behavior began to escalate, eventually culminating in his exile from the town a year later.

***

"What do you want now?"

Joseph started. He found himself inside the police station, which was presently empty aside from the prisoner in the cell in front of him. His head was still reeling, and some of what had come before was a blur to him. He remembered leaving his office, going to the clinic to see Hank. Things got fuzzy there.

"The man on the roof, they took him alive," he recalled Hank saying. How he had gotten here from there, he couldn’t quite remember.

Joseph pushed open the cell door and entered. A young man sat shackled to a bench on the far wall, eyes closed, his bloodied chin resting on his chest. As Joseph approached, the man opened his eyes. Joseph didn't respond, but stood a foot away from the man, examining his bruised and swollen face. He was still fairly sure he didn’t recognize him. The man wore the same style of leather gear as Jonah's other lackeys did.

"What's your name?" Joseph asked.

"Peter," he said. "Who are you?"

"I'm the mayor. Joe."

"What do you want, Joe? I already told the damn sheriff everything."

"It took him a bit of effort, from the look of things," Joseph said. "Problem is, I have a mind to know as well."

"Well, I'm not feeling much up to resisting any more. So what do you want to know?"

"Shame," Joseph said. "Where is Jonah?"

Some blood had been pooling on the bridge of Peter's nose and now began to drip. He shook his head a bit, sending a few drops of blood to the floor. "The old ironworks," he finally said.

"What’s his plan?"

"If he has one, he wouldn't have told us. Didn't seem to be any grand design. A robbery here, a kidnapping there. Just looking for a payday, which is fine enough for most of us. What's your plan, Joe?"

"To kill him."

"I see. Well, good luck I guess. Doesn't make much of a difference to me anymore. Why?"

"You people killed my wife."

Some of the color drained from Peter's face. "Oh. Most of us didn't like the way of that. For what it's worth."

"It ain't worth shit." Joseph put his hand on the man's shoulder, hauled back and punched him in the gut. The man grunted, retched, and vomited onto the floor. Bloody streaks highlighted the bile.

Joseph left the cell, locking it behind him once again. He tore the drawer out of a nearby desk, upending its contents onto the floor. From among them he fished a small brass key which, as he knew it would, opened a door across the room.

He swung open the door to the armory. It was a small room, no more than a re-purposed closet really, with several wooden racks and cabinets crammed inside. It had been nearly cleaned out by whatever party Gray and the sheriff had raised. Joseph took what was left: a bolt-action rifle and six-shot revolver, a holster which he hastily strapped to his waist, and all the ammunition his pockets would hold. He could catch up with the others if he rode hard.

Joseph stormed out the back door of the station, but found the stables empty.

Shit.

***

The old ironworks was nestled in the forest five miles north of town. During a time long past, it had been a major contributor to the local economy, but by now it had not been properly in use for well over a hundred years. In Joseph's youth, teenage couples were often known to sneak off to those ruins. About eight years ago there had been a collapse in one of the structures which killed two kids. As far as Joseph knew, nobody had much ventured out there since.

As Joseph approached the place now, he saw that this was clearly no longer the case. The old winding dirt road leading to the ironworks, previously overgrown with thick brush, had been recently cleared. It should be just up here over this ridge, he thought, before he came to a barricade.

"Whoa," he murmured, pulling up and coming to a halt. Pilgrim, the old thoroughbred hastily borrowed from the racetrack on his way out of town, whinnied softly and shifted his feet. Now that he had stopped, he could hear the popping of distant gunfire.

The road was blocked by a solid wood wall, at least twelve feet tall, with a small door built into its bottom. A smaller fence could be seen extending from the sides through the trees in both directions. Fortunately for him, the door had been broken down.

Joseph put his heels to the horse, who trotted through the opening. The broken, axe-scarred door laid in the grass just on the other side. Ahead, the road curved through the trees, but he could see smoke in the distance.

Joseph spurred his horse on and followed the path. The sound of gunfire grew steadily louder until he arrived at the end of the road, where the trees opened up into a clearing. The ruined foundry itself sat centrally in the space, but new construction surrounded it. At least a dozen small buildings now populated the clearing. One, nearest to him and off to the right, was ablaze. Just in front of that, he saw some men taking cover behind a line of wagons. Beyond them, he could see a few other men scrambling between the buildings, taking cover wherever they could.

Joseph dismounted, tied his horse to a nearby fencepost, and took off into the brush. The men near the wagons, he could see now, were the ones from the town. As he made his way through the trees, rifle wobbling beneath his arm, he recognized Gray and the sheriff. With them were ten other men. Joseph left the edge of the trees and ran toward them at a sprint, staying wide of the burning building. Even still, the heat was almost unbearable as he ran past.

He slid with an unpleasant crash into position alongside one of the wagons, which sent another flare of pain across his skull. Gray, who had been standing up to fire his rifle, squatted down, looking at him.

"God damnit, Joe."

"Couldn't take them alive, eh?" Joe said, trying to shake off the headache.

"Not exactly. They opened fire as soon as they saw us."

"Looks like we underestimated them."

"You could say that," Gray said. Bullets intermittently whistled overhead and thudded into the thick wood of the wagon in front of them. "I don't think they're all even here. That house was completely empty," he said, nodding at the burning building.

"Well, we better get moving," Joseph said. Gray nodded.

Joseph stood up, taking aim. There was a two-story house thirty feet away, just off to the right. A few men were crouched on its balcony, returning fire. One man, reloading his weapon, lingered in the open for too long.

Joseph fired, and the man dropped. The sheriff shouted at him from the next wagon over. "Keep shooting at the balcony, we're moving!" Joseph and Gray kept the men on the balcony pinned down, firing every few seconds, as the sheriff and a few men sprinted for the door. They made it inside, and seconds later emerged onto the balcony where a brawl erupted.

"Go!" Gray screamed, and Joseph and the rest of the men made for the house. Someone came crashing down to the ground from the balcony above. Joseph took cover inside the first floor to get his bearings. Just across the way now was the largest building, which looked like a barn. Two men were firing from the upper windows, and the doors had been blockaded with tall stacks of crates. At the moment, Joseph doubted his prospects of making it inside.

Beyond the barn were at least a few other structures, which he couldn't see well. To the right of where he stood, a number of small shacks were clustered together.

He fired two shots at a man who was running across the path from the barn. The first missed, sending a puff of dirt up from the ground but making the man jump back, directly into the path of his second bullet. Joseph was alone now, he noticed, and unsure where Gray had gone. After a moment, one of their men came down the stairs.

"Let's go," Joseph said to him, and they scrambled over to the nearest shack. The other man kicked the door down. If nothing else, their party had at least caught Jonah's gang off guard. Their quarters were in chaos, and though this one was otherwise empty, one man was still inside preparing his weapon. Joseph quickly put him down with a shot to the head.

Most of the other shacks were empty, and the two men cleared them with ease. As they entered the final dormitory, Joseph heard a groan from one of the cots. He was surprised to see a man under a blanket, his skin very pale and his brow soaked with sweat. He made no effort to get out of bed, but looked at Joseph with pleading eyes.

Joseph stood over the ill man for a moment, then bound his hands and feet with some rope.

The sheriff bounded into the shack. "There's lots of fighting over by the stables. Let's go."

Joseph, still tying his knot, nodded. "Right behind you," he said, and then left the sick man alone.

As he emerged from the shack, he heard screams and gunfire off to his right. From the looks of it, his men had swept through the compound and were attempting to storm the barn from the opposite side. On this side, all was quiet. Whoever had been shooting from the windows of the barn had apparently gone elsewhere. Blood and a handful of bodies littered the dirt paths, at least one of which Joseph recognized as his own. Another, lying unnaturally up against a railing, he recognized as the son of a blacksmith in town. As Joseph recalled, he had run off just a few months back.

The sound of hoofbeats rose to his left, back toward the entrance to the compound. Joseph spun, raised his rifle, then lowered it.

It was Hank. His horse slid to a stop just feet away, a cloud of dust stinging Joseph's eyes. The man slid down from his saddle. He wore a leather chest piece, two silver daggers strapped to his flanks, and a rifle slung across his back.

"What are you doing here?" Joseph said.

"I told you I would come," Hank replied, though Joseph didn't remember that. "Looks like your friends need help. On the other side of that barn. I'm fine," he added, noticing Joseph's eyes lingering at his shoulder. "I've had much worse."

"Alright then,” Joseph said, though he had many questions for another time. “We better get moving."

"This way. I think I saw a way to get inside." Hank led him around the side of the building to a ladder, lying on the ground behind a stack of crates. "Help me with this." Joseph grabbed the end of the heavy ladder, and the two men positioned it beneath one of the high windows.

Joseph mounted the ladder, taking the rungs as quickly as he could manage before stopping to peer through the window. To his relief, this side of the building was now seemingly unguarded. With a low grunt he hauled himself through the narrow window and slid, rather inelegantly, to the floor.

He now found himself on a narrow, raised platform which ran along the outer wall of the barn. Across the way three men were crouched down beneath their own windows, each firing alternating shots outside. Some spindly wooden steps along the left wall would take him to the ground floor.

Hank came through the window behind him, much more gracefully than Joseph had managed. Without a word Joseph led him along the platform toward the stairs. They hadn’t gone far when several more men emerged from below, whooping and shouting. One of them threw open the barn doors and rushed outside. Joseph picked up his pace. As they passed the stairs, the riflemen at the windows had still not noticed their approach. A few steps later, one turned.

He was a portly man, ruddy-cheeked and with a thick red mustache. He turned away from the window, kneeling as he reloaded his weapon. Still working, his eyes met Joseph's. "They're inside!" the man shouted, fumbling with his half-loaded gun. The men beside him turned, surprised, but no sooner had they been spotted than Hank broke into a sprint.

He was upon the mustachioed man in an instant. Hank booted his rifle away, delivering a second kick to the man's chin which left him slumping limply to the floor. Hank spun past him, ducking under the butt of a rifle meant for his head, sliding a dagger loose and planting it in the next man's chest.

There was a shout behind Joseph. He spun wildly, drew his revolver, and fired. His bullet hit its mark, square in the man's chest, but he kept charging. Joseph jumped aside and his attacker hit the wall before he could slow himself. Joseph grabbed him at the shoulders, heaving him toward the edge of the platform. The man fought him, clawing at his hands and swinging wildly. Joseph dodged one punch and another struck his jaw. He loosened his grip long enough to drive a fist into the other man's gut, and he felt him go limp. With a final push he threw the man, shrieking, to the ground below.

Joseph bent over, breathing deep, his heart pounding in his chest. "You okay, Joe?" came Hank's voice from behind him.

Joseph turned to look. Hank was cleaning one of his daggers with a cloth, then slid it back into its position on his chest. Three men lay dead on the wood behind him. "Fine," Joseph answered.

"We should go then," Hank said.

Outside, bodies lay everywhere and patches of red stained the dirt. The sun was just beginning to set, and two men stood alone in the middle of the field.

"Jonah Shaw, you’re under arrest. Drop your weapon." The farther away of the two spoke. It was Gray.

"Not on your life," came the reply. Jonah stood facing away from Joseph. "But we can make it a fair fight." He holstered his pistol.

Joseph couldn't see it, but he could imagine the look of grim resignation his friend's face surely wore. Gray's own revolver was still at his waist. If he had seen Joseph and Hank, quietly creeping toward them across the dusty ground, he didn’t show it.

It happened in an instant. Jonah's hand twitched and both men drew, Gray a half second behind. As soon as he saw it happen, Joseph drew his own gun, took quick aim, and fired. Jonah went down, a spurt of blood from his right leg misting the ground.

Joseph ran, diving on top of Jonah. He grabbed him by his shirt, pummeled his face as hard and as fast as he could, screaming as he hit him. The man at first cried out and then was silent. When Joseph felt his own hand crack, he switched hands. He beat Jonah beyond recognition. All his teeth were gone, his jaw was loose and crooked. One of his eyes dangled slightly from its socket.

"Joe." Hank's voice. Joseph stood up. Gray was on the ground as well, Hank at his side.

"Are you happy now, Joe?" Jonah’s words were broken and stuttering. "You got me." He sputtered blood onto his own face. "Aren't you going to ask me why I did it?"

Joseph drew his pistol. "No."

Jess

Jess ducked under the punch, and felt it graze her hair as she moved in. With her opponent overextended, she shifted and lunged in with her own punch. Just before it connected, a kick found her ribs.

"You're dragging your back foot, Jess."

Jess stepped back, wiping a hand across her damp brow. She pressed her other hand to her ribs, aching from the last hit.

"When you're ready," the instructor said. Jess shifted her mouth guard with her tongue before nodding at her opponent, who stood at the ready across from her, adjusting his foam sparring gloves.

"Ready," he said when he was done, and took his fighting stance. Jess did the same, taking a deep breath and settling her weight on the ball of her back foot, the heel slightly raised. Jess moved first, pushing off her back foot and striking out with a backfist strike from her lead hand. As her opponent stepped back, parrying her strike, Jess let her momentum launch her into a side kick aimed at his abdomen. This hit landed, though not at full force, as he attempted to sidestep the kick.

Her hands weren’t on guard, she realized, just as a fist collided with the side of her head. She let the punch spin her around, firing a rear kick as she went. This kick hit hard, and she heard her opponent grunt.

"Good," was the instruction to stop. Jess and her opponent bowed and touched gloves.

"Excellent work today," her instructor said as they left the room. "You seem very focused."

"Thank you, sir. I feel good."

It was a breezy Monday afternoon as Jess left the karate studio, the first bit of leisure time she had allowed herself in the past week. Her theory had at first been a hard sell to the higher echelons of the department, but they quickly saw the same connections she had, and about which she had obsessed for months. Now the questions she got from her superiors were less along the lines of "Who are you again?" and more like "What do you need from us?" The only criticism had been why she’d waited so long to come forward.

She was placed in charge of a special task force with several detectives beneath her, and Jess herself reported directly to Chief Pritchard. Jess had been fortunate so far. The very first witness she interrogated had given her an enormous lead, a possible name for one of her two vigilantes. Her team had been combing through all of the old case files, pulling in any old witnesses they could. This hadn’t provided a great deal of new information, only solidifying what they already knew.

There were indeed two vigilantes. The one possibly named Dorian was more violent, seemingly more unstable. He was prone to killing his victims, sometimes outright executing them after they had already been subdued. The other man was no less dangerous, but from the looks of it, at least he didn't seem to relish killing people. When he acted alone, the perpetrators-turned-victims were usually pacified and left tied up for actual law enforcement to find.

There were so few cases in which the two seemed to work together that Jess, at first, hadn't even realized there were two suspects at all. In hindsight though, she had been able to identify three occasions where a witness had suggested there might have been more than one vigilante. The outcomes in these cases were much more unpredictable.

Jess started her car, enjoying even the warm blast of air out of her broken air conditioner. It would be just a short drive back to the station. As she left the parking lot, her phone began to ring. Rachel <3, the display read.

"Hey," she said, gripping the phone between her jaw and shoulder as she turned into traffic.

"How was class?"

"It was good. I needed it."

"I know you did. Hey, will you make it home for dinner before school tonight?"

"Yeah, I will. Promise."

"Alright, I'll cook. Be careful at work. See you tonight."

"I love you," Jess said.

"Love you too."

It was quiet at the headquarters, and aside from the receptionist out front, Jess didn't encounter anyone else until she made it to her own office.

"Hey Pete," Jess said, closing the unmarked door behind her. The room was slightly too dim, and had three desks crammed into its small working area. The far wall was dominated by two large whiteboards, each plastered with dozens of official reports and witness statements interspersed with her own scrawled writing.

"Hey," Pete replied without turning around. He was huddled over a table along the far wall, shuffling through stacks of paper.

"How'd it go?" Jess asked, taking a seat at the table next to him. He turned to face her, his wiry brown hair swaying to obscure his mousy face.

"It went fine. He should be in soon. Here's the report I put together." He slid a thin folder across the table to her, which she took without opening it.

"Thanks. Good work. Want to sit in?" Pete smiled, but shook his head. He was a rookie detective, with just a few years experience. He had, Jess heard, come to the department highly recommended and among the top in his class, but so far his skills had not much translated into the real world. His career, to this point, had consisted mostly of soft theft cases and the like. Since he joined the team, she had begun to see that his true aptitude was in the office, organizing and managing their files, so that's where she'd kept him. That was until today, when she'd asked him to run down a simple lead.

"He's the last one," Pete said.

"Well, him and the other one." Jess stood up with a sigh. There was a list written on the board just above her.

Dorian Anderssen X

Dorian Black

Dorian Hitchens X

Dorian Nazarian X

Dorian Peters X

Dorian Yancy

She took a black marker and made an X-mark next to the last name on the list. It had been easy enough to run the name. Turns out, there were only six men in Allegheny County with the first name of Dorian. Even better, all of them had been very easy to find, and Jess had already personally interviewed four of them. Each was as uninteresting as the last. A doctor, a couple blue-collar workers, and a farmer. None of them met any sort of criminal profile that made any sense to her. Three had solid alibis for at least a few of the crimes. The fourth, Mr. Hitchens, wasn't able to provide any alibi but seemed the least likely of the bunch to be any sort of mastermind. The fifth, it seemed, she would be meeting soon.

That would only leave Dorian Black. Truth be told, she'd never heard of the man until she met him a week ago. He turned out to be the easiest to find and yet the hardest to reach. Retired army special forces soldier, turned billionaire tech mogul. A generous philanthropist in public with a few nasty rumors about him in the tabloids and elsewhere on the fringe of public consciousness. That could be just the kind of man she was looking for.

The problem, of course, was his recent, possibly too convenient, large donation to the department. She was thankful to know that the Chief backed her up on this one. "Run down the other leads first," he told her. "If and when the time comes you have to talk to him, you involve me."

That time might be coming, she thought. Of course, there was also the distinct possibility that the whole name lead was a waste of time. After all, her targets were typically meticulous in all aspects of their work. Why would the one screw up so badly as to use a real name? That particular thought had hounded her for the past week.

A phone rang across the office and Pete scampered over to answer it. Jess opened the file he had given her, skimming through it. Dorian Yancy, forty years old, a middle school teacher. Married, no kids. A couple of encounters with police for DUI in his early twenties, nothing since.

"Mr. Yancy is here," Pete said, hanging up the phone. "They're putting him in the main conference room."

"Thanks," she said. "Get out of here. See you Monday."

A few minutes later she was standing in front of the frosted glass door of the conference room, just down the hall from the Chief's office. Jess knocked and entered the room.

Mr. Yancy sat at the table, eyes on his cell phone, which he put down as soon as she entered. He looked, unsurprisingly, exactly like the photo in Pete’s file.

"Hello, sir. My name is Detective Jessica Neil. Thank you for agreeing to come in."

Mr. Yancy pushed back on the table and rolled toward her. It was only then that she saw he was in a wheelchair. "Dorian," he introduced himself, extending a hand up to her. She shook it and sat.

"Dorian," she paused. "I'm investigating a series of violent crimes. If you'll forgive my question, how long have you been in that wheelchair?"

He didn't seem fazed by the question. "Fifteen years. Car accident."

"Are you able to walk at all?"

"No."

Jess sighed. "I apologize sir, I’ve wasted your time."

***

"You left a little something out of your report, Pete." He'd been gone from the office by the time she made it back there, so she called him on her way out instead.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. You'd have wanted to bring him anyway right? Get consent to confirm his medical records?"

"Yes," she sighed. "Would have been nice not to be surprised though."

"Won't happen again, ma'am."

"Alright. See you Monday."

She hung up, checking the time before putting her phone away. 4:58. Earlier than she'd planned, and still plenty of time to have a nice dinner before class. Jess was smiling as she slid into her car. Sitting down now, she could feel her phone buzzing in her pocket. What now?, she thought. She didn't recognize the number, but answered it after a moment's hesitation. The car speaker beeped as her phone linked into its system.

"Hello?" Jess said.

"Hi," said a timid, female voice. "Is this Detective Neil?"

"Yes it is."

"I'm... sorry to call you," the other woman said. "This is Meredith, I talked to you about the murder a week ago?"

"I remember you, Meredith. What's wrong?"

The girl's voice was soft, and it sounded like she had been crying. "I've had a really bad couple of days. I can't talk to anyone here. I just don't know what to do, and I had your number."

"Hey, we'll talk," Jess said. "What's your address?"

"I'm at a coffee shop on East Carson Street. I'm afraid what will happen if I go home."

"I'll be there soon."

"OK. I'm sorry. Thank you."

"Don't be." Jess hung up, then tapped out a text before leaving the parking lot:

Heading home. Gonna have a guest for dinner. Sorry, I'll explain later. See you <3

Fifteen minutes later Jess pulled to a stop in front of a small café in the middle of the South Side. A car behind her honked, so Jess flashed the police lights in her back window. The car pulled around, offering an apologetic wave to her as they went. Jess was about to leave her car when Meredith came out to the street. She was almost unrecognizable from the last time Jess had seen her. She wore no makeup and her hair was up in a simple ponytail. Her body was hidden by an oversize sweatshirt.

Jess leaned over and unlocked the door, which swung open a moment later. Meredith sat down quietly, closed the door behind her.

"Hey," Jess said.

"I'm sorry I called you."

"It's okay. I told you to, if you needed to."

"I did need to."

"Is it okay if we go for a little drive? We can have dinner. And I know somebody you should meet. She, um, has been through what you're going through."

"Okay," Meredith said.

Jess pulled back into traffic. She heard a quiet sob from the passenger's seat.

"When I said he never got inside of me. That wasn't true," Meredith said.

Jess glanced over at her, but Meredith was looking down at the floor. "I know."

"I'm sorry I lied."

Jess laughed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to laugh. But you have nothing to apologize for. It's okay, really. You were still in shock."

"I guess so. I thought I was stronger than I am." Jess put a hand on her knee, but didn't know the words to say.

***

"This is my apartment," Jess said as the two women climbed the old wooden steps leading to her door. "Come on in." The apartment was warm and smelled of garlic bread.

"Hey," Jess shouted as she entered, kicking off her shoes and closing the door behind Meredith, who sidled in awkwardly.

"Hey," came the muffled reply from the kitchen.

"Just a second," Jess said, leaving Meredith by the door. Rachel was by the stove, stirring a pot. She turned her head as Jess approached, and Jess kissed her.

"What's this?" Jess asked.

"Just some pasta. Salad and bread too. It'll be ready in a minute. Who's your friend?"

"She's Meredith. I told you about her, my case. She was raped last week."

"Oh, right."

"She's not doing too well. I thought maybe you could talk to her. I'm sorry, I know we haven't had any time together lately."

Rachel pulled the bread out of the oven, left it on the stove. "Please," she said. "I'd have been more angry if I found out you said no. Meredith?" she called into the hallway. The girl came in.

"I'm Rachel. It's nice to meet you."

"I'm Meredith," the girl offered a half-hearted smile. "Can I help you cook?"

"If you want," Rachel said. "Go get changed, Jess. I've got everything under control here." Jess retreated to the bedroom, where she happily switched out her claustrophobic dress clothes for black yoga pants and a comfortable blouse. She grabbed her backpack down off the shelf in her closet, checking its contents. Her anthropology textbook was inside, but it took her a few minutes of searching before she remembered her notebook was under her bedside table. Jess used the bathroom before returning to the kitchen, stepping quietly as she made it to the doorway.

Meredith was mixing in a salad bowl, her cheeks tear-streaked but drying, and she wore a faint smile. Rachel was leaning in, whispering to her. Meredith laughed at whatever she'd said. It struck Jess then, as it did once in a while, how lucky she was to have Rachel, and how she ought to say so more often. Her smile wrinkled the just-slightly-crooked nose which Rachel hated but which Jess found so endearing. Her long ruffled waves of hair, dark with heavy streaks of pink. She was beautiful.

Rachel caught Jess's eye and winked.

***

After dinner Jess left the apartment, backpack slung across her back. "I'm heading to class. Do you want a ride?" she asked Meredith.

"Rachel said I could stay for a while," she answered.

"Of course," Jess said.

"We'll watch a movie," Rachel said.

Jess kissed her. "Sounds good. See you soon."

Climbing back into her car and starting her drive across town, Jess felt good. Meredith was a sweet girl, and she’d known Rachel would be able to talk to her in just the way she needed right now. Jess herself never felt any good in these situations, even years ago when it had been Rachel who needed the help.

Class was full tonight, which couldn't always be said of a Monday night class in November. Jess found a seat in the second row. It was never easy to find the time, but she made sure to take at least one class a semester, more when she could. Soon she would have the credits to finish her master's degree.

The professor entered moments later, and a cheer came from somewhere in the back. Martin Singh smiled as he made his way to the front of the room, his usual Secret Service detail trailing silently behind him like ghosts before taking positions around the room.

He was a very handsome man, even Jess had to admit. She knew there were more than a few young women in the room smitten with him.

"Alright guys," Professor Singh said. "I've done a very good job, if you ask me, of not mentioning politics this semester. But since election day is tomorrow... well, I'll just say I hope every single one of you casts your ballot, either way. But especially if it's for me."

Jess laughed along with the rest of the class.

Eva

Eva stepped carefully through the underbrush, raised roots and thick tangles of weeds occasionally tugging at her legs. The forest around her was pitch black, the only source of light a single ghostly beam cast by Frank's flashlight behind her. Ronny, whose footsteps she could hear only a few feet away, was barely visible.

"How far is it?" Eva asked.

"We're nearly there," came Frank's voice from behind. "Keep moving."

Eva did. The forest was blanketed with the constant low hum of cicadas, occasionally cut by the hoot of an owl or the distant, yet no less unnerving, yip of a coyote.

"Let me ask you something," Eva said. "Do you actually believe what you say?"

There was a slight pause. "Of course. It’s all as the Bible says. God created all the creatures of the land and the sea, and they lived together with Adam in the Garden. The evidence of dinosaurs living on earth is incontrovertible. They’re even mentioned in the Bible. The story of the Leviathan, and the Behemoth. So they must have lived with Adam."

"You know, most historians agree the Behemoth refers to an elephant," Ronny said.

"Nonsense."

"Then what happened to them?" Eva asked.

"As a group, they weren’t able to survive in the post-Flood environment. But a few survivors endured. The Loch Ness monster, the Pensacola Sea Monster—clearly descriptions of plesiosaurs. The Natives of this country spoke of thunderbirds, great winged beasts which we believe may have been pterodactyls. The deepest tribes of Africa still tell stories of massive monsters living in their jungles."

"What supposedly changed after the Flood?”

"The very atmosphere of earth. In the time before the Flood, the waters which would eventually drown the world were suspended in the heavens. The air was richer in oxygen, the atmospheric pressure lessened. After the rain fell, creatures of their size could no longer survive."

Eva laughed. "Well. Still sounds like a bunch of shit. But I'll give you this, you answered better than I thought you would."

"And will you believe when you’ve seen the proof? Will you repent then?"

"I guess we'll see."

Before long, she could make out a faint light filtering through the trees ahead. With every step it grew brighter until they came into a small clearing. A large construction light sat off to the side, so bright that it gave the illusion of daytime in their small circle of trees. A gasoline generator rumbled somewhere nearby, and a man stood next to the lamp.

"Lars," Frank said, striding past her and shaking the other mans hand.

"Frank," he replied in a heavy Eastern European accent.

"Have you found anything?"

"I have. You should see this shit."

Lars and Frank grabbed a shovel and pickaxe from a pile of tools behind the lamp. "Just over here," Lars said.

Eva and Ronny followed quietly behind as the two men crossed the clearing. At its edge, two massive downed trees lay one crossed overtop the other, their bark rotten and soft. Lars pointed to the ground at the base of one tree. There Eva could see the hint of something white just under the dirt.

Are those bones?

"You two, help," Frank said. The four of them heaved and grunted against the top tree until it rolled off, crumbling as it hit the ground. Frank kicked at the bark of the lower tree, smashing it until there was nothing but dust, which Lars began to clear away with a shovel.

Frank bent down on his knees, brushing away the last layer of dirt. "Careful now," he said as Lars joined him. A form slowly became clear. Eva crept forward to watch as they worked, eventually joining in to help.

The thing, whatever it was, was huge. It took the four of them the better part of two hours to clear the dirt and leaves off what appeared to be only the front half of the skeleton.

"I'll be damned," Eva said.

The monster, and that's the only way she could describe it, had to be twenty feet long. Its jaws housed dozens of teeth, each the length of her arm. Its massive barrel-like ribs were long ago collapsed but still longer than she would be lying down. Its front leg ended in three toes, each crowned with a razor-sharp claw.

"Is it a... tyrannosaurus?" Frank wondered aloud. "Good heavens."

"Look," Lars said, pointing toward the ribs.

"My God," Frank said. "It's true."

Eva stumbled forward. There, amongst the tangles of fallen ribs, was a human skull.

"Holy shit."

***

"We must be certain to preserve the site. I will not have anyone accuse me of planting this."

Back in the hotel, Frank was speaking manically on the phone. "Yes, Lars is standing guard. First thing in the morning, we'll get out there with that paleontologist from the university. Alright." He hung up.

Frank was beaming, and the sight of it was not pleasant. On the other hand, he had put his gun away.

I might get out of this alive after all.

"You’ve held up your end of the deal, miss," he said to her. "The money is yours. You’re free to go." He pointed to the duffel, which sat on the couch. Eva scurried over to it, checking its contents. It all seemed to be there.

"Can I count on a thorough report in the Times?" Frank was asking the reporter.

"Yes. A full report," he added. "Including the kidnapping."

"I would expect no less. Just write what you saw."

"That I will." Ronny stood from his seat, then retrieved his leather jacket which hung near the door. "You know, you've still got a pretty big problem here though."

Frank's smile did not dim. "What?"

"That skeleton, that whole scene. It couldn't be more than a hundred years old. Couple of big old trees like that will last a while, but they'll rot through in no more than a hundred and fifty years. At the most. And that was a skeleton. Not a fossil. You expect people to believe a Tyrannosaurus Rex walked the earth in the days when their great-grandparents lived?"

Frank seemed slightly put off by this. "Have you got a better explanation for what you saw?"

"I could think of several."

The building rumbled and shook. Eva had to steady herself against the couch. "What was that?" she said.

"I don't know," Frank said, peeling back the curtains and looking outside. "Earthquake, maybe?” She could hear a car alarm sounding nearby.

"Anything happening out there?"

"Nothing."

Everything shook again, and she heard, and felt, a louder boom this time. Eva fell back onto the couch as the lights flickered and went off. The rumbling didn’t let up this time, only intensified. Frank was scrambling, trying to get to the door, when the roof caved in. Eva screamed as she felt the floor give way beneath her.

She awoke in the dark, her nostrils and mouth filled with smoke. A fire burned nearby; she could feel its heat but couldn’t see it. Eva tried to crawl forward, but felt a stabbing pain in her ankle. Craning her head around, she saw that a wooden plank trapped her leg. With some effort she was able to free herself.

"Help!" she cried out. No answer.

Unable to stand on her injured ankle, Eva crawled. Just as the heat of the fire behind her was fading, her hand came down in something sticky. Blood, she quickly realized. Lightning flashed overhead, the first indication that the roof of the hotel was now completely gone. In the lingering light, she caught a glimpse of something horrible. She crawled forward, hoping for no more light. Of course, the lightning came again.

Frank's body was trapped beneath a pile of timber and bricks, his head nearly severed at the neck and dangling unnaturally backward. Eva felt a surge in her gut and she vomited. She wiped her chin clean and tried to shake the bits of vomit off her hand.

Oh God.

A chair sat nearby, somehow still upright. She squirmed her way over to it, using it for support as she pulled herself upright. Her ankle burned terribly and the pain brought tears to her eyes. Still, she limped along as fast as she could manage.

There was a moan nearby. By the light of another fire she saw Ronny, completely intact, standing and leaning against the remnant of a fireplace. "You're alive," she coughed out.

He looked at her and nodded, opened his mouth to speak, and then suddenly he turned away. A fountain of flame erupted toward him. Ronny raised his arms as if he could brace against such a thing, and then somehow he did. The flames curled around and past his body until they were gone. He thrust out his own hand, sending an arc of lightning back into the darkness. A thunderous pulse of energy hit Eva and she fell back to the ground.

"Here we are again." An unknown voice from the dark.

"Will you ever stop?" Ronny growled.

"No,” came the reply.

There were snarls now, vicious barks and the sound of paws clattering on wood, as three wolves burst from the blackness and leaped toward Ronny. He stepped back, his hand drawing a glowing spectral sword from thin air. Where the sword had come from, Eva had no idea.

I must be hallucinating. Or am I dead?

Ronny spun, swinging his sword in a wide arc which caught one wolf at its middle. As he spun, one hand threw flame at another of the wolves while he thrust the other hand toward his invisible opponent. A great grizzly bear materialized from out of nowhere, bounding forward with a terrifying roar. Ronny kicked the last wolf in its snout as it pounced, finishing it with a slash of his blade.

The roars of the bear fell silent as well. Eva could hear soft footsteps as the hidden man's silhouette slowly came into view. The man, whoever he was, turned suddenly toward her, his eyes glowing in the dark.

"Don't touch her," Ronny said.

"Stop me." The adversary shot flames toward her, and Eva screamed. The spout of fire stopped abruptly, fizzling out into the darkness behind her.

"She's not part of this."

"We can have no witnesses to this. You would say the same."

"Do not hurt her."

The other man laughed. "You haven't changed a bit." With a shout he sent flames at Eva and Ronny, two quick bursts, then flung himself toward Ronny. The fire licked at her face, took hold in her hair, searing her skin with an incomprehensible pain. Eva screamed, writhing on the ground and clawing at her burning face.

"No!" Ronny cried, but Eva never heard him.

Joseph

The days gave way to weeks, the weeks to months. Gray had died that day, sprawled out on the dusty ground in the middle of Jonah's makeshift compound, as the sun set above him. Joseph and Hank comforted him as he went, and that was all they could do.

They found the sheriff lying wounded near the stable, a bullet in his gut. Hank rode into town and came back with a wagon. The town’s doctor managed to keep him alive overnight, and in the morning they sent him off to a hospital in Richmond. Last Joseph had heard, he made it out okay and was back to work.

They had Gray's funeral a few days later on a snowy Saturday morning, his family and friends gathered at the cemetery on the hill overlooking the town. For his part, Joseph was relieved that Gray had outlived his wife, who passed away a few years before. He knew Gray would never have wanted her to have to attend his funeral.

The town began to recover. Hank, who had more than pulled his weight already, made good on his word. He paid not only to appease the owners of the stolen horses, but also to help rebuild the bank. Slowly, life was getting back to normal.

For Joseph himself, progress was a bit slower. That the rest of the town seemed so eager to forget about what happened continued to somewhat stick in his craw. For the most part, he busied himself in his work, of which there was plenty. What little free time he had, he mostly spent with Hope or Hank, who became a quick friend.

It was a balmy early summer evening. Joseph leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the gentle wind ruffle his hair while he bobbed and rolled gently along with the boat. He kept one hand on the fishing rod at his side, ready to rouse at any sign of a bite.

It was quiet all across the lake. Joseph used to come here when he was young; it was a secluded, peaceful spot hidden away in the forest close to home. He still kept a boat on the shore, though he used it less and less as the years wore on.

He felt a tug on the rod and started, sitting upright and taking hold of its handle. "Alright," he said, pulling back with a jerk.

"You got it, Joe." Hank sat at the other end of the boat, tending his own rod.

Joseph reeled in, too aggressively maybe, and felt the tension release with a snap. "Damn," he said, reeling in his now-bare lure. "Should have left a bit more slack, huh?" he said, setting about placing new bait.

"Happens to the best of us," Hank said with a laugh. Joseph cast his line back out. "This has been a nice afternoon, Joe, but that wasn't my only reason for joining you out here. I wanted to ask you something."

"Shoot," Joseph replied, kicking his feet up and leaning back once again.

"Well," Hank appeared to hesitate. "It has been a little over a year now. I would like to ask Hope to marry me. Would I have your blessing?"

Joseph sat straight back up. "You bet your ass you do."

***

An hour later, the two men trudged out of the dim forest and back across the grass to Joseph's home.

"We're home!" Joseph called as he closed the front door behind them. Hank headed for the kitchen, the sizable trout Joseph had caught slung over his shoulder.

Joseph made a detour through the living room, cracking open several windows to let the pleasant evening air into the stuffy house. Next to his armchair, he found his pipe and tobacco before joining his daughter and Hank in the kitchen. Hank was cleaning the fish as Hope leaned over and kissed him on his cheek. Joseph smiled.

"Your father did all the hard work," Hank said, casting his eyes up toward him as Joseph entered the room.

"I still know a thing or two." Joseph took a seat at the kitchen table. He filled his pipe and smoked, puffing contentedly as he watched the young couple together in the kitchen. Hope flitted back and forth, occasionally stopping to whisper something to Hank, and the two would laugh together.

It hadn't taken Joseph too long to see the signs. Hope seemingly made any excuse to visit him in town when Hank was likely to be around. On a few occasions, she prodded him to invite the other man for dinner. As their budding interest grew, it bit at him slightly in the way that seeing his daughter with any man does to any father.

But she was happy now, truly happy in a way he hadn't seen since before Mary died. Whatever melancholy that particular thought might bring him, to see her like that was more than worth it. And Hank had turned out to be a fine man.

The three ate dinner: Joseph's trout, roasted, with potatoes and carrots. They talked and laughed; they made plans to attend the next weekend's race at the horse track, as a group if Joseph's work would allow him.

After dinner Joseph retired to the living room where he sat in his chair, puffing on his pipe, watching his daughter and Hank through the window. They walked hand in hand across the dark yard, and Joseph could barely see them by the time Hank stopped and got down on one knee in front of her. Hope put her hands over her face and smiled.

She still had tears drying on her cheeks when the two came inside a few minutes later.

"Congratulations," he said, standing up. Hope ran over to him, wrapping him in a tight hug that reminded him very much of how she would hug him when she was just a little girl. Hank stood behind her, smiling wide. Joseph smelled his daughter's hair, and held her close.

She was happy. So was he, he realized now. And maybe that was okay.

***

If things in the town were getting back to normal, that didn't mean all was completely peaceful. But what few disturbances they had were completely and joyfully mundane. A couple of local boys got drunk and caused a ruckus at Peter Jenkins's farm. There was also a dispute over the sale of some land which threatened to turn violent, until Joseph was able to talk the men down.

By the next Saturday, the day of the horse race, the mood in the town was nearly giddy. Dozens of travelers from Richmond, Manassas, Dumfries, and other locales had filled their own, often empty, inns.

Hundreds of spectators filled the stands by the time Joseph arrived. He climbed the first set of stairs, looking out over the track. It had been a clear, sunny day. He welcomed the slight relief from the heat as the sun began to disappear behind the buildings of the town. A few groundskeepers were still tending to the track. He caught sight of Hope down there, leading a horse out from the barn.

Joseph whistled at her and she looked up, flashing him a smile and a wave, and he waved back.

Turning toward the crowd, he headed toward the private seating area afforded to him. He found Hank awaiting him there.

"Hey Joe," he said as Joseph took a seat. The men shook hands. "Hope should be up right before the race starts."

"I thought so. I saw her down there."

"You raised a hell of a young woman, Joe. I'm lucky to have her."

"I didn't do it alone. Couldn't have. But thank you."

"I wish I could have met her mother. She sounds like a wonderful woman."

"She was,” Joseph said.

The noise of the crowd surged a bit as the first of the jockeys rode out and took their positions at the starting gate. A few men prowled the crowd offering last minute bets.

"Did you make a bet?" Hank asked.

"No," Joseph laughed. "Probably wouldn't be seemly for the mayor to do so. Never been much of a gambler anyway."

The last of the competitors had just taken their starting positions when the joyful sounds of the gathered spectators began to change. Very slightly at first, but within seconds Joseph began to realize something was wrong. People weren't cheering anymore, they were screaming. He followed the pointed fingers of a few people nearby and saw: the barn was on fire.

"Oh God," Joseph said. He sprang up and ran down the steps as fast as he could manage, Hank close on his trail. He hopped the railing, landing on the track with an unpleasant thump. Sprinting toward the barn, he saw a handful of men scrambling about the building, a few hauling buckets of water.

"Hope!" Joseph and Hank screamed in unison as they made it to the entrance of the barn, which was ringed with raging flame. There was a loud crack as Hank began to run inside, and Joseph pulled at the man's collar, snatching him backward just as a burning wooden beam fell to the ground where he had stood.

There was more screaming behind them. "No," Hank said, having turned around, his voice heavy with dread.

Joseph turned to look. He could only see the silhouette of a man who strode across the center of the track. There were more flames spreading from the far end of the stands. Spectators pushed, shoved, and trampled, some of them spilling over the top of the steps and falling thirty feet to the ground.

The panic spread across the grandstand like a wave. The horses bolted, either carrying their riders along with them or tossing them unceremoniously to the ground. The man on the track had come to a stop near the starting gate, where he seemed to raise his arms up just as a blast rang out. The middle section of the seating area disintegrated in a sudden explosion, pieces of wood and bodies sent arcing across the entire area, leaving only smoldering ashes in their wake.

Hank was gone now, Joseph noticed. He spun wildly about, looking for any sight of him, or of Hope. All he saw were more people screaming and running in every direction. The flames enveloping the barn were out of control now.

What is happening?

A terrible, guttural roar tore through the air, and the ground trembled. A few people, previously running for their lives, simply froze in place. Joseph followed their eyes to the barn, and his stomach dropped.

An enormous creature stood next to the barn, unlike anything Joseph had ever seen. It stood on two massive legs, fifteen feet tall and even longer from head to tail. Its skin was scaled from front to back.

It stood still at the moment, its head slowly tracking side to side as if regarding the scene before it. Without warning, it burst into a run, its clawed feet sending a man flying as it pursued another victim, whom it pinned against the ground and swallowed whole.

The beast turned, seeming to stare straight at Joseph. It felt as though all his blood drained from his body in an instant, nothing but panic left in his mind. He turned and ran.

Joseph ran through the town, where buildings were aflame and other, more earthly, animals rampaged. He ran past his office, where a man screamed horribly on the street as three wolves tore into him. Rain was falling heavily now, lightning crashing overhead. Buildings were crumbling to the ground.

It's all over. We're all dead. What is happening?

Joseph ran, stumbling, into the woods.

***

The forest was dark, and all he could hear was his own breath and the pounding of his feet.

The ground was slick, yet somehow he kept his feet beneath him as he tore through the undergrowth. Branches bit at his face and arms, but he slapped them away and told his legs to keep pumping.

His chest was getting tight, and eventually he couldn’t help but to slow down. It was only then that his feet slipped. He landed hard on the muddy ground, sliding into the base of a tree with a painful thud. Now his head was spinning, so for a moment he could only lie still and listen.

He could hear faint screams off in the distance behind him. With a moan he heaved himself up against the tree trunk. Looking back in the direction he had come, a dim light filtered through the dense trees. Fire, he knew. His friends were likely all dead. He would be too, soon enough, unless he kept moving.

The sound of rustling nearby gave him a start, and he lowered himself to the ground once again. The sounds passed behind him. Whatever caused them, it was fleeing from the same thing he had been. He pulled himself upright but faltered, feeling a sharp pain in his arm as it brushed against the bark. A warm trickle of blood ran across his wrist. Instinctively he looked down, but in the oppressive darkness he couldn’t even see his own arm.

The screaming behind him had gone quiet, but the forest was not silent. There was a dull, heavy rumble echoing through the woods. He could feel it underfoot, too, like a slow drum beat deep within the earth.

Time to run again. He soon hit another tree, but spun off of it as he went and kept running. The sound was growing louder and the beat faster, and he willed his legs to go faster until they simply could not. Closer now. He got the sense of a break in the trees to his right, so he threw himself that way.

He hit something hard and pressed himself against it. The beast seemed to go past, its heavy footfalls moving off to his right and becoming faint.

He felt around blindly, trying to get his bearings, finding himself to be surrounded by thick vines. The only way out was right in front of him. He laid his head back and tried to slow his racing heart.

THUM

One single, earth-rending footstep. He closed his eyes and held his breath.

THUM

Another. He could hear it now, its moist breathing. Sniffing, trying to catch his scent. It was right in front of him now, close enough he could nearly see it in the darkness. The massive creature made a deep throaty rumble, almost like a purr, as it regarded him. There was no way out.

"Fuck."

When the monster roared, the trees shook and a wave of foul, hot breath washed over him. The man's eardrums burst and bled, and he never heard his own scream.

Dorian

It was only a dream, but it felt no less real to him than it had all those years ago.

They were surrounded, deep behind enemy lines. Dorian and his squad were completely off the communications grid, hunkered down in a blasted-out old shack. It was only Dorian and his two men, James Griffin and Darius Lopez.

Their orders were simple, infiltrate the enemy compound, take out the commander, and secure a small lockbox containing intel vital to the US government.

Unfortunately for them, as far as the other coalition forces were concerned, they didn't exist. Whenever the Kuwaiti army decided to launch their artillery, he had better be long gone.

Dorian nodded to his two men before peeling around the corner in a low squatted run. Soft scuffing footsteps followed close behind him. A hundred yards to the left, a soldier patrolled the walls of the compound, his flashlight casting a dusty beam of light through the dark.

They made it to the wall and followed it around to the right. It didn't take long for them to find the spot they had seen on aerial photos, a crumbled segment of wall nobody had apparently had time to repair. He posted up at the base, watching as his men clambered up and over before following suit.

The compound was mostly filled with tents, though a two-story building sat in its center. A few lights were on inside, but the rest of the camp was dark aside from the flashlights of the sentries on its walls.

Dorian held a hand up, signaling for the others to take it slow. They crept across the camp, moving quietly and kicking up as little dust as they could manage. The going was smooth until they heard rustling from one tent as they passed by.

A light flickered on within. Dorian held his hand up, and the three men stopped dead. It was silent for a time, and he kept his hand over the handle of his combat knife. Finally, the light went out again, and they pressed on.

There was a metal stairway just ahead which would take them up to the second level of the building. One guard patrolled the walkway. Dorian gave the signal for the others to wait, and took to the stairs himself. The metal was cold and likely to creak, so he moved glacially slow, setting his weight on each foot a pound at a time as he climbed. It seemingly took an hour to climb those eight stairs, but eventually he reached the top without incident. The walkway itself was more solid underfoot, he noted with relief.

The guard was just around a corner, a few yards ahead and moving away from him. Dorian moved like a whisper, sliding his combat knife from its sheath. In one motion he slid up behind the man, clamped down over his jaw and thrust the blade into his upper back. There was a slight gasp, muffled by his hand. When his twitching arms fell still, Dorian laid the man down quietly. With another signal, his soldiers joined him on the walkway.

They followed the metal path to a door. Lopez retrieved a snake camera from his pack and slid it underneath the gap, inspecting the small display in his hand. He gestured toward the screen for the others to look. Dorian saw there were two men inside, sitting at a table cluttered with empty bottles. Possibly drunk, but they were awake. Lopez moved the camera side to side. There was nobody else visible in the room, but Dorian saw a window along the left wall.

Dorian pointed his instructions, then he and Lopez took position on the right side of the door. Griffin climbed over the railing on the left side, taking a narrow foothold on the side of the building. He disappeared around the side, making his way toward the window. Dorian waited two minutes.

When he figured enough time had passed, Dorian removed the magazine from his sidearm and slid out one cartridge, then lobbed it against the door. The bullet hit with a plink and tumbled to the floor where it rattled against the metal grating before falling through.

A moment passed. There was soft muttering on the other side of the door, and then it opened. One of the men emerged, assault rifle in hand, scanning around for the cause of the noise. As one, Lopez and Griffin moved.

Lopez leapt and mounted the man, silencing him much as Dorian had done with the sentry moments before, then sliced his throat. Griffin rolled through the window, slamming into the still-seated man and taking him down before he could react. This wasn't as silent as Dorian had hoped, but the camp showed no signs of stirring. When all seemed clear, they dragged the bodies inside the room and stowed them under the table.

There were several other rooms on this level, and a stairway at the end of a hall leading downward. It was quiet.

Now, suddenly, it was loud, painfully loud, as an explosion rang out in the camp. Dorian scrambled to the window. Where a few tents had sat a hundred yards away there was now a smoldering crater. Scraps of canvas drifted down from above, and sirens began to blare through the night air. The camp burst into motion below, men waking, shouting and rushing to get to cover.

"Shit," Dorian said. "Get it done quick."

The three men split up. Dorian swung the M16 off his back and kicked down the nearest door. He opened fire, quickly putting down the two men inside, who were just getting out of their bunks. His target wouldn’t be in this room, so he moved on.

The next room was empty other than a large wooden table covered with stacks of maps and folders. Something there might be useful, but there wasn’t enough time to find out.

As he left this room, the building shuddered as it was hit by another blast. The stairs, no more than twenty feet away from him, fell away into a cloud of dust and waves of flame. The force of the impact sent him sprawling onto his back. Dorian quickly got back on his feet, now hearing gunfire elsewhere in the building.

Motherfucker.

Dorian sprinted across the hall and into the last room he could access on his side of the burning chasm. The floor had collapsed, and through the hole he saw a struggle. Dorian dropped down through the gap and landed on top of the two grappling men.

All three went hard to the floor and Dorian was the first to his feet. It was Griffin and an enemy soldier. Dorian put a bullet in the soldier's head, which smacked against the floor and splattered blood on his pants. He helped Griffin to his feet.

"Thanks," he said.

"Lopez?" Dorian asked. The other man gave a solemn shake of the head.

"Fuck."

"We need to keep moving. It's this way. There's a bunker." Griffin was pointing. Dorian turned and saw a heavy metal door. The men tried it to no avail; the thing would not budge.

"Lopez had the C4, didn't he?"

"Yes," Griffin answered.

"God damnit."

There was another impact as the building was hit again. Rubble fell through the hole in the ceiling and the room filled with dust and smoke. Dorian punched the door, his futile gesture only leaving his hand bruised and swollen. He screamed, and kicked the wall.

"This can't end like this," Dorian said.

Griffin was looking around intently, searching for any way to escape.

"Alright. Damnit," he said. "Stand back."

"Why?" Dorian said.

"Just do it."

Dorian did.

James Griffin looked at him, an anguished expression on his face. "We're going to have to talk about this later."

He raised his arms, moving his hands as though he was grabbing hold of something unseen. He strained as if against some powerful force. There was a sudden bang and a flash. Flames licked at Dorian's forehead and his ears rang. The thick metal door, now crumpled and warped, had fallen down inside the passageway.

"What the fuck?" Dorian said.

"Just go!" James screamed. They ran down the long, narrow hall, and the ceiling collapsed behind them.

***

Dorian woke with a start. His forehead was matted with sweat, and his skin stuck to the bedsheets. He pulled himself upright, snatching his cell phone off the bedside table. 8:03 AM.

The penthouse was cold, but the air felt pleasant on his skin. Freshly brewed coffee awaited him in the kitchen, and he poured himself a mug. He took a long sip and rubbed his eyes, walking into the living room.

"Morning," James said.

"Hey, man," Dorian answered, settling onto the couch.

"Bad dream?" James asked, eying him sideways. "You look rough."

"Same old shit. Don't worry, you saved the day again."

"Often do," James said, smirking. "You see?" He pointed to the television, which was muted but tuned to the news.

The onscreen headline read in bold print:

MARTIN SINGH ELECTED PRESIDENT

"They called it pretty late. He was supposed to run away with it, but it was actually pretty close."

Dorian shrugged. "Makes no difference, right?"

"Not to you. Not to anyone if we get the job done. But that man is dangerous, if we don't stop him..." he trailed off, staring intently at the man's face on the screen.

"Meeting still on?" Dorian asked.

"Yes. Pushed back a few hours, not until tonight. They called a few minutes ago."

"Good. What's the plan?"

"Go in—unarmed—" he added, and seeing Dorian's reaction, said, "There's no way we're getting guns near him. It won't help us anyway. Not against him."

"Never met a problematic man a gun couldn't sort out," Dorian said, sipping from his mug. James gave him a look. "Well, you. But you're a fucking freak. No offense."

"He's worse. Trust me."

Dorian's blood went cold. Since way back in Kuwait he had known what this man, his friend, was capable of. It made no goddamn sense, but for Dorian it had simply become a fact of life. James didn't usually like to talk about it, and he hardly ever did anything out of the ordinary unless forced to.

For the most part, Dorian thought of him as a normal man, though he always knew he was very much not. But this particular thought had never before occurred to him.

"Wait. Is he like you?"

James nodded. "And this isn't my first try. But I've got an idea."

***

"Would you please remove your jacket, sir?"

The secret service agent was a mountain of a man, his face stoic and his eyes obscured by those typical black sunglasses.

"No problem," Dorian said, shrugging out of his suit jacket and draping it over the chair next to him. He raised his arms and the agent moved in, patting him down methodically. To his left, James was undergoing the same process with another guard. They would find no weapons.

"My apologies, Mr. Black," a slight, middle-aged woman in the back of the room spoke up as the two agents finished their search.

"I understand completely." Dorian slid back into his jacket, smoothing out a wrinkle with his palm. "I appreciate Mr. Singh taking the time to meet with me today, of all days."

"The president-elect is happy to do it," she said, indicating a door with the sweep of her arm and leading them through. "Of course, time will be short. You understand he is incredibly busy. And he’s actually still teaching his class tonight. He insisted, to the frustration of our fine security team. But I guess that's just the kind of man he is." She let out a chittering laugh. "Anyway, I’m sure he would be able to meet with you again in the future."

"Of course," Dorian said. James trailed silently behind. Their footsteps echoed up and down the empty hallway.

"And let me thank you again for the generous donation." She looked back at him with a smile, which he returned. "Right in here, gentlemen," she said, opening a door for them. "You will find refreshments inside. Mr. Singh should be along shortly."

"Thank you."

The woman closed the door and her footsteps faded into the distance. They were in a modern-looking conference room with a large dark glass table. A bank of windows along the far wall looked out over the city from their location two dozen stories up. James leaned against the glass, staring out the window.

Dorian took a seat at the table, settling into a comfortable plush chair. He examined a plate of snacks in the middle of the table, finally selecting a chocolate chip cookie which he nibbled contentedly.

"Will he recognize you?" Dorian asked

"Not by sight. But it won’t take him long at all to figure it out. Depending how much attention he’s paying, he might know before he walks in the door."

“Not by sight?” Dorian asked. “What’s that mean? Can you change your face or something?”

James briefly glanced sidelong at him, but didn’t answer.

A few minutes passed. James remained planted by the window, his brow furrowed. "Hey," Dorian said, extending an open hand. "Brothers. We’ll get through whatever it is."

James took his hand in a firm grasp. "Yeah."

The door opened, but it was the woman who returned, alone. "I am so sorry to say that Mr. Singh will not be able to make it. He has had a serious family emergency. He sent along his deepest regrets. Can we reschedule for tomorrow, after his victory speech?"

Dorian looked to James. He looked angry, but in a way, almost relieved.

"That would be fine," Dorian said with a smile, standing up. "I completely understand."

Jess

"Mr. Black is not in at the moment."

The elderly doorman wore a black suit and a friendly smile, which faltered only the slightest bit when she produced a folded document from her jacket pocket.

"I have a warrant," she said, unfolding the paper and holding it toward him. "I'm afraid I will have to insist. Feel free to read it over."

The man stared at her for a moment, then his eyes flicked down to the paper and then back to her.

"Of course," he said.

"Thank you." She slipped the paper back into her pocket and followed the doorman into the lobby. The opulence of the place was no surprise to her, but she was nonetheless struck by it. The entire lobby seemed to be carved from marble, and a two story tall rock waterfall hissed and splashed on the far wall.

This is a mistake, she thought.

After her meeting with Dorian Yancy, she double-checked every one of the other suspects. None of them fit. The possibility that her entire investigation so far had been a wild goose chase continued to nag at the back of her mind, yet something else inside Jess told her to keep going. She went to see Chief Pritchard, and told him she'd done as he asked; all the suspects were cleared aside from Dorian Black. He smiled, patted her on the back. "Good work," he had said, "I'll arrange an interview myself."

Days went by with no word. Her daily calls to the Chief's office went unreturned. Today, he finally came to her office. "I spoke to him," he said. "He's not your man. I think it's time to start running down other leads."

Jess had trusted the man at his word, that she would be able to interrogate the final suspect regardless of his ties to the department. Nothing but lies, it turned out. So now here she was, stepping into the elevator to his penthouse, a phony warrant pressed against her chest. She’d known Dorian wasn't home, even waited for him to leave before speaking to the doorman.

Her only hope of getting away with this was that the man wouldn't mention the incident to Dorian.

Maybe he's afraid of him. He should be. He'd probably assume Dorian already knows about the search, wouldn't want to mention it. Right?

The doorman had sent her up with a swipe of his keycard. The elevator soared quietly upward, coming to a stop much sooner than Jess expected. The doors opened with a ding.

Good God.

The entryway was a tunnel of glass. It was an aquarium, she realized, with schools of piranha and other exotic fish racing past her and across the arch overhead as she passed through. The penthouse was like a palace. As she moved from room to room, lights turned on and off automatically to light her way. To her left, two carpeted steps led up to what appeared to be a bedroom.

She jumped up the steps as one. This was indeed his bedroom. One entire wall was a window, giving a somewhat dizzying view of the city from above. Her eyes scanned the room. Jess was aware of how little time she might have, and yet still not entirely sure what she was looking for. Whatever it might be, the bedroom seemed to offer nothing.

The living room boasted the same wall-length window over the city. A massive television hung over a fireplace on the wall, and the room was ringed with a U-shaped couch. Several other rooms branched out from the living room, raised by two steps just as the bedroom had been. She made her way over toward the kitchen, which adjoined the living room.

The wood floor creaked in one spot as she walked. Jess paused and doubled back. Thinking about it now, the floor elsewhere had actually been strangely silent to walk on. She pressed her foot against the floor here, feeling it give slightly as it creaked. She brought her heel down on the spot with a bit of force. There was a THUD, but it didn’t budge.

Jess, beginning to feel more and more paranoid by the minute, scrambled around the kitchen and living room. She checked every cabinet, under every counter and ledge, but there was no secret compartment, button or lever.

My time must be running out, she thought, leaning against the counter, when something caught her eye. There was a white sculpted pillar in the middle of the room, ornately carved with patterns which flowed off the pillar and onto the floor and ceiling.

The patterns didn't line up. Jess moved closer to make sure, but she was right. The lines and swirls from the pillar were out of place, only by fractions of an inch, but now that she saw it was impossible to miss. Just a mistake? Jess doubted that. Dorian Black seemed like exactly the kind of man who didn’t settle for imperfection. She gave the pillar a tentative pull and it slid back into alignment, but nothing happened. She pushed harder now, and the pillar spun the other direction until it clunked into position.

Gears began to grind beneath her feet and the wood floor split open, revealing a narrow set of stairs downward.

***

"I've got him," Jess said.

"Got who?" Rachel's voice came over the phone.

"It's Dorian Black, he's the killer. I can't tell you now, but we'll talk tonight. I got him, babe."

"I knew you would."

Jess said goodbye and hung up the phone. She would still have time for class tonight. Tomorrow, she would have to decide her next step. Chief Pritchard didn't seem interested in pursuing Dorian as a suspect, but maybe if she showed him the evidence, he would play ball. She scrolled through the photos she had taken on her phone once again.

There was an armory in that hidden room. Racks were filled with guns, knives, body armor, masks and other gear. Bloody clothes sat piled in a small laundry container next to an incinerator.

No, it wasn't hard proof, not yet. But it was suspicious enough to confirm, at least for Jess, what she'd already suspected. The beloved Dorian Black was a vigilante and murderer, and she could be the one to take him down.

Jess stopped at the coffee shop on campus and ate a slice of pound cake, trying with little success to calm her excitement. She would have to be extremely careful in whatever she did next.

Class was full once again, as she suspected it would be. The pre-lecture murmuring was even more lively than usual. On her way into the lecture hall, a bodyguard had searched her bag. Several Secret Service agents already stood watch around the hall.

When Martin Singh arrived moments later, another bodyguard in tow, the students cheered and applauded. He smiled and waved them off.

"Thanks everybody," he said. "As I promised you all at the start of the semester, I will finish this course. Possibly with more limited office hours." Some laughter. "But I'm your professor still, for the next few weeks. Though it looks like it may be my last semester teaching for a while. Anyway, let's get back to work."

Much of the curriculum for this course had dealt with genetics and tracing ancestral lines back to their common sources. Earlier in the semester the students had all submitted DNA samples for analysis, and now for the last week or two they were working through what similarities could be drawn between them all.

Jess tried to focus and take notes but found herself much less attentive than usual. Her thoughts were, unfortunately, elsewhere. Before she knew it, the class was somehow over, two and a half hours gone in a blink. Students around her were packing up and filing out. Jess shook her head, annoyed with herself for having dozed through much of the class, before packing her own bag.

"Ms. Neil," Professor Singh said as she came down the stairs to the front of the room. "Could we talk in my office for a moment? Very briefly."

"Sure," she said. Oops.

***

"We'll be fine, gentlemen. Thank you." The ever-present bodyguards stepped out of the office and closed the door, leaving her alone with the professor.

"I thought we should talk about your genetics report," he said, pulling a folder from his desk.

"What do you mean?" she asked. This was not at all what she expected.

"It appears, with high likelihood, that you are my daughter." He looked at her, his face completely stoic. If he was joking, there was no sign of it.

"What?"

Professor Singh stood from his chair and took a seat on the edge of the desk, uncomfortably close to her. He put his hands out in a gesture of bemused confusion, which was quite an understatement as far as she was concerned. He brushed back the short black hair from his forehead.

"You know, Jess. I've been doing this same test, in one way or another, every semester for many years now. I've found many interesting things, but none more so than this. I have a number of questions, the first of which is how you are still alive."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jess said. "I grew up here in Pittsburgh, my parents were dentists. I wasn't adopted." Right?

Suddenly, Martin put his his palm to her head. Jess tried to move back, but her body wouldn't move.

Martin pressed against her forehead and a pressure began to build, then a sharp, excruciating pain. The pain grew stronger and stronger until it felt like her head would burst.

Then, Jess felt her mind shatter. Everything she was, all that she knew, fell away around her as if she could physically see and feel it all go. As the shards of her memory left her, she was powerless to reach out and grab them.

The pain faded, and Martin took his hand away. She bent double in the chair, sweat dripping to the floor, and let out a moan.

"You're still alive," Martin said, a measure of shock in his voice. "Even better."

In an instant, all the pain and anguish was gone, as if they had never been there at all. "Now tell me, young lady," the man in front of her said. "What's your name?"

She started to say her name, but then realized she didn't know it. How can I not know my own name? She thought hard, but nothing came to her.

The man must have seen her struggling, so he spoke up. "It's okay. Your name is Claire."

Right. Duh.

She looked up at the man in front of her. He was handsome, late thirties by the looks of him, and his muscular form was complemented well by the form-fitting suit he wore. He sat casually on the edge of the desk near her. She did not recognize this man.

"Sorry, who are you?" she asked.

"That's a strange question," he said with a smile. "I'm your father."

Of course.

Things in her mind began to fall into place. Looking at him now, she recognized him. Though he might have been described as attractive if she tried to look objectively, she herself could never think so. He was her father. He was still grieving the death of her mother the year before, she remembered, but he always put on a strong face for his daughter. He always had. Even when her baby brother died, when she was just a little girl. The details came to her piece by piece, flooding out of the blankness that was her mind as if they were being created then and there.

"We should go, Claire," Martin said, resting a hand on her shoulder. "We have a lot of work to do."

Claire

It was a bright, sunny day but a deceptive chill filled the air. The breeze bit at her nose, and she hid her hands in her pockets. Claire stood side by side with her father, who was making his way through a crowd. She was quiet, but smiled and shook hands when prompted. There was an uncomfortably loud hum, the collective conversation of thousands of spectators waiting to see the man they'd come to see.

Her father made his way to the edge of the stage and extended a hand to Claire, helping her up the steps. He crossed the stage, smiling broadly and waving to the crowd, who erupted in cheers at the sight of him. Claire took a seat among a row of people on the stage behind him. A banner fluttered above her. It read "SINGH FOR THE FUTURE, 2020"

Her father's amplified voice broke through the noise, and the crowd quieted.

"We did it!" he yelled, and the crowd roared again. "I want to thank a lot of people. Every last one of you, who voted for me. Who believed in me, that we can truly change things for the better." More cheers. "And I want to thank every one of you who didn't vote for me. For challenging me, for giving me a goal to strive for. I will be your president too. I will make you proud."

He waited while the crowd died down. "I'd like to thank my daughter, Claire, who is with me on the stage today." He pointed back to her with a smile. "Her mother, who sadly is no longer with us, is surely smiling down on us both today." A more subdued round of applause followed that.

"There's one more very special person I would like to thank. He's here in the crowd, and I know he's shy, he doesn't want the recognition. We have all the major news media of the world here watching, so he'll be a bit upset. But he’s the reason I have done all this. The man you can thank for everything that comes next." He paused. "This one's for you, James." There was an uneasy silence over the crowd. If anyone expected a sudden appearance from the man her father announced, they were disappointed.

Instead, the sky quickly fell dark, clouds soaring in on a violent wind. Heavy rain began to fall, soaking Claire and the rest of the crowd. Martin raised his arms and then pointed suddenly down at the people gathered below. An explosion tore through the crowd, sending mists of blood and body parts flying. People began to scream, pushing and shoving in the tight throng before the stage.

Lightning cracked overhead, and the ground began to shake. Her father was laughing, his hands inexplicably sending spouts of flame into the crowd. Lightning struck the ground over and over amidst the panicked masses.

Claire felt paralyzed. The horror of what she was witnessing began to take hold, and though she tried to run she felt as if her legs were stuck to the chair. All she could do was close her eyes. The screaming only grew louder. She could hear terrible, unnatural roars and shrieks on the ground and flying overhead. The earth shook harder and harder, and Claire felt a tear run down her cheek.

Rachel, a voice cried out in the back of her mind, but she didn’t understand what it meant.

James

The highway was long, and desolate. James twisted back the throttle, feeling his motorcycle kick and sputter as it picked up speed. On his way out of Pittsburgh, hundreds of deserted cars had turned the road into an iron labyrinth. Out here in the country, he only rarely passed any sign of human civilization.

The wind in his ears and the purr of the engine calmed his mind as he roamed the vast expanses of highway. He had been driving for a long six or seven hours before he finally arrived. The hill was like a lone sentinel standing tall above the flat plains below. James remembered the place well. He would never forget.

James let his motorcycle roll to a stop in the grass at the base of the hill. It was quiet now, for the shortest moment, as he sat there. Then, as he knew it would, the roar in his head flooded back in. It was always with him, every tiny bit of his body speaking to him as if sentient, reporting on its condition and awaiting further instructions.

With effort James could quiet this cacophony, could automate the numerous vital processes of his body in the way most people do every single day, but after any moment of tranquility it would always come surging back in on him.

James did eventually silence his turbulent mind. Savoring the return of his sanity, he craned his head back, admiring the hill above him. As he began to climb, despite all that had happened, James couldn't help but smile.

***

The day before

James followed Dorian as they picked their way through the massive, surging crowd. Somewhere, a marching band was playing. Here and there, around the fringes of the chaotic scene, news teams jockeyed for the best position for their reporters to stand in front of the throng.

Martin didn't show up at their meeting. Was this a coincidence, or had Martin known exactly whom he'd been supposed to meet? Now, at his victory speech, Martin had already taken the stage. James felt a terrible weight in his gut, much as he had these many months since Martin began his run for president. James didn't know what his plan was, but he knew one thing for sure: it sure as hell couldn't be a good thing.

James felt guilty for involving Dorian so much in his own fight. The man was narcissistic, and headstrong, but he was still a friend. And he had simply no idea what sort of danger he faced. But Dorian had been his one good way of approaching Martin without drawing immediate suspicion.

Now, with thousands of innocent people gathered to celebrate a true monster in human form, James had the worst sort of suspicions about what might happen. And he would have no choice but to defend them when it did.

Anxiety rose in his chest as Martin stepped up to the microphone, his arms raised high in celebration. James listened, hardly taking a breath as the man gave his speech.

"This one's for you, James." Martin finished, his eyes fixated on James amidst the sea of people. Dorian turned to him, utter confusion written across his face.

There was a blast, and people screaming. Rain began to fall, soaking him straight to his core. He could still see Martin on the stage above, laughing as he rained chaos over the masses of helpless people. James pushed forward, struggling against the tide of people fleeing the flames. He heard roars and howls all around him, and his will hardened.

God damnit. James leapt, arcing twenty feet in the air and over the heads of the scrambling men and women below. As he soared toward the stage, a massive flying monster came toward him, beating its powerful wings once and aiming its sharp beak at his chest.

In a mere moment, James drew on the power of the earth. He reflected on the explosive might of the volcano, the creeping destruction of molten rock, and felt their power being drawn up into him. With a shout he unleashed a spout of flame at the great bird, and it spun, burning, to the ground with a shrill cry.

James landed on the stage with a roll. Another pteranodon fell down from the clouds like a streaking meteorite, unfurling its wings just before impact and launching upward, two screaming men in its claws. The creature dropped them from its height and they fell to the ground with a terrible crunch.

Martin stood no more than ten feet away, but he had not even turned to face him. James began to draw on the power of the forest, its tranquility and the hidden strength of the beasts living within it. Yet something tore at the back of his mind. His focus was shredded bit by bit. Something was very wrong, and not just here.

James now felt the anguish of the earth itself. Thousands of miles away, a massive hurricane was brewing. Elsewhere, he felt the strain on the sea as a colossal tsunami rolled toward land. Tornadoes picked at the surface of the earth like dozens of ravenous birds. Hundreds of calamities he felt all at once, and they hurt him as much as they hurt the planet itself.

He drew on the peace of the calm sea, applying his energy to fight the chaos as it raged miles and miles away. As he did, people died around him. He flattened a tsunami, calmed an earthquake as it began to rumble, and yet new disasters immediately followed them.

James flew at Martin, a surge of lightning escaping his hands. Martin spun, deflecting the shock and firing back with one of his own. They fought hand to hand, and mind to mind. James could not divide his focus any longer. If the world was to be saved, he had to stop Martin.

The two men traded gouts of flame, blasts of ice, sparks of lightning between them. Through it all Martin laughed, but there was no true joy on his hateful face. James summoned wolves and bears to attack, and Martin continued to conjure his own terrible beasts to rampage across the ground below. On and on they fought.

A long time later, James lay broken. His body was cut, his bones shattered, his skin singed. He crawled with one functional arm across the blackened grass, dragging his now legless torso behind him, surrounded by piles of bodies. Martin crawled away in the opposite direction, his body equally ravaged.

James crawled to the edge of the river, where he lay listening to the turbulent splash of the water on the rocks. The roar in his mind returned, and he directed his body to repair itself. Platelets he sent to stem the flow of blood. His stem cells regenerated missing tissue; bone, flesh, and sinew re-formed in seconds. He directed energy to his skin cells, which quickly grew to fill in his hundreds of wounds.

After a while, James stood, his body as strong and as young as it ever was, but the world around him was dead.

***

James crested the hill. On the horizon he could see smoke rising above what looked to be a small town. He closed his eyes for a moment, appreciating the breeze as it ruffled his hair.

The grass atop the hill was charred and dead, the cherry blossom tree which normally shaded it burned to a stump. James felt a tug in his chest at the sight of it. He sighed and knelt down, his palms pressed into the dirt. He let some of his energy flow into the soil, and the grass began to turn green. The stump stretched upward, splintering into hundreds of tiny branches, then cherry blossoms sprouted anew from the branches of the new tree. James smiled, feeling a tear pull at the corner of his eye, but he held it back. If he couldn't save the world, at least he could save this small place.

The headstones sat where they always had, to his relief. He brushed back his hair as he approached. Three unimposing, aged marble stones emerged slightly crooked from the ground.

Joseph Brooker

1835 – 1891

So read the left-most tombstone. Its grave was empty, of course. James had never been able to recover the body, though he happily put down the beast that had killed him. There, next to Joe's, sat his wife's stone. Even if he couldn’t recover his friend’s body, at least he’d given him a symbolic place by her side.

Mary Brooker (née Miller)

1842-1890

Horror and death followed James everywhere he went. For so long he had thought himself cursed. It turned out that curse was real, and it had a name. Martin, or so he'd called himself of late. What he truly wanted, James was only now beginning to fully understand.

James had gone by many names himself. In the earliest days he had needed no name at all. As time went on: Nasha, Iakobus, Lucius, Hank, Wilhelm, Ronny, James. Dozens more he could not easily remember.

He knelt before Joseph's headstone.

I'm sorry, my friend. I failed you. I failed everyone.

Tears trickled down his cheek as he took a step to the right.

Hope Thompson (née Brooker)

1870 – 1903

"I'm here, love," he said quietly, taking a seat in the dirt next to her grave and laying a hand against her tombstone. The wind rustled the leaves of the tree above him. James breathed deep and could taste the smoke from that faraway fire.

Of course, this grave was empty too.

It wasn't long before James heard the rumble of another engine approaching. It came near and then finally stopped. A few minutes passed, and then she came over the top of the hill. She wore a purple dress, slightly scuffed and marked from her journey. Her brown hair blew in the wind. She smiled at him.

It had been far too long, but she looked every bit as beautiful as he remembered her. As beautiful as she had been on the day he married her, many, many years ago. He stood up, fixing his hair as he rose, a bit of anxiety catching in his chest once again.

"Hope," he said, smiling.

Act Two

Two years later

Dorian

"We found them, sir."

The young scout was somewhat breathless, his face nervous, as he made his report over the steady rumble of Dorian's motorcycle. "They've got two watchmen posted on the road a mile ahead."

"How heavily fortified are they?" Dorian asked.

"Not very. Just some chain-link fence around a couple old shacks. Ten men at most."

Dorian nodded. "Alright. Let's go."

The young man ran off as Dorian revved his engine. A light, warm summer rain was falling like a mist. Other than Dorian and the fifteen men behind him, the road was barren, as it always was these days.

Another bike rumbled up alongside him, the deep, throaty sound of its engine easily recognizable.

"Shall I ride ahead?" Kristof asked. A cigarette hung limply from his mouth, and his dark sunglasses reflected Dorian's own face back at him. He wore his ragged dirty blond hair in a ponytail, under a bright green patterned bandanna.

"Yeah," Dorian said. "Take one more."

Without another word, Kristof signaled to another rider and the two sped off into the distance. Dorian gave them a minute's head start, sitting quietly amidst the chorus of idling engines behind him before he throttled his own bike and followed.

The breeze cooled his brow, which despite the light rain had begun to sweat. To his right, a dense, endless forest whipped by as he rode. To his left, featureless flat grassland gave the illusion he might not be moving at all.

Just as the scout had said, the convoy soon came upon a small guard post a mile down the road, no more than a wooden barricade across the asphalt and two men behind it. Dorian held a hand up, letting his bike roll to a stop only a few feet away.

The men regarded him without reaction, assault rifles cradled in their arms. The sun glinted off both their wrists. From where he sat, Dorian could see the broken iron shackles each wore, typical of members of the Church.

"I hear you've got some medicine," Dorian said.

"We do not share," one answered, his voice without inflection, as if he were reading phonetically in a language he didn’t understand.

"Shame. Neither do I."

Two shots rang out. Sniper fire from Kristof, who was likely hidden somewhere among the trees, echoed across the deserted plains. The two guards hit the ground, a faint red mist hovering in the air where they had stood.

One of his men ran over and began to drag the barricade off the road. Meanwhile, Dorian rolled up and examined the dead men. Each lay motionless, bits of brain and shattered skull strewn about the hot asphalt around them.

“Fucking idiots,” Dorian said, and they were quickly back on their way.

Dorian's wasn’t often a stealthy approach these days. Another half mile down the road, it was clear the gunfire had been heard. As Dorian and his retinue came near, a hail of bullets pinged off the asphalt in front of them.

Dorian slid his bike to a stop. Ahead, he could see them: a handful of men and women with rifles, firing at him through a chain fence. He heard a shot from the trees nearby and saw a woman behind the fence go down. The others scrambled for what little cover they could find, but they were very exposed.

Dorian slid a walkie-talkie from a holster at his waist. "Bring up the ram," he said.

"Yes, sir," was the reply.

Dorian simply sat and waited, just out of range of the defenders' rifles.

The ram, as he had called it, was simply a pickup truck fortified with steel on its fender and bulletproof glass windows. They couldn't afford to use the gas for bringing it along unless he knew it was needed, so one man hung back waiting for his order.

The ram arrived now, speeding past Dorian and leaving black smoke in its wake. It plowed through the chain fence, crushing a man as it went. Dorian whistled to his men and followed close behind.

Just outside the fence, he leapt off his bike, drawing two six-shot revolvers from his hips and clambering over the crumpled fence. The truck sat idling, its front end punched straight through the wall of a shack. Bullets bounced ineffectually off its windows.

Dorian shot a man from behind as he dropped down off the fence, the man’s head bursting with a sick squish before he slumped to the ground. His presence now noticed, Dorian fired at two more cultists as they turned to shoot at him. His men were streaming in behind him now, and the fight was quickly done.

In a way, Dorian was disappointed. Clearly this outpost held little worth protecting. The Church was capable of putting up a much better fight than this.

The ram reversed, pulling out of the hole in the wall and allowing him room to enter. Some radio equipment was piled on a table, and one of his men was already sifting through it. They would take whatever was worth keeping and leave the rest. Dorian's attention was drawn to a map pinned on the wall. After a moment, he was able to identify his current location, though it was not clearly marked as such. On the map, it was a plain black dot with the label of "Waystation 27."

Dotted lines and arrows connected this place to others like it, and larger markers as well. He noticed warehouses and routing hubs. The nearest spot, just ten miles east, was another small dot labeled 'recruitment camp'. A large bold star near Somerset was marked 'headquarters'. Dorian traced the distance. 45 miles from here. Maybe he'd find a real fight there.

Dorian pulled the map carefully off the wall and folded it up before slipping it into his pocket.

"Dorian!" someone called from across the room. It was Kristof, whom Dorian hadn't noticed arrive. He was standing behind another man who was working on cracking a safe. As Dorian joined them, the safe swung open with a creak. He leaned over and peered inside. A couple dozen large bottles of pills and medicine vials were stuffed inside.

"Not bad," he said, glancing at Kristof, who shook his head in reply. His sunglasses were propped up on his bandanna now, revealing his ruined left eye. It sat blankly in its socket, the iris milky and the surrounding skin scarred. As always, the sight of it made Dorian slightly uneasy.

"Load it up," Kristof said. "The doc will be happy with this."

"Mr. Black, sir." Another man was calling for him, this time from the doorway.

"What is it?"

"You need to see this. In the other building."

Dorian followed him out and into the other flimsy tin-walled shack. Thick iron bars ran floor to ceiling, dividing the single room inside. Behind the bars, half a dozen people were huddled against the wall. "Get that door open," Dorian said.

"I've got the key," said one man, who was digging through a desk drawer in the entryway. Dorian took the key from him and turned it in the iron gate with a clunk, letting the gate swing wide.

"No, please," came a soft, cracking voice from across the holding cell as he entered, his footsteps soft on the dirt floor.

"We're not going to hurt you," Dorian said. "The people who were keeping you here are dead."

They were hidden under thin ragged blankets, most of them. When he spoke, they peeked out at him with some hesitation. A young girl, no older than twenty, sat closest to him; she was dirty and her face was marked with old bruises. All of them wore tattered gray rags.

"Sick motherfuckers," came Kristof's voice from behind him.

"Where did you come from?" Dorian asked the girl, crouching down to meet her gaze.

"Morgantown," she said, the same voice he had heard on entering the cell. "My family got separated. I was going south with a friend, when they took me. They killed him."

"Thank you, sir," another girl was saying. "Do you have any food, any water?"

At this, the other prisoners began murmuring as well. They were all young women, Dorian noticed, all pretty if you pictured them without the caked-on grime, bruises and cuts.

"Not with us," Dorian said.

"Shall we bring them back?" Kristof asked. He was smoking again, and blew a pume of smoke up toward the ceiling.

"Back where?" one of the captives asked.

Dorian ignored the question for now. "What's your name? What did you do, before?" Dorian asked the girl he had been speaking to.

"Lisa. I just started college when it happened."

"What about the rest of you? Jobs, skills?"

"I was an accountant," said one young woman in the back.

"Not much use for accountants these days," Dorian said to Kristof. "Any thoughts?"

"Yes," Kristof replied. "Plenty of book-keeping to be done."

Dorian regarded him for a moment, considering what he'd said. Kristof, despite his rough outward appearance, could be too soft at times. Dorian couldn't be sure if the man really had such a need or if he was just making excuses. "Alright,” he said.

"I'm a nurse," another woman said. The rest were silent.

"You two," Dorian said, pointing to the nurse and accountant. "Come on, my men will take you back. We have a safe place, if you want it. Kristof, give the rest a weapon each. You're all free to go, but you can't come with us." He turned and left the cell.

"Dorian," Kristof said. He turned back to him, seeing the man's same old disapproving glare in his mind before his eyes found it on Kristof's face. "Come on. They've been through enough."

"Everyone has," Dorian said. "This isn't a time for charity." Kristof fixed him with his one good eye, the other staring blankly at nothing as it always did.

"I'll sponsor this one," he finally said. "Lisa, right?" The girl nodded.

Dorian sighed. This simply wasn’t worth the argument, and he couldn’t afford to piss Kristof off too much. "Fine. She's your problem."

***

The sun had set by now, and the convoy was nearly back home. The long and empty highway had now fallen dark and was lit only by the headlights of their bikes, the road's scattered streetlights long lifeless. The forest, which now flanked both sides of the road, was a black and looming specter all around them.

Finally, a light came into view on the horizon, the first glimpse of home. The sight of it lifted his spirits, but these were just as quickly deflated as a dull boom shook the ground beneath him, leaving his bike shuddering slightly between his legs.

Fuck me, he thought. He felt a gnawing in his stomach and twisted the throttle, speeding ahead. His men did the same, each of them recognizing the danger.

Another boom now, closer. Ahead, the light grew steadily, but slowly, brighter. He willed his bike to move faster, but it would not.

Heavy, seismic footsteps were falling now and then a crash, and screams. The trees behind him splintered as the great beast crashed through them.

"It's a Rex!" someone screamed. He heard gunfire behind, some of his men taking futile aim at the monster. The dinosaur charged through their ranks as they passed, trampling one man and his bike underfoot and sending another tumbling helplessly through the air until he hit a tree with a crack. The dreadful creature fell back as they raced away, its attention turned to the bodies of the men left behind.

God damnit, Dorian thought, averting his eyes from the sight behind him and back onto the road. Of course, they all knew the risks of going outside the walls, but their deaths would feel less in vain if his intel hadn't been such a bust. Rather than a stockpile of supplies, he would come back with a handful of meds and a couple of questionably useful women. And two less fighting men.

Nevertheless, his racing heart finally began to slow, and the light on the horizon came steadily forward to meet him.

Floodlights illuminated the ground outside the gates. Fifteen foot tall walls, a massive patchwork of metal and masonry, loomed over the road. Above, watchmen could be seen by the lights mounted on their weapons. No sooner had he arrived than he heard the metallic whir and grind as the gates retracted. In front of the walls, an old wooden sign read:

Black

Deep Creek

The word 'black' looked as though it didn’t belong, painted in white above the former name of this place. But it was his now. He rode past the gates and into the town, hearing those heavy metal doors sliding back over the asphalt behind him. When they were closed, he felt a weight lift off of him.

Within the walls, it was another world entirely. Smooth, fresh, black asphalt roads ran in three directions away from the entrance. Streetlights cast a soft light down over the sidewalk, where a young couple was strolling hand in hand. Dorian took a deep, pleasant breath of the evening air.

Dorian rode down the street to his right, returning a wave from a man as he passed. On one side of the road, scaffolding and construction equipment clung to the side of a building. The town had come a long way, but this was still a common sight in Black Creek. On the other side of the road, two young men were throwing a football in a small park.

He left his bike in a parking area a short way down the road. It was quiet at this end of town, with few streetlights to light his way as he headed toward home. It was a modest, two-story brick house, though still larger than most other buildings in town. He let himself through the small black iron gate and unlocked the door.

It was warm inside. Dorian flipped the switch by the door and lights flickered to life down the entry hallway. The thermostat read 78, so he set it down to 72.

The air conditioning kicked on with a hum overhead as he slipped his shoes off by the doorway. He made for the bedroom, eager to remove his bulky leather clothing. He did so, making sure to grab the map from his pants pocket, before changing into shorts and a tight T-shirt.

Dorian regarded himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. He was starting to look old, he thought with some dismay. A few stray strands of gray invaded his normally jet-black, short spiked hair. Though his shirt still hugged the muscular contours of his abdomen, a slight flab could be seen at its edges.

Dorian yawned as he stepped into a pair of slippers and padded down the hall to his office. His desk was stacked with papers and folders, and a large map of the mid-Atlantic region was posted along the far wall, next to the window. He took a pair of glasses from the table and slipped them on.

Here, in western Maryland, a black star noted the location of Black Creek. Dorian unfolded the smaller map from his pocket, eyes darting back and forth as he compared the two. Most of the landmarks were shared between them, but he marked a few new points of interest from the Church's map on his own.

In all, they represented a sprawling web of infrastructure which covered the region. The recruitment center, just a few miles away, was new to him. That the Church had managed to maintain a site so close to him without his knowledge was concerning.

They had started small, soon after the cataclysm. He'd heard occasional reports of a new group rapidly recruiting members, but Dorian had been so preoccupied at the time, building this place, that he didn't pay them much mind. They seemed to be just another among dozens of small cults sprouting up here and there. By the time he'd heard of the Church of James, as they called themselves, they already had dozens of sites in the region.

Even still, he knew little of what their intent or philosophy was, other than that they had a propensity for human trafficking, sacrifices, and the raiding of civilian encampments. Just as corrupt as any religion, as far as Dorian was concerned.

He finished updating his map and left his glasses on the table, rubbing his eyes as he grabbed the handset of the radio which sat on his desk.

"Kristof," he said into the faint static.

"Yeah, boss?" came his reply a minute later.

"Who did we lose?"

"Cader. Malone."

Dorian thought for a moment. "No families, at least."

"No. Not here anyway."

"That's good. See you tomorrow."

The radio crackled and then was silent. Dorian cut off the lights in the office and the hallway, and when his head hit his soft, cool pillow it was the greatest relief. He was home.

James

In the earliest days he was blanketed in darkness, an oppressive black abyss so deep that he could not see or even perceive his own body. Having never seen such a thing, of course, he couldn’t have known whether or not he had a body at all. So he simply drifted and swam aimlessly through the black for a very long time.

At some point it occurred to him that this whole ordeal had grown a bit tiresome, and he wished the endless emptiness would offer him something else. No sooner had he thought this than small, twinkling lights began to sprout around him, multiplying rapidly as he continued to float along.

His eyes being so used to the dark, these tiny points of light—though offering only the most meager amount of illumination—seemed nearly to blind him. After a time, he grew more tolerant of their light and he reveled in the joy of chasing them, although he could never reach them, whatever they were.

Eventually the novelty of this new pursuit began to wear thin as well. Somehow though, the existence of these external spots of light suggested to him the very duality of self vs. other, the idea that he was here and they were there, something he had not yet had any good reason to consider.

In this time he turned his thoughts inward, questioning who he might be and what he might do next. After all, he need not chase the lights forever. He could go forward, or backward, down or up, or stop altogether if he so chose. The possibilities were somewhat overwhelming.

At some point he had a startling thought, wondering whether he was the only one of him out here in this lonely expanse. The idea of another like him was exciting, though not knowing what he looked like, he was not sure how he might recognize them.

Yet he would not find anyone in those days. He traveled on and on through the empty dark, the twinkling lights taunting him with occasional closer and more brilliant flashes of color. He began to resent his very existence, and he longed for something more. And that is the last he could remember of those days.

Some time later, the man who later would call himself James awoke on a beach, his face in the sand. He sat up, coughing and sputtering, brushing the abrasive substance from his eyes and mouth. The sun was bright and blinding overhead. He forced his eyes to open against the light and for the first time saw his own form, his legs a light brown against the pink-yellow sand. Clear azure waves lapped against the shore, wetting his feet with each swell.

He rose to his knees, dragging his hands through the sand where he had sat and appreciating the warmth of it as it flowed between his fingers. With some effort he stood, and his legs felt heavy and foreign beneath him.

A pleasant breeze blew across his neck as he took his first steps along the shoreline. Between the hisses of waves at his feet, he could hear the wind rustling the leaves of some trees nearby to his right. Ahead, the beach seemed to carry on as far as he was able to see.

He walked on and on until the sun began to slip behind the trees and darkness overtook him. Suddenly he was reminded of that vast black nothingness in which he had floated aimlessly for so long, and the thought of returning there was terrifying. He started to run now, hoping to chase the light.

The darkness nevertheless fell deeper over him, and eventually he realized he was not back in that place again. Though the light of the sun had vanished, he could still see his hands as he held them up. He could faintly make out the outline of the trees nearby. A softer light still shone down from above, and James craned his neck back to see.

The stars, those same distant white spots he had known for so long, shimmered above. A larger white, circular light was visible as well, its reflection seen on the calm sea to his left. He tried to reach it, willed himself to swim toward at as he had the stars before, but he couldn’t leap more than a few feet off the ground. This moon was just as much out of reach, though it seemed so much nearer to him.

The beach seemed endless, so he turned and left it, trudging into the underbrush beneath the trees. It was much darker here, he realized with dismay. James brushed past some vines, but then his foot caught on something and it sent him sprawling to the ground. He pulled himself upright, searching for a way to leave the forest, but he could see nothing.

James pressed onward, moving slowly and feeling his way through the trees and brambles. Now and then, something scratched his bare back or arms and he would leap away from the pain, sometimes knocking himself against a tree trunk.

He carried on like this all night, until the light finally began to filter in through the leaves above. Now able to see a way forward, it took him no time at all to find a path out of the forest. James emerged from the trees exhausted, his chest and arms covered with red scratches and cuts. A few of them dripped blood, which fell to the ground marking his path behind him. Just ahead, a river traced its way through the grass and rocks. James collapsed by the bank, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

He awoke with a start some time later to the sensation of something crawling across his chest. Tiny claws scratched at his skin, and beady white eyes stared back at him as he opened his own. He shouted and rolled away, knocking the lizard off of him.

In a panic he grabbed the thing about its slimy midsection and dashed it against the rock he had slept upon. It laid motionless now, blood trickling from its wounds just as James’s had. He examined his own arms, noticing now that there was no sign of injury upon him. No cut, scrape, or scar remained where dozens of small wounds had been visible before.

A terrible cacophony burst to life in his mind now, like thousands of tiny voices clamoring for his attention above all the rest, and yet he could somehow hear each as clearly as the others. Every part of his body demanded his attention and his input. Millions of nerve impulses fired, carrying information to his brain and instructions back. The electrical nodes of his heart orchestrated a steady rhythm, blood pumping through his arteries, thousands of tiny muscle fibers in the vessels contracting to carry the blood to his organs and tissues. The tiny muscles of his chest wall contracted and relaxed, forcing air in and out of his lungs to be sapped of oxygen by his blood.

The clamor of it all was overwhelming. James screamed, rolling on the ground and holding his head.

He willed it all to stop, longing for the peaceful calm he had felt when he first woke on that beach. Slowly the noise began to fade, bit by bit, until it was quiet and all he heard was the serene babble of the river along the rocks beside him. He rose, hesitant to move too quickly, as though that might bring the torture back to bear. James leaned over the river, and he could faintly make out his own reflection in the rippling water. Beneath the surface, small fish darted to and fro. For a while he just sat, watching them swim.

James soon found that the noise, this constant roar in his head, never truly went away. At any time he could hear them, just beneath the surface in the back of his mind. Occasionally he would lose control, and it would all come flooding back until he could suppress it once again. Over time though, this happened less and less often.

For a very long time James just walked. He wandered across grasslands, through forests, marshes and deserts. He didn’t know what he hoped to find, or whether there was anything to find at all. Now and then he saw more creatures like the one he had killed, and others quite unlike it, but he avoided them when he could. They shied away from him just as readily.

At times, water fell from the sky in torrents and soaked him to his core. Sometimes he would take shelter under a tree, or in a cave. Other times he would simply walk on through the downfall, eager to seek out new lands and places to see. Though he was ever alone, he didn’t tire of his journey. He came upon cliff faces and mountains and pondered how to reach their summits, then would admire the world from on high.

Much of the time he felt a gnawing in his gut, which he would quell on occasion by chewing on leaves or small berries or fruits. Though he enjoyed their sweetness he never felt a need to seek them out, only eating what he required to stave off that unpleasant sensation.

He learned to swim, by sheer accident, one day in a frigid, still-water pool hidden away within a vast rainforest. James had been walking through the trees, examining the many tiny flying and crawling insects he found there, when he stumbled off a ledge and fell straight into the water.

The cold shocked him, and then the fear overtook him, that he would not be able to escape from the depths. He flailed his arms and legs and found that they would carry him upward, once his panic subsided. In fact, he found that moving through the water was much like moving through the empty vacuum of nothingness had been in the beginning. James spent a very long time in that place, sleeping beneath the trees at night and exploring the forest or swimming during the day. Eventually he left, saddened to move on but, as always, looking forward to wherever his journey would take him next.

He walked on. The patterns of this world had become apparent to him. The sun rose in the morning, crossing the sky until it set. At night, the moon would do the same. Days went on, years passed, and the earth stretched on endlessly ahead of him.

One day, James was running across a vast grassy field, his eyes set on a mountain ahead. The sky was a dull gray, and this mountain was different from the others he had seen. A thick, black plume of smoke rose from its peak. As he came near, the ground began to shake so violently that he was thrown to the ground. James rolled onto his back and saw a fountain of flame spewing out of the volcano and up into the sky.

He took to his feet and ran, pumping his legs as fast as they would take him, but the scorching ash began to fall around him. Turning his head, he could see a wave of molten rock following close behind him.

A clump of burning ash fell across his back, searing his skin. His foot dragged on the ground and he stumbled, landing hard on his side. He scrambled to regain his feet, but more fiery rain splashed over his leg. The advancing wave of magma overtook him, and James shrieked and writhed as his skin boiled and peeled.

He couldn’t move for a long time. The lava had passed him by, leaving only a thin layer which cooled beneath him. His body was blistered and contorted, and thick scar tissue bound his joints like rope. The pain was agonizing. As he lay there, the roar in his mind surfaced once again as his body attempted to heal itself. James took control, directing the stem cells in his bone marrow to generate new cells. His skin quickly began to heal, the dead layers of scarred tissue sloughing off him in large flakes.

James rinsed his new body in a stream, the sensation of the cool water on his sensitive skin somewhere between pleasant and painful. He reflected on the power of the disaster which had just overtaken him. He had never before seen anything like it. This strange world was wondrous and beautiful, but now he saw it could also be very dangerous.

He saw this new lesson play out in other ways as well. As time went on, the smaller creatures that roamed the land and prowled its waters began to change. Before they had been small, seemingly harmless. Now they grew larger, sharp spines growing from their backs and long teeth from their jaws. They still seemed frightened of him, but James saw the animals ravage each other, killing and eating anything smaller than themselves.

The weather became more volatile. Heavy rains fell and powerful winds blew him off his feet. Massive bolts of energy could be seen striking down from above, leaving the ground charred where they hit. At times, he wondered if some powerful, unseen being greater than himself was the source of his torment. Still he wandered on as ever, but James took to seeking out shelter wherever it could be found rather than sleeping under the stars as he always had.

Slowly, the world grew cold. Rain no longer fell, but a soft, white frozen rain came in its place. The snow blanketed the ground and the trees. James found it beautiful to see, but it froze his toes and his breath left his mouth with puffs of fog. The nights were even colder; his toes turned black and he had to heal them almost daily. No matter how far he walked, for years and years, the whole world seemed to be iced over.

In those days he found a cave to shelter in. The dirt floor was cool, but far better than the snow outside. During the day he would venture out, every day hoping the snow had melted, to gather food. He found little, and the ache in his gut grew worse by the day. James trudged through the snow, the sun nearly setting above him as he made his way back to his cave. He would go hungry another night, it seemed. It was quiet, other than the crunch of snow underfoot.

He stopped short, sure he had heard something. He listened again, and there it was—a scratching of claws upon wood. He crept toward the sound, and found it just outside the entrance to his cave. It was a creature the likes of which he had seen many times before; three feet long, white pointed teeth protruding from its scaly face, perched on all four legs as if to pounce on him as he approached. Its normally muscular legs were thin, and the pitiable thing seemed to have had no more luck with foraging than he had of late.

The animal hissed at James, its beady eyes locked on him. Before he could react, it charged, locking its sharp fangs into his leg. He shouted out in pain, hammering the lizard on the head with his fist. It let go of him with another hiss, then lunged back in to strike again. James leapt aside and kicked out, feeling his heel connect with the side of its head. It tumbled over in the snow and lay still, its scaly abdomen rising and falling slowly. Still in a rage, he put his heel to the animal's head once again, and it gave way with a wet squish.

James felt his heart racing in his chest, and he directed it to slow. Looking at the poor dead lizard, he felt a deep regret. Yet his stomach rumbled painfully, so James dragged the creature with him into the cave. He bit into it whole, tearing flesh from its midsection with a ravenous hunger. The texture of it, cold and slimy, was not entirely pleasant, but it sated his appetite in a way he had not felt in years.

When he was done, he curled up in the corner of the cave, his back cushioned slightly by a bed of reeds he had gathered. At night, the cold crept inside the cave and made him shiver. He was grateful not to be outside, but he longed for the warmth he had once felt. He held his hands out before him, rubbing them together for what little heat that would bring him. He thought back to the destructive fire of the volcano which had nearly ended him forever, and almost wished to feel that once again.

Between his hands, a spark of fire took life. It grew, a spinning and rippling sphere of brilliant orange flame. Its heat soothed his body, and its light illuminated the darkness. James smiled, and then he laughed all through the night.

Skye

Shortly after the cataclysm

"What's your name?"

The man wore a crimson robe which hung loosely about his ankles. A pair of bent glasses framed his stern, green eyes as he awaited her response. Those eyes were somewhat unnerving, Skye thought. They were a bright, piercing green that almost seemed to spiral and flow like a neon liquid if you looked directly at them.

"Skye," she said.

Something heavy struck her in the back of the head and she staggered, but stayed on her feet. The other man, the one who had hit her, circled around from behind and into her field of view. He was a giant of a man, two feet taller than Skye and with rippling, muscular arms as thick as her thighs. Broken iron shackles hung from each of his wrists, their ends slightly rusted.

"You have no name," the robed man said with a sneer. "Not in this place. Not until you've earned one.”

The other man, whose mere approach was intimidating, grabbed hold of her shoulders. He ripped at her shirt, which was filthy and thinned from her time on the road. Skye gasped and covered her breasts with her hands, left completely exposed in the cold, dim room.

The large man loomed over her, his eyes lingering on her body. Skye took a step back, closing her eyes as if she could simply will the two men away. As though when she opened them, she would be back at home and the world would go back to normal. As if that would even be any real comfort.

Something soft pressed against her arms; Skye let out a slight yell and opened her eyes. The man had merely tossed some clothing at her, if you could call these tattered gray rags clothes. She hurriedly pulled them on. The big man laughed and elbowed the robed man, who turned an unamused eye to him.

On the front of her shirt was the number fourteen, printed in a large black font. The robed man regarded her with a smile while the big man unlocked the door behind him, which swung open with a creak.

"A bit of advice, fourteen," the robed man said as he stood aside. "This is a test. There are winners, and losers. Keep that in mind."

Skye didn't know what to say to that, so she said nothing. The big man pointed to the door with a grunt. Skye didn't move, terrified of what would await her on the other side. When he started toward her, she scurried past him and the door shut with a slam behind her.

She was in a large, circular domed room. Around its perimeter were individual beds, each spaced a few feet apart and labeled with a large number on the wall above. The numbers started from one at her left and circled around to twenty six on her right. In one corner opposite her, a space was left for rows of exercise equipment. In another, the wall gave way to two doors apparently leading to the bathrooms. In the middle of the room there was an array of tables, chairs, and sofas.

As she stood there alone taking in the strange place, twenty five heads scattered all around the room turned toward her. They were mostly young adults, although a few among them looked middle aged. They were men and women, all dressed in the same gray rags she wore, and each labeled with a different number. Just a moment of silence followed, and then everyone returned to whatever they had been doing.

Skye spotted bed fourteen on the other side of the room and started to make her way toward it. Now no one paid her any attention at all, and she crossed the room like a ghost. The mattress was thin, topped with a scratchy blanket and nothing else. At the head of the bed, a metal hatch on the wall caught her eye. Skye knelt down, trying to pull the thin metal flap back.

"I wouldn't do that," someone said behind her.

She jumped up with a start and spun around. He was a young man, bald, with a friendly smile. He wore the number nine.

"Sorry," she said, sitting down on her bed.

Nine laughed. "Doesn't matter to me. Just saying, it won't open. Opens from the outside."

"Oh. What for?"

"They push your breakfast through there. If you want to call it that. And your instructions, every night."

"Instructions?" Skye asked.

"Ah, man," he said, rubbing his bald head. "This shit is hard to explain, actually. I'm not really the welcoming committee. That's usually Six."

He pointed all the way across the room to a woman who sat on her bed, back against the wall, eyes closed. "I dunno, um..." he paused. "So you'll get these papers every night through there," he pointed at the metal flap. "They'll tell you something you have to do, or something not to do. Mostly, they just fuck with your head. Look, people will tell you a lot of different stuff. People will say it's a test, or that you can find a way out. But if you ask me, this is just a fucked up prison and they're out there laughing at us."

"Has anyone gotten out?" Skye asked.

"People disappear, yeah. But I’m not sure that’s the same thing as getting out."

"Could be, though."

Nine laughed. "Sure. Anyway. How did they get you?"

"I was heading for D.C. with my husband," she said. "Then the whole world went to hell. Tornado ripped through traffic on the highway, sent our car flying. He didn't make it."

"I'm sorry," Nine said.

Skye shrugged, though she held back a tear and masked a wet sniff with a cough. "Everybody's been through something."

"True,” Nine said.

"Anyway, I made it out there for a couple months. Stuck to the highways, moved between outposts when I could. Eventually, some fucking raptors cornered me in a mall. Thought I was dead, until some people showed up with assault rifles. Saved me, then threw a bag over my head. Must have been a week or two ago, they put me in a truck and sent me somewhere. Here I am."

"Bad luck, that."

"Plenty to go around. But possibly better than getting eaten alive," she said.

Nine laughed. "We'll see how you feel in a few days."

As he spoke, the door she had entered through opened again. The big chained man stood there, a shotgun held in front of him. From behind him came a stream of other rag-wearing prisoners, though these wore red and had no numbers, each carrying several trays which they piled on one of the tables in the middle of the room. As quickly as they had come, they were gone. None of the other prisoners seemed to pay them any mind, but a few made their way over to grab a tray.

"Dinner time," Nine said.

Skye followed him and took her own dinner tray, the contents of which were uninspiring but not at all as nightmarish as she had expected. A small peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a handful of baby carrots. Frankly, it was better than the average meal she had managed to scavenge on the road.

Nine seemed to sense her surprise. "Wouldn't get used to it," he said. "New prisoner, new cycle. Food starts out nice, gets much worse. People will be happy for one night at least." The prisoners did seem cheery, she thought. Most of the others were talking and laughing together in a big circle in the middle of the room.

Skye and Nine sat and ate together at one of the tables. "So what's the deal with the big guy, with the chains?"

"Scary fucker, eh? He's just one of them, the Chains they call them. Most aren't as big as him, but they're all bad in their own way." He took a big bite of his sandwich, then continued through his full mouth. "There's them, and the Robes. You probably saw one on your way in. They're the priests or whatever. I've heard one of them talking about 'greeneyes' or something. Don't know if that's something or not."

"The robed man who brought me in had green eyes. Not natural looking though. Bright green. What does that mean?"

"Hell if I know," Nine said, brushing his hands on his dirty gray pants. "I don't know what any of this means. Don't know who these people even are."

"I do," came a woman's voice. Twenty-one was a petite woman with short hair, and she sat down across from Nine just then. "They call themselves the Church of James. They preach about the end of the world, mankind needing to become stronger or some shit."

"So you always say. Who the fuck is James anyway?" Nine said. Twenty-one shrugged. "On the other hand, you've been outside more recently than me, so maybe you do know better. Or you," he added to Skye.

"Never heard of them," Skye said.

"What did the man with the green eyes say to you, when you came in?" Nine asked.

"He said this is a test. And there are winners and losers."

"Well," Nine said. "There's sure as hell some losers. Twenty six of 'em. But there are no winners here."

Within the hour, the light which filtered in through windows around the top of the dome began to fade. With a loud clack, metal hatches popped open around the edges of the room. The prisoners all hurried to their bunks, snatching up the small slips of paper which now lay at the head of their beds`, lest someone else get to theirs first. Skye rushed to do the same.

The thin, wrinkled paper read in a tight, cursive script:

Don’t trust 9

She crumpled up the message and pushed it back through the hatch, which then snapped shut. Around the room, others did the same as the light was fully extinguished. Only three faint orange solar lights around a pillar in the center of the room remained illuminated.

Skye slid under her blanket and closed her eyes, glad for the darkness which hid the tears beginning to run down her face.

Some time later she heard the telltale sounds of sex from across the room, intertwined with the low drone of one soft snorer somewhere. Sleep did not come readily, but eventually she drifted away.

Skye woke naturally as the morning light crept in through the windows above. Already she could hear quiet chatter from the middle of the room. It seemed she was one of the last to rise. Skye sat up and rubbed her eyes. A cold toaster pastry sat next to her head, apparently slipped through the hatch while she slept. She ate it quickly, leaving the wrapper next to the hatch.

Life in here seemed to be boring, to put it simply. Some people talked, others napped through the morning. Skye herself went to check out the exercise equipment, and decided she might as well work out.

She slid a few weights onto the bench press bar and lay down on the bench, with a bit of trepidation. She’d never been the gym type of girl before. Sure, she’d hit the treadmill often enough to stay slim, but had never been much for weights. Though the past few months’ apocalypse had left her toned and scrappy, it still felt unnatural to her.

As she lifted, slow but steady, someone approached. "Spot you?" he asked.

"Sure," she grunted between reps. He was tall, muscular, and looked to be in his early twenties, or a few years younger than Skye at any rate. He stood at her head as she continued to lift. She noted through her upside-down vision that his shirt read eleven.

She powered through one last press, then with his help lifted the bar back onto the rack before sitting up. "Getting used to it yet?" he asked.

She looked at him. "Not at all."

He laughed. "Me neither. Hey, if you ever want to get out of here, we can try."

"What do you—"

She was interrupted. "Hey Fourteen. Eleven. Good morning." It was Nine, who had sauntered his way up next to Eleven, the latter man looking somewhat unnerved despite Nine's diminutive figure.

"Not much, man," Eleven said with a slight stutter. "Just helping out the new girl. I'll get going though. See you around."

He walked away abruptly. Nine started to speak, but Skye stopped him. "They have a shower in here?"

"Yeah," he said, looking dejected. "Bathroom’s over there."

"Thanks. Talk to you later."

She used the bathroom and took a quick, freezing shower, left to change back into the same gray rags she had worn the day before. For most of the day she laid on her bed, looking up at the clouds rolling slowly by above the dome. At one point someone approached, but she pretended to be asleep and they left.

When they had gone, Skye inspected the dome. It was solid, and the windows were sealed and far too high to reach. The only way in or out—as far as she could see—was the door, and it was made of thick steel and without even a handle on the inside.

The door opened again for dinner, and the red-ragged prisoners brought their food trays. Tonight, there were half as many trays. Half the prisoners went over to the table at once, and Skye noticed they all had even numbers. She joined them, taking a tray from the table while feeling a measure of guilt. As she looked around though, the odd numbered prisoners didn’t seem to show them any ill will.

"This happens a lot." Nine's voice again. "We just alternate who gets to eat. So enjoy it tonight."

Skye grimaced as she looked down at her tray, which contained a mound of unidentifiable brown sludge. To her relief, it tasted slightly better than it looked.

Their instructions came again that night:

Don’t eat breakfast, and return two breakfast bars tomorrow night

She awoke the next morning to a commotion of startled voices. Skye sat up with a start. A few beds away, two men were fighting. One of them grabbed the other by his shirt and slammed him into the wall. A woman nearby tried to pull the apparent aggressor away, but he swatted her hand off his shoulder. The other man, who had fallen to the floor, scrambled over a bed. His opponent followed, sliding over the mattress and taking it with him as he rolled to the ground.

Oh shit.

Skye leapt to her feet and ran toward the disturbed bunk. The men were rolling around together, swinging fists and elbows. On the bare bed frame, she found a breakfast bar unattended. She snatched it up, stuffing it into her waistband before quickly sliding back onto her own bed. As far as she could tell, nobody's eyes had left the two fighting men.

The fight ended, one of the men left bloodied and motionless on the floor. Nobody seemed to have any interest in coming to his aid. He stirred a few minutes later, dragging himself across the floor to his bed and leaving a trail of blood after him. He lay silently on his bed for most of the day, eventually standing up around dinner time. The man staggered a few unsteady steps before collapsing back on his mattress.

The guard and his retinue brought their dinner, again enough food for half of the prisoners. Tonight, the odd numbers took their trays, and the evens, including Skye, did not. Her stomach rumbled painfully, and though she had two granola bars at her waist, she resisted the urge to eat them.

One food tray was left on the table, she noticed. Of course, the man who had been beaten was number Three. Skye was not the only one to realize this, and by the time she made it to the table someone else was there too. She put her hand down, sliding the tray toward herself.

"It's his," she said, nodding toward the injured man.

"Who cares?" the woman said, and pulled back on the tray.

"I care." Skye took a step toward the woman, who raised her hands to push her. She stomped on the woman's foot and pushed her to the floor with a scream. Skye could feel the other prisoners' eyes on her, but she took the dinner tray over to Three all the same.

"You okay?" she asked him, sitting the tray down next to him on the bed. His eyes were open, a pained look on his face and his chest rising and falling heavily. "I brought your dinner." He glanced at her but didn’t reply, so she stood and went back to her bunk.

That night, when the hatch opened, she tossed the two breakfast bars through the open hatch. One came immediately back, her nightly slip of paper wrapped around it. She stuck her hand, middle finger extended, through the hole.

25 is telling the truth

The guilty and the innocent should both be punished

A woman's shriek woke her in the early morning. The light of the sunrise was still dim, a faint orange glow spilling down into the room. Most were still asleep, or had been until the scream. With that, the prisoners began to stir. As Skye sat up, pulling the blanket off herself, a crowd was gathering across the room.

She stood, joining the group at bed twenty four. Twenty-four, a man in his thirties, lay dead on the mattress, his throat slashed wide open and blood congealed and dried on the sheets and in pools on the floor. Standing next to the bed was Twenty-five, a pretty young girl with a blonde ponytail. Her gray shirt was smeared with dried blood, as were her bare thighs. Her pants lay discarded but clean at the foot of the bed. Nearby on the floor was a bloody knife.

"What the hell did you do?" It was Nine, his bald head visible through the crowd. He was pointing an accusatory finger at Twenty-five, who was backed against the wall. There was panic on her face, fresh tears staining her cheeks.

"I—I just—I just woke up and he was like this. I didn't do anything!"

"It's plain enough you did something," Nine shot back at her, and her cheeks turned red.

"So what?" she yelled. "We're not the only ones! I didn't kill him."

"You expect us to believe somebody cut his throat and you slept through it?" There were murmurs of apparent agreement through the crowd.

"It was you!" Twenty-five screamed, pointing at another woman, a redhead who wore the number Twelve. "I know you fucked him too."

The two women rushed at each other, hands grappling and scratching. Skye found herself running forward, grabbing hold of Twelve and pushing her backward onto a bed. Another man restrained Twenty-five. The prisoners used bedsheets to tie the two suspects together back to back and left them in the corner as they convened in the center of the room.

The twenty-three of them sat in a large circle, all of the prisoners aside from the two suspects and Three, who remained bedbound. "What do you think, One?" someone asked. One was a middle aged man with thinning hair and glasses. Skye had not yet heard him speak, but knew from conversation that he had been here the longest.

"This has happened before," he said quietly. "Does anyone have reason to suspect someone else?" Heads shook around the circle. "I suggest we be rid of both women, then. It’s the only way to be safe."

"That's wrong," Skye said. "One of them is innocent."

He nodded. "Yes, it is. But I speak from experience. There’s too much uncertainty here, and we’ll never prove anything. How many people here received instructions last night relating to this? Possibly warning you of what would happen?" Everyone exchanged glances, but nobody offered an answer, including Skye.

"Exactly. I would wager half of us did, but none will admit it. As I said, there’s nothing but uncertainty here. Let’s be rid of them both and be done with it."

"A vote?" someone else asked.

One nodded. "The question is of whether to sacrifice both suspects. If yes, we do. If no, we will have to debate, likely all day, until we can come to another agreement. All agreed?" Heads nodded. As the vote went around the circle and came to Skye, the tally was tied at eleven to eleven.

Skye stood and went over to the two girls. Each was crying, and a look of terror was common to both of their faces. She looked at each woman closely, and then retrieved the knife from where it still lay near the man's body. The redhead, Twelve, whimpered as she approached. Skye hesitated for but a moment, then thrust the knife into Twelve's chest. She made a noise like a scream suddenly deflated of air. Twenty-five, bound to her back, cried out as well as the blood poured onto the floor beneath them.

Skye went back to the group. "This is not what we agreed on," One said. She threw the knife in the center of the circle.

"No," she said. "But now it’s settled."

A while later, the chained man came and dragged the two bodies out, and then he returned for Three, who let out only a weak moan as the man dragged him by the feet off his bed and out the door. Dinner came, enough for each prisoner, and the nightly instructions.

Tonight is your chance

It was dark, the middle of the night by her reckoning. Skye hadn’t truly fallen asleep, though she was at least dozing until the sensation of someone standing over her jarred Skye awake. In the dark she could see a man's outline but couldn’t make out who he was.

"What?" she said.

Nine's voice, in a whisper. "Hey, Fourteen. Look, over there." He pointed across the room, and Skye saw that the door was open. It was just slightly ajar and light was seeping in through the crack. "We can get out of here," he said.

Skye's heart raced. There was no mistaking it, the door was open. Could this be her chance at freedom? Last night's note was fresh in her mind. But surely her captors couldn't want her to escape. It must be a trap. And her first note had also said not to trust him. She couldn’t make sense of the mixed messages, so she went with her gut.

"No," Skye said. "It's a trap."

"It's not, trust me. We gotta go now though."

"I'm not going." She might have imagined it, but his face looked angry. He was silent for a moment, then stomped off across the room. Skye watched him go. He stopped at bed Twenty-five, and a minute later he and she were up and creeping through the open door.

Something about this wasn't right. Skye climbed quietly out of her bed and tiptoe-ran across the cold concrete floor. The door had been pulled shut again but wasn't locked, and when she forced her fingers into its jamb it swung open with a low creak. The small holding room where she had spoken to the robed man was empty, and its back door was left open. She ran through this door and found the two prisoners in an empty hallway.

Nine had Twenty-five pressed up against the wall, her arms straining against his own, which pinned them to her ribs. He was kissing her neck as she tried to twist her head away. "No. Stop it," she was saying. Neither of them seemed to notice Skye's arrival.

She ran over to them and collided with Nine, driving her elbow into his ribs. He let out a grunt as he fell to the floor, but quickly scrambled to stand back up. Skye met him with a kick in his gut, which dropped him to the ground again. In the distance, from down the hall and around the corner, came the sound of guards and the barking of dogs.

Skye grabbed Twenty-five's hand and dragged her behind as she ran back toward the prison room. Nine was soon on his feet once again and chasing them, not far behind. Skye and Twenty-five slid through the doorway and slammed the heavy metal door behind them.

Skye braced against the door just as Nine ran into it; her body bounced back slightly but still she managed to hold it shut. Nine continued to pound on the door, his muffled screams audible through the thick steel.

His shouts grew louder as the barking of dogs drew nearer. Finally the pounding on the door stopped and she could hear the dogs tearing into him, his screams agonized and then silent. Twenty-five had already gone back to bed, she noticed, but her sobs echoed all through the room. Most of the prisoners were awake, but none left their bunks. Skye went back to her own bed without a word, and she fell asleep within minutes.

Skye awoke on a dirt floor, and she sat up, thinking she must be dreaming. Her hands were chained together with iron links. Across the room, another woman, who was also chained, was just stirring from sleep. She wore number Seventeen, but Skye was certain she hadn’t been in the same prison as she was. A paper slip caught her eye in the dirt, and Skye picked it up.

Do not kill her

Seventeen was also reading a piece of paper, and she let her own fall to the floor as her eyes fixed on Skye. There was no anger in those eyes, only determination. Seventeen wrenched a machete free from where it had been embedded in the wall nearby and advanced on Skye.

Skye frantically looked around her side of the room, where she found no weapons at all. Seventeen was just feet away, the machete raised overhead and ready to strike.

"Wait," Skye said, hands up in front of her. Seventeen swung the blade and it narrowly missed Skye as she jumped back. A horizontal swipe came at her next and Skye leapt to her right, her back up against the wall now. She spun her hips and lashed out with a kick to the other woman's gut. It landed heavily and Seventeen staggered. Skye made to move in but she swung the blade upward toward her head which forced Skye to bend unnaturally back to avoid it.

Off balance now, she fell on her back to the ground. Seventeen rained cuts down on her from above as Skye rolled to avoid them. With a brief moment of opportunity she kicked upward into the woman's groin, then was able to stand back up as she reeled from the hit.

Seventeen swung a heavy strike from above and Skye jumped back again, this time thrusting her arms out. The blade shattered the middle link of her chain and left her arms free. For a moment their eyes met and then Skye charged. She tackled Seventeen, taking her to the ground and battering the woman with her iron-shackled wrists. The machete fell from her hands and Skye let up her assault to take the weapon.

Seventeen was alive, moaning on the floor, her own arms still chained together. Behind Skye, a door clicked open and she turned to see. The green-eyed Robe stood there, his massive bodyguard close behind. "Very well done, Fourteen," he said.

Skye stared at the man briefly, then drove the machete into the other woman’s chest. After, she threw the blade to the ground, chest heaving with each breath.

"My fucking name is Skye."

The man’s smile never faltered. "So it is. Welcome to the Church, Skye."

Claire

Claire woke with a jerk. It was cold in her room, as it always was, but her legs were drenched with sweat. The thin bedsheets clung tight to her body, and in her half-awake state she felt claustrophobic. Claire tore the sheets away as she sat up, swinging her legs off the edge of the bed. The cold night air was pleasant on her calves.

She stood up, the wood floorboards creaking slightly as she crossed her bedroom. It was pitch dark, and she moved by feel and memory alone. She reached out her hand and found the dresser, then slid her hand up until it hit metal. Claire fumbled with the lantern and a match until a small flame took hold in its chamber.

The lantern's soft orange glow lit her path as she walked into the living room. Judging by the position of the moon, visible through the large windows on the back wall, it was around 3 am. She left her lantern by the door and stepped out onto the back deck. The glass door closed with a click behind her and she leaned against the wooden railing. The cool mountain air was quiet, the only sound the soft rustle of the breeze through the trees below.

From her cabin's perch on the side of the mountain, she could survey the moonlit forest valley below. Another mountain rose up in the distance. If she looked closely, especially during the day, she could point out one or two other cabins on the mountainside. They were most likely abandoned. From the look of things up here though, one wouldn't even know what had happened to the world.

She basked in the serenity of the moment, as she did most nights when she woke up around this time. Even after several months, Claire still never could sleep well up here.

It had been a week since her father last visited. Her supplies were beginning to run low, so she was sure he would return any day now. The thought of it still made her somewhat uneasy. Of course, he was her father. Whenever she thought of him, her first memories were always of happy days, long gone, spent playing in the park. They would play catch, hop along the stones in the river, sneak an ice cream cone—never to tell mom—before going home.

She remembered the sad days too. One day when she was still a young girl, her parents coming home, mom's eyes red and puffy, dad's arm around her and his own eyes resolute yet still moist. She remembered the day he came into her room, sat on the bed behind her while she played with her dolls, and told her that her baby brother had gotten sick, and he wouldn't be coming home. He was strong for her and her mother, she recognized now, though he must have been broken inside himself.

And yet now, she had other, much more terrible, thoughts of her father. He had destroyed everything. Killed so many people. He gained everyone's trust, and once he had it, he betrayed them. And what he had done... it wasn't even possible. Claire hadn't even had time to process the monstrous, impossible things her father had done, though she had seen them with her own eyes.

Why?

She had asked him that so many times, every time he came, and he would never answer. He had brought her to this place, this lonely cabin on the mountain. She went about her days reliving those terrible moments, eating, sleeping, and starting over the next day. Every day hoping, and dreading, it would be the day he would return. That he would explain what he wanted her to do.

Claire brushed a tear from her cheek and shook it off of her hand. She shivered and retreated back inside. When she returned to her bed, she still couldn't sleep.

As it happened, her father did return the next day. In his usual way, he merely walked in through the front door without ceremony, the jingle of bells hanging from the doorknob her only indication he had entered.

"Hi, Claire," he said, slipping off his coat and taking a seat across from the recliner in which she sat, her feet up and warming near the fireplace.

She didn’t answer him, but closed the book she was reading and set it aside, her eyes downcast.

"How long will you be angry with me?" he asked.

"Why are you keeping me here?" she said.

He sighed, leaning back into the cushion of the couch before raising his hands in an exasperated gesture. "The door is right there. You're not a prisoner here. But it's not safe for you out there. Not yet."

She didn't respond. He was right, of course. A few weeks back, she had left the cabin. Nothing stopped her; her father didn't show up to restrain her. But a few miles down the narrow mountain road, she turned around and came back. Claire simply had nowhere else to go.

"What do you want from me?" she asked, looking at him now, fighting back the pressure of tears building behind her eyes.

"Something you can't give me, Claire. But that's not your fault. We'll just have to try again."

"What do you mean?"

He stood from his seat, looming over her now. His face was not menacing, but streaked with grief. He didn't answer her. Instead, he thrust out his hand and grasped her forehead. She struggled against him, slapping at his hand, but quickly felt her strength begin to fade.

Claire slumped back into her chair as he pressed against her head. A terrible pain began to build now, an unbearable pressure within her head so great that she was sure it would burst. Claire screamed, and then she was no more.

Emily

It was summer, though you would never know it by the cold evening air up here on the mountain. Emily hugged her puffy jacket close, letting the cabin door swing loudly shut behind her. The frosty grass crunched underfoot as she headed toward the well. She pumped its metal lever a few times, a trickle of water beginning to fill the bucket she had brought with her. On her way back, she propped the door open so she could bring in a few logs for the fire as well.

There was no heat in the cabin, and its wooden walls did little to insulate against the elements. Emily left the wood near the fireplace and took the water bucket to the small kitchen, where she poured a glass. Through the large windows on the back wall, she could see the sun setting behind the trees along the mountainside. The sky began to take on an incredible purple-orange hue. She loved the quiet solitude of this place, most of the time.

Emily had never been the most social person. At school, she was neither disliked nor bullied, but simply preferred to sit alone. On the playground, though she would sometimes play along with the others, she usually just sat under a tree watching her classmates.

She had never seen her own behavior as particularly problematic. Her parents had though, making her sit with a counselor twice a week who asked her questions about her family, and how she felt. How it had made her feel when her baby brother had to go to the hospital and never came home. "It's okay to be scared, or angry. That's normal," she could remember the man saying.

The truth of it was that Emily barely remembered her brother, or her mother who died a couple years later. Her father though, had always been there for her. Later on he became a very important man, a politician, but without fail he would be home every night for dinner and to put her to bed, though he often left again once he thought she was asleep.

Everything changed though, one day almost two years ago. What exactly happened, she still didn't know. There was no news anymore, no electricity, no radio. All her father could tell her was that a very bad man had attacked him, and things would never be the same again. The world wasn't safe anymore, he said, and she knew that part to be true.

So she stayed here, at their vacation cabin on the mountain, where nobody would be able to hurt her. Her father only came every week or so these days, but Emily didn't mind the solitude. She had plenty of books and supplies, and she loved to look at the stars with her telescope.

Still, even Emily got lonely up here on occasion. And around this time, when she was feeling sad and alone, sipping a cold glass of water at her kitchen table, is when her father returned. He slipped in through the front door quietly, as if hoping not be heard. When he saw her sitting at the table, he smiled warmly.

"Missed you," he said as she stood and hugged him. His short black hair was ruffled from the wind outside.

"Missed you too, dad." They sat together on the couch.

"How have things been?" he asked.

"Just the usual. I'm fine."

"Let me know if there's anything you want next time I come back. I'm sure it gets boring up here."

"Sometimes. But I'm good." She leaned her head against his shoulder. "What's it like out there?"

He paused. "Things are bad. Dangerous, still. Looking to be that way for a long time."

"Can't you stay here?" she said.

"People out there need help. And it would put you at risk if I stayed here. I wish I could."

"I know," she said. "Just be careful."

"It's cold," he said. "Let me start a fire." She sat up, letting him stand. "I've been thinking about this, Emily. There may be a way you can help me, actually. If you're willing. I've tried to keep you safe here, but I'm starting to fear I won't be able to do this alone."

"Of course," she said, leaning forward. Surely he knew she would do anything to help him.

"I'm going to show you something," he said, piling logs inside the grate before turning to look at her. "It will seem crazy. But just watch."

He turned back toward the fireplace and held out his hand. Seconds later, a stream of fire shot from his fingertips and splashed across the wood, setting it instantly alight.

"W—What?" She stood up and grabbed his hand. It wasn’t burnt, his skin completely intact. The heat emanating from the now roaring fire was very real.

"I know," he said. "It doesn't seem possible. But it is. And I think I can show you how."

Her father led her out onto the deck. The sun had fully set now, and the two of them stood together in the dark, lit only by the moon and stars above. He held his hands up again, sending an arc of bright, swirling orange flame off the balcony into the night air where it eventually faded.

"You’re my daughter," he said, grabbing her by her shoulders. "This power has been with me my whole life. I am sure it must be inside of you as well."

"I don't feel anything," she said.

He laughed. "Neither did I, for a while. But that's just it—you have to feel. Feel the heat of the fire in your mind, focus it into your hand." As he spoke he held his hand up in front of her, and a circle of flame sprouted, hovering over his palm. He twisted his hand and the fire rippled as it spun about. Then with a flick of his wrist, it was gone. "You try."

Emily held her hand out, the way her father had done. She tried to do as he told her, to feel the warmth of a roaring fire, to harness its energy and bring it to life. She tried and tried, straining, but nothing came.

"I'm sorry," she told him. "Maybe I can't do it."

He hugged her. "It's okay."

Her father was gone again the next morning, as he always was. He had left a small stack of books on the kitchen table, most of which she had requested last time he visited. The cabinets were stocked with fresh supplies, and firewood was newly piled beneath a tarp outside.

Emily felt shame for failing at what her father had asked her to do. In truth, she still could hardly believe any of it, but every evening she would sit in front of the fireplace, willing herself to do the impossible. Each time she would give up and strike a match. Otherwise, life went on much as it had these last many months.

It wasn’t long before her father returned this time, less than a week. His silent entrance through the front door startled her as she was roasting some vegetables over her wood stove. He smiled his usual smile as she greeted him, but his face was one of thinly-masked worry.

"Come with me, Emily. I'd like to show you something."

They left the cabin, her father driving them in an old pickup truck through the narrow mountain roads. They went up and down, not descending but instead winding their way around the mountain. After twenty minutes or so, they came to a stop on a large rocky outcrop which leaned away from the mountain.

A helicopter sat there, in the middle of the grass which covered the cliff. Emily was struck by it—a common enough sight years ago, but something she had certainly never seen since the world ended.

Her father boosted her up into the passenger compartment before climbing into the cockpit. With a roar, the helicopter took to the air and the mountain fell away beneath them. The forest valley rolling smoothly along beneath them was a marvel to her, and Claire was transfixed by the view.

"Where are we going?" she asked him, but if he had heard her over the loud wind and the spinning rotors, he didn’t show it. Whatever it was, she knew, it must have been important. Though she had not left the mountainside in over a year, even she knew that any type of fuel was now a precious commodity.

The landscape below changed steadily as they flew. The mountains faded away and were replaced by hilly grasslands streaked with abandoned highways. At one point she could make out a group of men in cars and on motorcycles on the road below, staring up at the passing aircraft in surprise. Other than this, and the occasional sight of a small encampment on the horizon, there were few signs of humanity.

The plains were not lifeless, though. As they flew over a lake, a herd of deer on the shore scattered in all directions, the waves turbulent in their wake.

Not long after, as the sun was beginning to set, she spotted a man alone in the road below. He was bent over the engine of his car, a white van, which was smoking on the side of the highway. Apparently hearing the helicopter approach, he stood up and waved frantically at them. No sooner had she thought to urge her father to land than she saw them.

Three birdlike, though wingless, animals crept through the overgrown grass surrounding each side of the highway, each converging on the man from different angles. They were at least as long head-to-tail as the man would be in height. The man continued to wave up at them, and showed no sign of seeing the beasts which stalked him.

Her father, who before this had not taken his eyes away from the sky ahead, now looked over to the side himself, watching the scene play out. He met eyes with Emily and shook his head. Below, the three creatures leapt from the grass and set upon the man. His screams couldn't be heard over the whirring engine.

Emily averted her eyes, trying not to think about the poor man. It was like her father had said so many times. It was not safe out here.

They flew for a few hours, and Emily had just drifted off to sleep when they landed. The jolt of the helicopter touching down startled her awake. It was dark, and they sat on a concrete landing area. They seemed to be inside a small compound, with a chain fence surrounding the handful of buildings.

Her father was outside, speaking to a man whom she couldn't see well in the dark. Next to her, there was a clunk as another man refueled the helicopter. After a moment, her father returned.

"We've got a way to go still. You should sleep," he said. He retrieved a pillow and blanket which had been tucked away under the seat. She took them happily, and as they ascended, the soft vibration of the helicopter lulled her back to sleep.

"Emily." She woke, her eyes blurry and her back sore. Her father was leaning over her through the passenger door. It was morning, and they had landed again.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes. "We're here," he said, and helped her down from the chopper. They had landed on a flat, sandy, beach. The sun was rising over the ocean, its light glinting off the placid surf. A breeze tousled her hair as she stepped out onto the warm sand.

He led her across the beach and up a rocky hill where she had to climb using both her hands and feet. As soon as they crested the top, they came upon a crater. It looked to be a hundred feet across and the air above it shimmered and waved. An overpowering heat emanated from the crater itself, which was filled with bright orange lava. The stuff bubbled and slurped, occasionally spurting up a few feet into the air. She was still ten feet from its edge and felt she could go no closer, else the very air would set her alight.

"I brought you all this way, Emily, so you can truly see and feel the power of the earth. To really harness this power, you must understand it. You must feel a connection to it, feel what the earth feels, inside of yourself." He walked closer, standing at the very edge of the volcanic lake. Her father stood tall and strong, his clothes whipped by the blistering wind as he held out a hand to beckon her closer.

Emily hesitated, then took a step forward, then another. Every step was agony as the air burned her skin. Two steps away, she could go no farther, and tears streaked down her cheeks. She held her hands out, tried to focus her entire mind on pushing all the heat to her fingertips. She growled, straining.

Still, nothing.

"I'm sorry," she said to him, tears drying on her ashen face as they stood on the beach near the helicopter.

"It's alright. It's not your fault," he said. Her father hugged her tight, but his face revealed a disappointment that hurt worse than the molten heat possibly could have.

***

Her father was gone much longer this time. It seemed nearly a month had passed, and her supplies were nearly exhausted, before he finally returned. She was asleep when he came in through the front door, louder than usual. He crept into her bedroom, where she already was sitting up, awaiting him.

He smiled at her, and sat on the edge of her bed. She scooted forward to sit next to him.

"I have one more idea," he said. "But you have to trust me."

"Of course," she said.

"I've thought a lot about your situation. You share my blood, but few of my abilities. Yet by your very existence here, in this place and time, I know you share at least one."

He stood, pulling a revolver from his jacket. Emily's heart began to race. "What are you doing?"

He aimed the gun at her head and fired.

Everything came to her at once. As she fell, blood dripping down her face and pooling on the floor, her father pressed his palm against her head. If the pain she already felt could get any worse, it did. All her memories, everything Emily was, fell away, leaving her stripped bare for the briefest moment before everything flooded back in.

Thousands of lives played out in her mind at once, each of them wholly foreign and yet undoubtedly belonging to her all the same. These brief vignettes all ended with some different traumatic event, then complete amnesia and a new start as someone else entirely.

She reached into the distant past, too, and there she could see her first life. Her father, yes, that same man named Martin Singh who claimed to be her father now, was there. Her mother, a woman shrouded in the fog of her memory. A younger brother. Their brief life together, in some nameless village in some long-lost corner of the world.

She knew now, with the entire spectrum of her existence splayed out before her, that in so many years she had never attained this level of understanding. Countless lives, countless friendships, lovers, joys, heartbreaks, and deaths. As she lay on the cold wood floor of this lonely mountain cabin, her mind reeled, and she didn’t know who she truly was or who she ought to be.

The images playing out before her began to fade, and everything was going dark. A dark empty nothingness reached out to take her. Her father, leaning down over her still, pressed down on her chest, and the darkness began to retreat. Then as the bone, sinew, and skin of her face began to repair and renew itself, she knew. She could, of course, be any of these people she chose to be. And, to her, that was no question at all.

Jess

Jess lay on the floor of the cabin, her face sticky from her own blood. In her head was the distant throb of a headache recently faded. She was alone, her father having taken his leave, as he always did after these few times he had reset her fragile mind.

He'll be back, she thought as she clawed her way up the bedframe until she was standing. And I won't be here when he comes.

Jess snatched her jacket off its hook and burst through the door, leaving the cabin behind for good. Her feet pounded against the gravel road as she ran. When she saw the path she had taken begin to turn upward, she left the pavement and descended the side of the mountain, scrabbling through the tall grass and brambles as she went.

Between long strides, something occurred to her. Stopping her descent, Jess held out her hand and within her mind reached down into the earth beneath her. She felt that heat, that same raw, simmering power she’d felt that day by the volcano. Jess drew on that strength, taking just a bit of it and unleashing it herself.

There, at the tips of her fingers, a spark of flame appeared.

Dorian

The day was gray and overcast. A cool, pleasant breeze blew across his forehead, a change from the oppressive heat of the last few weeks. Dorian waved at the guard atop the wall and the gates began to grind shut behind him. Though the land between here and the river was still fenced in, he felt a good deal more exposed behind the fragile chain link than he did within the town's high walls.

He jogged along the dirt path, a narrow clearing made through dense forest, and the trees swaying in the wind menaced him on either side. The unmistakable throaty chirp-call of a raptor echoed from somewhere distant. The fenced area was only wide enough to accommodate the path, as well as the thick metal pipeline that ran alongside.

Half a mile down the path, he went through another gate and passed behind the safety of his walls once again, though these were markedly shorter and less sturdy. A three-story brick building stood in this clearing, surrounded by a handful of smaller structures. The pipeline cut across the grass and entered the main building. A man, who had been bent over a curved section of the pipe with a spinning power tool, looked up and nodded as Dorian passed.

Dorian found Kristof inside, standing between two large whirring turbines and holding some schematic or other spread out between his hands. He wore his black eye patch today, a cigarette tucked behind his ear alongside his green bandanna. A woman was standing next to him, looking over Kristof's shoulder at the same blueprint.

"Alright, boss," he said, not looking up from his work.

"How goes it?" Dorian asked.

"Running smoothly, for now. Nothing that looks to need immediate repair. The men have made a list of spare parts we need most, to look out for on the outside."

"Alright. You let me know of anything critical, I'll get the scouts on it."

Kristof nodded. "Aye, sir. You remember Lisa, eh?" He tilted his head toward the woman next to him.

Dorian hadn't recognized her, and in the woman he was looking at now he still couldn't recognize the dirty, starving girl they had found out in the wild just a week before. She wore clean, new clothes and a smile which only slightly dropped at Dorian's approach. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail.

"Ah," Dorian said. "How's that working out?"

"Quite well, so far. She’s a quick study." Kristof folded his schematic up and stashed it under his arm, the brow over his one good eye slightly raised at Dorian.

"Yeah, well, no hard feelings," he said, glancing at Lisa. "If you pull your weight here, you're fine by me." She didn't answer.

"Anyway," Dorian continued, looking back at Kristof. "I talked to Greg this morning, electrical work in town is ahead of schedule. Can we move up the grid blackout two days?"

"Yeah, doesn't matter to me. I'll talk to him."

"Alright, thanks. Anything else?"

"Not at the moment," Kristof said.

"Are you still testing the spillway today?"

"Yeah, leaving soon. You coming?"

"Thought it might be worth seeing," Dorian said.

Kristof shrugged. "You're the boss."

Soon after, Dorian followed as Kristof and his team left the power station, most of the men lugging heavy bags of equipment. Their path took them back into town, and they followed the water pipeline along its course, which took them near the front gates. There, as they passed by, a dump truck loaded with trash was exiting through the gate.

Despite his group's combined expertise, the management of garbage had been an embarrassing oversight. They had sincerely underestimated how much of it even a small group could generate. For now, their solution consisted of driving big loads of it a couple miles into the forest, where they would bury it. Dorian suspected this solution wouldn't last them long, but they hadn't yet had time to focus on the issue.

Their path took them all the way through the town to another set of gates, which opened onto the shore of Deep Creek Lake itself. The walls continued past the gate, running right up to the water and preventing any attack from the trees.

The lake stretched on as far as he could see, and tall green pines were packed tightly along its edge in most places. Tucked away here and there were a handful of lakeside homes, all abandoned now. The water was clean and calm, one of the few unpolluted bodies of water Dorian had found. Out on the lake, a few boats sat motionless on the still water. He imagined the place had been quite a striking sight in days gone by. Even now, Dorian always had to marvel at it.

"Remember when we stumbled onto this place?" Kristof asked.

"I do."

Dorian couldn’t well remember the time immediately after the cataclysm. In the ashes of the disaster he found his home gone, the apartment tower leveled at its midsection. Looting what he could, he made his way south. In this new world, Dorian had been in his element. There were, frankly speaking, simply not that many people left. While the weak fought over scraps, he flourished, assembling his own band of men and taking what he needed.

It wasn’t long before Dorian and his men, on the run from a fight gone bad, had arrived at this very shore. Kristof, one of his earliest followers, who had been an engineer in another life—as he put it—recognized the unnatural stone wall along the coast to be a hydroelectric dam. As they soon discovered, water was funneled through a pipeline over a mile long through the forest down to the power station. There, a handful of inexperienced bandits who had occupied the place quickly met their end. The generators and turbines had been lifeless at the time, but within a week Kristof had them running. His men had cheered when a single lightbulb overhead flickered on, the first electricity any of them had seen in quite a while.

There was no real town near the lake, but a few scattered homes and businesses had made a natural starting point. Dorian and his men immediately set about scouring the countryside for skilled builders, electricians, metalworkers, and members of a dozen other trades to help build the place they now called home.

Dorian walked along the top of the dam, carefully picking his way across the uneven rock. Beneath him, a groove had been cut out of the dam with a metal gate in place to hold back the flow of water. As Kristof had explained it, the dam didn't previously require any manual spillway. If the water level were to somehow get too high, it would simply run over the top of the dam and along the little stream.

Since the cataclysm, the weather had changed. Heavy rains and violent storms were more common, and the lake had already spilled over several times, threatening his burgeoning town. This manual spillway would let them control the water level and prevent flooding.

A horn began to blare and red lights flashed around the spillway door. After a moment, it opened and a rush of water rolled down the side of the dam, funneled harmlessly away into a dry riverbed. Kristof awaited him back on solid ground.

"We're going to have to figure out a way to secure this area," Dorian said. "The dam was important before, but even more so now with all the electrical work out here. It leaves us exposed." He scanned the coastline, shielding his eyes from the sun, which had begun to peek out from behind the clouds. The shore curved back and forth and extended for miles. Even with the walls along both sides, anyone could attack by boat.

"We'll figure something out. Problem for another day." Kristof lit his cigarette and blew a puff of smoke upward.

"Listen, boss," he spoke through the side of his mouth, cigarette still between his lips. "This dam can generate twenty megawatts. That's enough to power thousands of homes, easily. We can grow. We should grow."

"We are growing, Kristof," Dorian said, already knowing where the conversation was headed.

"Yeah. But we can do more. Rebuild. Bring in more people."

"I've never turned away anyone who had something to offer us."

"You might not think so," Kristof said, taking a long drag. "But you have, man. You have."

***

Dorian had just arrived back in town when the sirens started.

The harsh sound of the alarm echoed loudly within the walls. At midday, there were few people outside walking the streets. Those who were, quickly scrambled for whatever cover they could find, their eyes cast fearfully upward. Overhead, screeches cut through the sky and the flapping of heavy wings could be heard.

Dorian sprinted for the wall, leaping onto a ladder and taking it two rungs at a time until he reached the top. In the guard house atop the wall, one soldier was already huddled against the railing in cover. Dorian slid down alongside him.

Two pteranodons soared overhead, for a moment only visible by their shadow on the street below, before finally they swooped down. One alighted on the pavement, chirping and snapping out with its beak at a woman who dove to the ground and narrowly avoided its attack. The other pumped its massive leathery wings, gliding once around the town center building before perching on its roof. It screeched up at the sky and then took flight again, aiming for a young man who was running away down the sidewalk.

"Gun," Dorian said to the guard, who quickly handed him a sighted rifle. He took aim as the pteranodon came down on the man and lifted him off the ground in its claws. Dorian fired, and through his sight he saw a burst of pink from the animal's head. It fell lifeless to the ground, the hapless man along with it. From the other guard house across the gate a few more shots rang out and the other creature spiraled out of the air and slammed against the brick wall of the town center, knocking off bits of masonry as it hit.

Dorian slid down the ladder and ran over to where the injured man lay, a few others hovering over him already. He was alive, but his right leg was shattered from the fall. In the middle of his shin the leg bent unnaturally, broken bone protruding through the skin and red meat oozing blood all around it.

"Get a stretcher. Get him to the clinic," Dorian said, and a few men ran off. "We've got you, Rick.”

Moments later the others returned and together they carried him, howling, off down the street.

***

An anxious murmur arose from the crowd gathered in the town hall. As Dorian took to the small stage in front of them their uneasy chatter only grew louder. He raised his hands, signaling that he wanted to speak. It took nearly a minute for the audience to settle.

"Alright," he said. "I've just come back from the clinic. Dr. Brandt says Rick will live, and he will likely keep his leg. The wound has been set and he's in a cast. And he's comfortable for now."

There was some scattered applause mixed in with more low conversation.

Dorian held his hand up again. "Obviously we've had a bad week. First we lost two good men outside the gates—"

"And for what?" someone interrupted. Reid Horton, a former Marine, and one of Dorian's usual retinue on raids outside the town, was standing up. "We go out there, we fight with some crazy cult freaks, and we come back with hardly anything other than two less men!"

It was mostly quiet now, everyone's eyes on Dorian. You little shit, Dorian thought.

"We came back with medicine, Reid. Morphine, for example, for which your friend Rick is rather grateful at the moment." The fire went out of Reid's face but he remained standing. There hadn’t been any morphine in this particular batch, but Reid didn’t know that, and Dorian didn’t figure it mattered.

"Look," Dorian said, painting himself a broad smile like he had practiced so many times in his former life. "Every single man or woman here knows me. When each and every one of you came to Black Creek, we had a talk. And do you remember what I told you?" He looked at a young woman in the front row, who nodded. Others around her did the same.

"The world has gone to hell, but you and me, we can bring it back. And we are, folks. Look around you. Two years ago, every last one of us was out there in the wild, wondering whether it would be a man, some terrible beast, or plain old starvation that would put an end to us. And now here we sit, in a brick building with air conditioning. Fifteen foot walls keeping the world at bay."

There were nods and whispers among the crowd now. "So yes, we've made sacrifices. We've done it before and sadly, we'll have to do it again. Because as hard as we work in here, the world out there? It's still gone to hell. We can't forget that. Least of all those of us who still put our lives on the line outside those walls." He cast a stern eye at Reid, who had just sat back down.

"So what's next? We shore up where we are most weak. Tomorrow, I’ll speak to our team of engineers and builders about a canvas mesh, suspended over the town, to prevent what happened today from happening again. We've made the dam, our source of electricity, more reliable, but we must protect that as well. There is so much work still to be done, but I promise we will keep moving forward."

The crowd was on his side now, a positive energy seeming to lift them up. One man though, in the back of the room, stood passive and emotionless. He wore a hood and seemed to look down at the floor, but Dorian could still feel the man's eyes on him.

He paused, then continued. "But, I know it all wears on all of us, and it can’t be work all the time. I've been keeping a surprise. According to Tommy Doyle, our cattle herd is now large enough to be sustainable. Next week at the town picnic, it'll be hamburgers. For most of us, the first real food in a very long time."

The audience cheered. The crowd dispersed around sunset, each back to their own homes. The hooded man awaited Dorian by the door until they were the only ones left in the hall.

"A rousing speech," the man said.

"Thanks. Didn't know you'd come back."

"Just a few hours ago. Your guards know well enough by now to allow James passage."

"They do. As you also know not to call yourself that name if you want to continue to be welcome here."

"And how would you know this James from another?" the man was grinning.

"The real one doesn't talk like a fucking weirdo, for a start," Dorian said.

That drew a slight chuckle from the man. "Last time I was here, by the way, your livestock herds were somewhat lacking. How did you manage to grow them in so short a time?"

"Haven't yet. Could use your help on that one, actually."

"Ah. Fortune smiles then, as we have need of your services as well."

"I figured. Let's take a walk."

The streetlights were just coming on as Dorian and the man who called himself James left the town hall. He was, of course, not James at all. Rather, he was just one member of yet another cult the likes of which plagued the world these days. This particular group, the Disciples, just happened to be one of the lesser evils. More importantly, they were frequently useful to him.

"James has seen that the heretical so-called Church continues to expand in your area. In our area, as well," the man said as they walked. As they passed beneath a streetlight Dorian could see him better. His hood, part of what appeared to be an ordinary hooded sweatshirt, rested slightly further back on piles of blond hair. Atop the sweatshirt he wore thin leather armor which appeared to be lined with scales and feathers. Dinosaur skin, Dorian knew, though he’d never asked why or how.

Weird fucker.

"Yeah,” Dorian said. “Just killed a nest of them last week, released their prisoners."

"Certainly the poor wretches were fortunate you stumbled upon them." There was a slight biting sarcasm to the man's tone.

"I took three with me. And the rest are better off than they were before I came along."

"James suspects the rest may be dead now, so no better off at all. Perhaps some found their way to another James, if they were lucky."

"Yeah, well that's why men like you exist, to so selflessly help the needy. And yet when it's you who needs help, here you are."

The man chuckled. "Yes, this is true. There is need enough for men like each of us in the world."

"So what do you need?"

"The heretics have built a recruitment camp nearby. Have you seen it?"

"Not with my own eyes. Did see it on one of their maps. Want me to destroy it?"

"Our usual payment would apply. And if rumor is true, you will find upward of twenty cows within the compound. Some chickens too."

Dorian smiled. Things had a way of working out in his favor; they always had. "Deal," he said, extending his hand.

The cultist shook it, then handed him a slip of paper. In a tight red ink scrawl was written a set of coordinates. "Your payment," he said. "James thanks you, Dorian. He does not approve of these heretics, and they must be killed."

Dorian shook his head. "He wouldn't much care for what you guys are doing either. Trust me."

***

His house was cool when he returned home. Dorian headed straight for his office and toward the large map against the wall.

He grabbed the metal board the map was mounted on and lifted it, flipping it over and setting it back down. On the reverse side was another map of the same area. Dozens of X’s crossed out the names of small towns and cities, ones known to him to be abandoned or destroyed. Only three in the entire region were circled, places where people were still making a go at living. Elsewhere around the map was displayed an array of stars in various colors, for the most part scattered around northern Virginia, with a few in West Virginia.

He examined the paper the cultist had given him before grabbing a red marker and drawing a star at the coordinates indicated.

Red. That meant a T-Rex had reportedly been killed there. That was something you just didn't hear of too often these days. The small arms available to most raiders were simply a mild irritant to those massive creatures. Once in a while, you might hear of a former military unit—or simply a group who got their hands on some real hardware—taking one down. Usually though, you'd have already heard about some men running around with a tank.

If not that, there were few other explanations. This was, like the other markers on his map, just another sign of him. Yellow showed rumors of unusual changes in the weather. Green was where ruthless bandit enclaves had suddenly been wiped out without explanation. Orange represented locations where the Disciples had rescued anyone claiming to have been saved from raiders or dinosaurs by a magical bearded man with green eyes.

The Disciples had been searching for his friend, their apparent God, as long as he'd known them. Dorian would simply have to find him first.

There was, to Dorian's constant frustration, no pattern he could recognize. There was no question that James, the real one, was somewhere out in this vast expanse of countryside. He was doing what he always had, fighting endless small fights for the weak and powerless while running from the real fight, one that only he was actually capable of taking on.

Dorian stared at the map, drumming his fingers tunelessly on the table. "Where the hell are you?"

James

Over many years, the world finally began to thaw. As the snow and ice receded, life bloomed around him once again.

Trees, which had once grown no taller than himself, squat and prickly, now reached high into the air, and their thick, green canopies gave him respite from the sun. Their fruits and flowers grew larger and more colorful. Some, he found, were a sweet delight. Others would quickly leave him vomiting as his guts rejected them.

The small, mostly scaly creatures which roamed the earth grew steadily larger and their teeth sharper. Where they had once been eager to avoid him, he now often found himself the target of their own hunts. Luckily, it didn't take him long to discover that the same fire which kept him warm at night also kept them at bay.

The earth was tumultuous in those days. Volcanoes spewed that quick-moving molten rock that still terrified him so. On some days the earth beneath him would tremble and quake. On others, heavy winds which even tore trees from their roots would threaten to lift him from his feet.

Despite all of this, as it always had and always would, life went on and James went on with it. These were mostly cheerful times for him, each day bringing a new place to explore and new things to learn.

On one particular day, James crouched on a slick black rock which jutted out from the beach. The spray of the surf drifted over him in a pleasant mist. Just a few feet below circled his prey, a foot-long gray fish swimming about in the shallow water.

In his right hand he held a short length of wood, its end sharpened. Though it was knobbly, it had been the straightest branch he could find.

James pulled his arm back a bit and then threw the spear, letting out a hoot as it pierced the fish through its midsection. It floated to the surface and then, spear and all, began to drift away from the shore.

James leapt into the water and paddled toward it. As he drew near, without warning, a larger fish's mouth emerged from the surface, its powerful jaws clamping down over his meal and his weapon both. His anger quickly turned to fear as he fled back toward the beach, where he sat in defeat after dragging himself out of the shallows. After a while, he rose and wandered off to look for another branch. And so went many of James's days during that time.

The earth was never content to lay at rest for long, though. In his mind James could in fact feel the turmoil of the very rock and crust of the world. It stretched and strained, as if longing to burst and yet fighting back to resist it. One day though, his world relented.

Fire and poisonous gas burst from the tops of volcanoes all around him. James, sprinting as fast as his legs would take him, reached the safety of a dormant mountaintop. From this high perch, it looked as though all the land was covered in lava. The air was yellow with thick smoke and gas which suffocated him. And for quite a long time he lay unconscious atop that mountain.

When he awoke, many years later, the earth had once again settled, although the air still smelled of sulfur and burned his lungs when he breathed it in. He descended from that summit and roamed the ruined land which stretched for miles and miles in every direction. Above, the sky had been stained a yellow-green.

As he went, one thing became clear. He saw no lizards scuttling among the rocks, no insects flitting about his ears, and no fish darting about the rivers, which now ran brown from the dust and ash. He was alone once again. And though he had never drawn much pleasure from the existence of his fellow creatures, the sudden realization of their loss tore at his heart. He collapsed in a heap, tears streaming down his face and his chest heaving with sobs until he couldn’t breathe.

Above him the clouds rolled in and a soft rain began to fall, a nourishing shower that went on for days, weeks, months, and washed away the blight on the land.

James soon found, to his surprise, that he was not, in fact, completely alone. Though very few, some creatures had indeed survived. And although it took many, many years, life on earth eventually recovered and flourished once again.

The many types of lizards he had known before returned and then evolved, some growing longer and wider and developing spikes or spiny sails along their backs. These were timid, and would scurry away into the tall grass whenever James came near. Others grew taller, lean and fast, and even more deadly for their thick claws. These ones James would hardly ever see, and he dreaded those times when he did. And some just grew tall, massive beyond his comprehension.

These were dangerous times for James. As earth's fauna thrived so did its flora, thick rain forests stretching across the ever-changing landscape. In these days he traveled mostly in the early morning, when the rising sun could light his way, but while the most dangerous creatures still slept.

Most times, he went about with several spears slung across his back in a harness fashioned from wrapped vines. The weapons had been honed over time as well. The tips he chiseled from stone, and these were strapped with thin vines to the end of sleek, carefully trimmed wooden rods.

One morning, James ran through the undergrowth, his feet light and quiet as he ran, as he had practiced for so long. The rising sun had just begun to peek through the thick forest canopy, its rays shining down in yellow columns from above.

As he ran, James heard a chirp from the trees nearby, soon followed by another, deeper chirp. He quickly slid to ground, coming to a stop behind a tree trunk. James listened carefully to the forest around him, filtering out the rustle of leaves in the wind, the buzz of insects all around.

There it was, a soft crunching of leaves nearby.

No sooner had he turned to face it than he was bowled over, the heavy weight of a six foot long scaled beast pinning him down and its narrow jaws snapping at him with rows of sharp teeth. James stretched and tried to pull away, unable to get out from underneath it. The creature reared back and bit, tearing a chunk of flesh from his shoulder and causing him to howl in pain.

James struggled and managed to slip one of his hands free, wriggling to get it underneath the thing's jaw. With a grunt, he blasted the creature with a burst of flame, which sent it tumbling off of him with a high-pitched cry. James rolled to regain his feet, blood dripping down his chest.

The animal was chirping and trying to get back up, but James roasted it with flame from both hands as he screamed. His attacker's cries grew louder, and then finally fell silent before James stopped, the beast left blackened and motionless on the ground.

He stumbled away, piercing pain in his chest, and now in his abdomen as he noticed a new wound there. A segment of his bowel peeked curiously out through his flesh. He held his hands to the wound and walked, as he felt the skin begin to knit itself together once again. It was, as always, a painful process. The roar of voices in the back of his head was ever-present, only growing louder when his body was stressed, but still he suppressed the noise.

The jungle around him suddenly fell away, and he found himself on the edge of a cliff. The ground below was at least a hundred feet down a sheer rock face. Behind, the thick forest was like a solid wall.

James slid to the ground alongside a mossy rock and rested his head back, sighing loudly. He felt a slight tremor in the ground beneath him, but it lulled him to sleep.

He awoke a short time later to a louder, heavier boom. The tremors had grown steadily closer as he slept. He sat upright with a start, looking around for the source of the disturbance. Seeing none, he leaned back against the rock again. His shoulder and abdomen had healed over, he noticed upon looking down at his own naked form.

Another boom and shake now, followed by a bellowing, moaning call coming from below. James stood up, and then he saw. Three truly massive sauropods roamed beneath the cliff, emerging from his right and then passing out into the vast plain before him. Their heads rose at least fifty feet off the ground, bobbing and swaying gently atop their spindly necks as they went. Each slow footfall was like an earthquake.

James watched them as they passed by, marveling at the beauty of the scene as they faded into the distance, the sun rising above the mountains and casting the valley in an orange glow. As the giants passed over the horizon, he fell back to sleep.

Over time, life only became more dangerous for James. Though many peaceful, grazing animals roamed the earth, the predators grew even larger and more deadly. The stalking raptors which hid in the brush learned to hunt in packs. The larger, lumbering carnivores which James had once easily outrun grew faster and even bigger still. So James spent much of his time hidden, living in one cave or another until he felt the need to move on. When he traveled, he did so under cover of darkness whenever he could, though this held its own unique dangers. Sometimes he still ventured too far from his shelter, and he would pay the price for it.

On one particular day, James sat on the bank of a forest stream, spear in hand, waiting to catch a fish. He had ventured out in the early morning but, having no luck, found himself still out in the open as the sun reached its zenith overhead. Suddenly he perked up, distracted from his concentration on the movement in the water, as his body sensed a trembling in the earth. This pattern of heavy footfalls was unfortunately one he recognized all too well. James quickly took to his feet and sprinted in the direction of his cave.

The beast was soon close on his trail, seismic running footsteps making his legs shudder as he ran, and the sound of splintering, crashing trees could be heard close behind. He darted between the trees, knowing from past experience that his only chance of outrunning the thing was in quick changes in direction. In a straight run it would overtake him in seconds.

The tyrannosaur's roar rent the air, echoing through the trees and causing his ears to ache. He kept running, spinning around a tree and heading off in another direction. His pursuer was no more than ten feet behind him. Ahead, the ground fell away in a cliff, a shallow stream cascading off its edge. Simply hoping, sight unseen, for a deep pool to land in, James leapt away from the cliff in a sprint.

No sooner had he left the ground than his arm was caught, jerking him backward. His shoulder was pinned between the beast's sharp, jagged teeth and he got a quick glimpse of its face before it began to shake him to and fro, his body flopping limply over its snout. He was overwhelmed with a terrible pain as his arm was wrenched free from his body, and James found himself in the air again, spinning end over end off the edge of the cliff and falling. He hit the rock ground below with a crack and a squish, falling immediately unconscious.

James awoke a short time later, his body contorted and still bleeding, on the edge of a shallow pond. His first thought was that the water wouldn’t have broken his fall even if he had landed in it. His second thought was agony, as his limbs all screamed for his attention. Aside from the left arm, which was missing from the shoulder, each was broken and twisted, bones jutting through his skin.

He lifted his right arm, slapping his wrist against a rock until the bone slipped back into place. With each strike he gritted his teeth, but couldn’t help yelping from the pain anyway. As this extremity began to heal, he used it to set the bones of his legs. As he lay on the forest floor, breathing heavily, his left arm began slowly to regenerate. Bone, muscle, nerve, and skin grew as one down the length of it. He had no idea how long the process took. After a while, James rose and wandered off to find new shelter. His body was healed as good as new, but his mind was in a rage. Overhead, thunder rolled and rain began to fall.

James resolved not to hide anymore. After he slept that night, he began to stalk the creature which had defeated him. It was easily found, as these animals were territorial and usually did not stray far. Moving quietly and often between the high branches of trees, he was able to follow it mostly unseen. The tyrannosaurus scavenged alone for carrion most of the time, though it never shied away from a fight. It slept intermittently during the day and hunted in the early morning and evening. While it slept, James trained. He practiced with his wooden spears and hunted the smaller predators in the forest.

Many days he would crawl back to his cave bleeding and beaten, to fall quickly into a heavy sleep. And every morning he would rise, his strength renewed and resolved to try again. Despite his failures, with every passing day he grew more skilled.

He found the beast one day in a grassy clearing, feasting on the carcass of its last prey. It seemed to hear his approach, stirring and turning away from its meal. James stood firm, facing down the creature many times his own size. He carried one spear in his hand, another slung across his back. The tyrannosaurus bobbed its head, sniffing the air and letting out a low, rumbling growl. It took a tentative step forward, seemingly watching his reaction. James waited, spear pointed forward, its blunt end braced against the ground.

The beast charged forward, letting out a roar. When it came near, James rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding those massive snapping jaws and swinging the point of the spear out in a wide arc as he rolled. Its sharpened tip tore through the tyrannosaur's foreleg, a thick gout of blood spurting out onto the grass. The wound seemingly went unnoticed, and his opponent slowly turned its awkward, bulky body around to face him again.

This time he moved as soon as it began its charge, running straight toward it before dropping to his knees and sliding beneath its torso as it overtook him. He jabbed out with the spear at its other foreleg, the point catching flesh, but the weapon was quickly wrested away from his grasp. As he slid, he raised his other hand upward and summoned a funnel of flame which burned the beast’s underbelly. This brought a great, pained cry from the dinosaur, though it still turned to face him once again, shaking its enormous frame as if to shrug off its wounds. James finished his slide and quickly took back to his feet, retrieving his other spear from its harness. The first still hung, broken, from one of the creature's legs.

It was moving slower now, so James took the offensive. He ran straight ahead, then peeled off in a curve just outside of its biting range. The beast shuffled in place trying to keep him in sight, but he could easily outpace it. As he ran, he summoned a beam of frost which crackled and splintered about the tyrannosaur's legs. James leapt aside now, as it stamped in frustration, breaking free from its icy shell.

The monster's eyes were intent on James, but it wavered slightly as it began its final charge. James took two steps and grunted, leaping high into the air, up above its head. With both hands, he braced his spear and plunged it deep into the eye of the beast. James hit the ground hard as the tyrannosaurus wailed and roared, then fell to the ground and was silent. James wrenched the spear free and held it above his head, hooting and bellowing in triumph.

He went about the land more freely after that, but he would never seek out a fight when he did not have to. And as it seemed always to be, the earth was steeling itself for another change.

It came unannounced on one cool morning. James rose and left his cave, squinting his eyes against the early sun and leaning on his spear. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he stood agape at what he saw in the distant sky.

A massive, flaming, brown and yellow object was plummeting toward the earth. It was like nothing he had ever seen before, and all he could do was watch its slow descent. Slowly, but surely, it neared the horizon until slammed into the ground, and then the earth shuddered with a quake stronger than anything he'd ever felt. He was knocked to the ground, and behind he heard crashing and rumbling as the cave collapsed on itself. The earth continued to tremble as he stood back up. The sky quickly turned black from dust, and he choked with every breath.

Not knowing what else to do, he walked. As he did, the life around him died. The sun, moon, and stars were obscured by the black canopy in the sky. Trees shriveled and turned brown. All the creatures of the land suffocated and died, or withered away to nothing as their food went to rot. And soon, as he had been before, James was alone. It seemed he was destined to forever roam this lonely plane, an endless struggle without the relief of death.

He wandered on, longing for rest. James eyed the end of his spear, something in his mind telling him to plunge it through his chest though he knew his body, ever determined to keep him alive, would quickly repair itself. He chucked the weapon down and screamed at nothing, screamed until his lungs were empty and he fell to the ground gasping for air. He wanted there to be someone else like him, someone who shared his joys and his pains. It was nothing he had truly ever considered before but, having now thought it, it became all he really desired.

It would be a very long time before James would get his wish, but life did return to the world once again. Slowly, the sky cleared and the sun returned. The rivers eventually ran clear and he could quench his thirst without becoming sick. The life that thrived now was different, and these were more peaceful times. Small, furry creatures appeared on land, and birds took to the sky. James became happier with the return of life to his world, but his wish never left his mind as he went about life as he always had.

Many, many years had passed since that terrible day, and today James ran across a flat grassland. He still carried his two spears, which had been further refined and strengthened over the years. About his shoulders was draped a garment of fur, a new discovery recently afforded him, which protected his skin from the burning sun as well as from attack. The latter was rarely needed in these days, as James had become skilled at calming all but the most aggressive of animals without the need for a fight.

James met up with a babbling stream and he stopped, pulling water to his mouth with a cupped hand. In the stream he observed his own reflection, his knotted beard grown long. On occasion he would shear it away with a sharpened rock, but he had not done so in a while. He wet his hair and pulled free some of the tangles which tugged at his chin.

Satisfied, James resumed his run. He followed the river along its course, and it led him into a thin forest. He ran along the rocks in the river, enjoying the cool water on his feet. Eventually, the stream came to its end in a small pond, where a few deer were startled away by his arrival. He watched them go, catching his breath.

After a moment's rest, James jogged deeper into the forest. The snap of a branch and a grunt caught his ear, and he stopped. Another snap, from just off to his right. James picked his way quietly through the brush in the direction of the sounds.

There, in a grassy clearing, was a woman. He stared at her in disbelief, and she at him as he emerged from the trees. She was alone, and she wore fur about her hips and carried a stack of branches in her arms. Her chest was bare, and his eyes were drawn to the swell and curve of her breasts.

The sight of her aroused something powerful within him, something he didn’t know how to resist. There was an unpleasant pressure in his groin. James stepped toward her, and although she looked uncertain, she didn’t run. He grabbed her and fell to the ground atop her, the branches snapping between them. She cried out and tried to push him away, but he persisted. Despite her struggle, he was stronger.

His release came within seconds, and he felt his mind begin to clear. The woman was crying, no longer fighting against him. He stood up and backed away, feeling a terrible regret as he stared at her lying on the grass. James turned and ran. As he went, he heard the shouts of men behind him, which quickly faded.

He ran and ran until night fell, and then he collapsed into a nightmare-plagued sleep.

Skye

"Shall we proceed?"

Skye took little notice of the man who stood next to her; he was a thin, wiry creature who wore the crimson rags typical of his order. The two of them, and several more Rags beside, were huddled on a hillside along with her. Skye raised the binoculars to her eyes, her iron chains jangling slightly.

Her target wasn’t far ahead, just down the road. What had clearly once been an average suburban shopping center had been transformed into a budding colony. Clothing stores and restaurants were now makeshift homes. In what had been the parking lot, asphalt was torn up in places and the soil seeded for small patches of crops. The edges of the square were fenced in with chain link and boards. A weak metal gate, the only entrance or exit, was secured with a mere padlock and chain.

One guard stood watch in a rickety wooden tower behind the fence. If he were any good, he would have already spotted her.

Easy.

"Go," she said to no-one in particular, and one of the men behind her scurried down the hill, waving his hands overhead. At the bottom of the slope a large black van rumbled to life. Its driver stuck a manacled arm out the window, craning his neck around as he reversed the vehicle onto the road. With a steadily-increasing roar, the diesel engine reversed toward the gate.

Skye slapped the binoculars against the chest of the Rag to her left and made off down the hill, watching as the scene played out ahead.

As the van tore down the road, the lone guard finally took notice. He appeared to be raising the alarm, others within the compound now scrambling about, but far too late to make any difference. The van hit the gate with a crash and sent it skittering across the pavement, taking the legs out from under the guard, who hit the ground in a heap. The driver threw the van into drive and pulled forward, positioning the vehicle to block off the entrance.

The driver slammed his fist down on a button on the dashboard. At that, the rear doors of the van sprung open. Three raptors leapt from the back, their claws clicking loudly on the asphalt. There were screams from the people inside as the three dinosaurs spread out, tentative at first, then attacking. The popping of scattered small arms fire could be heard, along with the anguished screams of men and women from inside the compound.

Skye clambered over the hood of the van and onto its roof, where she could observe the scene safely. Unlike the driver—who had crawled through the van and now sat casually at its back, legs hanging over the side and a rifle cradled in his arms—Skye would go nowhere near the vicious beasts. Below was carnage, streaks of red and bodies scattered across the parking lot. The raptors had disappeared inside the buildings. One more gunshot rang out somewhere, and then it was quiet.

Skye whistled and got the attention of the driver, who looked up at her. She nodded toward the buildings without a word and he hopped up, striding forward into the parking lot and letting out a long, musical whistle of his own. Nothing happened for a moment, and he whistled again, this time with a more harsh tone.

The three raptors sprinted out of two different buildings, skidding to a stop near the driver and nipping and chirping at each other. He shouted at them, a wordless grunt, and two seemed to be cowed, dropping into a slight kneel. The other was spinning in place, chirping and calling out. Skye noticed that blood dripped from one of its thighs. The driver whistled and pointed to the van, and the two leaptback inside. Skye had to steady herself as the van rocked beneath her.

The hunter raised his rifle and fired at the other, a tranquilizer dart piercing its neck. After a moment it fell into a snoring daze, and Skye shut the van's doors with her foot before hopping down.

"Is he alright?" she asked the driver, who knelt over the sleeping beast.

"Clean shot through," he said, indicating the oozing wound through its thigh. "He'll be fine. I've barely got a hold on them most times. When they get hurt, they don't listen." He pulled a bandage wrap from his pack and began to roll it around the leg. Behind them, someone else was pulling the van away from the gate. Church members, all in rags, began filing through the gap. Skye and the raptor trainer were the only Chains among them.

Some of them were tearing down the fences now, which fell to the ground with a creak and a crash.

"Mistress," someone said behind her. She turned to face him.

"What is it?"

"There are some still alive."

Skye found them inside an old burger restaurant. The interior was mostly unchanged, and it seemed to have served as a mess hall for the people who lived here. Some half-eaten meals still lay on some of the tables in the dining room, and a half-eaten woman was sprawled out near the door. Blood ran in a sticky pool across the entryway. The survivors had barricaded themselves in the stock room. She tried the door, which was locked.

"Come out," she said.

"No," came the simple reply.

"You can open the door, and possibly survive, or you can remain in there and die. Believe me when I say I truly have no preference."

A silent moment passed before the lock clicked. A burly Rag stepped past her and kicked the door in, emerging moments later dragging a man and woman with him. He threw them on the floor at Skye's feet. Two more male survivors soon joined them.

"Who are you people?" one asked, the same man she had heard through the door.

"We are the followers of James," she said.

"What do you want?"

She crouched down to his height, her chains clinking on the floor. "I want you to stop wasting the gift James gave you." He stared at her blankly, without a shred of understanding on his face.

Her smile dropped. "Our society was weak, corrupt, rotten to its core. We lived tedious, meaningless lives. We had no respect for what this world truly is, no perspective to appreciate true strength or sacrifice. So James took it all away. He gave us all a chance to start over. To achieve humanity's true potential. And you," she jabbed him hard in the chest with her finger. "You reject that gift. You try to rebuild what was broken. Why do you insult him?" She stood, her eyes scanning the captive survivors.

"I watched it happen. On TV," another man said. "It wasn't any James. It was Martin Singh, he was just elected president. He gave a speech, and then he did this. I saw it with my own eyes."

Skye wheeled on him, seized him up by his shirt. "You lie," she spat at him. He whimpered, fear in his eyes, and said nothing else. She let him drop to the floor.

"These ones are beyond saving," she said, turning and walking back down the hall. "Kill them."

"No, wait!" one of them men cried out.

Skye turned back. "What?"

"If what you're after is civilization, I can tell you about someplace better. We're nothing. I know about a place with electricity, houses, everything. Please just let us live."

"I'm listening," Skye said.

"Black Creek. It's on the south edge of Deep Creek Lake, not too far from here. I've been trying to get in for months."

Skye nodded. "Thank you," she said, turning away from them once again, and their screams echoed after her as she went.

***

Skye crept through the brush, dried leaves crunching underfoot as she picked her way between the thick trees and overgrown brambles. Night had just begun to fall, and a chill breeze was funneled through the forest. A lone cricket chirped somewhere nearby.

The moon was climbing above the horizon when she emerged from the trees, a mile away from the place where she'd left her motorcycle after parting with the rest of the Church members. The still water of the lake was like a vast, dark mirror laid out before her. There was a gentle sloshing of water against the rocks on the shore nearby.

The natural beauty of the place had been disturbed, though. On the far bank and off to her right, unnatural orange lights shone, mounted high on metal poles and illuminating the rock dam below.

Even at this hour, men were working there, the sounds of their shouts and the reports of their hammers on rock and metal echoing across the lake. Though exposed from the direction of the water, tall, thick walls protected them from the sides. Behind the dam, the faint glow of more man-made light diffused over the tops of the trees.

So the man hadn't been lying after all.

Skye had scarcely believed the story until she saw it with her own eyes. She couldn't see inside those walls, but they were massive and covered a large area. It was plain enough to see they had an abundance of resources inside, and electricity to power it all. Thanks to the dam in this very lake, she could only imagine.

The very existence of the place was an insult. As she watched the men working from afar, Skye seethed.

She rode back to the Church alone, and by the time she arrived the slightest hint of light on the horizon suggested sunrise could not be far away. Though her master needed to hear of her discovery, he wouldn’t want to be disturbed at this hour. It could wait until morning, and Skye was exhausted. She made straight for her quarters and was asleep the instant her head hit the pillow.

***

Skye dreamed of days not long past, though to her they seemed to be eons gone.

"Welcome to the Church, Skye," the green-eyed Robe had said to her as she threw down her blade, moments after defeating the other prisoner.

But there had been no welcome; there was only another room. The green-eyed man disappeared as quickly as he'd come, leaving Skye in a room with a dozen gray-ragged men and women, these ones numberless. On a table right near the door, only a tiny pocket knife.

When she took the knife, examining its discolored brass handle, the others attacked.

They came at her all at once, charging and howling at her unlike any human should. Not knowing what else to do, and without time to think, Skye whipped the knife out in an arc before her. In her dream, she could still see the face of that one man as he looked down, his bowels spilling out of his opened gut. Him trying in vain to hold them all in before he went pale and fell to the ground. And yet the others came for her still.

Skye fought, stabbing and slicing with her tiny knife as fists, knees and elbows landed all across her body. Five or six of their number must lay dead or bleeding by now, but still they dragged her to the ground, nails clawing at her skin. Now it was all she could do to keep the knife beneath her and out of their hands.

The blows continued to rain down upon her and her head was woozy, consciousness fading away from her. And then they were gone, simply disappeared along with the bodies of the dead, and the door opened behind her just as her vision went black.

The next thing Skye remembered was a whip cracking across her back, and her screaming.

"Good morning," came a voice, then another lash of the whip, cutting into her flesh.

Some image was being projected across the wall before her but, without the energy to care, she let her head sag down. Her arms had been stretched out and tied to posts, leaving her on her knees dangling between, all the weight on her shoulders.

Another lash, and Skye yelped with each hit. "Look up," the voice said, and Skye did, her eyelids heavy.

She could barely hear the words as the man spoke about humanity, how it had grown weak in its contentment and luxury. How a once proud, noble species lost its way, and the time had come for a return to its natural ways. A world where only the strong would survive.

"Are you strong?" the voice asked her, and she could only groan in reply. Skye had no idea how long all this must have gone on. Days, surely. Until suddenly the projected images disappeared and the lights came on once again. Her arms were freed, and Skye collapsed forward. Dirt stuck to her dry lips.

Powerful arms rolled her onto her back, and in her blurry vision she could see a smiling man with bright green eyes leaning over her. He pressed his hands to her chest, and Skye felt all the pain begin to leave her body.

When he was done, Skye sat upright. Her back no longer burned, and her head no longer swam and ached. The man laid a hand on her shoulder. "I'm James," he said.

To Skye, coming out of that place felt like being reborn. The color of the sky, the sway of the trees, the caw of birds overhead was all a bit more sublime as she was led through the Church's headquarters for the first time.

"We will not meet again for a long time," James told her before leaving her with the green-eyed Robe. "But remember everything you do is for, and with, me. I will be here for you."

She was Chained. Where the Robes sat and thought, she would take action and fight. Each different, each an equally important part of their cause.

The time since had been filled with training. Nearly every day she woke, spending her mornings exercising until she vomited, collapsed, or both. In the afternoons she trained with weapons, or sparred with others while her master watched. After a while, the training became less torturous. Whether the training had actually gotten easier, or she had just gotten used to it, Skye couldn’t be sure.

She hadn’t seen James again since, his lair forbidden for her to enter, but his presence was always felt. As the days, months, went by she felt more and more at home here and those early, torturous days seemed to be no more than dreams.

***

"Sister Skye."

Her master was a slight but lean and muscular man. He sat on a red velvet rug, facing toward her as she entered his room. He was bare-chested, as all men of their order were, whereas Skye wore a plain white shirt tucked into her tan military-style cargo pants.

"Master," Skye said, sitting down cross-legged across from him.

"What news this morning?"

"The compound is destroyed. A few survived our attack, but they were not fit to join us."

"This is a shame," he said, crossing his wrists in front of him, his chains clanking together.

"What became of them?"

"They spoke very troubling lies. I had them killed."

His reaction was subtle but, to her, clearly one of disapproval. The Church certainly didn’t shy away from slaughter, but the killing of helpless captives was not usually seen as a sign of strength among the Chained. Skye felt the need to defend herself.

"They said that James was not our savior, that it was another by the name of Martin. I’m sorry for showing weakness, master, but I was enraged by their lies."

There was a fury in his own eyes, which were an unnatural neon green, as well now. He rubbed at his forehead and the anger seemed to leave him. "I cannot truly blame you, Skye. You’re not the first to lose their temper in the face of such heresy. Still, we must remember that discipline is strength."

"Yes, master."

They were silent for a moment. The room was dimly lit by candles, the only light source available to them. The wind howled outside and the thin walls shuddered.

"May I ask, master, you have heard these same lies before?"

He nodded solemnly. "I have. As the Robes tell it, James teaches us of a great adversary. He has been known by many names, as James has himself, but today he is known as Martin. He claims false credit for the deeds of our leader, and his followers desire nothing other than to poison the holy name of James in the world."

Rage was boiling in Skye's gut at the mention of this. "What can we do about them?"

He smiled. "We fight them, when we can. But the greater battle is between James and Martin themselves. We will aid him in what small ways we can, but mortals such as you and I cannot stand against this adversary. Much as we might yearn to do so, James will not allow his loyal followers to throw their lives away in this fight. It is his alone."

Not long after, she walked alongside her master down the dark and drafty hallway and then up some stairs where they emerged onto the open roof. They paced along the railing which overlooked the yard below, where a group of Rags were undergoing their morning training. Their Chained instructor barked out gruff orders, and his own bright green eyes could be seen from across the yard.

Whereas the Robes might be considered the brains and the Chains the brawn, the Rags were the sheer manpower of the Church, be it for fighting or for menial labor. Those in crimson were true initiates, but ones without the aptitude for a higher calling. Those in gray were no more than prisoners. Their numbers were not so great, but still they easily outnumbered most these days.

"You are doing very well, Skye. You still have much to learn, and much to teach others. But I am proud of your progress in these past months."

"Thank you, master." She paused a moment, stopping where she stood. "There's something you should know."

He turned to her, his swirling green eyes inquisitive.

"No more than ten miles from here, they've built a city. Right under our noses. They have walls, and buildings, and electricity. These things I have seen with my own eyes. And if the stories are true, they have even worse things inside. They've completely rejected the gift. They call it Black Creek."

He smiled, and nodded softly. "Yes, Skye. We know of this place."

This answer hit her like a truck. She had never considered that the Church might already know of its existence. Otherwise, why would it still be allowed to stand?

"But, it must be destroyed. Every day they are allowed to build is another insult to us, and to James."

"We have tried, and failed. This is no ragtag band of survivors. They are well protected, and heavily armed." Seeing Skye's reaction, he went on. "Trust, Sister Skye. We will tear those walls to the ground before long. But it is no simple task."

Skye forced down the bile that seemed to be rising in her throat. "Yes, master."

"Your commitment is admirable. Patience will be rewarded." He rested a hand on her shoulder. "We'll speak later."

"Does James know of it? Surely he would help."

Her master hesitated before turning around. "James knows all. These are not his struggles to bear, but ours. Do not go to him."

With that, he left her there on the roof. Skye was alone in the courtyard, the training session below also having ended while they spoke. None of this sat well with her. Surely they could not intend to let this affront pass. Was this a test?

Skye took the steps down off the roof two at a time, walking quickly across the camp. Finally, she descended a natural stone stairway which left her on the tiny shore of a small but peaceful lake. A cave opened up in the side of the cliff.

The place had an eerie feel to it, just as it had the first time she'd seen it. James's sanctuary. A place forbidden to any who had not been summoned.

A solitary torch burned along the base of the cliff face, and the mouth of the cave was like a black void. With just a moment's hesitation, Skye snatched the torch off of its mount and entered.

A man sat inside, alone, at a small oak table. He read a book by the dim light of a single candle. A bookshelf sat against the wall behind him, and off to the side the cave curled away into the dark. He looked up as she entered. His hair was sleek and black, his eyes that same eerie green. He regarded her with a friendly face and a warm smile as he closed his book, marking his location before he did so.

"You shouldn't be here," he said, an air of amusement in his voice. It was indeed him, the same man she remembered from her dreams.

"No," she said. "But here I am."

Jess

The city was nearly unrecognizable.

Jess killed the engine of her car before climbing out and slamming the door behind her. It was a rusty old sedan, one she'd stolen at the first possible opportunity after her descent off the mountain late last night. Outside the cities, the highways were clear and travel was quick.

Nearer to Pittsburgh, the highway became cluttered with broken-down and otherwise abandoned vehicles. Here, at the edge of a bridge crossing into the city proper, her path finally became impassable.

She squinted and shielded her tired eyes against the climbing morning sun. Just ahead, the bridge was walled off with a rickety barricade of metal and wood. There was no one else in sight.

Jess grabbed the end of a wood plank and heaved until it cracked and pulled away. She brushed her hands against her pants before squeezing between the gap. There was still no sign of anyone on the other side of the barricade. Ahead, past the arcing yellow metal beams and wires of the bridge, downtown Pittsburgh stretched across her field of view. The city's skyline looked as though it had been leveled at its midsection, its tallest buildings crumbling or seemingly missing entirely.

She walked across the bridge in silence. In better times, it might have been a pleasant scene. The river rolled lazily past below, the sun glinting off its surface. Now though, the sheer emptiness and quiet of the place sent a shiver up her spine, and she had the disconcerting feeling that someone was watching her. If someone was, they didn’t emerge as she reached the halfway point of the bridge and came to a stop.

At her feet, where the bridge should have been, was a gaping chasm. There was at least twenty feet of emptiness between her and the other side, where broken stone and pipes dangled from the exposed foundation of the bridge. Looking down, she could see the outline of the fallen section of bridge under the water. A quick glance to her sides confirmed what she suddenly feared; all the bridges into the city had been destroyed.

Crap.

Jess ran back the way she had come, clambering over the side of the bridge when she reached the roadway once again. The slope was steep but she kept her feet, sliding and stumbling down to the bottom. With a running start she dove and hit the water, which was surprisingly warm.

Several minutes later Jess hauled herself up the opposite bank, panting and soaked. She shook the water free from her arms and legs. Nearby, a steep set of old stairs led back up to the city so she started up, gathering her hair and wringing it out as she went.

The city seemed to be entirely abandoned. Jess made her way from street to street, picking a path through the piles of rubble which were scattered across most of the roadways. Her memories of patrolling these same streets felt like a distant blur. This was only worsened by the recent strain on her mind. She was still getting used to her new self, and thousands of years of memory pressed heavily on the back of her mind. She didn't want all of that. She only wanted to be herself, Jess, and to find Rachel.

As Jess moved deeper into downtown, she noticed some of the roads had been partially cleared. There were other signs of humanity, too. She saw a long clothesline strung between two pillars, the only remnants of an old bank. A motorcycle leaned against a still-standing stop sign, the bike clean in stark contrast to the few other half-buried vehicles on the streets. Still though, no other person could be seen.

She found the first body immediately after rounding the next corner. Jess leapt back in shock at the sight of it, lying right at her feet. He was a young man, sprawled out face down on the sidewalk. The concrete was stained red from his dried blood. Jess moved on, going no more than ten feet before she found another, this one bent over a concrete median. There was a black handgun lying at his feet. She picked it up, checking the magazine. Loaded.

Thanks.

The market square, one block away, was a battlefield. Dozens of dead men and women were strewn about. Bullet holes marked most of the remaining walls of the surrounding buildings. An equal number of pistols, rifles and shotguns lay near many of the corpses, some still gripped firmly in their hands. Jess pocketed a couple of the fuller magazines, then let her eyes linger briefly on the carnage of the scene before moving on. Whatever had happened here, it was recent. And if anyone in the city was left alive, they weren't here.

She walked along the riverfront for a time, forced to take a roundabout route due to a road made impassable by towering rubble. Two small boats were tethered at a nearby dock. They bobbed and rolled with the current, on occasion bumping against the dock with a mournful creak.

After a while, Jess left the riverside path to return once again to the city streets. She was further from the city center now and, though the signs of catastrophe were still in evidence, some blocks looked almost untouched. Rusted but otherwise undamaged cars were still parked bumper-to-bumper along the sides of the road. Some store windows still displayed signs reading "Open," while others had clearly been abandoned in haste. Still others, typically the more useful ones such as pharmacies or hardware stores, were thoroughly looted.

She turned off the main thoroughfare onto a peaceful residential street. Some of the grass and trees were still green here, while other areas were scorched and blackened. Some homes stood in ruins. All, as far as she could see, were empty.

A shot rang out as she walked, the bullet tearing a divot into the asphalt a few feet ahead of her. Jess ducked and scrambled to cover behind the nearest car. She slipped her own gun from her waistline and readied it, scanning the buildings across the street for any sign of the shooter.

No other shots followed, but the home straight across the road caught her eye. Its door was fortified with layered boards nailed across its frame. Never a normal sight in a suburban neighborhood.

Jess took aim at one of the upstairs windows of this home and fired three quick shots before sprinting out from behind the car and across the street. Two more bullets hit the asphalt, narrowly missing her legs as she ran. She slammed into the door, which held fast and sent her reeling back with a sharp pain in her shoulder. Jess shook the injured arm before rearing back for a kick at the doorknob. Again, the door didn't budge.

She took a step back from the door and tried to clear her mind. Jess dug deep inside of herself and into the earth itself, drawing strength out of the ground she stood upon. Inside her mind, she fought to tame that destructive force, shaping it to her needs, then unleashed it from her hands. The door shot off its hinges and flew into the entryway of the home in a cloud of flame and splinters.

Jess slid inside to see a man hit the ground nearby, sent tumbling by the force of the blast. He appeared unharmed though, and was reaching for his rifle, which had clattered to the hardwood floor nearby. Jess jumped atop him, kicking the rifle away and pressing his chest to the ground with her foot.

He was young, no more than twenty-five, with shoulder-length wiry brown hair. Overgrown but patchy facial hair spotted his cheeks. He strained against her but Jess pushed him back down.

"Don't hurt me!" he cried out.

"You shot at me,” she said.

"Well, y-yeah," he stuttered. "I was just scared though."

Jess eyed him hard. He avoided her gaze, and his look was one of genuine fear. Jess felt her anger dull somewhat.

"Don't move," she said before lifting her boot off his chest. She scooped his rifle off the floor and laid it upright against the wall near the broken doorway. "Alright, get up. Slowly."

She kept her pistol aimed at him as he got slowly up to his knees and then his feet, hands up all the while. He backed up and sat down on a floral couch behind him. Only then did Jess let her gun down.

"I thought you were coming for me," he said.

"Yeah, well, you could have killed me. And I didn't even know you were here. So I wasn't coming for you."

"I'm sorry," he offered.

"What's your name?"

"Mike."

"I'm Jess." He didn't reply. "What happened downtown?"

He laughed to himself. "I don't even know where to start." Jess shrugged and took a seat in a recliner across from him.

"The city didn't do well after it happened, whatever it was. It happened so fast, I don't know how many even had a chance to run. After, some people got some teams together, search and rescue parties. There were less than three hundred people left alive downtown." Jess felt a pit form in her stomach. "South side and the north shore, probably more, but we didn't know."

"A lot of people left then, still thinking that whatever happened was only here. Took a long time to realize this happened everywhere else too. But those of us who stayed, we wanted to rebuild. It was hard, though. Not much food, no running water, no power. A couple of guys kind of took control. After we found out there were fucking dinosaurs running around out there for some reason, they blew out the bridges. Between that and barricading the roads, we were mostly protected from the outside."

"Things started to break down pretty quick. The first fight was about the prisoners in the jail. Somehow it was totally untouched by the storms. It only took a couple days for the inmates to take over the place, and with no electricity to keep them locked in we had to barricade them inside. Some of us wanted to negotiate, try to let them out. Others said we should just keep them locked up. We tried one negotiation, didn't go too well, so that was that. Argument over. They all starved to death."

"What side were you on?" Jess asked.

"Does it matter?" he said, but there was pain in his eyes.

"Anyway, we moved past it. But the damage was done, I think. We were basically trapped in this city, and over time we fought more and more. It finally boiled over I guess."

"How many are left alive?" Jess asked.

"You're the first person I've seen since. Hard to imagine I'm the only one left, but who knows. I've just been hiding in here for a few days. Trying to figure out what I'm gonna do. Now that you fucked up my door, I guess I'll move on."

"I'm sorry," Jess said, glancing over at the still-smoking doorway.

"So what were you doing?"

"I lived here. I was a cop. I was out of town when it happened," she lied. "I had to come back and see."

"Must have been far away if it took you two years to get back," Mike said.

"I guess you wouldn't know, but it's pretty bad out there. I'm lucky to be here at all. Anyway, my girlfriend was here. I need to find her." Jess stood up.

She saw in his face a brief confusion which gave way to a somewhat forced, overeager attempt at a casual nod. It wasn't an uncommon reaction to the mention of her having a girlfriend, a brief visceral uncertainty followed by the realization that this was normal and something that shouldn't seem strange. It amused Jess more than offended her.

"Where did she live?" he asked.

"Two blocks that way," she said, pointing.

"Good luck," he said, but his grimace betrayed him.

"Yeah, you too." She stuck out a hand, which he shook.

Jess left, back out onto the street, and broke into a jog. One block passed, then the next. It was as she feared. As she went, the damage grew worse and worse. She took her last few steps in a daze, and suddenly found herself standing across the street from her apartment, or where it had once stood.

Hers, and most others on the street, were reduced to no more than foundations and piles of ash. Along the side, the rickety old wooden stairs somehow remained. They ascended to nowhere, the wood charred and twisted.

Jess crossed the road and vaulted over the concrete into the ruins of what had been her living room. The couch was a barely-recognizable cinder sitting across from a pool of broken glass and metal that had been their TV. She waded through the soot and rubble. There was nothing left. A tear fell from her cheek to the ashen floor.

In her bedroom a splash of color beneath the dust caught her eye. She knelt over it, tossing away a few splinters of wood laying over top. It was a photo, one she immediately recognized, though its edges were singed and crumpled. In the background, the blue expanse of Niagara Falls could be seen. In the fore, Rachel smiled, her head on Jess's shoulder. Jess's own face had been burned away. Jess wiped another tear from her cheek and slipped the photo into her pocket.

She stepped down onto the sidewalk again. Her mind was in a fog, and her hands were numb. Jess leaned against the small crumbled wall that had been her home and sobbed, her chest heaving and tears streaming down her face. Deep down she had known this was what she would find, but still Jess had hoped for something more. Either way, she had needed to see it for herself, but the reality of it all was no less painful.

After a while, the tears stopped and her breathing slowed. She squeezed her eyes, sore from crying, shut and then opened them again, blinking away the tears blurring her vision. She had to move forward, and she had to have hope.

There was, though to even consider the idea brought a piercing pain to her chest, at least no sign of Rachel in the house. No body. And, Jess only noticed now, Rachel's car was gone.

James

James mostly kept to himself in those days.

Overall things went on for him as they always had. He roamed the land hunting and foraging. Now and then, he would find a peaceful spot and settle down, making it his home for years at a time before moving on. He was his own sole companion.

These were more peaceful times as well. After the time of the dinosaurs, smaller, furrier and generally more docile creatures reigned. He still had occasional run-ins with some of the more dangerous predators, but even these often seemed far more afraid of him than he was of them. One thing was different now, though. He was no longer truly alone on this planet.

At first they were scattered and easily avoided, but over time the spread of humanity made it harder and harder for him to stay away. James still hadn't made any attempt to interact with anyone else. Though he didn't even fully understand what he had done, he felt a profound sense of guilt over what had happened when he met that woman. James had simply been overwhelmed by his own primal urges, which previously had no outlet at all.

His desire for the companionship of his own kind never faded though, and so when they had multiplied and spread across the land so far that he could run from them no longer, he contented himself for a while to watch. James had long ago become very skilled at moving unseen and unheard, so he could easily linger in the trees quite close to their villages and still go unnoticed.

Watching them fascinated him. Simply by virtue of living with others, they quickly developed skills he had never conceived of. They communicated with each other using spoken sounds. It took him so long to understand their language simply by listening and observing that by the time he could comprehend most of it, their language had changed so much he had to start again.

Despite this, they struggled with things James had long before mastered. They wore rudimentary garments at best and struggled to make even an adequate shelter. Though they excelled at foraging in the brush for berries and seeds, their primitive weapons made hunting a dangerous challenge. In the winter, they would grow thin and huddle together for warmth. The old and the young would often die.

This last discovery was most confusing to him. Of course death was not a revelation to him, having seen it countless times in animals over the years. Yet he himself had survived unknowable lengths of time without eating, exposed to the cold and the heat, and never died.

Even stranger, these people were born very small and helpless, over time growing to full size. After a while they would shrivel with age and die. James couldn’t remember ever being anything other than what he was, never a child. Over the innumerable years, the face he saw reflected in a lake or stream had not changed in the slightest. He began to wonder if these people were not quite the same as him after all, though their outward appearance was identical.

It wasn't just the passage of time which affected them differently. Once, he saw a young man gored on the tusk of a wild boar. The man staggered back to his village, bleeding and clutching at his spilling guts. Yet rather than quickly healing as James would have, the man fell ill, wild and delirious, before dying two days later.

Watching their struggles inspired in him a desire to help. Seeing them hurting, starving, and dying truly hurt him as well. It seemed to James that these people were like him, only younger and less experienced, and it was his responsibility to share with them what he knew. If they were somehow different after all, somehow weaker than him, or didn't share whatever strange powers he had, this was only more reason for him to help however he could. Yet he was still too afraid to interact with them directly.

So he chose a village and, one night, after the fire had died down and all was quiet, he crept into the midst of their wood and reed huts. There he left a pile of spears and clothing which he crafted for the occasion, before sneaking unnoticed back out of the village. The next morning he watched as the men of the village discovered the gifts he had left. They tested the garments and weapons, their reaction one of confusion and joy at discovering how much more sturdy and effective they were. When these began to dull and wear over time, they worked to replicate his techniques.

James went about like this for a while, moving from village to village and leaving gifts. Usually he gave them similar gifts of tools, weapons, or clothing. On occasion, when a particular tribe seemed especially lacking, he would hunt a deer or boar and drag it into the village in the early hours of morning. Most of the time his gifts were met with the same baffled appreciation. Often the men of the village would strike out into the woods searching for the source of their boon, or begin to post guards late into the night. Thus he would rarely return to the same village more than once or twice and when he did, it would only be after a long period of time.

On one or two occasions, the tribesmen rejected his gifts, burning them or simply tossing them back into the woods. Once, the men set out immediately after him with spears and bows in hand. Another time, they cowered in their huts while a village shaman set the forest around them on fire. At that time, he understood enough of their particular speech to realize they thought the gifts offered up by an evil spirit. Though these incidents were very rare, they were no less disappointing to him.

The inevitable finally happened one winter night. James had spent several months living near this village, one of the largest he had seen and housing at least a hundred men, women, and children. In his arms he carried a stack of fur and skin clothing. Strapped across his back was a bow, arrows, and several spears. This was the third time he'd returned to this place with gifts. The air was cold and his breath puffed out in front of him like a mist as he moved through the trees. A full moon hung in the sky above, its blue-white light sneaking through the treetops in rays. The frosted grass crunched underfoot and the ground looked as if it was strewn with a million tiny diamonds.

The village came into sight just ahead and James slowed his pace, quieting his footsteps as much as he could. The only sound was that of a man's snoring and the crackling embers of the dying fire as he unloaded his gifts at the fireside. Just as he finished, there was a crunch behind him.

James turned to see an old man standing outside the hut right in front of him. The other man seemed just as shocked as James, and the two stood staring at each other for a long moment. Then James began to run.

He tore out of the village, his feet kicking up bits of frost as he went. Behind him he could hear shouts as the man raised the rest of the tribe. He ran until he was out of sight and then clambered up a tall tree. There he hid through the rest of the night, watching the men of the village searching the forest below, flaming torches in their hands. By morning, they had all given up and returned to their huts.

James remained there for a while, watching from afar, but he didn't return. The people of the village now went out into the forest regularly, not only for hunting or foraging as they always had, but searching. He stayed out of sight, whether hidden in the tall brush or in the tops of the trees. Over time, they began to work on a new structure in the center of their village, a rickety creation of logs and reeds. It was a crude approximation, but its intent was clear. It was a man, with two green gemstones for eyes. It was him.

The elders of the village spent a great deal of time there, and soon a large new hut was built around the thing, which at least hid the statue from his sight. James couldn't understand what the meaning of all this was, but it was troubling to him. So it was this that led him to finally swallow his fear and his regret—over what had happened last time he interacted with humanity—and walk into the middle of the village one day.

They saw him coming from afar, a few children at first, who had been playing when he emerged from the trees. They jumped in place and shouted, one running off to alert someone else. He was anxious, his heart racing, and fearful of what would happen next. Soon enough he was surrounded by the men and women of the village, and they ushered him forward into the building that housed his statue.

Some elders sat there, the joyful look of anticipation on their faces making clear they had been told of his arrival. He stood before them and the crowd fell silent.

"Hello," he said, in their language. There was an excited murmur from the crowd behind him.

"Hello," one of the elders replied, also using another word he didn't quite recognize. It was similar to their word for 'father.' "It was you who brought gifts to us?"

"Yes," he answered.

The elders smiled and looked at each other before rising and beginning a ritual dance, singing rhythmic chants which he couldn't understand. There was a commotion in the crowd behind him now and, as he turned to see, hands grasped him under the arms and pulled him to the front of the room. The elders finished their dance and then bowed before him, foreheads to the dirt.

Some men in the crowd came forward, a young girl ahead of them. She was nude and timid, moving forward with prods from the men behind. The men pushed her to the ground in front of him and then bowed themselves. And now there was the angry snorting of a bull being led into the center of the room. Its handler held a sharp stone dagger, which he placed to the beast's throat.

No. I don't want any of this.

"No!"

He stepped forward. The shout rippled through the crowd like a physical force, some of them actually taking a step back. Just a half second after his shout there was the sharp, deafening crack of lightning striking somewhere nearby. Rain began to patter on the roof.

"Stop this," he said. "Stop it all. I only wanted to help you. I am nothing more than a man, like you."

There was silence now, other than the falling of rain.

"Our offerings displease him," one elder finally said. "We must bring more."

James let out a wordless scream and ran, out of the shrine and out of the village, through the pounding rain and back into the forest. He knew that he should just keep running, far away from this village and its deranged people. But something inside him told him he had to see what happened next. And things only got worse from there.

For a long time, tribes had been so far removed from each other that they rarely interacted much. Over time it became more common, mostly brief and tense encounters and sometimes exchanging of supplies or tools. On a few occasions he had seen minor violence erupt, but nothing more than isolated incidents. What he saw during this time was much more troubling.

The village didn’t slow in their devotion to him. They continued to expand, and as they did, they sent men to nearby villages. James watched as they spread the message of the god who lived in the woods and protected them.

Many of these other villages were ones he had also visited, and some were eager to listen to their message. Others, he observed with horror, had devised their own concept of who he was, and what he wanted them to do. Brawls erupted, men were chased from villages with rocks and arrows flying after them. Conflict rapidly came to a boil as each of several groups, using the techniques he had taught them, armed themselves.

A hundred men met in a wide field one spring morning. The chill of the night was still in the air and the grass was wet with dew. Men of three different tribes stood in awkward gaggles, each staring at the others. The men held spears and clubs, a handful of them with bows and arrows. James crouched out of sight in the crook of a thick tree branch.

Finally the tension broke and the men ran at each other. They swung their clubs and jabbed with their spears with little concern for where they went. Men's heads cracked like eggs and spilled on the grass. Skin ripped and bones splintered.

Soon the morning air was filled with the murderous screams of the living and the anguished cries of the dying. For a few long moments, James could only watch in horror as the scene played out in front of him. Then he leapt down from the tree and sprinted out into the clearing.

"Stop!"

No one noticed his coming, so he screamed and stomped his foot on the ground. The earth rumbled and shook, shockwaves traveling in all directions and sending men stumbling and falling as the ground beneath them rippled and cracked. Some men fell away into gaping chasms which opened beneath them, and their cries grew distant as they fell. Those who still lived rose, confused, to their feet before immediately returning to their savage business.

The men went on killing each other as if James weren't there at all. His attempt at stopping the chaos had only made things worse. So he stood there, paralyzed, as the battle raged and came to an end, one tattered tribe rising victorious from the blood and grime. It was only then that they saw him standing there. They raised their weapons overhead, hooting and yelling in celebration. A rage began to build within him. This wasn't what he wanted. This wasn't his fault. But could he even fix it?

He let out a bellow and felt the fires of the earth moving through him. With one extended hand, he burned them all. And when they had all gone still and quiet on the broken ground, he left. Tears fell down his cheeks and he walked as a melancholy rain began to fall. James walked far, far away, like he had done in the days when he was alone, wishing he were alone once again.

Of course, this was not meant to be. Though he wandered far and wide, humanity continued its spread. Tiny villages grew large. They grew crops and raised animals, the efficiency of farming letting them grow even larger and faster. Flimsy huts became sturdy wooden houses. Towns became cities where mankind congregated, and for a while James wondered if they might have learned to live together after all.

This hope didn't last long. With greater numbers and greater technology came only the potential for more horrible warfare. And though he had learned long ago that interfering in the affairs of mankind was destined for failure, he tried again and again. And invariably his intervention would lead to more tragedy. Any display of his strange powers would lead either to devotion or fear of him. In either case, more violence was the sole outcome. Before long he became doubtful of his ability to stop them at all. Soon war became nothing more than a fact of life, and his own acceptance of it angered him more than anything else.

Their progress accelerated at dizzying rates. Cities grew massive, with impressive works of construction and engineering rising up on the horizon as he watched from afar. And now these busy cities, with people coming and going at all times, finally allowed James to travel without suspicion. He could wander these places unnoticed and soon began to see that humanity was, at least, capable of great good as well. Peaceful men and women in the cities spent their days creating art. Painting, sculpture, and music—these concepts were, to him, beyond belief. Their languages grew and adapted, and James learned them all over time.

Parents worked and provided for their children, who soon grew and made families of their own. Friends laughed together and lovers doted on one another. It was seeing all of this, the entire complex spectrum of human behavior, that made him finally understand. However different they might be from him, they shared the same emotions, the same desires and fears.

And it was in these early days of civilization that he finally found a purpose. On the city streets there were starving families. He could feed them. In the darker depths of the city there were men who sought to rob others of the products of their hard work. He could stop them.

So now James joined with the rest of humanity. He would work in one place for as long as he could. Farmer, blacksmith, hunter, tailor, physician. Every conceivable job he tried at some time or another. He would work and earn money, a way to pay for food and shelter. The rest of it he could give away to those who needed it. He made friends and rivals. Yet invariably he would have to move on, when suspicion about him began to brew. He had, after all, not aged a day in the many years people had known him. So he would move to another city and start again.

These were the halcyon days of his life. James kept on the move, concealing his powers and otherwise living what seemed to be a normal life. Though he never lost his desire for female companionship, he rarely pursued it. It was clear enough to him that he would merely have to leave whenever his distinct lack of aging became a problem. And having seen what happened when he revealed his powers to other humans, he was hesitant to do so. Fortunately at this time, and all others, his purely physical urges were easily enough satisfied by perfectly willing professionals.

It was in these times, when kings called pharaohs ruled in one part of the world, that things began to change once again. Religion returned in force, though he was thankful it at least didn’t focus on him anymore. Yet it brought the same violence and unrest it always had before. And for him, it no longer felt as though he were passing unnoticed from one place to another. Whether it was disease, famine, fire, or natural disaster, tragedy followed him. He found himself moving from city to city more often than he had needed to in the past.

That constant, nagging thrum in the back of his mind actually had grown louder too, though he was very skilled at suppressing it by now. He had always felt the ever-present pull on his attention from every part, every cell of his body. And he had always felt the earth calling out to him. It all required him to pay it some small amount of care. What would happen if he ignored it, he didn’t know.

But for a while now he had felt something else, another presence pulling at the back of his mind. This one was hateful, destructive, resentful. He could feel it growing in strength the longer he remained in one place. When he ran, it would fade for a while before eventually returning.

So James ran, and the contented life he had only just begun to enjoy was no more.

Dorian

"Careful, shit! Bring it up easy!"

The construction worker's shouts echoed along the walkway to Dorian, who stood atop the wall. He watched as another worker on the ground below operated a small crane, swinging an iron frame upward which banged loudly off the wall at the feet of the first worker.

The men tried again, the crane operator this time carefully raising the large hunk of metal up before sliding it sideways to rest on the wall. The worker, garbed in a jumpsuit and hard hat, guided the thing into position before securing it in place.

Further down along the wall, another team was at work doing the same task. Behind him, the metal frames and posts were already positioned at intervals along the wall. This framework, when combined with the tall metal poles already raised inside the town, would support his overhead net.

On the other side of the town, he could see some of the work was already complete. In the end it would be nearly three quarters of a square mile of patchwork leather straps. Suspended from above, they would protect the town from any more attacks from the sky.

Below, a few townspeople shielded their eyes against the early morning sun, which was just beginning to slip behind the clouds, as they looked up in interest. Dorian smiled to himself as he watched the men work. He had done a great deal of charity in his past life, but what he had accomplished here was something he was truly proud of.

Thunderclouds were rolling in overhead as he climbed down the ladder back onto the street. The storm looked to be a big one.

Shit.

He jogged back to his house as the first rain began to fall. Thick, heavy raindrops bounced off the sidewalk and flooded the street. Sudden torrential downpours weren't uncommon these days. It could last for a minute or for days at a time. Dorian hoped for the former.

A man ran past, jacket held over his head, as thunder boomed and rolled. Dorian slipped through the gate and onto the shelter of his porch. Water dripped down off his clothes and pooled at his feet while he unlocked the door.

The air inside was cold on his wet skin, but pleasant nonetheless. He slipped his shoes off near the door and headed for the master bathroom. Dorian retrieved a towel and ran it across his head as he walked back into his bedroom.

The bedsheets were in disarray and the comforter lay halfway off the bed. He tossed his towel across the room into a laundry basket before pulling the blanket back onto the bed. On the floor beneath where it had been was a small black pair of women's panties, a sudden reminder of the previous night, otherwise not well remembered. He picked them up, smirking, before bunching them up and tossing them in the trash.

Dorian slid out of the rest of his damp clothes, adding them to the clothing pile. These he replaced with a tight long sleeved shirt, tan cargo pants, and a leather jacket. He was just finishing dressing, zipping up his jacket, when he heard the radio in the other room crackle.

"Go ahead," he said into the receiver.

Kristof's voice. "It's time. Ready?"

"Always," Dorian replied. "Meet you at the gate."

He kept his guns in a chest near the front door. A six-shooter revolver went to his left hip, a 9mm semiautomatic pistol at his right. An M4 automatic rifle he slung across his chest on a strap. Dorian checked himself in the mirror and smiled.

Minutes later, he arrived at the front gate of Black Creek, his motorcycle rumbling beneath him. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the dark clouds overhead still threatened. Ten other men on bikes awaited him, Kristof among them. Two armored vans roared to life as he approached, and Kristof hopped off his motorcycle.

"Boss," he said. He wore his usual green bandanna and black eyepatch.

"Kristof," Dorian answered.

"Just finished reviewing the plan with the men. We hitting this compound for ourselves, or is this another favor for the Disciples?" The eyebrow over Kristof's one good eye raised slightly.

"Yeah. We'll meet them half a mile from the place. Something in it for us, too. You ever herd cattle?"

Kristof laughed. "No."

Dorian shrugged and revved his engine. "We'll figure it out." He whistled and waved at the guards atop the gate, which soon began to slide open. Dorian led the party out through the gates with a whoop.

They found the Disciples on the side of the road after a brief ride. There were five of them, each wearing the same dinosaur skin leather. At least one seemed to be a woman, he noted with some interest.

Dorian came to a stop nearby, settling his feet on the pavement as his bike continued to hum. The light rain fell, rustling and splashing on the trees all around him. The man at the head of the group came over to meet him. It was the same one he had spoken to in town a week before.

"Dorian," the man who called himself James said, an unnerving smile, as ever, on his face.

"Alright," Dorian said. "Ready?"

"We are," he replied. "James has learned even more of the heresy of these ones." His smile did not falter, but his eyes were burning with a fury. "Dorian and his men will get us inside, and he will let us punish their leaders personally."

"Fine by me. As long as I get the cows. People gotta eat."

"As promised. And more, for your friendship." He reached inside his robe and produced a slip of paper. "A blessed message, this one. He will return very soon."

Dorian took the paper and slipped it into his pocket. "Thanks. Let's go."

The compound, sitting on the bank of the same river which flowed past Black Creek, was larger than he had expected. Most of the buildings inside looked like normal suburban homes. The perversion of it all struck him, and Dorian wondered if any of the original occupants were even still alive, and if they knew what had become of their homes.

Fencing made of scavenged chain link and intertwined bits of tin sheeting encircled the whole place, and two enormous circular tents stood out like a couple of swollen boils—otherwise you might mistake all of this for a peaceful neighborhood from a simpler time.

Dorian and his men idled on the side of the road, just out of sight of the gate. Kristof lowered his binoculars and turned to him. "Three guards at the gate. Automatic rifles. Can't see anybody else yet."

Dorian turned, catching the eye of the driver of one of the armored vans. He pointed toward the gate and the man nodded before pulling out onto the road and speeding forward out of sight. Dorian waited a moment before following, and the rest fell in behind him.

He watched as the van tore through the thin metal gate and slid forward on the dirt, its wheels now locked up on the torn metal beneath it. The roar of all the engines around him obscured any other sound. Dorian slid his bike to a stop against the fence and stepped off, taking hold of the rifle hanging at his side.

Bullets were bouncing off the side of the van, which sat in place spinning its wheels. Dorian took aim and fired a short burst at the first person he saw, a woman with chains hanging from her wrists. She went down, and the two men near her spun toward him in surprise. More gunfire rang out from behind him, and one of the guards managed to get a shot off. Both guards hit the ground, as did one of the men behind Dorian.

Church members were spilling from the various shacks and other buildings in the area as his men spread out. Screams and gunshots echoed through the air. Dorian fired a few bursts from his rifle and hit a young man in rags in a small crowd coming from a nearby brick house. The others scrambled away and he fired after them, his shots off target this time.

He jogged up onto the porch and peeked through the screen door. It was dark inside. Dorian pulled open the door and slipped inside, scanning first left with his rifle. As he turned to the right there was a noise, and he dropped to the floor on his hands and knees. His rifle strap slipped off his neck and the gun tumbled a few feet away on the floor just as a shotgun blast went over his head and tore the wall behind him to shreds. He pushed with his legs to launch himself forward and threw an elbow into his attacker's gut. The man, who had long, knotted hair and wore crimson rags, bent double from the blow.

Dorian grappled with him and the man fought, clawing at Dorian's chest and neck. He was stronger than Dorian expected, perhaps he even had some training. The ragged man strained against him and landed a few heavy hits on Dorian’s kidney and ribs. One particularly well-placed strike allowed the man to slip both his arms around Dorian and pin his arms to his sides.

Dorian grunted and put a foot back, lifting his hip and driving a knee into the man's groin. The man yelped and retched. Dorian freed his arms and planted one hand against the man's throat, pinning him to the wall. With his other hand he reached for the revolver, then planted it at the man’s forehead. His eyes went wide and then blank when Dorian pulled the trigger.

Dorian let him go and wiped a few spots of blood from his face as the man slumped to the floor. He pressed a hand to his ribs, which still ached. Outside, he could hear the sounds of an ongoing battle. This house, which apparently had been repurposed as some sort of dormitory, was empty. He retrieved his rifle once again and went back outside.

There was no fighting happening here, though a handful of bodies littered the dirt. He followed the gunshots, which led him to the entrance to the closest circular tent. He ran beneath the low-hanging entryway just as the shooting stopped.

He was surprised to discover that the tent actually surrounded a large circular metal building. The tent served merely to form a covered walkway around the perimeter. A short distance around this path, he found a few of his men.

Kristof was there, rifle trained on two kneeling men. One, a massive, muscular man with no shirt, wore chains at his wrists and stared at his captors with furious eyes. The other, a smaller man who wore a crimson robe, had a more impassive but observant look. As Dorian rounded the corner, the man's eyes, which were an unnatural neon green, glanced over at him.

"Looks like we've got their leader here, boss," Kristof said, taking notice of his arrival.

"Good, I've got a couple questions," Dorian said, stopping in front of them. He reached down and took hold of one of the big man's chains. "What's the deal with this shit?"

The man didn't respond, only glowered back at him, so Dorian thew his hand back on the dirt and stomped on it. He let out a howl and tried to get to his feet, but Kristof hit him with the butt of his rifle.

The robed man, judging by his expression, still didn't appear to have much of an opinion on the situation. "He doesn't talk much," he said. "The chains are a symbol of his breaking free from the shackles of our former lives, and the literal bonds placed upon him at his initiation."

Dorian turned to him. "And what are you?"

"Where he and his like are the hands of the Church, we are its mouth. It is we who receive James's word, and spread it."

Dorian crouched down to the man's eye level, then yanked back his hood, exposing his thinning gray hair. "So you're telling me you know James himself?"

"Of course," the man said, with a smug smile.

"You don't know shit. And you better fucking hope the real James doesn't get to the rest of you before I do."

There was no break in the priest's assured smirk, not even a hint of doubt. "Drag them outside. Let the Disciples deal with them." A few of his men did as he said. The robed man followed quietly, while the larger man struggled until Kristof struck again him with his rifle.

"Look at this shit," Kristof said after the two were gone, indicating a small metal flap in the wall of the building, which looked like a mail slot. Kristof lifted the flap. "Look inside."

Dorian knelt and put his face to the slot. It was a single round room, with beds positioned all around the perimeter. There were what seemed to be about two dozen people inside, men and women, young and old. All wore gray rags. Some sat on their beds, while most were huddled together in the center of the room. As his eyes came into view through the hole every other set of eyes inside was fixed on his.

He stood back up. "The fuck is that?"

"Some sort of jail, maybe. There's a door over there, big metal door locked tight."

"Anybody find a key?"

"Not yet. I'll look,” Kristof said.

Dorian made his way to the exit and ducked back under the awning. A light rain still continued to fall, and the dirt was becoming muddy in spots. Near the gate, the two captives were still being held at gunpoint. The Disciples were just entering the compound. Dorian walked around the outside of the tent, rifle at the ready, but there was no-one else to be seen.

The other tent was much the same, and a peek inside one of the slots showed a similar number of captives inside.

Fucking hell.

Dorian exited this tent and worked his way around. On this, the far side of the tents, there were another four or five brick homes, and a strange square shaped structure which had metal steps leading up to its top. Curious, Dorian headed toward the stairs. He hadn't taken more than three steps when he felt the cold metal of a gun barrel against the back of his neck. Dorian froze in place, lifting his hands up.

"Ah, slowly," came a woman's voice from behind him. "Good. Now turn around. Drop that rifle behind you." He did as she said.

She was tall, only an inch or two shorter than Dorian, who stood at 6'3", and rusting iron chains dangled from her wrists. There was a man behind her who wore crimson rags like most of the others. She wore tan cargo pants and a black and silver belt, with a tight white tucked-in T-shirt which accentuated her chest. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail. A layer of sweat and dirt covered what was still a recognizably very attractive face.

She looked familiar, in fact. Where did he know her from? Then the realization hit him.

"I remember you," he said with a smile. "Channel 10 evening news. The hot anchor. I thought I knew you from somewhere." She was frowning fiercely now. "What was your name? Sunny something?"

"Skye," she shot at him, anger on her face mixed with a measure of something else. Fear? Vulnerability? Whatever it was intrigued him.

"Oh, that is you," the ragged man said. "I remember too."

"Quiet!" she shouted, wheeling toward the man, who cowered away from her raised fist. It was only a brief moment, but Dorian took it, leaping forward and tackling the woman to the ground. He made sure to pin her right hand, which held the pistol. They hit the ground hard and she grunted, the gun bouncing a few feet away.

She was strong, but he was stronger. As he held her to the ground he raised his eyes to watch for the other man, but saw the back of him disappearing into the distance already. Dorian mounted her, controlling her hips and able to easily avoid her swatting hands. He drew his revolver and leveled it at her.

"Ah," he said. She let her swinging fists fall back to her sides. "Don't move." Dorian stood, keeping the gun trained on her.

"I've got a dozen men with me," he said. "Were you going to kill us all?"

"No," she said. "Just you for now."

He laughed. "I do appreciate your spirit. I'm Dorian Black."

There was some hint of recognition in her eyes as well, but she didn't say anything.

"I'm in a bit of a situation now, Skye. Because I should really kill you, but I don't particularly want to."

"You do what you want. Won't change what I do next."

Dorian laughed and offered her a hand. She swatted it away and stood up on her own. He watched her go, slipping out through a gap in the fence, without a word. Slipping his gun back in its holster, Dorian had the distinct feeling he’d made a mistake.

Oh well.

He set about what he had previously been doing, taking the steps two at a time. Just as he reached the top, he heard the distinct chirping call of a raptor. He hunkered down slightly, out of habit, drawing his revolver, but no attack came.

It took him a moment before he saw. The noises came from below, inside the structure he had just climbed. It was a cage, and inside it were three raptors. Down on the grass with them was the apparently freshly-killed body of a young man.

"Well ain't that some shit," Dorian said to himself, standing back up and leveling his rifle at the creatures. He put them down in three short bursts before descending the stairs once again.

The man who called himself James stood before the two prisoners as he returned to the front of the camp. His followers stood behind him, hoods down at their shoulders. He wielded a long knife.

The man caught Dorian's eye, his eerie smile ever-present, as he approached. He was leaning in and whispering to the robed man. He stood back up and ran the knife smoothly across the man's neck. He quickly did the same with the man's burly partner, then raised his hands up high and shouted while their bodies twitched and drained their blood onto the grass.

He found Kristof suddenly standing at his side. "Don't like working with these maniacs," he said.

"Neither do I. And I won't, once I don't need them anymore," Dorian replied.

Kristof took a drag off his cigarette. "Yeah. Anyway, found the cows. Separate corral over that way. Twenty five of them. Chickens too. Gonna go check it out."

The cultist approached him now. "It is good," he said, smiling.

"Whatever you say. Got what I came for."

"There is the matter of the prisoners. Fifty men and women. Innocents. We have already begun to question them."

"You know the drill. I'll take anyone useful. The rest are your problem," Dorian said.

The man allowed himself a slight scowl, but Dorian paid it no mind.

"Did you find anything interesting over this way?" Kristof asked as the two made their way across the compound, toward the pasture.

"Not really. Looks to just be dormitories and a couple holding cells for captives."

"Well. One more camp down."

"Yeah," Dorian agreed. "Many to go."

The pasture was small, two dozen cows stuffed inside with hardly any room to roam. A large chicken coop ran along one side of the fence, attached to a small building.

"Check this out," Kristof said, standing at the door of this building. He pointed to a padlock, which he quickly hammered several times with the butt of his rifle until it cracked and fell away. With a nudge from his boot Kristof swung the door open.

"Don't shoot!" came a woman's frail cry from inside.

"Hands up!" Dorian shouted, advancing inside with his rifle raised.

She did, her thin arms raised overhead as she cowered on a bed along the far wall. She was probably in her thirties, but the filth and bruises across her face seemed to add another couple decades. She wore gray rags, like the prisoners had, and unlike the crimson rags worn by most of the cultists.

"Who are you?" Dorian asked.

"Veronica!" she said, her voice still somewhat frantic. "Veronica Holmes! I'm a goddamn veterinarian, not a soldier!"

"Were you working with these people?" Kristof asked.

"Not by choice! They tried to get me to join but I wouldn't. But they needed me, so they kept me locked up and forced me to work at gunpoint."

Dorian and Kristof exchanged a glance.

"Well," Dorian said, lowering his gun. "We killed all of them. And we're taking the cows back with us. We've got walls, electricity, and nobody will force you to stay. You coming or not?"

***

The mood in town that evening was jovial.

The sun had just begun to set and the streetlights flashed on. Up on a small wooden platform, an improvised band of two guitarists and a man with three little drums played while a woman sang. A couple dozen people stood watching, clapping, and dancing.

On the grass nearby, Tom Hackett manned a big propane grill, flipping beef burgers and filling the air with an intoxicating smoke. Three children, the only three in Black Creek, chased each other in circles. Dorian had never wanted kids allowed in, at least not yet. But when you found a physician in a world like this, you let him in whether he came with one kid or a dozen.

A few onlookers cheered as the first patties came off the grill, just as applause signaled the end of a song. The singer was saying something which Dorian couldn't hear, and somehow the attention shifted to him. The crowd's eyes were all on him, and the singer was beckoning him up to the stage.

"Speech!" someone yelled.

These people and their speeches, Dorian thought as he smiled and started forward. He hugged the singer as he took the microphone, then pointed at her to signal a round of applause for the band.

"I don't want to say too much, I know we're all excited to eat," he said to the crowd, who went up in an excited cheer.

"I just want to say thank you to all of you for believing in me, and for believing in this town. Everyone is working very hard to make this place better for all of us, and I'm proud of you all. You deserve this night." Another cheer. "Now I see Tom's getting the burgers ready there, so before we eat I want to bring somebody else on stage. We went out there beyond the walls this morning, and we were able to rescue a few captives from some very bad people. I want to invite one wonderful young woman up here."

"She’s a therapist, and despite the treatment she just endured herself she’s ready and willing to work with all of us to get our own lives back on track. So I want to be the first to welcome her to Black Creek. Come on up here, Rachel."

The crowd cheered and clapped as she emerged, somewhat sheepish, from the back. Her long brown hair showed only the faint ghost of pink streaks toward the tips. She smiled and hugged him after she climbed onto the stage. "Welcome," Dorian said into the mic.

"Thank you," she said. Tom walked up with two burgers on plates, the first of which he handed to Rachel. Dorian watched as she took a bite, beaming widely. After, he bit into his own. It was the best he had ever tasted.

The party went on long into the evening, and Dorian contented himself for the most part to watch. After a while, he remembered the paper, still folded up in his pocket, which the man who called himself James had given him that morning. He fished it out and unfolded it, revealing another set of coordinates. After a moment, he stuffed it back inside his pocket.

He wished James were there. Dorian knew he'd have enjoyed all of this much more than he did.

Jess

The rain fell in heavy sheets across her windshield.

Jess could hardly see the road ahead through the crashing rain and frantic windshield wipers. Her car rumbled and bumped over what must be uneven pavement. Fortunately, the road was currently hers alone. She rolled down the window and stuck her head out, instantly soaking her hair, but giving her a clear view. An abandoned van sat in the middle of the road a hundred yards ahead.

Good thing I looked.

Jess was on a two-lane road somewhere in the suburbs of Pittsburgh. To her left was a post office. A weathered American flag still flew in front of the building, whipped by the wind. The entrance was destroyed, a boulder the size of a truck sitting in its place.

Looking down, she noticed the asphalt of the parking lot, and of the road itself, was cracked and depressed as far as she could see. She was inside a massive crater. On all sides she could see the fallen remnants of other buildings, most no longer identifiable.

She squeezed her way past the van, rain running down the back of her neck, before pulling her head back inside the car. Jess followed the road for a while, eventually lurching up and over the edge of the crater, beyond which the pavement was smooth once again.

Just ahead, on the left, was a shopping center with a grocery store. The mere sight of it brought an ache and a growl from her stomach. Jess pressed a hand to her gut. It had been two days since she'd eaten anything at all. Still, she knew better than to expect much. Most of the obvious places had been thoroughly looted by now. It would be a dry place to wait out the storm, at least.

Jess parked right by the entrance, the front of her car up on the curb. The awning of the building protected her from the loud, heavy downpour still falling overhead.

The sight inside was a familiar one, the same one she'd seen at three other grocery stores in the two days since she left the city. Broken glass and bits of fallen ceiling tiles littered the floor in the entryway. Cash registers had been ripped away and left here and there, some looted and others still containing their now-useless bills. Two shopping carts sat empty and upended. The shelves between registers had been stripped bare.

Jess turned to walk the other way, but jumped back when her foot came down with a crunch. There was a skeleton there, its head resting against the wall and the rest of its body splayed out on the ground. A puddle of some horrible partially dry, but still sticky, substance surrounded it.

Clearly this person had died long ago, their body completely decomposed. Though there was no longer any smell, Jess instinctively covered her mouth with her shirt as she edged past. Jess walked up and down empty aisle after empty aisle. As she feared, the only food left was a small amount of long since rotted meat in the coolers.

She tried the store room next, which was cold and pitch black. Jess fumbled through the dark briefly before, chuckling to herself for forgetting, summoning a small ball of fire in her right hand. By this small light she found her way through the storage area. Here, too, most of the boxes and crates had been torn apart and their contents taken.

She rummaged through pile after pile of empty boxes before finally finding a single, small, dented can of peaches. She ripped off the lid and gave it only a cursory sniff before guzzling the whole thing. The sweet fruit juice was delicious, but left her wanting more rather than satiated.

Jess left the back room and made another pass through the store. There were some supplies still available, simple things like tupperware and electrical cords. She took the largest plasticware she could find and drove a hole through the top of each side with a pair of scissors. This she threaded with an electrical cord after snipping off its plug. Outside, she strapped this contraption to the top of the van before reversing it back out into the rain. The dish quickly began to fill as she retreated back inside the vehicle.

The sun was setting, and she was tired. The steady patter of rain on the roof invited the idea of sleep, so she laid her seat back. Jess felt in her pocket and slipped out the photo, suddenly anxious to see Rachel's face. She wanted nothing more than to find her, yet she had no idea where to begin searching.

If she’s even alive.

Jess tried to push that particular thought aside, along with the thought that her being alive was also no guarantee of her safety.

There was no right place to start searching. She just had to start. Jess still had no real idea what the state of the world out there was. Obviously she wasn't the only one alive in this wasteland, but she hadn't encountered another living person since leaving the city. Either almost everyone was dead, or they were all holed up somewhere. Was there a safe zone somewhere she didn't know about? She had tried scanning the radio, but every frequency was nothing but static.

After a while, her racing mind quieted and Jess drifted off to sleep, the photo of Rachel resting on her chest.

There was a loud boom and Jess awoke, nearly leaping from her seat. It was morning, the yellow-orange sunrise just peeking over the horizon. The rain had stopped sometime during the night. She spun around in her seat, looking for the source of the noise. Nothing seemed to have changed, and she was beginning to think she may have dreamed it when it happened again.

The earth shuddered with another, louder boom. She scrambled out of her car and crouched behind the door, peeking out and looking all around. A low, almost mournful cry went out through the air and the heavy booms grew nearer.

They were footsteps, those of a massive, long-necked animal that soon came into view. It walked slowly, lumbering alone along the roadway with its neck stretched at least thirty feet in the air and letting out another howling bellow. The massive creature seemed to take no notice of Jess, who crept hesitantly out from behind the car to watch it go by. It did, those heavy footfalls fading off into the distance as it went.

Her stomach was growling again. There was nothing else to eat, but she took the dish of water off the car and sipped eagerly from it. The water was cool and soothing in her empty stomach, though she knew the feeling wouldn’t last long.

Time to move on. She climbed back into the car and pulled onto the road once again. The gas gauge read a quarter tank left. Gasoline, at least, had been much easier to find than food. Though many vehicles were destroyed or stolen, plenty had been abandoned and left in parking lots and along streets. Siphoning the gas was simple enough.

She left that little ghost town and took back to the open freeway, which ran through a grassy plain. Off to her left, the dinosaur she'd seen before trudged peacefully away across the grass. The road before her was empty as she went south, and her mind began to wander again. Much as she tried to fight it, she could only picture Rachel lying dead somewhere, reduced to nothing but bones and mush like the person in that grocery store. Or, possibly even worse, still alive but taken captive by some horrible maniac.

Jess shook her head, trying to clear her mind. She turned on the radio, scanning through the static, again to no avail. The white noise alone was enough to distract her, though.

A few minutes later, the sound of other engines began to cut through that static. In her rearview mirror, she could see five motorcycles, quickly advancing and spread out in position to flank her. She reached over to the passenger seat, grabbing the pistol she'd found in the city. Only seven bullets left in it, last she checked. The rest of her meager supplies were in the trunk.

She turned off the radio as they drew near, two men on either side and one behind. They wore torn leather and denim, and they whooped and hollered as they surrounded her. Her heart raced, but she steadied her hands against the steering wheel, controlling her breathing. One of them fired a shot, shattering her back window.

Alright then.

She slammed hard on the brakes, and the biker behind her had no time to swerve before he and his bike both went down beneath her car, which skidded and spun out to the side as the remaining bikers doubled back toward her. Jess leapt out of the car and took cover behind the front wheel. She stayed entirely out of sight, waiting for the sound of their engines stopping to make her move.

Jess popped up from cover and fired twice at the closest man, who was dismounting his bike only feet away. She hit him in the chest and head, and he fell limply backward over his bike. Bullets whizzed overhead as she dropped back down. One hit the tire which hissed as it quickly deflated.

"Get her!"

Jess crouch-ran around the front of the car and sprang forward, firing another two shots at close range into the chest of the next man, who had just come around this side of the car. As he fell, she tried to roll to the side, but a bullet clipped her in the right flank. She hit the ground hard with a shout.

"Dumb bitch!" The last two stood over her now, rifles trained on her. One kicked the pistol out of her hand before leaning down to grab her by the shoulder. Jess pressed her hand to his face, and blasted him with a wave of flame that seared his skin and spread across his clothes. He fell, shrieking, to the ground where he kicked and rolled.

"What the fuck?" The final biker was staring at his dying companion as Jess got back to her feet. He only took notice of her as she grabbed him by the neck and drove a knee into his groin. He doubled over and Jess shoved him to the ground, disarming him of his rifle. She put the barrel to his groin now as he looked up at her.

"What were you planning to do with me?" she asked.

"Fuck you!" he screamed.

She pulled the trigger and there was a bang and a sick squish, as blood squirted up the front of her shirt. He screamed terribly, hands clasped to the former location of his manhood. Jess knelt, dropping the rifle and placing the end of her pistol against his forehead.

"Was that your actual answer, or do you just have a limited vocabulary? Either way, I don’t like it,” Jess said, tapping the pistol against his head. “One more chance. What was your plan? Rape me, rob me, kill me? Sell me?"

"Sell you," he whimpered. "Take what you had, sell you off to whoever's buying."

"And who's that?"

"Plenty of people."

Jess pulled the photo of Rachel from her pocket. "You seen her?" She stuck the picture in front of his face, but he averted his eyes.

"What does it matter?"

"Your answer determines what I do to you next. Have you seen her? Look at her." Jess grabbed his hair and pulled hard until he looked.

"No. I haven't seen her."

Some small bit of relief washed over her. "Good. Who might have seen her? Where would you have taken me? Tell me that and you live."

"Rockwood," he said. "There's a town there, safe. They have auctions. Gotta have something to trade, though."

"Trade, for people?"

"Yeah. If you're looking for somebody who might have got captured, look there."

"Alright." Jess stood, releasing him. When he moved to sit up, she shot him in the head.

***

Rockwood was a small town near the Maryland border. There was a slight hustle and bustle to the place. To go from the vast, empty expanses in which she had spent the last few days to this was somewhat disorienting.

Riding one of the dead men’s motorcycles, she entered the town with no trouble, though heavily armed guards standing here and there seemed to watch very carefully. Everyone was armed to some extent, though they all seemed to be getting along well enough for now.

There were men and women, rough looking brigands like the ones she had encountered. There were one or two sharply-dressed men who were accompanied by similar bodyguard types. On one street corner, four scantily-clad men and women solicited anyone who passed.

Most of the activity in town was centered around what seemed to be an old restaurant. Outside people laughed and shouted, drinks in hand, and nobody paid her much mind as she entered. It was raucous inside, the bar tightly packed. The patrons laughed and yelled. Somewhere, someone was singing. The bartender, a burly bald man in suspenders with a red beard, eyed her immediately as she entered and made her way to the end of the bar.

"Drink?"

"How would I pay? I'm new to town."

"Credit. Trade supplies to the quartermaster for these." He lifted up a handful of green slips of paper with a scrawled signature on them.

"I see. I don't have anything right now."

"That's alright. One for free, on me."

"Well thank you. I'll just have water."

He laughed. "That's asking even more. Alright, miss." He poured her a cold glass, which she happily downed.

"I hear there's an auction," she said.

"You don't want any part of that, miss," he replied, eying her suspiciously.

She hadn't been sitting for more than a minute when a commotion began at the other end of the bar, people shouting and pushing. Smoke was rising, too. The bartender stormed off, pulling a shotgun down from the wall. Jess pushed her way through the crowd toward the front of the bar. The noise was getting louder as everyone around her started to realize something was happening. Jess kept pressing forward.

"It's the Church!" someone shouted, and the crowd grew more anxious. Those deeper inside the building pressed forward toward the exit, and those at the front tried to retreat the other way. It made a gridlock of bodies that only grew thicker and more claustrophobic as smoke filled the room. Somewhere outside, she could hear gunfire.

Jess felt hot and her lungs tight. She struggled forward, pushing with all of her might to slip past each individual person. Something hard hit the back of her head, and she saw black.

Jess woke some time later in a big, cold room. She was moving, she noticed now. The whole room was. And she wasn't alone. There were at least a dozen others with her, most sitting with their head in hands or otherwise staring distantly. The movement and sound of the room told her it wasn't a room at all, but the back of a large truck. Moonlight filtered in through cracks in the back door.

They went on for a while before they finally came to a stop. When the doors opened, it was a muscular woman who stood beyond them, iron shackles hanging from her wrists. Two others in crimson rags stood behind her. They each held an automatic rifle, and no one inside dared to move.

The woman took them one by one, and Jess was the third to go. Out of the truck she was led into a tent, then a tiny holding cell where another man waited for her. He looked old, wore a crimson robe and had a crooked nose. He smiled at her as the door closed behind her, leaving just Jess, him, and the woman in chains.

"What's your name?"

"Jess," she said.

The woman hit Jess in the back of the head, a heavy blow that staggered her.

"You have no name," the man said. "Not in this place."

He handed her a gray set of rags that bore the number seven. He started to grab her shirt, to rip it away, but Jess palmed him hard in the nose. He fell back a step and Jess turned and kicked the woman in the gut. She doubled over just as Jess stomped on her foot, then set her alight with a burst of flame. The woman wailed and clawed at her clothing, trying to no avail to save herself. Her rifle hit the ground, so Jess picked it up and leveled it at the robed man, who was backed up against the door, fear in his eyes.

"Please," he said. Jess shot him in the chest.

The door behind her was sealed shut, but the door ahead opened easily. When it swung open, she entered into a large round room. Twenty six beds circled its perimeter, and a dozen pairs of eyes turned to look at her.

Skye

Two and a half weeks had passed since Skye visited James in his private sanctum. They spoke for a few minutes, the strange, unnervingly friendly man asking about her and her former life, before he finally asked what she wanted. Skye happily told him, and after a pensive moment he nodded, then sent her away without another word. She hadn't seen him since, and his cave remained dark and empty, the torch at its entrance extinguished.

Her impatience gave way to disappointment, and at times to regret that she had gone to the man at all. Nothing changed for her though, and life in the Church compound went on as normal. If her master knew of what she'd done, how she'd broken one of the few explicit rules she'd ever been given, he didn't show it.

On this particular night, as she reported to him one last time after dinner, before she retired to her quarters, another man stood alongside him. He looked older, perhaps in his late forties, but he bore his age well. Though his hair was streaked with gray and wrinkles showed at his temples, from the neck down he was nearly indistinguishable from any other bare-chested Chained in the Church.

He stood a step behind her master as she approached, his head bowed slightly and his manacled hands crossed at his waist.

"Sister Skye."

"Master," she said, tilting her head down a bit before taking a seat on the floor across from him, a gesture the other two men matched.

"This is Brother Lawrence," he said. "He has just joined us. You will instruct him in our ways, as I’ve been called upon to travel elsewhere for a time."

"Yes, sir," she replied.

"You've done very well, Skye. Our numbers are growing faster than ever, and we’re spreading further along the coast. Soon, the rest of the country, and then, the rest of the world. I have no doubt you’ll soon be called to take charge of your own encampment, as I have been." He turned to Lawrence. "You are in very good hands."

A sense of pride swelled within her, but she suppressed any outward reaction. This was just the sort of recognition she deserved. She stood, and Lawrence did the same. "Mistress," he said.

"There's one more thing, Skye," her master said. "A new recruitment cycle is beginning. You've been assigned to oversee it."

She bowed to him one last time before turning to her new apprentice. "We'll leave at sunrise."

Not long after, she lay on her bare bed. The room was dark, its only light being the faint bluish white glow which stole in through the open window. A cool night breeze blew across her legs. Through the thin walls she could hear someone else's snoring, but this room at least was hers alone.

Her mind raced with conflicting thoughts, and she tried to push them back, but sleep wouldn’t take her. She could remember full well the days she spent in that prison, before she learned the truth and joined the Church. Still, the prospect of returning there was unsettling to her for some reason. She had come so far, and yet the last several months were somewhat of a blur to her. The time before, in her past life, was much clearer, though it was a time she'd much rather forget.

She was angry, and it ate at the inside of her like a poison. Angry at all those who refused to hear their message, who wanted to go back to the old ways, the ways of a corrupt world that brought humanity nothing but pain and unfulfillment. Angry especially at Dorian Black, though he was nothing more than a name to her, and his nerve to defy her so successfully. A city growing like a cancer under their own noses, people living in comfort with electricity, food, water? Perhaps she was angry most of all at herself and the Church for failing to stop him.

Skye now had the sense that she was no longer alone in the room. She lifted her head from the thin pillow and scanned the darkness. She couldn't see anything, or anyone, there. There was only the soft flapping of the curtains in the wind. She pulled herself up in bed, still certain of the unknown presence she felt.

He simply appeared then, first his bright green eyes and then the rest of him melting out of the shadows at the foot of her bed. Skye leapt up, her heart racing, but he simply gestured for her to follow and left the room.

Skye slipped back into her prior day's clothing and followed him. The man led her downstairs, out of the three-story dormitory building and across the courtyard. The general headquarters of the Church was massive, buildings stretching in all directions. It had once been an Army base, quickly abandoned after the world ended. Most of the buildings were still unused. The stars and a full moon shone overhead as they crossed the compound, no other Church members in sight. The only patrols would be on the gates and walls.

He led her to a small storage shed, the door of which was normally secured with a small padlock. The lock was gone and its latch hung free. They stopped outside.

"What you want is inside," the man said. "Don't seek my aid again. If I need you, I'll call for you."

Then he simply turned and left.

She twisted the door handle and it swung open with a creak. A young man sat slumped over against the far wall, his wrists shackled to a pipe. The walls of the room were lined with shelves of boxes, tools, and other junk. The man was still at first, but stirred as she let the door close behind her.

He looked up at her as she approached. "Please," he croaked. There was fear in his eyes, but she could see no sign that he had been injured.

"Who are you?" Skye asked.

"I'm Diego," he said with some hesitation.

"I don't care what your name is. Did you come from Black Creek?"

"Yes."

"How do I get inside?"

"What?"

She knelt down next to him. "I want to be very clear about this. I need to know how to get into your town. When I finish talking, you should tell me how. If you don't, I will hurt you.

He looked at her for a moment. "And if I do tell you?"

Skye rested her hand on his shoulder and smiled. "We'll see."

His lip started to quiver. "I don't know. I'm only a guard."

She snatched a pair of pliers off a nearby shelf, pinned his hand against the floor and clamped down, tearing his thumbnail off. His eyes went wide and he shrieked, trying to pull his hand back to his body but unable to do so. She placed the pliers on the concrete floor in front of him.

"Now. That's just not what I asked for.

"I don't know!" His voice was more frantic now. "I can't open the gate alone. The walls are solid metal and brick and always under patrol. I can't help you, I'm sor—"

His words were cut off by another howl as she drove the pliers into his groin, the man's reaction telling her she had hit the exact target she aimed for. He writhed and screamed but she only pressed harder. As she withdrew the tool he grew quiet and his eyes rolled back, his body slumping against hers. She slapped him out of his faint and he came to.

"Last chance."

He whimpered. "I don't know. Wait, wait!" She pulled back the pliers, which she'd begun to move toward him again. "It's just an idea. The power station, by the river. It drains water out through a big pipe. Somebody could probably climb through it, knock out the power station. The gate on that side isn't as strong. If any of them could be destroyed, that's the one."

That could work.

"Please," he said as she stood.

Skye left without a word, back out into the cool night, letting the shed door close behind her.

***

The van rumbled along the crumbling highway, rain splashing across its windshield. Skye sat on a bench in the back, her new apprentice across from her. Their chains occasionally jangled against the seats with a bump in the road.

"Have you ever met James?" Lawrence asked.

"Yes," Skye said. "Once. When I joined. Didn't you?" Of course, she omitted the other two times she’d met him.

"I think so," he said. "But I don't remember it well."

He appeared to be thinking for a moment before he spoke again. "How did you join?"

"I came through one of the recruitment centers. The same one we're heading to now."

"What was that like?"

"Confusing. Frightening, for a while. But I was lost, like most of us were. Things are much clearer now."

"Go on," he said.

"It was like we were under a spell. We spent every day in comfort and luxury, obsessing about meaningless problems and meaningless people. People in my generation, even me, we had no memory of what hardship was. We were less than a hundred years removed from wars, diseases, famines that took millions of lives. Most of us had family who even experienced some of those things, but still we had no perspective at all. We were soft. All this," she said, gesturing out the window, where a looted and burned pharmacy rolled past. "It would have happened in some form eventually. What James did was show us that we couldn't be soft anymore."

"Interesting," Lawrence said. "Do you ever miss your old life?"

"Never."

They were quiet for a while. "I came through the recruitment center too. Not this one, though."

"Why did you ask what it was like then? I assumed you just volunteered."

"No. I was just curious what it was like for you."

The van slowed as they neared a gate, then passed through. A moment later, they came to a stop and Skye climbed out through the back door. It had stopped raining for now, but the sky was still gray and foreboding. This place felt familiar to her, though she had spent less than an hour here after leaving the prison. She couldn't distinguish the two big circular tents, couldn't recall which she had been in, but she figured it didn't make a difference.

There was a general flurry of activity amidst all the smaller buildings as people ran to and fro. Skye paid them little mind overall as they made for the prison. She found the green-eyed Robe inside the tent, his massive Chained bodyguard alongside as always. The latter man was laughing as he looked over the other's shoulder, reading what the robed man was writing.

"Yeah, that'll really fuck with him."

The usually stoic Robe allowed himself a smirk as he set aside the paper slip he had written on, adding it to a pile of others. He looked up as she came near.

"Sister."

"Father."

"This must be your apprentice, yes?"

Skye nodded.

"You are in good hands,” the man said. Skye is one of our most successful recruits."

"Strange to see it from this side," Lawrence said, looking about the rounded hallway and examining one of the mail flaps. "I can't tell you how much time I spent inside wondering how you decide what to write."

"I hate to spoil the fantasy, but there’s no great mystery. It’s simply whatever strikes my fancy. The more emotionally confusing or manipulative, the better. We wish to identify the candidates inside who stand out from the pack, who are best equipped to survive in our new world. And those who might have something to offer us."

"What happens to the rest?"

The Robe shrugged. "Some we leave inside for a while. If there are too many with no potential, we'll kill one. That's usually a good way to prompt something interesting from the rest."

"When did this lot go in?" Skye asked.

"Last night, most of them,” he said. “Still got a couple of openings. And two left from the last batch. Captives are getting harder and harder to come by. We’re having to ship them in from farther away. Just ain’t that many people left.”

"Anyway," Skye said. "We should unload the van. Where are our quarters?"

"I'll show you. Just let me finish here. I'm surprised they sent you in two groups."

"Who else is here?" Skye hadn't heard of anyone else from the main compound being sent.

"Your friend, the raptor trainer. We've just recently got a pen with three of them." The Robe looked practically giddy at the prospect.

"Great,” Skye said, feeling decidedly less thrilled.

If there was one thing the Church did that Skye didn't approve of, it was this. Trying to train those things was insanity. Sure, the man had seen some success so far, but it was only a matter of time before it went bad. Even worse, she'd heard rumors of attempts elsewhere at capturing a Tyrannosaurus. An absolute clusterfuck waiting to happen.

"Where is he? I'll say hello."

They left the tent in the direction the Robe described, which led them to the raptor pen. It was an odd square-shaped building with stairs leading up to the top of it. Lawrence followed silently behind as they climbed. They found the trainer on the roof, a small viewing platform overlooking the inside of the pen. Skye tried not to look down there.

He was facing away, kneeling down next to a stack of crates, sawing with a pocketknife at the cloth ties which held one of them closed.

"Hunter," she said, and he turned with a smile. It was his name as well as his preferred occupational title.

"Skye." He offered a hand, which she shook.

"Fancy seeing you here."

"Likewise."

"Still playing with your velociraptors, eh?"

"They aren't velociraptors," he said, a note of irritation in his voice as he stowed the knife. "This isn't Jurassic Park. Real velociraptors were much smaller than these."

"Huh," Skye said, chancing a peek over the edge. "So what are they?"

It happened very fast. First, Skye felt a tug at her waist, the revolver holstered there suddenly being snatched away. A blast followed, and Hunter wavered for a second, his eyes wide and his mouth still partway open from speaking. There was a hole in his chest, and blood spilled out slowly and then in gouts. He staggered forward a step and then back one.

"You killed my wife!" A man's scream from behind her, her new apprentice's voice. Another shot. Hunter sagged back, hit the railing and toppled over it, falling to the ground with a thud. Skye turned to face him, and he aimed the gun at her now. His usually meek demeanor was gone, replaced by a visible rage.

"He and the rest of you people, you came to my home, you killed my friends, you killed my family. I had to watch my wife eaten alive by these fucking monsters. And then you throw me in a prison, torture me for weeks, and think I'll join you? Not fucking likely."

Skye edged forward a step as he ranted, and then she moved. She turned her body out of the gun's path before raising a hand to deflect the gun arm away, her other hand slipping up on the inside of his arm. When she brought her hands together with a sharp twist, his elbow snapped. He howled and the gun hit the metal walkway, bounced once and then fell off the edge.

Skye swept his leg out from under him then grabbed him by his throat, holding him against the railing. As he hung over the edge, the three raptors below leaped and snapped their jaws, unable to reach him. Thunder rolled overhead and the first drops of rain began to fall.

"You're fucking crazy," he said. "You're brainwashed."

She pushed him, and he fell off the ledge into the pen below. His anguished screams were brief, and Skye turned away.

Skye felt like something had torn a hole in her chest; her breathing was suddenly tight, and her head seemed to spin in circles. She steadied herself against the railing. There was no time to recover though, as more gunfire erupted from the other side of the camp.

She took the steps down three at a time and found her gun where it had fallen in the grass before sprinting back toward the big tent.

On the other side, a battle had begun. An armored van had crashed through the gate and armed men poured through. Dozens of Church members in rags were scrambling to defend themselves or to simply run away. Most were slaughtered as they ran.

She held only a revolver with four bullets, and the enemy stormed through the gates with automatic rifles. There was no cover, and the Church was already in full retreat. Skye turned and ran back the way she had come. She weaved between the small brick dormitory buildings, slipping behind a wall just as a man ran past. When he had gone, she moved on. At the next building, a shotgun blast tore the door off its hinges, a crimson-ragged woman carried with it.

Skye dove to the ground behind another corner. A man and a woman with guns ran out that same door and trampled over the woman's body, who moaned quietly and then went silent, her blood pooling in the grass. The attackers kicked in the door of another house and went inside. Skye pulled herself out of the mud and ran.

A few paces ahead, a crimson-ragged man crashed through a window, hitting the ground hard and moaning. A few bullets followed him, hitting the next building over. Skye crouched under the window and offered her hand. "Let's go." She helped him up, and they went on.

When she returned to the raptor pen, the sounds of battle had quieted somewhat. They were not alone here, though.

The man was tall, well-built, wearing leather and creeping his way toward the stairs. Even with his back turned to her, he struck a somewhat intimidating figure. She counted at least two guns on his person. Skye crept up behind him, revolver leveled, then pressed it against his neck. He tensed up, raising his hands. "Ah, slowly," she said to him. "Good. Now turn around."

***

Everything had gone so wrong.

After her encounter with Dorian Black, that contemptible man, she had slipped away into the woods. Observing the scene from there, it was clear the brief battle had been lost. This confused Skye, and that made her angry. She had figured the man to be soft, if perhaps charismatic and skilled at organization, but soft nonetheless. Why else would he hide behind fifteen foot walls? And yet here he was; not only was he unafraid to leave the safety of Black Creek, he had easily destroyed them. Easily overpowered her. And he truly never had seemed afraid. If anything, he seemed amused by her. This made her most angry of all.

She had traveled on foot for the entire day, finally finding a functional car around sunset. It had been left abandoned at a trailhead and she managed to hotwire it with ease, a skill she had learned on the road, before she joined the Church. It felt like an awfully long time ago.

The blast of cool air from the vents was pure relief, and she enjoyed it a moment longer than she intended to before shutting it off.

The moon was just rising into the sky overhead when she arrived back at the Church. She was surprised to find her master in his usual place.

"Skye? What are you doing here?"

"You haven't left yet?" she responded.

He shook his head. "No, not for a few days yet. But I didn't expect to see you again. What happened?"

Skye recounted the events as she remembered them, every detail including her apprentice's betrayal and her encounter with Dorian Black. Then she told of how she planned to strike back at him, how they could cripple their power supply. He listened attentively as she spoke, then nodded a few times when she was done. "I will need to confer with my superiors," he said after a moment. "Please wait here."

She wanted to say no, to insist that she be the one to speak with them, but she didn't. Skye found that she was very tired, and so she simply sat down and waited.

He returned a short while later, a green-eyed Robe in tow. The two men were speaking quietly as they entered, then her master addressed her.

"Skye, tell him everything." She did. When she finished, the Robe glanced at her master and smiled.

"Very good," he said. "You’re authorized to lead the attack. We’ll proceed with your plan, as well as something more, for good measure. May James be with you."

"And with you," she said.

James

The world was changing.

Of course, in all the many millions of years James had walked the earth, it had always been changing. But aside from those handful of cataclysmic extinctions and other events he had seen, change had always come slowly.

Now the world progressed at dizzying speed. It seemed as if one day humans were living in caves and small tribes, and on the next they gathered by the thousands in cities as smaller towns spread across the countryside. Far gone were the days when tiny villages survived thanks only to the gifts he left them. Collectively they had progressed further than he could ever have conceived.

This alarming sense of change was only worsened by James's new lifestyle. Gone too were the days when he could settle in a place for years at a time, forced only to move on after several decades. Now he was almost constantly on the move, much as he had been in his earliest days, but now with the ever-present sense that something dark and terrible was following him.

In his path he left only tragedy and death. Whole cities burned to the ground. Terrible storms and massive waves from the sea leveled towns. James just kept running, unharmed as ever, but his adversary remained unseen. What at first seemed only coincidence, soon became clear evidence that he was not truly alone on this now-crowded planet after all. Someone else like him must be out there, and whoever they were, they were set on destroying him.

It was around this time that James first crossed the ocean, his final desperate attempt at escape. He booked passage on an impressive wooden ship which carried him across the violent waves. The journey was long and nauseating, but with every passing day he felt that evil presence fading further into the deepest reaches of his mind.

So James arrived in this new world feeling liberated. This land was much the same as the one he had left, and though its civilization was newer, it seemed to progress at an even faster pace. He spent months, then years, in hesitant isolation there, fearing for the day when he would be found once again. Yet the years went on without incident, and so James slowly slipped with relief back into the life he had lost.

Though this new land felt truly no different than the old, being there offered him distance. Distance from all the happy times, and his pride at the things he had accomplished, but also distance from the pain and suffering, the wrongs he had done. And so, despite everything within him which told him not to, he met a woman.

Her name was Emeline. James had worked for the last several years as the apprentice of her father, a physician in Boston. He was a rough man who only rarely showed any kindness to anyone other than his patients, but he had always been impressed with James's skills and often inquired whether he had been trained elsewhere. James always insisted he had not, but that the compliment was appreciated. The two men were never friends, but over time it became clear he viewed James like a son, and a potential suitor for his daughter.

The idea made him nervous, but James was never completely averse to it. After enough cajoling he finally agreed to meet her. She was a beautiful young woman, and kind. Shy, as the customs of the time dictated she ought to be, but she opened up in his presence. They warmed to each other very quickly. James laughed at her jokes and stories about her father. She listened with awe to his stories of life overseas, modified slightly to suit the invented backstory he had told the locals. Many nights they would walk along the harbor, watching the men load and unload the ships under the sunset.

Her father approved of their budding romance, affording James days off from his training to spend more time with her. Within a year, the two were wed, and James was happy again. Before long he was practicing as a physician himself. Though this was something he had already done in another land, he still felt that he knew nothing. Just how much the human understanding of biology and physiology had changed astounded him. As he studied and practiced, he never found anything which could explain the unnatural powers he possessed.

It was easy for him to almost forget he had those powers, at times. It had been years since he had used any of them. Unless he were to be gravely injured, to reveal his near-instant healing, no one would be any the wiser. At least for now. The impending questions about his lack of aging were, as ever, on his mind.

These were religious times, and the prevailing philosophies of the day left no room for unnaturals like himself. There were those who claimed dark powers and practiced outside of those cultural norms, but James was skeptical they could help him anyway. In all his days, he had never encountered another like himself, and whoever had been hunting him for a time, if anyone had been at all, they seemed to be long gone. So, hesitant to expose himself, he never sought them out.

He loved Emeline, and their brief life together was blissful. She couldn’t bear children, and though she cried and apologized to him on the day they learned this, James for his part was relieved. Over the years of their early marriage, he dreaded more and more the inevitable day when he would have to leave her. More than anything, he felt guilt, knowing that she would be hurt. So, after considering the idea for months, he decided to tell her.

It was a summer evening, and the two of them had just finished eating dinner. They sat together on the porch of their small riverside home as the sun sank beneath the trees ahead of them. The air was filled with the distant chirping of crickets, the pleasant babble of the stream, and the creaking of their chairs as they rocked. Emeline had her eyes closed, but he could tell by her breathing that she was still awake.

"Emeline," he said.

"Yes?" she replied, not opening her eyes.

Where to start? Not at the beginning, that would simply take too long. Better to show her, he thought. There was a whittling knife on the table next to him. He grabbed it.

"There's something I need to tell you. Something you need to know about me."

She opened her eyes now, looking over at him with a smile. "What?"

"I'm different from everyone else." That was all he managed to say, and it conveyed nothing at all of what he wanted to.

"What do you mean?"

He raised his arm and drove the knife into his flesh without hesitation. Emeline screamed as he dragged the blade down the length of his forearm. Blood fell to the ground in spurts.

"Emeline," he said calmly. "I need you to watch." She kept screaming, but her cries grew fainter and then stopped as the bleeding did. She watched silently as the skin of his forearm knitted itself back together.

"What is the meaning of this?" she asked.

James did his best to explain. He left out a great deal, but to tell his story took well into the night. She listened quietly and when he was done, she hugged him and went to bed. James sat for a while on the porch looking up at the moon. It was one thing that had not changed in all his years, and he found it comforting.

When the moon had crossed the center of the sky overhead, he finally got up and went inside. His wife was not in their bedroom.

"Emeline?" he called, going from room to room, but she was nowhere to be found. In the kitchen, a cold breeze blew through an open window. He peered through, seeing nothing but the silhouettes of the dark forest. He shuttered the window and went back outside.

The night was no longer quiet. He could hear the dull, incoherent babble of a crowd of men. It was distant, but approaching quickly. Within minutes an orange glow came into view, then the mob itself. A dozen men with torches, axes, and knives. At the head of the group was Emeline's father, still in his work clothing. Behind him, Emeline. Their shouts had now become clear.

"Death to the witch!"

They saw him standing on the porch. There was nowhere to go but back into the house, or through them. He stared as they approached, then stopped a few paces away from him. His chest ached with the understanding of what had happened.

"I don't want to hurt you," James said. "Though you have all hurt me."

"Get him!" They surged around him, and though he could have easily killed them all, James just stood there while they battered him with their fists and clubs. A small blade found its way into his chest and he let out a cry. They only laughed as ropes slipped around his wrists and ankles, and they carried him away.

The hole in his chest was already healing, but the pain he felt inside was getting worse. His wife, his mentor, his friends. It meant nothing. No one could ever accept who he was. They carried him into town, where wood had already been piled high in the town square. Others, mostly women and children, stood watching as he was tied to the pyre. It was Emeline who put the torch to the pile, and she did it without hesitation. He couldn’t bear to look at her when she did.

The flames grew, searing his legs and then his chest, and his arms. His flesh blistered and boiled, and James cried out in horrible agony. But, of course, he didn’t die. The roar in the back of his head grew louder and louder as every cell of his body raced to repair itself.

He couldn’t hear the townsfolk over his own screaming, but he could see the confusion on their faces. He should be dead by now, they were sure.

And then suddenly he wasn't the only one on fire. A building ahead of him exploded, sending burning shards of wood flying in all directions. Now their screams were louder than his own, and the growing chaos snapped him out of his fugue. His bindings had long since burned away, so he simply walked forward out of the fire. As he did, his skin was already healing. Around him, everyone was dying. He could only watch as the last of them fell, silent and still, to the ground.

Several of the buildings around the square still burned, and the night sky had an orange glow. The roar in James's head would not quiet. He pushed it back and it grew louder again, loud enough that he doubled over in pain, head in his hands. And then it went silent.

There was a man in front of him. He was tall, muscular, and his hair was short and black. He looked at James with a smirk that conveyed anger more than amusement.

"Hello, father," the man said. "I've been looking for you for a very long time."

His blood went cold, but James could feel the truth of what he'd said. This was the man who had hunted him.

"What do you want?" James asked.

"To kill you."

"Feel free to try,” James said.

That was all they said. The other man burst forward in a rage, lightning crackling from his fingers. Bolts hit the ground around James and he leapt away, sending a volley of flames back at his attacker. The two men traded blows all through the night, sometimes with the elements and sometimes with mere fists. When their bodies were so damaged they could no longer fight, they summoned wild animals to fight on their behalf. By morning, the two men each lay broken. And as James healed, so did he. The two defeated men eventually left each other.

And so it went for some time. James ran, never lingering long in one place or another before moving on. He fled back across the sea and back to America again, but always the man was not far behind. And so James was never again afforded a life of peace and comfort. He was ever on the move, ever fearful of who else might be hurt by their struggle, for James never resented what the mob had done to him. They simply feared what they could not understand. His desire for companionship was no less strong, though he feared he would never attain it again. He lived a solitary, nomadic life, never daring to make a friend or love another woman.

Until, of course, in a little town in Virginia, he met her. And it ended in tragedy, as it always had and always would.

***

The trout danced through the wake beneath him. James crouched on a slick rock next to the river, its foam splashing at his feet. His right hand was poised with a spear at the ready. The moment came, and he stabbed. James hit his target, and the fish was stuck on the end of his spear.

Still got it.

His footprints had tread a path through the underbrush. James scratched at his overgrown and tangled beard as he followed the path, his trout hanging loosely in his hand. The walk was short, through the forest and over a hill before ending at the mouth of a cave. Inside the cave it was cool. The first part of the cave was a dark tunnel, but soon he rounded a curve and the cave opened up before him.

High above, there was an opening in the rock which let the sun shine down into this large, round room. While the tunnel's floor was dirt and stone, inside the cave grass and flowers grew underfoot. A tall, bushy oak tree rose up in the middle of the room, just where the sunlight rained down. On one wall a small waterfall fell, the water trickling out from some spring within the earth and splashing down the rocks before running across the room in a stream.

Near where he entered, a fire burned. He took a stick and stoked the logs then set about cleaning his fish. When he finished, James stuck a spit through the meat and suspended it over the flame. The smoke from the fire billowed and twirled upward and out into the open air. James knelt near the stream, running his hands through the cold water to remove the slime.

When he felt a soft hand on his shoulder, he smiled.

"Back so soon?" Hope asked.

"Only caught a fish. Doesn't take long."

"I saw. Thank you."

"I'll go further out tomorrow. Get some more supplies. Just couldn't do it today."

"I understand," she said. She sat down on a rock next to him, her feet in the stream. They were quiet for a time, James leaning his head on her thigh.

"I'm tired," he said. He was, in many more ways than one.

Hope put her arm around him, and he nuzzled closer to her.

"There's so much to do,” James said, his voice strained.

"And what if it isn't your job to do it at all?"

"I'm not sure anyone else can. I'm not sure I can."

"Well," she said, her hand playing at his chest. "That's a problem for another day. Today is just you and me. Come on."

He forced a smile, clasped her hand with his own. When she stood, Hope offered him her hand and he took it, pulling himself up. In the corner of the cave, a modern bed and kitchen table were the only conspicuous reminders of the world from which they hid. She led him there and they kissed, falling together onto the bed.

They lay together for a while after. His bare chest was cold, and he pulled the blanket up over him. Hope was cradled under his arm. There was a faint smile on her face, her eyes closed and her chest rising and falling slowly as she drifted into a light sleep.

In this moment, he was happy. He had been for two years now, reunited with his wife after years apart. The relentless pursuit of the man who called himself Martin, who called himself James's son, drove him to force her away, fearing for her safety. When the world ended, there was no need for them to be apart anymore. Martin had won.

To be back together with her was blissful, but he was plagued by guilt. Every day he saw the world around him struggling to put itself back together. As he always had for so many years, he felt a need to help them. But this time he didn't know if he even could. Even worse, he was afraid of what he might have to do.

Hope stirred next to him, stretching her arm across his chest. "Do you remember that night?" she asked. "The night we were married?"

He laughed. The question was rhetorical, one she often asked him when he was in a foul mood.

It usually worked. "Of course I do."

***

Chaos raged around him.

Fire had engulfed the entire grandstand now, and bodies littered the dirt and grass of the racetrack. Those who still lived fled screaming into the distance. He knew that somewhere nearby Martin continued his assault, searching for him. The wretched creatures he had summoned continued their rampage. He knew that every minute that passed only meant more innocents dead.

Yet the only thing on his mind was finding her. The burning barn was crumbling, its doors blocked by fallen timber. He blasted the entryway clear with a pulse of pure force, which ballooned out before him, shattering the wood and sending embers dancing through the air.

Inside, smoke burned his lungs. Two horses were left in their stalls. Hope was there, fumbling at the door of one.

"Hope!" he screamed.

She didn't hear him. James ran over to her and kicked the first door, shattering its lock. The horse bolted from the barn straight away. Hope managed to open the second before noticing him.

"Hank," she said, then her eyes rolled back and she collapsed.

He caught her, heaving her up into his arms and carrying her free from the burning building. It was quieter now, the only screams being further off in the distance. They were the only two left alive here. He laid her on the ground, rubbing at her chest. She woke, hacking and coughing.

"What happened?" she asked. He hugged her tight, tears welling in his eyes.

It was only then that he realized Joseph was missing.

James led her through the town, where more fires burned and more people lay dead and dying. When they reached Joseph's house, it was like an oasis. In that small forest clearing, the only sound was the swaying of the trees in the wind.

"I'm going to find your father," he said, and left her there.

And he did, not long after. First James went from street to street in the town, dispatching what foul beasts remained, but there was no sign of Joseph anywhere. Martin was absent as well, for that matter, seemingly having given up and moved on.

On a whim, James wandered into the woods, making his way deeper into the dark forest by means of his own summoned flame. He heard the beast’s horrible roar and then he found it, still feeding on the body of his friend. James ignited in such a volcanic rage that the monster was incinerated in an instant. The conflagration left the trees aflame and James’s own skin singed. But Joseph was gone, and there was nothing more he could do.

Hope waited for him on the porch of her home. Her face fell as he approached, alone. James shook his head and cast his eyes down, unable to bear seeing her face. She cried out and fell to her knees. He sat beside her, arm around her shoulder, and tried to comfort her as she cried. After a while her sobs grew quiet and she slept on his shoulder.

They were together, but he felt alone. He knew that eventually he would have to leave her, or she would die, and he would be alone once again. All he truly had in this world was Martin, an evil man bent on destroying him. He wished for something different. That she could be with him forever, or failing that, that he would just die along with her. He wished for it with every ounce of his being, and after a while he began to wonder if he could do just that.

There was nothing he couldn’t do, James decided. He had given this life to Martin, after all, one way or another. Perhaps he could share it with Hope. He’d spent his entire existence trying to help others, and now James needed to help himself.

She stirred after a time. "I miss him."

"I miss him too, Hope. I'm sorry." To have lost both her mother and father so soon, his heart ached for her.

"I can't lose you, too."

He let slip a little laugh. "You'll never have to."

She didn't respond, but his heart began to race now. He felt an urge to do something he knew he shouldn't.

"I need to tell you something, Hope."

She sat up. "What is it?"

"I won't die, ever. I can't die."

"What do you mean?"

He freed his arm from around her neck and held his palm in front of him. An orange ball of flame appeared and she gasped. With his mind he twisted the flame, sent it spinning and rippling above his hand. He flicked his fingers and spurts of flame streaked up and fell down in arcs, leaving beautiful orange trails in the night air. Hope watched, her jaw increasingly agape. Then he pressed the flame against his other arm. The flesh sizzled and popped, but Hope didn’t scream. She watched intently as he removed his hand, leaving a blackened patch of skin, and she watched as the skin healed before her eyes.

"I can't die," he said again. "I've been like this as for long as I can remember. A very, very long time. And for most of that time I thought I was alone, but now I know there is another like me. But he’s evil, and I'm not. He's the man who attacked us today. The man who killed your father. I think... I think he only exists because of me. I made him like me. But I might be able to make you like me too. If I could, maybe we could be together forever. If I could... would you want that?"

All of this he had said while staring down at his own feet, and as he finished he finally looked up at her, certain he’d see a look of rage, an accusation of him being the one who ruined her life. Dried tears stained her cheeks, but she wore a faint smile.

“Yes,” she said.

Jess

There were twelve of them.

Men and women, all adults, but otherwise young and old. Two of them Jess recognized as having been in the truck with her. Each of them wore gray rags with a bold number printed on the chest, like the ones she had been given. Most of them looked terrified, huddled together in the center of the room. They were afraid of her, she realized. Behind her, the door hung ajar, the dead bodies of the two church members clearly visible.

There was no other way out of this round prison. The circular walls were concrete, and the only window was in the center of the dome, over twenty feet above.

"I'm leaving," she said. "Not here to hurt anybody." Nobody moved, so she turned to leave.

"Jess?"

It was a voice she recognized, but couldn't place right away. Jess turned back around. She was a young woman. Blonde, knotted hair hung past her shoulders. Her gray rags bearing the number two fell loosely around her body. She looked thin, weathered, tired.

"Meredith?" Jess asked.

She was crying now, and the girl ran forward to throw her arms around Jess. Jess held her close, stroking her hair as she sobbed and dampened the front of Jess's shirt. After a minute the tears had stopped and Meredith let her go.

"Sorry," she said.

"Don't be. Let's get out of here."

"How? Do you have the key?"

"No. Let's check them."

Jess went back into the small entry room. The woman's charred body was still sizzling. Her clothing had been melted and fused to her skin. If there was a key there, she couldn't retrieve it.

"Here," Meredith said, pulling her hand out of the man's pocket and handing her a key. Jess tried it, and the door opened with a heavy clank.

The other two guards seemed to have fled. As they emerged from the prison, there was no one else in sight. They were inside a small compound. The prison and a small brick house were the only two buildings inside the chain link fence. The truck which had brought her here still idled just ahead, its exhaust puffing away in the increasingly cold night air. The back doors to the cargo hold hung slightly ajar.

With Meredith a step behind, and her rifle in hand, Jess moved toward the truck. The door swung open easily. Inside, a dozen men and women lay dead, their bodies tangled and piled atop one another. As if they had tried, to no avail, to retreat further into the truck. Blood pooled and ran down toward the back doors. As she looked upon the grisly scene the first drops of blood began to drip off and splatter on the grass.

It wasn't the magnitude of the violence that enraged her but the senselessness. The guards could simply have fled alone. Instead they had executed innocent people, and for what? She slammed the doors shut.

"Come on, let’s go,” Jess said, starting toward the cab of the truck.

"We're taking this?" Meredith looked like she was going to vomit.

"I'd take another car if I could."

Jess climbed into the driver's seat and the two of them left the compound. The two women were silent for a while as she made her way to the interstate and headed south.

"You were with Rachel the night before this happened," Jess said. "Do you know what happened to her?"

"Oh my God," Meredith said. "I forgot. You never came home that night. Rachel was worried sick. What happened to you?"

"I was kidnapped. What happened the next day?"

"She was gone when I woke up. Left me a note saying to let myself out. I figured she went to look for you."

Jess was sure she did. "So you don't know where she is, still?" Meredith asked.

"No. I was held captive for a long time. I still don't even really know what's going on out here."

"Well, have you seen the dinosaurs?"

Jess laughed. "Yeah."

"Okay. That part's really weird."

"What else? Is everywhere like this?"

"I'm not sure. From what I've heard, society is pretty much gone everywhere. Around here, a ton of people died. Really there weren't that many people left. It might not be as bad some places though. I've only been around here. That's just what people told me."

"What happened to you after?"

"I got lucky. I was leaving the city anyway, after everything that happened I just wanted to get away. I was on the highway when everything went crazy. Things were alright for a while, people kind of worked together. But then when everything started running out, people weren't so nice anymore."

"What do you know about this church that captured us?" Jess asked.

"Not much. Some crazy cult. There's a lot of them now."

The gas light flickered on and caught Jess's eye. "We're gonna need gas," she said.

They took the next exit off of the highway and found themselves at a rest stop. There were a couple of cars which hadn't been stripped. Jess found a hose in a little shed behind the station and used that to siphon gas from a nearby sedan.

As the last drops were draining into her truck, she began to hear a rumbling. Shielding her eyes against the early morning sun she could see a van approaching, speeding steadily down the road toward them.

"Meredith, get back in the truck," Jess said, and Meredith did. Jess stayed outside, poised and ready in front of the vehicle. She did her best to look intimidating, desperately trying to conceal her own fear.

The van rolled to a stop close by. When the tinted door swung open, a man stepped out. A black hood was pulled up over his blond hair but it did not obscure his wide, overly-friendly smile. He wore leather armor that seemed to be accented with feathers. He extended his arms out in front of him, as if beckoning her to hug him. She didn't. Jess could see the silhouette of a few others inside the van, who didn't emerge.

"James greets you," the man said.

"Okay,” Jess said. “What do you want?"

"Only to ensure you are safe. These are dangerous times for two beautiful young women to travel alone."

If it weren't for what seemed to be the genuine warmth of the man's expression, she might have sensed a threat in that.

"What's the catch?"

"None. There are men enough in this world looking to help themselves. James seeks only to help others."

"Alright then. You help a lot of people?" The man nodded. Jess pulled Rachel's photo from her pocket and handed it to him. "Have you seen this woman?"

The strange man looked at the photo, then back at her, then at the photo again. His smile grew even wider.

***

Jess followed close behind the van. The strange man claimed he had taken Rachel to a safe place, and that he would lead her there. And though she felt hope for the first time in a long time, she refused to ride in their van along with them. She and Meredith followed in the truck as they went south, crossing into Maryland. They rode in silence most of the way, Jess still having the distinct feeling this could all be a trap.

They were on a narrow country road now, and their truck bumped and squeaked as they went. On the side of the road, a sign came into view. ‘Black Creek,’ it said. It was clear that it had previously said ‘Deep Creek,’ but the first word had been crossed out and replaced. They passed around another bend, and the town suddenly appeared before them.

The walls were massive, at least fifteen feet high, and two intimidating guardhouses sat atop the gate. The van pulled off the road into the grass, and Jess did the same behind. The man who called himself James was already out of his vehicle, walking forward and then standing at the foot of the wall, apparently shouting up at someone. After a moment he returned.

"This place is safe," the man said to her. "You will find her here, if you can get inside. Thanks to James's friendship they have agreed to speak to you, but I warn you they do not permit everyone entrance."

"They'll let me in," she said. "Thank you."

The man smiled, raised his arms and bowed his head slightly but didn’t reply. He climbed back in his van, and then he was gone. She and Meredith approached the gates, which began to rumble and open, grinding across the asphalt.

They were greeted by several armed men and women, who stood behind the gates with their rifles leveled at her. Jess barely noticed the guards. Behind them, a city had been built. Freshly paved roads and sidewalks ran along rows of stores and businesses. A grassy park was visible in the distance. Streetlights lined the walkways.

"Wow," Meredith said.

"Step forward," someone shouted, breaking her reverie. Jess did so, taking Meredith's hand and leading her along when she hesitated. The gates slid closed behind them.

"Come with me," said the man at the head of the group, lowering his rifle. He led them down the sidewalk and through a metal door into a room built into the side of the wall itself. It was surprisingly spacious inside. The room they were in now had several chairs and a table. A single lightbulb hung overhead, illuminating the dim space.

"You have electricity?" she asked. The man only laughed.

"Have a seat. He'll be here in a few minutes." He left, the heavy door closing behind him with a bang. Jess and Meredith sat. On the other side of the room, a narrow hallway branched off. Small holding rooms, like jail cells, sat on either side of the hall. They were all empty, as far as she could see.

No more than a few minutes had passed before the door opened again and another man entered. He wore a green bandanna and a black eyepatch over one eye. He took a casual seat across from Jess.

"I'm Kristof," he said. "I'm second in command of Black Creek."

"I'm Jess. This is Meredith. It's nice to meet you."

"So how did you find your way here?"

"We were on the road, looking for someone. A strange man, some cultist I guess, found us. Are you associated with them?"

"No. They call themselves the Disciples. They're fairly harmless overall. As far as cults go. We protect them, and they feed us information, and potential recruits for the town."

"I see," she said. "Anyway, he said he knew where my girlfriend was, that she was safe. So he led us here. This is her." Jess produced the photo and slid it across the table to him. He glanced at it without expression and pushed it back.

"We don't answer questions about who is or isn't inside, with outsiders anyway."

"So how do we get inside?"

"An interview. But not this one, one with the boss. The rules are simple: we welcome any and all who can contribute. Able-bodied workers, scientists, engineers, cooks, teachers. That kind of thing. He's away though. Was supposed to get back any time now. So you'll have to wait until tomorrow."

"Is there any other way?"

"No," he said. "You can stay here overnight, or go back outside and come back then."

"Please," Jess said. "I need to see her. It's been two years. Two years not knowing if she was alive or dead, or worse. I just need to see her. Please." Tears were welling at the corners of her eyes. Kristof's face softened.

"I can't," he said. "Believe me I would, if it were up to me. But it's not."

"Then just tell me if she's here. Please." He stared at her for a moment, then nodded his head slightly. The dam burst, and tears streamed down her cheeks. Meredith put a hand on her shoulder.

"Just wait until tomorrow, okay?” Kristof said. “It's safe here."

"Alright," Jess said, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

"Tell me, what did you do before?"

"I was a detective. In Pittsburgh."

"That's excellent. We've been talking about setting up a police force. What about you, Meredith?"

"I was just a college student," she said meekly.

"No job, nothing else?" She shook her head. "What did you study?"

"Education," she said.

Kristof seemed to contemplate it. "I don't know, hard to say. We don't really have kids here, and you weren't a qualified teacher anyway. We definitely need you, Jess. Maybe you can cut a deal when you talk to Dorian."

"Dorian?"

"Yeah, Dorian Black, the billionaire. You know him?"

Oh, I know him. "Only by name."

The light overhead suddenly went off, and they were left in the dark.

"Oh, what the hell are they doing?" came Kristof's voice, though she couldn’t see him. A low, dull rumble followed, traveling down the length of the wall as well as through the earth below them. After a moment, it passed. The door opened and sunlight flooded in. She now saw that it was Kristof who had opened it.

"Wait, I can help you!" she called after him, but the door swung shut. When she tried the handle though, it wasn't locked.

It was quiet on the streets outside. The men who had stood watch atop the wall were gone, the gates shut. Jess could see from here the sheer size of the place. There was no sense in searching randomly from house to house. She could see smoke rising into the air in the distance off to her left.

Two dozen armed men and women were gathered on the wall at the other edge of town. No one paid Jess and Meredith any notice as they climbed the ladder and slid into the crowd. Sliding her way to the front, she could see what had happened.

There was another set of gates beneath them. Away from that ran a small fenced-in pathway which led to another, smaller, walled compound. She couldn't see into it, but heavy black smoke was billowing upward from the buildings there.

"They knocked out our power," someone was saying. "We can't open the gates." Worried murmuring spread through the crowd.

Some people were approaching below, a dozen men and women in crimson rags. Two men and a woman at their front, iron chains dangling from their wrists glinting in the sun. All were armed.

"The Church. Goddamn cunts." Kristof's voice, from nearby.

"We have destroyed your generators." It was the woman in chains who shouted up to them.

"Fuck you," Kristof replied.

"Come down and we'll talk about it. Or are you trapped?"

"The workers at the power house. What did you do with them?"

She shrugged. "Some are dead, some aren't. But if you stay in there, you won't be able to save them."

"Lisa," Kristof muttered to himself, but the significance of the name was lost on Jess.

There was the roar of a motorcycle engine now, first far away and steadily approaching. It seemed as though everyone on both sides was uncertain what to make of this. The Church members were outnumbered and on low ground, but the people on the wall were packed too tightly to make any effective attack, and even if they did, they still couldn’t open the gates. So both groups simply stood and watched as the motorcycle came near.

It stopped just outside the chain link fence, its driver a tall man in leather gear and a sawed-off shotgun slung over his back.

"It's Dorian," Kristof said. "He's back."

Dorian

Dorian had been on the road for three days.

He'd left in the early morning, a duffel bag and a shotgun slung over the back of his motorcycle and a revolver at his hip. "I'll be back in four days at the latest," he had said to Kristof, though he'd not mentioned where he intended to go. Dorian himself hadn't known exactly where he was going.

What he did have was a map, and on it was a pattern. A pattern of sightings of his friend over the past year, mostly in northern Virginia. Once he got to that general area, he figured it didn't matter where he went. He knew James well. If someone was in trouble, he'd be there. So Dorian might just have to make some trouble.

Doing so had turned out to be harder than he expected. Though the countryside around Black Creek was fairly barren these days, this area made it look like a bustling metropolis. The relatively flat grasslands were now marshes and swamps stretching as far as he could see. Low-lying roads were flooded at best, and many were impassable. He traveled along the raised roads as much as he could.

At first Dorian had traveled east, but he ran into the ocean about fifty miles sooner than he expected. Cruising along the low country road, the ocean had appeared so suddenly he nearly drove straight into the waves.

Having barely stopped in time, Dorian sat for a while atop his idling motorcycle. The waves lapped peacefully at his feet, and gulls cawed overhead. As far as he could see, there was no one else in sight. After a while, he rode off.

He could only assume massive flooding and a subsequent sea level change had a lot to do with the state of this area. So he made his way southwest, and after half a day or so the land began to dry out. On this, the morning of the third day, he saw the first sign of human life since he'd left Black Creek.

Five RVs were parked in a circle just off the side of the road. Dorian stopped his motorcycle nearby, but a guard on the roof of one vehicle watched him warily. After a few minutes the man fired a warning shot which pinged off the asphalt a few yards away, so Dorian drove on.

The highway took him past a residential area. If anyone was left alive there, he didn't see any sign of them. Half the houses were leveled or burned, and those that still stood had their windows and doors smashed. Looted, he was sure.

Something about this place, so thoroughly abandoned, struck him. Of course, the collapse of civilization as they'd known it was nothing surprising to him at this point. Still, to be alone on the road like this for days at a time was surreal.

He heard a shriek somewhere far above. Craning his neck back Dorian could see two pteranodons flying side by side, their massive wings flapping almost lazily as they went. They didn't seem to take notice of him, but in any case he kept one hand on his shotgun until they had gone out of sight.

Dorian rode for another hour, simply watching the empty landscape roll by, before he saw the truck. At first it was a just smudge of yellow on the horizon ahead, but as he gained ground he saw that it was an old rental truck. It was chugging along at a slow pace, smoke beginning to emanate from its engine compartment. When he was about a quarter mile behind it, the truck began to sputter and slow, before finally coasting to a stop in the middle of the road.

Three men had climbed out of the cab by the time he arrived. Two were leaning over the engine, and another was watching him as he approached. He dropped the kickstand on his bike a few carlengths away and dismounted.

"Trouble?" he asked, walking toward them. The other two men had joined the first one in staring him down. They wore regular clothes, jeans and t-shirts. Each had a pistol holstered at his hip, he noticed. The first man had his hand resting on his gun.

"Hope not," he said. "Just a mechanical problem. Appreciate you stopping, but we can handle it."

"Ah, I know my way around an engine pretty well. Sure you don't want me to take a look?" Dorian said.

The men glanced at each other. They were nervous, that was obvious enough. "Sure," one finally said.

Dorian started toward the front of the truck, but stopped when he heard banging from inside the cargo area. The pounding of a fist on the thin metal, and muffled yells.

Dorian smiled. "What's in the truck, boys?"

Two of them exchanged another look, and the third moved to draw his gun. Dorian moved first, sliding his revolver free and putting two shots in the man’s chest. The man hit the ground before the other two even realized what happened. He turned his aim to the next man, but his next shot hit the road as both of them scrambled to get behind the truck.

A bullet whizzed past his ear just as Dorian jumped back against the side of the truck. He turned and ran back toward his motorcycle, staying close to the truck where he couldn't be seen. The engine started with a growl and he grabbed his shotgun.

Ahead, he could see one of the men peeking around the front of the truck. With a twist of the throttle the bike sped forward, and he leapt off just before it would have carried him past the two men. The bike kept rolling, eventually falling on its side and grinding to a stop. A volley of gunfire followed it.

Dorian ran forward, shotgun in hand, and fired a blast as he stepped out from behind the truck. It caught one man full in the chest and clipped the other at his shoulder. Both men went down, one silent and the other moaning in pain. As he approached, the last one living made for his gun, which had fallen next to him. Dorian stomped on his hand and the man howled again. Dorian kicked the pistol away across the road.

"Where are the keys?" Dorian asked, but the man didn't answer, preferring to keep moaning and writhing on the ground. He felt in the dead man's pockets and found nothing, then found them in the living man's right pocket.

Dorian pulled his motorcycle back upright and left the shotgun there, drawing his revolver instead. "Don't go anywhere," he said to the man, then shot him in the knee. The lock on the sliding cargo door opened with a clunk, and Dorian heaved the heavy door open. Inside, a dozen children were huddled together at the back of the hold, each peeking out at him fearfully. Most looked to be between eight and ten.

"God fucking damnit." Dorian slid the door shut again.

"Where were you taking them?" Dorian pressed the heel of his boot into the man's wounded knee. He shrieked.

"Fuck y—" the man started, and Dorian shot him in the other knee.

"I'm not sure where you got the impression that I'm fucking around." Dorian aimed the gun at his head.

"Alright, alright!" he yelled. "We have a camp outside of Elkton, like ten miles from here."

"How many of you are there?"

"Enough."

"Yeah, we'll see. Let's go." Dorian motioned toward the cab of the truck.

"I can't fucking walk."

"Then crawl. Look, I'll even get the door for you." Dorian opened the passenger side door and gestured inside with his gun. The man just stared at him.

"Either get in, or die here and now. Your choice." Dorian went back to his bike and wheeled it off the road, tucking it away among some shrubs. He took his shotgun and duffel bag and threw both in the back of the cab.

The man was halfway into the passenger door, holding himself up by his hands and unable to stand up. He held his hand out to Dorian as he sat in the driver's seat. Dorian pulled it, dumping the man unceremoniously on the floor. When Dorian hit the gas, the passenger door swung shut and hit the man's leg once again.

They drove in silence for a few minutes. "Hey," Dorian finally said. The man didn't reply. "Hey, dickhead," he said again, slapping him in the back of his head.

"What?"

"Is anybody else left around here? Regular people, not you."

"Only in the cities. Harrisonburg, Charlottesville around here, and further south. D.C. is under water."

"Yeah, I saw. You hear about anybody killing dinosaurs? Any of your dipshit friends get killed by a man with green eyes and magic powers?"

The man actually laughed. "Yeah. Everybody around here has. You looking for him, tough guy? I wouldn't try your luck."

"You know where he is?" Dorian asked.

"No, and I don't want to know."

A camp came into view just ahead, a small circle of camper vehicles and flimsy shacks on the side of the road. "Is this it?"

"How should I know? I can't see." The man was still on the floor.

"Pull yourself up. You've still got arms, for the moment." The man did, grunting and panting.

"Yeah, that's it," he finally said, just barely peeking over the dash.

Dorian parked behind one of the campers, quickly reaching inside his bag and reloading his two guns. A man was approaching now, having come around from the other side of the RV. He stopped at the driver's side as Dorian rolled down the window.

"Howdy," Dorian said with a smile.

"Who the hell are you?"

Dorian shot him in the head, then turned and finally put the man in the passenger's seat out of his misery. He slipped another two rounds into his revolver before leaving the truck, tucking the gun back at his waist and advancing with the shotgun in hand.

No one else was in sight, so he kicked in the door of the first camper he got to. This one was empty, but through the windows he could see several armed men in the camp between the RVs. They had their guns raised, each looking around fearfully. They had no idea where he was.

Morons.

He burst through the opposite door of the RV, firing a warning blast with the shotgun and catching them off guard. "Drop 'em!" he yelled. They whirled around to see him, but at that moment the earth shook, and everyone froze. Another boom and tremble, then another, that unmistakable sound.

"Motherfucker," Dorian said.

The air was rent by a terrible roar. Dorian slipped back inside the RV just as the Tyrannosaurus smashed through a camper across the circle. The men scrambled in every direction, firing futile shots over their shoulders. One man didn't get far, and went down beneath the dinosaur's massive foot. It slammed its head against another RV and knocked it over on its side, then it turned its attention to the one Dorian was hiding in now. Briefly, it almost seemed as if the beast met Dorian's eyes.

Dorian ran, cursing, out the back door just before the dinosaur crashed through it, flattening the vehicle beneath its feet. He turned as he ran, but the T-rex couldn’t match his turn and careened into the truck. As it crashed down onto its side, Dorian could hear the muffled shouts of the children inside.

For some reason Dorian stopped at that sound, though he knew he couldn’t go back. The creature also hesitated, torn between two apparent targets for a few seconds. Then, its mind made up, it started its charge toward Dorian, and he started to run once again.

The sky grew suddenly very dark with gathering clouds, and there was a loud crash as a bolt of lightning tore down from above. His pursuer roared and staggered under the impact. A fountain of flame appeared next, curling over the body of the dinosaur and burning its flesh. It was then that Dorian saw him. The man was unrecognizable from this distance, but who else could it be?

James darted and danced about his massive opponent, avoiding its attacks and lashing back with spouts of fire and frost. Finally, he leapt out of the way of its snapping jaws before countering with two shots from his handgun straight into the creature’s eye. The dinosaur reared back and teetered, then it fell forward to the ground, motionless.

"Dorian?" he asked after.

It was James, alright. There were those strange green eyes, and that was his face beneath an overgrowth of hair and beard. He looked as surprised to see him as Dorian was.

Dorian grabbed him by the shoulders and hugged him. "Where the fuck have you been?"

James gestured around him vaguely. "Here."

"Yeah. Why? You know what's going on out in the world, man. How can you let it happen?"

"I lost, Dorian. Martin won." He looked just as defeated as he claimed to be, his eyes downcast and his shoulders sagging.

"Hey. He only won because you're out here hiding, like a coward, instead of fighting him."

James looked hurt, and although Dorian felt suddenly guilty, he didn't stop. "I know what you've been doing here. I've been looking for you for two years. You think if you rescue somebody now and then, that's enough? Well it's not. You let a maniac destroy the world, and he's still out there. You're the only one who can stop him."

"I can't. He can't be beaten. Neither can I. It's pointless." There was rage on his friend's face now. "Do you have any idea how long I've been fighting this battle? You don't. He’s tormented me for more years than you could even conceive of. I'm tired, Dorian. I can't do it anymore."

"So let me get something straight. You knew this guy couldn't be killed, and you led me into his office saying we were going to assassinate him? What the fuck was that about?"

"No," James said. "I had a plan. Something I'd never tried before. Never got a chance to try, and look what happened instead. It's all fucked, man." Tears were welling in his eyes now, a sight Dorian had never seen before. "All I ever wanted was to be left alone."

Dorian put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, man. But you've got a choice to make. You can hide out here, and he’ll keep looking for you. Or you can man up and do the right thing. What is it you would have to do?"

"I'd have to die."

That hit Dorian hard. "Well, you've had a long run," he managed to joke. James smiled, his eyes still moist. "Look. I've got a safe place, up in Maryland. Black Creek. I want you to come. We'll figure out what we do next. But you're lost on your own, and to be fucking honest I'm lost without you. So come with me."

"I haven't been alone," James said. "You should meet my wife. Hope."

Dorian laughed. "She's real? Well then you should both come with me."

"Alright. I'll consider it," James said.

Dorian held his hand out and James grasped it. Behind him, Dorian noticed the truck was still lying on its side. Ah shit.

"Oh by the way, I've got a bunch of fucking kids in this truck. I guess we'll have to take them too. Can you pick it back up for me?" James did, lifting the truck back upright with ease before Dorian opened the cargo door. The children were terrified, but unharmed.

"I'm Dorian," he said. "The men who took you are gone. Where did you come from? Do you have parents you can go back to?"

Muffled 'no's and shaken heads.

Fuck, Dorian thought with a sigh. "OK, this is my friend James. He's going to take you somewhere safe. It's uh, going to be okay." The children just continued staring at him.

"You got them? Thanks."

James shook his head and laughed. "Yeah, sure. Better me than you as far as they’re concerned."

"See you at Black Creek, right?" Dorian said to James.

"Yeah."

***

"What the hell is going on?"

A thick cloud of smoke was rising above the power compound. As Dorian sat atop his purring motorcycle just outside the chain fence, everyone's eyes were on him. Up on the wall were Kristof and the other residents of Black Creek. On the ground, armed men and women he didn't recognize, but clearly Church members. Well, most of them he didn't recognize.

"I knew I shouldn't have let you go," he said. The woman at the head of the cultists, Skye, scowled back at him.

"And I told you it wouldn't matter if you did."

"Yes, you did."

A silent moment passed, then gunfire erupted. Dorian, out in the open, opened up the throttle and turned, his bike skidding in the mud as bullets thudded against the dirt behind him.

The Church members were taking cover behind the water pipeline. Dorian came back around and fired a shotgun blast at them as he passed, catching one man in the chest. Somebody up on the wall was hit as well, tumbling over and falling down to the ground.

The Church went into retreat. They were outnumbered, and neither side could actually advance on the other. Dorian fired off a few quick shots at the cultists hiding behind the water pipeline. The rest turned and ran, back toward the power complex.

Dorian was just about to chase after them when something emerged from the gates at the other end. It was a man on a motorcycle, accelerating at what looked like top speed along the path toward the gates. As it came closer, Dorian could see that the frame was strapped with explosives. The rider howled and whooped, careening toward the wall.

"Bomb!" Dorian screamed. "Get down!" He briefly saw those on top of the wall scrambling to get out of the way as he dove into the dirt himself.

BOOM

The blast was deafening, and the ground shook beneath him. Dorian covered the back of his head as chunks of masonry rained down upon him. As soon as it all stopped, he got to his feet once again.

His gates, and a good bit of the wall beside, were now a smoking crater. From the other side, he could hear shouts and screams. The twisted remnants of the saboteur's motorcycle lay no more than a few feet away from him. Ash and embers still wafted down from above. Sparks sizzled and cracked among the broken masonry. Dorian watched as one man struggled to pull another free from the smoking rubble, only to be himself crushed by a crumbling pillar.

Dorian’s ears rang, his head reeled as he took a single step. There, in the midst of it all, was Kristof, clambering quickly down the face of the broken wall. Dorian called after him, his voice muffled and strange in his ears, and the man didn't seem to hear him. He took a few stumbling steps after him, finally breaking into an awkward jog.

The gates at the far end had been blown open too, their metal doors crumpled and hanging from their hinges. Inside, the scene was even worse. The generator building had been burnt out, its windows shattered and fire still raging inside. The pipeline itself appeared to be intact, at least.

Bodies were strewn all about the grass, a few in Church garb, but mostly ones he recognized. Many of his own lay in various contortions of agony, their clothing fused to their charred flesh. The sick scent of it all filled the air, and Dorian could barely hold back the bile he felt rising in his throat.

Kristof went from body to body in a lurching half crawl before finally collapsing next to one with a yelp. When Dorian caught up to him, he was cradling a young woman's lifeless body.

It took Dorian a moment to recognize Lisa, the woman Kristof had insisted on bringing back from the Church's captivity.

Tears streamed from behind his eyepatch, and Kristof let out an anguished howl, his body shaking and his arms hugging her close as she lay limp in his arms. "Lisa," he stuttered out between sobs.

Dorian turned away, unable to watch the scene anymore. Something had shaken him, and it wasn't just the death of this young woman whom he barely knew, nor the grief of the man he counted a friend.

Skye

Two years earlier

"For NBC News, I'm Skye Summers. Thanks for watching, we'll see you at eleven."

Skye smiled wide at the camera before turning her attention down to the desk, where she mimicked interest while shuffling through a stack of papers.

"Cut," came the director's call, and the bright studio lights instantly dimmed. Skye dropped her papers onto the desk and stood. An assistant scurried over and began to remove her microphone.

"Nice work, Skye." The director, a pudgy, balding, middle-aged man, had wobbled over to her and was standing there expectantly, his brow moist.

"Thanks, Ralph." The assistant finished loosing the wires from her chest. "I've got a dinner. I'll see you in a bit."

"Okay," he said, forcing a smile that failed to conceal his disappointment. He was always hoping she would hang around the studio between the evening and nightly news. Even if she had no plans, Skye wouldn't have done so.

Skye left the studio and went back to her dressing room. A dozen multicolored roses sat in a vase on a table, their leaves just beginning to wilt. The couch was adorned with three heart shaped pillows and a tangled blanket from her most recent nap between broadcasts. She checked herself in the mirror.

Skye's blonde hair and makeup had been meticulously styled by the production staff. She slipped out of the black jacket she wore on camera, smoothing out a wrinkle in her light blue undershirt to conceal an old green-brown bruise which peeked out from underneath. It was still a bit sore.

It was November, and the sun was already beginning to set. Skye pulled the furry hood of her sweatshirt over her head then fumbled in her pocket with her awkward gloved hand. She managed to retrieve her phone and turned on the screen. There was a text message from Katie.

"I'm here" is all it said. Skye didn't answer, and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

The café was only two blocks away from the studio. She rushed happily inside to the heat, pulling down her hood and scanning the room for her friend, eventually finding her at a table near the window. Katie was bent down and absorbed in her cell phone, her bright red hair hanging over her narrow face. She looked up and smiled warmly as Skye pulled the other chair out to sit.

"Hey, girl,” Katie said, setting her phone down at the edge of the table.

"Hey." Skye slid into the chair across from her.

"I ordered your usual."

"Thanks."

"You okay? You look down."

"Yeah. Just tired."

"Okay," Katie answered, though her tone and facial expression betrayed her skepticism.

A waiter showed up with their food. Skye's was a shrimp salad. She asked the waiter for a sparkling water, which he soon brought.

"So how's Mark?"

"He's good," Skye said, feigning a smile. Katie missed that as she bit into her sandwich, but gave her a knowing look after.

"You guys still fighting?"

"Little stuff. Nothing big. He's trying."

"Mm-hmm," she said through a mouthful. "You know you can talk to me right, Skye? We've been friends for a long time. I hope you know that."

"I do," Skye said. "I'm fine. Can we talk about something else?"

"Sure."

They did, and after an hour they went their separate ways. They hugged goodbye and Katie suggested another dinner later that week. Skye said that sounded great, and she surreptitiously wiped a tear from her eye on Katie's shoulder as they hugged. Of course, she wasn't fine.

When she left, Skye had two calls and two texts from Mark. She had forgotten to message him. Are you out of work? the first one asked. Who are you with? the second. Skye called him back and apologized. "It's fine, I was just worried," he said, but it wasn't true, and she knew it. His voice contained just a hint of venom.

Skye met Mark in college. He was a football player, not a star, but a solid role player. She was smitten with him right away. He was charming, funny, and sweet when he wanted to be. On their third date they walked along a cliff overlooking the ocean and he sang to her. He brought her flowers every single week.

He was always a bit of a jealous type, insecure. When she went out with friends he would message her frequently, or invent reasons to need to call her. When she spent time with male friends, he would get sullen and passive aggressive.

If Skye confronted him about it he would apologize profusely. He knew he was insecure, he’d say, it was just that he was irrationally afraid of losing her. That he would do anything to make it up to her. Skye would always end up feeling guilty, and over time she simply stopped seeing her male friends altogether.

Mark rarely drank, but when he did, he drank too much. At times he was a whiny, emotional drunk, at others a violent and angry one. But he never hit her then, although he terrified her. He would always come to her the next day, still hungover but with a bouquet of roses and a box of chocolate.

They had good times and bad times. Lately it had been more bad than good. Last Christmas, she had to work and he got angry. They fought, and he pushed her. Skye fell and hit her head. She was okay, so she went to work in a huff and he wasn't there when Skye came home. He came back the next morning, promising he would never drink again. They would do couple's counseling. They did, and things only got worse.

She laid herself bare to him there, all her most secret fears and vulnerabilities, and what hurt her the most was when he began to use it all against her. She was used goods, he said. She was a whore. She was crazy. She was lucky that he even bothered to stay with her. It didn't take very long before she started to believe all of it.

Skye was trapped, and she hated herself for it. She knew she should be strong enough to leave him, but she wasn't. What if he was right? Mark was the only man she had ever told about what had happened to her that one summer afternoon when she was eight and her mother left her home alone with her uncle. He was the only one she'd ever told, and he resented her for it. Used it against her. Asked her if she had somehow led him on. Told her that was all she was good for anyway.

He was a good man before Skye came along. You make me act like this, he said. How could anyone else love her if he couldn't?

***

Skye had just closed her eyes when the doctor entered. She heard the door to her hospital room open and close but didn't open her eyes until he spoke. "Mrs. Summers? Sorry to wake you," he added.

"It's fine, I was just resting." There was the steady rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor behind her. She pulled her hospital gown up further over her chest.

"How are you feeling?" the doctor asked. He was young, handsome. He wore khakis and a dress shirt with his tie just slightly loosened and a crisp white coat on top.

"Better. My stomach still hurts a little, but not much."

"That's to be expected."

Skye nodded. He pulled a chair out from the bedside and sat, crossing one leg over his knee. "How are you really feeling though?"

"Okay. I feel stupid."

"Don't."

"You said if I had taken much more the antidote might not have even worked. I don't want to die."

He leaned in and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to."

She choked back tears and forced a smile. "Thank you for saving me."

He smiled back. "That's what I do."

"Can I still go home today?"

"Yes. Your liver functions have returned to normal, and the psychiatrist cleared you. You should follow-up with her this week."

"I will."

"Alright." He stood and extended his hand, which she shook. "Your husband just arrived to take you home. I asked him to wait until I was done talking to you. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No. Thank you."

"Okay then." He looked disappointed.

The highway rolled steadily by. Skye, still in her hospital gown, laid her head against the window and watched it go.

"How are you feeling?" Mark asked from the driver's seat.

"Better."

He put a firm hand on her thigh, not looking over. "Did you seriously think you could get away from me so easily?"

Skye didn't answer. A tear welled in her eye and spilled onto her cheek. It was getting dark outside as storm clouds gathered overhead. The first drops of rain started to hit the windshield.

He laughed quietly. "Got nothing to say now?"

Skye was trying to think of what to say when there was a deafening roar like a train passing by, and the car started to shudder and shake violently.

"What the fuck?" Mark said, leaning forward intently. Skye just closed her eyes as the car was lifted into the air and then thrown, spinning, back to the ground. There was nothing but loud crashing and still the sound of the roaring wind, then her vision went black.

Skye woke a few minutes later. She was upside down, suspended by her seatbelt and alone in the car. Through the windshield she could only see pavement. She felt for the seatbelt release and tried to steady herself with her other hand before pressing it, though she still fell onto her head. The door was open, and Skye crawled free of the wreck.

The sky was almost black and heavy rain was falling. The tornado had passed by, leaving all the trees along the highway leveled or gone entirely. Other cars lay in similar states of destruction on the highway around them. An eighteen-wheeler truck was on fire. Somewhere nearby, someone was screaming.

"Skye. Help me up." Mark was sitting on the road on his side of the car, holding his right ankle. "I got out of the car and fell down before I could help you out. I think it's just sprained though. Help me up."

He looked up at her but there was no emotion, certainly no love, in those eyes. Next to him on the ground was a thick chunk of broken asphalt. Skye bent down and picked it up, staring at its jagged edges.

"What are you doing?"

She hauled back and hit him in the temple. Bits of asphalt chipped off and blood spurted from his eyebrow. He fell immediately unconscious, and the back of his head hit the road with a crack and a splat.

Skye climbed on top of him and hit him again. Again. Again. She could hear a woman's angry, frenzied, scream, then finally realized it was her own. The screaming gave way to hysterical laughter. His face was unrecognizable, bits of brain protruding from his crushed forehead. A pool of blood was steadily spreading around them.

Skye hit him one last time.

***

Two years later

"The attack on Black Creek was a mixed blessing."

Skye nodded her head, but let the two men continue talking. In front of her on the left stood her master, on the right the leader of the Robes.

The Robe went on. "We dealt a critical blow against them. A number of dead on their side but, more importantly, their electrical grid was disrupted."

"They will rebuild it," her master said, in a decidedly less charitable tone. "And those of us who actually fight in the field lost several good fighters. For what? A delay in their progress?"

"An opportunity to strike once again," was the retort. "With no power, time will weaken them, and we will destroy them."

They went on arguing, and Skye half-listened. Of course, not everything had gone as planned. People on both sides had died. They hadn't managed to get inside the town itself. Still, she was proud of what they had accomplished so far.

And yet, something nagged at the back of her mind. Seeing who these people really were, seeing how they lived had elicited a different response in her than she expected. Not just anger. Not guilt. Resentment, maybe jealousy.

"Skye," the Robe was saying now.

"Yes?"

"You are to be promoted."

She smiled, focused once again on the present moment. "Thank you, sir."

Skye followed the two men down a long hallway and into a small room. It was empty other than a reclining chair, like the ones she used to see in any dentist's office. The men closed the door behind her. She sat in the chair and laid back as the two men fastened leather straps over her wrists and ankles.

"This will not be pleasant," the Robe said, walking to the head of the chair and turning away. "But it will be quick."

When he turned back toward her he held a long needle and syringe, which contained a bright neon green liquid. When he drove the needle into her eye, she screamed and thrashed. The burning pain was worse than any she'd ever felt.

***

Her vision was just beginning to clear, but it still felt as if the needles had never left her eyes. Skye leaned over the sink to look in the warped, clouded mirror.

A small drop of blood still sat over the top of each pupil. Her irises, formerly a pale blue, now were a bright neon green. The artificial dye swirled, curled, and billowed around in the small chamber of each eye. It was almost hypnotic.

Skye splashed water from a basin over her face, then left the bathroom. The green-eyed Robe who had done this to her waited outside.

"There is one more thing. James has asked to meet with you," he said.

She followed him out of the building and across the compound. It was late at night, and the place was deserted aside from the few patrolling guards. He led her to the edge of camp, down a natural rock stairway, along the cliff face. They ended in a familiar place, in front of the cave on the sandy shore of a lake.

"He’s inside."

She took the torch, which burned as it had before in a brass sconce affixed to the rock, and entered the cave.

He was there, sitting at the small wooden table as he had been before. The same short, slick black hair. The same self-assured, almost infuriating smile on his face.

"Hello," he said.

"Hi," she replied, feeling a bit dumb.

"You’ve shown yourself to be one of my truest followers. So it is time you learn the truth." He indicated to a chair across from him. Skye pulled it out and quickly sat. "My name is Martin."

These words hit her like a truck, and she didn't know what to say.

"I see you are confused. I know you’ve heard my name before, have been told it was a lie. It wasn't, that is my name. But everything else you know about me is still true. I was born into this world with a particular gift. I once knew a time when mankind was strong. Resilient. The most versatile and adaptive species ever to exist. Something to be proud to be a part of.

"And yet, over time we grew lazy, complacent. So many lost all understanding of what came before us. So I destroyed the civilized world using that powerful gift I was given. To remind humanity of what it takes to survive. This is a story you already know, yes?"

"Yes," she agreed.

"Good. The only difference is me. Martin."

"Who is James then? Does he exist?"

"James is a man, like me, if you would call us men. But more importantly than that, he is an idea. An idea that must be stamped out, if what you and I strive for is to succeed."

"What idea is that?"

"The idea that the weak and helpless should be protected. That complacency, thought, and pity should come before strength, action, and competition."

"Why not just use your own name?"

He smiled a more genuine smile than she'd seen on him before.

"Because there's nothing he would hate more than to see all of this done in his name. I’m a very powerful man, but he is even more powerful, I must admit. I found out long ago that it’s not possible for me to defeat him directly. So I have taken another approach, and I will need help to truly defeat him. Will you help me, Skye?"

"Of course."

She left the cave not long after. Her mind still hadn’t processed all she had learned, and all that was still left to learn. But something inside felt wrong. Something intangible which just didn't add up. The things Martin said were no different than what she had already been taught. But they had lied to her, about who James was and what they all stood for. Most of them didn't even know the truth. Did any of them?

Something wasn't right. Though Skye couldn’t even put her own thoughts into words, she felt it there, like an empty void in the back of her mind which she might fill if only she probed deeper. And then everything began to unravel. Was she a fool? Tricked, brainwashed, as a man had accused her of not long ago? Skye had told herself it wasn’t possible, and still her mind rejected the idea, though the sense that something was wrong wouldn’t leave her.

Martin told her that James, whoever he was, was real and even more powerful than him. Skye had seen what this one could do; the entire world was living evidence of that. So she couldn't begin to imagine what a man more powerful than him would look like. What would he say? Would he take credit as well for this new world order, or would he abhor it? Whatever this truth was, she had to find it for herself, and if she was sure of anything at all it was that she wouldn't find it here. So, if needed, she would find it alone.

Skye left the camp under cover of darkness, slipping over the fence and disappearing down the road, unseen. And as she ran she felt as if a great weight lifted off of her. The further she ran from that place, the clearer her mind became. So she kept running, and she cried as she ran.

Act Three

Martin

Despite whatever would come later, he would always look back on his childhood fondly.

Martin, though he was known by another name in that time, was born in a tiny village in a land that was at that time nameless, nestled between a forest and the rocky plateaus lining the coast. His earliest memories were of his mother, whom he remembered as a beautiful woman, soft-spoken and kind.

The two of them lived in a little hut which sat on a short cliff overlooking the village on one side and the vast, open coastline on the other. It had only been the two of them for as long as he could remember, and he was happy for it to stay that way.

His mother always told him that he was special, and Martin always believed it to be true. On the outside, he looked no different from the other boys, with one exception. His eyes were a bright, unnatural green, unlike any color he had seen. They almost seemed to glow, especially at night. His mother doted on him, and said that he was destined to be a great man. The others in the village may not see it yet, she would say, but he would be great all the same.

This last bit always confused him somewhat. The people of the village had always been kind to him, and when he was a child he played with the other young boys in the forest, or joined them leaping between the tall, craggy rocks against the warnings of their mothers. When he finally got tired in the evening, he would help his mother gather fruit, herbs, or wood for their fire. He was, overall, a very contented child.

On one occasion that stuck firmly in his mind, Martin had been chasing some of the other boys through the forest when he lost his way. It was an evening in the waning days of summer, and the setting sun had just come to rest atop the vast expanse of the ocean, its light casting ripples of orange and yellow out in wide arcs.

Realizing he had fallen behind the other boys, he slowed to a walk and called out their names. Over the chirping of insects in the forest he could hear their faint shouts and laughter, so he followed the sound. It was just when he left the treeline that his foot caught in a gap in the cliff. A loud crack rang out and the rock gave way beneath him. Martin fell, scrambling in vain to get a hold of something.

He tumbled and slid down the jagged slope until he landed with a heavy thud on the dirt at the bottom. The largest of the rocks had already fallen, but dust and pebbles still rained down on him from above. Martin rose to his feet, brushing off his arms and craning his head back to regard the sheer wall of rock before him. The only sound now was the lapping of the waves on the shore. Wherever the other boys had gone, he couldn’t hear them now.

The cliff face swelled outward and retreated inland in a serpentine pattern. Martin walked along it, letting his hand brush against the rock, which had been worn smooth by the salty wind from the sea. Eventually his hand caught on something sharp, and he pulled away in surprise. There was no cut, no bleeding on his finger, but the stinging had not yet faded.

He turned his attention to the thing which had pricked him. It was a tooth, he saw, bony and white and jutting out slightly from the side of the cliff. Not just a tooth, he realized, but a whole skeleton. His eyes took in the unusual shape of the four-legged creature, whose fearsome skull bore a long horn upon its snout. The fossilized dinosaur's jaw, with its rows of sharp teeth, menaced him, and its empty eyes pulled him in. It was unlike any animal he had ever seen.

It wasn't until one of the other boys called his name from atop the cliff that he was broken out of his reverie, and then he turned and ran farther along the cliff until he found a place to climb up.

He would later regret leaving so hastily, for, although on many occasions he would roam the shore in search of it, never again could he find that strange relic. The thing took on a somewhat mythical status in his mind, as if he had stumbled upon some forbidden but all-important bit of knowledge, the ultimate answer to that small part of his life which had so far seemed inexplicable.

As he grew older, Martin began to fall behind his peers as they came to prefer hunting and fighting to boyish play. Whereas before they had spent their evenings with their mothers and sisters, now they nipped constantly at the heels of the men and older boys, who regarded them generally as a nuisance.

For some time he played at these activities himself but, without ever having had a father to guide him, his lack of skill made him self-conscious. He resented his apparent inferiority to the other boys, and after a while began to resent the boys as well.

Regardless, Martin was content enough to give up the usual pastimes of young men in favor of spending his time alone, or with his mother, who always regarded him with a sad smile whenever he declined her suggestions to do otherwise.

Before long though, one of the men of the village approached him. It wasn't fair for him to be punished for not having a father, the elders had decided, and he would need a male mentor. So the man took him under his wing, and showed him the ways of hunting, fighting, and building. Martin was quite resistant to the idea at first but, with a bit of guidance, soon found himself a skilled archer, and he could throw a spear farther and more accurately than any of the other boys. Once again, he was welcomed among his peers.

It was only around this age that he noticed the kindness the people of the village always showed him was never extended to his mother. Something he had been completely oblivious to before now became more and more obvious. The men avoided her and never spoke a word to her. The women would fall quiet and sullen whenever his mother came around, only speaking to her when she spoke first. That was, Martin noticed, increasingly less frequent.

Whenever Martin would ask his mother about this, or about where his father was, she would answer him as she always had. "He was just a man," she said, in the language they used at the time. "Not your father."

His increasing awareness of his mother's treatment marked the division between what he saw as his blissful childhood years and those of his early adulthood. It wasn't just that she was shunned and ignored. At village gatherings she would be rebuked for coming too near the communal fire, or mistakenly eating when one single other man or woman of the village had not yet had their share. Martin was ashamed that he had never noticed all of this before.

Once, a man even lashed out at her physically, striking her in the back of the head with his palm. Martin flew at him in a rage, striking him twice before his mother's shouts calmed him. There were other women in the village who didn’t have a mate, whether the man had died on a hunt or while fighting a man of another tribe. Yet those women were not treated like his mother was. Often they were held in even higher esteem among the villagers.

His confusion as to why she was treated this way, and his growing resentment of the others who did it, began to consume him. His mother still wouldn't discuss it with him, and her mournful expression whenever he asked only made him regret having done so.

And so, finally, he got his answer one day by asking another boy. Those he considered his friends had always either claimed not to know or refused to answer, so he turned to the one boy of his age whom he liked the least, one with whom he had often competed viciously on hunts. With a smirk, the boy told him the answer, what he had heard from his father. She was 'unclean', he told him.

The exact word he had used was not one Martin would later be able to easily translate to other languages, but this one was the closest. Its full meaning conveyed that of a person or thing that had been tried and discarded for being unsuitable for its purpose. A man had used his mother, and in the process Martin himself had been made. The traditions of their people dictated that they did not cast out their own, but neither could she ever be a suitable partner for a man of the village.

Rage boiled over within him as the young man told him this, his satisfied smile never wavering. Martin leapt upon him, his elbow landing heavily at the boy's ribs. They wrestled and fought on the ground in the middle of the village as others gathered around them, some encouraging the two to fight harder, and some entreating them to stop. They kept fighting until the other boy somehow got his hands on a carved bone dagger and whipped it across Martin's chest.

His skin peeled back, revealing streaks of red muscle between the white ribs. Blood began to cascade down his front, and the other boy's smile finally faltered as he dropped the blade to the ground. Martin put a hand to his wounded chest, and his head began to spin. Somewhere, nearby and yet also distant, he heard his mother screaming. And then she wasn't the only one screaming anymore. Martin looked back at his chest, which had already begun to heal.

Cartilage regrew and stretched itself across the gaps in tissue. New sheets of skin crawled forward from both sides to cover his wounds. And inside his head was a violent, thunderous chorus of sound, like millions of voices crying out to him at once, and his mind raced to pay each its due.

And then, moments later, Martin stood unharmed amidst a circle of confounded villagers. There was no sign upon his chest of the massive, fatal wound he had been dealt. All was quiet for another moment, and then the shouting erupted once again. There were hands clawing at his wrists and ankles, lifting him off the ground though he fought with all his strength. Feet away, men grasped at his mother in the same way and, seeing that, Martin fought even harder.

The villagers' frenzied screaming was mostly wordless, but its message was clear. Death. The two of them were carried into a clearing and bound with rope. As they restrained, him Martin freed his hands and struck at the nearest man, knocking him to the ground, but a foot planted into his gut sapped his strength once again. The men were surrounding his mother, spears in hand. He screamed, his fury erupting, and it was as though his howl shook the entire earth.

The sky had grown dark, and lightning lashed out from the heavens, sparking a fire which took hold in the trees. The villagers stepped back in terror, their eyes cast upward. Lightning struck again, its powerful blast killing a handful of men standing nearby. With an easy jerk, Martin tore through his binds.

Martin was so overwhelmed by his rage that he didn’t even take note when fountains of flame sprang forth from his hands. He laughed and he howled as men fell, shrieking, to burn on the dusty ground. He killed them all, every last man, woman, and child.

When they were all dead, the spell over him broke and he regained his clarity. The forest was aflame, and contorted corpses littered the charred earth all around. And there, in the middle of it all, lay his mother, a single gaping wound in her chest.

Dark blood oozed from her breast, so Martin pressed a hand to it. She gasped in pain, and when she coughed and sputtered, blood flicked onto his face. Her eyes were vacant and searching the air above her.

"Mother," he said, settling in beside her. She found him then, her gaze resting on his face. Martin cradled her in his arms, brushing her dirty hair back from her face.

"I'm sorry," he said, tears falling from his cheeks.

She lifted a trembling hand to his chin. She struggled to speak, choking and gasping for air. His mother's eyes fluttered and went briefly out of focus before finding him again. "I love you," she finally managed to say.

His mother died then, there on that cliff, just as a mournful, misty rain began to fall. And as far as Martin was concerned, whatever bit of him had ever truly been human had died there as well.

***

His memory of the time that followed was mostly hazy. All he could remember was wandering. He crossed a vast expanse of desert and went days at a time without eating or drinking. He was alone, but for the ever-present roar in the back of his mind which had never quite left him since that day.

It took a great deal of time for Martin to learn to quiet it, but eventually he was able to push it into the farthest reaches of his consciousness, where it still continued in a quieter murmur. This was at least tolerable, but it continued to be a source of frustration for him. The sudden discovery of his unusual abilities didn’t come as a particular surprise. He had always known he was special, and now he knew exactly how.

Deep within him, he could sense the spirit of the earth, its natural cycles and stresses demanding his attention, much as the millions of minute processes of his body wore on his mind.

As the weeks and months passed, he wallowed in self-pity, wandering across empty landscape after empty landscape without another human in sight, and little other life besides. Yet he never felt truly alone. With the growing awareness of his own self came the distinct sense of an other. This was not any other human, those who in all their multitudes spread across the earth were no more than a faint flicker in the back of his consciousness. This one was powerful, an equal. This one drew upon the same sources of power as he did.

This, Martin could only surmise, must be his father. And though he had never met him, was unsure if he ever would, he hated him. He hated him for what he had done to his mother, and for how that act had created for Martin himself an existence that brought him only misery.

He hated him because he somehow knew the man didn’t even know of his own existence and suspected that, if he did, he wouldn’t care. And perhaps most of all, he hated him because he was Martin's equal, something he knew implicitly. The man was a threat.

At some point, he emerged from the desert and stumbled across another village. The people there watched him arrive—thin, haggard, and stumbling—first in terror and then in concern. Though he had learned his body did not truly require much sustenance, it had been weeks since he had eaten anything and he looked much the worse for it. Still, he looked worse than he felt.

The villagers took him in, and he stayed with them for a time. It was the chief of the village, and his kind young daughter, who cared for him. In his wallowing misery he found he enjoyed the attention, particularly the pretty young woman doting on his wounds, bringing him fruit, and dampening his brow. He exaggerated his infirm condition long after he felt back to full strength, and even consciously stopped his wounds from healing so she would continue to care for them. Eventually he did leave their home, building his own hut from reeds and wood. Still, he spent a great deal of time with the chief and, especially, his daughter.

These people spoke a strange and different language than his, but he found it took him very little time to become proficient with their words. Their lifestyle was wholly unfamiliar as well. Whereas the men of his tribe had hunted and the women gathered, the folk here had mastered the art of planting seeds in the ground so that food would grow regularly. The few types of animals who roamed here at the edge of the desert were mostly unfit for eating.

Before too long, Martin began to think himself at home once again. For a short time he almost felt the pain of his losses, and the ever-present rage that seemed to bubble within him, fade away. He wasn't truly happy, not like he had once been, but he was content.

Martin even found a partner in the kind young girl who had cared for him when he arrived. She was beautiful and affectionate, far more than he felt he deserved. It seemed to Martin that she loved him, and though he had some fondness for her in his own way, he never truly loved her back. And then, three years after he'd arrived in the village, he learned she was pregnant.

She gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. For a short time he shared in the joyous optimism the event roused in those around him. But this too was not meant to last for long. Martin had long since known that he was not like other men, and he had learned much about himself during his time wandering the desert. Wounds that should have killed him would heal in minutes. The weather would react to his emotions, and he could channel the energy of the earth through his body in the form of fire, water, ice, and lightning. He could shift and shape the very land with his thoughts.

Now, living among mankind once again, he learned of another skill. Everyone around him aged, their bodies constantly in a slow state of decay. The signs, though subtle, were unmistakable. He saw them even in his own mate, but Martin himself had not changed physically in years. Not a single new wrinkle, stretch mark, or scar. These powers could only have come from his father, whoever and wherever he was.

So Martin began to ask himself: would his own children be like him? If they were, was this a blessing, to have someone else who was different, like him? Or would they be just another threat against him? Martin was obsessed with this conundrum, unable to decide what he believed, or even what he preferred.

These questions plagued him for the next several years. Martin knew he should take pleasure in the trivialities of their youth, to smile at their first words or cry at their first steps as their mother did. Yet, as he did much of the time, he felt nothing at all.

So when the children were approaching their fifth birthday, Martin found he could no longer go without knowing. Their mother was gone, with some other women of the village, and not likely to return for several hours. Martin sat, deep in thought, at the door of his hut. The twins ran in circles, laughing and shouting as they chased one another.

"Come inside," he said to them. After some insistence, they did as he asked. Martin sifted through a pile of his few possessions, mostly skins and tools.

"What is it, father?" his son asked.

Martin found what he was looking for, a sharpened bone dagger, and without hesitation he drove it into his son's gut. The boy's eyes went wide and his mouth fell open, but he was silent. His daughter though, let out an ear-piercing shriek and ran from the hut. When Martin slid the dagger out dark red blood spurted from the wound, hitting the ground in one big gout followed by a steady stream running down over his son’s belly. The blood didn't stop, and the boy put his hands to the wound as if that could somehow halt its flow. His face went pale and he staggered, then fell. A crimson pool spread around his body, which soon was still.

All the while, Martin watched. It seemed his children were not like him after all. There was shouting approaching outside, he noticed now, so Martin turned and ran. He left unseen from the village, and by the time his son's body was found, he was long gone.

What followed were some of Martin’s darkest days, his ever-present rage mixed with a dangerous lack of purpose. He wandered aimlessly from place to place, at times inconspicuous and at others wreaking violent havoc purely based on his whims. On occasion he would summon dangerous beasts, much like the fossil he’d found as a child, and watch them tear a village apart for his own amusement.

Eventually, Martin became bored, and from that time forward all of his thought was on his father. He could always sense him, somewhere out there in the wide world, but it took him many years before he ever found him. When he finally did, there was no mistaking him. That voice in the back of his mind which seemed to represent the man grew louder and louder until he first laid eyes on him.

Martin didn’t approach him, nor attack him. He simply watched him, following the man's trail for years at a time. He lived a strange life, moving from place to place before settling in for a while, only to move on a few years later. He was, for the most part, alone.

Then, Martin began to test him. He was certain the man shared his own inability to suffer harm, but he was unsure how far this would go. An arrow or sword to the chest wouldn’t suffice, but could more extraordinary means kill him?

The answer, he soon found to his disappointment, was no.

His father had been living for a few years in a quiet coastal town in the shadow of a great mountain. Humanity had come a long way in his time, no longer living in small scattered tribes but in large cities and towns. To Martin, all of this made little difference. Ordinary men, fragile and transient as they were, held little interest to him.

One day, having seen enough of his father's current life, he took control of the mountain. Martin could sense a great power within it, dormant but alive and simmering. He drew on that strength, molded it and let it multiply within him until it could barely be contained. Then, the mountain erupted.

Molten fire and ash spewed into the sky, raining down on the quiet town. From afar Martin watched, in awe of his own power, as the people died. Some ran, screaming, in a futile attempt at outrunning the surging lava. Others had seemingly no warning as they were overtaken, their homes buried in seconds. And, incredibly, it seemed to be over as quickly as it had begun.

The volcano still boiled over, vast plumes of smoke rising high into the air and lava trickling down its sides. The town itself had fallen silent. Martin sat on a grassy hillside above as day turned to night and day again several times over. It was just when he had begun to think he had actually won, and how easy that would have been, when he saw him. There was his father, an unrecognizable dark splotch in the distance—but it could be no one else—clawing his way out of the ash. His contracted form lay there motionless for a while and then, as if nothing had ever happened, he stood and walked away.

As ever, Martin followed him unseen. The man went about his various lives, and again and again Martin laid waste to them. Whether by storm, disease, or fire, he brought tragedy onto the man who had brought it onto him. Yet if he was aware of Martin's existence, if the continuous stream of misfortune affected him as Martin so wished it would, he showed no signs of it. Sometimes he would manage to slip away, but it would never take Martin very long to track him down once again.

So it was that Martin finally revealed himself to him. His father had escaped across the ocean for a while, but he caught up with him nonetheless. When Martin found him, bound to a burning stake one night in a quiet New England town, he had to laugh to himself. Even without his involvement, the man could not avoid disaster. Martin killed all the townsfolk, left their town in flames. His father freed himself from the stake, his burned flesh healing over before Martin's eyes.

"Hello, father," Martin said, his heart racing and his breath short.

There was brief confusion in the man's eyes, then understanding. He knew, so he must know what Martin wanted from him.

Of course, their fight was futile. Both men, left broken and defeated, crawled away to recover and to fight once again. The man fled, and Martin tracked him down. He was more elusive now that he knew he was being hunted, but Martin found him all the same. And though both men knew the fight would end no differently, they would fight again and again.

He wondered how he could truly hurt a man who couldn’t be harmed. What did he want more than anything? To Martin, that was clear. In all the time he had hunted him, the man had sought out a quiet, ordinary life. Perhaps a family. He seemingly had no interest in the extraordinary powers he held. But there was one thing he wanted even more than peace for himself. He could not resist helping mankind. Martin had seen him step in to defend beggars being beaten and women being raped. He had seen him give money to the poor and food to the starving.

This was his weakness. He cared too much about mankind, who deserved none of his pity. So it was this, after thousands of years, that finally allowed him to understand the man, and how to defeat him for good. Martin decided he would orchestrate a global catastrophe, one so terrible that his father would have no choice but to try to stop him. Not in private this time, but in front of the world. Everyone would see who he was. Some would hate him, others would worship him, but everyone would know his name. And there was nothing his father dreaded more than that.

Jess

Jess awoke, lying on the hard asphalt. The screaming all around her sounded distant through her muffled, ringing ears. She staggered to her feet, brushing the dust from her eyes and finding wet blood at her eyebrow. As she stood, her head reeled and she nearly fell back to the ground. She patted at her chest and stomach, examining her body. Though blood still trickled down from her forehead, she was in one piece.

In front of her there was now a gaping chasm where the gates had once stood. Piles of rubble lay smoking next to the fallen metal doors, which were twisted and bent. As she took a few hesitant steps, her vision and hearing began to clear, but her head still ached terribly.

Her foot hit something hard and she barely stayed on her feet. It was a man's leg she had tripped over, heavy and lifeless. The top half of his body was hidden beneath a massive chunk of metal, and a pool of dark red seeped out from beneath it. It was only then that Jess noticed all the others.

The roadway at the base of the wall was littered with bodies. Some lay still on the ground, like they could be sleeping if not for their open eyes and distant, empty gazes. Others writhed and moaned, hands clutched to a shattered leg or the remnant of a dismembered arm. Several, like her, had gotten to their feet and were staring around in confusion and awe.

Her clarity seemed to suddenly return. Jess scrambled over the big hunk of metal toward a woman lying motionless on her back. Jess slid to her knees beside the woman and pressed her fingers to her neck. There was no pulse. Jess did the only thing that came to mind from her training years ago, climbing atop her and beginning chest compressions. The woman's ribs gave way with a sickening crunch and Jess felt like she might vomit, but she kept going.

Someone grabbed her arm from behind.

"Hey," said a harsh, male voice. "If she's got no pulse, you're wasting your time." The man pulled her off the dead woman, and Jess’s protests didn’t make their way out of her mouth.

The man was older, with thinning salt and pepper hair and a stethoscope slung around his neck. His eyes flickered briefly up to her forehead, then back down. "You're fine. Come on," he said, and then he was gone. Jess turned and followed him.

She found him kneeling at the side of a young man who cradled one deformed wrist in his other hand. Two jagged ends of bone protruded through the skin. His face was red and sweaty, but he didn’t make a sound.

"Thank God, doc," the young man said. Jess dropped to her knees beside him. The doctor glanced at her.

"We help who we can, quickly. People we can actually save," he said to Jess, feeling the pulses in the man's hand. "This is going to hurt real bad, but it’ll save your hand," he said to the man before looking back to Jess. "Pull his arm that way."

Jess did as he asked, pulling the man's elbow away as the doctor snapped the wrist back into place. The young man let out only a soft yelp, then fell unconscious, his head lolling back against the asphalt.

"He's fine," the doctor said, apparently seeing the terror on her face. Then he was up and moving on, and Jess followed. All around, people were calling for the doctor's attention. A small crowd had gathered nearby, and the man pushed his way through to the injured person on the ground. It was a young woman, one Jess recognized.

Oh no.

Meredith lay on her back, her blonde hair matted with blood. Her blue eyes were wide and staring up into the sky, no recognition on her face as Jess put a hand to her cheek. She gasped, her chest rising heavily in fits and starts and a faint whistling sound escaping her throat. The doctor pressed his stethoscope to Meredith's ribs, once on each side. As he did, he dug through the small bag that hung at his hip.

"Her lung is collapsed," he said. "Hold her still."

Jess put her hands on Meredith's shoulders as the doctor uncapped a frighteningly long needle. In one quick motion he slid it into the front of Meredith's chest. Jess held strong as Meredith arched her back, straining against her hands.

There was a hiss of air rushing out of the needle, and Meredith took a long, gasping breath. Before Jess knew it the doctor had already slapped a dressing over the needle and was standing up. "Stay with her," he said. "I'll be back."

"Is she going to be okay?" Jess called after him, but he was already lost in the crowd.

Meredith slept, and Jess sat with her as the chaos around them slowly died down. The shouting and moaning of the injured was quieter as some found the help they needed and those who could not be helped fell silent forever. After a while the doctor returned, his thinning hair stuck to his sweaty forehead and his stethoscope stained with blood.

"How is she?" he asked.

"She's just been sleeping," Jess said.

"That's okay," he answered, listening to her lungs once again. "Good. You know her?"

"Yeah. We just got here, right before this happened."

"Knew I didn't recognize you. Anyway, she should be fine. I'll keep her at the clinic overnight."

"Thank you,” Jess said.

Meredith woke up as Jess and a few others lifted her onto a stretcher. She smiled faintly at Jess as they carried her away.

"I guess I didn't lock that door, huh?" Jess turned around. It was Kristof, the man she'd been talking to before the attack. His one good eye was bloodshot, and the clean streaks through his dusty cheeks made it clear he had been crying. Jess felt lightheaded, the gravity of all she had just seen suddenly landing on her at once. "Whatever," he said before she could reply. "We've got bigger problems at the moment. You can talk to Dorian later."

"Rachel," Jess said, clarity returning to her once again. "Where is she?"

Kristof nodded, looking like he could cry again.

Jess couldn't believe the size of the place. Once you got away from those massive walls, it looked no different than any other town had looked several years before. Aside, of course, from the mesh netting that was suspended overhead.

In some areas, the buildings were spread out, and in others they were packed close together like a downtown city block. At the moment, the streets and sidewalks were empty, but Jess could easily imagine traffic humming along as she walked.

"Do people drive in here?" Jess asked.

"Not really, the only vehicles we have right now are for official purposes. But we figured eventually we might need the roads."

The area they were crossing through seemed to be some kind of commercial district. Half the buildings seemed to be vacant though, and most of those that were filled didn't look like typical stores. One squat brick structure had a sign that simply read "Plumber." Its entrance was a garage door that opened directly into a workshop, where she saw an old man cranking away with a wrench as though nothing unusual had happened. The man waved at Kristof, who returned the gesture.

"We started with the basic trades," Kristof said. "Carpenters, masons, metalworkers, all kinds of builders. Electricians. Engineers," he added. "Anyone that could help us quickly get on our feet. Once we had shelter, we started expanding. Farmers came soon after. Then a doctor. More fighters. At first it was all very simple, but we're getting bigger. We haven't had much need for policing yet, but we will soon. Dorian finally admitted he can't handle it all himself."

"What's he like, Dorian?" Jess asked, trying to keep her tone neutral.

"He's an interesting man. I may not agree with him all the time, but I owe him everything. We all do."

"What do you disagree about?"

Kristof laughed quietly. "He's a hard man. I can't imagine he was like that before, but it's how you have to be to survive these days. And at first, I agreed with him. We had no room for charity. We turned away a lot of people who needed us back then. I'm sure most of them didn't make it. I didn't relish doing that, but we couldn't afford to take in anyone who couldn't directly contribute. Now... things are different. I'm not saying our whole philosophy has to change. But we can do more. If we have a chance to preserve humanity, we should preserve all of it. But I think I'm winning him over, slowly. We've got a couple musicians now. That took some arguing. But of course he had no problem letting a couple of prostitutes in before we even had a doctor." Kristof snorted.

"Strange," Jess said.

"I thought so too. 'The oldest profession,' he told me. 'What better way to keep the fighting men's morale up?' He was right about that though, I must admit."

They left those few densely-packed blocks and passed by what had once been a fire station. An old, rusting fire truck sat outside. "Any fires yet?" Jess asked.

"No," Kristof said. "Thank God. We've only got one trained firefighter. He seems competent enough, but I’m not sure how good a teacher he is. For now, the fire hall is mostly used as a cafeteria."

"How does all that work?" It was a good question, one that hadn't occurred to her until now.

"Food is served there three times a day. No cost. Every man and woman in Black Creek contributes what they can, and everyone eats. Everyone has a roof to sleep under. If a man gets sick, our doctor will help him. If the doctor needs his plumbing fixed, the plumber will fix it. So on. It works well, for now."

"Seems like things could get complicated quickly," Jess said. "With more people."

"Yes," Kristof admitted. "But that's no reason not to do it. One step at a time."

"You seem like a smart man," Jess said. "I bet this town is lucky to have you."

Kristof smiled a sad half-smile. He had stopped walking. "We're here," he said. They stood in front of a long, multistory apartment building. A few men and women were standing together in the garden, talking nervously. They took notice of Kristof as he arrived, and he wandered over to talk to them. Jess stood still, suddenly unable to move. Kristof looked back at her.

"Go on," he said. "2B."

Jess ran across the grass and into the covered walkway on the first floor, then took the steps two at a time and ran until she stopped in front of a plain black door that read "2B" in brass letters. Jess pounded on the door three times. Her heart was racing, and she became suddenly aware of how terrible she must look. She ran a trembling hand through her oily hair. The lock clicked, and the door opened.

"Jess?"

Rachel stood inside; there was no mistaking her, though she was thinner and the pink streaks in her hair had long grown out aside from the very tips.

Jess tried to speak, but she had no words, and so she collapsed sobbing into Rachel's arms.

***

The medical clinic was a little old building at the edge of town. It was one of the few, like the fire department and the town hall, that looked as if they had existed longer than a year or so. This one even still had the remnants of a parking lot around it.

A sign outside the tiny office complex still advertised the services of a divorce attorney and a dentist as well as a colorectal surgeon. Inside, Jess and Rachel found no such practice, only the modest Black Creek medical clinic.

Dr. Sherman Brandt, the man she had met earlier that day after the attack on the wall, and evidenced by the name on the white coat hanging near the door, sat behind a big oak desk with his eyes closed. He nearly fell out of his chair when the door slammed shut behind them.

The waning light of the evening sun cast a faint orange glow across the waiting room. Dr. Brandt blinked his eyes, clearly having been asleep for some time and startled by the transition into nighttime.

"Hello," he said, glancing at Jess and leaning over to flip a light switch above his desk. The lights didn’t come on. "Right. Shit." He dug through a drawer and struck a match, lighting a lantern on his desk.

"I never got your name earlier," he said.

"Jess Neil. This is Rachel."

"We've met, actually," he answered.

"How is Meredith?" Rachel asked.

He stood up from the desk, his rolling chair scratching along the ground. "She's doing fine, so far." He led them down a narrow hallway with doctor's exam rooms branching off of it. Each had been converted into a makeshift hospital room.

"Full up tonight, obviously," Dr. Brandt said over his shoulder. "Usually it's just office visits, but I'm set up pretty well here for longer stays. All things considered." He peeked his head into one room, speaking quietly to someone on the other side who must have been a nurse, then kept walking.

Finally, he pulled back the curtain at the third door and gestured for them to enter. It was dark, aside from the fluorescent display of a heart monitor, which beeped away steadily. The muffled rumble of a gasoline generator could be heard on the other side of the wall.

Meredith lay in the bed with her eyes closed and a blanket pulled up across her chest, which rose and fell slowly as if in time with the rhythm of the monitor.

The doctor slipped past Jess and pressed his stethoscope to Meredith's side. Her eyes flickered open.

"Jess, Rachel!" she almost shouted, then recoiled in pain.

"Easy now," Dr. Brandt said. Rachel walked to the side of the bed and took Meredith's hand. Jess stood at her left.

"I'm so glad to see you guys," Meredith said.

"We're glad to see you too," Jess said.

"Your lungs are clear. If you're stable overnight, you can go home in the morning." The doctor moved back to the doorway.

"Thank you,” Meredith said. “But I don't have a home."

"Of course you do," Jess said.

***

The town hall was full, and the murmur of the crowd was almost deafening.

Jess and Rachel had chosen a pair of flimsy folding chairs near the back of the crowd and sat hand-in-hand. Night had fallen, and the hall was now lit only by fifteen or so candles scattered around the room. The scene was somewhat eerie. The crowd's anxious chattering came to a sudden end when the metal doors at the back of the hall squealed open.

In walked Dorian Black, every bit the man she had met several years before, though perhaps a bit frayed at the edges. Close behind him followed Kristof, a cigarette tucked behind one ear and a sour expression on his face.

Dorian stepped up onto a short stage at the head of the room, took a deep breath and spoke.

"Today was a bad day."

A quiet grumble from the crowd signaled their feeling that this was an understatement.

"No getting around it. You all know me. I like to get up here and tell you how things are going to be okay. Well, today, things don't feel so okay. Not for any of us." He cast a glance at Kristof, who was staring intently at his own feet.

"We lost twenty six good people today. Another dozen seriously injured. Many more with minor injuries. Dr. Brandt once again finds himself working through the night. Many of us have him to thank that we, or our loved ones, are still here."

A couple of claps stood out from the general murmur of agreement.

"Our western wall has been breached, and the gates now lie in pieces. My men and I will be standing guard through the night. Meanwhile, our power source has been destroyed. We don't know how long it will take to restore. So I won't simply stand up here tonight and tell you everything will be okay, but I will tell you this. I’ve always defended my friends. The Church hit us hard today, but I promise you all: I’ll hit them back much harder."

He looked around at the gathered crowd for a few seconds, and Jess saw exhaustion in his eyes.

"Everyone get some sleep."

He stepped off the stage and the crowd resumed its conversations, though somewhat less frenzied than before. People steadily began to file out of the town hall. Jess just sat and watched as Dorian and Kristof approached her.

"Detective Neil," Dorian said, offering his hand. She shook it. "We meet again."

"You remember, then?" Jess allowed herself a slight smirk.

"Oh, I do. I suppose you were previously acquainted with our town's new therapist?"

"Yes. My girlfriend, of several years."

"What a strange world," Dorian said.

"And only getting stranger," Jess said.

"Anyway," Dorian said with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. Up close, he looked much more tired. "Kristof told me about your arrival, though I already remembered your credentials well enough. If you would be willing to take the position as Chief of Police, we would be happy to have you."

"I think we have a deal."

Dorian smiled. "Excellent. We'll talk soon, get you set up."

"There's one other thing," Jess said. "There's a girl in the clinic, Meredith."

"Yeah,” Dorian said. “Kristof told me about her as well. As far as I'm concerned at this point, if she's a package deal with you, she's in."

"Thank you. Really," Jess said.

“At least something good can happen today,” Dorian replied. Kristof, behind him, nodded.

The two men took their leave, and Jess and Rachel were the last to leave the hall. The night air was pleasantly cool, and overhead the moon and stars shone down through the mesh netting hanging over the town.

They walked hand-in-hand down the sidewalk toward Rachel's apartment, now theirs. After a few minutes they passed the broken portion of the wall, where a dozen or so armed men stood guard under some gas-powered lights.

"This place seems so crazy," Jess said. “After being out there.” Rachel hummed her agreement, pulling up close against Jess as they walked silently for a while. The two of them hadn’t even yet discussed their experiences out there, and Jess wasn’t sure she wanted to. For now, just feeling Rachel’s head lightly resting against her shoulder, just catching the scent of her hair, was more than enough.

"So this Dorian Black is the same man from Pittsburgh, the vigilante you were chasing?" Rachel asked.

"Yep."

"Wow." Rachel chuckled. "Are you gonna do anything about that?"

Jess smiled, though Rachel wouldn't have been able to see it in the dark, and squeezed her hand.

"I was thinking I might steal his town right out from under him."

Dorian

The summer night air was cool across Dorian's bare chest.

He glanced over at the little battery-powered alarm clock on his bedside table. 4:34, it read in a harsh red glare. Aside from that, the only light in his bedroom was the pale blue glow of the moon filtering in through the curtains, which flapped gently in the breeze.

Dorian put a hand to his forehead, still slightly damp with sweat. His eyes were heavy, but sleep wouldn’t come to him. It hardly had at all these last two nights, since the Church attacked.

The town was on edge, himself included. He had never been one to shy away from adversity, but now he was beginning to feel pushed beyond his limits. Not that he would ever let it show. Black Creek had no power and a giant hole in its walls. Somewhere out there, the goddamned Church was probably celebrating a victory. The thought of it enraged him.

And where the fuck is James?

He should have arrived by now. Surely he would know what to do.

The girl in bed beside him stirred slightly, murmuring softly in her sleep and shifting her body closer to his. Until then, he had forgotten she was even there. Years ago she would have been just another nameless companion. Now, to Dorian’s disdain, he was acutely aware of who she was, where she came from, and how she found her way to his bed. As he was with everyone in this town.

For her part, she was one of a handful of women he’d let in for the express purpose of this sort of thing. A couple of them had already been sex workers in the old world. A few, like this one, desperate for sanctuary, had accepted an offer for the role having no other skills to offer. Nobody had forced them, though. Plenty of other women had refused. She could have. Right?

In a way, Dorian was starting to feel like that took some of the enjoyment out of the whole thing. He let his head sink deeper into the pillow with a sigh.

Fuck.

There was a crash and the sound of shattering glass, and in an instant Dorian had whipped the sheets away and was on his feet. Despite the dark, his hand immediately found his revolver, which he kept on the shelf beneath his nightstand.

Dorian put his back against the wall beside the doorway into the main hall. A quick peek confirmed the front door was still closed. He crept down the hall, weapon trained ahead of him, and his footsteps were nearly silent on the rug.

The living room floor was littered with shards of glass, glittering and sparkling in the moonlight. A brick sat in the midst of the mess. He pulled back the curtains and saw the shadow of a man in dark clothing running down the street away from his house.

Dorian burst through the front door, giving chase. "Stop," he shouted as he ran. He managed to gain on the man slightly, but he had too much of a lead and disappeared down an alleyway.

"Motherfucker."

"What was that?" the girl, now awake, asked as he returned to his bedroom. She was sitting upright in the bed with the sheets only up to her stomach, and her bare chest exposed.

"Somebody broke my window," Dorian said, sliding his gun back into its hiding place.

"Why?"

"No idea. Anyway, I couldn't sleep. I'm just gonna get up and go out." He slipped into a pair of jeans and a shirt from his closet. "You can let yourself out later, if you want."

"Okay," she said as he walked away, down the hall toward his office.

Just another fucking problem.

He grabbed the handset of the big military radio on his desk.

"Hey, you awake?" he asked.

A moment of silence, then an answer.

"I am now," Kristof said.

"Sorry. Couldn't sleep. Can we get started?"

"Yeah. I wasn't sleeping much either. Meet you over there."

"Alright."

It was still dark outside, and a light mist hung over the deserted streets. The town was still asleep, and his walk was serene and quiet aside from the distant chirping of crickets. Though he was still exhausted, he felt as if just a bit of weight was lifted off of him. When he got to the temporary guard outpost at the site of the destroyed wall, the sun was just beginning to peek above the horizon.

He greeted the guards on duty, who looked quite tired and eager for their daytime relief to arrive, but had nothing to report from the nighttime. Kristof awaited him just past the blockade, and the two men made their silent way down the path toward the power station.

The bodies which littered the ground just a few days ago had all been cleared away. After his initial tearful breakdown on the day of the attack, Kristof threw himself back into his work and hadn’tshown any further signs of emotion. That Dorian hadn't recognized the signs of his second-in-command's burgeoning relationship troubled him somewhat, but less so than the gnawing heaviness in his gut which wouldn’t let up these last few days. Was it guilt? Sadness? Dorian wasn't sure. Whichever, Dorian didn't appreciate the feeling.

The dead Church members had been dragged out and left in the forest. For their own, Kristof had personally dug each and every grave. They now rested in rows of wooden grave makers just inside the walls of what had been the power station. As they passed by, Kristof paused and rested his hand on one marker. Dorian cast his eyes down in what he hoped was a show of respect, and shifted his feet idly in the dewy grass.

"Let's get to work," Kristof said after a moment.

"Alright. Hey," Dorian said, putting a hand on Kristof's shoulder. "You were right. About her. And the others too. I'm glad you made me let her in."

"Thank you, Dorian. Keep that in mind next time."

The power house had truly been gutted. The walls were charred and black, all the wood burned away, though the brick structure still stood. The metal stairs and walkways running around the perimeter of the main room were warped, and in a few places had collapsed. Bits of ash and cinders blanketed the floor.

In the middle of the room, a crater had replaced the two generators which sat there before. Their hulking metal forms were now fallen on their sides, each broken in half at its midsection where they were previously embedded in the floor.

Dorian dropped down off the ledge and inspected the closer generator as Kristof watched from above. "Looks pretty fucked," Dorian said after a cursory glance.

Kristof snorted a bit. "Yeah. They had some pretty heavy duty explosives, from the look of it. The turbines down in the ground are cracked, we'll have to pull those out. I don't think I can salvage any of this, maybe a few parts."

"So we're going to need entirely new generators? Where the hell are we going to find them?"

"Another dam is probably our best bet."

Dorian laughed as he climbed back out of the crater. "Know of any?"

"There's a few. I was already looking into it, knowing we were going to need parts soon." Kristof slid a folded map out of his back pocket. "There's Conowingo Dam, out in Eastern Maryland."

"That's probably under the ocean now,” Dorian said. “Everything out that way was, as far as I could see."

"Well, then there's a couple of sites on the Allegheny River, north of Pittsburgh. Similar capacity as this dam. Probably our best bet."

"I've got to head that way anyway, to deal with the Church."

"And you know I'll be with you on that one," Kristof said, his one eye fierce. "Looking like a tougher task than we planned for, though. They seem very well armed."

Dorian smiled. "It won't matter once James gets here."

"What, the real James?"

They were interrupted by the sound of running footsteps approaching from outside. A moment later one of the guards entered, breathing heavily.

"Mr. Black, sir. Someone is outside the walls, asking to see you."

"Come meet him," Dorian said, glancing at Kristof.

Dorian led the way back to town. Just outside the wall was the truck he had left with James, recognizable by the long scratches and dents along its one side. His guards stood in line across the gap in the wall, rifles leveled at the truck.

"Guns down!" Dorian shouted, and they did as he ordered. Yet it wasn't James who climbed out of the cab but a beautiful young woman with reddish-brown hair. She turned to look at him and Dorian felt disarmed, as if someone had struck him in the gut. Though her smile was warm and genuine, there was a real power in her eyes, somehow slightly aloof and intense at the same time. It was the same look James always had.

"You must be Dorian," she said.

"Are you... James's wife?"

"Hope," she corrected him with a smile.

"Where is he?" Dorian asked, as she unlocked the rear door of the truck and heaved it open.

"He said he had some things to do first. Come on, kids," she called into the truck. One by one, a dozen young boys and girls filed out of the truck, dropping carefully from the back. One young girl who looked to be the youngest among them hesitated. "Oh come here, Mira," Hope said, grabbing the girl around her waist and placing her on the ground.

"Shit," Dorian said.

"He'll be here," Hope said, closing the door.

"I forgot about the kids," he said. "Things took a turn here when I got back. Kristof." The other man had stood quietly a few feet behind him. "We got a couple empty houses?"

"Yes, unfortunately."

"Right. Hope will need one, and we'll need one for the kids, until we can work something else out."

"I'll stay with them for now," Hope said. "I'm quite fond of them, really."

"Alright," Dorian said. "Give them the biggest open house, move enough beds and cots in there for everyone."

"Will do,” Kristof said.

"Are you guys hungry?" Dorian asked the children, trying his best friendly kid voice, which never had felt particularly natural coming out of his mouth. The children, at least, didn't seem to mind as they giggled and cheered.

"Hope, one of my men will lead you to the fire hall so you can get some breakfast. I'll meet you over there."

"Thank you," she said, then gathered the children and followed a guard off into the town.

"Kids? You getting soft on me, Dorian?" Kristof asked.

"I don't want to hear it."

Just another delay, Dorian thought as he made his way down the street toward the fire station. James had promised to come join him; he was sure he would, but what could be so important to make him wait? They had to strike back against the Church soon, or else he was certain they would attack again.

In a wide field on his left, cornstalks swayed gently in the morning breeze. Farmland stretched on for acres behind and beside it. A short distance further Dorian raised a hand to greet a farmer who was inspecting some of the crops. Somewhere else in the field he heard a tractor engine hum to life.

The mood at the mess hall was electric. Hope and the children occupied one long table near the entrance, and a number of other residents had already arrived. Though a few ate their breakfast as if nothing was out of the ordinary, most observed the group with curiosity. Until today, there had been very few children younger than sixteen in Black Creek. A couple of young women knelt at the end of the table, chatting happily with a few of the kids.

As Dorian entered, a man sitting alone at a table caught his eye. He was muscular, with close-cropped military-style hair, and wore cargo pants with a tucked-in dark green shirt. He stared at the raucous kids' table impassively as he lifted a fork of scrambled eggs to his mouth.

"Jenski," Dorian said, leaning on the table next to him.

"What's all that?"

"Kids,” Dorian answered.

"Figured that, yeah," he said, chewing thoughtfully. "Why?"

"The woman is married to a good friend of mine, who's going to help us with the Church. Kids came with them."

Jenski chewed for a moment. "That's good," he said. "Time to start thinking about the next generation, right? See ya, boss." The man turned his attention back to his food.

Dorian laughed a little to himself as he turned away. That wasn't at all what he had expected him to say. He figured he'd have to defend the decision to the town, but everyone here seemed excited enough to see the children join them.

He took an empty seat across from Hope, who greeted him with a smile. The tray in front of her was almost empty but for a single spoonful of shredded potatoes, which she promptly finished off.

"The food is really quite good. Thank you," she said.

"Not bad," he agreed. "You should see what we can do with electricity."

"So what happened with that? The hole in your wall looked fairly fresh."

"We were attacked, the night I got back from going to look for your husband. Group calls themselves The Church of James, goes around attacking people, capturing them. Human trafficking, all that bad shit. Shit. Sorry," he attempted to correct himself as he remembered he was surrounded by children. None of them seemed to have noticed.

Hope shook her head. "He won't be too happy about that."

"I'm counting on that."

"He'll be here," she said again. "Whatever you said to him, it lit a fire in him. He can get that way."

"I'm still a little bit blown away that you're real. I always made fun of him for wearing that ring, talking about how he was going to go visit you one day, but never did. Now, seeing you, I'm wondering how he managed to stay away."

She ignored that. "There came a time when he felt it wasn't safe for me to stay with him anymore. I'm not exactly like him, I can be hurt. I'd have never left his side, but he insisted. When Martin destroyed everything, well, we figured we might as well be together at the end of the world."

"You're not exactly like him," Dorian said, raising an eyebrow. "So what are you then?"

"Whatever I am, he made me. I was born a normal person, like you."

"What even is he?"

"Have you ever asked him that question?" Hope asked.

"I guess I haven't."

"That’s strange."

"You're right," he admitted.

"You know, he once told me that he only ever revealed himself to four people in his whole life. And two of us are sitting here at this table. He's told me a great deal about you. You don't see eye to eye on everything, but your friendship means a lot to him."

"The feeling is mutual."

She put her hand gently over his, a gesture that felt more like a mother comforting her son than anything else. His eyes were moist, he suddenly noticed.

"I know you need his help right now, and he will help you. But he needs you too. What he’ll have to do to end all of this will be incredibly difficult for him. Don't make it harder." Dorian quickly brushed a single tear from his cheek and coughed, turning away slightly. Hope just kept watching him with those unnerving eyes of hers.

The hall was almost full now, and even more people had taken notice of the group of children. Dr. Brandt, looking as exhausted as ever, sidled over to the table with his breakfast in hand. As he introduced himself to Hope and made small talk, Dorian couldn't hear what they said. The room seemed very loud all of a sudden, and his chest was getting tight.

He stood up abruptly, knocking the table as he went, and rushed toward the exit. He nearly stumbled outside, gulping down lungfuls of the cold morning air and steadying himself against the wall. Dorian closed his eyes and breathed slow, willing his racing heart to settle. When the pounding subsided after a few moments, he opened his eyes again and brushed the sweat from his forehead. Panic attacks were not something Dorian was accustomed to. The stress of it all must finally be getting to him.

Two women were approaching the fire station now. They were Rachel, the therapist, and Jess, the detective, walking hand-in-hand. He tried to lean more casually against the wall of the building.

"Good morning, ladies," he said.

"Good morning," Jess said. With the benefit of a few days' rest and a shower, she looked much better. Her brown hair was in a clean ponytail and her face was no longer caked in dirt and grime.

"Are those kids?" Rachel asked, apparently just having noticed the commotion around the nearby table.

"Yeah. Long story. Actually, we might need your help with them, Rachel. They all came from pretty shitty situations, seems like."

"I never did much work with kids, but I'll do my best with them."

"That's all I ask. And Jess, or should I say Chief?"

She smiled. "Jess is fine."

"We've got a space ready for you. We can head over there after you eat. I figure you can go solo for a little while, get things set up. If you find anyone in town you want to recruit, that's fine. Or we'll keep looking for former officers out there."

"Sounds fine. Looking forward to it."

"I've got your first case for you, too. Easy one. Someone threw a damn brick through my window this morning."

Jess chuckled a little. "Sure thing, boss."

The irony of it all was not lost on Dorian. His memory of their first meeting couldn't be clearer. It was obvious enough to him at the time that she suspected him of being the vigilante. But she had no proof, and his connections with her Chief had made any formal accusation inconvenient, if not impossible. Now, two years later, she had come crawling to Black Creek, at his mercy in the only safe place for hundreds of miles in any direction.

To her credit, she had shown nothing but deference to him since arriving. Maybe she was ready to forget the past and move on, to work together. If so, he certainly was as well.

Dorian felt a gaze on the back of his head as he shook hands with Jess and Rachel before they went inside to eat. It was Hope, he saw, watching them, but as the two women walked away he saw that her gaze followed not him, but Jess.

Skye

The bar looked like a saloon out of some old western movie. In fact, the whole town did. As she stood on the brown, patchy grass outside, an old man ambled out through the bar’s swinging wooden doors. He paid no more mind to Skye than he did to any of the handful of other people milling around outside as he struck a match and lit the lantern hanging just outside the door.

A light breeze kicked up the dust around her feet, and the heat of the day was just beginning to subside. It had been a week since she left the Church compound. A week of winding her way south on highways and crumbling back roads. Now she found herself here, in northern Virginia, in a little town that looked every bit the shithole it must have already been, even before the world had ended.

She took the steps all at once and pushed her way through the doors. A few gruff-looking men occupied this end of the bar, and the tables to her right were sparsely populated by some other men and two couples.

One of them had a child, she noticed, a boy probably eleven years old. Aside from his slight frame, the boy would otherwise have blended into the crowd easily, with a bandanna wrapped around his head and a chunk of his left ear missing.

Skye had just begun to make her way toward the far end of the bar when one of the men scooted his stool out into her path. Sensing the impending collision, she put a hand on the man's shoulder and stepped aside.

"Whoa, now," the man said, moving to grab at her wrist. Skye slipped it easily away from his grasp. He was a stocky man with thinning red hair and a full, tangled beard.

Skye eyed him up and down. "Watch where you're going," she said.

The man laughed. "You're a pretty one," he said, reaching a hand toward her.

Skye drew her revolver and shot him in the head. A pink mist hung in the air as his body dropped to the floor with a wet slap. No one in the bar reacted, other than the man's compatriots, who simply looked on with mild interest.

Skye stepped over him and took a seat at the end of the bar. "Sorry," she said to the bartender, a thin, bald man with glasses.

"No problem," he said, with a slight German accent. "I didn't much care for them anyway." As they spoke, the man's body was being dragged out of the bar by his friends, who didn't return. There was some soft laughter from a couple of other men who sat nearby.

"Free drink?" the bartender asked. "For cleaning the place up."

"Would appreciate it. I have nothing to trade anyway. Whatever you've got."

The man poured her a drink and slid a whiskey glass in front of her.

"Thanks," she said. Her chains clanked on the bar as she drank, and the man eyed them suspiciously.

The past week had gone much like this. She would drive until she found a settlement, spend a few hours or a night there, then move on. They were relatively few and far between, and most were walled off and none too interested in admitting strangers. There were a few like this one, open towns that seemed mainly to be thoroughfares for bandits and other undesirables. People like her, she often had to remind herself.

Mostly, she was listening for any rumors of James, or whatever his real name was. He was a frequent enough topic of conversation. Naturally, any criminal hearing stories of a magical man roaming the countryside wiping out dozens of his own kind was likely to listen. The rumors were getting more frequent the last two days, which told Skye she must be traveling in the right direction.

She had heard any number of different theories. Once she heard speculation that this whole ordeal was a CIA experiment gone wrong, and the man was a genetically-modified supersoldier who went rogue. There was some discussion of aliens, as well. Plenty seemed to think the stories were exaggerated, that there was no supernatural force hunting down bad guys, only a particularly adept vigilante. The end of the world was simply a terrible natural disaster, they would say. Of course, this explanation didn't account for the dinosaurs, as Skye was often quick to point out.

"How about that shit on the old man's farm?" she heard one of the nearby men say to the bartender.

"Anderssen's gang is lucky that freak got to them before I did," the other man added.

"I can't imagine how they'd have fared any worse against you," the bartender replied. The first man laughed.

"What happened?" Skye interjected. The two men at the bar ignored her, but the bartender answered.

"There's a farm on the edge of town. Old man has lived there his whole life. His sons run the place, try to keep the peace, protect the farm so we can all eat. Local gang has been causing trouble, salted the crops. Would have killed the old man and his sons, too, if this guy didn't show up and kill every last one of them himself."

"Craziest shit I ever seen," one of the patrons added, turning toward her. "This fucking guy roasts 'em all like it was nothing. And then after they're all dead, he gets down on the ground like he's praying or some shit, and when he gets up the plants are all healed."

"When did this happen?"

"Yesterday."

Skye turned away, finished her drink, then stood and left the bar. The body of the man she shot had been dumped unceremoniously in the grass outside. Her car, a rusty old sedan, still sat where she'd left it next to the bar.

Along the street, a dozen or so people could be seen hanging out their windows or gathered on porches, chatting in the cool evening air. There was no light but for the faint glow of candles in a few windows, and the headlights of a pickup truck which rumbled along the dusty street. The handful of pedestrians made way as the vehicle passed by.

It wasn't until the truck pulled alongside her that she saw what was in the back of it. In the bed was a steel cage which held two women, and two younger girls. The girls and one woman just sat with their heads down, but the other woman screamed as the truck rolled past.

"Help!" she cried. "Heeeelp!" It was a terrible, pleading shout that went ignored. Some walked on as if they heard nothing. People sitting on their porches endured the moment of uncomfortable silence before redirecting their conversations. Men passing by averted their gaze or ushered their families along.

Skye stood, frozen, watching the scene unfold, until that poor girl in the back caught her eye.

"Please!" she screamed. "Help me!"

Skye was already moving before she even realized what was happening. One shot from her revolver burst the front tire of the truck, and the next shattered the passenger window. The truck swerved as its bald rim squealed across the asphalt, narrowly avoiding a collision with one of the homes across the street.

The door nearest to her was just beginning to open when she unloaded the rest of her bullets through the broken window. An armored man caught one shot in the chest, which staggered him, then a second in his head. He slumped unceremoniously back across his seat. The driver had been merely grazed across his arm, but his door was wedged up against a porch railing. He could only watch as Skye holstered one revolver, drew the other, and shot him between the eyes.

Then the rest of the convoy arrived.

Three motorcycles squealed to a halt, and their riders stood for a moment taking in the scene before them. Behind, two more trucks could be seen approaching. Shots rang out and holes riddled the crashed truck as Skye dove to cover behind the front of the vehicle.

She dug through her pockets, reloading both of her weapons as quickly as she could.

Stupid, she chided herself. Stupid fight to pick.

With a flick of her wrists, the cylinder on each gun clicked into place.

Bullets whizzed past her once again as she popped her head up, firing twice at the first man she saw. Without waiting to see if she hit her mark, Skye dropped back down behind what little cover she had. To her right, the wall of a house. To her left, fifteen feet of open space between her and any other cover. Nowhere to go.

Skye stood up once more, firing twice. She hit one in the leg and he fell to the ground, wounded but still alive. The other two were advancing on her quickly, and their backup would be here in no time. Skye closed her eyes, a little silent prayer to no one in particular, then leapt out from behind the truck. She strafed out in an arc to the left, firing with both guns as she went.

Another man went down, and then something hit her. A terrible, piercing, ache at her breast which stole all the breath out of her. Skye's feet staggered, and when she tried to lift her guns again she found that her arms didn’t have the strength. They fell from her hands and clattered on the asphalt. She looked down and saw the red running down her chest, and then her legs failed her.

The world went black as Skye slumped to the cold ground.

***

Skye was in the dark abyss. Though her eyes were open, she could see nothing at all. Somehow she could still hear, the distant sounds of fighting echoing across some vast expanse toward her. She could feel that this place was simultaneously somewhere very distant and nowhere at all.

She spun around, for the first time in her life feeling motion free of effort or consequence, but wherever she moved it was all the same. There was nothing but the dark, and the steadily fading sounds of the fight. As they grew more distant, she tried in vain to chase them, but soon all was silent.

There was light now though, just the faintest dim glow in the distance. She tried to swim toward it, and it grew brighter and brighter, more quickly than she could possibly have been moving, until it blinded her and she finally opened her eyes once again.

A man was leaning over her, his hands on her chest. Get off of me, she tried to say, though no words came. You've already killed me. A warmth was spreading through her body, and the man finally met her eyes.

They were just like hers, she noticed, an unnatural neon green. Skye tried to reach out to him, but she was too tired to move. He placed a gentle hand on her forehead, and she slept.

***

When she awoke next, Skye was lying in the backseat of a van. At first, she couldn’t remember any of what had happened, and her mind was still foggy, as though she had slept for a very long time.

Suddenly recalling the fight, she jerked herself up onto her elbows, pulling away the blanket which had been draped over her and feeling at her chest for wounds. When she felt nothing, she pulled the neck of her shirt forward and looked down. Her skin was intact, but dried blood told her she hadn’t imagined what happened.

"Where am I?" she managed to say.

The man driving didn’t look back, but he spoke. "Oh, you're awake. Good. How do you feel?"

"Alright. Tired."

"You could be much worse."

"Was I... dead? I couldn't have been."

"Damn near," he said. "I saw what you did, so I brought you back. Lucky for you I was there."

"Yeah, that was a bad idea," she said. Skye sat the rest of the way upright and pressed a palm to her aching head. All the rest of her memory began to flood back to her then. "The girls," she said. "What happened to them?"

"One was killed in the gunfight. The others, I freed. They ran away before I could help them any more."

"You said you brought me back. Why not her?"

His green eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. "She was too far gone. I might have been able to, but true death does no favors for the mind. I saw you, struggling to breathe but still living, and made my choice."

He studied her reaction, which was minimal. "I see," she said.

"Do you not find any of this strange?" he asked.

"No," she said. "I know who you are, James."

She could see just the hint of a frown at the bottom of the mirror. "And you are?"

"I'm Skye."

"And how do you know me, Skye? While I'm at it, let me ask what is going on with your eyes, and the chains around your wrists?"

"I was in a group called the Church of James. They worship you."

There was visible anger in his eyes, but his voice was still calm. "Worship me for what?"

"For ending the world."

He was silent for a moment, his eyes back on the road ahead. Skye shifted in her seat.

"Maybe I should have left you to die, then," James said.

His words hit Skye like a punch to the gut. She leaned back in her seat, unsure what to say. James hit the brakes suddenly and the van came to a stop in the middle of the empty highway.

"Let me make two things very clear to you, Skye," James turned around in his seat, fixing her with a terrifying glare. "I don’t want to be worshiped. And I did not end the world. If you're here looking for a religious revelation, get out of my fucking car right now."

Skye gulped, unable to speak.

"What have you got to say, then?" he asked.

"I left the Church," Skye said. "I didn't even realize it then. I had no idea, not even when I left did I fully understand it, but I was brainwashed. They captured me, put me in this prison. Broke me down until there was nothing left. Then, when I was at my lowest, they showed me you. Not the real you, I guess. But what they showed me was beautiful. A god, not somewhere up in the sky but right down here on earth with me. One who had the power to heal, and destroy. One who cared about me becoming the person I had the potential to be."

"Whatever they showed you was a lie," James said.

"I know that now. And it was a dark, evil lie. You were a loving god, they told us, but one who would not tolerate weakness. So we did... I did... terrible things. And then, the worst part was that I was good at it. Really good. So that power over people became attractive all on its own, even when I started to have some doubts. But then I learned it was all bullshit. You weren't in charge of the Church. So I left. I decided I'd find the real you, and find out what you really want us to do. So now I have, and you aren't at all what I expected."

"Sorry to disappoint you. So what do you want to do now?"

"I want you to tell me what I'm supposed to do next."

James laughed and shifted the van into drive. "Like I said. If you're looking for a revelation, you've come to the wrong 'god.' But if you come with me, maybe I can show you the right thing to do."

The van started back down the highway once again. After a few minutes of quiet, Skye climbed over into the front passenger seat.

"I'm sorry for what I did, in your name," Skye said.

"Don't apologize to me. But I'm sure there are people you need to apologize to, if you still can. And as for your Church, I believe I'll be dealing with them soon enough."

"Yeah."

"Do you have anywhere safe to go?"

"Not really,” Skye said.

James sighed. "A friend of mine has a safe town, apparently. You can go with me there. Just one more stop on the way."

"Alright. Thanks."

The highway cut through a marsh that went on in all directions as far as she could see. Off in the distance, she saw a herd of brachiosauruses roaming.

"What's up with the dinosaurs?" Skye asked.

James shook his head. "I have no goddamn idea. I don't know why he's obsessed with them. Just an instrument of fear, I guess."

"Is 'he' Martin?"

He took his eyes from the road and turned to look at her. "And how do you know that name?"

"I met him. He was the one running the Church, claiming to be you. He said he destroyed the world. Is that true?"

"It is."

"Who is he?"

"He’s a monster of my own creation. My greatest mistake. And one I intend to fix, before I go."

"Go where?"

He didn't answer. "Will you take me to him, Skye?"

"Yes."

They drove in silence the rest of the way, though it wasn't long before they arrived. Their destination, it seemed, was a little lakeside town. A dozen homes and other buildings had been built in a circle around the lake, which was fed by a river flowing down out of some mountains on the horizon. Makeshift barricades filled in the gaps between the homes, but it was clear to Skye that several of them had recently been torn down.

James stopped the van and the two of them climbed out. As they approached the nearest barricade, two men appeared with rifles.

"Stop right there," one of the men shouted.

Skye stopped, her hand tentatively hovering at her waist until she realized there was no gun there. When James continued to walk, both men fired on him. He raised one hand, and the bullets came to a dead stop several feet ahead of him. They hung in the air for a brief moment before falling into the grass.

"I'm not looking for trouble," he said.

"Neither are we," one of the men answered. "But we've had a bit too much of it lately anyway."

"I've heard. The men who attacked you are dead."

The two looked at each other, then back at him, clearly unsure what to make of the strange man. James advanced, hands raised, toward them and they did not attack him again. Skye followed tentatively behind. All around the lake, fearful faces peeked out from the windows of every home.

"Who are you?"

"Nobody. But I'm here to help," James said.

The lake was brown and stagnant. Small docks bobbed on the shore in front of most of the homes, little rowboats and canoes tethered alongside.

"What did they do?" James asked.

"They dammed off the river, poisoned the lake. Salted what few crops we had. Every week they would return, bringing us our pittance of food and water, threaten to kill us if we resisted. They..."

The man seemed to be holding back tears. "They raped our women, and the little girls. There were too many of them." The man was crying now. James rested a hand on his shoulder and leaned in close, whispering in his ear. The man nodded, wiping his cheek.

James caught Skye's eye, unfastening his belt and letting his weapons, two pistols and a pair of knives, fall to the ground. He walked forward into the lake, trudging ahead as the water rose to his waist and then to his chest. He stopped then, halfway out to the middle of the lake.

Skye couldn't see what James was doing now, but after a moment the water began to change. A ring of clear blue had appeared around him and was spreading out in every direction, cutting through the murky brown. Skye watched in awe as the waves lapping against the shore cleared.

The two men nearby were silent. All around the lake the men, women, and children who had been hidden began to emerge. Gasps and quiet cheers could be heard echoing across the water.

James soon emerged from the lake, his pants and ragged shirt dripping water. One of the men hugged him, and James simply smiled. Soon he was surrounded by at least two dozen of them.

"I can’t give you back what you have lost," James said to the gathered throng. "I can heal your land, but I can’t heal what may be broken inside each of you." His eyes lingered on Skye as he said this. "I can only tell you that the men who wronged you so terribly are gone from this earth, and before I’m done many more of their kind will join them. Tear down their dam, take back your home. When I’m gone, don’t think back on who I was. I ask you, don’t tell stories of me to your children's children. If you must remember me, do only as I have done. Provide for your fellow man. Defend those who can’t defend themselves."

It took a long time for James to free himself from the crowd. Once he did, he stood before Skye wringing out his pant legs and fastening his belt once again. His hair was messy and the edges of his eyes wrinkled. He looked like no more than a man, but of course, he was much more.

"What are you?" she asked.

"I don't know," James said. "But would you like to hear my theory?"

James

The van shuddered and creaked under a heavy gust of wind, and James turned the wheel slightly against it to maintain his course. Night had fallen hours ago but still he drove on, the empty highway ahead lit only by the van's one working headlight.

The dashboard clock read 1:19 in an irritating fluorescent glow. The wind died down and gusted once again, as it had done all through the evening. In the quiet between the gales, he could hear the soft snoring of the young woman in the passenger seat.

Skye slept with her knees folded up against her chest and her head, the only thing poking out from under a ratty old blanket, resting on the window. She bobbed with the motion of the road, but hadn't awoken since she’d fallen asleep two hours before.

She was a curious woman. James, with his penchant for reading people, could sense the immense anger and resentment within her the moment he’d met her. There was more to her though, and he would have seen that even had he not witnessed her get herself killed in order to save a couple of poor captive women. People, with rare exception, always had a more interesting story to tell than one might think. That was something Martin never seemed to understand.

'What are you?' the woman had asked him, hours ago when they left that town. The candor of the question had been somewhat unexpected. Perhaps that was why he had responded the way he did.

'I don't know,' James said, and that was the truth. After millions upon millions of years of life, he was hardly any closer to understanding his own existence than he had been when he first woke up on that beach so long ago. What he did know was that he was connected to this world, and it to him. He could manipulate its elements, and in turn the earth would respond to his own emotions. James asked the woman if she wanted to hear his theory, and she said yes.

'I've lived on this earth for as long as any life has existed.' He had paused there, testing her reaction, but she had none for him. 'I told you I’m not a god, but in truth that may be what I am. Or as I think of it, maybe the spirit of life itself. When I was young, every day was a new adventure. The world stretched on before me, and life flourished and evolved. When I finally became lonely, mankind appeared to share the world with me.'

Skye only continued to listen, apparently accepting everything he had said. 'I've only ever tried to protect the earth and all its people, even when they did nothing but cast me out. Nothing hurts me more than to see the innocent suffer. The only thing I wanted in return was anonymity. I learned early on that nothing good could come from humanity's knowledge of my existence. And finally, two years ago, my one true enemy decided that the best way to hurt me was to make that impossible, forever. He knew I couldn’t stand by and watch him destroy everything. Once I was exposed, there could be no peace for me. And despite my efforts the world suffered terribly anyway. He won. So I went into hiding, too ashamed to show my face. I prowled around like that for two years, until an old friend tracked me down and called me the coward that I was. So I’ll do what I can to fix my mistakes. And then I’ll die, and take Martin with me. But I'm afraid of what happens to the rest of you when I'm gone.'

James finished his story, his voice strained and a flutter in his chest. He looked to Skye for acceptance, for any recognition of how much he had laid bare for this woman he had only just met, but found only anger within her unnatural green eyes.

'You say it hurts you to see us suffer? But you've killed, too. Why do you get to judge who’s innocent and who isn't?'

James was quiet for a moment, unsure what to say. What he wanted to say was Who else is going to do it?, but he instead he just raised his hands apologetically. 'I'm not perfect. Whatever else I am, I'm a man. I'm not all-seeing or all-knowing. I have emotions, and I make mistakes. Like I said. I'm not anyone worth worshiping.'

'You know what's going to happen when you're gone?' Skye asked him. 'Nothing. Do you think we can't survive on our own, that without your magical presence life as we know it will vanish? The way I see it, the world right now is a lot worse off because of you and Martin. Have you ever considered we might be better off without both of you?'

Though he would not admit it, James never had.

The clanking and sputtering of the van tore James away from his thoughts. The gas indicator had been illuminated for miles, and now he finally felt the engine's last jerk forward before it began to coast to a stop. James looked over his shoulder into the back seat, where two red gas cans still sat. It should be plenty.

When the old rusted van came to rest on the highway, James pushed open the heavy door and stepped out onto the road. In the distance he could hear a quiet chorus of crickets, and the howl of the wind as it gusted across the marsh below the highway.

The back door swung open with a squeal, and James retrieved one of the canisters, which he then emptied into the tank. He tossed the empty container into the trunk and leaned for a moment against the van, enjoying the feeling of the cool metal against the back of his neck.

The moon, hanging high in the sky, cast a spectral glow across the wetlands. A small herd of deer padded their way north, the same direction he was traveling. Farther off in the distance, a spike-backed dinosaur trundled lazily west.

James took a deep breath of the night air. Even in its current state, he still found the world almost painfully beautiful.

He hauled open the driver's door once again and sank into the soft seat. The engine started with a growl, and the fuel indicator swung back up halfway. Good enough for now.

"Do you want me to drive?" Skye, her position unchanged, had apparently awoken.

"No, thanks. I don't need to sleep."

"That sounds like it would be annoying, actually."

James laughed as he put the van into gear. "I can sleep, if I want. But I don't need to."

"That sounds better."

The wind continued to buffet the van as they drove on. Before long, they passed a sign which welcomed them to Maryland. James wondered if Skye had fallen back asleep, but the neon eyes peeking out above her blanket were open, gazing out the windshield.

"I'm sorry about what I said earlier," she said.

"You told me how you felt, and I understand it. Don't apologize for it. It was something I needed to hear, I think."

"I was thinking about what it must have been like. To live so long; to be alone for so many years. Part of me feels like it would be peaceful, but another part says it would be torture."

"This place has always been good to me," James said. "Even when I was alone, or suffering, I was always happy to be here, to be alive. Because I remember what it was like to not be alive. Before."

"What was that like?"

"It was just darkness, and an endless pursuit for something I couldn’t ever reach, or even understand."

Skye was quiet for a few seconds. "Do you think that's what it will be like, after? For all of us?"

"I hope not," James said.

"Me too."

Skye fell back asleep before long, her slow breathing melding into the sounds of the wind and the road rolling by.

***

They arrived just after dawn. Following a little two-lane road slithering through a dense forest, he rounded one final curve before the massive walls leaped out to greet them.

James stopped the van in front of the gates, which remained closed. He could see movement in the tower above as the guards reacted to his arrival. James knew he should be surprised to see such a massive compound stuffed here in the middle of the forest, but that Dorian had managed such a thing was really no shock to him at all.

After a moment, one of the guards stepped out onto the wall and pointed to James's left, where a path had been worn through the grass by tire tracks which curled around the wall. James pulled off the road and followed the trail. He put his hand on Skye's knee and shook her gently.

"Hey, we're here."

She awoke, yawning and blinking against the morning sun before uncurling herself from her position and stretching out her arms and legs.

"I can't believe I slept so long," she said, balling up the blanket and tossing it in the back seat. "More than I've slept in ages."

"Understandable," James said.

He stopped once again at a guard post, this time situated in the ruins of what clearly had, until recently, been more wall. Any rubble had been cleared away, but the walls alongside the small wooden barricade were cracked and uneven. A handful of armed guards stood motionless behind the fence.

Skye looked out the window as they arrived, then did a double take. "Oh, no," she said.

"What?"

"This is the place your friend is in charge of?"

"Yes, Dorian Black. You know him?"

"Yeah."

James studied her as he released his seatbelt. The hard edge over the woman's face seemed to have evaporated, and all he saw in her demeanor now was fear. The implication that Skye's cult must have run up against Dorian at some point was obvious enough to him.

"You're not with the Church anymore. It'll be okay. Trust me."

"It may be more of a problem than you think," she said as James stepped out of the car. He walked forward toward the barrier, his feet crunching on the gravel. The guards watched him impassively, with their assault rifles trained on him.

"I'm here to see Dorian Black. Tell him it's James."

Their demeanor changed subtly. Though they didn’t lower their weapons, there was less of an intensity to their glares. Dorian would likely have told them to expect his arrival. One of the men was talking into a radio. James could just barely glimpse the city beyond the walls. Freshly paved roads, homes, what looked like businesses. It was all very impressive, no denying that.

He glanced back at the van, where Skye remained in the passenger's seat. James gestured for her to follow, and she emerged from the van with some reluctance.

Dorian arrived surprisingly quickly. "Drop the weapons," he said, and his guards did. "If this man wanted to hurt you, they'd do you no good anyway."

James started forward through the barricade, smiling and extending his hand to Dorian, who returned both gestures before pulling him into a hug.

"About time," Dorian said. His neatly-combed hair and slim-fitting suit would have fit right in on a typical day several years ago, much unlike the gruff, dirty marauder he had looked when last they met. "How the hell are you?"

"I'm good," James said, but Dorian's attention was off of him now, and on Skye.

"What the fuck is she doing with you?" It was a question, but he didn’t look to James nor wait for his reply. His hand was already moving to the handgun at his waist.

"Wait," James said, but the gun was out, and Dorian's finger was squeezing the trigger.

"Stop!" James shouted, stepping forward. He thrust out his hand and the earth shook beneath them. The gun fired as Dorian went flying, landing hard in the dirt six feet away. Skye stood behind James now, unharmed but terrified.

James sensed movement to his left as the guards raised their rifles once again and opened fire. He raised an invisible barrier between them, and the deafening barrage of bullets fell harmlessly to the ground as they flew toward them.

James walked calmly over to Dorian, who was sitting on the ground dusting off his knees. James offered him a hand and Dorian took it with a scowl, pulling himself upright again.

The ineffectual volley of gunfire had stopped and the men looked to Dorian, who waved them off. Dorian looked at James this time when he asked. "What is this?"

"I found her on the road. I just recently learned you two have some history."

Dorian snorted. "She's the one who did this." He gestured to the destroyed wall. "Her fucking Church killed innocent people here."

James turned toward Skye, who looked on with an expression that confirmed the truth of what Dorian said.

"Well, then that’s something she's going to have to live with, for the rest of her life." Skye looked down at the ground. "But she left this Church. She says Martin is behind it, that she was brainwashed. If you want to be angry at someone, be angry at him. Skye is going to help me destroy him, and the rest of that Church. Isn't that right?"

She looked up and met his eye, then nodded.

"So that's it," James said. "If I'm staying here, so is she. Nobody is to harm her."

Dorian was seething with rage, but he didn’t argue. "Alright. For now. She won't have any trouble from my men. But she’d better be careful. Some of the people they killed have families here. Can't make any promises what they'll do."

"Wouldn't expect you to. Now, where's Hope?"

"She arrived a few days ago. And the kids. We had them set up in a nice house on the east side of town, near the park. Somebody else is taking over for her with the kids, so she's moving to another house next door. Just for the two of you."

"Thanks, Dorian."

"No problem. I've gotta get moving for now, but one of my men can show you the way."

"No need," James said. "I wouldn't mind finding my own way."

"Alright. It's #15, just past the park. Meet me at the town hall tonight at sunset. Both of you," he added with a glare. "We'll have a talk."

Dorian put out his hand, and James grasped it.

"Good to see you, man," James said.

"Yeah. You too."

The guards stepped aside begrudgingly and let James and Skye pass into the town. It was still early, and the streets were mostly empty. The mesh netting suspended twenty feet overhead cast a faint shadow over everything, but the scene was still pleasant enough. Once away from the walls, one could hardly distinguish the place from a normal town in a more normal time.

Skye seemed to be thinking something similar, and the girl looked around with interest at everything they passed. The quiet clanking of the chains at her wrists, if it wasn't imperceptible to her by now, must have been a reminder of how out of place she was.

Heading east, they passed rows of buildings, some of which seemed to be empty. They passed the main gate, where James could see the backs of the guards as they watched the forest on the other side. Next they passed through a park and crossed a bridge over a little stream.

"Thanks for defending me back there. Again," Skye said.

"He'd have killed you without a second thought. And as he said, there are probably others here who would happily do the same."

"I know."

"I do believe you were brainwashed," James said. "And I can see remorse in you, a real desire to change. But that doesn't absolve you of the wrongs you’ve done, and I think you know that. You'll have to reckon with those yourself. And if you're going to survive here without my protection, you'll have to try making amends. One way or another."

"I'm not sure I can."

"Maybe not. But you can try."

"Once you find out everything the Church has done, I'm afraid you might not feel so kindly toward me. I don't really understand why you've helped me at all."

"As I said, we aren't absolved of our mistakes. Believe it or not, I bear responsibility for making the monster who turned you into one. Each of us has to accept our part in that, however big or small. Consider all of this part of my own amends."

Just ahead, a row of newly-built homes sat alongside a bank of trees, a few among them still under construction. From a distance he identified #15, at the end on his right. James quickened his pace as they approached the door, but Skye lagged behind.

"Wait," Skye said.

James turned back to her. "What is it?"

The young woman raised her hands in front of her. "Will you take these chains off of me?"

James nodded and moved closer to her, taking hold of the shackles at both of her wrists. He drew on the fires of the earth and the iron began to glow red hot. Skye bit her lip, resisting the pain, but didn’t cry out as the metal melted and fell away from her hands. Skye gasped as they fell, then lifted both arms in front of her face, looking at the small ring-shaped burns left behind.

"Here, I can heal those too," James said.

"No," she said. "Leave them."

James nodded and turned back to the door. He knocked, and after a moment the door opened. Hope smiled as she greeted him, and he kissed her, pulling her in close and taking in the scent of her hair.

"I missed you," she said, hugging him tight.

"I missed you too too," James said.

Jess

Jess's dreams had been a dizzying tangle, and her head still reeled slightly as she sat up in bed. A sliver of morning sun creeping through the curtains blinded her, so she leaned forward to pull them shut, then let herself sink back into the soft quilt.

When she was on the road, the hunger and lack of sleep had been an effective distraction. Since arriving in Black Creek, her idle mind had begun to revolt against her. During the day it was all she could do to hold back the flood of confusing memories, and they overwhelmed her when she slept.

Individual memories and entire lifetimes whipped through her consciousness, each of them simultaneously unfamiliar and yet unmistakably her own. It was her story, she knew, but it was one she didn't want. She was the little girl from Pittsburgh who grew up to be a cop, not the immortal daughter of a supernatural psychopath who destroyed the world.

So, once again, Jess pushed it all to the back of her mind, until the pounding in her head began to recede and she was able to sit up without feeling sick. Finally she stood, loving the feeling of the plush carpet underfoot as she made her way to the bathroom.

Jess stared longingly at the shower as she dampened a washcloth at the sink and scrubbed it across her bare chest and under both of her arms. The town was under a water restriction until the power could be restored. On her first day back, she’d used their entire daily allotment of water for a shower, which felt very much deserved. Now, Jess wrung out the towel and washed her lower body before patting herself dry.

She couldn't wait to shower again.

Could definitely be worse though, Jess reminded herself as she rolled a stick of deodorant under each arm.

Back in the bedroom, Jess opened the closet to reveal a pair of dark blue uniforms hanging inside, each wrapped in clear plastic, like new. She stripped the wrapping from one and rubbed the fabric. It was soft, clean, but clearly previously used. The little brass tag read J. Neil.

As she dressed, she wondered where they had found the uniforms. The patch on the shoulder had been re-embroidered to read "Black Creek Police Department." Dorian told her they would have new uniforms made, but these would do the job for now. They even fit her pretty well.

She found Rachel sitting at the kitchen table and staring out the window. She jumped when Jess wrapped her in a hug from behind.

"Oh! I zoned out a little," Rachel said.

"Feels weird to have the luxury."

"You hungry?"

"Definitely," Jess said, and she was.

"Well, look at you." Rachel had only just now turned around and noticed Jess's outfit. "Looking good."

"Thanks," Jess said. "First patrol today, after breakfast. Time to meet the town."

In the three days since Dorian had offered her the job, Jess had gotten set up in a little office building in the middle of town, but today was her first time putting on the uniform. There weren't any specific expectations as far as time spent on the job, just that if something went awry inside the town, she would have to take care of it. Maybe after a while, with enough growth of the town and a couple other officers, they could figure out shifts. For now, Jess was happy enough to have something to do.

It was already a scorching early morning when Jess and Rachel left their apartment, making their way toward the fire hall. A handful of other people fell in around them heading the same direction as they went. Jess nodded and smiled to those she already knew and introduced herself to those she hadn't met yet.

"Jess Neil, the new chief of police. But call me Jess,” she’d usually say.

The crowd in the cafeteria was buzzing this morning, and not just due to her presence. Though a few interested eyes were cast her way, most people seemed to be absorbed in their own excited conversation. "Did something happen?" Jess asked as they moved through the serving line.

Rachel shrugged. "Not sure. Does seem like it though."

"Jess! Rachel!" As they walked with their food trays in hand, a voice called out to them from the throng. Jess searched for a moment before she saw Meredith sitting alone at a table nearby, waving her hands in an attempt to get their attention. They took seats across from her.

Between her rosy smile and a clean set of clothes, Meredith looked better than Jess had ever seen her, at least since the first time they'd met. Just from her mannerisms she seemed cheerful, like an enormous weight had been taken off of her.

"How are you feeling?" Rachel asked.

"Fine. I'm going back to the clinic for a checkup later today, but the doctor said I should be fine."

Meredith had indeed been released the morning after her injury. Jess was still somewhat shocked to see her sitting here, as if nothing had ever happened. That doctor truly saved her life.

She’d stayed with Jess and Rachel that night. The next day, as Dorian requested, Rachel went to talk to the children. Jess didn't have the stomach for listening to whatever terrible stories they had to tell, and Rachel's somber head shake when she returned later that night confirmed what she had suspected.

Meredith had gone along, though. It turned out she had been a summer camp counselor for years, and still loved children. After meeting them, she immediately volunteered to help take care of them. As Rachel later said to Jess, it might have been therapeutic for all parties involved.

"How's daycare going?" Jess asked, getting a slight chuckle from Rachel.

"Great! Hope's with them right now, we've been kind of taking shifts."

"So what's up with Hope? Where did she come from?"

Jess tried to keep the tone of the question casual, though it was anything but. That first morning in the cafeteria, Jess had been willing to write it off as nothing when Hope stared at her from way across the room. Since then though, the woman seemed to fixate on Jess every time she saw her.

Hope was friendly enough, and when her gaze was met she would always casually look away as if she hadn’t been staring. What irritated Jess more than anything was that, rather than an intimidating glare, it was a look of intense curiosity, like a scientist staring at a puzzling result.

"I guess her husband is friends with Dorian," Meredith said. "She told me Dorian was looking for him all this time. He just got here this morning, right before I left the house. James. Must be somebody pretty important, everybody's been talking about him this morning. He seemed nice, though."

"James, as in the Church of James?" Jess asked.

"I didn't think of that. Surely Dorian wouldn't let him in if he was one of them."

Jess had significantly less confidence in Dorian's scruples, but she didn't say so. The Church was nothing but a scourge, she had seen that with her own eyes. On the other hand, Martin—her father, though it made her sick to think of him that way—had told her James was the true enemy, and asked her to help him fight the man, whoever he was. That fact alone made her think this James must be good after all. There were a lot of questions that still needed to be answered.

"Speak of the devil," Jess said, nodding toward the big open doors where Dorian had just entered.

He looked his usual handsome, overconfident self, today wearing what looked like a personally-tailored suit rather than combat gear. He smiled and made conversation with a few people across the hall before Jess was able to catch his eye.

"New look, boss?" Jess asked.

"Old look, actually. Feels good. I hope being back in uniform feels as natural for you?"

"It's been a long time since I wore a patrolman's uniform. But yes. Anyway, I wanted to ask you about the man who arrived this morning."

"Word spreads fast," Dorian said with a sigh. "He did make a bit of a scene."

"Is he a friend, or a problem? Is he related to the Church?"

"He's a friend. I'm sure you do have a lot of questions. Come to the town hall at sundown, a few of us will sit down and talk."

"Alright," Jess said. Dorian nodded at Meredith and Rachel before taking his leave.

The three of them finished their breakfast and then parted ways outside the fire hall. Jess passed a row of homes and waved to a young couple who were tending a small garden. Past those homes, farmland stretched out further than she could see. In one distant field, she could make out a herd of cows wandering lazily about. She followed the road between the fields on her right and the denser city streets to her left. Inside one open workshop, an old man was hammering away on a big metal something or other as a young man watched over his shoulder.

Most of these buildings were still empty, an investment for the future, as Dorian told her. It was a future that wasn’t hard to imagine. Until now, the people here had been merely surviving, getting by on bare necessities alone. But the town was growing. One day, things could maybe get back to normal here. Once the power was back on, anyway. Whatever else she thought of Dorian, she had to give him credit for what he'd accomplished here.

The road led her past the break in the wall, where a handful of men stood aside as a piece of construction equipment rumbled through the checkpoint, heading through the forest toward the power station. Jess figured this was as good a place to start as any, so she mounted the ladder on the side of the wall and climbed up.

One lone guard sat in a chair in the little shack atop the wall, staring out at the forest below. He nodded at her as she stepped off of the ladder.

"Chief."

"Call me Jess, please," she said. The arrangement, according to Dorian, was that his men would guard the walls and be in charge of any action outside the walls. Everything inside the walls was her own jurisdiction.

"Alright. I'm Rick." They shook hands. "How can I help you?"

"I'm just kind of going around and introducing myself, getting a feel for how the town operates. What works, what doesn't. Are you always on watch?"

He laughed. "God no. We rotate all the time. Wall duty, guarding the dam and the lake. That one's a little more interesting than this at least. Raiding is mostly what we look forward to."

"How often does that happen?"

"Eh, until this attack happened we've pretty much had a party out every day. Some small, some big. Always looking for supplies."

"How dangerous has that been?" Jess asked.

"It's dangerous," Rick said, shifting the automatic rifle that lay on his lap. "But, until the other day, we'd only lost eleven men in almost two years. Biggest threat is the fucking dinos. Most people out there are alone or not too well equipped. Other big groups like ours are rare and pretty easy to avoid."

"So where are we getting the supplies? Just scavenging, or are we taking things by force?"

"Mostly scavenging. Anything we steal has been from people who deserve it. The Church and all that. At least since I've been here. I've heard things were a bit messier early on."

"Eventually everything out there will be gone, though."

"Right."

His reply was interrupted by a boom and a tremor in the earth, and Jess put a hand on the railing as the wall shuddered beneath her. The booming footsteps continued, and Rick stood up and leveled his rifle at the treeline. His demeanor though, was much more casual than Jess felt herself.

She could see the treetops rustling and breaking, first far out in the woods and then moving steadily closer. Finally, the trees at the edge of the forest were brushed aside by an enormous creature. The tyrannosaurus paid them no mind as it crossed the road and plunged back into the trees on the other side. Jess exhaled the breath she now realized she'd been holding.

"Yeah, keep moving, you big fucker," Rick said, taking his seat once again. "Anyway, what were we talking about?"

Jess couldn't help but laugh a bit at that. "How do you feel about Black Creek? What would you like to see different?"

"It'd be nice to have a shower in the morning again. And take out the pieces of shit who did this to us. Other than that, I'm pretty content."

Jess took her leave and moved on. She spent most of the day talking to everyone she came across. There were plenty of guards and fighters, most of whom seemed primarily concerned with striking back at the Church. Their reactions ranged from insistence that Dorian should already have led an attack, to confidence that their leader would do the right thing.

Among his own men, even those who disagreed with his decisions, Dorian was very popular. Universally, they had immense respect for his willingness to fight alongside them rather than lead from behind, and to do so rather skillfully.

She talked to a tailor named Julia in her store, who assured her that a fresh batch of uniforms would be ready for her soon. Jess thanked her, and told her there was no rush. One street over, a barber in a clean white apron swept the steps in front of his shop as he hummed a cheerful tune. He waved to Jess as she passed by, then went back to sweeping.

In a cozy little coffee shop near the edge of town, which Jess hadn't even known existed, she met a pair of carpenters who were father and son. The two men were taking a break and chatting with a husband and wife, who were farmers. In all, they seemed fairly content with the state of things. They certainly seemed hesitant to complain, for fear of sounding ungrateful for their position.

"I'm not looking to cause trouble," Jess assured them. "I just want to get an idea of how things can be improved."

The farmers glanced at each other and then the woman spoke. "Well, there's a lot of supplies we need. We've had the requests in for a while, but sometimes it seems like we're not high priority. But how will people eat when our equipment breaks down?" The man nodded.

"I see. Do you all think we should keep being restrictive about who we let in, or should we be trying to bring in as many people as we can?"

The younger carpenter answered. "Well, it's not really up to us. But, I think we all remember what it's like out there. I understand why we had to be selective, and maybe we still need to be, until the wall is fixed and they deal with that cult. But I'd like to see more people let in eventually." The other three nodded and murmured their agreement.

"Do you think Dorian is open to that?" Jess asked.

"I'm not sure." It was the older carpenter who spoke this time. "I hope so. I like him, hell I owe him my life. But underneath his friendly demeanor, he's a hard man. That's the kind of man you need in charge to survive these days." He looked like he might go on, but hesitated and then sipped his coffee instead.

"I think we all sleep better at night knowing he’s protecting us," the female farmer said. Though they wouldn’t say it, either out of respect for Dorian or distrust for Jess, a silent implication of a desire for change was there, it seemed to her.

The morale of Black Creek overall was surprisingly high, considering what had happened so recently. Jess asked a lot of people the same questions, and opinions varied. Most seemed to trust Dorian implicitly, though they might have a small complaint or two. There were others though, who thought perhaps Dorian's place ought to be out in the field, and guarding the walls. At the very least, many seemed open to the idea of someone else running the town.

One construction worker whom she spoke to in the afternoon told her, "Once things are better, we ought to have an election. I'd vote for Dorian, I'll tell you that. But whoever wins, at least then it's official."

And that was all Jess really needed to hear.

Just as the sun disappeared behind the walls, Jess made her way to the town hall. The main room had the same eerie atmosphere it had the last time she'd been here. With the power out, the only light came from torches and lanterns arrayed in a circle around a metal table and chairs.

Jess was the last to arrive, and Dorian locked the door behind her as she took a seat next to Kristof.

"Chief," he greeted her.

"Hey, Kristof," she said.

Dorian took his place at the head of the table, in front of a large rolling bulletin board with a map affixed to it. Across the table from her sat a young man and woman. The man casually rested his chin on his fist and stared off at nothing in particular.

He looked familiar, Jess thought, but she couldn’t place him. His eyes were what struck her most though, as they were an unnatural neon green that almost glowed in the dark room. She had seen similar eyes before, on a member of the Church who had abducted her. This could only be James, she assumed, and so he must have something to do with them after all.

The woman next to him sat with her arms under the table and looking down at the floor. When she finally glanced up, Jess saw she bore the same strange eyes.

"Alright," Dorian said. "Everyone's here. Introductions. You all know me. This is Kristof. Head engineer of Black Creek, second in command of the guard. My right hand man in the town. Next to him is Jess, former Pittsburgh detective, now our town's new Chief of Police. Happy to have her here." Jess nodded and smiled.

"This is James, a good friend of mine for many years. You may or may not remember seeing him, Jess, on the day we met at your police station way back when."

Of course, Jess thought. She had barely noticed the man accompanying Dorian that day, with her attention primarily on her suspect.

"Who exactly he is, and why he's here, will take a bit more explanation. So we'll get back to that. Finally, with him is Skye. I'll let you try and explain that one, James."

"Might as well get it out of the way, yes," James said. "This is Skye. A friend of mine. And former member of the so-called Church of James." He spat out the name with an almost palpable venom. Jess sensed Kristof tense up next to her, his hands gripping the edge of the table.

"Skye, it's time for you to tell them your story, from the beginning. And then I’ll tell mine. I understand for you, Dorian and Kristof, some of this will be very unpleasant to listen to. But I ask that you let her speak."

Skye looked very nervous, but after a moment she shifted in her seat, cleared her throat and began to speak.

"I lived in Pittsburgh, before all this happened. I was a news anchor. My whole life, I was always the pretty girl, the cheerleader, the prom queen. My friends were always jealous, even when we grew up. But I was never happy. 'You're so lucky,' they would say. 'How could you possibly be depressed?' They were my friends, and I knew they meant well. But it wasn't so simple for me." Skye had started hesitantly, but now the words were flowing quickly, and she didn't stop.

"My parents tried their best, but they didn't understand either. The counselors they sent me to only helped me learn how to hide what was wrong with me. So I grew up, now the beautiful woman on TV that all my friends were jealous of, but I wasn't any better. I could have had any man, but I chose the one that was going to beat me. Even then, my friends didn't understand. Eventually, I tried to kill myself. I took a bunch of tylenol, and I meant it. It wasn't a fucking cry for help. I downed that whole bottle and I went to sleep, and if it wasn't for my friend finding me, I'd be dead.

"I made nice with the doctors at the hospital, told them how I wanted to get better, but I didn't. I knew the next chance I had I was going to do it again, and do it right this time. And then we're driving home from the hospital when the world ends. Our car gets thrown across the highway, but somehow we both survived. I crawled out of the wreck and there was Mark, sitting there with just a sprained ankle or something. He would have been totally fine. But I picked up a rock and I smashed his fucking head in, and I laughed as I did it."

Her eyes were welling up, but she kept going. "I felt so strong. For the first time ever, I felt like I was in control. I'd never felt so good. So I left, and I did alright on my own, for a couple months. But it wasn't long before I got rounded up. They stormed the little town I was staying in, killed most of the people. I didn't even try to fight. Turned out I wasn't so strong after all.

"There's no point in telling you everything they did to me. But they broke me down to nothing, and then when I was at my lowest they showed me something. A man, who they called James. Not just a man, but a god. And he had true power. To heal, and to destroy. He wanted us to be strong, they said. And they taught me how to be.

"So I joined the Church. I did terrible things. And I was good at it. I killed with my own hands. I led others to senselessly slaughter whole towns. I watched as my own Church abducted women and children, used them in every horrible way. How could I have stood by and let that happen? Helped it happen?

"No settlement angered us more than this one. We wanted nothing more than to tear down every attempt to rebuild civilization, but Black Creek was thriving. So I went to the man they called James, against the orders of the Church. We weren't supposed to speak to him unless invited. But I went, and he was so impressed with my nerve that he infiltrated this place, kidnapped one of your guards."

"What?" Dorian interjected, and Kristof suddenly sat up straighter as well. The two shared a glance.

“Hensley?” Kristof suggested. “Figured he ran off.”

“Why would someone run away from here?” Jess asked.

Kristof shrugged. “Hell if I know. Happened before. Had too many other problems to worry about it too much.”

"I tortured him,” Skye continued. “And he gave you up. He told me how to get inside the power compound, through the water runoff pipe. So we did. My men killed everyone inside, then we opened the gates to let more of us in before we burned the generator building. What happened next, you know."

There was a screech and a bang as Kristof stood up suddenly, his chair toppling over. Before Jess knew what was happening, the man was scrambling over the table in a howling rage.

Skye leapt up from her seat, trying to get out of the way. Next to her, James simply raised a hand and Kristof slid off the edge of the table and landed with a thud on the ground, motionless.

"Let me up!" he screamed, his face red and his one good eye bulging with effort, though his body wasn’t moving at all.

"I’ll release you when she’s done talking," James said.

"This cunt killed my girlfriend!" he yelled, his voice wet with spittle.

James cast a glance first at Skye, then at Dorian. The latter man, smirking and leaning back in his chair, merely raised his hands as if to say 'I told you so.'

Skye began to speak again, but her voice finally broke. She sobbed, and tears fell onto her lap. "I'm sorry," she finally managed to say. "I'm so sorry."

"I don't give a fuck if you're sorry," Kristof shot back. "I'll kill you, and this motherfucker too if he had something to do with it."

"Go on, Skye," James said.

"I—I went back to the Church. They promoted me, did this to my eyes," she waved a helpless hand at her own face, tears still running down her cheeks. "So again, I spoke to 'James.' His name wasn't actually James, he said, it was Martin."

"Fuck," Dorian murmured at the end of the table.

"It was him, not James, who had ended the old world. But the reasons were still the same. To cull the weak, to empower the strong. He said that James was the true enemy, and he asked for my help to defeat him. I told him I would be honored. But it all shattered, my whole illusion of that place, and of him. So I ran away, as far as I could, and the further I got the more I realized it; I had been brainwashed.

"I didn't know what else to do, so I decided I'd find the real James. I knew he would give me answers. When I finally did find him, he told me he had no answers for me. But he was wrong. I know what I want to do now. I want to destroy Martin and all the rest of the Church. And then I just want to be normal."

She raised her hands up as a plaintive conclusion. James rested a hand on her shoulder and turned to Kristof, still paralyzed on the floor.

"I'm going to release you. But you will not harm her in my presence. I wouldn’t bother trying again." Suddenly Kristof was writhing on the floor, getting back on his feet. He stared first at James, then at Dorian, then at Skye. Then he took his seat, his body still radiating anger.

"I know Martin,” James said. “This is what he does. He manipulates humans for his own amusement. But there’s nothing he wants more than to destroy me. He can’t, so he settles for trying to make my life a living hell. Unfortunately for him, he has no idea what tortures I endured long before he ever existed."

He sighed. "Skye once asked me what I am. If there is a God, I am him. I’ve walked the earth for millions upon millions of years. I can’t die, nor suffer any lasting harm. For unknowable amounts of time I simply wandered the earth. When I got bored, the world made itself exciting for me. Life flourished, and died off, all around me. When I got lonely, humans appeared. Did I create them, or did the earth create them for me, or was it all a coincidence? I don't know.

"Martin is my greatest mistake. For though I may be a god, I’m a man as well. And the first time I saw a human woman, I was so overcome by my own primal instincts that I took her by force. After, filled with nothing but shame, I fled. It wasn't long before I learned this terrible act had borne me a son. Martin is a creature of only bitterness and anger. But he’s a monster of my own making.

"I can’t kill him, just as he can’t kill me. But I’m fairly certain we can die, if we only choose to. My time on this earth is coming to an end. Before I go, I’m going to undo the evils I’ve wrought by bringing him into this world. And then, I’ll make sure we both leave it forever. These cults in my name, whether his doing or not, I’ll free those who can be freed and purge the rest. When I'm gone, it will fall to men and women like all of you to remake the world you deserve."

He stopped, and a heavy silence fell over the table. Kristof was the first to speak. "This is fucking crazy." He looked first to James, then to Dorian, who shook his head.

"It's true," Dorian said.

Jess's mind was in a whirl. It was all a blur as Dorian led the rest of the group through an explanation of their plans for tomorrow. There was something about a convoy heading north, Jess going with Kristof to scout a dam for parts, if she was okay with that, and she nodded that she was. Dorian, James, and Skye would attack the Church, then all would meet back at Black Creek. James put up a fight about Dorian coming along, but he insisted and James conceded the point.

Finally they all left, and Jess plodded back to her apartment in silence, the night summer air washing over her as the sounds of chirping insects rolled in from the forest. By the time she stepped through her front door, it was all her body could do to make it to the bed before collapsing alongside Rachel, who scooted up alongside and slipped an arm around her.

"What happened?" Rachel asked, and Jess told her. Every bit from start to finish. Except, of course, for the part where she might be the granddaughter of a god. Because how on earth could she even begin to explain that?

***

They left Black Creek at sunrise, the roar of their engines cutting through the quiet stillness of the morning.

Jess climbed into the passenger seat of a van and Kristof took the wheel. He hadn't spoken a word so far, though he rolled down the window when Dorian approached.

"Careful out there. It's just a scouting mission. Unless it's totally deserted, don't go in alone."

Kristof replied with a grunt and a nod before rolling the window back up. Dorian mounted his motorcycle and tore ahead, past the barricade and onto the road. James and Skye followed close behind, driving a large truck. Kristof just stared straight ahead, but they didn't move.

"You ready?" Jess asked.

Kristof reached down and grabbed a portable radio from his pant leg. "Come on up," he said. Within seconds, the sound of more engines could be heard approaching along the road behind them.

"I'm not going on a scouting mission," he said. "I'm going in and we're getting what we need. You don't have to come."

"I'm going," Jess said.

"Alright."

Two other vans pulled up alongside them, and a large flatbed truck behind. Kristof hit the gas and the convoy passed beyond the walls, the guards falling in behind them.

They rode in silence. After leaving the little forested back roads near Black Creek, they went north on an empty expanse of highway. The steady hum of the road beneath them and her exhaustion lulled Jess to sleep, and she dozed on and off. After a while, she saw the Pittsburgh skyline pass by on her left. It looked much the same as it had when Jess last visited.

It wasn't long after that before they arrived. Kristof pulled off the highway and onto a dirt access road which ran alongside the river. Here the water flowed a nasty color of brown, and up ahead she could see the dam stretching across the river. It appeared to still be functioning, at least.

Kristof accelerated and the van smashed easily through a small wooden barricade. The parking lot was filled with ordinary cars, most of which were faded and rusted as if they hadn’t been moved in years. With a squeal they slid to a stop and Kristof was out of the van in an instant.

Jess scrambled to follow him to the back of the van. Kristof hauled open the back door as the rest of the vehicles lined up behind them. Inside the trunk was an array of weapons. Jess holstered a pistol at her hip and took a pump shotgun in her hands.

The parking lot was deserted, and the only sound was the rumble of their engines and the crash of the river over the dam. Jess led the way to the door of the power station as the six armed men behind them fanned out across the parking lot and around the building. When she tried the door, it opened without resistance.

Jess took a quiet step inside the entryway, where the lights overhead were on. A long hallway stretched out before them, but still there was no one to be seen. Jess crept forward with her shotgun aimed ahead. She could hear a sound at the end of the hall now. The closer she got, the more she could make out the heavy thrash metal music that was playing somewhere nearby. Jess and Kristof exchanged a glance and continued to the end of the hall.

There was a single closed door here. Jess grabbed the handle and twisted it slowly, letting the door swing open on its own and shying away from it for fear of a sudden attack. None came. Jess took a deep breath, but Kristof stepped through the door before she was ready, so she followed.

What had clearly once been an office now looked more like a living room. Along the far wall a sofa sat across from a flat screen television. There was another closed door on the far wall. Bookshelves lined one wall, and the music was blaring from a stereo on a shelf near the door. On a carpet in the middle of the room, a man was doing pushups, facing away from Jess and Kristof.

The song ended, and in the brief quiet she could hear the soft beeping of a microwave, and the man got to his feet and opened the microwave, which sat on a small table nearby. Facing away from them all the while, he pulled the top off of a bowl of soup and blew on it before taking a sip. The next song began, and Kristof hit the power button on the stereo.

Startled by the sudden silence, the man turned toward them. He was middle aged, balding, but fit. Sweat stained the tight white shirt he wore. He stared at Jess and Kristof in disbelief for a moment before he dropped the soup and dove behind the couch. Kristof walked forward, his rifle leveled toward him.

The man was crouching on the other side, his shaking hands struggling to load a revolver.

"Drop it," Kristof said, and the man did.

Now, Jess could hear the steady hum of what must have been the hydroelectric generators in another room.

"Please, don't hurt me," the man said.

"Not planning on it." Kristof stepped around the sofa and scooped up the man's gun. "Are you alone?"

"Yes," was the man's reply.

It was then that the other door creaked open. Kristof wheeled around, taking aim.

"Daddy, who's that?"

"Get back inside!" the man shouted.

Kristof lowered his rifle. In the doorway stood a little girl, maybe six years old. Behind her, Jess could see another girl peeking out. The two looked like twins.

Jess put her gun down, showing her empty hands to the man before stepping toward the door. She peeked inside what was another office, this one now a bedroom. A few dolls were scattered about on the floor. Other than the two children, there was no one else inside.

"What's your name?" Kristof asked the man.

"Bruce," he said. He stood up and moved into the doorway in front of his daughters.

"Have you been here all this time by yourself?" Jess asked.

"For over a year. Nobody has ever come here before."

"How did you maintain the generators?" Kristof asked.

"I was an engineering professor at MIT."

Kristof glanced at Jess. "Let me show you something," he said, fishing in one of his pockets and retrieving a small handheld camera. He handed it to the man, who flicked through the stored photographs.

"This is our town, Black Creek. Built around the Deep Creek hydroelectric dam in western Maryland. Our generators are shot, and our power is out. This is the closest dam of a similar capacity. We have strong walls. We have homes. Other children, now. We have a doctor, farmers, fighters. You can see all of this for yourself."

The man was quite intent as he pored over the images.

Kristof went on. "Let me be very blunt with you, Bruce. I came here for that generator. I've got six men outside, a forklift and a flatbed. I'm taking it back to our town. The only question is whether you're coming with us or not."

The man looked up at Kristof, down at the camera again, at his daughters, then back at Kristof.

"I'll go."

Dorian

"Still not too late to back out."

Dorian lowered the binoculars and looked at James, who let a slight smirk cut through his otherwise grim face.

"Yeah, my ass." Dorian snorted and put the lenses back to his eyes. From their perch atop a high hill, hidden among some rough brush, he could see the entirety of the Church's compound. It was much bigger than he’d expected, but still fit squarely within the small valley. Tall walls ran along all four sides of the square complex. They were impressive enough, but paled in comparison to the ones he had built.

A handful of guards patrolled behind the gates and along the walls. The grounds were otherwise deserted at this early hour.

"You sure? Probably a lot of fighters down there," James said.

"You won't let them hurt me," Dorian said with a laugh, getting to his feet and pocketing the binoculars. “No risk.”

James shook his head. "This isn't a slaughter. Don't kill anyone who surrenders. I want to at least give them a chance to leave this path they're on."

"I'm not sure I would count on it," Skye said, the first words Dorian had heard from her since they had arrived.

"I hate to agree with this one," Dorian said.

"Still," James replied. "By the way. If Martin shows up, both of you should run. I can't promise to protect you then."

"Alright," Dorian said, his blood running cold at the mention of that. "So what's the plan? In through the front gates?"

James nodded. "The plan doesn't matter. Nothing they do will stop me."

"At this time, most of them will be in the main hall," Skye said, pointing to the largest building, which sat in the dead center of the compound. "Martin's cave is that way, at the bottom of the cliff."

Following her finger, Dorian could see a spot where the ground dropped away. Below, he glimpsed the edge of a small lake where it met the sheer rock wall on the far side.

James nodded and, with that, he was off down the hill. His momentum carried him into a jog and then a run. Dorian scooped up his rifle from the ground and sprinted behind. He couldn’t keep pace with James, who was moving faster by the second.

As James bounded toward the gates, the ground beneath him began to shudder. The shaking quickly became violent, nearly sending Dorian tumbling down the hill, and then the ground was torn asunder. Chunks of clay and rock jutted upward as a wave of energy rippled and rolled forward in a straight line. The wave hit the gates, which immediately cracked and fell backward, crushing several men beneath them.

Dorian watched in awe as the shockwave split at the gates and ran along the wall in both directions, reducing everything to rubble as it went. Dorian, back at full speed now, picked his footing carefully over the broken ground until he passed the gates.

There was a long moment of silence as James, Dorian, and Skye stood just inside the demolished walls, no one in sight, and then the gunfire began. The air shimmered briefly, then bullets coming from all directions fell harmlessly to the ground in front of their feet. Cultists took up positions on the roofs, peeked out of windows and doors, and scrambled out of their buildings to take cover behind whatever they could find.

James set off at a run, straight into the heart of the compound. Gunfire followed him, but the bullets continued to be deflected by some invisible force, as did those coming the way of Dorian and Skye. With a shout, Dorian raised his rifle. Part of him resented the lack of challenge, though the other, more rational, part of his mind told him he wouldn't stand a chance otherwise. Nonetheless, Dorian began firing at every target he saw.

He took a tentative step forward, past where the shimmering barrier had been, hoping it would follow. It did, and the bullets continued to bounce away from him as he and Skye advanced forward, each firing in constant bursts. Dorian dropped empty magazines where he stood and kept moving ahead, leaving dozens of armed cultists dead in their wake.

Dorian tried to stay focused, but his eyes were drawn forward, after James. His friend sprinted forward, leaping headlong through a line of riflemen blocking the road. Body parts went flying in all directions, and James spun as he flew, sending fireballs in multiple directions which blew cultists off rooftops.

A pickup truck emerged suddenly from a side alley, nearly plowing into James’s side, but the man soared effortlessly away. James landed with his feet planted on the side of a building, then launched himself forward once again, impacting the truck with a fiery explosion.

Dorian heard a scream, then Skye's voice. "Move!" she yelled.

Dorian spun in place, just in time to avoid a man leaping toward him. A metal pipe whistled through the air where his head had just been. The cultist, wearing crimson rags, was carried by the momentum of his failed attack and fell to the ground in front of Dorian.

"No!" the man cried, terror in his eyes as he tried to crawl backward and scramble to his feet.

Dorian planted a foot on his chest, and a point blank shot left only a gory, deflated lump atop the man's shoulders.

The last of the cultists were falling back now, and before long Dorian and Skye caught up with James.

The metal doors of the main hall, where Skye said most of the cult members would be, were red hot and freshly fused down the middle. From inside Dorian could hear shouting and banging on the other side of the thick doors.

"They aren't going anywhere for now," James said. "Show me Martin's hideout. Though I doubt he’s here. If he were, he'd have shown himself by now."

Skye led the two men across the other side of the Church's compound, which was now as barren as the rest of it. At the bottom of a set of natural rock stairs they found the cave, which sat on the shore of the little lake Dorian had seen before.

Dorian paused at the mouth of the cave, a cool wind blowing from within. James didn’t hesitate to set foot inside, and after a moment Dorian followed.

He was startled by the sudden drop in temperature as they found themselves in a dank, narrow passage. The light steadily faded, and Dorian felt his way along the rough, moist rock wall.

After several turns of the twisting passage they were suddenly plunged into complete darkness.

Dorian stopped short momentarily, and did his best to hide his shivering as he edged his way forward.

The path was just as quickly illuminated once again as a swirling sphere of flame winked into existence, hovering above James's palm.

This passage finally opened into a small room, which felt surprisingly cozy despite its cold wetness. A thick rug lay over the dirt floor, and a fireplace sat alongside a table and a pair of bookshelves. Another passage curled off from this room, deeper into the cliff. Its destination was shrouded in darkness.

"This is where I met him," Skye said.

"No surprise that he isn't here," James replied, examining some of the books on the shelves.

"Fucking coward," Dorian said, though he felt decidedly less than brave himself at the moment. He hovered rather close to James as they combed the room and entered the next hallway.

"Martin is many things, but a coward is not one of them. He has nothing at all to fear, or at least he thinks he hasn't. It’s probably sheer chance that he isn’t here."

This path was shorter, making only a few turns before feeding into another room. As they approached, they heard the sound of running water.

Here the floor was a lush bed of grass and flowers, and light shone down from a hole in the rock high above. Water splashed and gurgled from a spring in one corner and trickled along a narrow trench before disappearing into a gap in the wall.

"The hell is this?" Dorian asked.

"If Martin is anything like me, a place for meditation is often needed. My mind can be hard to tame."

The final path was warmer, and the orange glow of torchlight grew brighter with each turn. The soft murmuring of voices told them they were not, in fact, alone. James eyed Dorian and Skye in a way which suggested the two of them better stay behind. Reluctantly, Dorian did, as James disappeared around the corner.

Several long moments passed in silence. What had James found? Surely it couldn't be Martin, or else a fight would have broken out. Dorian turned the corner, and stopped dead in his tracks.

This was Martin's bedroom, clearly. From its decoration, one wouldn’t know it was located in a cave deep in the side of a cliff. A couch and several chairs lined one wall, and carpet covered the entire floor. On the back wall, a small bathroom branched off. In the middle of this room was a very large bed. On it, three women huddled together, terrified. Their swollen bellies betrayed their advanced pregnancy.

Though Dorian, and now Skye, stood dumbfounded in the doorway, the women's eyes were fixed on James, who sat hunched over on the couch across from them, head buried in his hands. After a moment he looked up, first at Dorian and then at the women.

"The man," he said to them. "Did he have eyes like mine?"

One nodded hesitantly. James grimaced and rubbed his forehead with both palms, pulling at his hair slightly in frustration.

The implications were immediately clear enough to Dorian. Martin must have finally decided having his own children might be worth a try, if only for the chance of an ally against James. Frankly, knowing what he did now, Dorian was surprised he hadn’t tried before. His immediate realization that he wasn't entirely sure Martin hadn't done so before disturbed him most of all.

Dorian could see the anguish playing out across his friend's face. The children could not be allowed to live. Yet James didn't have the stomach for the task.

"I'll do it," Dorian offered. James looked at him, at once understanding exactly what he meant. He shook his head and stood, his face a pale specter of grim resignation.

"No. This mistake is mine to correct. I'm sorry," he said to the women on the bed, who were looking increasingly anxious. "Just go."

Dorian turned and left the room, reaching beyond to drag Skye, who was frozen in place, along with him. As they left the cave, the women's echoing screams floating after them, and Skye sniffled and squeezed his arm tight.

When James emerged a few minutes later, his face drawn and his eyes tinged pink, he found Dorian and Skye sitting on the rough sand by the lake.

Dorian stood up, starting to speak, when the women emerged from the cave behind James. Their formerly protruding abdomens were now somehow completely flat. Two of them were crying, the face of the third completely impassive. Without hesitation they passed James and disappeared up the stairs.

They didn’t speak of it any further; together, the three of them took the stairs back up to the main compound, where everything was quiet and still.

Whoever had been locked inside the main hall had given up trying to escape, and no sound now came from inside. With just a twist of his hand James tore the metal doors from their hinges and tossed them aside. A new hail of gunfire soared their way, and just as before, the bullets fell in useless heaps before them as James stalked forward into the hall.

His footsteps echoed loudly and seemed to shake the entire building. The dozens of cultists inside were cowering in fear, and most of those among them who had guns tossed them aside. A powerful silence hung over the hall.

These are people, Dorian thought, for whom the supernatural is not a foreign concept.

Everyone who sat at the tables on the floor wore crimson rags, aside from a few among them who wore gray. On long raised platforms around the room sat more tables, filled mostly with men and women wearing chains on their wrists, with a handful of crimson-robed men mixed among them. Higher up, catwalks ran around the perimeter of the room with hallways branching off every dozen feet or so. All these doors slammed shut at once, and Dorian wasn’t sure if this was the work of the cultists or of James.

All inside were silent as James walked forward, then leapt atop one of the high platforms. He upended the table in front of him, sending the table, all the dishes and food atop it, and the men seated there tumbling to the ground. His green eyes seemed to pulse with seething rage as he stared all around him.

"I’m James," he announced, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. "I’m the one your Church claims to follow. I’ve seen all that you've done. I denounce it, all of it. All of you." There was anxious murmuring amongst the crowd. "You’ve been fooled. Your leader is not me. It is another, who calls himself Martin, an evil man who manipulated you for his own purposes." At this name, the murmuring became shouting.

"Lies!" one robed man screamed, standing and pointing at James.

The uproar spread across the room like a wave. Arguments began to break out, the sound of shouting intermixed with the thumping of chairs and clattering of dishes falling to the floor. There were howls and groans as men and women began to fight. Dorian watched as the scene devolved into utter chaos in a matter of seconds. Even from this distance he could see the sadness on his friend's face.

Dorian waded forward into the fray, hauling people apart, his shouts for quiet drowned out by the noise of the violent throng. He struck a man in the back of the head and threw him to the ground, swept the legs out from underneath one woman who was kicking another, dragged a howling-mad man away from a crying woman by his long hair.

"ENOUGH!"

The ceiling shook from James's shout, and bits of plaster and tile rained down from above. The floor shuddered so terribly that many fell to the ground.

"You’ve been deceived," James called out. "Brainwashed. You’ve seen the truth of who I am, with your own eyes. All those who believe me, who wish to leave, go. Leave now. You will not be harmed."

There was some movement, twenty or so men and women picking their way through the bloodied crowd. Dorian watched as the group, almost entirely made up of men in robes and people in gray rags, disappeared out the front doors. A few dozen more still remained, including all those who wore chains and the greater part of the crimson-ragged cohort.

James's voice was strained. "The rest of you. There’s nothing I can do to convince you, then?"

"James warned us against you, impostor!" a woman, somewhere, shouted. There were other voices of agreement.

"So be it," James said, and his eyes flicked over to Dorian.

The hall erupted with gunfire and the screams of the dying, until it was done.

"Where do they keep the prisoners?" James asked Skye, who was reloading her weapon.

"Mostly at other sites. The rest of this building is dorms and training rooms. We should check the Robes' quarters upstairs, though. Some of the leaders may have hidden there."

"Don't worry about the other sites," Dorian said, slapping a fresh magazine into his own rifle. "My men and I can handle those easily enough." He rested a hand on James's shoulder, which sagged beneath it.

"I know," James answered.

“Hey, you tried, man.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” James said.

They combed through the basement, which was mostly empty, as Skye had suggested. In one locked cellar, they did find a half dozen starved-looking men and women. Dorian waited by the door as James and Skye knelt and spoke to the prisoners.

"We have somewhere safe to take you," he heard James say. Dorian began to interrupt, but stopped himself.

Fuck it.

Skye led them upstairs, through the closed doors on the catwalk and to one big locked door at the end of a hallway. "This is the Robes’ private residence," she said.

"What's inside?" Dorian tried to peek under the gap at the floor with little success.

"No idea," she said. "I wasn't one of them."

James easily knocked the locked door to the ground, and again they were met with a round of bullets, this time from pistols. Five men knelt behind several couches, taking cover from the doorway. James stepped forward and sent a shockwave from his hand, knocking the men backward to the floor. At Dorian and Skye's gunpoint, they tossed their weapons aside and remained on their knees.

The room they now found themselves in was a rather lavish lounge, with thick red carpet, several couches and recliners, and a gurgling fountain in one corner. It was lit by an electric chandelier, and Dorian realized this was the only electric light he had seen here. A large screen TV hung on one wall. Two hallways branched away from either end of the room. A quick glimpse told Dorian the halls were lined with bedrooms, and they appeared to be empty.

The incongruous indulgence of the place clearly hadn't escaped Skye's notice either. "You fucking liars," she said.

One of the crimson-robed men, who had neon green eyes like Skye, seemed to have just made his own realization. "Sister Skye?" he asked, mouth somewhat agape.

"Don't fucking call me that," she said, striking him with the butt of her rifle. The man hit the ground hard, blood and spittle splattering the floor next to him. "We lived in the cold and the dark, and you live up here, like this?" The man merely whimpered, shielding his face with his hands.

Skye strode over to the television, examining it for a moment before finding the power switch. The screen lit up with a low buzz, but only a blue screen and an ‘INPUT’ message appeared.

“Looks like there’s some disks there,” Dorian said, noticing a handful of them next to the power outlet, where a handheld video camera was also plugged in.

Skye grabbed a disk and slid it into the player. On screen, Martin appeared. He stood, smiling, atop a wall overlooking a dirt pit. Around the perimeter, cultists hooted and cheered, drowning out whatever Martin was saying to them.

Down in the pit, a dozen or so people cowered as the crowd grew louder and louder. Finally, Martin raised his hands, and four raptors materialized among the captives.

Skye ejected the disk just as the slaughter started, then sorted through the other disks, finally picking one out and holding it up.

“‘Girl, 8’ this one says,” Skye said, sticking it in the face of one of the priests. “Is this what I fucking think it is?”

The man whimpered, but didn’t answer.

James suddenly turned his head as if he had heard something, and Dorian turned to listen as well. There it was again, a soft whisper. There was more than one voice now.

Dorian followed the sound across the room until he stood in front of a floor-length curtain that seemed to cover nothing but wall. After looking back at James with a raised eyebrow, Dorian swept it aside.

The faces of several children peered out at him from behind iron bars. Three boys and three girls, each no more than twelve years old, and naked. At the sight of him, they cowered and retreated as far away as they could within their tiny cell.

"You sick fucks," Dorian said, turning back to the old men, who looked fearfully back at him from under their crimson hoods. "Where's the fucking key?" He whipped down one man's hood and yanked his head back by the hair at his forehead. "Where's the fucking key?" he shouted this time.

"H—here!" another man answered, raising the key with a trembling hand.

Skye snatched it away and tossed it to Dorian. "Thanks," she said to the cult leader, then put her revolver to his temple and fired.

***

The van rumbled and sputtered exhaust as James and Skye lifted the children into the cargo hold. For now, they wore the cleanest rags they had been able to find among the dead. The adult prisoners followed the children into the back of the truck, then Dorian pulled the door shut.

"Can I take the bike back, Dorian?" James's ever-youthful face looked more worn than Dorian had ever seen it. "I need to clear my head a bit. Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere else."

"Sure." Dorian handed him the keys, then patted him on the back.

"It's over, man."

"No it's not," James answered. "Not even close."

Dorian tried a smile, then climbed into the cab of the van where Skye waited in the passenger seat. Without a word he pulled away and back onto the road, watching the Church's former compound burn in the rearview mirror as he went.

***

The sun was just beginning to set behind the forest canopy as Dorian wound his way along the familiar country roads approaching Black Creek. In his side mirror, he could see James following close behind.

When he rounded the final corner, with the truck running on the last of its fuel, he was so used to the sight that he almost didn't realize it was strange that the lights were on above the gates. They were though, the powerful industrial lamps flooding the ground ahead of him. Then, with a clank and a grind, the gates began to slide open.

"The power is back on," Dorian said, mostly to himself.

"Looks like it," Skye answered anyway.

He parked the truck just inside, and James pulled the motorcycle alongside as the gates shut behind them.

One of his men awaited him when he stepped down from the cab of the truck. "What happened?" Dorian asked.

"Kristof, and the new police chief, sir," the guard said. "They came back with a generator, and another engineer. They had the power back on a couple hours ago."

Dorian was more irritated than thrilled, though he smiled anyway. As they spoke, Skye had left the truck and was opening the hold. "We've got some people here," Dorian said. "Make sure they get clothed and fed."

"Yes, sir. I'll take care of it. The rest are in the park. Celebrating." The guard looked somewhat forlorn. "Bring these people over once they're cleaned up. We don't need anyone on the gates for now."

"Thank you, sir."

The smell of barbecue smoke and the sound of music grew louder as Dorian approached the park. Whether Skye and James were close behind or hanging back, he wouldn’t have known. This celebration should have been his.

He stalked into the park, fuming inside but with a bewildered smile plastered across his face. The scene was much like it had been that night after he led the assault on the Church's prison camp. Black smoke and an intoxicating scent wafted from the grill nearby. Up on the little stage, a makeshift band played some folksy tune Dorian couldn’t be bothered to recognize. Friends and families sat making cheerful conversation in the grass and dancing along to the music.

This time, it wasn’t Dorian who stood on stage basking in the adoration of his people. It was Jess, wearing her officer's uniform, dancing onstage with her therapist girlfriend, drawing cheers and laughs from the crowd.

The song ended and when the applause broke, Jess took to the microphone, then noticed him. She smiled, without a trace of insincerity, and announced his arrival to the crowd.

"There's the man himself, everybody!"

The crowd turned to him and applauded, and Dorian smiled modestly as he waved them off. James stepped up next to him, clapping him on the shoulder before disappearing into the mix of people. Dorian had no doubt the man knew exactly what was going through his mind.

He spotted Kristof near the grill, chatting with the cook, who wore a comically-large novelty chef's hat someone must have found somewhere.

"What happened?" Dorian asked him.

"Hey boss, welcome back." Kristof finished off the last big bite of his hamburger. "There was nobody there, at the dam. Just Bruce." He pointed to a middle-aged man who sat nearby on the grass, two young girls next to him. "He knows his shit. We replaced the generator in no time."

"Well, I'm glad it worked out. Congrats, man."

He did mean that, at least partially. Dorian knew he shouldn't feel bitter. There was no reason to. The power was back on. James was back, and the Church was as good as dead. So what if Kristof and Jess had the glory this time? The people here still loved him. He wanted to be happy for them. So why the fuck couldn’t he be?

"Everything go alright?" Kristof asked.

"Yeah. Fucked up, though. Brought back some captives."

"Anybody useful?"

"I didn't ask," Dorian admitted. Kristof grinned.

"You know we still need a shoemaker. Cobbler. Whatever the hell they're called."

"Oh, fuck off," Dorian said with a laugh.

They shook hands, and Kristof sidled off to chat with the new engineer. The band was playing a new song, and the crowd was clapping along. In front of the stage, James led Hope through a spin as they danced.

"Burger, boss?" The chef asked.

"No thanks, Tom."

Dorian took a seat up against a tree and watched the people of the town enjoy themselves. After a little while, the children and the other prisoners from the Church arrived, all of whom seemed to marvel at the place in which they now found themselves.

The party continued on until after dark. When the streetlights flickered on, a cheer went out. As Dorian absentmindedly watched fireflies bob up and down over the stream, he heard footsteps in the grass approaching. It was Skye, who sat quietly down against the tree trunk next to him.

"I'm sorry," she said, after a silent moment.

"What?"

"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. I know it's not enough. But I am. Seeing what you've built here... I can't believe I tried to destroy it. I would understand if you throw me out the minute James is gone. But either way. I'm sorry."

"I haven't decided yet," he said, and that was the truth.

"That's fair."

"I believe you, though."

She nodded, then stood up again and walked away, back toward the dwindling crowd.

Not long after, Dorian stepped through his front door, sighing as he locked it behind him. The window in his living room must have been replaced during the day. He slipped off his shoes and collapsed, exhausted, on his bed where he lay face down for a minute before hauling himself back up.

Dorian looked over the map in his office. He uncapped a thick black marker with his mouth, then drew a big X over the Church's headquarters. There was still work to be done, a complex web of sites that would need to be stamped out one at a time. This work would be easier though, and could wait for another day. For another silent moment he regarded the map, then tossed the marker aside.

He was just about to head back to his bedroom when the radio crackled and hissed. He turned, waiting to see if someone would call. There was another hiss, then a shrill beeping noise. It sounded three times, and then a robotic male voice began to speak.

"This is a message from the U.S. Government. Continue to seek shelter in place wherever you can. All those on the East Coast needing assistance, proceed to Richmond, Virginia."

The message repeated once more, and then the radio went silent.

Skye

With every thrust from her crowbar, bits of crumbling brick and mortar fell to the ground below. Only a few rungs from the top of the ladder now, Skye looked down. The side of the thick wall, laid bare and left jagged by the blast, was now smooth beneath her. Above, only a foot or so of broken and uneven masonry remained before she was done.

With a sigh, she returned to her work, chipping away and smoothing the wall as she climbed. A few minutes later, though it felt like an hour, Skye climbed over the last rung to settle atop the wall, her legs hanging over the edge. She set the crowbar down alongside her and wiped the sweat from her forehead, breathing heavily.

She rested for a while, watching as the men below laid mortar and bricks along the other broken face of the wall, which she had already smoothed out. In between, a large metal frame—soon to hold the new gates—was just now being raised into place by a loud crane. Where it had come from, or how the massive thing was made, she hadn't a clue.

Skye marveled to watch them work, a dozen of them each with specific skills, the basics of which Skye would surely struggle to grasp. Most of them were men, but Skye was pleased to see women among them as well.

One was instructing a welder working at the base of the door frame. Another was the architect, who stood overseeing the entire project from the back. At the moment she was talking and laughing with Kristof, the engineer whom Skye could barely even stand to look at. Thankfully, the man had so far refused to look at her as well.

A week had gone by since their attack on the Church's compound. She began each day much like this, with several hours of work under the scorching morning sun. The tasks themselves, mundane as they were, had a certain satisfaction to them.

To simply be in this place, and to have left her own Church in ruins, still felt surreal. Skye felt free, and she would have been giddy but for the weight of all that she had done still wearing on her. To her, the still-healing scars on her wrists were a constant, painful reminder.

With this though, came an ever-present fear of being found out. Thus far, most of the people in the town had been perfectly friendly. As far as she could tell, it was only the four others from the town hall meeting who knew the truth. James, she trusted. The woman, Jess, Skye knew little about, but she didn’t seem to be too bad.

Skye was much more concerned about Dorian, and especially Kristof. If either of the men planned on spreading a rumor, at least he hadn't done so yet. The real danger of that, she knew, would be whenever James finally left. For now, both were rightly afraid enough of him to leave her alone.

Skye, with nowhere else to go, had been spending a lot of time with James and his wife. As enigmatic as the man himself was, Hope was an even greater mystery to her. If she possessed any of the same fantastical powers as her husband, she kept them to herself. James had been going out beyond the walls each day and returning late at night, most times alone, although occasionally with new refugees for the town in tow.

The men below were setting aside their tools and breaking for lunch, which was Skye's cue to quit. There was, after all, only so much she could do to help them without more training. Though Kristof had roundly ignored her, the architect told her she was welcome to come and go as she pleased. So Skye slid back down the ladder, which she then lowered to the ground before leaving.

After a quick trip across town, she arrived at the house she currently called home. The two-story structure, with a big deck out back facing the trees, would have been unremarkable in most suburban neighborhoods just a few years ago. Now, it was pretty much the height of luxury in Black Creek. It was a place fitting for the apparently-divine best friend of their leader, but less so for someone like Skye.

For now, she appreciated the cold inside air, which made her wonder how she could ever go back outside again. As she kicked off her boots, she spotted Hope through the window in the house next door. Skye waved to her. The gaggle of children who lived there recently had a few additions, and Hope spent much of her time there, especially when James was gone. Skye herself had never much cared for kids.

Skye trudged up the stairs and into the guest bedroom where she stayed, eagerly peeling off her sweaty clothes and getting into the shower. The cold water streaming over her body was as close to bliss as she had felt in years.

When she descended the stairs half an hour or so later, fixing her hair into a ponytail as she went, she found Hope sitting in the living room.

"Hey," Skye said as she passed by her into the kitchen.

"Hey, Skye. How are you today?"

She took a glass from the cabinet and opened the freezer, which was empty aside from the one thing she was looking for. Ice. She dropped a few cubes into the bottom of the glass and then she filled it from the tap.

"I'm good," she said, settling onto the soft couch cushions across from Hope. "It's hot as hell out there." Skye took a long sip before setting the glass down on the table beside her.

"Yep," Hope agreed. "And only getting hotter." She closed the book she had been reading.

"Didn't think you'd come home so early. Sick of the kids?"

Hope laughed, but shook her head. "No. James will be home soon. He didn't have much luck out there this morning."

Skye didn't bother asking how she knew that, but she was sure it was true.

"What's he been doing out there?" Skye asked.

Hope raised her hands up slightly, palms upright in somewhat of a hopeless gesture. "Whatever he can. Helping, healing. Fighting. What he's always done."

"It's terrible to think that there must be a whole world out there like this, and he can only do so much."

Hope smiled. "Yes, sadly. I've told him the same thing many times, over the years. He can travel anywhere, and there is a lot he can do. But he's still only one man."

Skye drained the rest of her water. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," Hope said, though something about her expression suggested she already knew the question to come.

"What's your deal?"

Hope laughed, a louder and more genuine outburst than Skye had ever seen from the usually reserved woman. If she had indeed known the question, maybe the phrasing had caught her off guard.

"I do appreciate that about you," Hope said, rubbing a single tear from the edge of her eye. "You just get right to the point."

"Hey, I waited a week to ask," Skye said.

"True. I take it that what you mean is, who is this woman married to a god? Something like that?"

"Exactly."

"I'm nobody," Hope said. "I was born a girl, just like you. If I'm anything more than that now, it's only because of him."

"Can you do the things he does?"

"No," the other woman shook her head. "I don't die, or age. I heal faster than most, but not like James does. I can't change the weather, or shoot fireballs, or any of that."

"So how old are you?"

"I'll be one hundred and fifty three next week,” she said, as if this was a normal thing to say. Much like her husband, she looked no older than thirty.

"What happens to you when he's gone?"

Hope's smile faltered a bit, but her voice was no less cheerful. "I don't know."

They sat in a heavy silence for a few moments. "I don't mind you asking," Hope finally said. "But don't bring it up to him. He feels bad enough about it already."

"Alright," Skye agreed.

"Speaking of," Hope said, glancing at the door, which opened the very next second. James walked in, dropping a backpack to the ground and wiping sweat from his dusty face. He closed the door behind him and walked over to his wife, planting a kiss on her forehead as she stretched an arm around him.

Hope and Skye made small talk about the construction on the wall while James went into the kitchen to clean his face, soon emerging with a glass of water for himself and settling onto the couch next to Hope. Their chatter was interrupted by a shrill beeping, which came from a small radio on the window sill, previously unnoticed by Skye.

"This is a message from the U.S. Government," the voice began. Hope stood up and turned the volume down until the announcement was just barely audible. The broadcasts had been happening regularly, several times a day, for the past week.

"Have you heard of anyone who's going?" Hope asked.

Skye shook her head. The sudden appearance of the messages, which were being sent out on every frequency, had invigorated the townsfolk for a few days now. In an emergency town hall meeting, Dorian announced that, while of course anyone was free to leave, he had no plans to officially send anyone to Richmond. At least for now.

"Only me," James said, with an air of resignation.

His wife squeezed him gently on his thigh. Unlike the rest of the town, he had viewed the messages as a dark omen. As far as James was concerned, the whole thing was most likely a trap set up by Martin. If it was genuine after all, he was even more certain that Martin would show up there anyway.

"Where did you go today?" Hope asked, changing the subject.

"France," he said, after sipping his water. Considering the man's nature, Skye knew the answer shouldn't have surprised her, but it did anyway.

"What's it like there?"

"There's nobody left. I searched just about everywhere and didn't see a single person. Nothing at all.” His face was more grim than usual.

"How did you search everywhere?" Skye said.

"I flew."

"Oh," Skye said, with a laugh that James joined.

"I do have to say, it’s refreshing to use my power freely. It's been a very long time since I could do that, without fear of being discovered. I'm glad I could enjoy it again."

"Have you been anywhere better off?" Skye asked.

"Not really. Most places are just like this. There aren't many people left, and the ones who survived are either scrounging out a meager existence alone or joining up with others to prey on the weak. There are always small settlements, people looking out for each other until either raiders, famine, disease, or the damn dinosaurs get them. I've seen a couple places like this, actually, starting to rebuild. In Iceland, Reykjavik, you'd hardly know anything bad ever happened. But they're few and far between."

“People can overcome anything,” Hope said. “If they’re given a chance.”

James grumbled in agreement, finished his drink and stood up. "Anyway. I'm off to the medical clinic."

"I'll come," Skye said.

"I'll get back to the children." Hope stood and pulled James into a tight embrace, which he returned. "See you tonight."

"Yep."

***

It was cold inside the old doctor's office which now served as Black Creek's miniature hospital. Dr. Brandt greeted them at his desk as they entered.

"You must be James," the doctor said, shaking his hand. "Mr. Black said I could expect you. I'm quite eager to see you work." The skepticism in his voice was not subtle, but James seemed to ignore it.

"Lead the way, doctor."

He did, down the hallway and through the first doorway, brushing aside the curtain to allow them to enter. At first glance, the man on the stretcher appeared to be asleep. As she came closer though, Skye could hear his broken, incomprehensible mutterings. His forehead was soaked with sweat, and his eyes were half open, lids trembling. His arms and legs shivered. At each arm, an IV pumped in fluids and whatever else.

"What's he saying?" Skye asked.

The doctor shrugged. "Don’t know. He's delirious. Bullet to the leg, gone septic. Haven't been able to break the fever yet." He pulled back the thin sheet covering the man's lower half, and Skye could see now. A large, oozing hole gaped in the side of his upper thigh. Streaks of red ran up and down his leg, which was swollen to nearly twice the size of the other.

James moved to the side of the bed opposite from Skye and placed his hands on the man, eyes closed. Within seconds, the swelling began to subside. The red streaking on his leg seemed to shrink back toward the wound. When it had all disappeared, the hole closed over, as good as new.

The man's tremor stopped, as did his constant murmuring. James took his hands off the man, then looked to the doctor.

"Well, fuck me," Dr. Brandt said, looking at his patient over the rim of his glasses.

The trio worked their way down the hallway, and James healed each and every one of the wounded and sick. By the time they reached the last room, astonished patients looked on from the doorway behind them as James worked.

"I don't know what to say," Dr. Brandt said, collapsing into his office chair when they were finished. "Absolutely incredible. You've put me out of work, it seems. But thank you."

"You're welcome," James said. "I won’t be here for long, sadly. They’ll have plenty of need for you again, doctor. I once trained as a physician, a long time ago. I was always in awe of mankind's ability to heal itself. I just happened to have an unfair advantage."

Dr. Brandt's thank yous followed them out the door a few minutes later.

"I wish you didn't have to leave," Skye said as they walked.

"No more than I do," he replied. "But as I recall, you once told me the world would be better off without me."

"I didn't mean that, I was angry."

"You did mean it, and that's okay. You were right. I've hung onto this place for a very long time, afraid of what would happen to it if I were to leave. But it was you who finally convinced me to do what I knew I needed to. The time for me to set things right is coming. It’ll be up to people like you to decide what comes next. What do you want to do?"

He stopped, turning to confront her with the question in the middle of the sidewalk as they went.

She thought for a moment. What did she want? In her past life, it was never a question she even really asked herself. If she ever had, it was simply a question of the pursuit of material goods. What new clothes to wear, what new skin treatment would look better on camera. Such questions had now been obliterated out of relevance. If she had somewhere safe to live, and food, not that any of that was a given, but if she did, what did she want to do?

"I want to do what you do," she said. "Not like you, I know I can't. But, I want to help people. People who need it, who can't help themselves."

He smiled and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Well, Skye, it seems you've found yourself in the right damn apocalypse.”

James

James awoke as the first slivers of sunrise crept their way through the curtains. Yawning, he sat up in the bed. Hope, lying on her side beside him, murmured softly before quickly drifting off to sleep once again. On the nightstand beyond her, the alarm clock read 5:45.

He ran a gentle hand across her shoulder, squeezing it slightly, before climbing out of bed. His feet hardly made a sound as he walked into the bathroom and started the shower. Hope was still asleep when he emerged soon after. Once he finished getting dressed, James bent down and slipped his arms around her, planting a kiss on her cheek.

"See you tonight," he said, and she gave him a half-conscious hug back.

James closed the door quietly behind him and went downstairs, stopping at the closet near the front door, which held his gear. Today he fastened only the belt around his waist, and holstered a revolver at one hip.

He chuckled a bit to himself. The gun was hardly necessary anymore. Old habits.

The sun was just rising above the walls of the town as he stepped outside, taking a deep breath of the cool, dewy morning air.

"Good morning," came a voice from beside him.

James was, admittedly, slightly startled, but nothing in his body language would have betrayed that fact. Skye sat in a rocking chair on the front porch, her legs tucked beneath her and a steaming mug of coffee in one hand.

"Good morning," James said.

"Where are you going?"

"There's one last group I need to deal with. Dorian says they call themselves the Disciples of James. Do you know anything about them?"

"Not much," she said. "They harassed us once in a while, but they were never big enough to cause much of a problem. The only time they ever accomplished much was when Dorian's people helped them."

"What is it they want?"

She thought to herself for a moment. "I'm not sure, honestly. As far as we were concerned, they were just heretics. I guess they were right, though."

"Right about what?"

"About you. They said that you didn't destroy the world, that it was Martin."

"I see."

The night before, Dorian had told James about the Disciples over dinner. He was surprised to hear his friend say that they didn't deserve the same treatment the Church got. According to Dorian, they were misguided, maybe a bit crazy, but not bad people. Their main goals were merely to find James, and to protect the innocent. Perhaps, if he could convince them to stop their worship of him, they could continue to do some good in this world.

"Can I come?" Skye asked. As always, she wore a hard edge which failed to fully obscure the true emotion on her face. He pitied her, though it was clear enough she was in a mess of her own making.

"Sure."

They left through the main gates, James at the wheel one of the small armored vans. Their destination was a state park near the border of West Virginia. There, hopefully, he would find the Disciples.

Their journey passed without incident, and before long an old, weathered wooden sign marked their arrival:

Coopers Rock State Forest

The country road gave way to a narrow gravel path, which crunched and shifted beneath the van as they began to delve into the thick forest. In some places the grass had so overgrown the path that it brushed against the windshield.

"It sure doesn't look like anybody has driven through here recently," Skye said.

James agreed, but said nothing as he pressed on. When ominous, heavy footsteps from deep within the trees to his left shook the ground, he stopped the van until whatever it was had passed. Finally, when it seemed the grass would soon grow so thick that it would prevent their passage, it suddenly fell away around them.

They sat in a large forest clearing now, transected by a crystal-clear stream which came tumbling down a cliff at the far end before running across the grass and disappearing into the trees. Around the perimeter were a dozen or so log cabins, each surrounded by small plots of various crops.

In the middle of the clearing was a larger cabin, which mostly obscured his view of what appeared to be an animal paddock behind it.

Despite all of this, there was no one in sight.

"Are they hiding?" Skye asked, craning her neck around. "They can't have gone far."

"Not at all," James agreed.

He pressed the gas, slowly pulling farther forward into the circle, but stopped at the sound of a shrill screech. Something big was approaching now. There were heavy, but quick, footfalls nearby. Spinning in his seat, he found the creature just in time to see it halt its charge and turn, sliding to a stop. The van rocked under the impact from the dinosaur's long tail. The glass in all the windows shattered, and the vehicle barely managed to fall back the right way.

James threw open the door and leapt out, raising a shield in front of him to block the blast of a shotgun. Before him stood a twenty foot long, four-legged, duckbilled creature. It bucked and reared in place, and atop its massive, straining neck sat a man in a leather saddle. He looked absolutely minuscule in comparison to his mount.

The man fired another blast down at James, no more effective than the first. He let out a frustrated whoop and whipped his long reins, and the dinosaur reared back to stomp him. James, taking control of the air around him, threw an invisible shockwave toward the beast.

At the top of its rear, the dinosaur lost its balance and fell, thrashing and squawking, to the ground. The rider freed himself of his enormous saddle as his mount tore violently away and rolled back onto its feet before disappearing into the forest. The shotgun lay just at his side, and the man grasped it as James approached. But when the two men's eyes met, he dropped the weapon.

"My lord," he said, bowing his head. This one would seemingly require no further convincing.

"Get up," James said, and the man did as he asked. He wore strange armor, seemingly made of scales with streaks of feathers. Dinosaur skin. "What's your name?"

"James," was the answer from the other man.

"Me too," James said, somewhat awkwardly.

"They all say that. It’s probably not his real name," Skye interjected, having just now emerged from the van.

"Really?"

Skye nodded, and shrugged.

"Dorian could have mentioned that. Where are the rest of you?"

"In the main hall," the armored man replied, pointing to the large cabin in the center of the clearing.

"I would like to meet them all."

"Yes! Absolutely! Follow me."

The man who called himself James led the way to the cabin, and as they approached James could see other faces watching from inside. His escort held the door open with a slight bow, and James entered.

The place had the look of an old hunting lodge. A few men and women sat on chairs and couches which circled the middle of the room. Most stood near the windows, watching him as he entered. Above a brick fireplace hung the enormous mounted head of a triceratops.

Several among their number, rather than the dinosaur leather clothes worn by most, wore thick hooded robes which obscured their faces. These few, upon his arrival inside, immediately threw themselves at his feet.

"This James is not worthy," each said in unison.

"Get up," James said once again, and they did, with hesitation. "First thing, I'm James. You've got other names, and those are the only ones I want to hear from now on." The robed members of the group looked at each other as if unsure what to do, and there was some anxious chatter amongst the rest.

"Everyone sit. I'm here to talk," James said, and he was relieved that for once talking might be all he would have to do. When everyone had taken a seat, he continued. "Tell me what you think happened three years ago," James said, pointing to a woman who wore a robe.

She looked terrified to have been chosen, and she had to clear her throat as she answered.

"Well, Martin Singh, who was just elected president, destroyed the world. And you tried to stop him, but it was too late. I saw it on TV."

There were some murmurs of agreement around the room.

“I can’t believe I voted for him.”

“Quiet.”

"That's exactly right," James admitted, shocked at the lack of embellishment in their story. "So where does the part where you worship me, and pretend to be me, come in?"

There was some more lively chatter now amongst the crowd, until one of the robed men spoke up. "We would never pretend to be you, my lord—"

"Don't call me that."

"Al—alright," he stammered. "We would never dare to impersonate you. We merely wanted to honor you by doing good, as you did."

James pressed two fingers to his temple, where an artery was pulsing painfully. "Okay, listen. Please. I've heard about what you do. Fighting the so-called Church. Protecting innocent people from bandits, delivering them somewhere safe. The world needs people like you. That is what I want you to do."

The gathered Disciples were all smiles. "But," James added. "I don’t want to be worshiped. I am not your god. I've already destroyed the Church and soon, I'm going to finally destroy Martin, and then I’ll be gone from this world. If you want to honor my memory, do it by doing as I would have done. But do it for the sake of your fellow man. Not for me. I command it," he finished, hoping that would add some impact.

The hall was filled with a dull roar of conversation. He could see what all this had done to them. They needed him, someone to look for, someone to aspire to. Each and every one of them probably had good reason for needing him, good reason for burying their true selves beneath a false persona. He could imagine how it must feel for them, to suddenly have their world torn down for a second time. But he didn't care.

The five robed men and women were talking amongst themselves, then turned to face him.

"Yes," one said. "If this is what you ask of us, we will do it. For you."

“Not for me. What I'm really asking of you is to forget me. Let me leave in peace."

***

"Do you think it worked?" James asked.

They had driven in silence most of the way east, back across the Maryland border and were now approaching Black Creek once again.

"I think it did," Skye said.

"I hope so." James drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

"If it helps, I'll make sure they listen. When you're gone."

James glanced over at her, but she was leaning back with her eyes closed and didn't notice. "Thanks."

The gates came into view at the end of the road ahead, and they were open by the time he arrived. Sunset was approaching already, and James couldn't believe how quickly the day had passed. There wasn't much time left now. The very thought of it made his chest ache.

He left the van door open for one of Dorian's men, who climbed in and took the vehicle away to wherever they stored them. James was surprised to see Dorian himself descending the ladder on the wall.

"How'd it go?" Dorian asked.

"Well, I think. They seemed genuine, like you said. But time will tell."

"I'll keep an eye on them for you."

"Thank you. Skye said the same."

Dorian glared at her. "Anyway, can you help me out? Our crane is busted and I want to get the new gates up tonight."

"Sure, man. I'll meet you there."

"Thanks," Dorian said. He turned away, but hesitated and turned back, fishing in his pocket for something. He tossed something small and metallic at Skye, who caught it. A pair of keys. "There you go. Address and apartment number is written on there." Then he walked away.

James chuckled. "Congrats." Skye was looking at the keys in disbelief, then she slipped them into her back pocket.

"Thank you, James," she said. "For everything."

"I had nothing to do with that," James said, and it was true. He hadn't spoken a word to Dorian about Skye since their meeting that night at the town hall.

"Well, still. Thank you."

"You're welcome." She hugged him, suddenly taking the breath out of him a bit. James hugged her back. "Go on," he said. "Good luck."

Skye walked off down the sidewalk, wiping the corner of her eye and waving at him as she went.

I'll be home soon, Hope.

James was quite certain Dorian didn't actually need his help lifting the gates. The man hadn't come to terms with James's coming departure. He couldn't blame him, as James himself hadn't fully accepted it yet. But in all his many years of life, there were only a few people he could truly count as friends. He owed this small favor to him, at least.

He found Dorian at the site of the formerly-broken wall, which had now been completely rebuilt around a new metal frame. Once the doors were in place, the town would be sealed in once again. The massive metal gates lay in the middle of the street. Dorian sat atop them.

"Guess you better move," James said.

"What, you can lift a ton and a half of solid metal but you can't do it with me sitting on top?"

"Not with the way your fat ass has ballooned up."

Dorian laughed, but the way he smoothed his shirt down over the tiniest bit of flab at his midsection as he stood up told James the jab had hit home. From anyone else, the comment would have inspired rage, James knew. But that had always been their way.

James stooped down and lifted the first door, hanging it in the frame with little effort. As he moved the second, Dorian scaled the ladder, then tested the gate once he was done. The doors opened, then closed again, much more smoothly than the main gates operated. Finally, Dorian slid down the ladder and joined him.

"Thanks." Dorian stuck a hand out, and James shook it.

"No problem."

"Does it really have to be tomorrow?" Dorian asked, his face looking pained.

James shook his head. "What difference will another day make? You said it yourself. I can't keep running from this."

"Shit fucking sucks man." Dorian’s voice cracked slightly, before he covered it with a cough.

"Yeah. Look, I need you to do something for me."

"Anything," Dorian said, and James knew he meant that.

"I don't know what's going to happen to Hope, once I'm gone. She's strong, even more than me in some ways. But she's not hard like you, and she's not like me either. If she survives, please just look after her."

"You've got it."

"Alright man. Come here." James put his arms out and pulled his friend close.

"See you," Dorian said.

"Until next time."

***

"I'm home," James said, closing the door behind him, but the lights in the house were off. He slipped off his shoes and let his belt and gun fall around his ankles. "Hope?" he called, walking through the living room. There was a light on out back, and the patio door in the kitchen was slightly ajar.

He found her sitting out back. "Hey," she said, smiling when she saw him. James settled in on the bench next to her, slipping an arm around her shoulder. She laid her head against his chest.

"How did it go?"

"It went well. They were much more reasonable."

She giggled. "Didn't seem likely they could be any worse. Oh, where's Skye?"

"Dorian gave her an apartment."

"That was good of him," she said, and he mumbled his agreement. "What about that other girl, the police chief I told you about?"

"Oh, right," he said.

In truth, he had nearly forgotten. His mind had been so preoccupied lately that he hadn't even noticed until Hope pointed it out. Once she had, it was unmistakable. The same mental link he felt with Martin, and with Hope, no matter where they were, was there with that girl as well. It was much weaker, but it was still there. One more thing to do.

"That can wait for morning."

They were quiet for a little while, watching the last of the sun finally disappear beyond the horizon and listening to the trees swaying in the breeze.

"I'm sorry," he said, though those two simple words couldn’t even come close to conveying what he wanted to say to her.

Hope slung an arm around his chest, hanging on tight. "Let's just not talk about it, okay?"

"Alright."

"I love you," Hope said, pulling herself closer to him.

"I love you too."

Jess

"Hey, time to wake up."

Jess started, nearly falling out of the bed.

"Whoa," Rachel, who was just a laughing blur in her vision, said. "Slept in, huh?" Jess sat up against the headboard, rubbing her eyes.

"What time is it?" Jess answered her own question by glancing at the clock on the wall. 10:22. "Man. I'm exhausted."

"Yeah, you were out pretty cold. Everybody needs it once in a while. But, hey, I brought breakfast back from the mess hall."

Jess's stomach rumbled painfully at the mention of food. "Be right there," she said, and Rachel left for the kitchen. The carpet was cool underfoot as she stood up and stretched, first bending to touch her toes then twisting her back in both directions, which elicited a series of satisfying pops and cracks.

She pulled open the dresser drawer, grabbing a pair of yellow pajama pants, which she slipped on over her underwear. This and the tank top she had slept in would do for now.

Their apartment here in Black Creek was really not much smaller than the one they’d shared in Pittsburgh a few years back. Dorian mentioned at one point that her position as chief of police would entitle her to a nicer place eventually, but she was perfectly content for now.

Anything was better than sleeping in her car on the road, or trapped in her father's cabin up in the mountains.

Rachel was sitting at the raised bar in the kitchen. Jess took the stool on the other side, where a breakfast tray already awaited her with scrambled eggs, diced potatoes, and a misshapen wheat roll. Jess tucked in without delay.

"How was yesterday?" Jess asked between bites.

"A bit better," she replied with a slight sigh. "I'm making some progress with Michael and Maria. I think. The others, not so much. I really wish we had somebody with more pediatric experience. Some of those kids really need more than I can offer."

Jess laid her hand over Rachel's. "Well until then, you're all they've got. I'm sure they appreciate it."

"Yeah. I just can't believe what they've gone through." Jess didn't want to know the details, and Rachel knew that. "What's going on with you? Late night last night. Catch Dorian's window breaker yet?"

Jess laughed. "Not quite. Couple of Dorian's men had too much to drink at the bar, got into it. Had to go deal with that, since he's out in the field."

"Feels like people are a little tense at the moment."

"Yeah, you could say that."

As of yesterday morning, Black Creek had officially been sealed off from the outside world once again. Rather than celebratory, the general feeling within the town was like a pipe ready to burst.

Amid whatever strange business was going on with James, the constant broadcasts from the reforming US government, and their leader taking his men out raiding once again, there seemed to be a distinct sense among the residents that there was something major going on to which they weren’t privy.

"There's been a lot of change lately," Jess added. "I think people want more attention on what's best for them here. Less worrying about what's going on out there."

Rachel smirked, having just finished the last of her meal. "Sounds like a campaign speech."

"It is," Jess admitted.

Rachel stood and kissed Jess on the cheek. "I'm gonna shower, then I'll run the trays back to the fire hall. Maybe we can go for a walk later?"

"Sounds good."

Rachel disappeared into the bedroom, and Jess rinsed the trays in the sink. She was just about to flop onto the sofa when there were two sharp knocks on the door. Jess slipped on a light jacket from the closet before opening the door.

It was James. He wore a plain white shirt and brown pants, with a revolver holstered at his hip. His shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a bun, with his bangs hanging down freely on either side of his face. And there were his bright green eyes, looking at her with an unsettling sort of disconnectedness.

"Jess?" he said. "I believe we met."

"Yeah," she answered. "I know who you are."

He gave a half chuckle. "We need to talk. Come on." He turned and walked away as though there were no question about whether she would follow. Jess did, closing the door behind her.

He led her silently down the stairs and out of the apartment building, then around back, where a few empty benches sat in the shade of some trees. He sat, then gestured for her to do the same when she hesitated.

"You know everything about who I am. What I may or may not have mentioned the other night is that I have a deep mental... link with Martin. I can sense when he’s near, and when he’s far away. Perhaps because he shares my blood, or because of the abilities we both possess, or both. In all my millions of years on this earth, I never encountered anyone else like us. So imagine my surprise when I met you." Previously staring off into the distance, he fixed her with a piercing gaze as he finished speaking.

Jess's heart sank. Somehow, he knew. She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat.

James went on. "What's really confusing me though, is that we've met before. Years ago, in Pittsburgh. So I asked myself: was I just so preoccupied with finding Martin at the time that I didn't notice? After all, it took my wife pointing it out for me to even notice you this time. But once she did, I couldn't miss it. Surely I couldn't be so stupid. There had to be a reason I didn't see you the first time. So tell me. Who are you?"

Jess found her voice once again, though it was stammering and hesitant at first. "Martin is my father." James grimaced at this. "When we first met, I had no idea. I can't explain it, but I was just a normal person. I had a job, and a girlfriend, and an apartment. But then Martin... he did something to me. He told me I was his daughter, that he thought I was dead. When he gave his victory speech that day, he brought me on stage and made me watch as he killed all those people. And he just laughed and laughed."

James's eyes went a bit wide. "That was you on stage, who he called his daughter? I thought that was just bullshit."

Jess shook her head. "After, he kept me in a cabin in the mountains. He was messing with my mind, I guess he wanted me to fight with him against you. But I didn't have the powers he thought I did. All he did was erase my mind, and replace it with a new one that was just as confused as the last. Eventually, he killed me. He shot me in the head, and when I woke up he was gone and I remembered everything."

"What did you remember?"

"Hundreds, thousands of lifetimes, stretching back through all of history. There's so much that it makes my head hurt just to think about it, so I've tried not to. As far as I can tell, every fifteen or twenty years my mind just reset itself. I'd pass out one day and wake up the next in a new place with a new set of false memories. I can only remember one childhood, though. And it's true; Martin was there. He's my father."

"Which makes me your grandfather."

"Yeah."

James exhaled sharply, leaning back against the bench. "You said you didn't have the powers he thought you did? What do you have?"

"They're pretty weak. Nothing like either of you can do."

"Go ahead," James said.

Jess looked all around, but they were the only people in sight. She raised her hand, palm outstretched ahead of her. She focused hard, trying to take hold of the earth's power and funnel it through her body. After a moment, a spout of flame shot out of her hand. Jess shook her hand and put it between her thighs, as if to hide what she'd done.

"That's about it. Well, that and I don't die, apparently."

"Can you be hurt? It's an important distinction," he added, responding to what must have been a confused expression on her face.

"I mean... I've had bad cuts, broken bones. Maybe I heal a little faster than normal. I remember one time I cut myself trying to cook. When I went back to get the stitches out, the skin had grown completely over them. They basically had to cut me open again to get them out."

James didn't answer, and appeared to be thinking. "I don't know what all this means," Jess said, her voice strained.

"Me either," he said. "My guess? Whatever it is inside me that makes me what I am was passed to Martin, intact but twisted and corrupt. By passing it on to you, its strength was diluted even more. You don't die, but you could probably be killed. I can only assume Martin healed you after he shot you. I'm sure his hope was that confronting your brain with its own immortality would unlock all of your potential. Once he saw that you wouldn't heal on your own, he did it for you, hoping the effect would be the same. Which I guess it was. In the past, I suspect that your brain reset itself whenever your immortality became confusing, as a way of coping."

"What do you mean?" Jess asked.

"Well, if you haven't realized it yet, the problem with living forever is eventually all your friends realize you haven't aged a day in decades. Rather than figure out how to deal with that, your mind short-circuited and tricked itself. That's just my guess."

"Jesus."

"When you were with Martin, did you meet or hear of any others like you?"

"No," Jess said. "He seemed pretty desperate. But he was gone a lot, so who knows what he was doing."

"When I destroyed his Church, I found three women, pregnant by him. I worry there may be more. When I leave, I want to take all traces of him, and myself, with me."

Jess’s blood ran cold. “What happened to the others?”

James eyed her sideways. “I came here thinking I’d have to kill you too. But I don’t think I have the heart to do it. Not anymore.”

"Can’t you just take this away from me?" Jess asked, looking up at him with tears welling in her eyes. He simply stared at her for a moment. "I don't want any of this. I just want to be normal."

"I'm sorry, Jess. I can't," James said. "If I could, I'd just do the same to Martin. Maybe to myself. Believe me when I say I know what it feels like to resent your own existence. I've lived for a very, very long time, and I've suffered plenty along the way. I’m sorry that I can't take that away from you. But the hard truth is that one day everyone you love will grow old and die, and you'll be left here, alone."

The tears were streaming down her face now. "What am I supposed to do?"

"When that day comes you either move on, or you don't. You have the power to stay here, or leave this place forever. It's up to you."

***

A cool breeze was blowing in off the lake, and gentle waves lapped at the sand near her feet.

"It's really beautiful over here," Rachel said, squeezing Jess's hand. "I can't believe I hadn't seen it yet."

"It really is," Jess agreed.

The lake was a deep pure blue, unlike most of the water she'd seen these days, which tended to be a dirtier brown. Thick green forest hugged close to the shore along all of its curves for as far as she could see. The only gaps in the trees were from the handful of cabins that could be seen dotted here and there in the distance. Even most of those were beginning to get overgrown with tall grass. Jess could only assume they were all abandoned, though the thought of a single family still secretly living in one, despite all of this, intrigued her.

The walls of the city ran along both sides of the dam and extended right up into the water a few feet, leaving a small area of open beach on either side. The overhead netting ended about twenty feet back from the water. In all, if you ignored the handful of heavily armed men stationed there in two raised towers at all times, it was quite a peaceful scene.

They walked the short length of the beach on this side before clambering up onto the rocky dam. Jess stopped to give Rachel a hand up before proceeding.

As they crossed the dam side-by-side, they held their arms up and carefully chose their steps across the uneven rocks. Halfway across, Jess's foot slipped and she nearly fell, but for Rachel's hand suddenly grasping her own. Rachel laughed so hard that she nearly slipped herself.

Part of Jess wanted to blurt it all out, to unload everything she had discovered about herself, and the conversation she'd had with James. She knew that one day, when Rachel grew old and Jess did not, she'd have no choice. But not today. Today would just be theirs.

They weren't alone on this side of the beach. A young woman with blonde hair sat on the sand, skipping small rocks across the water. Jess intended to leave her alone, but the woman looked up as they walked by.

"Jess?" she said.

Jess recognized her from the meeting with James, Kristof, and Dorian at the town hall. "Yeah. Skye, right?"

She nodded.

"This is my girlfriend, Rachel," Jess said.

"Hi," Skye said, and Rachel smiled back.

"What are you up to?" Jess asked.

"Just thinking. You guys want to sit?"

"Sure." Jess sat down alongside her, enjoying the feeling of the warm sand on her thighs. Rachel, now sitting as well, grabbed a pebble of her own and lobbed it into the water. It sunk after a couple bounces.

"Are you guys going to stay here?" Skye asked. "I heard some people are heading for Richmond."

"Staying, for now. We'll see what happens. You?"

"I think I'll stay. Dorian said I could. And James said Richmond is probably a trap." There was sadness in her voice. Though Jess knew full well the sort of terrible things her Church had done, she couldn't help but feel bad for her.

"You should stay."

"Yeah," Skye said, absentmindedly spinning a round stone between her hands. "It's just hard, being here. Feeling like everyone knows who I am, and what I've done."

"Well, the only ones who know are James, Dorian, Kristof, and us. I can't make any promises for them, but your secret is safe with me, and Rachel."

"Thanks."

"You know what," Jess said. "I'm going to need a deputy soon. If you want to, you can work for me. Think about it."

Skye seemed taken aback by that, but after a moment she smiled. "I appreciate that."

"I think this could be a great place one day," Jess said.

"Me too," Skye said.

They sat for a little while longer before parting. Skye stayed there on the beach while Jess and Rachel crossed back over the dam. As they passed the guard tower, she could hear their radios erupt in a sudden frenzy of frantic chatter. Two men leapt down from the platform and sprinted off into the town.

"What's going on?" Rachel called, but she went unanswered.

"Come on," Jess said.

They weren't the only curious onlookers, and Jess followed the crowd to the main gate, which was open. It seemed that Dorian's convoy had just returned. The man himself was jumping out of the back of a pickup truck, another man's body in his arms.

"Where's James?" Dorian was screaming into the crowd. His clothes were tattered, and his face was streaked with dirt and dried blood.

Jess pushed her way forward. "He's gone," she said.

"Fuck! Somebody get the doctor! Fucking move!" One of his guards sprinted off in the direction of the clinic.

Another man ran up with a stretcher, and Dorian laid the man down on it. It was Kristof, she saw now, unconscious but with his eye wide open. The front of his shirt was shredded, deep gashes in his chest visible through the torn fabric.

As quickly as he'd come, Kristof was gone, whisked away down the street on the stretcher.

"We've got more injured!" Dorian was shouting as he threw open the back of a van.

All around her was a frenzy now as the healthy carried the wounded. Jess gave her shoulder to a now one-legged solider whose tourniquet-strapped knee still dripped blood behind him as they hobbled toward the medical clinic. In all, there were at least ten seriously injured.

When all had been transported to the clinic, now in the hands of the exasperated Dr. Brandt, Jess made her way back to the gates. People had begun to gather inside the town hall, and Dorian was already up on the stage, shouting for order amongst the raving townsfolk.

Jess took a spot along the side wall, where she could keep an eye on the entire crowd. She was no longer just a passive observer, she realized. If things went sideways, she'd have to keep order. And it felt like the throng was on the verge of exploding.

Searching through the rows of people, she finally found Rachel toward the back. Skye was also nearby. Dorian's calls for quiet finally worked, and he spoke into the microphone.

"As most of you probably know, I took my men out to raid one of the Church's last compounds in the area. After we had overtaken them, their leaders detonated a large explosive that killed ten men and injured several more. We also lost half our caravan of scavenged supplies and equipment. On the way back, we were attacked by dinosaurs. In all, I believe we lost fifteen men."

The crowd, which had remained quiet as he spoke, erupted once again. Jess heard cries of "Enough is enough!" and "So you didn't even get the supplies?"

"Please," Dorian said, but the furor only grew stronger.

"Quiet!" he shouted, his voice venomous this time, and the noise abated. "This isn't what any of us wants," he continued. "But we can’t forget the world we’re living in. It's dangerous out there. We can't lose sight of that just because we're safe behind these walls."

"Yeah, and we should stay behind them!" somebody called out from the crowd.

Dorian quickly found the speaker with his gaze. "You want to get up here and say something, Saul?"

It felt like some of the energy was sucked out of the room, but then the man stood up. "Yeah, I do," he said.

"Come on, then." Dorian stood aside and handed the microphone to the man, who wore dirty overalls and boots.

"Now, everybody here is very upset, me included. I may be an old man now, but if I were twenty years younger I'd be one of these boys going out there with you. And we all appreciate everything you've done here, Mr. Black, but I think we're all getting tired of seeing young men coming home dead." Calls of agreement from the crowd. "All I'm sayin' is, we got a good thing here and I say we take care of ourselves first."

"Anybody else?" Dorian asked. More shouts rang out, but Jess walked forward to the microphone. She shot Dorian, who looked confused, a smile and a wink.

"I may not have been here too long," Jess said. "But I've spent time talking to almost every single one of you. I know that we're all worried about what's going to happen when we send our brothers, our sons, or our husbands out beyond those walls. And I know that in our passion we don't mean to insult all the work Dorian Black has done building and protecting this community."

Her almost admonishing tone managed to elicit a few guilty stares at the floor. "But Dorian is right. This is a dangerous world, and we can't forget that. We need men like him, now more than ever before. And, yes, maybe now, especially after what we've been through lately, we need to have a greater focus on what's inside our walls than what's outside. But should we forget all those who suffer out there? I know we aren't those kind of people."

Silence. Rachel, in the last row, was beaming at her. Jess took a deep breath before speaking again. Her heart was racing.

"We need a balance. And it's obvious that right now, that balance is off. We have a lot of great people here in Black Creek, and a lot of different ideas on how to move forward as a town. I say, let's not fight amongst ourselves. We need to work together to find the right path for us. We need a free, open, and fair election."

The crowd erupted once again, this time in cheers and whistles. Jess stepped back from the microphone and turned to Dorian, whose jaw was hanging slightly open. When he narrowed his eyes at her, she smirked back at him.

James

James couldn’t recall the last time he had been truly nervous.

Here and now, as he stood on a hill in the outskirts of Richmond, Virginia, his heart was beginning to race and his breath was slightly short. The feeling was not entirely unpleasant.

In the valley below him was a massive military complex, unlike anything James had seen since the cataclysm. Much of it had clearly been re-purposed from existing homes and businesses, but there was ample evidence of new construction as well. The entire place was surrounded by two fences, between which heavily-armed men patrolled. Inside, there were warehouses and barracks and yards lined with tanks and other military vehicles. In the middle, the American flag flew high above the largest building.

It was real then, and not just a fabrication of Martin's. The realization only made his stomach sink as he watched the cars lining up at the gates and the constant stream of refugees arriving on foot. This was certainly a trap.

Let's get this over with.

James started down the hill. He held the roar of voices at the back of his mind, aside from the one he needed. Martin was close; James could sense him.

It began before he even made it halfway down the slope. At first it was no more than a dark, distant shadow in the sky, steadily growing larger and closer until James could see it for what it was: a massive ball of rock hurtling toward the earth, trailing fire behind it. The air was filled with a painfully loud sound as the meteor came down, and James could only stand and watch as it hit.

The earth recoiled against the blow, the ground shattering and rolling out in waves away from the impact. James tried to keep his feet, but then he was flying, hitting the ground hard, and blackness overtook him.

He awoke face down in the dirt, half-buried in little bits of rock and other debris. His battered body protested every motion as he pulled himself free and then finally staggered to his feet. James sputtered, blowing a puff of dirt out of his mouth and nose.

The military base was gone, replaced in an instant with nothing more than a crater and a wide field of rubble stretching as far as he could see. The sky was a dark brownish-red, the sun obscured by a fog of ash.

James started toward the center of the crater, his hesitant steps growing more steady as he went. He passed by crushed and burning hunks of metal which had once been mini vans. He averted his eyes rather than see the gory scenes which surely lay within. He couldn’t avoid the carnage, though. Limbs and unrecognizable bits of flesh littered his path as he climbed over the uneven ground.

The destruction was only worse as he worked his way toward the middle. Thick smoke gagged him, and fallen pillars and burning chunks of structure lay across his path. James just kept moving forward, no doubt in his mind about what, or who, awaited him when he reached the center.

James dropped down from one final ledge and the ground went flat once again. His feet burned as he walked across what could only be the remnants of the meteor, now flattened and embedded in the earth. Millions of tiny orange embers glowed underfoot. It was a surreal, beautiful scene in its own way, but James pressed on.

Finally, there he was. The air around him seemed to suddenly clear, and out of the haze he saw Martin's face, hateful and scowling as it ever was. He was, to James's surprise, sitting down. Martin didn’t react as James walked over to him, standing at the other side of a short metal table which sat inexplicably in the middle of the crater.

"What is this?" James asked.

"I figured it's been a while since we really just talked. Sometimes it gets tiresome just always fighting, don’t you think?"

James pulled out the chair across from Martin, and sat.

"Sorry to ruin everything again," Martin said, almost flippant, gesturing at the scene around them.

"It was obviously a trap. You're very predictable."

"Not nearly as much as you," Martin said with a sneer. "Why come then?"

"Because I've given up on trying to stop you."

He appeared perplexed at that, and didn't respond right away. "Why?" James went on. "Why could you never just leave me alone?"

"What else was I supposed to do?"

"What?" James said.

Martin leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. "It was you who trapped me in this contemptible world. This place never held any happiness for me, no value other than twisting it just to watch you squirm."

"This has always been about us. But you killed so many others. Why? They were innocent."

"I've never understood why you cared. But no, they aren't so innocent. I think we both know that. They've never done anything other than hurt you and me both."

"That's not true," James said. "There’s good in them, too."

"Good? Humans are nothing more than a virus, feeding off this planet, raping it as they multiplied. You and I, we remember when the earth was clean and pure."

"I remember when it was," James said. "Before you."

"Now whose fault is that? But does it not anger you?" Martin grew more animated now, gesturing as he spoke. "I remember when the rivers were clear. When the forests stretched across entire continents. When men were strong, not preoccupied with the empty minutiae of their petty, miserable lives. Surely you saw it as well. The world needed a course correction."

"I thought you didn't care about them."

"I don't," Martin said, with an air of finality which James found less than convincing.

"I found them," James said. "The women you impregnated."

"I assumed so. What did you do?"

"I made sure the children will never be born," James said. "I found your daughter, too. Jess."

Martin smiled, though this seemed a forced gesture. Could he actually be upset about that? "I thought I was the monster."

"Maybe I am, too. I’ve certainly done my share of wrong," James said. "But I'm nothing like you. Are there others?"

"Not yet. But there’s plenty more time."

"Your time is up."

Martin laughed. "I thought you had finally accepted our arrangement. Did I give you too much credit? It's not hard to understand. You're trapped here with me, forever. And when the blight that is mankind has finally withered away to nothing, we will still be here. You, the hapless god who wasted his existence caring for a species who did nothing but punish you for it, and me, your own personal devil."

Martin rested back in his chair, his beaming face one of true glee rather than his usual hateful smirk.

"No," James said, freeing his revolver from its holster and resting the gun on the table. "This is the end, for both of us."

Martin scoffed. "You can't kill me, nor I you. But I won't begrudge you another attempt, if you insist."

"You're right. We can't kill each other, but we can die, if we choose to."

The smile had gone from Martin's face, and he leaned forward with his elbows on the table. "I won't."

“We’ll see.” James gripped the revolver. "You know one thing I never told you? I'm sorry. You're a monster, but I created you. In a way, I'm responsible for all the evil you've done. I'm sorry for the world, that I brought you into it. But I'm also sorry for you, and what I did to make you who you are."

Martin’s expression didn’t change. "Did you think that would change my mind?"

"No. Not at all," James said, raising the revolver. "One more thing, Martin."

"What?"

"Fuck you."

James put the barrel to his temple, the cold metal almost pleasant against his skin. He breathed deep, closing his eyes, then pulled the trigger.

"No!" He heard Martin's cry, as if from a great distance, as the gun fell from his hand, bouncing off the table and then falling to the ground. James's body slumped forward, a great, piercing pain spreading through his skull.

Already, the chorus of voices in his mind was crying out, every fiber of his being fighting to repair itself. He resisted it, holding them all back and the clamor grew louder and louder, his own body begging, pleading with him.

No, James thought.

His body had fallen sideways out of the chair and now he lay on his back, staring up at the ashen red sky. As his vision began to blur, he saw Martin standing over him. Martin’s hands were on him, pouring his own healing energy into James’s body, but he continued to resist it.

Goodbye, Hope.

Though he couldn’t hear her reply, he knew she had heard. A cold, heavy numbness was creeping up his legs, and now his arms. His vision was fading, that dark abyss rushing back in to reclaim him once again, but James wasn’t scared.

At long last, his mind fell silent, and James smiled.

Epilogue

5 years later

The phone, an old blocky handset, began to ring. Halfway out the door of his office, Dorian turned around, flipping the lights back on again.

"Dorian," he said, picking up the phone.

"Hey, boss."

Though he'd have used the same words years ago, the tone of Kristof's voice didn't have the same familiarity to it these days. This was nothing more than an employee addressing his superior. That fact still bothered Dorian.

"Hey, Kristof. How's the western district?"

"Same old shit. Couple of fliers tore a hole in our mesh overnight, but nobody injured."

"Glad to hear it," Dorian said. "Need anything?"

"Nah, we've got it under control. Just reporting in."

"Anything else?"

"That's it for today."

"Alright." Dorian paused. "Want to get a drink or something?"

"Not tonight."

Dorian let the silence hang for a moment. "Another time, then. Have a good night."

"Yeah." Click.

Dorian set the phone back on its cradle. He hit the lights once again and locked the door behind him.

The short hallway was empty aside from himself, the handful of other office doors already closed for the evening. Overhead, some of the fluorescent lights were burnt out. He made a mental note to report that to maintenance.

The metal door at the end of the hall opened with a squeal and slammed shut behind him. Dorian took the steps two at a time, up three flights until the stairs ended abruptly at another door. He emerged onto the roof and out into the cool evening air.

Dorian leaned against the railing. Five stories below, a handful of people strolled along the sidewalk and a man on a bicycle cruised past. The sun was just beginning to set, and he watched as the streetlights switched on.

There, a short distance to the west, he could see the old city. What had once been the entirety of Black Creek, built by his own hand, was now dwarfed by the sprawling city which surrounded it on three sides. Deep Creek Lake, still the source of the vast majority of their power, remained its fourth border.

The old walls still stood, though the gates were open and would always stay that way, unless an emergency rendered the two outer districts unsafe. The eastern district of the city stretched so far and wide that even from this high vantage, Dorian could barely glimpse the outer walls. Likewise for the walls and gate which joined the eastern and western districts.

Patches of trees and greenery still broke up the expanses of buildings. This time of year, the leaves were a hundred shades of red, orange, and yellow.

Dorian was startled out of his daze by the sound of cheering and applause from behind him. Curious, he crossed the rooftop and looked out in the opposite direction. A crowd of about fifty people were gathered in front of a new-looking building.

Ah shit, Dorian thought. It's Friday already?

The crowd was clapping as a chubby man in a black chef's hat sliced the ceremonial ribbon tied across the doors of the restaurant. When the applause died down, he spoke into a portable microphone which echoed up to Dorian.

"Thank you all for coming to Marco's, Black Creek's first and only steakhouse!" There was more applause. Dorian had meant to get a reservation.

"I want to thank Mayor Jessica Neil, who we are honored to have as our very first guest."

It was only then that he noticed the two women standing next to him. Though he couldn’t tell from this height, it could only be her. The cheering was even more enthusiastic this time.

She was speaking now. "Thanks everybody. Thanks Marco. Rachel and I are happy to be here. I also want to thank Caleb Burton, mayor of New Columbus, for joining us tonight. It's been a very productive visit, I'm sure he would agree." A man nearby waved meekly to the crowd.

Dorian had seen enough, so he went back inside and jogged down the stairs.

Jess had played him like a damned fool, and his bitterness over it had eaten at him for a long time after. Now though, Dorian was at peace with it. Things weren't as simple as they had been when he was in charge. The world was moving on.

Although whatever was left of the government had been obliterated five years ago, civilization was rebuilding. There were four large cities like Black Creek on the East Coast, and as many each in the midwest and on the West Coast. By the time they had each coalesced, it didn't take long for them to begin trading.

Trading meant diplomacy, and things would get complicated. Less fun. Dorian knew himself well enough to know he wanted no part of that anymore. And he still loved his job.

An older man passing him on the sidewalk smiled and stuck his hand out. "Mr. Black, sir," the man said.

Dorian returned the smile and gave him a firm handshake, patting him on the shoulder. He had built something great here. That was something to be proud of. Many of the people here still loved him, still remembered everything he'd done for them.

He checked his watch. 6:15. He'd need to be home soon, but there was still time for one more stop.

Dorian made his way west, toward the old city. Black Creek had everything a city needed these days. He passed a grocery store, a church and a temple, a barber. There, just by the junction of the old city and the eastern district, was the Black Creek hospital, where old Dr. Brandt still made rounds as far as Dorian knew, though not alone anymore.

He nodded to a pair of police officers standing on a street corner, their uniform displaying the 'Black Creek Police Department' seal.

"Commander," one said, noticing him.

There was, officially, no chain of command between himself and the police. As he had originally designed, the police department had full authority over all goings-on within Black Creek. Dorian and his Guard were responsible for the protection of the city from the outside. Still, the officer rank-and-file usually showed him some deference.

He passed through the gates into the old city, crossed the little bridge over the creek as he went through the park, and before long he had arrived. The large homes near the wall, with a nice view of a thicket of trees out back, were some of the most sought-after in the city. This one though, would never go on the market.

Dorian didn't bother ringing the doorbell, instead walking around to the back patio where he knew she would be. Hope sat on the little bench swing, looking not a day older and no less beautiful than the day he'd first met her.

"Hey, Dorian," she said, putting down the book she'd been reading.

"How are you?" He took a seat on one of the chairs nearby, pulling it around so they would face each other as they spoke.

"I'm doing well," she said. "How was your day?"

"Fairly uneventful."

"Nothing wrong with that," she said.

"Not at all," Dorian lied. Hope smiled, a subtle reminder that she had every bit as keen a sense for reading people as her husband had.

"How's the new batch of kids?" Dorian asked.

"Getting bigger each year. It's growth, though. It's good."

Hope still taught the younger grades at the Old City School. The district wasn't large enough to be worth splitting into multiple schools. The eastern and western each had their own elementary, middle, and high schools.

They sat together for a little while. At one point, Hope brought them each a glass of lemonade from inside. As he took his first sip, a loud roar echoed in from the forest outside the walls before fading into the distance. Neither of them much reacted to it.

"I miss him," Dorian said.

"I know," Hope said.

"Don't you?"

"Of course. But it's different for me."

"What do you mean?" Dorian asked.

"When he was here, we could always just feel each other, no matter how far away we were. It was the same with Martin. On that day, Martin's spirit, whatever you want to call it, went away. James's did too, sort of, but not completely. You know, he told me he thought he might be god." She chuckled softly when she said that. "Maybe he is. He might not be here, with us, but he's not gone. I can feel him all around me, just right there at the edge of my senses. He's in every gust of wind and every drop of rain. Sometimes I feel like if I turn my head quick enough I could catch a glimpse of him."

"Does that make it easier for you?" Dorian asked.

"A little," Hope said.

"Me too, I guess."

"One day, I'll go to be with him, wherever he is. He walked this earth for millions and millions of years. There's still more I'd like to see here, before I go."

Dorian quickly brushed the beginning of a tear away from his eye, standing up. "I should get going. Do you need anything?"

"No, thank you. I'm good. What about you, Dorian?"

"Yeah," he said. "I'm good."

Dorian still lived in the same house, and it was still one of the nicer ones in the old city. He slipped through the little metal gate and up the path to the front door, which was unlocked. He stepped out of his shoes and loosened his tie as he entered the bedroom. Unbuttoning his shirt, a cool gust blew across his face as the air conditioning turned on.

Minutes later, and now wearing more comfortable clothes, he walked into the kitchen, where the pleasant scent of garlic was emanating from the oven. His wife stood at the stove, humming to herself with headphones over her ears as she stirred sauce in a pot.

Dorian stepped up behind her, pulling her into a tight embrace and kissing her on her neck. She started, then laughed, pulling off her headphones and turning around to join his lips with hers. Her protruding abdomen, seven months pregnant now, pressed against his.

"I didn't hear you come in," Skye said.

"Enjoying that?" Dorian asked, indicating the iPod she was setting down on the counter. It had taken him quite a while to find a working one outside the walls.

"Yes. Thank you." She grazed a hand across his cheek, turning back again to stir the sauce.

Dorian set the table and they sat down, each with a plate of spaghetti and a hunk of garlic bread. He swallowed a mouthful. "It's great," Dorian said, and it was.

"I saw a couple of your officers slacking off near the gates," Dorian said.

"Oh? You think the men haven't been instructed to keep an eye on the Chief's husband?" Skye said with a raised eyebrow.

Dorian laughed. "Ah. I should have known." Skye edged her hand across the table, closer to his, and he laid his own on top of it.

"Going for a walk tonight?"

"I think I will," Dorian said.

"Want me to come?"

"Up to you. I’m fine if you stay."

"Okay. I am pretty tired." There was no subtext to the exchange, no expectation of him either way.

When they finished, Dorian put away the dishes while Skye went to lie down. He pulled a little messenger bag out of the hall closet, slipping it around his neck and lacing up his boots before stopping at the doorway of the bedroom.

Skye smiled at him from the bed, a book draped across her chest. "Heading out?"

"Yeah."

"I'll be here when you get back."

"I know."

Dorian stepped out into the cool night air, locking the door behind him. His neighbor, working in his garden, waved to him, and he returned the gesture.

The lights of the city were on in full now as he wound his way out of the old city and into the western district. A raucous but good-spirited crowd could be heard from inside a bar as he passed by. In a park, a group of teens were playing football. Dorian Black had built a great many things in his life, but nothing compared to this. Black Creek would be his legacy, long after he was dead.

Here, near the outskirts of the western district, things were much quieter. He walked up and down the streets for an hour or so, until finally he heard it. A woman's scream, no more than a block away. Dorian smiled, opening his bag and slipping a black ski mask over his face. There, too, was his black 9mm pistol.

Just around the corner, in the dark section of a small park, he found them. The woman was pressed up against a tree by the masked man. Though she thrashed and fought, he held her firm with his hand over her mouth, so she couldn’t scream again. There was nobody else in sight, and the man couldn’t have seen him coming.

Dorian seized the man by his shoulder, tearing him away from the girl and throwing him hard to the ground. In an instant she was gone, running away down the sidewalk. The man made a move for a knife at his waist, and Dorian stomped on it. The man's howl told him the tip of his blade must have punctured his groin.

He reared his foot back and struck once, twice, three times to the man's ribs. He coughed and sputtered blood, his chest rising heavily in search of breath.

Dorian reached down and pulled the man's mask off. His face, wracked with pain and fear, was not one he recognized. The rapist swung at him and Dorian stepped slightly back, catching hold of the man's wrist and twisting it violently until the man rolled over on his stomach. With his other hand, he pressed the gun to the back of the man's head.

"Please," he whimpered.

Dorian laughed. "Nah."

He fired, and the man went limp against the grass. Dorian slipped the gun back inside his bag, jogging quickly across the street and around the corner. When he was a block away, he pulled the mask off and stuffed it into his pocket.

Dorian took a few deep breaths of the cold night, a smile growing across his face as a distant siren blared to life. He'd never felt fucking better.

Thanks for reading.

I truly hope you’ve enjoyed this story. Whether you did or not, please consider leaving a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads.

I want to thank a few people for their support.

First, my wife, Sara, who not only read this book multiple times but also had to hear about my excitement, fear, frustration, and joy about this story for years.

Next, I want to thank my good friend Joe C. Without all those late nights years ago spent brainstorming and riffing ideas off of each other, I doubt this book would have ever come into existence.

Also, big thanks to my other initial readers Matt, Joe K., Dave, and Doug and Kathy Clark. I really appreciate all of you taking the time to read it and giving me feedback.

Finally, thanks to myself for putting in the work. I first started thinking about this story more than ten years ago. I wrote half a book twice before and completely deleted it both times. When I wasn’t actually writing it, it never left my head for long. Now that it’s finally done, sending it out into the world is truly bittersweet. More than anything though, I’m excited for all the stories I’m ready to tell next.

Find me on Twitter @authentickemp, or my website at www.midnightmouthful.com, if you want to hear about future projects.

Thanks,
Dan