Hearts of Hellfire: The Unmaking Trilogy Book 1
Date: 2026-06-16 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: A grieving widow smuggles her husband's corpse beyond her city's walls to a woman rumored to resurrect the dead—unleashing a truth that could shatter humanity's fragile survival. This tale is not for the faint of heart. Seven hundred years after the apocalyptic event known as The Unmaking, humanity clings to faith and a desperate mission to rebuild. But when Alma’s husband suddenly succumbs to a mysterious illness, she begins receiving messages from beyond their city’s walls with an impossible promise: “Nothing truly dies. Come find me in the north.” In the forbidden Deadlands, a young woman d

HEARTS OF HELLFIRE

THE UNMAKING TRILOGY BOOK 1

ABE MOSS

Grim Heart Publishing

Copyright © 2026 by Abe Moss

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ALSO BY ABE MOSS

THE WRITHING

BATHWATER BLUES

BY THE LIGHT OF HIS LANTERN

LITTLE EMMETT

UNDER THE WICKED MOON

GILLS

A GHOST ARRIVES

RUBY HOLLOWAY READS AFTER DARK

OUR MOTHER IN THE LAKE

WICKED WAS THE NIGHT

THE RESTLESS ONES

MORSELS

THE THREE-CANDLE PRAYER

SANGUINE SUMMER

THE DREAD VOID SERIES

CONTENTS

The Dream

I. The Woman and Her Corpse

1. Leaving

2. Telltale

3. The Deadlands

4. The Land of Misery

5. Long Night into Dawn

6. Misery Loves Company

7. Harsh Exchanges

8. Chewed

9. So Close

10. Bright Side

11. Science Experiment

12. The Opportunist

13. A Grave Interruption

14. Alive

15. Fireside

II. Prayers & Pestilence

16. The City of Gloam

17. The Elders

18. Neighborly

19. Loyal Pets

20. Predators

21. Rising Tensions

22. Push Comes to Shove

23. Imposter

24. The Spy’s Demise

25. Revival

26. Abomination

27. Providence

28. Opening Up

29. Epidemic

30. New Religion

III. Hell on Earth

31. The Pious

32. Reckless

33. Grave Misfortune

34. New Allies

35. Something Ghastly

36. The Repentant

37. Last Supper

38. Gatherings

39. Mother

40. Hunting Party

41. Last Resort

42. Masks Off

43. Prophet Tobias

44. Aftermath

45. The Penitent

46. Amen

A SPECIAL THANKS

HEARTS OF HELLFIRE

CONTENTS

The Dream

I. The Woman and Her Corpse

1. Leaving

2. Telltale

3. The Deadlands

4. The Land of Misery

5. Long Night into Dawn

6. Misery Loves Company

7. Harsh Exchanges

8. Chewed

9. So Close

10. Bright Side

11. Science Experiment

12. The Opportunist

13. A Grave Interruption

14. Alive

15. Fireside

II. Prayers & Pestilence

16. The City of Gloam

17. The Elders

18. Neighborly

19. Loyal Pets

20. Predators

21. Rising Tensions

22. Push Comes to Shove

23. Imposter

24. The Spy’s Demise

25. Revival

26. Abomination

27. Providence

28. Opening Up

29. Epidemic

30. New Religion

III. Hell on Earth

31. The Pious

32. Reckless

33. Grave Misfortune

34. New Allies

35. Something Ghastly

36. The Repentant

37. Last Supper

38. Gatherings

39. Mother

40. Hunting Party

41. Last Resort

42. Masks Off

43. Prophet Tobias

44. Aftermath

45. The Penitent

46. Amen

A SPECIAL THANKS

THE DREAM

Nothing truly dies.

Come find me in the north.

PART I

THE WOMAN AND HER CORPSE

1

LEAVING

ALMA

Her husband’s body was already cold.

She cradled him in her arms, repeated his name as if the sound of her voice might call him back—as though he were only in a deep sleep and not…

“Calum. Calum, please…”

Their straw-filled bed crinkled as she shifted with his head held loosely in her lap, wishing for his pale face to squirm with discomfort, for an idle susurration to slip from his parted mouth. But her movements only succeeded in drawing his eyelids partly open, so that his lifeless gaze peered into the dark above their heads where the candlelight didn’t reach.

She folded herself over him in despair, her forehead to his parted, breathless mouth. He was truly gone, she realized—lost to the mysterious illness that had only taken hold two nights prior.

“No,” she whispered upon his brow. “No, no, no, it cannot be…”

This was something else. Illness swept frivolously through their city all the time, came and went like the change of seasons, and while it was true these bouts did claim the lives of their townsfolk on occasion, it was a fate reserved for the old and feeble, not the young and hardy like Calum. Not like this. This was something else, something unusual.

Nothing truly dies.

The words floated through Alma’s mind unbidden, unexpected. She stiffened as she remembered them. Strange words from an even stranger dream. Or dreams, rather. She’d been having them as of late. The past three nights, in fact, almost as soon as all of this had first started. How strange indeed, she thought. Perhaps her subconscious knew something she couldn’t admit on the surface—as if she’d predicted Calum’s impending fate all along. Except…

Nothing truly dies.

Even now as she remembered these words, it was not in her voice but another’s. A young woman’s voice, she remembered distinctly. Because these were no mere dreams.

“Messages,” she whispered, her lips brushing her husband’s skin, even cooler to the touch now than he’d been moments ago.

There was more to the message, more to the dreams. They’d been foggy before, forgotten in the frenzy of daily duties and caring for a sick husband. But now the claws of Alma’s anguish dredged them up again, stirred them to the surface of her thoughts like debris she might desperately hold onto lest she sink to the bottom of her despair.

Nothing truly dies.

No message could be timelier, more perfect. She glimpsed the young woman in her memory, through the distorted sheen of a remembered dream, and knew there had been more that followed.

A noise at the window. Alma held her breath. The candlelight waxed and waned, the darkness at the window solid, undisturbed. Something rustled just out of sight. Quietly, Alma slipped out from under Calum’s heavy head and crept to the open window of their modest dwelling. She pressed her face to the warm night. Just below the window another pale face peered back.

“Rose,” Alma said to the girl. “What are you doing out so late?”

The girl did not reply but blinked her big vacant eyes.

“Well, since you’re here, go and fetch your mother for me, would you?”

The ten-year-old girl offered no clear sign of understanding, but she did turn and wander into the dark and Alma trusted that her mother would be coming shortly. Rose was the daughter of Laurie and Neil next door, Laurie being Alma’s closest friend in all of Gloam. If there was anyone she could trust with the dangerous ideas circling her mind tonight, it was Laurie.

Alma quickly dressed in her tattered brown robes. She regarded Calum’s body on the bed, dressed only in his undergarments. She sat beside him, closed his green eyes back up, smoothed the palm of her hand over his handsomely angular face. His lips were the color of a dreary winter sky. She was tempted to kiss them but resisted the urge.

Nothing truly dies.

Come find me in the north.

Alma startled as there came a knock on her door. She briskly answered, and found her close friend standing in the dark just outside, her thin-but-unshakable form leaning into the doorway, eyes wide expectantly.

“Rose said you sent for me? What’s wrong?”

Confronted with her friend’s support, Alma’s composure buckled, and so she stood aside and let her husband’s form on the bed do the talking. Laurie stepped inside, a hand over her surprised mouth.

“Oh, Alma,” Laurie gasped, and proceeded to throw her arms around Alma’s shoulders. The whispery tone of her voice was soothing in Alma’s ear. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry…” When she released her, she said, “When did he pass?”

“Not long ago. I’m not sure what roused me, exactly, but… he was already gone when I woke.”

That wasn’t entirely the truth. She remembered now what had roused her—another dream like the rest, the woman’s voice and her beckoning message. The shock of finding Calum had temporarily disturbed it from her memory, but now it all seemed so clear. So deliberate.

“I don’t know what to say,” Laurie said. “It’s just so awful.”

She took Alma into her arms a second time, squeezing her as words failed her. And while her friend was certainly a comfort, Alma’s thoughts were already racing in too many other directions to appreciate the gesture.

“I have no intention of handing him over to the Elders.”

Laurie’s hold on Alma slackened. She held Alma at arm’s length instead, looking her over like she might be ill.

“What do you mean?”

Alma paced to the edge of the bed where she looked solemnly upon her husband’s corpse, surer by the moment of her intentions. While it was customary in Gloam to transfer their dead to the church, in order to receive their Elders’ final blessing before burial, Alma knew such a destiny was not meant for Calum. Something greater was at play.

Alma took a seat beside Calum’s body, a hand upon his hard shoulder.

“Laurie,” she said. “You will not like what I am about to tell you, and that is reasonable and expected, but… I must impart these honest feelings so that I might ask for your help, whether you agree with them or not.”

Laurie clasped her hands, eyes darting between Alma and the dead. “Tell me.”

Alma met her gaze and knew in an instant that she could tell her—that Laurie was already bracing herself for Alma’s blasphemy and wasn’t altogether frightened of it. This was true friendship.

And so Alma told Laurie of the dreams, of the woman and her cryptic message, as well as her own indelible certainty that she was meant to follow this path against their learned traditions.

“Alma…” Laurie bit her tongue, carefully choosing her words. “It is a shocking thing you’ve just experienced—that you are still in the midst of experiencing. It is understandable that you might resist the possibility—”

“I am not in denial of Calum’s death,” Alma said, the weight of his corpse resting just beside her.

“But you hold out hope that this mysterious woman from your dreams will… do what, exactly? Bring him back? Is that what I am to gather? I do not see any other way to interpret this message from your dreams. Do you not think this in and of itself some form of denial?”

“I understand it might seem that way, but…” Alma took a deep breath. “I cannot properly express how real this feels, Laurie. That these dreams are not just dreams, that this woman and her message…”

“But you also admit these dreams made no impression on you until tonight. You can understand how this might all sound a bit hopeful? Impulsive?”

“I understand how it sounds, I do, I promise you. It is difficult to explain. It is not so much that I’ve simply found a convenient interpretation of these dreams in light of my loss, as it is that their meaning has only just solidified thanks to it.”

“Thanks to it?” Laurie repeated, noting the morbidly positive connotation.

“You know what I mean.”

Alma regarded her dead husband, felt a pang in her heart which, for a moment, made her doubt her own feelings. Could Laurie be right? Was she in the throes of some grief-induced delusion? Would the feeling pass come morning, her rational mind coming to take its place?

Nothing truly dies.

Come find me in the north.

The woman’s words reverberated in her memory louder each time she remembered them, as though she was there in her mind now, communicating telepathically.

“It is the strangest thing,” Alma murmured. “The memory is only growing stronger. I can’t explain it. Now it is like I was actually there. I see the room, and I see her as though she is obscured through smoke and firelight, and there is something about her, Laurie. Something I’ve never felt before in my life. Not within this city’s walls. It is powerful…”

When Alma looked at Laurie again, she was startled to discover fear in her friend’s eyes.

“Say this is real,” Laurie said. “What if this… presence, means to mislead you? Or means you harm?”

“She does not,” Alma said so matter-of-factly that even she was mildly embarrassed, knowing how she must sound. “This energy I feel is good. I don’t know how, but I know it. This woman, she is… she is pure of soul.”

“Pure of soul?”

“Yes. I sense only goodness in her intentions.”

“And what is there to say of eagerness to believe whatever gives you hope in this matter?”

“What is there to say of intuition? Or faith? What if this is a sign from Oleth? What if she is Oleth’s messenger? Who am I to question it?”

“Prophet Tobias is Oleth’s messenger,” Laurie corrected, her voice hardening with the first real sign of disapproval. “To suggest anything else is blasphemy and you know that.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right, but…” Alma penetrated her friend’s gaze with utter earnestness. “What if I am right?”

Laurie cast a worried glance over her shoulder at the door, at the dark window, as if someone could be listening.

“Will you stop me?” It was a painful thing to ask, to pit their friendship against their faith, but it had to be done. When Laurie shook her head ‘no’ Alma took it one step further. “Will you help me?”

Laurie faltered. She drew her conflicted gaze over Calum’s body once more, then over Alma’s breath-held expression, and all at once Alma witnessed the total deflation of Laurie’s reservations.

“What do you need from me?”

“Oh!” Alma exclaimed, and took her friend’s hands in her own. “Thank you, Laurie, thank you. I knew I could count on your kindness.”

“I will surely regret it.” She studied Calum again, her face darkening with sadness and perhaps pity, for Alma’s sake. “But if I were in your shoes, and it were my Neil, I cannot say I could ignore such a message myself.”

“Do you believe me, then?”

Laurie sighed, exasperated. “I believe that you believe it, and that is enough for me.”

Unfortunately, what Alma needed most required more than what Laurie herself could provide, though she did possess the necessary connections.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Neil sat upright in bed, blinking wearily in Alma’s candlelight as Laurie tried to explain everything. Neil rubbed sleep from his eyes, leaving only incredulity in its place.

“Calum is…”

“Yes,” Laurie answered.

Neil fell silent as the weight of this settled over him. Though not as close as Alma and Laurie, Neil and Calum had been on friendly terms. Alma studied the mound of scrap cloth on the floor beside their bed where their baby boy slept soundly. Then she glanced at the second small bed in the opposite corner of their dwelling where little Rose sat cross-legged in the shadows, listening intently to their every word.

“I saw him only a day ago,” Neil muttered, reflecting. “He did not seem so terribly sick then.”

“It happened sometime while I was asleep beside him,” Alma said. “That is all I know for certain.”

“And you’re wanting to… I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard the rest. I was too distracted by the news that he’d…”

Died was the word Neil failed to say. But Alma understood. She didn’t want to think it herself, let alone voice it. If not for the burgeoning hope of her new mission, she would undoubtedly be beside herself as a result. Some part of her did suspect she latched onto this hope to stop herself from unraveling, but she didn’t care. Not at this point.

And perhaps there was a danger in that.

“Alma has had a dream,” Laurie started to say, before Alma quickly interrupted, for fear that Laurie’s retelling would make her story sound all the crazier.

“I have been visited,” Alma corrected. She stepped forward, placing herself between Laurie and her husband, letting him see her as she was. “A woman has come to me in my dreams. I believe she can help me. I must take Calum to her by any means necessary.”

“Help you?” Neil said. “But if Calum is already dead…”

“Nothing truly dies.” Alma liked the sound of it more each time she repeated it. “Come find me in the north. That is what she said.”

“In your dream,” Neil said.

“Yes, but it was not just a dream. I am certain of that. I’ve had it three nights in a row now. The very same.”

“And yet Calum has only been lost tonight. So what is this woman supposed to be, a fortune teller? Or worse, a witch?” Neil said this with a particular note of severity. Talk of witches was not uncommon in Gloam, when speaking of the dangers beyond their city’s walls. “That is, if these dreams are anything more than just that.”

“Neil,” Laurie said reproachfully. “Alma is my friend and she needs our help.”

“If she is truly your friend, do you not have an obligation to talk her out of this nonsense?”

“I know how it sounds,” Alma interjected, “but it is not nonsense.”

Neil sighed. “You are understandably devastated. I do not even wish to imagine what you must be feeling, Alma, but you must acknowledge the shock has clouded your better judgement.”

“I am of sound mind.” Alma wasn’t entirely sure she believed it even as she said it. “I intend to embark on this journey with or without anyone’s help.”

“Well, then, it sounds like you don’t need us after all.”

“Of course she needs our help,” Laurie snapped, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the baby.

“You wish to be an accomplice to this? She means to venture beyond our city’s walls, Laurie. If we help in this matter, her death will be on our hands.”

“I take full responsibility for my actions,” Alma said. “As I said before, I intend to do this regardless. But obviously your help would be appreciated.”

“How do you suppose you’d manage it without my help? The gates are locked. I assume that’s what you’ve come to me about?”

It was true. Laurie’s husband served as a wall sentry on a rotating basis with several other men who worked the fields alongside him, which granted them access to the keys allowing them in and out of the city’s main gate.

“Locks can be broken,” Alma said. “Though I would rather not cause trouble for anyone in my wake.”

“You’re already causing trouble,” Neil said, as he rubbed his temples to soothe the apparent headache taking hold.

“It is not only Alma asking,” Laurie said. “I am asking, too, Neil.”

Luckily for Alma, for better or worse, this was enough for him.

Under the pale shine of the moon, they stole through the city’s narrow streets on their way to the gardens, where Alma procured a small wooden handcart and a small brown tarp, along with a few provisions for the journey whose distance still eluded her.

“Hopefully you’ll not need this, but better to have it just in case,” Neil said as he slid a long silver machete into the handcart. Alma’s stomach lurched at the sight of it nestled among the rest of the supplies. “And you must take these as well,” Neil said, holding a bundle of black cylindrical tubes in his hands. “You pull on this here, and you have to pull it fast, or else you won’t generate the friction needed to light it.”

Neil tucked the flares into her little wagon amongst the food and other supplies, her gut rolling with guilt and uncertainty.

“I don’t know if I should take them,” she said. “I’d hate to leave the city underprepared—”

“It is fine,” Neil said. “We haven’t had need of these in… I don’t even know how long. Before our time. There is a much greater chance of needing them out there, where you’re more liable to cross paths with things in the dark…”

“What else might you need?” Laurie said, wishing to cease talk of such things. “Have you enough food? And what of water? The water outside is poisoned, you know, you mustn’t drink it.”

“I will fill three containers from the well before I go,” Alma said.

“You’re sure that will be enough?” Laurie said. “You do not even know how far you will go… how long you might be gone. Oh, Alma, I am afraid for you…”

“I will be all right.” Alma smiled for Laurie’s benefit. Glancing at Neil beside her, it was clear he kept his own worries to himself at this point, knowing there was nothing to be said to persuade her.

“Oh…” He reached into one of his pockets, digging for something. “I almost forgot. You should take this as well. Another tool we have little use for inside the city. It’s not like we send expeditions these days, so you might as well have it. Be careful not to damage the needle. There used to be a kind of glass barrier over top of it all, but it broke long ago. Someone else’s mistake.”

Placed in Alma’s palm, the silver compass’s needle bobbed slightly in place as it repositioned itself northward. Alma had never used a compass before. She had planned to rely only on the rise and fall of the sun to guide her, but this would surely be of even greater help.

With her supplies gathered, there was only one last thing to add to her burden.

They parked the handcart just beside the door, where Neil helped Alma to carry Calum’s body from the bed, careful to arrange him just so. With her husband loaded in with the rest, Alma covered the wagon with the brown tarp and tied it taut, so that no breeze or wind would uncover it.

With that, she followed Laurie and Neil to the city’s gate. Neil unlocked it with his iron key. The gate squealed as it opened, the gateway not much bigger than the double doors of their church. Through its opening, a dark and unknown landscape awaited Alma. She paused momentarily, the air of the outer world somehow different as it carried across the threshold.

She turned to the others, both their expressions carved with unease under the moon’s harsh hammer and chisel.

“Thank you, both of you. For all your help. I can’t tell you what it means to me.”

“Please be safe,” Laurie said, and promptly enclosed Alma in her embrace. “I will pray each and every day, each and every night.”

“I will return before you know it,” Alma said, though she could be certain of no such thing.

Upon their separating, Neil forced a smile as he opened his arms to Alma, a gesture which she accepted with immense relief and gratitude. He whispered into her ear.

“Please don’t let my wife grieve her only friend.” His words spurred a gentle ache in Alma’s heart, a seed of guilt planted there painfully. He gave her a comforting squeeze. As they pulled apart, he could scarcely conceal his grimace. “Be safe.”

Alma thanked them both once more and took up the handle of the handcart. She pulled it through the gate, wheels crunching over stones into the shadows of their city’s walls on the other side.

The world beyond greeted her with much mystery, fearsome and intriguing both. She looked back only once to see Laurie’s and Neil’s simple silhouettes in the gateway. She waved and they waved back. She faced the wilderness ahead, and shortly thereafter the gate closed behind her, the clunk of its iron heft startling her.

In the distance, the Deadlands quaked with the promise of a coming storm.

2

TELLTALE

ELLIS

Ellis followed the city’s darkest veins like a fetid old rat, through the choking gloom of alleyways and dusty side streets, until finally he arrived near the city gate where he spied the woman called Alma departing with a wagon of stolen goods.

He withdrew into the deeper shadows as they closed the gate behind her, chest pounding with the thrill of an ill-gotten secret. He waited for the others to pass him by, returning home now their misdeeds were finished for the night.

The coast was clear. Ellis darted back the way he came, his dark robes fluttering. Arriving at his next destination, he gently but rapidly knocked on the door. He caught his wheezing breath while he waited. The door opened and a fiery-haired woman about twenty years his junior answered, clutching her loose robes against her chest to conceal her undressed nature.

“Ellis?” she said, squinting tiredly. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I’m sorry to wake you, Mother Marjorie,” Ellis said. “But I have just witnessed something I believe you’ll want to hear about without delay.”

Marjorie continued squinting dubiously at the older gentleman on her doorstep, saying nothing.

“Spit it out, Ellis.”

“Well, you see…” Ellis fumbled his words, flustered by his own excitement. “Apologies. I’ve just run here from the city gate, where I observed someone stealing away like a bandit in the night with an overflowing wagon of community supplies.”

Marjorie’s interest visibly piqued. “Stealing away like a bandit?”

“Yes, with a wagon of supplies. Food from the gardens and many other things, I’m sure. I wasn’t able to get a closer look. But I did follow them back to her house, where I then observed the strangest thing of all.”

Once more, Marjorie waited with only an expectant, sleep-deprived stare.

“It appeared the woman’s husband was not fit to stand on his own, as I watched them carry him in their arms and place him into the wagon with everything else. Then they covered everything with one of our tarps, also stolen…”

“They? Who are they?”

“It was Alma and Calum, assisted by their neighbors. Close friends.”

“So Alma has left the city with her… incapacitated husband,” Marjorie said, following along in her own words. “And they’ve taken with them…”

“Enough supplies to last them a good while, by my estimate,” Ellis said.

“I assume you’ve yet to inform Father Ryker about any of this?”

“No, miss. I’ve come straight here.”

Marjorie peered at the surrounding street outside her meager dwelling—no more meager than the rest of them, in fairness—and sighed with reluctance.

“Let me slip into my robes and I’ll be out shortly.”

She shut the door on Ellis without hesitation. The night hummed with an echo of silence, nary a breeze slipping down from their high city walls. In the distance, the sound of a crying babe. That was always good to hear, Ellis thought. Evidence of new life.

Soon the door opened and Mother Marjorie stepped out, dressed in the very robes she’d first clutched to herself. She walked briskly through the sleeping pathways of their little city. Ellis followed as best he could. He wasn’t in such good shape these days, on the brink of sixty, and was once more out of breath and panting by the time they reached Father Ryker’s door. Marjorie did the knocking, much more aggressive than Ellis had been. When the door opened, a square-jawed, bald-headed man about Marjorie’s age stood before them, naked except for his long underpants.

“Sorry to wake you, Ryker,” Marjorie said, “but it seems there’s been something of an emergency. I thought if one of us should be pulled out of bed at this hour, it was only fair to wake the other…”

“What emergency?” Ryker said, rubbing the side of his smooth head.

“Tell him what you told me,” Marjorie instructed.

Ellis told his story once again, this time placing added emphasis on Alma’s immobile partner, as it seemed the strangest detail of all.

“So Alma and Calum have left the city,” Ryker said. He paused, thinking. “And who did you see assisting them in their departure?”

“I believe it was their next door neighbors, sir,” Ellis said. “I don’t remember their names.”

“Neil and Laurie,” Ryker said, appearing all the more curious. “Interesting.”

Ryker stepped back into the darkness of his home, and shortly reappeared dressed in his robes and sandals.

“Let’s check Alma’s residence first,” Marjorie said, as they began heading in that direction. “Just to confirm.”

Ryker nodded in agreement. To Ellis he said, “Did you happen to see any particulars Alma was supplied with?”

“No, sir,” Ellis said. “I never got close enough for that.”

Ryker watched Ellis from the corner of his vision, with a look Ellis didn’t much care for. An unspoken distrust. A judgement.

“Forgive me for asking, Ellis, but what exactly were you doing out at this hour, anyway?”

Ellis opened his mouth without an answer.

“I… well, I was…” He stuttered. “I-I couldn’t sleep and was trying to clear my head…”

Ryker made a sound of acknowledgement—of skepticism, too.

They arrived outside Alma’s and Calum’s home. Ryker knocked on the door, jaw clenched as they waited for an answer.

“No answer,” Marjorie said. “Let’s take a look inside.”

She opened the door and skirted past Ryker on her way through. Ryker followed behind her. Ellis hovered in the doorway, peering into the shadows with only the moonlight to see by. Obviously the home was empty.

They beelined for the one beside it. Ellis could already hear the fussing of a baby inside as they approached. Warm candlelight flickered around the edges of the closed window. As they neared the door, the low sound of the couple’s argument reached them, an exchange of angry whispers back and forth. Marjorie paused with her fist hovering at the door’s surface, listening.

“…good idea. A terrible idea, actually. I feel sick. We should not have taken part. In fact, we should not have lifted a finger…”

“Shh, be quiet. Someone’s outside.”

Marjorie grimaced and proceeded to knock. There came a long pause from inside. After a quiet moment the door opened. The husband stood before them, his otherwise stoic demeanor betrayed by a blatant irritability behind his half-lidded gaze.

“Hello, Neil,” Ryker said, placing himself beside Mother Marjorie. “Laurie. Sorry to bother you so late. Might we speak to you for a moment? It’s an urgent matter.”

“Urgent?” Neil said. Then his gaze found Ellis standing meekly behind the others, and his simmering displeasure rose to a boil. “Ah. So this is about Alma, then, is it?”

“Neil!” the woman snapped, just out of sight.

“They know,” Neil answered over his shoulder.

“We’ve been informed of Alma’s and Calum’s leave, yes,” Ryker said. “We’d like to know the true nature of this departure. Why on earth would they have wanted to set out into the Deadlands?”

Neil sighed through his nostrils. “It was Calum. You see, he—”

“He is gravely ill!” Laurie interjected, stepping into view just over her husband’s shoulder, their baby boy hugged against her hip. “Alma feared the worst, and—”

“They have left the city because Calum is ill?” Marjorie said. “Why not consult one of our many healers? Or inform us, at the very least. This makes no sense.”

“Alma…” Laurie hesitated. “You see, Alma has been having these dreams…”

“Dreams,” Marjorie repeated warily.

“Yes, dreams. She…” Another hesitation, this one longer than the last. “She believed someone reached out to her in a dream. Someone who could help Calum. I… I tried to talk her out of it, I really did, but she was insistent. I couldn’t just let her go ill-prepared.”

“You should have come to us,” Marjorie said. “We could have stopped her ourselves. She’s made a grave mistake leaving the safety of our city’s walls. You must know that.”

Unable to meet Marjorie’s gaze any longer, Laurie chose her baby boy’s instead, bouncing him softly against her hip.

“I couldn’t bring myself to betray her trust.”

“Well I hope her trust was worth her life,” Marjorie said.

“There’s no need for that,” Ryker said, scowling.

“I believe there is a need for it. Alma and Calum have taken a great deal of our community’s supplies on what seems to be a wild goose chase. One that will certainly end badly for them.”

“It wasn’t a great deal of supplies, by any means,” Neil said. “Whatever you might have been told.”

He looked directly at Ellis then, knowing perfectly well where their information stemmed.

“Tell us more about these dreams,” Ryker said. “Did Alma describe this person she believed could help them?”

“Only that it was a woman. Alma gave the impression that she believed this woman to be the absolute embodiment of good. Actually, I think she used the phrase ‘pure of soul…’”

“I still don’t understand the need to seek healing beyond our city’s walls,” Marjorie said. “I cannot make sense of it.”

“Because Calum is not ill,” Neil blurted quite suddenly.

“Neil, don’t,” Laurie warned.

He let out a shuddery breath. “I’m sorry, Laurie, but my conscience is guilty enough as it is.” He shut his eyes. “Calum is dead.”

A confused silence swelled between them.

“Dead?” Marjorie said. “But then… what could she have possibly been hoping for?”

“Alma claims the woman in her dreams came to her three times, three nights in a row, proclaiming that ‘nothing truly dies’ and to ‘come find her in the north.’ I believe Alma thinks this woman possesses the ability to, well…”

“Bring Calum back from the dead,” Ryker said, brow furrowed in thought. “And you say she is heading north?”

“How could she possibly believe such a thing?” Marjorie said. “Has she lost her mind?”

“Perhaps in grief, she has,” Ryker said, his words resulting in another bout of uncomfortable silence.

“Will you go after her?” Laurie asked.

“I see no good reason to risk other people’s lives,” Marjorie said. “Just to bring back one misguided—and reckless—soul.”

“Misguided and reckless she may be,” Ryker said, “but she is still one of ours and needs our help. In any case, we should inform the Elders and see what they have to say about it. Thank you for your honesty. Both of you.”

The door was shut and Ellis, Marjorie, and Ryker were left outside in the dark once more.

“Thanks for bringing this to our attention, Ellis,” Marjorie said, her words instilling him with pride. “We’ll take over from here.”

“Would you like me to share my story with the Elders?” Ellis asked, brimming with hopeful anticipation at just the idea. “I’d be more than happy to tell them what I saw.”

“You may go home now, Ellis,” Ryker said. “Thank you.”

Ellis deflated. Mother Marjorie and Father Ryker had already turned their backs on him, heading in the direction of the church. And for once, Ellis didn’t bother following in secret.

He already knew there were no good spots outside from which to eavesdrop.

3

THE DEADLANDS

ALMA

Alma knew the dangers of the Deadlands by heart, not because she’d ever braved them before—this was precisely her first time setting foot outside of Gloam’s protective stone walls—but because she’d heard the stories since she was only a small child. Bedtime scares, cautionary church sermons, and educational history lessons all painted a vivid and terrifying picture.

So as she lugged her wagon across the breeze-stirred valley she did so with an alert mind and a prickling intuition, the hairs along her neck standing on end at every noise in the grass or disturbance in the shadows at the edge of the woods in the distance. The Deadlands were teeming with mysteries and horrors alike. The very ground beneath her feet, along with everything that grew from it, and everything else that relied on those growths for their own survival, were tainted. Corrupted. If Alma wasn’t careful, that corruption would spread to her as well. Change her in all manner of upsetting ways.

Unmake me.

They called it The Unmaking—the cataclysmic event that reshaped their world so many years ago, made it inhospitable, left them scattered and few. Gloam was a safe haven from the Deadlands, one of very few in the world protected only thanks to Oleth’s blessing.

Oleth protect me, Alma thought as she tugged her wagon out from another rut in the weedy ground.

The others would surely call this mission heretical, call her a blasphemer for questioning Oleth’s will. But Alma believed differently. This was Oleth’s will, guiding her through the mysterious conduit of the woman in her dreams. She was doing the right thing. She was on the right path… even if the wheels of her handcart were repeatedly caught amongst the rocks and ruts of it. But nothing worth doing was ever easy. Not in this life.

She checked the compass Neil had given her, holding it close to her gaze to properly read it under the shadows of the storm. According to its trembling needle she was still headed north.

Bless you, Neil, she thought, so grateful to have been given this little assurance as she checked it every minute or so.

Come find me in the north.

It was all the direction she had. Not very specific. Would she know when she was close? Was there something she might see? A landmark or a clue to the woman’s whereabouts? Surely this woman of her dreams was also waiting for her, watching for her, and her efforts were not entirely one-sided? Surely Alma would receive further guidance when the time came. She had put her trust into the divine thus far.

Now and again as she struggled to heave the wagon over bumps and divots, she paused to catch her breath and studied the brown tarp, thinking only of the man who lay underneath.

She will help me, Alma thought. Nothing truly dies…

It was this belief that energized her beyond her usual reserves.

Soon the storm was over top of her, the dark clouds churning ominously overhead, the thunder and lightning overlapping with nary a pause between them. As she came to the foot of a hillside and paused to check the compass once more, she caught a droplet of rain on its flat surface. She pocketed the compass, took up the wagon’s handle, and began the arduous uphill journey.

Soon that previous droplet became many, sprinkling. Then the sprinkles began to patter. The patter began to pour. In no time at all Alma felt the moisture through her robes, clinging and wet, growing heavy. Her calves burned. Her shoulders ached as she alternated pulling with one hand and then the other. The hillside became soft under her sandaled feet. Slippery.

She screamed as a dagger of lightning struck into the thicket of trees at the crest of the hill, turning the night to blinding day. The resulting crack of thunder was immediate. Alma slipped to her knees in the mud, lost her grasp on the wagon.

“No!”

She reached after it to no avail. It bounced in its descent, wheels catching on various terrain until suddenly it swung in a lopsided arc and turned over, its contents splashing out from under the tarp all over the hillside.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it all,” Alma muttered as she tripped and slid her way back down.

She arrived beside the wagon in a hurry, feet sliding out from under her, butt plopping down into the mud. She picked herself up. Not everything had fallen out of the wagon, at least. Except…

“Oh, Calum…”

He lay in an awkward heap, soaking wet. Her first instinct was to gather him up before she remembered the wagon needed to be righted first. It was a great effort, hauling it back onto its wheels, steering it just so, so that it was planted broadside against the pull of the hill. She leaned there a moment, panting. Planning. Once she was certain it was steady, and the tarp was loosened, she lifted Calum beneath the crooks of his armpits and dragged him there, his dead weight doubly difficult to carry alone. She heaved his upper body into the wagon, then gathered up his dangling legs and folded them in with the rest of him. She touched his mud-slicked face with her mud-slicked hand and felt like weeping. But now wasn’t the time.

Lightning illuminated the hillside. In its flash, she noted a variety of supplies littering the ground nearby. She scrambled in the grass and weeds, plucking up sacks of food stores and gleaming black tubes. Flares. Would they still work after getting wet, she wondered? No way to know. She hastily picked over the hillside, searching by the sporadic light of the storm with rain and tears in her eyes, tossing things into the wagon as she found them.

Before much longer she decided she’d found all that she would. The wagon’s contents didn’t appear much less than they’d been, at least. She counted the flares and discovered she was short one. That was fine.

The machete. Where’s the machete?

She pulled up the tarp, scanning. Its metallic gleam should have been obvious. She scoured the nearby hillside again, raking through the weeds as the storm flickered and barked and spat.

Something slithered through the grass and she flinched away. Except there was nothing there. A trick of the light. A trick of her mind. She continued searching. Of all the items loosed in the spill, the machete shouldn’t have tumbled far, and yet…

Aha!

The next flash revealed it, glittering and sharp. She snatched it up by its handle. As she did, something slithered toward her again. Something real. She gasped, nearly slipped in the mud. It hissed, whatever it was. Low to the ground, crawling on all fours, glistening in the rain. She brandished the machete wildly as it clambered toward her. The machete connected with a solid thunk. The thing in the grass yipped. Recoiled. Thunder clapped. Alma stumbled back until her thighs met the hard edge of the wagon. The heavens clashed, dousing her in their light.

The creature vanished as quickly as it’d appeared, though its blood now tinged the sharpened edge of her blade.

She would hold onto the machete for now, she decided. She hurriedly pulled the tarp back into place, gathered up the handcart’s handle, and breathlessly resumed her laborious climb. She pulled the wagon deeper into the weeds, where it was harder to pull but easier to find purchase with her sandaled feet, sliding in the mud only half as much.

For a short while she forgot her aches and pains and fatigue, desperate only to escape this godforsaken hillside. With rain in her eyes, she saw the hilltop was within reach. So close. Thunder crashed in the clouds above. Her feet continued to slip and stumble. Then the incline began to smooth, flatten, as each step brought her closer to the hill’s crest, until finally the ground was level, the wagon was steady, and her sore limbs rejoiced.

She took the opportunity to check her compass and get her bearings. She checked on Calum once more as well. Dead as ever, except now he was wet and muddy.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured as she wiped the mud from his serene face. “Please forgive me…”

She hoped wherever he now found himself was more comfortable than this—but not so comfortable that he would hate to be brought back, of course. Surely not. No matter how splendorous the afterlife must be, surely he missed her.

Alma startled as another sword of lightning pierced the nearby trees. The world flashed bright. The valley ahead was revealed, what waited below the summit of her measly climb—a landscape of gnarled woods, lakes of shadow, and the occasional bubbling of ruined stone in between. Alma shivered, cold and wet, as the world fell back into darkness.

She hoped Calum wouldn’t hold it against her for bringing him back to all of this.

4

THE LAND OF MISERY

GUNNAR

Gunnar woke from the most wonderful dream—soft bedsheets, warm limbs restlessly intertwined, the sweet scent of a woman’s hair, the seraphic sound of her pleasure—only to find himself reborn in the most heinous of nightmares. The pleasant odor of clean skin and shampoo was erased by the sting of smoke and soot. He opened his eyes to a world of eternal flame, the sky scorched and blazing, raging, a near-constant haze of ash settling down.

He sat up where he lay, groped at the kink in his neck.

“Fucking hell…”

He reflected—as he already had a thousand times—on how strange it was, that a place such as this still allowed him his dreams, those brief respites, distant memories of what had been, and would never be again. He supposed it made sense. Without the occasional taste of hope or joy, his suffering would be dulled, his endless misery made bland.

His pores prickled with sweat as his naked, reborn body finally realized the heat of hellfire. It was everywhere. And that was only the start of his discomfort.

He picked himself up off the jagged rock. He reached his hands high over his head and moaned pleasurably with the strain. Another singular enjoyment he was allowed—the satisfaction of a good stretch.

No amount of sweet dreams or satisfying stretches could prevent some amount of dulling, however. For instance, over time Gunnar had become desensitized to the sounds of others’ suffering—the torturous screams of men and women carried on a hot breeze, the cries of lost children, or the weeping of their separated mothers. Psychological torment had lost a bit of its power over the years, whereas physical torment still retained most of its bite.

Because wounds never scarred in this place, nor callused.

In death you were reborn anew, as whole as you’d been when you first arrived, which for Gunnar was… well, far too long ago now to remember how much time had passed.

He winced as a fresh ember stung the nape of his neck. He walked aimlessly. That was the only sort of walking to be done here, was the aimless kind. He peered about his surroundings, as ordinary to him now as his hometown had been in life.

He’d awakened beside the Lake of Flesh—a vast pit of carnage whose churning depths were endlessly filled by a series of connecting rivers, whose currents carried an endless supply of remains from every corner of this land. The Lake of Flesh was in constant shift, as its contents were drained through some mysterious apparatus lying in wait along the lakebed. Not so much a mystery anymore for Gunnar, after falling in a handful of times.

The sounds of distant screams reached him, as ordinary as birdsong used to be in the living world—at least the one Gunnar remembered. He scarcely knew how much the world had changed since then. Perhaps birds had gone extinct by now. He saw plenty of them here, after all, usually with their feathers ablaze or trapped in tar pits. Most everything in this place had once lived, at some time or another. Not even the vegetation was spared its suffering, endlessly singed by falling embers, choking on the black vapors of this wonderful afterlife. Sometimes Gunnar swore he could hear their screams as well, a high-pitched trilling from their stems and trunks as the fields and forests burned without end, vibrating with agony.

The screams he heard now were just ahead of him. Farther along the Lake of Flesh’s coast, he noticed several men battling it out with what appeared to be a couple of great, mangy bears. Gunnar aptly referred to these dangerous beasts as Not Bears. While similar, the biggest difference between a bear and a Not Bear was the head. Not Bears didn’t have them. Instead there was a kind of bloody gash in the upper torso where a neck and head might have been. This vertical opening was lined with many, many teeth, which the Not Bear used to shred its victims to ribbons after pinning them beneath its swollen paws. Judging by the screams of those men in the distance, Gunnar could safely assume they were getting a good look at those teeth right about now.

With a turn of his heel Gunnar headed in the opposite direction, keeping a leisurely pace along the edge of the lake. There weren’t any Not Bears this way that he could see. Just the low smoke wafting over the wooded hills in the distance. Perhaps he would journey through those woods toward the Sinking Meadows beyond them. One could hope to survive for a few hours in the Sinking Meadows, at least, so long as one didn’t wade into the dark shallows there…

Gunnar overheard another scream as he walked, this one closer than all the others. He glanced over his shoulder toward the Not Bears, thinking one of those men might have managed to escape. But it wasn’t that. Those men were dead by now, the Not Bears having their fill.

The scream came again, the pause in between about as long as it took to gather breath. It traveled from the nearby woods. Gunnar squinted through the dirty haze and shimmering heat and spotted a lone man, running for his life. He scanned the trees in the man’s wake, but saw nothing he might have been running from. Or toward, for that matter. The man appeared only to be running. Perhaps fleeing his own shadow. He abruptly slid to a halt, fell on his ass along the sooty ground. He picked himself up, looking every which way.

He appeared rather lost, Gunnar thought.

In his looking, the man’s swiveling head locked onto Gunnar for an instant, tensing with surprise, perhaps disbelief. Determining Gunnar was not a distant mirage, his legs began to scissor and swish in his direction.

“Oh…” Gunnar shook his head disapprovingly. “No, that’s not… that’s not necessary…”

The man slipped and fell again in his desperation. With the help of a sturdy tree trunk, he righted himself. The tree took a vicious swipe at him as he did—they were apt to do that—and the man staggered away screaming all the more. He stumbled across the tree line, relentless in his mission to reach Gunnar if it was the last thing he ever did. Gunnar had accepted his fate by this point, however bothersome.

“Please!” the man hollered. “Please!”

Gunnar resumed walking. He took a deep breath and held it as the man’s thumping feet approached, panting dramatically.

“Please,” he repeated. “Please stop… I need… I need help…”

“I can’t help you,” Gunnar stated plainly. “There’s no help here, I’m afraid.”

“Please, I just…” He sucked air. Even from a couple paces ahead Gunnar heard the dry gulp of his throat. “I don’t know where I am. I don’t… I don’t understand any of this!”

The lost man fought to keep pace beside him. Gunnar turned ever so slightly to study the man’s naked form.

“Hmmm,” he said curiously. “It’s not often these days I see a newcomer.”

The man’s big doe eyes widened with boundless confusion. “Newcomer?”

“You just woke up here, isn’t that right?” Gunnar said.

“Yes, I just…”

“Well, let me be the first to welcome you to this marvelous new chapter of your life.” Gunnar gestured broadly at their surroundings. “It’s called death.”

“Huh? B-but...”

“Or as I like to call it, The Land of Misery.”

The man struggled to find his words, his mouth jabbering silently, breathlessly. He came to a stop. Gunnar stopped as well. It was true what he’d said—it wasn’t often he met someone new to this place.

The man studied the belching Lake of Flesh beside them. It was a moment before his thoughts caught up with his eyes, and his open mouth began to tremble.

“Oh, yes. That,” Gunnar said. “Best to get used to it. There’s plenty more where that came from. The blood and guts, I mean.”

The man’s terror reminded Gunnar of his early days, the terror he’d felt, so sharp in its novelty.

The man burst into tears beside him, gasping and gulping. Gunnar winced at the sound. He looked away, peering into the distance, and noticed that the Not Bears had finished with their previous meal, now gazing determinedly in their direction, eyeless as they were. Gunnar sighed wearily. Beside him, the man held his head in his hands, still blubbering.

“It’s best not to stay in one place too long,” Gunnar said, flicking his gaze from the sorry man to the curious beasts in the distance.

But the man didn’t listen. Gunnar flared with annoyance—as well as a tiny shred of sympathy. It’d been so long since he’d witnessed such unadulterated despair.

“You know,” he said, “it’s really not so bad, actually…” He glanced to the Lake of Flesh beside them, where so many bloody stumps and torsos had been brought together across this vast land. “You sorta get used to it.”

“I’ve died and gone to Hell,” the man wept.

This tickled Gunnar immensely. He nearly laughed, which was another thing he hadn’t done in many, many years.

“Yeah,” he said, a tinge of reminiscence in his voice. “I thought this was Hell, too, at first…” He placed a friendly hand upon the man’s hitching shoulder. “What’s your name, kid?”

The man looked at Gunnar like he was crazy. Maybe it was the ‘kid’ part. After all, they looked as though they might have been similar ages. Early-to-mid thirties. But this man had no idea how old Gunnar really was. Appearances were deceiving in a place like this. Or maybe he looked at Gunnar that way because he was, in fact, a little crazy.

“Calum,” he answered, sniffling. “My name is Calum…”

Gunnar clapped his back gently. “Nice to meet you, Calum. I’m Gunnar. Listen… we’re moments away from being torn to pieces, but when you wake up again, you should come find me, all right? Just follow the rivers of blood.”

Calum gave Gunnar that same look—are you insane?—just before his ears pricked to the noise of approaching paws behind them. He turned to the sound, a gasp in this throat.

And there the gasp stayed, as the Not Bears fell upon them viciously.

5

LONG NIGHT INTO DAWN

ALMA

It was all she could do to keep the mysterious woman’s words in mind, to trust in them, to hold faith that she was after something real and not simply chasing a desperate dream.

Nothing truly dies.

“That’s right,” she murmured, raindrops spilling down her hooded face as her robes were well soaked through.

Flashes of light splintered through the bare branches overhead, casting webs of shadow across her path. Those shadows were lively. Difficult to distinguish. The woods shivered as the heavens clapped and growled.

She had since replaced the machete in the wagon, the handle sticking out from under the tarp, readily accessible should she need it.

She was exhausted to say the least. She hadn’t gotten much sleep. Her thoughts were soupy, wandering, on edge. Each bark of thunder sent her shoulders hunching about her neck.

When she happened across a giant heap of collapsed stone in the trees, she hauled her wagon there, hoping for a dry crevice where she might sit for a bit.

The ruins did hold something of a shape. She circled the structure, scanning for an opening. A nook. A cranny. She found one. It was low, barely shorter than she was, so that she needed to duck slightly to peer into it. She listened. While the rain pattered noisily at her backside, the darkness ahead breathed silence.

Another flash of lightning reached through the structure’s openings, and in the illuminated depths Alma saw something waiting there. An upright figure. Even in the split-second light, Alma noticed the idle sway of its body as it stared back.

“Oh,” she blurted. She pulled back from the opening, into the rain. “Sorry. Terribly sorry…”

Another flicker of storm light and she saw it again. Closer now. Moving toward her.

Heart in her throat, Alma wheeled her wagon around and fled as quickly as her soaking sandals would carry her. She removed her compass, hoping for another strike to illuminate it, but there was none. No matter. She pocketed it and hurried away, anywhere but here.

She chanced a glance over her shoulder. The stone structure loomed through the trees. She prayed that whatever lived inside stayed there. She eyed the handle of her machete sprouting from the wagon tarp.

You are fine, everything is fine, just keep going… going…

Another bloom of lightning. Through the latticework of shadow Alma glimpsed its form, hunched and winding through the trees. She picked up the pace, pulled the wagon more recklessly across the forest, bouncing and rattling. She caught herself holding her breath, forced herself to exhale. Thunder rolled.

When next she looked behind her, she saw no sign of it. She’d lost sight of the stone structure altogether.

Perhaps it was only a territorial response, she thought. Once she’d made it clear she was leaving, it had returned from whence it came.

Alma jittered with each step as the cold rain chilled her to her marrow. She desperately needed rest. And shelter of her own. Anything would do at this point, so long as she was dry. And alone. She checked her compass once more and found she needed to slightly correct course. Hopefully her veering hadn’t taken her too far from the intended path.

What even is the intended path? How far must I go?

It would be too convenient, she thought, if her destination lay exactly north of Gloam. Surely there was some variance, but how was she supposed to account for it?

Soon she found herself following below the sheer edge of another hillside, its steep upper shelf high above her head. She stayed close, until she discovered exactly what she needed.

“Oh, thank you, thank you…”

An indentation, not quite deep enough to be called a cave. More like a pocket. Ropes of rainwater sluiced from the upper lip of its opening. Alma carefully navigated the wagon through the downpour, into the damp-but-better-than-nothing shelter underneath. She positioned the wagon just so. She lifted the tarp and checked on Calum’s corpse, as if anything might have changed since last she saw him.

Gone for now, but not forever.

She touched his face and pulled her hand away. She needed to stop doing that. His cheek was cold and stiff under her fingertips.

Gone for now, but not forever.

She covered him back up with the tarp, pulled the machete from its resting place, and nestled herself on the ground beside the wagon, so that it stood between her and the hollow’s opening. She was still cold and wet, of course. She just hoped she wouldn’t get sick. She needed to stay strong.

For the both of them.

The woman’s home was cramped and bright with firelight, yet Alma still trembled with chills. She watched as the woman moved about the place, her form obscured in the smoky light as she lifted a small wooden box and placed it on a shelf beside the fire. Then she picked up something else. She showed it to Alma, cradled in both hands.

It was a blackbird. A dead one, its glittering feathers smudged with dirt. She gently placed its corpse inside the wooden box. Then she fetched a ceramic jug from the floor, from which she poured a dark helping of loose earth into the box as well. Finally she covered the box with a wooden lid.

“Nothing truly dies,” she said, her voice as hazy as her face.

Yes, Alma wanted to say. I know this. I’m coming. I’m on my way.

The woman seemed not to notice her, as she continued collecting a variety of things from the many satchels and trunks stowed about the place.

“I look forward to meeting you,” she replied.

To this, Alma’s heart radiated warmth.

She woke to thunder. But the rain had stopped. She opened her eyes to the gloom of her shelter, tried to sit upright, and bumped against the underside of the handcart she’d forgotten was there.

Her heart was pounding for some reason.

Propped up slightly on her elbows, she paused and surveyed the dark woods outside her cubbyhole. It was brighter than it’d been before, not because the sunrise was near, but because the storm was breaking up, allowing patches of moonlight into the valley.

It was largely thanks to this Alma saw the humanoid figure standing amongst the trees, watching. The same figure as before, she was certain. It had followed her here. She stared back, unblinking, and held its silhouetted gaze for as long as she could stand. She sensed nothing good about it—no curiosity, nothing of that sort. She was prey.

It stood quite rigid, though it did shift its weight from one leg to the other on occasion, and turned its head to watch its own surroundings. Mostly, though, it was focused on her. And she on it. She grasped the machete’s handle beside her.

Seconds stretched to minutes to an hour and still the thing in the woods watched patiently.

“I don’t want any trouble!” Alma shouted.

It didn’t appear bothered by the outburst, though it did begin to wander. It moved through the trees, gliding to the left, where it watched her a while longer before gliding several paces to the right and watching from there.

Now and again the glint of its eyes met hers and Alma’s body erupted with goosebumps. It was dangerous, whatever it was. Intelligent.

Most frightening of all, was that Alma couldn’t fathom why it hadn’t taken the opportunity to attack while she’d been sleeping.

Instead it had simply chosen to watch.

Alma couldn’t be sure where it disappeared to, or when exactly she’d lost sight of it, but as the forest brightened with morning light, all at once the thing in the trees was gone.

Had she fallen asleep at some point? Her sore eyes and heavy head begged to differ.

She checked on Calum again, ascertaining he was still dead, and replaced the machete in the wagon beside him. Her robes were no longer drenched, only damp. She pulled the wagon out from her shelter and checked the compass.

It was then the most sudden urge came over her—to return back the way she came, back to Gloam, back to the comfort of her people.

Instead, she took up the wagon’s handle and resumed her forward march.

6

MISERY LOVES COMPANY

GUNNAR

Gunnar reawakened with an old scream still swollen in his throat. He sat upright and conducted a quick exam of his naked body, double-checking he once more had all his various appendages.

It was always like this. Death and renewal. Over and over again. The terror you died with always followed you into your next go around, like waking from a bad dream. Only it wasn’t a dream.

He repeated the man’s name to remember it. “Calum.”

Something screeched through the air. Gunnar craned his neck to see it. Or them, rather. A whole flock diving through the drifting smoke clouds. A woman screamed and Gunnar saw her, too, in the clutches of these alien birds. They carried her out over the grand and terrible vista beside Gunnar and released her there, screaming and thrashing in her descent before suddenly she was silenced on the rocks below.

Gunnar growled under his breath.

He hated respawning on the cliffs.

He picked himself up, dusted the ash from his ass. There came another squawk from above. He glanced that way and their eyes met—its big and black and shiny. The reptilian bird-thing swooped for him. Gunnar ducked out of its trajectory.

Already tired of this old game, Gunnar sprinted for the cliff’s edge, where he hurled himself over and, belly singing, crossed his fingers that he’d wake up someplace closer to the Lake of Flesh next time around.

He opened his eyes to utter darkness. The smell of damp dirt and sulfur intermingled in his nostrils. He attempted to stand and bumped his head against the low ceiling of what he gathered was an underground tunnel.

“Great.”

He’d awakened in these before, too. Never a good time. Most often he crawled for what felt like miles before eventually he was either snatched away by something blind and hungry in the dark or found himself trapped in a space too tight to maneuver himself through. He’d only made the latter mistake once. As it was impossible to starve or die of dehydration in this world, he’d spent many days, perhaps even weeks or months, trapped in the dark until finally he’d taken it upon himself to bash his own brain against the rocky wall. Now when he was confronted by such a crawlspace he simply started with the brain bashing.

To his relief, however, this tunnel seemed on an upward trend.

He ascended on hands and knees, and spent his time thinking about the man he’d just met. Calum. A new arrival, when those were so rare these days. It was something commonly discussed amongst the populace of this realm—that newcomers were becoming few and far between. The meaning of this was up for debate.

Gunnar spotted light up ahead. He crawled harder. Faster. Bruises be damned. His ascent brought him around one curve to another, until finally the tunnel’s opening appeared, within reach. He didn’t just crawl out of it, however. In the rare instances he’d managed to make it to the surface from such tunnels, there had often been something waiting just outside—one beast or another biding its time for tasty morsels such as him to come climbing out of the nest.

Gunnar crept to the opening, scoping out what lay beyond. He was faced with a burnt forest. Quiet, except for the distant sounds of screams. Always screams. But nothing seemed to be waiting for him as far as he could tell. He crawled out of the hole and pulled himself to his wobbly feet.

“Please…”

A voice drew Gunnar’s attention. Somewhere close. He peered in its direction but saw no one.

“…help me…”

He looked up. There was a man in the branches, folded over grotesquely like a wrinkled pair of jeans. It was the tree itself that had done it. Ensnared him. The fact he was still alive defied the laws of physics and life itself, but such was the nature of this place.

“Kill me,” he begged.

A long strand of bloody spittle fell from his pleading mouth. His attention was locked on Gunnar. Eyes bulging.

“And how the hell am I supposed to do that?” Gunnar said, hands on his hips. “You expect me to climb up there and end up like you? Is that what you want?”

The man tried to say something more but the branches shifted, crushing the voice from his throat. It was a shame, obviously. Almost as bad as being trapped in an underground crawlspace for months on end.

“Jesus. How long you been up there for?”

The man tried to speak but words failed him. Gunnar peered about the forest floor, searching for a rock he might use. He spotted one he thought suitable, hefty and round in his fist.

“I can throw this at you if you want?”

The man opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Nothing.

“Ah. Right. Hmmm. How about this… blink once for no, twice for yes. Yeah? Shall I kill you with this? I can’t promise it’ll be quick, but—”

Before he could even finish the thought the man blinked his bulging bloodshot eyes twice, very deliberate. Gunnar understood completely, of course. Better to endure some pain and be done with it. That was the way of this place, too. The suffering was the point. This world was meant to squeeze it out of them, wring them dry. It was inevitable one would find themselves in such a spot eventually. Learning from mistakes, and all that. This man had probably climbed these trees to escape something else. He wouldn’t be making the same mistake twice.

“All right,” Gunnar said. “Here goes.”

Gunnar threw the stone six times before he managed to strike the poor guy once. He was almost embarrassed by his performance but of course the man in the tree had more important things to worry about. He did improve, however. Now and again he asked the man if he was still alive, to which he silently yawned in reply. The branches stirred all the while, disturbed by Gunnar’s misplaced throws.

“Gunnar?”

Yet another, more familiar voice. A naked woman approached, tall and curvy, her black hair cropped short.

“Allison?”

“What are you doing?” she said. Then her mouth formed an ‘O’ as she noticed the man in the branches. “Oh.”

“Trying to put this one out of his misery,” Gunnar said. “You mind helping me out?”

“Yeah, sure,” Allison said, and immediately began searching for a rock of her own.

They took turns throwing their stones at the man in the tree. Allison was as terrible a shot as Gunnar, but working together the hits were coming faster. Occasionally they paused to ask the man if he was still alive, as it was difficult to tell at times.

“Lemme ask you something,” Gunnar said as they continued to throw. “When’s the last time you met a new soul?”

Allison had to think about it. “A new soul? You mean…”

“Someone brand new. Just woke up, or only died a handful of times, at most.”

Again, Allison really had to think about it.

“I don’t know,” she said. “A long, long time. I believe the last real new arrival I met was a man named Jordan, and that was… I don’t even know how many deaths ago. Why?”

She heaved another stone at the man in the tree, grunting with the effort.

“It’s been a long time for me, too,” Gunnar said. “Or it had been, anyway. I just met a guy. Calum was his name. But it got me thinking…”

“Uh oh,” Allison said cheekily, as she scooped her stone up off the ground.

“We see fewer new souls here as time goes on, don’t we?”

“Right,” Allison said, hurling her stone. A good, solid hit. She paused, panting slightly from all the throwing and retrieving. “Because life on Earth is dwindling. Isn’t that what they say?”

“That’s the best explanation we have,” Gunnar agreed. “But it’s got me thinking…”

“What happens when life runs out?” Allison said, stealing the words from his mouth. “You know you’re not the first to wonder that.”

“Of course not. But…”

“But if life does run out, then probably what happens next is our keeper moves on to a better fishing hole. Right? That seems to be the general consensus, anyway.”

“We’ve got to be getting close,” Gunnar said. “With how few new arrivals there are.”

“Did you ask this Calum?” Allison said. “How does he describe the world nowadays?”

“We didn’t get the chance to talk at length,” Gunnar admitted. “But I’m hoping to run into him again. I’ll have to ask.”

“I’ve heard others say it’s pretty dire. That was a while ago. Surely by now…”

Allison threw her stone and clocked the poor soul in the tree right against the temple. In an instant the branches unraveled, spilling him loose. His mangled corpse tumbled through like a pachinko machine. The body landed in a confusing heap. Allison sighed and dusted off her hands with a job well done.

“I’m heading for the bogs,” she told Gunnar. “We’ve a group planning to gather on the overlooking hillside there, just for some company if you’re interested in joining me?”

“Oh…” Gunnar awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. “I told Calum I’d meet him at the Lake of Flesh. So… that’s where I’m headed now.” Gunnar turned in a circle, still slightly disoriented. “I woke up underground and I’m still a bit lost. Any chance you can point me in the direction of a river?”

Allison pointed into the distance where she’d come from. “I crossed a river not twenty minutes before reaching you here.”

“Ah. Good. Thanks…”

“If you find your Calum fellow, you should bring him to the bogs. I bet the others would be interested in picking his brain.”

“Yeah, sure,” Gunnar said. “If I find him, I’ll do that.”

He thanked Allison again for her help and they parted ways, crossing the forest in opposite directions.

Truth be told, Gunnar had no intention of bringing Calum to the bogs, or heading there himself. Unlike Allison, he didn’t see the value in banding together in groups. Not here. There was no such thing as staving off death in this place, nor pain. And in Gunnar’s humble opinion, forming bonds with others only provided the land further ammunition with which to torture them. It was far easier to suffer alone. It was easier to survive alone, too, he had learned, without other hapless souls drawing unnecessary attention.

Soon enough he arrived alongside the promised river. He followed it downstream, keeping a safe distance from its gruesome, squelching current, as unknown entities liked to swim beneath the remains.

It wasn’t much longer before Gunnar knew exactly where he was, and within a few hours the Lake of Flesh was within sight.

“Gunnar!”

Someone called his name. He turned and spotted the naked man in question, waiting near the bordering woods. Sure enough it was Calum, somehow managing to beat him back to the lake. That was odd. Perhaps he had simply been lucky. Gunnar approached, but as they closed the distance between them he slowed.

Calum wasn’t alone.

“I did exactly like you said,” Calum said, coming to meet him. “I found a river and followed it, and…” He hoisted the terrible thing in his arms, squirming and pink. “…along the way I stumbled upon this little guy. I couldn’t just leave him.”

It was a baby Calum held, its pinched face threatening to bawl any moment.

With a groan, Gunnar replied, “Fucking hell.”

7

HARSH EXCHANGES

ALMA

Despite never leaving the safety of Gloam’s walls until now, Alma readily recognized the symptoms of the Unmaking—living things made other than what they were meant to be.

According to folk tales, the forests of the old world had been lush and green, full of leaves that fluttered like a million twinkling eyes. The trees that surrounded Alma now, however, were gray and bare, their desiccated branches reaching for the sky like shriveled arms. Their bark bore rashes and lesions not unlike those that festered on human skin when exposed to the Deadlands for prolonged periods, blistering, rupturing, and in some places sloughing off on waves of foul excretions the color of bloody egg yolk. They were sick. All of them.

And the wildlife was no better off. Alma caught glimpses here and there of small forest creatures darting through the spiny underbrush, and their ailments were readily apparent. Patchy fur, and unruly growths sprouting from the bubbling skin in between. It was a wonder they were alive at all, some of them.

The city of Gloam, on the other hand, was spared the corruption of the Unmaking, the soil and water they drew from blessed by Oleth. Alma shuddered to think where they’d be without their god-given safe haven—a place to repopulate, rebuild, and eventually expand once they were ready to take the world back for themselves. This was the Grand Plan they were taught from the start, and reiterated upon each week in church. The Remaking. God’s plan. Oleth’s plan.

Alma worried that if she didn’t hurry, her time in the Deadlands would result in the same transformations she saw all around her. Nevertheless, she took a short break and ate something—a chunk of bread and some salted cow jerky. Then she checked her compass for the thousandth time and hastily resumed her journey.

Nothing truly dies.

Come find me in the north.

I look forward to meeting you.

Although she was no closer to knowing just how close she was to reaching her destination, it was some small peace of mind to know the woman from her dreams was ready and waiting for her.

It was just a matter of making it there in one piece.

The sun was high and Alma’s robes were finally dry again after the previous night’s storm. She held her compass in one hand as she lugged the wagon in the other, watching as the needle bobbed generally northward.

She was still studying the compass when a couple travelers nearly frightened her out of her skin.

They appeared without warning. A man and a woman, walking in her direction through the trees ahead. They each wore robes not dissimilar to Alma’s, though theirs were heavily spotted with grime and completely darkened with mud around the hems, most likely from last night’s storm.

Alma came to a complete halt. At first she wasn’t sure how to react. Did she run and hide? Did she feign friendliness? She hoped they were friendly. Her thumping heart betrayed her better judgement.

Taking notice of Alma in kind, the other woman stopped, pointed her out with a finger, and with a jovial tone announced, “Look!”

Alma shoved her compass back into her pocket as the man and woman continued toward her. The closer they came, the better she was able to discern the state of them—unwashed, and as sickly as the surrounding woods. Their eyes were darkly ringed and baggy as though from a lack of sleep. The man’s face was heavily pocked, with fresh yellow pustules spreading across his forehead and mouth. The woman appeared healthier, if only slightly. They came to another stop several paces from Alma, much to her relief.

“It’s not often we meet another traveler,” the woman said.

“I…” Alma hesitated. How much did she wish to tell these strangers, if anything? “Yes, I’m relieved to see some friendly faces myself.”

“Where are you coming from?” the woman asked.

The woman pulled down the collar of her robes to scratch at the massive red boil concealed underneath, bulging just above her collarbone. Alma ached with secondhand discomfort at just the sight of it.

“I’m just…” Alma faltered, struggling to think of an answer. “I’m delivering something.”

“Delivering something?” the woman said, her curiosity piqued, if not a bit skeptical.

“Yes. To a friend…”

“To a friend? Out here in the wastes?”

Alma didn’t know what to say. What sort of lies would these people believe? They knew so much more about the world than she did. At least she assumed so, although she valued the lessons she’d been taught at home, of course.

“You’re from one of the cities, aren’t you?” the woman said. “From that little place just south of here, if I had to guess. You don’t look like you’ve been traveling long. Am I right?”

Alma was speechless. She didn’t wish to tell this woman about Gloam or her reasons for leaving it behind.

“I…” Another hesitation. “Yes, I come from the city you speak of. I’ve been sent on a mission of sorts.”

“A mission? And what is it you’re delivering on this mission?”

“I’m delivering supplies,” Alma said, panicked. “Gardening materials.”

“Gardening materials?” the man said, grinning ear to ear. “You do a lot of gardening inside those fancy walls, do ya?”

Alma nodded sheepishly. “We do, in fact.”

“We heard stories once,” the woman said, “that the grounds inside your cities are free of the blight. Is that true?”

“It is true, yes. The grounds are blessed by Oleth and safe to grow from. Same as the water in our wells.”

“Imagine that,” the woman said, smiling in the most dreadful, knowing manner. “And so I suppose the gardening materials in your… transport, would be of no use to folks like us. Is that right?”

Alma’s heart hammered, her words trembling along the flow of her shallow breaths. “Anything planted outside our city’s walls would certainly be… corrupted, that’s true.”

“Corrupted,” the man repeated, his smile leaving his eyes. “Like us, you mean.”

Alma blanched, the blood draining coldly from her face. “No, I don’t… I don’t mean that.”

“No, no, of course you don’t,” the woman said with a pitying tilt of her head. “So where is it you’re headed, then? Must be another blessed place, isn’t that right? Otherwise what hope would this friend of yours have, making use of your materials?”

“I…” Alma swallowed nervously. “Enough about me. What about you two? Where are you headed?”

“We’re not headed anywhere in particular,” the man said, and as he spoke one of the pustules along the corner of his mouth burst and ran down his chin. He wiped it away against the heel of his palm. “We just live out here, like lots of folks.”

“I see.” It seemed increasingly clear to Alma these people weren’t about to simply let her be. “Well, I’m impressed you’ve managed it. I know I couldn’t.”

“It’s not as dangerous as you think,” the woman said. “In fact, many of us look at the big walls of your city and think you’re the crazy ones, hiding from the natural way of things like you do.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy…”

“It seems to us that you city dwellers are simply afraid of change.” The woman continued scratching her red boil, nudging it softly in place. It appeared it was stretched tight, the skin so thin it could pop any second. “A little change never hurt anybody.”

Alma glanced at the surrounding woods, then peered nervously over her shoulder in the direction she’d come from, wondering where her best route of escape might be if push came to shove.

“Well,” she said, indulging this conversation so long as it meant prolonging their cordiality. “Where I come from, we were taught that these changes…” Another anxious gulp. “…hindered a person’s fertility. But you say there are lots more people like you, living out here in the…” She had to stop herself from calling the world outside her city the Deadlands. “…in the wilds?”

To Alma’s relief it seemed her words managed to intrigue them, thinking on what she said.

“It’s true, what you say,” the woman admitted. “It is a rare condition these days, pregnancy. And rarer still to survive childbirth. And even rarer still, nowadays, for children to be born whole. And I don’t mean in the… bodily sense.”

“Half-souls,” Alma blurted out.

“Half-souls,” the woman repeated. “Is that what you city dwellers call it?”

“We’ve begun seeing it in our children as well as of late,” Alma said. “A listlessness about them.”

“A list-ee-what?” the man said.

“A listlessness,” Alma repeated. “They do not express themselves as much as…”

The woman interrupted her with a loud, drawn-out yawn, which crescendoed into an aggravated groan.

“I’m tired of talking,” she said. “Let’s see what’s inside that wagon already.”

Shadows fell across their faces as they started toward her, their steps quick and deliberate. Aggressive. Alma tensed. Her mind raced, thoughts scattered, torn between fight or flight. It was two against one. Except…

Alma pulled her machete free from the wagon, its gleaming shape wobbling in her grasp. “Stop where you are!”

The man and woman did stop. Their eyes narrowed. Their empty hands twitched at their sides, longing for weapons of their own, which they did not have.

“You won’t be using that against us,” the man said, as his blistered mouth cracked into yet another grin. “You don’t have it in you.”

They took another step toward Alma, only a few left between them. Thinking fast, Alma retreated against the edge of her wagon, reached beneath the corner of its tarp, and found exactly what she was looking for.

“Tell that to the last man who dared cross me,” she said, raising Calum’s limp wrist into the air, pale fingers pointed toward the sky.

This gave the others pause. Which was good, because if they came any closer they would be within slicing and dicing territory. Did she truly have it in her, though? she wondered. She did not know. She thought she would rather not find out.

There came a crack from the woods. The others turned to face it. Alma did the same, but saw nothing. When the man and woman returned their attention to her, they remained as they were—at a safe distance, just in case.

“So all that you said before, about delivering supplies to a friend. That was a lie?” the woman said, glaring warily, though her squinted eyes did carry a hint of admiration in them.

“I am done answering your questions,” Alma said. “You will leave me be. And if you refuse, I will not make it easy for you, in any case.”

There came another noise from the woods. A tremendous crunch—less a twig under one’s foot, more an entire branch smashing apart beneath something else. Something on the move. Coming closer.

“Let’s get out of here,” the man said.

“What about her?” the woman said, nodding to Alma, whose hand was beginning to turn numb, she held the machete so tight.

“Leave her.”

“We don’t want her?”

We don’t want her? Alma repeated in her mind, confused, as surely they only meant to take her things?

“No. Come on, let’s go.”

The man moved first, blundering off into the trees away from Alma and the noise in the woods. The woman peered after him, then to Alma, as though considering a one-on-one ordeal. Ultimately, she hurried after her partner. Alma stayed put, watching them shrink into the distance, vanishing through the trees.

Another startling crack broke over the forest, followed by a great, bellowing moan. Alma had never heard such a voice before. Such a creature.

She placed Calum’s cold arm back under the tarp—thank you, thank you—took up the wagon’s handle once more, and proceeded onward without so much as a second glance at those who had interrupted her to begin with.

8

CHEWED

GUNNAR

“What are you doing with that?” Gunnar asked, indicating the baby in Calum’s arms.

Calum glowered as he seemed to consider what kind of monster would even question it.

“I couldn’t just leave him. Not with so much danger afoot…”

“That baby is probably older than you are,” Gunnar said. “There are many children here. The one in your arms has probably already died a thousand deaths and will die a thousand more.”

Calum appeared aghast as he peered into the sorrowful eyes of the creature he held, before softening with adoration at the mere sight of it.

“How could a child end up in a place like this, anyway? It doesn’t make sense. What could a mere baby have done to deserve—”

“It’s not about deserving or not deserving,” Gunnar interrupted. “This isn’t Hell, Calum. Our being here is not a reflection of the lives we lived. Sure, maybe some of the souls here deserve this fate, but not most of us.”

Calum peered at the smoke-filled, fire-tinged horizon, at the grotesque lake beside them.

“Where are we, then, if not Hell?”

Gunnar couldn’t help but groan, as he knew the amount of explanation required to give a newcomer any chance at understanding. But he’d sought Calum out, hadn’t he?

He studied the man before him, who in turn struggled to remove his gaze from the immortal innocence in his possession. During his many years in this place, Gunnar’s few soft spots had all hardened. It was a refreshing sight to see one in Calum. It sparked a mote of envy in him.

“That’s a long and complicated story, I’m afraid,” Gunnar said, drawing his gaze across the burping Lake of Flesh. “But I suppose we have all the time in the world now, don’t we…” He clapped a hand on Calum’s shoulder. “Come on, then. Let’s walk.”

They followed the gruesome shore side by side, Calum with his arms full, Gunnar keeping a wary eye on their surroundings in case any more Not Bears came galloping their way.

“First there is one thing you must understand, Calum. While we now have proof that an afterlife exists, it’s not anything like what you believe…”

“You don’t know what I believe,” Calum replied defensively.

Gunnar took a great breath of anticipation. “All right. Indulge me. Tell me what you’ve been taught.”

Calum traded the baby from one arm to the other as he gathered his thoughts.

“In the end, every person is judged based on their time amongst the living. Those of righteous morals are rewarded for their good deeds while the… the…” Calum paused as he took in their nightmarish surroundings. “…while the truly reprehensible are punished for their misdeeds.”

“And I’m gonna stop you right there,” Gunnar said, unable to listen to another second. “Heaven and Hell aren’t real, Calum. That’s the honest truth, and I’m in a pretty good position to tell it, as are the other billions of souls trapped across this tortured realm. To be honest, I’m a little disappointed to learn the living are still spouting these fairy tales. Bad people aren’t punished. Good people aren’t rewarded. You are born, you live the life that is laid out for you—based on all manner of variables you don’t get to choose—and then you die. Except that’s where things have changed recently. A long time ago... oh, for crying out loud.”

Gunnar grabbed Calum by the bicep and steered him away from the lake, as he was beginning to veer dangerously close to the edge as they walked.

“Less watching the baby, more watching where you’re going, Calum.”

“Sorry,” he said, eyeing the gore-filled waters beside them, horrified by what he’d almost done.

“Anyway, like I was saying. A long time ago, before all of this…” He gestured broadly to the surrounding hellscape. “It used to be that death wasn’t a finish line at all. Instead of ending up in one place, our souls—our metaphysical material, as some prefer to call it—would simply be reabsorbed into the Earth’s to be used in the creation of other things. New things. Anything.”

“The Earth’s?” Calum said.

“That’s right. No Heaven. No Hell. Just one big spiritual compost right under our noses, all this time. Maybe you’ve heard of a little something called the law of conservation of energy? No? Well… basically what it means is, nothing can truly be destroyed. Only changed. For instance, say you light something on fire. It doesn’t just vanish, right? It becomes other things: ash, smoke, heat, etcetera. You see what I’m saying? Nothing ever becomes nothing, and nothing can be made from nothing. This applies to all types of energy—electrical, thermal, sound, yada yada yada…”

“Yada yada yada?” Calum repeated.

“So on and so forth. The list goes on.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, this includes spiritual energy, too, Calum. Something that wasn’t even proven by modern sciences at the time, but we’ve been able to better hypothesize under our current… circumstances…”

“I will be honest with you,” Calum said, “I do not understand much of what you are telling me.”

“Just understand this: we know now that spiritual energy is real. We know that it is unique. And we know that when we die, it is recycled into a greater pool, where it’s essentially chewed up and spat back out as something new, over and over again. Does that make sense?”

“Okay,” Calum said, though Gunnar wasn’t convinced the man beside him was paying close enough attention. “So what are we experiencing now, then?”

“What we’re experiencing now is not Earth’s system. This is something else. Our energy has in effect been intercepted.”

“Intercepted?”

“Yes, by the very thing responsible for the corruption of our world. Instead of chewing us up and spitting us back out, this thing, well… it just keeps on chewing.”

It was at that moment a great number of shadows passed over them, causing them both to crane their necks toward the sky. Over their heads were many things—scaly, impish, flying things beating their wings through the smoke. Calum panicked, took off running. Gunnar tried to follow as one of those huge bat-like creatures swooped and glanced the side of his head. He staggered, arms raised to defend himself. Another came, its gleeful chortle in Gunnar’s ears as it swiped beside him. He dodged away from it.

Not realizing how close he was to the edge, Gunnar pitched headfirst into the lake.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

Despite the countless years Gunnar had existed in this place, the Lake of Flesh was still something that filled him with a genuine terror. That was noteworthy, too, considering it was something he’d already experienced before, which was precisely why he dreaded it so.

It was one of the worst ways to die in this place. Easily.

He found himself sprawled across a surface layer of decomposing parts. Limbs and torsos with an occasional head bobbing amongst the blood and internals, some poor soul’s face peering back from between his fingers as he tried to push himself upright. The lake moved of its own accord, its contents stirring back and forth as great bubbles broke the surface, belching sour odors into the air. Each churning movement served to draw the lake’s contents toward its center. Including Gunnar. He fought to stay above the mass grave beneath him. Those flying beasts—which he held fully responsible for this disaster—had since lost interest in him, choosing to pursue Calum and his baby instead.

Serves you right, Gunnar thought bitterly.

He started to slip through the cracks. Half-submerged in the thick blood, he struggled to hold onto something, using the floating bodies as buoys as the lake’s constant shifting carried him farther out into its deep center. It was the center of the lake where the most belching occurred. Giant air pockets broke the surface there, as the lake gulped down what floated in its waters. The closer Gunnar came to those turbulent depths, the less he fought.

There was no escaping this.

Soon he began to feel the pull of the lake underneath him, gulping and stirring, gulping and stirring. The blast of air at the lake’s center sprinkled Gunnar’s head in gore.

Here we go.

The depths gulped again, drew him under before he could even manage an anticipatory breath. He groped for the surface, grasping dismembered limbs fruitlessly as he continued to sink. His lungs ached without breath. He was blind, as the churning lake tossed him amongst the other bodies down, down, down into the weighty dark.

He grew dizzy about the same time he felt an immense pull beneath him. The surrounding debris began to churn more violently. He was getting close. Deeper. The lake thrashed him, pushed him upward ever so slightly before dragging him down again several times the distance. There was a growing heat as well, in the black, bloody abyss.

Just get it over with. Just happen already, for the love of…

The lake heaved and settled, heaved and settled, drawing him ever closer, until the heat was stifling.

He winced as he touched it—the thing that waited along the bottom of the lake. In fact, he stood upon it momentarily, the underside of his foot touching the smooth surface of a massive bone.

A tooth.

He gathered against it as the giant maw of the lake prepared to open again, to suck down another mouthful of human remains. Its massive teeth came apart. Its dilating throat pulled him down.

Gunnar tumbled through, splashing to and fro through the winding tube of its esophagus until suddenly he was airborne. He plummeted. He landed against the soft elastic lining of the beast’s stomach, before sliding into yet another pool awaiting him. He floundered here as well. Arms and legs and everything else fluttered past him through the blood and bile as the stomach walls constricted in quick succession, knocking Gunnar side to side as the area around him became steadily smaller, closing in like some fleshy trash compactor, until finally Gunnar was pinned and howling, the gore flooding through his open mouth as the beast crushed him down into a digestible pulp.

9

SO CLOSE

ALMA

Alma took another much-needed break as her wagon pulling wore her out immensely. She ate some more bread and jerky and drank half a container of water. She would have liked to get a couple hours of sleep and reenergize, but wished to get as much traveling done during the day as possible. She dreaded spending another night alone in the Deadlands.

Not like I have any other choice…

She checked on Calum again. Couldn’t stop herself. She worried she might forget his face, now he was gone.

“You’re not gone,” she murmured, touching his cheek under the criss-crossed shade of the branches. “You’re not gone. Nothing truly dies…”

She wanted to burst into tears at the sight of him—his purpling lips, the slight yellowing of his skin—but she resisted. To cry meant she was grieving, and how could she grieve if he wasn’t truly gone?

But even the suppression of her tears came with its own guilt. In Gloam, it was considered a privilege to cry, to be able to cry. Many could not even if they wanted to. Rarer still was laughter. Alma didn’t know anyone who could laugh. Not since Pamela, an older woman with whom Alma had taught children at the city’s nursery. It had been several months now since Pamela left them to join Prophet Tobias in the Under—as was customary at the age of sixty. And so it was that Alma had not heard the sound of laughter in just as long.

Instead of crying over Calum’s deterioration, she covered him back up with the tarp, checked her compass, and prepared to resume her journey north.

She was just about to start rolling the wagon when something stirred inside. She stopped, listened. It rustled, twitching against the underside of the brown tarp. Something had found its way underneath, she thought. An animal, greedy for her provisions. Alma reached for the cover… as something else grasped it first.

“Oh!”

She stumbled back as four pale fingers curled around the tarp’s edge. Calum peeled the cover off himself, sitting upright as he did. His expressionless face revealed no thoughts, his eyes held stiffly shut. Alma could hear the stretch of his dead ligaments, the pop of his bloodless joints as his mouth yawned open. A voice emitted, but it wasn’t his.

“You need to keep going, Alma,” the woman said. “You are very close. But you are being followed.”

“I…” Alma could hardly find her own voice. “I’m coming as fast—”

“You need to keep going, Alma. You need to wake up.”

Alma sprang awake. The wagon was just as she’d left it, the tarp pulled slightly aside from when she’d fished out her food and drink. Calum still lay underneath, undisturbed and dead as ever.

She put a hand over her heart as though to steady its beating. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. How long had it been? She stood up far too quickly and needed to steady herself against the wagon. The sunshine was dampened behind a thin silver sheet of clouds across the sky.

She put away her things and hurried onward.

You are very close.

She swelled with joy thinking on these words. Why the woman had delivered them in such a grisly manner, she couldn’t guess. Perhaps she had merely interrupted the dream Alma was already having regardless.

But you are being followed.

She glanced over her shoulder, scanning the trees for movement, other bodies. She saw no one. She wondered who the woman might mean. Could it be those Deadlanders again? Coming to finish what they started?

How much time have I lost?

She must have slept a considerable amount, as it wasn’t much longer before the light of day began slipping away from her. The clouds darkened in the sun’s descent. The shadows of the woods grew longer, deeper, turning purple, turning blue, turning black. She became aware of the darkness coming to life all around her and picked up the pace.

Night turned over her fully.

The trees whispered. Not with movement, but voices. Alma wasn’t sure what to make of them at first. It started low. A confusing hum. Then they grew louder. Distinct. Alma flinched as strands of words rose above the others, from left and right, from behind, as though over her shoulder, hissing beside her ear. The wagon rattled and bumped. She paused only to pull her machete loose, unsure what good it would do her. These were only voices. Bodiless. The lips to which their words should have been attached were missing.

These woods are haunted.

Something pulled on Alma’s robes. She spun to face it, machete raised. There was nothing. No one. A cool breeze shook the branches, carried the whispers overhead. From the breathy, discordant voices, Alma was able to pluck a single word.

“…alone…”

She crouched to pick up the wagon’s handle when something scuffed the dirt, coming toward her. She gasped, standing straight.

“…trespasser…”

The machete quivered in her trembling grip. She studied the woods on either side, the trees creaking, swaying, conspiring.

“I am no trespasser,” she announced. “I mean you no harm. I will be gone from this place before you—”

“…harm…”

Claws raked her back, tore through her robes like gossamer, shredding flesh. Alma screamed. She swung blindly on pivoting feet. The machete gleamed prettily through the air and nothing besides. She swung again, disoriented. Something slashed the underside of her arm, rended her flesh to the bone. The machete clanged to the dirt. She held her bleeding arm against herself, stumbling. The whispers in the trees grew agitated. Severe. Venomous.

“…weak…”

“…afraid…”

There was something there. In the dark. They were difficult to see but she noticed them now. Abstract etchings upon the darkness itself. They swayed, vibrating to the volume of their whispers. Visible noise.

Cradling her arm to her stomach, Alma bent toward the wagon once more. She stuffed her good hand under the tarp in a desperate bid for something underneath. She groped amongst her supplies, fumbling over boxes and cloth sacks until she happened upon the smooth cylinders between.

The whispers gathered hungrily around her.

She grabbed the flare’s pull-string with her injured hand and, remembering Neil’s advice, ripped it loose with as much force as she could muster. The flare ignited in a spray of sparkling silver. Alma recoiled from the sudden glow, brighter than even she’d expected. The entities hissed in reply. Their hovering forms frenzied, shrinking back. She grabbed the wagon’s handle once more and started off, the flare held sizzling hot before her, blood pouring down from her bisected forearm into the open sleeve of her robes.

“Stay back, stay back, stay back,” she murmured, tugging the wagon shuffling step by shuffling step.

The entities followed. Squinting through the light, she saw them—black and pulsing through the outer dark, keeping pace.

Her flare afforded her perhaps three minutes of light before it started fizzling out.

“No, no, no…”

She reached under the tarp, produced a second flare. She tossed the first to the dirt as its sparks grew faint. The things in the woods pressed in. She pulled the string loose, a shower of radiant silver dust into the weeds. Again the entities hissed, shrinking back. Taking up the wagon’s handle, Alma proceeded on.

Her arm felt on fire and she couldn’t tell the difference between the pain of her injury and the heat of the flare. Her wound hung open in two meaty flaps, the visible bone glossy under the flow of blood. She paled at the sight of it. Her stomach swelled with hot bile.

Keep going, keep going…

“…weak…afraid…bleeding…” the woods chanted in pursuit.

It wasn’t long before her second flare was dying out. She dropped it at her feet, pulled out another. She ripped the string… but no spark was produced.

“Dammit…”

She reached under the tarp and struggled to find another. How many did she have? She believed she’d started with five. She’d lost one on the hillside the previous night. That left her with four, two of which were already lit, the third bunk. She couldn’t for the life of her find the fourth. She rummaged through her supplies, sweeping them left and right as the flare at her feet dwindled. She grabbed something familiar—the curve of Calum’s wrist. Nestled against the inside of it she found the fourth and final flare. She took hold of it.

And something took hold of her.

Alma yelped as she was pulled from the wagon’s tarp and onto the hard dirt. A mess of shadows squiggled over top of her, fuzzy black threads licking the air, a low hum filling her ears. She grabbed the string on the flare, prepared to yank it loose. The thing swiped it from her, sent it tumbling across the dirt under the wagon. Gone.

It pierced her—an invisible pitchfork through the meat of her throat. She might have screamed, but all she managed was a pitiable gurgle as the claws retracted. A stream of blood jetted across her vision.

I’m so sorry, Calum.

10

BRIGHT SIDE

GUNNAR

He dreamed of his brother—the two of them on the apartment balcony, each with a beer in their hand as they talked and watched the glow of traffic along the street below.

They did this often and yet not nearly enough.

But tonight was different. The mood had been off the moment Gunnar set foot in his brother’s place. His brother had been off. Quiet. Contemplative. Something to say.

He waited until Gunnar was through with his second beer before telling him the bad news.

He opened his eyes to a fire-and-brimstone sky.

In addition to the smoke, an especially sour stench wafted over him, like spoiled meat. He was lying on an incline. He sat up, found himself on a prickly hillside overlooking a great, vaporous bog down below. These were the bogs Allison mentioned. Somehow he’d managed to awaken on the very hillside she’d mentioned, too. But he’d arrived too late. Down below, a number of people were scattered and running for their lives, bog monsters in pursuit. Gunnar watched as those poor souls tripped over themselves, sometimes straight into the boiling waters. A quick death, at least.

Then, over the sound of the others’ screams, Gunnar heard another voice nearby. The delicate sound of another man’s sobs.

He could hardly believe it. It was actually rather rare to bump into the same souls so often as this, but sure enough, as Gunnar peered farther up the hillside he found Calum sitting with his head buried against his knees. Gunnar climbed to meet him. He plopped himself down with a groan. Either Calum didn’t hear, or didn’t care, as he continued to weep with his head down.

“You doin’ all right?” Gunnar asked awkwardly.

Calum lifted his head only enough to peek out with his bloodshot eyes. Upon noticing Gunnar he promptly lowered his head again, snorting his liquid emotions.

“Maybe I haven’t gone to Hell,” he said, “but this is hell, either way…”

Gunnar couldn’t argue with that. In fact, he readily agreed.

“It’s never good, but it does get a little easier,” he reassured Calum. “Things start to lose a bit of their sting after the first hundred years or so…”

This only served to make Calum weep harder. Gunnar wasn’t sure how to respond, so he placed a clumsy hand on Calum’s back and watched as the others below continued throwing themselves into the burping bogs.

“On the bright side,” he said, “there are fewer and fewer new arrivals like yourself these days. Which suggests there are less deaths occurring in the real world… which suggests fewer people. Humanity is dwindling, am I right?”

Calum raised his head again, his tear-streaked face watching Gunnar like he’d said the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

“That’s the bright side?”

Gunnar scrambled to elaborate. “What I’m getting at, is there may come a time when there are no souls left to farm. Nothing new to consume. To chew. So what happens then? Does the entity responsible for all of this starve to death? Does it die?”

“I am still failing to see the bright side…”

“I’m saying there is a chance, however slim, that one day this will end.”

Calum appeared to reflect on this, staring off somberly. As he did, his gaze fastened onto something in the distance.

Many of those poor souls fleeing through the swamps were now climbing the hillside in their direction. Gunnar stood and helped Calum to his feet. They ascended together, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the bog monsters that would surely be drawn their way.

They reached the crest of the hill, panting. Calum kept running. Trying to keep up, Gunnar was soon reminded of what else lay ahead.

“Calum!” he shouted.

Calum didn’t stop. Those flying imps at the Lake of Flesh must have done a number on him, as he seemed desperate not to get caught by the bog monsters. If only he knew that what lay ahead was so much worse.

“Calum!” Gunnar ran faster. Harder. Enough to catch up and grab him by the shoulder. “Stop already, would you?”

Calum spun, eyes wild and afraid. They were alone again. The people from the swamp were currently being slaughtered halfway down the hillside, out of view. However, as was always the case, their screams were not the only ones.

“What is that noise?” Calum said. “Do you hear that?”

He furrowed his brow, turned on his heel. They stood on a kind of rocky plateau, stretching far and wide. At first glance, it seemed those other voices couldn’t have been coming from anywhere.

“What you’re hearing are the torture pits up ahead,” Gunnar said. “Well… one variety, anyway. There are so many different kinds…”

“Torture pits?”

Despite the heinous name alone, Calum wandered in the direction of those new screams and moans. Gunnar started to warn Calum that he did not want to see this, until it occurred to him that perhaps it was better for Calum to see it now. He would be sure to avoid it later.

The rocky plateau was not nearly as flat as it seemed. A choir of agony rose up to greet them as they neared the pit’s edge. Calum stiffened at the sight of it—at the sight of them.

This one was a fairly large pit. About what Gunnar remembered to be the size of an average hockey rink. Why a hockey rink came to mind for comparison, he couldn’t fathom. This vast pit was the opposite of icy cold. At the bottom lay a shallow depth of acid.

But it took a skillful eye to notice it between all the bodies.

“My god,” Calum said, as Gunnar witnessed what must have been his last scrap of hope slipping from his dread-stricken face.

Before them, men, women, and children crawled over one another in their desperate attempts to escape that which ate them alive—slowly but surely. Gunnar was accustomed to such sights by now, and thus felt no need to shy away from the scene. But for Calum it was too much. He turned his back on the pit. He stared into the opposite distance, unblinking, slightly quivering.

“I cannot do this,” he whispered.

He started off again. Not toward the hillside. Elsewhere. Anywhere. Gunnar glanced at the torture pit once more. Across the other side, huge shadows swelled on the horizon—lumbering giants bobbing into view, pulling great cloth sacks over their shoulders. It couldn’t be seen at this distance, but Gunnar knew well enough how those sacks bulged and writhed with new bounties, new additions for the pits. He’d taken a trip in one before, had ended up in this very pit, as well as a couple others. Someday Calum would experience them, too. They all did eventually. No pain in this realm remained a mystery forever.

At last, Gunnar hurried to catch up with the man whose soul had yet to be numbed like his had been so long ago.

11

SCIENCE EXPERIMENT

ALMA

Alma waited for the next wound to come, as her thoughts shook loose in her mind, her blood flowing freely from her throat.

Instead there appeared a light in the dark—the glow of fire advancing through the trees. Her assailants hissed, withdrew, darted away into the shadows. The fire moved closer. Shuffling footsteps. Someone appeared. Not a mysterious apparition this time, but a whole person. A woman. The fire wielder. Her face glistened with sweat as she bent over Alma, looking her up and down, studying her injuries.

“You’re okay,” the woman said. “You’re okay, you’re okay…”

Her voice was very unsure. Very young, Alma realized. Younger than she remembered from her dreams.

The young woman carefully set aside her burning lantern and took Alma into her arms. She dragged Alma upright. Alma wished she might have done more to help, but found her strength had left her—along with most of the feeling in her legs, her arms, her hands, her fingers. The woman hoisted her into the wagon, dumped her onto the tarp, onto the rigid shape of Calum’s body underneath. Then she took up her lantern once more and started to pull the wagon’s handle.

Alma tried to speak. It was hard enough just to stay awake.

“Stay with me,” the young woman told her.

But as the wagon bumped and rumbled into the weeds, through the trees, Alma’s vision constricted with darkness.

The shadows returned to claim her.

The starry sky shone through the branches. The whisper of the woods had gone, leaving only the creaking of the wagon as it jostled Alma back and forth. The flow of her blood had slowed. Possibly because there wasn’t much left. She blinked her tired eyes, tried to lift her aching head but couldn’t. Even still, she saw the shape of the young woman before her, pulling the wagon in one hand, holding out her lantern in the other. Beyond them, another light waited, this one burning in the shape of a square.

A window.

It hung suspended in the darkness ahead, belonging to a hut nestled deep in the woods. It was here the woman brought the wagon, parking it just outside where Alma could smell the smoky aroma of the fireplace within. The young woman bent over her, surprising her.

“How are you doing?” she asked, but Alma couldn’t answer. “Can you stand? Probably not…” She left Alma for a brief moment. The squeak and scrape of an ill-fitted door pulling across dirt. The woman returned. “I’m going to drag you inside. Okay?”

The glow of the illuminated window swelled and shrank, shrank some more, as the darkness closed in on Alma once again.

Alma next awakened already wincing. Sharp pain. Poking and prodding of tender parts. She squirmed, her makeshift bed crinkling beneath her, packed with mashed weeds and other dried plants, enough to form some semblance of softness. She winced again as the young woman dabbed her fingers against the gouges in her throat.

“I know it hurts,” she said. “But it’s for your own good…”

Alma gazed foggily around the hut, at the numerous oddities decorating its walls, many more dangling from the dome of its roof—twigs and dead branches folded, entwined, and knotted just so. Shelves overflowed with bouquets of various herbs bundled in wicker baskets. A sturdy wooden bow hung by the door, with a full quiver of arrows beside it. A large ceramic pot sat in the far corner of the hut, from which a small tree grew with knobby branches and the warmest, richest brown bark Alma had ever laid eyes on.

In the middle of the hut, on the floor, lay Calum’s decomposing body, now naked.

“Don’t worry,” the young woman said. “He’s not going anywhere. And neither are you, if I can help it. Now hold still.”

Alma gasped as the young woman swabbed a thick helping of some goopy balm across her pierced throat. Within seconds, however, the pain receded. In its place, a euphoric warmth spread through Alma’s blood, broke across her skin like sunshine on an otherwise cold day.

It was only then Alma truly noticed her. The young woman from her dreams. She was not a young woman, as it turned out. Not exactly. Much younger than Alma ever could have guessed.

“You’re just…” Alma couldn’t find her words, but the adolescent girl seemed to understand just fine as she smiled softly. Once again Alma regarded Calum on the floor, looking deader than ever. “Can you save him?”

“I am sure going to try,” the girl said, and smiled reassuringly. “But first I need to move you onto your side so I can dress the wounds on your back. Okay?”

Alma moaned as the girl gingerly rolled her. She gripped Alma’s torn robes and tore them wider, exposing the injuries Alma was glad she couldn’t see. Water trickled as the girl retrieved wet rags from a bucket on the floor and began washing her wounds. Alma grimaced. Then came the balm again, soothing and warm.

The girl whispered in Alma’s ear, “Now close your eyes and get some rest.”

As the balm seeped into Alma’s back, its warmth branching through her ribs and wrapping her in its cozy, invisible embrace, resting was as easy as one, two, three…

She believed she’d died and gone to heaven.

What else could explain the sound? It was the sound of angels. She cracked open her eyes, barely surfacing from the waves of a near-death sleep, and sought the source of it—the hauntingly beautiful melody produced by one’s own chest and tongue.

The girl was singing as she busied about the hut, grabbing various herbs from their baskets and grinding them up with her stone mortar and pestle. She mixed the resulting powder into a large container of what appeared to be the same gray goop she’d slathered on Alma’s wounds. Perhaps it was the very same. She was simply making more of it now.

The girl ceased her song as she caught Alma watching from the bed.

“You’re awake,” she said. “I was a little worried, I’ll admit…”

“That…” Alma struggled to speak. Her voice was barely more than a croak. “That sound…”

The girl cocked her head curiously while she resumed stirring her new batch of balm.

“What sound do you mean?”

“You,” Alma rasped. “Your voice…”

“Oh. Did my singing wake you? I’m sorry, I—”

“No.” Alma tried to shake her head, was adamant about shaking her head, even as the movement sent a piercing twinge through her throat. “No… I just… I’ve never heard it before.”

The girl smiled softly. “It is a song my mother taught me. Often I think of it and can’t get it out of my head.”

“I don’t mean the song…” Alma closed her eyes, breathing deeply as her efforts were beginning to wind her. “I mean the singing. I’ve never heard it.”

“You’ve never heard singing before?”

Alma swallowed and swore she could taste blood underneath the medicinal balm in the back of her throat. “Nobody sings. Not anymore.”

Alma stole another peek at the girl, found her face pinched as she considered Alma’s—apparently—strange claim.

“Please,” Alma said. “Keep going.”

The girl started with a hum, something simple yet enthralling, soon expanding with lyrics which slipped effortlessly from her lips, forming a story Alma could hardly absorb for the distracting beauty of the sound itself, her melody soft and deliciously unpredictable. More than once her body erupted with goosebumps.

It was true, Alma’s claim. Singing was a talent that had gone the way of laughter long ago, so the very nature of song was alien to her. And splendid. More splendid than the Elders’ booming voices during their weekly sermons, even, which Alma had believed until now to be the loveliest sound of all.

Marvelous…

There was now a large wooden box on the ground next to Calum’s naked body, which hadn’t been there before, Alma was certain. Long and rectangular, like a lidless coffin. She hated to interrupt the girl’s song, but couldn’t help her curiosity.

“What are you doing with him?” she asked.

“Preparing him,” the girl replied. “For the ritual.”

Ritual?

Alma’s chest heaved at the word—so many strange and negative connotations from her upbringing. Rituals were performed by witches. Witches were of the underworld. But there was no doubt in Alma’s mind that the girl before her was anything other than the embodiment of virtue.

“What kind of ritual?” she asked.

“Earth magic, as I like to think of it,” the girl said.

“Magic,” Alma repeated. Again, another word with… dubious meaning. “I was taught that magic isn’t real.”

The girl took Calum into her arms, lifting his upper body. “Magic is just science we don’t understand yet…”

She hoisted Calum rather clumsily into the wooden box, with much bumping and knocking, before repositioning him as he’d been on the floor—on his back, arms at his sides. Alma noticed black soil clinging to the girl’s hands throughout this arrangement, and realized the bottom of the wooden box was layered with it.

“Where did you learn this science?”

The girl stood straight, hands on her hips, panting.

“Strangely enough, I couldn’t tell you. I’ve just… always known it. My parents used to tell me that I was special. A pure soul, they said.”

Alma’s heart lurched again—so close to the words she’d used herself. Pure of soul. She’d believed she was describing someone good, someone pious.

“What does that mean?” she asked. “A pure soul?”

The girl had to think about it. “I’m sure you know our world is dying. You’ve seen it with your own eyes. It is almost dead, in fact, its very soul hanging by a thread…”

“Its soul?”

The girl nodded. “It seems there is less and less to go around these days. Things do not grow as they once did. But my parents… they believed that I was born with a purpose. That in some desperate attempt to survive, the Earth instilled in me more soul than most, so that I might play a part in remaking what was unmade.”

Alma’s head was spinning. “And me?”

“I simply dreamt of you and knew we were meant to meet. I don’t have all the answers, I’m afraid. But I trust in where the Earth leads me…”

She stepped over Calum and lifted a large wooden bucket off the floor near the back of the hut. It appeared heavy, whatever it was, requiring both arms to carry. She proceeded to dump it over Calum’s naked body—a bucketful of dirt. Two additional buckets waited in the same place she’d picked up the first. She dumped those as well, one after the other. Altogether it was enough dirt to bury him.

“How do you know this will work?” Alma asked.

“Only that I’ve done it before,” the girl replied. “Never on a person, I’ll admit, but I imagine it should work the same.”

“And what of his body? He has begun to…”

“So long as he hasn’t lost too much blood, the Earth will restore him,” the girl answered confidently.

Earth magic, Alma thought.

She lay her head back, eyes to the ceiling where those stick-and-twine shapes dangled, and sighed heavily, releasing all the tension and fear she’d brought with her. She watched the girl from the corner of her eye.

“What is your name?” she said.

The girl knelt on the ground, across the other side of Calum’s wooden box, as though about to pray over him.

“My name is Zola,” she answered. “And yours?”

“Alma. And he is Calum, my husband.”

“Well,” Zola said, “it is nice to finally meet you, Alma. And it will be nice to meet Calum soon enough.”

“How does it work?” Alma said, her curiosities mounting. “Can you see him? Do you know where he is?”

Zola pursed her mouth in thought. “Not exactly. But I can feel the connection between body and spirit. It is like a rope. His body might be cold, but the spirit’s hold on him lingers. Another day or two and I’d be unable to grasp it. But here, now…” She placed both hands upon the mound of dirt. “I can feel him just fine. He is within reach.”

Alma’s heart beat faster. Her mouth turned dry with anticipation. She wished so badly to crawl opposite the girl and watch over Calum, wait for him, to be the first thing he might see when he opened his eyes.

“Do you think he will enjoy my singing, too?” the girl said.

“Oh, undoubtedly so,” Alma said. “Who wouldn’t?”

“All right, then I will sing to him. And hopefully he won’t be able to resist. Are you ready?”

Alma answered that she was more than ready.

And once more, Zola began to sing.

12

THE OPPORTUNIST

GUNNAR

Gunnar managed to catch up with Calum, but the man would not stop. So Gunnar simply walked alongside him for a time, serving as his eyes and ears as he was obviously consumed with emotions he would need to purge sooner or later.

Eventually, in an attempt to distract Calum from those horrid images, Gunnar said, “Tell me, Calum. What was your life like?”

“My life?” He hesitated, and for an instant Gunnar worried such thoughts would only send him spiraling deeper than he already was. “It was… good. Good enough.”

“Tell me about it while we walk.”

Calum took a shuddery breath to collect himself.

“I come from a city called Gloam,” he said. “I never set foot outside its walls in all my thirty-three years…”

Thirty-three years was curious, Gunnar thought. It was the same age he’d been when his life had ended… so many years ago.

“And what was it like, this Gloam?”

“It was great,” Calum said. He lifted his gaze to the smoky skies above, reminiscing. “It was a safe haven from the greater world beyond its walls, where everything else had fallen to the evils of the Unmaking.”

“The Unmaking?” Gunnar asked.

“Mankind’s punishment. Since then, the last vestiges of humanity now gather in great cities, cities like Gloam, which are protected from the horrors of the Deadlands. That’s what we call the world outside. Because everything is… well…”

“Doesn’t sound much better than this place,” Gunnar said.

“The Deadlands? No, I would say not. But in the safety of our city, we were thriving. Or beginning to thrive, at least. That’s what we were doing in Gloam. Rebuilding. Remaking what was lost. Regaining our numbers so that one day we could…”

Calum fell silent. Contemplative. Gunnar thought he detected the distinct shadow of guilt across Calum’s brow, his frowning mouth.

“I myself was not successful in that mission,” he said.

“No children?” Gunnar asked. “Is that what you mean to say?”

Calum clammed up suddenly, appearing as though he had nothing left to say on the matter.

“Yeah, no kids for me, either,” Gunnar said, hoping to lighten the mood. “But I was never much of a family man, anyway. Far too selfish for that endeavor. Anyway, what about lovers? Were you—”

“I was married to a wonderful woman. A wonderful wife.”

“Married, huh?” Gunnar said. “So that’s still a thing…”

“Her name is Alma. And she’s… she was my best friend. There is not another soul like her. No one so kind, so understanding, so open-minded as her. She loved me more than I deserved. It pains me to think of her now, in my absence. Or knowing that one day she’ll end up in this place too.”

“Well,” Gunnar said, “at least when that happens, you’ll be able to cross paths with each other now and—”

There came an abrupt noise—a bizarre ripping sound, which appeared so suddenly, so close, it caused them both to scream as they turned to face it. They were bathed in its radiant white light. It manifested before them, hanging in the air like some strange cocoon. Only it wasn’t a thing. It was an absence. A tear upon the air itself, as though a great claw had torn the very fabric of the realm wide open before them, and underneath lay only a white, shimmering light.

Calum stumbled back, thinking it another danger of some sort. But Gunnar knew differently. He was all too familiar with the horrors of this place to be surprised by much anymore. But he was surprised now. Because this was something different.

“Do you hear that?” he said.

A beautiful voice carried to them in song. Calum stepped closer to hear it, shoulder to shoulder with Gunnar as they each stared into the mesmeric white light. It emitted a breeze, too—cool upon their sooted faces.

“Can you hear me, Calum?” the woman’s voice said. “Do you hear the sound of my voice?”

Calum jolted at the sound of his name on the woman’s tongue. Visibly stunned. Gunnar stiffened with other emotions entirely—profound panic and slippery jealousy. How could it be that it was Calum she asked for? A man of no resilience or fortitude? This wasn’t meant for him, Gunnar thought. It had to be a mistake.

Calum took one step toward the white light before Gunnar stopped him with a ‘protective’ arm across his chest.

“Wait,” he told him.

“It’s calling for me,” Calum said, eyes sparkling. “It wants me… wants me to…”

He lowered Gunnar’s arm from his chest, moving toward the light. Gunnar’s jealousy hardened into something black. Something dangerous. The empty pit of his heart ignited with it. More than yearning. A possession of need.

This isn’t for you. It’s mine.

Gunnar moved on impulse. He shoved Calum, hard enough that he fell to the ground. He started for the portal himself—was sure that’s what it was, the only thing it could be—when Calum seized him by the ankle, pulled his feet out from under him. Gunnar hit the ground, his chin upon the dirt, and sunk his teeth straight through his tongue. Calum scrabbled over him, crawling for the light. Gunnar dragged him back, clambered across his naked body with his own. Calum’s hands were everywhere, fighting, as Gunnar placed his around Calum’s throat and began to squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” he grunted through his teeth.

Calum continued to fight, to buck, until Gunnar rocked the back of his skull against the dirt. Calum softened. Gunnar continued strangling him, stealing glances at the portal in case it began stitching itself back together.

Eventually Calum ceased to move. Shaky with exhaustion, out of breath, Gunnar swayed to his feet. He stared into the white light, blinding him to anything but its promise of freedom.

Freedom? Is that what this is?

One way or another, he intended to find out.

He reached into the light.

13

A GRAVE INTERRUPTION

ALMA

Zola’s sweet, sonorous voice filled up the hut, each note suspended in those dangling artifacts above their heads so that Alma felt entirely wrapped in song. Transported. At peace.

“Can you hear me, Calum?” Zola said. “Do you hear the sound of my voice?”

She was about to resume singing when she fell silent instead. She looked away, her attention drawn toward the window. Alma followed her gaze but saw nothing. Heard nothing. Zola sprang to her feet. She peered outside, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Someone’s coming,” she said. “Your followers.”

Alma had almost forgotten Zola’s warning, sent in her last dream.

Zola withdrew through the window and began grabbing items from the walls of her hut, most notably her bow and quiver of arrows. Alma tried to sit up, but the sharp pain in her neck was too much to bear.

“I can’t let them find me here,” Zola said. “I am sorry, but I must leave you.”

“Wait,” Alma pleaded. She strained to lift her head again. “What about Calum?”

The girl grabbed a cloth satchel from the foot of the bed, slung it over her shoulder, and without pause slipped out from the back of the hut through a hidden opening behind a large animal pelt on the wall.

In an instant Alma was all alone.

Footsteps. Voices. The glow of approaching torches. They arrived just outside the door, where they shuffled around in silence for a moment.

“Alma? Are you in there?”

Alma flooded with relief. She would recognize the sound of Father Ryker’s voice anywhere.

“I am,” she called back.

“Are you safe?”

“I am,” she repeated.

A pause, followed by, “Are we safe to come in?”

Alma regarded the unusual herbs and bottled remedies, as well as the many handmade things dangling in the air. Was it safe?

“I believe it is safe,” she said.

Father Ryker announced they were coming in, then proceeded to clumsily push and scoot the door across the bumpy ground. His bald head shined in the firelight as he stepped inside. His dark eyes met Alma’s, before quickly darting about the place, as if anticipating a trap. But of course there was none.

Four men followed Ryker inside, most of whom Alma thought she recognized. Gloam wasn’t terribly large—nothing like the cities of the old world she’d heard stories about—but it was large enough Alma didn’t interact with most outside her usual circles. The other men peered warily about the hut, observing the witchy trinkets from floor to ceiling. Alma realized by the looks on their faces that Zola had been right to run. After all, wasn’t that the reason she’d needed to sneak Calum’s corpse from the city in the first place? They would never understand.

“You are wounded,” Ryker said, coming to kneel beside Alma on her lumpy bed.

“I am all right,” Alma said, though her voice was scratchy and weak. “I was attacked by… monstrous things in those woods.”

Ryker couldn’t stop himself from distractedly gazing along the myriad of items cluttering the place. As he looked Alma in the eye once more, she saw his judgement clear as day.

“Laurie and Neil told us of Calum’s death,” he said.

It took immense restraint not to glance at the box of dirt, but Alma managed it. Surely they would notice him there regardless. The size and shape of the box was not altogether subtle. If anything it was absurd they weren’t investigating it already. Alma chalked it up to their fearful minds still being on the defensive after the journey they’d made.

She wondered what her punishment would be—for leaving the city, taking Calum’s body, and consorting with a witch of the wood, if that’s what Zola was. All for nothing, she suddenly realized. She wished again to cry in that moment but held back. Only barely.

“Alma…” Ryker paused, instilling his voice with compassion, which made Alma’s restraint all the harder. “Laurie and Neil told us everything. We know what’s happened. Is it true, what you told them? That you were led to this place by dreams?”

“It is true,” Alma admitted, because what point was there in lying about that? And who could fault a grieving widow for indulging in a flight of fancy? “I dreamt of a woman, and she told me…”

Ryker and his men flinched as there came a sudden noise from within the hut. A faint tapping and scratching. Disregarding Calum’s box on the ground once more, Ryker moved to the other side of the room where another, much smaller wooden box waited upon a shelf. Ryker lifted the box cautiously, holding it toward himself to better listen.

“What is it?” one of the men asked.

Ryker held the box outstretched and instructed one of his men to lift its lid. It was a comical sight, in Alma’s eyes—such grown men each leaning back in fear, arms stretched to their limits, afraid of what might emerge. All the while the fluttering and scraping continued and Alma began forming a fairly good guess.

The lid was lifted. A dart of glittering black. Ryker and his men gasped, shrank low. The tiny blackbird zipped about the place, desperate for an escape. It fluttered into the domed ceiling, bumping and grazing against the many dangling sticks and twine. It flapped about each of the men who recoiled in fright despite it obviously only being a bird.

Finally the bird found its way to the window by the door and vanished outside. In its absence, Ryker and his men stood quietly in their shame. As their nerves settled, one of them cracked a smile, followed by another.

That was when the larger box of dirt on the ground violently erupted.

14

ALIVE

GUNNAR

The light pulled Gunnar apart.

It was the feeling of losing sensation in one’s limb, the pins and needles, but it was every inch of his body. Atomized. Somehow he remained cognizant as he was separated, scattered, hurtling through a white space of nothingness, the light blowing through him until suddenly everything snapped together again and all was black. The tingling was replaced with a heavy, gritty, smothering weight.

The weight of death.

Gunnar couldn’t breathe.

He clawed for the surface, clawed for air, and was startled to discover his burial was only a couple inches deep. He sprang from the Earth’s confines, the taste of soil in his mouth. He spat it out, as the men surrounding him screamed and he screamed in kind. He attempted to backpedal and met the hard edge of his wooden encasement. He was sitting in a long box.

A coffin.

One of the men rushed toward him, the ebony dome of his bald head gleaming in the warm firelight of this ramshackle enclosure they were in.

“Calum, it’s me. Everything is fine. It’s me. Do you see me?”

Noting Gunnar’s confusion, the man allowed him some space, hands raised to show that he meant no harm. The men behind him appeared as bewildered as Gunnar felt. A woman lay on a lumpy bed nearby, barely sitting up to see the commotion for herself. Her wide eyes shone with something more than fear like the rest.

“Calum?” she said. “Calum, is it… are you…”

Her eyes wetted with emotion. She scrambled off the bed and against the box of dirt beside him. Gunnar couldn’t help pulling away as she hovered there, studying every inch of his face as though she couldn’t believe what she saw.

Calum, Calum, Calum, everyone is calling me Calum…

It was then his confusion gave way to realization.

Gunnar peered down at his naked body and did not recognize it as his own. He lifted his hand, turned it round to study its creases, its knuckles, its narrow, slightly feminine fingernails—as opposed to the wide wedges he was used to.

These were not his hands, but Calum’s hands. Calum’s body. Calum’s…

The woman threw her arms around him, squeezed him with the reckless abandon of someone who once believed they’d never see their loved one again. With his chin resting cluelessly upon her shoulder, Gunnar met the gaze of the bald man crouched beside them still, watching their reunion with analytical intent.

“Calum?” he said, as the woman relentlessly constricted him. “How are you feeling?”

Obviously he needed to say something. Something quick, that might make sense of all this senselessness. They believed he was someone else. Because for all intents and purposes, he was someone else. Better not to shatter the illusion, he thought, for their benefit and very much his own.

The woman released him. She held him at arm’s length, looking him over with that same glint of disbelief in her eyes.

“Calum?” she said. “Say something.”

“Do you know what’s happened?” the bald man said. “Do you know where you are?”

“Calum, look at me,” the woman said. “Do you know who I am? Do you recognize me?”

Gunnar had never seen the woman before in his life, but as he studied her face he did remember some pieces to this puzzle—like his conversation with the real Calum before this all transpired.

“Alma,” he answered.

The manner in which the woman’s face brightened simultaneously relieved Gunnar and crushed him, his dishonesty both liberating and dastardly.

“What exactly has taken place here, Alma?” the bald man said.

Alma couldn’t respond, mesmerized by the man before her, or rather the shell of the man before her. Because that’s what Gunnar was in this moment. A shell. A facade.

“Alma?” the bald man repeated.

“I brought Calum to a healer,” she said, remembering herself. “And… obviously it worked.”

“A healer?” the bald man said. “This man was dead.”

“And now he is not. Clearly.”

Gunnar squirmed. It was an awkward situation, to say the least. The bald man leaned forward, crouching right beside Alma in order to study Gunnar more closely.

“Do you know my name?” he asked.

Gunnar swallowed to buy himself a moment of time… which gained him nothing, because he hadn’t the faintest idea.

The bald man stood straight, hands on his hips, looking entirely dissatisfied. “Alma, this is unnatural.”

“He is simply disoriented,” she reasoned. “He’s been through so much. Obviously he’ll need to get his bearings. He just needs a little time, that’s all.”

“Hmmm. And where is this healer now, anyway?” the bald man asked.

“She fled when she heard you coming. She was afraid for her wellbeing.”

“Search the perimeter,” the bald man ordered the others. “Two and two, keep your torches lit and close.”

The four men obliged, though Gunnar recognized their dread as they stepped out into the darkness and began circling the hut.

In the meantime, the bald man searched the interior, observing the many handcrafted ornaments dangling from the ceiling, as well as the numerous shelves and baskets bursting with herbs and other alchemical ingredients. Primitive stuff, Gunnar thought. Medieval. Was this a reflection of the world at large? he wondered.

“Ryker, this isn’t necessary,” Alma said. “The young woman who lives here has been very kind to me. And to Calum.”

“She contacted you in your dreams. Now she’s brought a man back from the dead. That is not healing, Alma. That is not medicine. That is witchcraft. Have you even considered what the Elders might say about all this? Or were you planning to live out the rest of your lives in the Deadlands?”

Alma ignored the bald man—Ryker was his name, apparently—focusing instead on Gunnar once again.

“Do you remember anything else?” she asked. “Anything at all?”

Gunnar combed through his memory, through his conversations with the real Calum, but under pressure he couldn’t recall a thing.

“Enough of this,” Ryker said. “We’re returning home at once. We will let the Elders decide—”

“Gloam!” Gunnar blurted in an epiphanic rush.

“That’s right,” Alma said, eyes lighting up. “You remember. Gloam is home. What else, Calum? What else can you recall?”

Ryker sighed impatiently. “Alma, how severe are your injuries? Can you walk?”

Alma insisted she could, standing straight to prove it. She immediately wobbled. The bald man caught hold of her, steadying her.

“Sorry. I’m just a bit lightheaded. I’ve… I’ve lost some blood.”

“You will ride in the wagon with Calum,” Ryker said. “I do not wish to linger in this place any longer than we need to. What about you, Calum? Can you stand?”

Gunnar looked over his alien body once more, unrecognizable except that he had once seen it through a different pair of eyes—his own eyes, at the time.

“I think so…”

He gave it a try, immediately lost his balance, and caught himself against the rickety shelves, spilling bundles of brittle herbs from their baskets onto the floor.

Maybe not…

He felt the strength going out of his legs. He was falling. Or about to fall. He tried to say as much but suddenly couldn’t form the words, couldn’t wag his tongue. The torchlight dimmed at the edges of his vision, as the hut became choked in a tunnel of darkness. Ryker tried to steady him, propping Gunnar’s naked body—Calum’s naked body—against his own, and it was then the world tore out from under him like a pulled rug.

Gunnar faded to black before he hit the ground.

The scorching heat of hellfire. The drip of bodily fluids cooked from crackling, spitting flesh. The tortured shrieks of men, women, and children. The sobs of a singular man cradled in the heart of it all, lamenting what he knew to be his eternal fate now his destiny had been stolen from him.

Gunnar woke to the sound of wheezing, followed by phlegm hacked and spat from the back of one’s throat. He opened his eyes to slits. They were moving. The torchlit undersides of crooked branches passed overhead as the wagon rattled along. The men murmured amongst themselves, but Gunnar couldn’t make out a word of it.

He turned ever so slightly and was startled to meet the gaze of the woman lying beside him. Alma. For how long had she been watching him? he wondered. He saw in her eyes a deep yearning, a hopeless need for him to see her in some concrete way, something to prove everything was as it should be, that he was as he should be. Gunnar felt exposed in that moment. Dreadfully on display. He feared she would inevitably see he wasn’t himself. After all, the eyes were windows to the soul, as they used to say.

Then it hit him again. Pins and needles. It started in his extremities, then quickly swarmed the rest of him, his body humming painfully. He closed his eyes against it. Against her. The woman found his hand and squeezed. He felt that. Felt her reassurance, her affection, none of which belonged to him. The pins and needles deepened—numb on the outside, vibrating on the inside. His bones felt charged with electricity, his mind in danger of slipping loose from his head and floating into those spidery branches above.

The body is rejecting me.

This thought came to him inexplicably, but it made sense in the moment. He was an imposter. His connection to this vessel was weak. Tenuous. One wrong move and he would lose his hold on it.

He lost consciousness again.

15

FIRESIDE

ALMA

They stopped to rest, but only after they’d left the whispering wood far, far behind them. The men lay out their sleeping materials, a healthy fire burning between them, and rested their eyes, their bodies. Alma meanwhile lay in the wagon beside her newly risen husband.

She touched the tender places where she’d been near-mortally wounded and was amazed at the rate of recovery. Her punctures were already scabbing over. Zola truly was a healer, whatever the others might believe.

Tired as she was, she couldn’t sleep. Not with Calum alive again next to her. A real-life miracle. So she watched him sleep instead. He’d awakened once during their journey, but not for long. Alma worried he might not wake again, could somehow sense a struggle taking place within him, a battle against death itself as it tried to reclaim him.

Stay with me, she thought. Stay with me, Calum.

One of the men stirred. Alma sat up slightly and saw that it was Father Ryker. He sat crosslegged, apparently giving up on sleep. He noticed Alma’s peeking from the wagon. Their eyes met.

“Why did you do it?”

Ryker’s tone was reproachful. Coming from one of their community leaders—personally, Alma’s preferred and most respected—it was difficult to hear the disapproval in his voice.

“I couldn’t bear to lose him,” she answered, and stole a glance at her sleeping husband. “You of all people must understand that.”

Ryker shifted uncomfortably. “But to go through with it is another matter. This… this is…”

“Against our principles, I know. But our principles also say such a thing is impossible, and clearly it is not.”

“You cannot speak this way before the Elders,” Ryker warned.

“Do the Elders themselves not defy the laws of our existence?” Alma retorted.

“Because they are chosen by Oleth, Alma. You know this. But what you have done… this was not ordained…”

“Who are you to assume?” Alma tried to whisper, but her passion was such that she hissed. “How do you know this is not part of Oleth’s plan? That I am not part of Oleth’s plan, like everyone else?”

“I am not arguing that…”

“Then maybe we ought to let the Elders decide. You call this unnatural, Father Ryker, I call it a miracle. Just because you do not understand something does not mean that it is wicked.”

“If you truly believed this was part of Oleth’s plan, you would not have smuggled Calum’s body from the city as you did. You would have come to us first. We would have gone to the Elders together—”

“I did not come to you because I knew you would not have supported me. You would have only tried to stop me.”

“Stop you from consorting with a witch?” Ryker said. “Absolutely. I would have stopped you to save you, Alma.”

Alma scoffed. “I don’t need saving, Father Ryker.”

“The wounds you bear tell a different story.”

“And do you know who tended to these wounds? Do you know who saved my life? The very person you are so determined to vilify.”

Ryker opened his mouth when one of the other men turned over in his sleep, coughing. The man’s cough was persistent, as well as hoarse, sounding deep in his chest. Finally his fit tapered off and he shrugged beneath his covers, getting comfortable. A moment later he began coughing again. Without a word the man sat forward, peering about the fire, the others, Alma and Ryker.

“Is it almost morning?” he asked.

“A while longer still,” Ryker said.

The man climbed to his feet and lumbered toward the trees to relieve himself, coughing and clearing his throat along the way.

“He is sick,” Alma murmured as soon as he was gone. “Sounds like Calum before he… well, before he—”

“Many are sick back home,” Ryker said. “It comes and goes each year. Nothing serious.”

Alma wasn’t so certain but said nothing more on the matter.

“It is not my wish to vilify anyone,” Ryker said, returning to their previous discussion. “But this woman—this healer, if that’s what you insist on calling her—operates outside of our doctrine. She is an outsider. A Deadlander. There is no telling how the corruption has twisted her, no matter how sincere she might seem. Things are not as they appear outside the city.”

“That’s right,” Alma said. “They are not. Sometimes things that may seem frightening do not in fact warrant our fear at all, for instance.”

“Please, Alma, I know you understand what I’m trying to—”

Ryker was interrupted once again as the man came stumbling back to them, still coughing up a storm. Except now his hands were to his throat. As he stepped back into their firelight, the deep scarlet pouring through his fingers was vividly clear. He fell to his knees beside their fire, plopped onto his side as he continued to gag on his own blood. His hands fell away, revealed the gouged flesh underneath. Ryker sprang to his feet.

Something approached from the dark. It walked brazenly toward them, standing on two legs, humanoid except that it wasn’t human at all. A pale thing, skin shiny as though it were wet. Alma recognized it before it even finished stepping into the glow of their fire, though this was the first she had seen of its face. Its eyes were black, directionless. The flat slit of a singular nostril between them. Its bloodied mouth hung open stupidly, little teeth glistening. Something appeared wrong with it, beyond the general monstrousness, and as it came closer Alma noted the inconsistent shuffle of its gait, feet dragging strangely across their toes. Ryker jumped back as it staggered past. It pitched forward directly into their fire’s flames, startling everyone awake—all except Calum.

Ryker’s three remaining men bolted upright in a hurry. But nothing else emerged from the woods.

Ryker crouched beside the dead man, confirming. Then he crouched beside the thing in the fire. Something protruded from its back. Two somethings. Ryker grabbed one and pulled it loose. Held before his face was the sharpened tip of a wooden arrow.

Ryker spun to face the surrounding darkness.

“Who’s out there?” he asked aloud, but of course there was no reply.

Alma recognized the arrows in the monster’s back, however. She’d already seen them hanging from the wall of the young woman’s hut. Zola was following them.

Protecting us, Alma thought.

“This wouldn’t happen to be the work of your witch, would it?” Ryker asked.

Alma shrugged. “If it was, I suppose we’d have to admit she saved our lives, wouldn’t we?”

Ryker considered the creature a bit longer, his dead man beside it.

“We’ve rested enough,” he said. “Let’s pack up and head out. And Alma…” Ryker leveled his eyes upon her, and in his gaze she saw his judgement. “I hope you’re ready to start walking, because we’ve another body to add to the wagon.”

PART II

PRAYERS & PESTILENCE

16

THE CITY OF GLOAM

GUNNAR

He hated seeing his brother this way, with so many tubes and clamps and diagnostic tools surrounding his bed, his skin several shades paler than Gunnar had ever seen him, except for around his red-lidded eyes, which had formed dark semi-circles underneath. His breaths were labored. His hair was gone, all fallen out from the treatments.

What Gunnar hated most of all, though, was that he couldn’t even properly focus on his brother’s looming fate for what was happening in the larger world around them.

While his brother slept, Gunnar flipped on the small television in the corner of the ceiling. Any station would do, really, seeing as they were all covering the same thing. While his brother continued to barely respire on his own, Gunnar craned his neck to see the ongoing reports of what was still unfolding for their neighbors to the north.

The news banner across the bottom of the broadcast read: MAJOR METEOR IMPACT DEVASTATES TORONTO, CASUALTIES CLIMBING.

It defied belief. Surreal was the word for it. Almost as surreal as watching your best friend slowly lose a battle they never stood any chance at winning, watching as their grasp on life loosened day in, day out, and being incapable of saving them.

Someone else came into the room. Gunnar met her eyes as she entered, their gazes communicating so much even in just a glance as she turned to observe the man in the hospital bed. She said nothing of him, only observed that he was there, that he looked much the same today as yesterday. Then she came to stand next to Gunnar at the foot of the bed, craned her neck to see the telecast.

“Anything new?” she said. “I was listening in the car but it was mostly the same as last night.”

“More confirmed dead,” Gunnar answered. “Dust still hasn’t settled.”

The woman idly twisted her blonde hair around one of her fingers as she watched the report. A nervous habit. Gunnar turned to see her doing it, and the wink of her wedding band reminded him. He took a seat beside his brother while his sister-in-law continued watching the report.

They had no idea just how bad things were going to get.

“Home sweet home.”

These were the words Gunnar heard as he woke from his dreaming. He opened his eyes. The blue sky assaulted him. The wagon’s creaking, crunching wheels jostled him. He turned to the body rocking gently beside him—expected to meet the watchful gaze of Calum’s lover once again—and was confronted by the dead-eyed stare of a man with only half a throat.

Gunnar flinched, propped himself on his elbows. He gazed around at the others, unaware of him, unconcerned with the corpse he’d been sleeping next to for god knows how long. The sun was in the sky, so obviously much time had passed.

“You’re finally awake,” Alma said, walking alongside him all the while. She pointed ahead. “Do you remember this place?”

Gunnar followed the trajectory of her finger and saw the high stone walls. A sizable, circular fortress.

“Of course you wouldn’t recognize it from the outside,” she went on. “But this is home. We’ve finally made it back.”

There was a tangible relief in the air as they closed the distance between themselves and their city. Ryker’s men walked with a renewed determination. Gunnar noticed there were fewer of them. One was missing.

“We lost someone last night,” Alma said, reading Gunnar’s mind. “To the Deadlands.”

“We lost two, actually,” Ryker said. “One on our way to get you, Alma, and one on the way back.”

He looked over his shoulder at Gunnar then, eyes darting to Alma next, his expression dripping with accusation.

“I…” Alma faltered. “I am sorry, Ryker.”

“Yes, well, it is not me you should be apologizing to,” Ryker said. “Though I am not sure it would be a good idea to address Robert’s or Bertrand’s wives any time soon, either.”

As the city’s walls loomed over them, Ryker stopped everyone with something to say, though he considered his words carefully.

“We are going to escort Alma and Calum back to their home. Alma, you are to wait there until I have had a chance to consult with Marjorie and the Elders, all of whom will need to be notified of our return. The Elders will decide what is to be done with Calum.”

“What do you mean what is to be done with Calum?” Alma said, distrustful.

“The Elders will know whether or not it is safe to have him back amongst our flock.”

“Does he seem unsafe to you?” she said.

“He is a man brought back from the dead, Alma. Neither you nor I truly understand what we’re dealing with here. For all we know, he could be a demon.”

“For the record,” Gunnar said, “I am not a demon.”

“That is exactly what a demon might say,” one of the men said, watching Gunnar through slitted eyes.

“Fine,” Alma relented. “Escort us. We will wait. And when the time comes, we will show the Elders there is nothing wrong with my husband—that Oleth has blessed him with a second life and nothing more.”

Ryker rolled his eyes and opened the gate with an iron key in his possession. One of his men dragged the wagon through, Alma and the others following close behind.

Gunnar’s first thought as they entered the city of Gloam was that it could hardly be called a city. More a sprawling village than anything. Before them were rudimentary dwellings constructed with what Gunnar assumed to be woven sticks packed with mud and clay, hardened into a sturdy mix. Between these squat structures were numerous paths and alleys of hard-packed dirt, made soft by the recent rain. A nonsensical maze. They maneuvered the wagon through these paths, passing many villagers along the way, all clad in the same nondescript brown robes. A few of them regarded Gunnar strangely, as though perhaps they’d already heard the news.

“How are you feeling, Calum?” Ryker asked as they rolled him through the streets. “Anything sparking your memory?”

“This place feels vaguely familiar,” Gunnar lied. “But… I’m not sure.”

He didn’t recognize a thing, of course. Not even an inkling of a memory stirred, nor did he anticipate there ever being one. Because this was not his home, not his life, and never had been.

They arrived outside a small dwelling like all the others—square and pale brown in appearance, thatched roof dark and damp. One rickety door, one window beside it which was blocked with some kind of makeshift shutter. Alma opened the door as Ryker’s men helped Gunnar out of the wagon and onto his feet. He was still a little shaky, but had an easier time standing now than before. Alma assisted him with an arm around his shoulder as she led him from the wagon and into their home.

“Do not leave here before I return,” Ryker told Alma one last time before he and his men departed.

Alma shut the door against the outside world, leaving them standing in the dark. Gunnar stood motionless. Blind. Alma moved about, fiddling with something, until finally she pulled loose the wooden plank in the window and a bit of early daylight poured into the place, enough to see by.

The home’s interior was one room, the same shape as the exterior suggested. A single bed lay against one wall—large enough for two bodies sleeping close—and a small table butted against another. Alma guided Gunnar to the bed and told him to sit. Gunnar obliged. Even after lying in the wagon all night, his body ached with fatigue.

Now that it was just the two of them, it suddenly occurred to Gunnar how naked he was, which was a funny feeling in and of itself, after spending an eternity buck naked in the afterlife.

Alma sat beside him on the edge of the bed.

“Do you remember our home?” she asked.

Gunnar shifted his weight, sitting so close, as he worried she might sniff out any lie he breathed.

“No,” he answered plainly. “I don’t.”

“Really? Nothing at all?” She waited for an answer. Gunnar didn’t have one. When next she spoke, her voice was strained with emotion. “But you remember me… don’t you?”

He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. Not when she already sounded on the brink of unraveling.

“A little,” he said. “Not much.”

“Like what? What do you remember?”

An elaboration was the worst thing she could have asked for. She sat forward slightly, trying to place herself within his gaze, commanding his attention.

“Like what?” she repeated.

Gunnar hated this. He truly did. The deceit. With each lie he told, he felt himself doing more harm, building up a wall more rickety than this house, which would surely crush him in time.

“I remember that you are Alma,” he said, and forced himself to see her. Their eyes met. Hers were pleading, desperate. He could only peer into them for an instant before they threatened to cut through to the center of him.

Alma abruptly stood and paced to the other side of the room, where Gunnar only now noticed there was a kind of altar against the wall. A narrow, waist-high construction with a robed figurine sculpted on top. Alma knelt before it, head down.

“What are you doing?” Gunnar dared to ask.

“I am praying,” she said, never lifting her head.

After a moment of this, Gunnar said, “And who do you pray to?”

A soft, despairing sigh. “We pray to Prophet Tobias, as we have always done. He hears our prayers and delivers them to Oleth on our behalf… as he has always done…”

“Oleth,” Gunnar said, trying the word out for himself.

Still kneeling, Alma turned her head so that she could pierce him from the corner of her eye. That singular dark eye held a great many questions, and Gunnar couldn’t help but shrink under its scrutiny.

Alma scrambled toward him with startling speed. She arrived on the floor between his knees. She took both his hands in hers, snatched them up before he could think twice about resisting.

“Look at me,” she said. “Look at me, Calum.”

Gunnar peered into those bold, brown eyes with some ever-present wit about them, which he hadn’t yet come to know himself but detected all the same.

“Are you in there?” Her question froze his insides solid. How to answer? He couldn’t. “What do you remember of me besides my name?”

Her sharpened gaze grew sharper still as he failed to answer. She released his hands and proceeded to stare distantly upon the floor, her gears turning with ideas Gunnar couldn’t begin to guess. He supposed if he couldn’t answer any of her questions, however, he might distract her with some of his own—a show of agency at the very least, instead of sitting silently like an empty-headed dullard.

“What year is it?”

It took Alma a moment to hear him, for his strange question to register. She lifted her faraway gaze and regarded him with a funny furrow to her brow.

“It is the year six-hundred-and-eighty-eight,” she answered.

Gunnar’s heart began to thump a little harder. “Six-hundred-and-eighty-eight years since what, exactly?”

With a curious tilt of her head she said, “Since the Unmaking.”

Gunnar’s mind began to race. He had heard that term before. The Unmaking. Calum had said it, in reference to what Gunnar assumed to be the end of the world, which Gunnar had experienced firsthand, which meant…

He had died nearly seven centuries ago.

“Mankind’s punishment.” He recited Calum’s words as he remembered them, words that shouldn’t have brought anyone any cheer, but put a smile on Alma’s face.

“You remember,” she said.

Oh boy, do I, Gunnar thought.

Whatever Alma and Calum believed about the apocalypse, Gunnar already knew they had not been taught the truth. Either it had been forgotten in the last seven-hundred years, or someone along the way had deemed it inconvenient, and thus religion and superstition had taken its place.

“And now mankind is trying to rebuild,” Gunnar said. “Here, in this city?”

“We are trying to save ourselves from extinction,” Alma said. “Which is very difficult when the world wishes us dead. That is why we pray to Oleth, to heal the world so that we can return to it.”

“And Oleth is…”

“God,” Alma said with a slight bite to her tone, annoyed with Gunnar’s utter lack of memory. “We worship and we pray, to prove that we are deserving of our home again.”

“I’m sorry I don’t remember these things,” Gunnar said.

His apology appeared to soften something in her.

“It is not your fault,” she said, though her disappointment was readily apparent.

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Alma answered. She invited in two people—Ryker and a fiery woman Gunnar had yet to meet. Fiery described her in multiple ways. Her shoulder-length hair was a vivid red, for starters. Then there was everything else about her. Her demeanor. Her heated expression. She entered Alma’s home with a smoldering intensity, a look that suggested she’d come either to burn the place to the ground, or to haul someone off to the nearest stake and burn them there.

Her attention snapped to Gunnar, pinned him in place where he sat. There was nothing remotely in the way of diplomacy in her stance, her narrowed gaze, the purse of her lips.

“How are you feeling, Calum?” she said, though it was clear she asked not out of concern, but suspicion.

“He does not remember much more,” Alma interjected. “But! As I questioned him, he did recall some of our teachings. The Unmaking, and what led to it. There is hope yet, I believe, that he will remember more in time.”

The fiery woman stepped ahead of the others, her gaze so narrow that her eyes were mere pinpricks of light in the gloom.

“Do you remember me?” she said.

Gunnar shook his head that he did not. The woman smirked from one side of her mouth, unimpressed. Then she stepped closer, seized him by the chin, and lifted his visage to better study his features. Gunnar had to resist swiping her hand away. Making a good impression was paramount.

“Are we sure he actually died?” she said. “I see no signs of death whatsoever. If there is any chance you were mistaken, Alma, and his revival was a mere coincidence of recovery, then…”

“Both Laurie and Neil are certain he was dead,” Ryker said, not letting Alma answer, as the excuse offered by the fiery-haired woman would have been all too convenient.

The woman released Gunnar’s chin but stayed standing as she was, looking down her nose at him.

“And you have no memory of anything?” she said. Then, glancing at Alma behind her, “How are we to know your witch hasn’t placed a demon in Calum’s body?”

“Aren’t there plenty enough real horrors out there in the world,” Alma said, “than to worry ourselves with imagined ones? With all due respect, Father Ryker, Mother Marjorie… these accusations of witches and demons…”

“Calum was dead and now he is not,” Ryker said. “It would seem to me there is adequate reason to be concerned. What else would you call a woman who brings men back from the dead, but a witch? Need we go over this again, Alma? You know that what I say is of sound reasoning.”

Alma bit her lip, unable to argue it. Gunnar was tempted to repeat his assurance that he was not, in fact, a demon, but judging how that went the last time, he saw no use for it.

“Tell me, Calum,” the woman called Mother Marjorie said. “What is the last thing you do remember?”

Gunnar took a moment to ponder it. “I woke up and everything was black and I couldn’t breathe.”

“He was in a wooden box filled with dirt,” Ryker said. “From which he resurrected and gave us all quite the scare.”

Marjorie made a sound, unsatisfied. “Well, the Elders would like to meet with you both, in any case. To hear your side of the story, Alma. And to study Calum for themselves. Let’s get him into some robes, shall we?”

Gunnar’s stomach twisted anxiously as Alma fetched his robes and assisted him by draping them over his head. Once he was covered, he slipped into a pair of sandals and followed alongside Alma behind Father Ryker and Mother Marjorie, back into the winding streets of Gloam. The sun was much higher in the sky. More brown-robed villagers roamed, shuffling with their buckets of water or crying babes tucked against their chests. Most were unaware of Gunnar, as they greeted Father Ryker and Mother Marjorie and continued on their way. Now and again, however, Gunnar caught their watchful stares and secretive murmurs. Talk of Alma’s disappearance and Calum’s resurrection seemed to be spreading.

Deeper into the city, they arrived outside the largest structure Gunnar had seen so far. A church. It wasn’t made of the same hardened muck and plaster like the rest, but built tall and sturdy with stone. Its bell tower cast a long shadow into the open square they had to cross on their way to the double-door entrance underneath. Ryker held one of the doors as Marjorie, Alma, and Gunnar stepped inside.

A spacious, high-ceilinged nave awaited them, softly lit by nothing more than daylight slanting through the tall, paneless windows. A wide, red-carpeted center aisle brought them through many rows of long wooden benches toward a raised stage at the head of the nave, upon which there stood a narrow wooden pulpit. Crimson banners hung from the ceiling on both sides.

All in all, it was not so different from the churches of Gunnar’s upbringing more than seven-hundred years ago.

Their collective footsteps thumped noisily as they made their way onto the stage, cutting briskly toward the door at its rear. Marjorie knocked, took a breath, then proceeded to guide them in.

The next room was a tiny thing, furnished with a simple desk and chairs—precisely three chairs in front of the desk, three chairs behind. A circular opening in the ceiling let a ray of morning sunshine into the room, as well as air from the outside. On the other side of the room was another closed door. Marjorie instructed Alma and Gunnar to take a seat. Beside the other door was a dangling rope, which Marjorie pulled a few times. Gunnar couldn’t hear it, but assumed it was a bell system of sorts, to notify those beyond the door that they had visitors.

“Has your memory improved at all?” Alma whispered to him. Upon Gunnar’s hopeless shrug, she sighed deeply.

“Have you met them?” Gunnar whispered back. “The Elders?”

“Of course,” she said, giving him another funny look. “They lead our sermons each week, imparting Prophet Tobias’s wisdom to the city on his behalf. They are good people. Kind.”

Despite her praise, Gunnar noticed Alma’s nervousness—the way she chewed her inner lip, and repeatedly pressed and smoothed her thumb across the other’s cuticle in her lap.

The door at the back of the room opened. Beyond it lay only darkness and vague shapes, shifting in the gloom. Shadows within shadows. They emerged one by one—three red-robed figures gliding into the better light of the waiting room, and the adoration of their subjects’ beaming faces—Ryker, Marjorie, and Alma all.

The Elders themselves were a nightmare to behold.

17

THE ELDERS

ALMA

Alma smiled to hide her fear. It was beginning to dawn on her, her odds of losing this battle. Ryker was right. The Elders would not see her side of the situation. They would view Calum’s resurrection as an act of sacrilege. Corruption. They might also deem him dangerous, unfit to rejoin their people.

There was a good chance this would all be for nothing.

The Elders came to stand across the desk in their bright red robes, Ryker and Marjorie flanking them on either side so that it was five against two. Alma could hardly sustain her polite expression, mouth aquiver, her smile buckling under the weight of their imminent judgement.

There was Elder Lawrence, thin and delicate in his mannerisms, but warm in his expression.

Then there was Elder McKinley, the pastiest of the three, which suited his colder nature. Unreadable at the best of times.

And finally there was Elder Vincent, calm and collected, the most thoughtful of the Elders, in Alma’s opinion.

These three men effortlessly commanded the attention of their entire city. To be granted a private audience should have been reason for Alma to rejoice, but instead she found herself bracing for condemnation.

Calum had stiffened the moment they emerged. How terrified he must be, she thought He was the true victim in all of this. As if death was not enough, he had been dragged into this confusion, with no recollection of himself or their ways.

“It is good to see you home safe, Alma and Calum,” Elder Lawrence said, a compassionate smile upon his thin-lipped mouth. Alma struggled to meet his gaze.

Elder McKinley broke away from the others, coming around the desk to stand before them, his handsome, ghostly face practically glowing, he was so pale. He leaned toward Calum to examine him up close. Like Alma, Calum struggled to meet the Elders eye to eye, pulling away slightly. He steadied himself with a visible effort, forced their eyes to meet. Whatever inner turmoil he confronted, Alma was proud of his resolve.

“As I understand it,” Elder McKinley said, “you’ve lost a considerable amount of your memory, is that right?”

Elder McKinley made it a point to stare deeply into each of Calum’s eyes, before finally he seemed satisfied and pulled back. He returned around the desk, where each of the Elders took their seats beside one another. Marjorie and Ryker stuck to the sidelines in the meantime.

“We would like to hear your story, Alma,” Elder Vincent said. His baritone voice was usually soothing to Alma’s ears, his sermons always her favorite of the three. Today, however, his deep tone did little to center her. “From the beginning.”

Alma told them everything, starting when Calum first fell ill. She told them of his worsening cough, his congestion, and his eventual fever. She told them of her visit to their city’s healers, who advised her to ensure Calum got plenty of bedrest and drank plenty of warm fluids, which she had done.

“On the first night that my husband fell ill, I had a strange dream,” she said. “A young woman appeared to me, and told me that nothing truly dies. That was it. A simple message I didn’t understand at the time. I had the same dream each night thereafter as Calum’s condition worsened. Then the fever had broken and, believing he was soon to recover, I awakened two nights ago to find him no longer breathing beside me…” Alma glanced at the man seated next to her, obviously alive and well. Obviously a miracle. “I’d awakened from yet another dream before finding him in that state…”

“Dead, you mean,” Elder McKinley said.

“Yes. Dead.” Alma could already see in their faces what they thought of her story—the discomfort, the suspicion. No explanation on her part could dissuade them of these things. “In that final dream, the woman communicated one additional thing—to come find her in the north. It was an explicit instruction, and all at once her messages made sense to me.”

“And you told no one of this besides your neighbors,” Elder Lawrence said.

“That is correct,” Alma said.

“Not even your two community leaders here, Father Ryker and Mother Marjorie?”

“I knew they would not have supported my decision.”

“She knew that what she planned to do was wrong,” Mother Marjorie added. Just for the sake of stinging her, Alma thought.

“I did not believe it was wrong,” Alma said. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. “Nor do I still.”

“Not even after the cost?” Marjorie said. “According to Ryker, we lost two men bringing you back.”

Alma didn’t know what to say to that. She did feel a sense of guilt, though she hadn’t asked anyone to come looking for her.

“You understand that what you have done… what has been done to Calum… is strictly against our beliefs?” Elder Lawrence said.

“But why should it be?” Alma said. Behind the Elders, Father Ryker grimaced. “If our goal is to rebuild humanity, should we not do everything in our power to preserve our numbers? And even ignoring that… I do believe most people would have done the same, if put in my position. Father Ryker, would you not have done the same when—”

“I think that is best left out of the conversation,” Marjorie interrupted, as Ryker’s grimace only deepened.

“It was brought to our attention that you described this mysterious woman as being pure of soul,” Elder McKinley said, his monotone voice giving nothing away in the manner of interest. “Can you elaborate on what you meant by that, Alma?”

“Simply that I felt this woman was good,” Alma said. Which was true enough, even if Zola had provided her with her own definition of what a pure soul entailed. “If I had sensed any wickedness, I would not have made the journey.”

Alma proceeded to describe the journey itself—the storm, the dangers she faced, her own brush with death, which would have been realized if not for the young woman’s timely rescue.

“She turned out to be no older than fifteen or sixteen years. Just a child, really. She tended to my wounds. She tended to Calum…” Alma regarded her husband again, who kept his gaze fixed to the floor at their feet, resistant to looking anywhere else, least of all at them. “She brought my husband back to life.”

“And what did that entail?” Elder McKinley asked. “The ritual.”

“Well… I was in and out of consciousness for most of it,” Alma lied, wishing to keep Zola’s secrets just that. “But there was a box of freshly dug earth, in which she placed Calum’s body, and… she sang to him.”

The room buzzed with momentary silence, during which the three Elders exchanged curious glances. Alma wanted desperately to know their thoughts, their suspicions, but they voiced none of them.

“But as you can see,” Alma went on, “it worked.”

Elder Lawrence leaned forward in his chair. “And what do you remember of this ritual, Calum?”

“I remember none of it,” Calum said. “Only that I woke up under the dirt. My first thought was that I’d been buried alive, and so I panicked…”

“And you remember nothing before that moment?” Elder Vincent said. “Nothing of your life before death, here in Gloam?”

“Or what of the afterlife?” Elder McKinley asked, his robotic stare narrowing in.

“I remember nothing before waking up in that box of dirt.”

“But you remember Alma,” Ryker said, looking nervously between Calum and the Elders as though unsure whether he should add his voice to the interrogation.

Calum turned to Alma. Alma held his gaze, reassured him with a faint smile.

“She is perhaps the only thing I remember,” Calum said. “Albeit vaguely.”

“Are you nervous, Calum?” Elder McKinley asked. There was no compassion to the question. At least, none to be detected from Elder McKinley’s way of speaking. “You have hardly looked at us at all this meeting.”

Even now Alma saw Calum’s reluctance to do so. But he made a concerted effort to look at each of them. It appeared he held his breath as he did it, jaw clenched.

“I’ll admit that I am,” he said.

“And why is that?”

“Well… I guess hearing words like demon being tossed around in reference to yourself will do that,” he said. “And given that my memory fails me, I don’t really have the means to defend myself against these accusations.”

The Elders seemed to collectively turn Calum’s thoughts over in their own.

“I am certain his memory will return in time,” Alma blurted. “It is just a side effect of what’s happened.”

“A side effect of necromancy, you mean,” Mother Marjorie added, and eyed the Elders in hopes of glimpsing their approval.

“I have my Calum back. That is all that matters to me. He is clearly healthy and articulate. All I ask is that we be allowed to return to our normal lives. I am sure, given time, things will be just as they were before.”

“And how do you think this stunt of yours will affect the others?” Marjorie said. “Word of Calum’s condition will spread fast, if it hasn’t already. What’s to stop others from abandoning our teachings in pursuit of this miracle cure when one of theirs falls victim to a natural death?”

“I believe the best course of action going forward,” Elder Lawrence chimed in, “would be for Calum to be kept someplace secure where we might monitor him until we are confident he is harmless.”

“And if his memory does come back to him,” Elder Vincent said, “you will be the first to know.”

Now it was Alma who clenched her jaw, who became short of breath. Her thoughts spun wildly. She shook her head as she tried to separate them, sort through them, to argue against their ridiculous proposal.

“Please,” was the first word from her mouth, as her desperation floated to the top of everything else. “Let him stay with me. I will monitor him myself. After all, who better to oversee the return of his memory than me? No one knows Calum better than I do.”

“This is totally inappropriate, Alma,” Marjorie said. “It is not your place to question the Elders’ decree.”

“I agree with Alma,” Ryker said quite suddenly. At first Alma wasn’t sure she had heard him right. “Should Calum regain himself, surely it would be most beneficial that he be somewhere comfortable and familiar?”

“Seriously, Ryker? Is this necessary?” Marjorie said. “Alma is a grown woman who has forsaken her community and our principles, instead choosing to chase illusions and consort with the very corruption our city walls were built to resist. She has endangered all of us, not only by forcing you to bring her back as you did, but by bringing this… abomination back with her. Actions have consequences. To allow these two to freely—”

“And should worse come to worst, I will take full responsibility for them,” Ryker interjected.

Marjorie made a visible effort to settle her seething. “I understand why you might take pity on Alma, but this is—”

“You do not understand me at all, Marjorie,” Ryker said.

By now Alma’s mind was thoroughly stressed, ping-ponging back and forth between her community leaders whose disagreement she could hardly explain.

“I will take it upon myself to check in with Alma and Calum on a routine basis,” Ryker told the Elders. “And I will report any and all developments to you daily, if that pleases you.”

Even the Elders appeared baffled. Elder Lawrence’s thin lips were pursed in thought. Elder Vincent listened with a perplexed tilt of his head. And Elder McKinley, with his unchanging expression, did seem to blink at twice the normal rate.

It was Elder Vincent who spoke first.

“If Father Ryker wishes to take full responsibility, I say let him. It is less for us to manage when we are already so preoccupied with our daily commitments to the church and its people.”

Elder Lawrence seemed surprised, but only briefly. In another moment he swiftly nodded his agreement, perhaps wishing to simply end this discussion and be done with it.

Elder McKinley said, “Let Alma watch over her husband in their home. But you must be vigilant, Father Ryker. It will also be your responsibility to curb any… unpleasantness that may arise, when the others learn of what Alma has done.”

“And what of her punishment?” Marjorie said. “Her actions have cost two men their lives. Surely there must be some consequence.”

“Alma’s punishment will be determined,” Elder Vincent said, much to Marjorie’s glowering disapproval. “For now, let’s allow things to unfold and see what comes of Calum’s transformation. Ryker, your responsibility for these two begins now. If you will escort them home…”

“Of course,” Ryker answered with a bow of his head.

“But before you go…” Elder Lawrence stood from behind the desk. He made his way around to them, Alma growing more tense with each step he took. Then, as he came to stand before her, his thin-lipped mouth curled into a smile and he opened his arms. “It is truly a good thing, to see you home safe and sound.”

Alma was astonished. She stood from her chair and accepted Elder Lawrence’s embrace with her heart in her throat, her mind unspooling from her flurried head. His warmth and kindness cascaded over her. She could have cried tears of joy, to know such forgiveness. She wished to tell him then how sorry she was, for everything, even if she did believe she would do it all again in a heartbeat.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, thank you…”

Elder Lawrence released her. He turned his attention to Calum next, who was much slower to rise than Alma had been as Elder Lawrence offered his open embrace. Calum glanced at Alma. Perhaps seeking encouragement. Alma gave a slight nod. He stood from his seat, a full head shorter than Elder Lawrence, as most men were. Elder Lawrence wrapped his arms around Calum, pulled him close.

“May Oleth watch over you.”

18

NEIGHBORLY

GUNNAR

Gunnar held his breath and tried not to squirm away from the thing—even as it writhed beneath its robes, as the bumpy tendrils of its face wormed against his, as its concealed wings lightly fluttered under his arms as he embraced it.

The others couldn’t see it as he did. Definitely not, given how Alma had first described them.

They are good people.

The Elders were not people at all. Gunnar couldn’t understand the illusion at play, but unlike the others he saw them for what they were. Imposters in red robes. It was a struggle not to let on to this knowledge. The sour stench of the thing wafted through his nostrils and he grinned through it.

Could the creature tell he was not fooled, he wondered? Could it in turn see him for what he was? Another kind of imposter? There was no way to know for sure. The best thing Gunnar could do was play along for now. Put on a happy face, or at the very least mute his disgust.

Eventually the beast called Elder Lawrence released him. Gunnar ordered his legs to stay put, to not turn tail and flee like his every instinct otherwise told him. He looked upon its impossible face—through the twitching mass of its maggot-like flesh into the deep recesses of its black eyes—and only barely resisted the shudder that teased his spine. He held the creature’s gaze and smiled with gratitude for its mercy.

“May Oleth watch over us all,” he replied, and at last turned his attention to Alma.

She was his only barometer in this—a gauge by which to judge his performance. She appeared pleased. Relieved, Gunnar looked at the floor then, at the hems of their robes, and hoped that the moment would soon pass.

Elder Lawrence returned to its comrades behind the desk where they continued to speak, but Gunnar hardly paid their words any attention. He simply focused on the floor, hoped his awkwardness would be mistaken for reverence, and tried to keep his breathing steady.

Why am I so deeply bothered?

Gunnar was no stranger to monsters. But something about these unnerved him more than any other. Perhaps it was the sinister intelligence in disguising themselves, the enigmatic motive behind doing so. Whatever was happening here, in this island of a city, it made Gunnar’s skin crawl.

He surged with joyous relief as Ryker asked that he and Alma follow him out of the office. Gunnar couldn’t go fast enough, and nearly stepped on the heels of Ryker’s sandals as they returned through the expansive nave. They didn’t pause until they were through the entrance and standing under the afternoon sun, warm upon Gunnar’s fear-slicked face.

As soon as the church doors shut behind them Alma threw her arms around Ryker’s neck in appreciation.

“Thank you, Father Ryker,” she said. “I was certain I was all alone in there.”

“Thank me later,” he said, “when we are more certain what the ramifications will be.”

As Alma clung to him, Ryker shot Gunnar a look, up and down—an acknowledgement that he was still an unknown in Ryker’s eyes. He didn’t bother hiding his relief as Alma released him.

“Instead of escorting you home, why don’t you both get some food? I’m sure you’re hungry. I’ll check in later tonight. And Alma…”

“Yes, Father Ryker?”

“Word will travel fast. People will be wary of you both. It’s just the simple truth. So take heed of that.”

As Gunnar watched Ryker take his leave, he did notice a few pairs of prying eyes studying them from around the square.

It seemed word had already begun to travel.

The communal dining hall was a sizable beige tent with open flaps at either end. Inside were several lengthy tables, where many were already gathered with their meals—bowls of what appeared to be porridge of some kind.

Hunger was a sensation Gunnar had taught himself to ignore, having felt it for the better part of seven centuries with no hope of satiety. But now there was hope, his stomach positively roared inside him. He followed Alma to the end of a growing queue where other brown-robed folks waited for their meals.

He was reminded of his old life—standing in line at the school cafeteria as a young boy. What a strange thing to abruptly remember after so, so many years.

“What are you thinking?” Alma asked.

An intake of breath. Gunnar had forgotten himself. They shuffled a few more steps toward the front of the line.

“Nothing, really,” he said.

Alma gestured to the interior of their dining tent. “Does anything about this place seem familiar to you?”

“I…” Gunnar looked around some more, meeting some not-so-friendly stares as he did. “I’m not sure.”

Alma peered across the tent as well, noticing their onlookers for herself. “People can’t help their curiosity. We must do our best to ignore them…”

Soon it was their turn at the front of the line. They took their bowls of porridge and found an empty table to sit. More people were funneling in, and as they did Gunnar felt a growing number of eyes upon them. He decided to focus on eating for now. His stomach did somersaults, giddy for sustenance. He took up his wooden spoon, then took his first bite.

Oh.

Gunnar had expected the taste of food—any food—to overwhelm him. The only flavors he could even recall anymore were those of smoke and blood. But the lukewarm porridge across his tongue tasted…

“This food,” he said aloud, unable to keep his thoughts to himself. “It’s flavorless.”

Alma regarded him strangely. “It tastes as it always has.”

Gunnar turned his porridge with his spoon. “And what taste is it?”

“It is…” Alma thought about it. “Nutty.”

Gunnar forced himself to swallow another bite. There was a taste, he could admit. But it was so faint, so as to be nearly imperceptible. Was it a lack of salt? Sugar? Surely after all these years, any food would seem an explosion of flavor on his tastebuds. But there was no explosion. No refreshment.

Perhaps it was Calum, he thought. His body. His tastebuds. Something wrong. A malfunction. Somehow Gunnar didn’t think so, however. It was the food itself. But until he was offered something more than gruel, he supposed it would be hard to know for sure. He sighed disappointedly and continued to eat. His stomach appreciated the weight of it, at least.

As the tent became more crowded, there arose a series of coughs and wheezes around them—evidence of disease spreading through the populace.

“Are there usually so many sick?” Gunnar asked, peering toward the next table where a man coughed himself red in the face.

“Now and again it sweeps through the city. Usually it is nothing severe, but…” Alma regarded him with a worrisome quirk of her brow. She turned her attention back to eating, before hurriedly changing the subject entirely. “I was thinking… perhaps it would be a good idea to share some stories with you, so that we might shake some memories loose.”

Gunnar nodded. Anything that might allow him a distraction from all the unpleasantness of the ‘modern’ world.

So Alma told him stories. About how she and Calum first met, as children of the same age raised alongside each other in neighboring dwellings. She’d always thought Calum handsome and uniquely hilarious, if not outright eccentric. They’d become fast friends heading into their adolescence, at which point they’d been paired as future husband and wife under the mutual agreement of their parents. This was the way of things in Gloam. Everyone lived toward this singular purpose—to restore humanity’s numbers and take back their world through the power of collective prayer.

Though Gunnar’s reintroduction to this world had been bleak, and his reception less than welcoming—and the food rather bland and disappointing—his heart was unexpectedly warmed listening to Alma talk of her love for her husband. She truly treasured the man. Which made it all the more painful, knowing the weight of the lie he perpetuated by remaining in Calum’s body.

“Any of this sounding familiar yet?” Alma asked, with far more hope in her voice than Gunnar could stand.

Gunnar frowned. Shook his head. He feared the memory checks would never cease. He would probably be executed as an abomination first. Which reminded him…

“Can I ask you something?” he said, surprising Alma. She nodded, waited intently. “This is going to sound odd…”

“You can ask me anything,” she said, eager.

“Could you describe the Elders for me?”

Alma’s eyes flickered with momentary incomprehension.

“You’ve met them,” she said. “Only just moments ago…”

“I know, I know, I just… I’d like to know how they appear in your eyes. When you look at them… what do you see?”

Alma cocked her head, as a curious smile curled the corner of her mouth. She thought he was playing a joke. When it became clear he was not, she sobered and answered as best she could.

“That is a very strange question,” she said. “But all right. I would say they are each very different. Elder Vincent is perhaps the strongest in appearance of the three. Very masculine. On that, Laurie and I both agree. Laurie is my friend, of course. Our friend. Our neighbors, Laurie and Neil…” Alma cleared her throat, losing her train of thought. “In complete contrast, Elder Lawrence is a spider of a man. Very tall, delicate, but gentle. He is kind. Which leaves Elder McKinley, who is… well… spectral, to say the least. Some might say translucent. Very pale. Very serious. Laurie once described him as wooden, which seemed unkind at the time, though it does describe him…” Alma looked at Gunnar as though she’d accidentally said too much. “Why do you ask this?”

“I was just curious,” Gunnar lied. “I guess I was expecting something… different, is all.”

Human, he thought. I was expecting something human.

“They are not ordinary by any means,” Alma went on. “The Elders have lived amongst us for centuries. They were chosen by the Prophet, who in turn was chosen by Oleth. It is only through the Elders that we know we are on the right track to reclaiming our home on this world.”

“By multiplying,” Gunnar said.

“Correct.”

Gunnar remembered what Calum had told him before. “But you and I don’t have any children.”

Alma considered Gunnar carefully, his words eliciting some unknowable tension in her thoughts.

“That is right,” she said, that look in her eyes holding firm.

“And why is that?”

Alma stared deeply into him then, intently, as though expecting him to answer his own question—or perhaps suspecting that he already knew the answer.

“I don’t remember anything,” he reminded her.

“It is complicated,” she said, and left it at that. A pure dismissal.

“Don’t you want me to remember?”

“I would rather we start with the good.” She forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “The good is easier to tell.”

Relenting, Gunnar was about to take another bite of his flavorless porridge when someone approached their table.

“Abomination!”

A gray-haired man stood fuming before them, fists clenched, eyes bulging, the well-worn trenches of his cheeks and scowling mouth betraying a history deprived of joy or humor. He dragged his harsh gaze across the surrounding tables, confirming that he had the others’ attention.

“An abomination in our midst! Our city is compromised!”

“Ellis,” Alma said. “Please…”

“Don’t you all feel it? This woman has smuggled evil into our home, and now here it festers!”

Gunnar chanced a look around and was dismayed to see approval in many of the others’ eyes, nodding their agreement. There were also a choice few who did appear confused, or even critical of the old man, annoyed by the spectacle of it all.

“You do not know the first thing of which you speak,” Alma said. “Do not spread lies, Ellis.”

“But I do not lie!” he shouted. He indicated Gunnar with a trembling finger. “This man is not a man, but the result of necromancy! Witchcraft! Evil incarnate, invited amongst us to infiltrate, to poison!”

Gunnar leaned toward Alma. “We should leave.”

Alma agreed. Together they hastily stood and started for the exit. The old man trailed after them with his raving. Gunnar would have liked to knock him on his ass, but knew violence wouldn’t gain them any favor.

Nearly to the exit, someone else stepped into their path, a nameless thumb of a man, his pudgy face contorted with hate.

“Abomination!” he shouted, joining Ellis. “Abomination!”

The man’s saliva flecked Gunnar’s face. They were about to step outside when another man seized Gunnar by the wrist, pulled him to a halt. Gunnar spun, knuckles clamped. He was about to let his fist fly as yet another man stepped between them, forcing their hands apart. At that very moment, a woman swooped in behind them, leading Gunnar and Alma both toward the exit.

“Out, out, out,” she muttered, and promptly whisked them into the warm sunlight.

Halfway across the open square Alma said to the woman, “Thank you, Laurie. You are a life saver…”

“It was that old pest who reported us to Mother Marjorie in the first place,” Laurie said.

“Ellis?”

“He spied on us that night. He could not wait to receive his pat on the back for stalking our streets like the overgrown rat he is.”

They stole from the town square and into the maze of identical dwellings Gunnar couldn’t make heads or tails of. He would never learn the layout, he thought, or be able to tell one home from another.

“I hope I did not get you into too much trouble,” Alma said.

“Well, you did,” Laurie said. “But it was nothing I didn’t consciously risk. I am just glad to see you back safe and sound. You too, Calum…”

Laurie’s voice trailed off as she said it, uncertain how glad she really was to see him. Gunnar couldn’t blame her, what with all the accusations of being an abomination.

They arrived at Alma’s and Calum’s home. They hurried inside, Laurie with them. Alma shut the door, leaving only the afternoon light through the window to see by. But it was enough.

“Do you think you will be safe here?” Laurie asked.

“If we are not safe in our own home, there is no safety for us whatsoever,” Alma replied. “By the way, Calum, this is Laurie, who I mentioned earlier.”

Gunnar smiled politely. Laurie did not return it, however, a question worn on her lips instead.

“Calum does not remember himself,” Alma said. “Or much else, for that matter.”

“I see,” Laurie said, pensive. “I will admit, I was not sure I would ever see you again, Alma. And to see you both returned, Calum on his own two feet… it defies belief.”

“I will tell you everything,” Alma said. “Perhaps not today, but soon.”

“As eager as I am to hear about your journey, I should go make sure Neil is all right—that he hasn’t wrung Ellis’s neck, or worse.” Laurie’s eyes darted between them, like she still couldn’t believe it. “Take care, Alma. Calum.”

Alma shut the door behind her, but not before checking in either direction along the alleyway, ensuring no one hovered nearby. Gunnar took a seat on the crinkly bed.

“She seems nice.”

“Laurie and her husband helped get us out of the city,” Alma said. “They are good people. We can trust them.”

“And what about Ryker?” Gunnar asked. “You seemed surprised earlier when he stood up for us.”

“I was,” Alma said. “I thought he would be the most severe of anyone, going to all that effort to bring us back…” Alma hung her head thinking on this. “But I suspect that he sympathizes. Perhaps more than most others could.”

“How do you mean?”

“Father Ryker lost his wife some years ago. He has been alone ever since. I thought surely his experience would have hardened him in this matter, but it seems to have done the opposite. Or perhaps he is simply an even kinder man than I knew.”

“Why do you call him Father Ryker? And Marjorie, Mother Marjorie?”

Alma regarded Gunnar in that upsetting way again, as he reminded her once more that he wasn’t who she remembered.

“They are our current community leaders. They act as messengers between us and the Elders. It is through Father Ryker and Mother Marjorie that the people of Gloam are heard.”

“Representatives,” Gunnar said quietly.

“Hmm?”

“Representatives. Voices on your behalf.”

“Yes,” Alma said. “On our behalf.”

She smiled, but it soon faded as she appeared to think on it.

“I have never heard you say that word before,” she said. “Representatives…”

Gunnar’s heart sank, his porridge churning sourly in his stomach. Then Alma visibly forced those thoughts aside, smiling again.

“No matter,” she said. “The day is getting late and I have not slept much the last two nights. Are you tired at all?”

It was a strange thing, being unfamiliar with the sensations of a living body again, when for so long Gunnar had only known suffering without relief. He had always been tired in the hellscape, but it was another thing to know he could help it, indulge it.

“Yes,” he answered. “Very.”

“Then we shall go to bed early,” Alma said. “We might wake early in the morning, but I feel I could sleep for days and days, so we will see.” She picked up the hunk of wood which had previously been placed inside the window and hesitated. She turned to Gunnar. “Are you comfortable sharing a bed with me?”

Gunnar opened his mouth but couldn’t answer.

“I’ve just realized,” Alma said, “that I am a stranger to you. I suppose until your memory returns, that is what we are to each other now…”

These were her words, but voicing them clearly wounded her.

“It’s your decision,” Gunnar said. “I’m not bothered.”

A glimmer of determination flashed across Alma’s visage.

“Neither am I.”

She placed the shutter back into the window, but the late afternoon sun was such that its light still entered the room through the jagged cracks surrounding the wood. Enough that Gunnar could still faintly see her there, and she him. Alma pulled her robes from over her head. She was pale in the dark. And rather lovely, Gunnar thought. He faltered, questioned himself, before ultimately following her lead. He pulled off his robes and set them aside, a pool of fabric on the floor. He climbed onto the bed, under the single thin blanket which was a rough, wiry fabric. The bed itself was crunchy but oddly not so uncomfortable. Alma slipped underneath the cover beside him.

They each lay on their lumpy excuses for pillows, staring at the underside of the thatched roof, the bed rustling under the weight of their bodies. The house, the room, was quiet.

Gunnar’s mind was anything but.

Primarily, he couldn’t stop thinking about the hellscape—disbelief for having escaped it, a minor twinge of guilt for leaving Calum trapped there. Then there were other thoughts. This new world, his place in it, wondering how long before he was found out.

How long before he returned to that hellscape?

In the softening dark, Alma turned to look at him, as he was focused on the shadows overhead.

“Would you like me to tell you another story?” she asked. “Perhaps of the time we played tricks on Father Jasper as children—one of the community leaders who preceded Father Ryker. It is one of my fondest memories.”

Gunnar answered that he would like to hear that story very much—if only to quiet everything else.

19

LOYAL PETS

MARJORIE

Marjorie remained as the others departed—as Ryker escorted Alma and Calum out of the church. And as she lingered in the Elders’ office, so did they.

“Mother Marjorie,” Elder Lawrence said. “It goes without saying, we would like you to keep an eye on things as well. Father Ryker obviously has an inherent bias in these matters. We need your objective, critical eye watching from the sidelines.”

“Of course,” Marjorie said, as certain thoughts gnawed at her. “But I don’t understand. Why agree to allow them back into society at all? Calum should be kept under close supervision at all times.”

“We understand this,” Elder McKinley said. “But there are other matters to consider. Based on Father Ryker’s report, we believe the witch has followed them back. It would seem she has a vested interest in keeping an eye on her wicked experiment, which means she’s close.”

“She is out there somewhere,” Elder Vincent said. “Perhaps even circling our city as we speak.”

Marjorie understood now. This wasn’t about Calum. Not really. The Elders had bigger concerns—much loftier goals.

“You believe she will infiltrate us,” Marjorie said.

“It is only a matter of time,” Elder Lawrence said. “We need you to be our extra pair of eyes in this.”

“It is not that we don’t trust Father Ryker,” Elder Vincent added. “But he has blind spots where it concerns Alma and Calum, and so he might not be as vigilant as required.”

“I will do as you say,” Marjorie said. “You know you can count on me.”

She left the Elders with her head bowed, her thoughts racing as she hastily made her way out of the church and into the sunlight, where she stood for a time, thinking.

A witch in our midst.

It was a frightening thought. But the Elders were right. Alma and Calum were inconsequential in light of the bigger threat. Better to use them as bait, being the witch’s thoughtless pets as they were.

It made Marjorie’s blood boil. How could Alma be so stupid? So shortsighted? Marjorie never thought Alma any dumber than the rest of the sheep—dumb is exactly what sheep should be, to maintain order—but this excursion was on another level. It was dangerous. For all of them. And when stupidity crosses paths with recklessness, is precisely when an animal should be culled.

“Is everything all right, Mother Marjorie?”

Marjorie jerked to see the man who had crept up beside her without making a sound. It was Ellis, naturally. Somehow he was everywhere you didn’t want him to be. For Marjorie, that meant anywhere close by.

“I am fine,” she said. “Though I’d prefer if you didn’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Apologies,” Ellis said, though he wasn’t sorry at all. “I could not help noticing that Alma and Calum are returned… or that Calum is once more standing on his own two feet.”

“What an astute eye you have, Ellis…”

Marjorie paused. Appraised. News of Calum’s death had already gotten out, and so the news of his return could only mean one thing to most. With that in mind, there would be no harm in filling Ellis in on what happened… so that she might enlist his irritating vigilance for her own cause.

Marjorie directed Ellis to follow her around the corner of the church, into the shade away from any onlookers. There she told him everything—about the others’ return, about the possible dangers they’d brought back with them, most notably the witch outside their city walls. Ellis listened intently, his reactions torn between awe and outrage.

“I could use your help,” Marjorie told the withered man. “If there is any chance Alma might further consort with the witch, another pair of eyes and ears would be most helpful. Anything you see or hear, I’d like reported to me and only me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mother Marjorie. I understand. Of course. You know that I am nothing if not discreet…”

“You will not report to Father Ryker under any circumstance. It has been determined that his soft heart is… a liability, in these matters. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

Marjorie cleared her throat and peeked around the corner, into the sunlit square. “Very good…”

“I have just seen Alma and Calum making their way to the food tent,” Ellis said. “Would you like me to head there now?”

Marjorie scowled, annoyed by Ellis’s relentless qualities, as well as disappointed in Ryker’s inability to simply do as the Elders told him, which was to take the couple straight home. She was also perturbed by the idea that Alma and Calum should so quickly slip back into the flow of their community, after everything they’d done. No consequences, no punishment. That Alma should feel comfortable enough to even show her face publicly before her peers was a sin of shamelessness, Marjorie thought.

Another idea occurred to her then.

“Yes,” she said, and sighed, already exhausted by this new responsibility. “Keep an eye on them for me, of course. But I’d also ask something else of you…”

“Of course,” Ellis said. “Anything at all.”

“We need to ensure that our people understand the gravity of what’s happened. Of what Alma and Calum have done. It is important that everyone knows this is not to be encouraged, or replicated. Do you understand my meaning?”

“I’m not sure,” Ellis said. “What would you ask of me?”

If the Elders were too preoccupied to bother with punishment, then it fell on the shoulders of the flock to condemn wrongdoing, Marjorie thought.

“The people deserve to be made aware of the danger that has been brought to their doorsteps.” Then, smiling, Marjorie said, “And Alma must be made aware that the people do not condone such behavior.”

20

PREDATORS

ALMA

Alma did not rest as easily as Calum, who fell asleep halfway into her first story. Instead her sleep came in brief, dreamless doses as late afternoon bled into the evening, until she woke again in the heart of night and found herself drenched in sweat.

The room was stuffy, the air stale. She discreetly climbed out of bed and pulled the shutter from the window to let in some fresh air. The night breathed in, cool and pleasant on her flushed skin. She breathed it in deep. The moonlight was especially bright tonight, and poured freely into the room without the shutter in place.

Alma crept back to bed, where she sat and watched the sleeping man beside her.

Calum, but not Calum. A stranger.

She loathed this feeling, having gotten what she wanted, and yet it wasn’t what she’d wanted at all. She told herself he would remember soon. If he remembered anything at all, which he already had, then it only followed he would soon remember the rest in time.

He remembers me.

He remembered her name and that was the extent of it. He remembered the name of their city, too, but knew nothing about it.

It had only been a day. One day. She would have faith, she decided, just as she maintained her faith in Gloam and its people and in Oleth’s guidance. Faith was a choice.

Calum stirred. Shimmied on his back. Turned his head from one side to the other. A sigh escaped him, and then something more. A string of unintelligible words, until the last few.

“…just don’t, Henry.”

Alma leaned in, hoping to hear him better. Calum turned toward her, and in its dimmest reaches Alma saw the glint of moonlight in his eyes.

“Are you awake?” she asked him.

He didn’t respond at first, his wet eyes glancing about the room like he’d forgotten where he was.

“I’m awake,” he said.

“You were talking in your sleep.” Alma watched Calum carefully, whose expression remained too drowsy to reveal much. “Do you remember what you dreamt of?”

A big breath. A loud exhale. “No. I’ve already forgotten.”

“Who is Henry?”

Calum turned sharply then, the back of his head crinkling his pillow. He blinked cluelessly in the dark.

“You said it in your sleep. Henry.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t remember my dream…”

Alma smiled in the dark, whether Calum could see it or not.

“It makes sense that you wouldn’t know, since I don’t know any Henry, either.”

She knew of the name, of course, had heard tell of various Henrys of the past. Gloam’s past. But she knew of no Henry currently living. Therefore, neither did Calum.

Calum sat up slightly. “Where do we keep water? I’m a bit thirsty.”

“Oh.” Alma stood and crossed their home toward Oleth’s altar, where they kept a few of their conveniences stored in the corner, such as a refillable jug for water—which was now empty. She had forgotten to refill it upon their return home.

“I will be right back,” she told Calum, slipping into her robes and sandals.

“Where are you going?”

“Just to the nearest well. It’s not far. I will fill our jug.”

“Do you need help?”

“No,” Alma said. “Get more rest, if you need it.”

Truthfully Alma desired some time alone. A moment away from Calum. This simple desire stung her with guilt. How far had she gone, how many of their principles had she broken in order to bring him back, and she desired a break from him already?

Because he is not my Calum.

The thought sprang to mind as she shut the door behind her. She stood outside their home, jug in hand, frozen by the notion. A cool breeze swept around her ankles. The low drone of wind high over their city walls filled her ears. The sensation of tears filled her eyes. Blurred her vision. She touched the corner of her eye and felt the moisture on her fingertip.

She hurried through the alley, then along the wider path of their small district, which brought her straight to the nearest watering hole. She set the jug down at the foot of the well. With both hands on the rope, she lowered the bucket until she felt the rope slacken. She waited. Around her, the city moaned with another passing gust overhead. Once she felt that the bucket had sunk, she hauled it back up. She pulled it out onto the ground where she crouched and readied her jug.

Behind her, movement.

Alma looked over her shoulder. The surrounding shadows betrayed nothing. No one. But she was certain someone was there, watching. Was it Ellis? Spying again in the dead of night? She would not put it past him. It seemed the old man never slept.

She began carefully pouring the water from the bucket into their ceramic jug. Once it was full, she dumped what water remained into the well and hooked the bucket back into place for the next fetcher.

From the corner of her eye, Alma saw movement. A shadow in motion. She twitched toward it, pulse quickening. As suddenly as she’d seen it, it vanished, slipping into the darkness of the nearby alleyway. Now there was nothing.

Alma gathered her jug in both arms and hurried home. She hugged the jug tightly, fearful she would drop it in her haste. She was just about to step into her alley when someone spoke beside her, leaning against one of the dwellings there.

“You be careful, Alma.”

Alma startled to see Ellis, just as she’d first suspected. Upon noticing him, however, she turned to face the well again, in the direction she’d first seen someone. If Ellis was here, it couldn’t have been him back there.

“Lord knows what you’re really climbing into bed with,” Ellis said.

“Mind your own business,” she replied. “For once in your life.”

She started forward again as Ellis stepped onto the path, blocking her. He moved toward her, as Alma shrank back against the dwelling beside her. He took another step closer still, the water jug the only thing between them as he nearly pressed against her.

“I am minding my business,” he breathed into her face. “The evil you’ve brought into our city is everyone’s business. The others deserve to know the truth of what you’ve dragged us all into.”

“I have dragged you into nothing,” Alma said, scowling at the old man’s foul breath. “It is you who insists on inserting yourself—”

“I will expose your wickedness if it is the last thing I do,” Ellis hissed.

“You will step away from me,” Alma said, “before I knock you on your feeble ass.”

Ellis leaned in so that their faces were inches apart.

“Do you really plan to lay with an abomination?” he said. “Do you think it wise, to have its children? But then again, if Calum could not give you any before…”

Ellis struck out with pursed lips. A wet peck upon Alma’s grimacing mouth. Alma forgot everything then—Calum, the jug of water in her arms. It fell to the ground as she raked a clawed hand across Ellis’s cheek. He gasped, staggering back with a hand to his face. Alma stood with fists clenched at her sides, shoulders heaving, cheeks flushed with hot blood. Ellis’s mouth squirmed into a snarl as he moved toward her once more.

“Try something again and I will wake everyone with my screams.”

That stopped him. He looked around, remembering where they were. This wasn’t an area where violence would go unnoticed. Such places were hard to come by in Gloam.

“Oleth sees you,” Ellis said. “You will be judged accordingly.”

“Oleth sees you, too, Ellis. Don’t forget that.”

Ellis turned on his heel and vanished into the shadows of the nearest intersecting path.

Panting, heart thudding against her breastbone, Alma collected her jug from the ground, which had landed on its solid base without breaking, much to her relief. Some water had sloshed out. She took it into her arms and hurried the rest of the way home. She was still out of breath upon stepping inside and shutting the door behind her.

“Is everything all right?” Calum asked from the bed, fully sitting up now.

“Everything is fine.” Alma grabbed one of their wooden cups and filled it with water from the jug. She brought the cup to Calum. “Here.”

She returned to her side of the bed, where she removed her robes once more, dropping them to the floor. She found Calum watching her in the dark, his cup raised to his chin.

“I thought you were thirsty,” she said, climbing back under the covers beside him.

Calum drank his water in one go, then leaned out of bed to set the empty cup on the floor.

“There is more in the jug if you want,” Alma told him. “Tomorrow I will show you the well.”

There hung a distinct restlessness in the air as they settled back into their places. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of Alma’s confrontation with Ellis. She contemplated telling Calum about it. Not long ago she would have already done it—would have been the first thing out of her mouth as she came through the door.

“Calum,” she said, staring into the abyss above their bed.

“Huh?” he said, his voice already groggy, like he could just endlessly sleep and never be too rested to do so again.

“I know you do not remember much… if anything at all, but…” Alma paused. Why was she saying this? Because some part of her needed to say it? Needed to believe it? She felt it was escaping her, this feeling she once knew so powerfully, and to forget it would be the greatest horror of all. If she had to go through the motions simply to keep some semblance of it intact, so be it. “I love you.”

Her words gave way to a great and terrible silence that seemed to stretch on forever. She shut her eyes against the dark, hands clasped across her belly under the covers, praying silently—for strength, for perseverance, for reassurance.

“You do not need to say anything,” she blurted out, unwilling to allow the silence to go on any longer. “I just needed to say it myself. I hope you understand.”

“I understand,” Calum said. The sound of his voice was its own reassurance, Alma thought. It would always be his voice, after all, and there was a comfort in that. She opened her eyes to see him beside her, found him looking back. “Thank you for believing in me, Alma.”

She smiled softly. Calum smiled in return… but it was not entirely his smile. Not the one she was used to, anyway. Another pang of despair. She looked away. She couldn’t see him right now, not at this late hour when one’s mind was unlike itself. Tomorrow morning would feel different. Better.

Of course I believe in you, she thought.

What other choice did she have?

21

RISING TENSIONS

GUNNAR

He dreamed of hellfire and misery again. The appetite of both. Bottomless. And amid the screams, he heard the other’s voice. The one whose place he’d taken.

Calum waited in the flames, sitting cross-legged and straight-backed. Meditative. Gunnar waded through the sweltering heat, parting a curtain of smoke to reach him.

“You do not belong in there,” Calum said.

He lifted his gaze, meeting Gunnar’s. The tether between them tightened. Gunnar felt it between his ribs, tugging, squeezing, so that he could not retreat as Calum climbed slowly to his feet. He held something. Shiny and winking in the firelight.

“That is my body,” he said, stepping close enough to touch. “And I will cut you out of it if I must.”

Gunnar woke with a start as dull rusted iron plunged into his belly. A sharp intake of breath. He threw the cover off himself, soaked with sweat, to see his belly exposed and whole underneath.

He peered about the house. The sun was just risen, its light pale but illuminating enough to see by. The other half of the bed was empty. Alma was gone.

But someone was coming. Gunnar heard their approach through the window just as a body passed by. The door opened. Alma stepped into the house with the same ceramic jug from last night in her arms once again.

“You’re awake,” she said. She shut the door and got to refilling Calum’s cup from the jug, which he thanked her for and drank the water down. “Did you sleep all right?”

“I did. Thank you…” Gunnar wiped his mouth. “What time is it?”

“It is early morning. Usually we eat breakfast at this hour, but…” Alma set the jug down, thinking. “I am nervous to take you to the tent again after yesterday.” She sighed, hands on her hips. “I fear the others are right. The city’s distrust will only have grown as word has spread.”

Gunnar’s water-filled belly gurgled and growled for something more. Something solid. They’d eaten very little the day before, all things considered. A single bowl of porridge? Had that been all?

“So long as they’re distrustful from afar, that’s cool with me,” he said.

Alma regarded him with another of her peculiar head tilts. “Cool with you?” she said.

Oh, shit. He kept slipping, saying things that had since fallen out of fashion—or meaning altogether—in the last seven-hundred years.

“I don’t know why I said that. I meant to say… that it’s fine by me.”

Alma regarded him strangely another moment, not buying it. Not buying him. Then finally she softened.

“Forgive me,” she said. “The Calum I know cares very much what people think of him. It is a character flaw you’ve had your whole life. So it is strange to hear you say such things.” Her gaze drifted, dislocated, thinking on something else. Gunnar wished to see inside her head, if only to know how badly he’d screwed up. “Well. I suppose if we’ve any hope of remaining in this city, we must face it sooner or later. So you are right. We should go.”

Gunnar put on his robes and they headed out. They passed many others along the way, men and women carrying jugs and buckets from the various water wells throughout the city. Gunnar couldn’t help noticing they received many more strange looks than yesterday.

As the food tent revealed itself in the distance, someone called out to them.

“Alma! Calum!”

They turned to find Ryker hurrying after them, wearing a congenial smile.

“Good morning, Father Ryker,” Alma said.

“Good morning,” he answered, slightly winded. He looked Gunnar up and down, as if there might be some physical change since they last saw each other. “I just wanted to check in. How are you feeling this morning, Calum? Any progress?”

“I feel mostly fine…” Gunnar looked sheepishly between Alma and Ryker, reluctant to so consistently disappoint.

“Calum woke with some new memories just this morning,” Alma said suddenly. “About our childhood together.”

Ryker raised his eyebrows in pleasant surprise. “Did you? Was it something in particular you remembered?”

Gunnar faltered, but only briefly.

“It was a dream I had,” he said. “About… Father Jasper, your predecessor, and how Alma and I used to play tricks on him as children. Innocent ones, mostly.”

“Really?” Ryker said, without any hint of skepticism, but rather pure curiosity.

“I was quite giddy when he told me,” Alma said. “And I said to him, ‘that was no dream, but a memory!’”

Gunnar nodded along. “Which made sense of just how vivid it was.”

Ryker clapped an encouraging hand upon Gunnar’s shoulder. “I am so glad to hear it. That is truly wonderful news. I will be sure to inform the Elders when I meet with them. I’m sure they’ll be relieved to know progress is, in fact, being made.”

Alma and Gunnar matched each other’s insincere smiles as Ryker bid them farewell and continued in the direction of the church.

As they continued toward the food tent, Gunnar said beneath his breath, “You lied.”

“If we are to have any hope of a normal life again, the others need to believe that we are normal. And we will be, besides. Eventually.”

They stepped through the tent flaps. The dining area was already fairly crowded.

“I know you don’t want to consider such a thing,” Gunnar whispered as they made their way to the end of the growing line, “but… what if I never regain my memory?”

“If you are truly doomed to never remember yourself,” Alma whispered back, “then my Calum is gone and I will be heartbroken. That is the truth of the matter. And that’s not to say you wouldn’t be someone, of course, or that you could never be someone, just… not the man I know. Or knew…”

Gunnar watched her closely, as she peered in any direction that wasn’t his. It hurt her a great deal to entertain such ideas. Seeing as she was the only ally he had right now, it was probably not a good idea to press that wound too much.

They reached the front of the line and collected their food. Searching for a place to sit, Alma noticed her friends already seated near the edge of the tent.

Laurie and Neil, Gunnar reminded himself.

Gunnar recognized Neil as the man who had intervened in this very tent the day before, so that Laurie could escort them both to safety.

They were sitting with their children—a young girl and a baby boy whom Laurie was in the middle of breastfeeding. Alma introduced the girl as Rose, the baby boy as Chance. Rose appeared altogether disinterested in the whole affair, eating her meal expressionlessly and never meeting anyone’s gaze at the table.

With the baby secured in one arm, Laurie turned her head and coughed into the other.

“Are you feeling unwell?” Alma asked, concerned.

“Oh, it is nothing,” Laurie said. “Just a cold.”

“I’m glad to see you both this morning,” Neil said. “After yesterday, I wasn’t sure you would brave it.”

“Thank you again, by the way,” Alma said. “ It was incredibly kind to step in like you did.”

“It’s high time someone taught Ellis his prying isn’t appreciated,” Laurie said. “No matter how righteous he believes himself to be.”

“It does not make any sense to me,” Neil said. “How anyone can decry another for their transgressions while behaving as he does.”

“It is an inability to look inward,” Laurie said. “Plain and simple.”

“Or he doesn’t like what he sees when he does look inward,” Gunnar spoke up, “and points fingers at others to distract from his own shame.”

The table fell silent as Alma, Laurie, and Neil regarded Gunnar like the stranger he was. His insides tightened into a protective ball, realizing he’d said too much when he shouldn’t have said anything at all.

“It could also be that,” Laurie said, and smiled, a glimmer of cautious interest in her eye.

As she and her husband resumed eating, Alma’s attention endured, watching Gunnar more carefully than he cared for. He turned his gaze to his own food.

Why can’t I just keep my mouth shut?

Maybe it was simply that he was starved for worldly conversation. Several lifetimes spent in eternal suffering could do that to a person.

“How are you coming along, anyway, Calum?” Neil said. “Laurie tells me your memory is… well…”

“Gone,” Gunnar said, finishing for him. “My memory is gone.”

“What is that even like?” Laurie asked, her curiosity piqued. “I can’t imagine. To wake and not remember anything. But you remember your words, you remember your faculties…”

“He has begun remembering more as of this morning,” Alma said, picking up the same lie they’d shared with Ryker. “Last night he dreamt of our childhood together. So it would seem his memory is indeed there. It is only a matter of coaxing it out, day by day.”

“That is wonderful news,” Laurie said.

“What about me?” Neil said. “Do you remember anything about our time spent working the fields together? How about James and Paul, always at each other’s throats?”

Gunnar could only shake his head. “I don’t recall.”

“Hmm. I am sure it will come to you eventually. Perhaps after you’ve gotten back into the routine of things.”

“Yes, I’m sure eventually things will become familiar again,” Gunnar lied.

The thought of manual labor wasn’t an exciting prospect, but working the fields had to be better than drowning in the Lake of Flesh.

As Gunnar finished his breakfast, he noticed the girl had also finished her meal and now sat with her hands in her lap, staring from the corner of her eye toward the end of the table, almost unblinking. Gunnar couldn’t tell if she was lost in thought or altogether thoughtless.

“Is she all right?” he asked, and indicated their daughter.

“She is fine,” Neil said, and rubbed his daughter’s back comfortingly. “Rose is our quiet one.”

Not even his touch, nor their words about her, were enough to grab the girl’s attention. It seemed there was something the matter, but Gunnar didn’t dare ask for fear of offending anyone.

Just then there came a noise from outside. The loud gong of a bell in the distance. Gunnar looked about the table, at Alma and the others.

“That is the church bell,” Alma said, noticing his confusion. “To signal that it’s time for mass. We attend twice per week.”

A queasy dread slithered through Gunnar’s middle—the thought of seeing those things again, dressed in their crimson robes.

“Right. Where the Elders impart Prophet Tobias’s wisdom,” Gunnar said, recalling what she’d told him yesterday. “Does Prophet Tobias ever make an appearance?”

“No,” Alma said. “We do not see Prophet Tobias.”

“Not until our Descent,” Laurie added.

Gunnar only had more questions. “Descent?”

“When we join Prophet Tobias in the Under,” Alma said. “It is our reward for reaching the milestone of sixty years.”

“That is why you don’t see the elderly around Gloam,” Laurie said. “They’ve already gone to the Under to serve out the rest of their lives learning Oleth’s final teachings.”

“It is considered the highest honor,” Alma said.

In the ensuing silence, Neil said, “Any of this ringing a bell, Calum?”

Gunnar shrugged helplessly. Laurie and her husband looked upon him with sympathy. Pity. Meanwhile Alma visibly darkened, only briefly, before forcing a change of subject.

“Speaking of ringing bells,” she said. “We should head over.”

Gunnar helped Alma with collecting everyone’s dishes and returning them to the designated counter at the side of the tent, where someone would presumably take them away to be washed.

Away from the others, Gunnar whispered, “I’m sorry. For not remembering…”

Alma shook her head. “You need not apologize. It is not your fault, as I’ve already said.”

It is my fault, Gunnar wanted to say. All of it.

He followed Alma and the others out of the tent and to the church, the morning sun already hot on their heads. They caught many resentful looks along the way—the glares of those who sensed evil amongst their ranks.

Gunnar was beginning to think this was a terrible idea, in more ways than one.

They were nearly to the church doors when a group of disgruntled-looking folks appeared before them, placing themselves in their path. Four men and one woman. In the center of them was the same older gentleman from yesterday. Ellis. Except he appeared to be sporting a new set of scratch marks across his cheek.

“No entry,” he said, arms folded. “Not for him, anyway.”

He nodded at Gunnar. The other four folded their arms the same as Ellis, each regarding Gunnar with icy stares.

“You haven’t the right to deny anyone entry to the church, Ellis,” Alma said, her tone impatient. “Besides that, Calum was already welcomed yesterday. We spoke to the Elders directly. As a matter of fact, their first suggestion was to keep Calum here in the church, to monitor him, before agreeing to let him come home with me. I dare say they take no issue with his entering.”

“Well I do,” Ellis said, hardening his brow. “And it is our duty to protect our fellow Gloamians from such corruption setting foot in our sacred places.”

“You think you know better than the Elders?” Laurie said, bouncing her baby boy in her arms with a scowl. “Is that what you’re saying, Ellis?”

“That man is an abomination!” one of Ellis’s minions shouted—another wiry older gentleman with a thick gray beard.

“We cannot let the holiness of our church be tainted,” the woman between them said.

“We have never missed a sermon,” Alma said. “And we are not starting today.”

“You are more than welcome to attend.” Ellis lifted his face haughtily as he said it. “But not accompanied by the abomination.”

“And how do you intend to stop us?” Neil said, taking one step closer.

A visible tremor rippled through them—an abrupt stiffening of the shoulders which started with Ellis and worked its way through his four followers, who must not have expected any resistance to their little game.

“That’s quite enough of that!”

A new voice joined the fray. She appeared between them in a flutter of brown robes, hands placed on either of Neil’s and Ellis’s chests to force them apart. It was Marjorie, Gunnar remembered. Mother Marjorie, as the people liked to call her.

“Let’s all just settle down a bit,” she said. She drew her gaze across each of them, including Gunnar, whose face she lingered on momentarily with a noticeable pinching of her own. “Perhaps it is best that Calum sits this one out. Just for today.”

“But Mother Marjorie,” Alma said. “We have never missed a single sermon. Not once in our lives.”

“Well maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to turn your lives upside-down,” Marjorie retorted, flicking the venom she otherwise tried to conceal. She collected herself, turned to them with her hands clasped reverently against her belly. “Why don’t we allow some breathing room for all these feelings to settle, hmm?”

“They will not settle,” Alma said. “They will only become worse if we let them. To exclude Calum now simply sets the precedent for further exclusions. He will never be accepted if you go along with this.”

“There is much talk about the town,” Marjorie said. “And I would hate for Calum’s participation to distract from the Elders’ services. I am sorry, Alma, I really am. But you have brought this upon yourself.”

“What is going on here?” Another new voice. It was Ryker, coming to stand alongside Marjorie.

“I was just explaining why it might be a good idea for Calum to stay home today,” Marjorie said, “as I would hate for the controversy surrounding him to distract from today’s services.”

Ryker considered her words. He regarded Gunnar as well, and Gunnar could see that Marjorie’s words did make sense to Ryker, though he seemed torn on whether or not to voice it.

“I will stay home,” Gunnar said at last, hoping to put an end to this standoff if he could.

“No,” Alma said. “We can’t let people like Ellis exert control over us.”

“It’s all right,” Gunnar said. “I don’t mind.”

The look in Alma’s eyes then spoke volumes. The gist was: Of course you wouldn’t mind, because you’re not my Calum.

And truth be told, Gunnar did not particularly want to set foot in their church again, nor see the actual abominations inside who called themselves Elders. Not to mention, he had never been fond of religion even in his previous life. He wished he could say as much.

“I hate to say it, but Marjorie is right,” Ryker said, much to Marjorie’s apparent self-satisfaction. “Just for today, Alma. You are still more than welcome to attend, and can share the Elders’ words with Calum later. But… it is not a good idea to place him amongst everyone so soon, while news is so fresh.”

Alma physically deflated.

“And what of Calum in the meantime?” she said.

“I will walk him home myself,” Ryker said.

“And then you will miss the opening sermon,” Ellis spoke up behind them.

“I have the luxury of speaking to the Elders myself, if need be,” Ryker said. “I will be all right.”

Alma regarded Gunnar apologetically. Gunnar wished he could tell her that he could not care less about their sermons and was relieved to be excluded, but of course that would not go over well with anyone present, including her.

“I’ll be all right,” he said, and nodded for Alma to head inside.

As they shuffled in, Ryker escorted Gunnar away with a friendly arm around his shoulder. The square was emptying, most everyone having already entered the church.

They walked in silence. But it was quite full, that silence. Gunnar sensed a thousand unspoken questions emanating from Ryker’s thoughtful expression. But the man held his tongue.

“Here we are,” Ryker said, stopping Gunnar as he nearly passed his own dwelling by. Oops. “Is there anything you need, Calum? More water?”

“We still have some inside. But thank you.” Gunnar rubbed the back of his neck. “And thank you for… everything else, by the way.”

“Everything else?”

Gunnar was reminded of what Alma had told him about Ryker—losing his own partner some years ago and being alone ever since. She had attributed Ryker’s kindness to his sympathy in these matters, but it couldn’t be assumed.

“For being so understanding,” Gunnar went on. “I know Alma appreciates it.”

“I am not so sure I understand anything,” Ryker said. He peered along the empty alley, as though ensuring they were alone. “But I also realize that your being here challenges a great deal.”

“Challenges?”

“Yes,” Ryker said. “The people of Gloam, myself included, have long believed that in death we are judged for our deeds, and that our souls are thus categorized. But you have died and come back. Was your soul judged? And if so, what happened in the meantime, I wonder? And how did a woman of the Deadlands manage it in the first place? We call it wickedness. We call you an abomination. But I wonder if these hasty judgements are made because we are simply uncomfortable with the implications.”

Ryker held Gunnar’s gaze so intently that Gunnar could only look back with bated breath, anticipating the words that were surely being crunched between the gears of Ryker’s mind.

“I do not believe you to be wicked, or an abomination,” Ryker said. “But if you are not Calum, then who are you? What are you?”

It was a struggle not to flinch.

“I wish I knew,” Gunnar lied.

With a sigh, Ryker gave Gunnar another pat on the shoulder.

“Anyway… Alma will be along in another hour or so. Sermons do not usually go on much longer than that.”

Gunnar thanked Ryker again for seeing him home, then slipped behind the door of their humble abode. Upon shutting it, he stood in the empty dwelling for a time, and was nearly startled by the quiet. It washed over him all at once.

Not even Hell had felt this lonely.

22

PUSH COMES TO SHOVE

ALMA

It felt wrong to enter the church without Calum.

Alma sat alongside Laurie and Neil with their children. She peered around the filled church as the final stragglers wandered in, and caught many stray glances as she did. Some curious, some wary, some outright glaring from across the nave. It would be better not to look around so much, she thought. Instead she stared ahead at the unattended lectern where one of the Elders would soon be standing and delivering his sermon.

It felt equally wrong to send Calum home alone. Ryker had escorted him there, at least, but the idea of him being left there worried Alma. Suppose a problematic individual had decided to skip the service and follow them home, where Calum now waited like a defenseless animal? She stole another look around, as though she could note the couple-hundred faces in attendance and discern which were missing.

Everything will be fine. Because it must be.

There were whispers. Alma was able to pick up on them beneath the general chatter—not their words, but their tones—and she was certain they whispered of her.

“How are you feeling?” Laurie whispered into her ear, holding her baby boy in her lap.

“I am all right,” Alma said unconvincingly, continuing to nervously glance left and right.

“Don’t worry about them,” Laurie said. “They haven’t enough in their own lives to occupy them, so it stands to reason they’ll be talking of yours…” She stifled another bout of coughs, cleared her throat. “Pay them no mind.”

To be fair, bringing her husband back from the dead was pretty juicy gossip, Alma could admit. If it had been someone else, she would probably be whispering and staring as well.

The rear door of the church opened. The Elders emerged, sweeping onto the stage in their vibrant red robes. First came Elder Lawrence, wearing a reverent smile on his thin-lipped mouth, followed by Elder Vincent whose masculine face somehow managed warmth even as his narrowed eyes scanned the church before him. And lastly there was Elder McKinley, who made no attempts at an amicable expression, his unearthly pallor lending him an almost angelic glow. Alma liked to think of each Elder as one-third to a perfect whole, each representing a different flavor of divinity—kindness, strength, and pragmatism.

And yet she still felt a pang of disappointment as Elder Lawrence approached the lectern, the other two taking their seats at the sidelines. She had been hoping to hear Elder Vincent speak this morning.

A respectful hush fell over the congregation as Elder Lawrence took his place. Alma focused all her attention on him, even as she felt the others’ gazes like hot pokers to the nape of her neck.

Elder Lawrence began with news within their city, starting with new births. There had been a total of one new birth this week, a baby girl named Alice, born to Frederick and Polly, whom Alma did not know well beyond their names.

And just as Elder Lawrence was about to move on to news from Prophet Tobias, a dissenting voice called out into the otherwise deferential silence.

“And one death!”

A murmur spread through the crowd. A ripple of turned heads. Alma turned to see the source, though she already knew—already recognized the whining cadence of the weasel in question.

Ellis stood at the leftmost edge of the nave, peering out across his fellow worshipers as he commanded their attention with his outburst.

“There was one death in our city this week,” he shouted. “Though you wouldn’t know it today.”

“Ellis,” Elder Lawrence called. “Please take your seat…”

“Are we not going to address it?” Ellis asked. The murmurs grew, in which Alma identified many disapproving tones. “Are we going to ignore the wickedness that has infiltrated our city?”

“Sit down, Ellis,” Elder Lawrence warned. “Or be forcibly removed from this church.”

Ellis scanned the heads of the crowd. His gaze landed on Alma’s, and much to her shame she looked away. Only for a second. When she looked back, Ellis had already taken his seat as he’d been told.

Elder Lawrence took a deep breath. “Most of you by now have probably heard the news…”

Alma flushed hot under the others’ scrutiny.

“I would like to assure every person in this church that we are aware of the situation, that it is being seen to, and that there is currently no reason for alarm or hysterics…”

“One of our own has ventured into the Deadlands and smuggled the unfathomable back in!”

This time it wasn’t Ellis, but the woman from earlier, outside. Harmony, was her name. She stood, as Ellis had done, shouting across the congregation.

“Are we really just going to blindly trust that things are—”

“You are to trust us,” Elder Lawrence interjected. “That is all we ask of you. If we tell you there is no reason for alarm, then it is so. Unless you mean to suggest that you know better than your Elders?”

Harmony gaped, appearing as though she wished to say much more but feared the repercussions. She sat back down. Elder Lawrence clapped his hands three times to command everyone’s attention back to him.

“I repeat,” he said. “The situation is under control. There is absolutely no reason for concern…” He sighed with a slight shake of his head. “Now… back to our usual proceedings…”

Elder Lawrence carried on with his sermon, but Alma hardly heard him for the buzzing of so many thoughts in her mind. Once she sensed him drawing things to a close, she whispered into the cup of Laurie’s ear, “I am going to slip out early, I think.”

Laurie glanced at Alma confusedly, eyes darting between her and Elder Lawrence still speaking.

“Are you sure? You might draw attention to yourself.”

“I must,” Alma said. “I worry about navigating this crowd.”

Laurie looked around them, eyes narrowed with suspicion on Alma’s behalf, and nodded her understanding.

“Would you like us to come with you? I can ask Neil to escort you home.”

“No, no, that is all right,” Alma said. “I will just get ahead of the rush, that is all. Thank you…”

In the midst of Elder Lawrence’s closing statements, Alma discreetly rose from her seat and made her quick escape. She hurried through the church doors into the late morning light, and took her first full breath of air since going inside.

“Is everything all right?” Ryker asked.

Alma gasped. He was waiting just outside, having never entered the church at all, it seemed.

“I am fine,” she said. “I just… did not wish to get caught in the crowd alongside Ellis and his… supporters.”

“Ellis is an idiot,” Ryker said. His bluntness caused Alma to spasm in place, having never heard such pointed language from him before. “I understand, Alma. Get home to Calum.”

Unfortunately, Ryker’s slight interruption was enough that as Alma reached halfway across the square, people were already emerging from the church behind her. She hurried ahead, into the branching homeward paths.

Someone else called after her. A voice with a sharp edge she did not immediately recognize. She ignored them, and veered onto an alternative path. She would loop back around, she decided, so that anyone hoping to follow her home would lose track of her in the maze of alleys.

She moved quickly. The chatter of the dispersing crowd drifted faintly from the distance, their voices echoing along the mud-and-clay walls. Before much longer she arrived at the rear of her home. She circled around its other side, peeked out from around its corner, and assessed the traffic of those returning home nearby.

It was then she overhead the strangest voice of all. A sound that sent her brain tingling, her thoughts scattering. Adrift. All at once her fears of being followed were forgotten. She stepped forth, drawn out by the sound, and found herself standing beside the open window of their home. That’s where it came from. Not just a voice, but—

A tiny bird came alive inside her chest. Flit, flit, flit. Her ribs ached with the ricochet of it, her mouth turning dry as a bone… as Calum’s song floated into the street from the open window.

That’s not possible.

A song she did not know. A song he did not know. Because neither of them had ever sung before. Nobody in Gloam could.

Never before had something so lovely struck such terror into her heart.

“Alma!”

She nearly choked as her name was called. Bodies spilled onto the path ahead, moving with purpose. Determination. Speed. A group of six or seven, Ellis at the head of them.

“Good grief,” she muttered under her breath.

The usual suspects followed at his heels with a couple new additions. Alma did not know most of them, which made sense if they were the types to fall in line with a man like Ellis.

“This can go on no longer!” Ellis shouted as they arrived in front of her home, only a few paces between them, her door smack dab in the middle.

“You heard Elder Lawrence,” Alma said. “Are you in defiance of him, then?”

“The Elders are good men,” Ellis said. “But their goodness prevents them from taking necessary measures.”

“Necessary measures?” Alma said. “Such as forcing yourself on lone women in the dark? Necessary measures like that?”

Ellis blushed. His eyes darted to either side, knowing his followers listened.

“I do not know what you mean,” he said. “I’ve never done any such thing.”

“Don’t act like you’ve forgotten where that scratch on your cheek came from, Ellis.” She looked past him, at the men and women in tow. “Is this really who you wish to align yourselves with? A bitter old man who corners vulnerable women fetching water in the middle of the night?”

“She lies!” Ellis barked. “Do not fall for her tricks.”

They were attracting onlookers now. Neighbors paused outside their doors to eavesdrop.

“This woman has been seduced by a witch,” Ellis went on. “She plans on sinking our city into darkness and can not be trusted. And should we be surprised? That this woman wishes to sabotage our efforts to rebuild, when she herself has not bore any children yet in her thirty years? Ample time to start a family, is it not? Clearly she has other goals…”

“Are we supposed to listen to a man whose infidelity drove his own family from him? Your own wife and children have turned their backs on you.” Alma might have laughed if she’d been able, for the absurdity of it all. The audacity. “And yet you have the gall to question my morals? You are nothing but a sad excuse for a—”

Alma was so caught off guard by the old man’s sudden sprint that she barely reacted as he shoved her with both palms against her shoulders. She fell hard. Ellis fell with her. Whether or not it was on purpose was hard to say, until his hands were around her throat and his teeth were bared before her.

“I will drive the wickedness out of you myself,” he growled.

The surrounding crowd gasped, but no one intervened. Alma groped at the old man’s sinewy forearms and wrists about her neck. She kicked her sandaled feet against the dirt. She was stronger than Ellis, but not by much. Enough to pry his hands away, at least, his weight trembling on top of her.

She vaguely noticed a shift in the air. Another gasp from their onlookers. Something swung, connected with a painful whump. Ellis’s red-faced fury brightened with the widening whites of his eyes as someone kicked him in the ribs. Alma scrambled out from under his wheezing body, and glimpsed the man who towered over them both.

Calum?

He kicked the old man a second time, throwing Ellis onto his side in the dirt. Ellis choked. Spat. He tried to stand as Calum took hold of his robes and pummeled him once, twice, three times before someone else came running. Two men from Ellis’s little group. The bigger of the two took a swing at Calum, who deftly turned from the blow before stepping in again with his own. An uppercut to the gut. The bigger man doubled over, fell to one knee. The second man—more Calum’s size—caught Calum with a right hook, sent him staggering back. Calum steadied himself at Alma’s feet. She could do nothing but stare in bafflement. Awe.

As the big man regained his footing, another joined the skirmish. Three against one. They came at Calum, grabbed for him, tried to haul him off his feet. Calum dodged back, used one man’s momentum against him and threw him to the ground in a heap of dust. Another seized Calum by the robes, dragged him round, stepping over their own feet until Calum managed to get one of his between them and forced the man back with a kick to the gut. The third man put up his fists then. Calum did the same, panting tiredly as he was.

“Back! Everyone get back!”

Someone pushed to the front of the crowd. Ryker emerged, wild-eyed, bald head glistening with sweat.

“Enough!’ He stepped between them, waving his arms. “Get back, the lot of you!”

Ellis was still on the ground holding himself. Sucking air. Calum’s kick must have knocked the air from his lungs. Possibly broken some ribs, too. Ryker couldn’t have appeared less surprised to see him there.

“I take it you started this?” he said.

Ellis couldn’t answer the question, too busy catching his breath.

“And you as well,” Ryker told the others, each of them huffing and puffing, staring daggers at Calum as though they wished to finish what they started—though Alma doubted their ability to do so. “Go home and pray for Oleth’s forgiveness, for confusing yourselves with animals.”

Alma could not tell if the look in those men’s eyes was born of shame, or resentment for Ryker suggesting they feel it. After a moment’s scowling, they did as he said and shuffled off.

Ryker then demanded the gawkers to leave them be, and soon it was just the four of them—Alma, Calum, Ryker, and Ellis.

Calum offered Alma a hand. She studied that hand—recognized its every dirt-stained crease, but not the bruises on its knuckles—and did not take it. She stood up on her own, dusted off her robes.

“Are you all right?” Gunnar asked.

“I am fine,” she answered. She stepped past him, toward Ryker and Ellis, as the former helped the latter onto his feet. “Father Ryker, I have shown my last ounce of patience for this cretin. If I see him again…” She paused. “If I see you outside my home again, Ellis, I will do worse than scratch your face and no god of this Earth will hold it against me.”

“All right,” Ryker said. “Let’s… why don’t you and Calum step inside and I’ll be with you both shortly. Hmm?”

Ellis looked as though he had much to say himself but could not speak for the pain.

Broken ribs, Alma thought with certainty.

She obeyed Ryker’s instruction and followed Calum inside. She left the door ajar, could faintly hear their whispering outside, Ryker likely giving the old man a private reprimanding. He deserved worse, Alma thought. Much worse.

Waiting in the hush of their home, Alma regarded the man beside her. Calum stood in his dirty brown robes, his dark and shaggy hair stuck to his temples with sweat, his brown eyes the same as they ever were, and yet somehow darker than she remembered. Darkened by something else.

Calum… but not.

He regarded her likewise, searched her with his gaze, as if trying to detect something in her. Knowledge of a secret, perhaps. What kind of secret, Alma couldn’t know, but she saw in him the fear that she did.

Ryker stepped inside with a great, exasperated sigh.

“Are you two all right?” he asked. “Alma, are you—”

“I am quite all right,” Alma said, weary of being babied so. “But I need to know I am not going to be preyed upon this way each time I set foot outside my home…”

I wish it was so easy,” Ryker said. “But Alma… you have stirred the pot.”

“No, it is he who has stirred the pot,” she said, pointing outside where Ellis now surely shambled his way home. “I have tried to return to our normal life, and he has done everything in his power—”

“There is no normal life for you,” Ryker said, speaking gently even when his words were so sharply edged. “Not after what has been done. You must understand this, Alma. You cannot expect everyone to view this situation as normal when it is a far cry from that.”

“Normal or not, it is harmless,” Alma said. “Perhaps people should simply mind their own business. Perhaps that is what they should be told to do.”

Ryker grimaced. “Yes, I would have to agree with you on principle, but unfortunately that is not the way of people. You cannot simply undo superstition with the snap of a finger. And to be truthful, Alma, harmless remains to be seen. I said it before, we are exploring uncharted territory here. And superstition only grows stronger in the face of the unknown.”

Alma couldn’t argue with Ryker there, as she chewed on his words.

“Anyway, I will not be telling the Elders of this incident outside…”

“No,” Alma agreed. “That would be for the best. Thank you.”

“Please try and stay out of trouble in the meantime. No more fights, if you can help it.” Ryker quirked his brow. “Though I cannot say I am not impressed, Calum. Never knew you had it in you.”

With that, Ryker took his leave. Alma closed the door after him. It was just the two of them again, along with the silence of so many questions still begging to be asked.

Where did you learn to sing like that?

Where did you learn to fight like that?

Despite her mounting doubts, she was grateful for Calum stepping in when he did. Perhaps he might have stepped in a little sooner, even—before Ellis had her on the ground—but of course they’d agreed it was best to avoid such confrontations if they could.

“Are you all right?” she asked him, choosing to let go of her suspicions. For now, anyway. “Your face…”

She reached for him, for the deepening bruise along his cheekbone, then promptly took her hand back.

Calum, but not…

She couldn’t shake the feeling, stronger than ever now.

“I’m okay,” he said, and smiled—a soft smile from a single corner of his mouth, an expression Alma did not readily recognize on his face.

She pressed her lips. Then something caught her attention from the corner of her eye. Scattered on their small table was a series of unfolded, handwritten letters.

“Oh. Right. Sorry,” Calum said upon her noticing. “I did some snooping in your absence, just to occupy myself, and…”

“Have you read them?” Alma asked, gliding to the table and taking one of the letters into her hands to skim its contents for herself—contents which she had already read countless times.

“I read quite a few of them,” Calum admitted. “They’re all from your parents, but… I noticed they all seem to be addressed to the future?”

“Yes,” Alma said, and set down the letter with a familiar twinge of longing in her heart. “It has been a few years now since my parents made their Descents.”

“You mentioned that earlier. You said something about joining your prophet in the Under?”

“Yes, where Prophet Tobias resides beneath our church. At the age of sixty we must sever our connections with the lives we knew before, so that we may join Prophet Tobias, free from distraction, and learn the highest teachings of Oleth before being shepherded into the afterlife. And so it is tradition to write our goodbyes in letters, so that those we leave behind will have something to remember us by until their time comes. My mother and father joined Prophet Tobias only a year apart, but they each wrote many letters to me, for each milestone they thought I might one day reach. Unfortunately… I have not yet lived up to many of them.”

Alma eyed the many letters across the table, her longing bristling with barbs as she was once more reminded of her shortcomings. When she turned to see Calum behind her she was surprised by his grim expression.

“And what about…” He paused. “…my parents? Did they also Descend?”

“Your father did, yes. A couple years before my parents. His letters are in another box under the bed. Your mother, however, passed before her time. Sickness of the blood.”

“I see.” Calum pondered this. He did not look especially saddened by the news, but then again he hardly remembered his own life, anyway, so why would he? “And once someone has… Descended… you never hear from them again? You never learn if they’ve… passed?”

“It is not a sad or scary thing. We all look forward to this milestone. The Descent, I mean.” Alma began shuffling the letters together again. “Every month we hold a dinner to celebrate those turning sixty. A bit of a celebratory farewell. This month’s is next week, actually. And if I’m not mistaken…” Alma surged with unexpected relief. She turned to Calum with it, in dire need of sharing her thoughts with him as she’d always done. “I do believe Ellis is sixty this month. I know I am not alone in relishing that fact. He has been a thorn in many sides these past years.”

“Some good news, then,” Calum said.

He smiled again in that uncharacteristic way, and all at once Alma remembered herself. Remembered him.

She knew something was terribly off, something beyond a missing memory, though she wasn’t certain how to broach the subject. In fact, she was nervous to do so. And Calum—but not—suspected that she sensed this. Somehow she knew that, too.

She regarded him now for what he was, and not for what she simply hoped he would be.

A stranger who knew more than he was letting on.

23

IMPOSTER

GUNNAR

Gunnar leaned forward on the very edge of his sofa, the broadcast glimmering in his eyes as his sister-in-law paced about the living room behind him, her yammering mouth filling his apartment with an endless stream of anxieties like a gas leak he pretended wasn’t there.

On the television was an aerial shot of the impact zone where the meteor had ripped a swath of destruction straight through downtown Toronto, as well as the crater itself in which the meteor was burrowed. A dark and unknown cavern. There were reports of unusual sounds emitting from the hollow. In an interview, the on-site lead investigator described what she believed to be ‘unintelligible voices’ coming from the hole. Upon trying to study it more closely, the meteor was said to have ‘come alive’ and burrowed deeper, all on its own. Much deeper, in fact.

“Gunnar, are you even listening to me?” Josie asked.

Gunnar held up his finger. Wait a minute.

According to reports, further attempts to send probes after the meteor had failed. Electronic devices couldn’t get close enough without imminent failure. Currently a team of experts—experts in what? Gunnar wondered—were formulating a plan to safely descend after it themselves, though according to their estimates the meteor had burrowed well over a mile into the Earth. Any attempts to reach it would need to be planned as treacherous expeditions.

“Gunnar, I swear to god…”

Gunnar grabbed the remote and muted the television.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to hear the latest on this whole meteor thing. Have you been following this?”

“Your brother is dying,” Josie repeated. Only now did Gunnar realize she had said this moments ago, having heard it but somehow tuned it out. “Despite all the treatments, it’s still spreading. There’s nothing they can do to stop it. It’s over.”

It enveloped him then. The terror. It had been there all the while—was precisely why he’d tried to tune Josie out—but now it smothered him completely, filled him up.

Hollowed him from the inside out.

Gunnar opened his eyes to the dark of night, to the moist trails of tears that had spilled down his temples. He wiped them away. He turned to the body lying beside him. Alma was still, her eyes closed. At least he thought her eyes were closed. It was hard to tell.

Carefully, he slid out of bed and grabbed the water jug from the floor. Instead of pouring it into a cup he drank from the jug directly, one discreet gulp after another. The jug still felt half full when he finished. He replaced it on the ground, wiped his mouth dry. Then he stood facing the wall for a time, in the dark, just thinking…

It’s over.

Josie’s words were fresh in his mind, like it had only been yesterday and not seven centuries ago. The resulting grief felt nearly as fresh. Gunnar couldn’t explain it. He missed his brother more now than ever before, as though his heart had been held in stasis these last seven-hundred years, and now he’d returned to the world of the living his grief had been thawed anew.

Someone slipped against him from behind in the dark. Gunnar flinched. Alma hadn’t been sleeping after all, he thought. Unless he’d awakened her climbing out of bed.

Her voice trickled into his ear like warm honey.

“Come back to bed.”

She took him by the hand and led him there. She encouraged him to sit with a hand upon his shoulder, and so he did. Still standing, she linked her hands around the back of his neck and placed her lips atop his head, her warm breath through his hair. Gunnar trembled with goosebumps. Then she pushed him down. Climbed over top of him. Her body rested against his, lithe and squirming as she pressed her face into the crook of his neck and breathed him in.

This is… not good, Gunnar thought, as his body declared that it was much better than that.

He wasn’t wholly sure what to do with himself, despite knowing what he’d like to do, and so he lay like a starfish as Alma kissed him softly along the shelf of his jaw, until her lips arrived upon his. She kissed him deeply. She shifted in place, straddling him. She pressed a hand to his chest, then smoothed her palm along the slope of his belly to his crotch. She took hold of him. Squeezed. Gunnar inhaled sharply. Reflexively. She stopped kissing him for a moment, face hovering in the shadows, mouth slightly parted. He felt the cold edge of a blade to his throat.

The ensuing silence was thick enough that Alma could have cut it too, if she wanted.

“Who are you?” Her voice deepened with menace. “You are not Calum.”

Gunnar was too flabbergasted to respond. What was even happening?

“I… I don’t know what you mean.”

“Lies. You know you are not Calum, because you are someone else.”

“I… I swear to you, I—”

“You have memories.” The heat of Alma’s breath plumed against his stuttering teeth. “But they are not Calum’s memories. So who are you?”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand what—”

Gunnar hissed as she pressed the knife to his sweat-slicked skin.

“You speak the names of strangers in your sleep. Then I catch you singing, which Calum has never done, to the tune of songs we’ve never heard. I watched you fend off multiple men this afternoon like a seasoned fighter when Calum has never made so much as a fist with his hand. And now this…” She groped Gunnar’s erection with a fist of her own. “Calum… he… he couldn’t…” Alma was breathing hard as she seemed to lose her train of thought. “You are not him.”

Gunnar tried to take a deep breath to compose himself, which was difficult as the swell of oxygen threatened to push his throat further onto the edge of the blade.

How honest can I afford to be? he wondered.

How dishonest can I afford to be? he supposed was the better question.

“How did you know my name?” Alma said. “And do not lie to me again.”

Gunnar let out a shuddery sigh. If he was to begin telling the truth, starting at the beginning would be the easiest, he presumed.

“I met your Calum in the afterlife,” he admitted.

Alma tensed, eyes narrowed. It was almost a relief to finally say it. To spill everything. It would have been a greater relief, perhaps, without the possibility of his blood being spilled all over their bedding.

“I will tell you everything,” he said, “if you’ll kindly remove the knife from my throat and sit with me.”

“How can I possibly trust you?” she said.

In her voice, a pleading desperation. A hope that she could trust him. She wanted to trust him.

“That will have to be your choice,” Gunnar said. “But I have no intention of harming you. Or anyone, for that matter.”

Alma took a moment to consider. The glint of her eyes searching his. Finally she let off of him, crawling from the bed and messing about with something by the table. Gunnar heard a scraping noise. Repetitive. Then there appeared the soft glow of firelight. Alma set the thick candle near the edge of the table. She took a seat in the chair there, near the end of the bed. Gunnar righted himself, scooted to the bed’s edge. The knife she’d been wielding had since vanished, perhaps tucked somewhere in the tight folds of her undergarments.

“What do you mean you met Calum in the afterlife?” she said, leaning back in her chair, arms folded.

Gunnar wondered how much he should tell. There was so much to share, really. There was no reason not to tell her everything, which would include much of what he’d already told Calum in the hellscape. So much explanation was required to make any sense of the truth.

“I want to tell you the absolute truth,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “But there is so much to tell, and a very good chance you won’t believe any of it.”

“All I want is the absolute truth,” Alma said. “Let me decide what I believe.”

The candlelight was gentle upon her otherwise sharpened expression. She did not trust Gunnar, and for good reason. All this talk of abominations and witches, it only made sense to be wary now she knew the truth—that he’d been lying to her thus far.

“You are right,” he began. “I am not your Calum. My real name is Gunnar… and I died somewhere close to seven-hundred years ago.”

Alma’s slitted eyes widened. Astonished. She looked him up and down, and promptly darkened with disappointment as she remembered she could not judge anything he claimed while in the vessel of her once-familiar husband.

“Seven-hundred years?” she said. “Is that true?”

“Yes, as far as I know.”

He went on to describe the hellscape where he’d spent those centuries. He explained that hers and Calum’s beliefs were false, that everything they had ever been taught was false. He reiterated all the same points he’d previously made to Calum—about what their afterlife used to be, what it was supposed to be, and what it had become—as well as his knowledge of what caused the change in the first place.

“We all saw it,” he told her. “Everyone in the world tuned in to see it—the spectacular Haunted Meteor…”

“What do you mean, tuned in?” Alma said. Her first interruption.

“Oh. Right. We had these things called televisions. Basically… imagine a box with moving images on its face, images of the real world, but in distant places. In my time, everyone turned on their televisions or computers…”

“Computers?”

“Another complicated box with images and information. That’s how we received all our news about what was happening around the world. Does that makes sense?”

Alma shrugged like it didn’t matter. Not when there were so many other more important parts of his story to consider.

“And this meteor? You mean like a shooting star?”

“Yes, exactly. But this shooting star didn’t just pass by. It crashed here.”

“And you say it was haunted?”

“Yes. That’s the best way to describe it, really. We eventually learned that it was no mere rock that fell out of the sky, but a living thing, and it brought with it… something no one at the time could understand. We still don’t understand it, really, but we’ve come around to accepting that fact.”

“A living thing…” Alma said ponderously. “…that fell out of the sky?”

“A physical and spiritual predator,” Gunnar said. “On a planetary scale. It came here to harvest us. And that’s exactly what it’s been doing these last seven-hundred years. The people you call your leaders—the Elders, and probably Prophet Tobias, too, if he’s even real—are direct descendants of it.”

Alma shook her head, scowling. “You couldn’t possibly know that. You have only been here a couple of days.”

“I can see them,” Gunnar said. “I can actually see them for what they are, and they’re not human. You remember when I asked you to describe them for me yesterday? That was because I couldn’t understand why you all seemed so… unbothered by it. By them. Because you don’t see them as I do.”

Alma leaned forward in her chair now, hunched, boring a hole into the ground with her thoughtful stare, mind clearly racing.

“The Elders are descendants…” She paused, considering. “…descendants of the very thing you say is responsible for the Unmaking?”

“We believe they are working to facilitate the complete and total drain of Earth’s spiritual reserves,” Gunnar went on. “It’s something many of us speculated in the afterlife. Not a single soul in that place arrived prior to the meteor’s arrival. Because that place, that hellscape, is a mechanism of its own creation. We believe it lays waste to the worlds it preys upon, and catches the resulting energy in a kind of spiritual net, as it were…” Gunnar paused, watching as Alma’s eyes darted relentlessly back and forth, clearly tangled in his story. “That’s why your leaders place such an emphasis on procreation, and probably why your people have become so… spiritually stunted, over the years. The Earth has less than ever to go around. And that’s by design…”

“This is…” Alma cupped her head in her hands. “This is too much…”

“I know. It’s a lot to take in all at once. Calum reacted similarly.”

A sound escaped Alma at the mention of her husband. With her head bowed, she turned her eyes up at Gunnar, studying him, a question on the tip of her tongue.

“And this hellscape you describe,” she said. “My Calum is trapped there now?”

Hesitantly, Gunnar nodded.

“How? How did this happen? That you were able to take his place?”

“Well, you see…” Gunnar swallowed, preparing to tell Alma his first new lie. “It was by happenstance the portal took me instead of him. We were just so close to one another at the time…”

“So at this very moment,” Alma said, straightening in her chair, “my Calum… he is suffering?”

It was more than she could bear. Atop everything else—the crumbling of her beliefs and the insanity of the truth in their place—Alma seemed unable to withstand this final blow as she broke down into tears. Her despair startled Gunnar. Until now, he had hardly detected so much as a grain of vulnerability in her, always so stern and headstrong.

She startled him again as she sprang to her feet, a hand over her mouth as she began pacing the room, her feet following the circular patterns of her thoughts.

“This feeling,” she said. “It is worse than when he died. Because at least then I had… something still, to believe in. But now… now it is as though he has died twice, and this time without the solace of knowing he is in a better place…”

She stopped in the middle of the room, her back to the bed, to Gunnar, an arm folded across her belly. Gunnar stood as well. He didn’t know what else to do. Strangers as they were, he believed Alma to be a good person. An exceptional person, really, judging by what little he had seen of their town and its people thus far. He hated to see her this way. More, he hated knowing he was the root of it.

“Alma, I am…”

She turned to him quickly, faster than he could properly account for, and for an instant he worried she had produced her knife again and was about to stick it into the belly of her husband’s imposter. Instead she clung to him in tears. Once more, Gunnar wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. Not at first. He gently held her as she hitched with sobs.

Alma froze beneath his hands. She forced herself away from him, stumbling back on foal’s feet. She regarded him in such a way, Gunnar couldn’t help but feel a sting. She saw him now as the others did, he thought.

Abomination.

“I… I don’t…”

Alma struggled to speak. And as she did, there came a noise from outside their window.

Someone there, listening.

24

THE SPY’S DEMISE

ALMA

Alma heard it too. Shuffling in the dirt just outside. And as they each looked toward the window, there came another series of noises over their heads—footsteps crunching across the thatched roof, moving quickly toward the house’s edge. There were multiple outside, she realized.

She raced for the door to catch them. Those footsteps on the roof leapt down just as she pulled the door wide open. She was met with a gasp in the darkness. Two bodies, one behind the other. The first was shoved directly toward Alma, straight into her arms. She dodged away, let the old man fall sprawling to the ground across the threshold. Ellis peered up at Alma with terror in his eyes, recent bruises still purpling his cheek. The second body followed after him, striding through the door with purpose.

The last person Alma expected to see.

“Zola?”

The adolescent girl shut the door behind her. She flashed her eyes between Alma and the old man at her feet.

“This man was listening outside your window,” she said. “He heard every word and was no doubt ready to repeat them to your leaders.”

Ellis turned to see the girl looming over him, must have recognized immediately that she was not one of their own. He started to scream, but only a shrill bleep escaped him before Zola clapped a hand over his shrieking mouth, and placed a blade to his wrinkled throat.

“You will be silent if you value your life,” she told him.

Ellis stopped his screaming. Zola removed her hand, stood straight.

“You…” Ellis stammered, his scrawny jaw opening and closing without a voice. “It is you. The witch outside our walls.”

“I am not outside your walls anymore, am I?” she replied.

“How?” Alma asked, not out of concern but genuine intrigue. “How did you find your way in?”

Zola flashed a loathing look at the old man sprawled between them. “I have my ways.”

“It was you I saw the other night,” Alma said. “When I fetched water from the well. Why are you here? Why have you come all this way?”

“Because this was never just about bringing your lover back from the dead,” Zola said. She glanced at Calum—or Gunnar, was it?— standing nearby, speechless. “We were drawn together for a reason, remember? And based on what I’ve just overheard, it would seem this man has found his way into your lover’s body for a reason as well.”

Alma didn’t care for this line of thinking. This reasoning. The man in her husband’s body was an intruder. He didn’t belong. She realized now that if not for him, the whole thing would have worked. Actually worked. She would have her Calum back, memories intact.

“What reason could that possibly be,” Alma said, unable to conceal her dubious tone.

“This man…” Zola paused, looking to Calum once more. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Gunnar,” he answered.

“Gunnar is now the only living soul with knowledge of the world before the Unmaking,” Zola said. “And if what he says is true, he is the only person who might know where to find the source.”

“What are you suggesting?” Alma asked.

“We have an opportunity to find this entity ourselves,” Zola said. “This… parasite.”

The Haunted Meteor, Alma thought.

“It’s unlikely we could ever reach it,” Calum said.

Gunnar. Gunnar is his name, dammit, Alma thought. He is not my Calum. He is not—

“Our world is hanging by a thread,” Zola replied. “If there is anything we might do, we must try.”

“You’re all crazy,” Ellis said. For a moment Alma had forgotten he was there, still sitting on the floor like a petulant child in time out. “You would have to be crazy to believe any of this nonsense…”

“Have you seen the world beyond our city’s walls?” Alma asked him. “Because I have, and it is even worse than the stories say. Our world has been twisted by something, it cannot be denied.”

“Yes, by the sins of man,” Ellis said. “Sins such as consorting with witches, for instance…”

“Or lusting after your neighbor’s wife? Or forcing yourself on lone women in the night? Sins like those, too, surely?”

“I never claimed to be a perfect man…”

“And yet you are more than happy to hold me to a higher standard,” Alma said. “Typical.”

“What should be done with him?” Zola said, eyeing the old man. “If we let him go he will tell your leaders everything he’s heard.”

“Undoubtedly,” Alma added.

“As much as I value all life,” Zola said, “we would be better off ending his.”

“Now wait just a minute!” Ellis whined, his voice wrung taut with terror.

Alma could not deny she hated Ellis, fully aware that ‘hate’ was a truly potent word. But even still she could not bring herself to be culpable for another’s death.

“I don’t have it in me,” Alma said. “My conscience could not bear it.”

“Mine could,” the imposter named Gunnar said. “I could do it easily.”

Alma was taken aback—to hear such ill intent put to words in her gentle Calum’s voice.

“If ending his life is out of the question,” Zola said, “we could always cut out his tongue.”

Ellis sputtered. “What… but… you can’t just…”

“He would bring them straight here regardless,” Alma said. “The accusation would be clear enough.”

“Wait, I have an idea,” Gunnar said. Alma, Zola, and Ellis considered him in silence as he seemed to ponder it. “If he believes he is so pious… let him confront his beliefs firsthand. Let him see the hell that awaits him.” He regarded the feeble creature on the floor between them. “Because there’s no heaven waiting, old man. I can assure you of that.”

“So kill him. then?” Alma said. “Is that not what you are suggesting?”

“Yes.” Gunnar looked to Zola. “And then bring him back. Like you did for Calum.”

Alma spasmed.

“Except not like Calum,” she added. “As, clearly, that did not go according to plan…”

Gunnar chewed the inside of his lip—Calum’s lip, Alma thought, though she knew she needed to stop reminding herself of this—with a guilty acknowledgement that what she said was true.

“It is unlikely that would happen twice,” Zola said. “But… I do have just the thing.” She reached into her robes and produced a cloth pouch. “This powder will provide a painless death.”

“No!” Ellis cried. “This is absurd! Don’t you all see how absurd this is?”

“You leave us no choice,” Gunnar said. “Not if we can’t trust you.”

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise!” Ellis swiveled on his hands and knees to see the three of them standing round. “I won’t tell the Elders. Or Marjorie. I won’t tell anyone!”

“Too late for that,” Gunnar said.

It was at that moment Ellis began to scream. To howl. Gunnar fell upon him, silencing him with a hand across his mouth. Ellis bucked and shrugged. Holding the old man down, Gunnar peered over his shoulder at Zola behind him.

“Let’s get this over with, huh?”

While Gunnar held Ellis, Zola crouched on his other side. She reached into her cloth pouch and produced a handful of blackish powder which almost resembled char. Ellis thrashed, tried to roll back and forth as Gunnar forced his mouth open. As much as Alma loathed the old man, it was hard to watch. Especially the expressions on her sweet Calum’s face, which she had never seen him wear before.

What kind of man are you? she wondered.

With his jaws pried apart by Gunnar’s hands, Zola sprinkled her black powder into Ellis’s open mouth. He coughed, wheezed, gagged. Gunnar released his face, simply held him down by the shoulders as Ellis smacked his tongue and lips, tasting the poison he’d been fed.

Time seemed to slow as they waited for what would come next.

“Is it working?” Alma asked. “Is he—”

Ellis began to convulse, trembling under Gunnar’s hands, until a sudden wave of white froth pulsed from the corners of his mouth. A horrid sight to see. Alma nearly looked away but resisted the temptation. She needed to see this, she thought. To witness the frightful thing to which she was now an accomplice.

Ellis shuddered and foamed, eyes rolling back to their whites, until all at once he turned very still. A final susurration escaped his open mouth. His half-lidded eyes rolled back into place, staring into nothing.

No life left in them.

25

REVIVAL

GUNNAR

“He is dead,” the girl said.

Zola, Gunnar thought. The girl who brought me back.

Gunnar released Ellis’s corpse. He stood and observed the old man for a moment. Back in the real world, it was a different beast entirely to cause another’s demise, he thought. Not that he felt badly about it, in any case.

Alma appeared much more affected by the scene. She met Gunnar’s gaze with a flash of uncertainty, which promptly sharpened into aversion.

“Now what?” she said. “What do you need from us, Zola?”

“I need soil. Freshly tilled earth, enough to cover his body.”

Alma fetched her robes from the floor and began slipping into them.

“We will go to the gardens, then,” she said. “And bring the dirt here directly.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to take Ellis to the gardens?” Gunnar asked.

“And risk being seen carrying his corpse through the city?” Alma said. “No. Better to be caught hauling dirt. Put on your robes.”

Gunnar didn’t argue. He slipped into his robes, and together they scurried into the shadows outside, leaving Zola with the body in the meantime.

Alma walked briskly, Gunnar doing his best to keep up. She was obviously not interested in allowing opportunities for idle chatter. She was upset, Gunnar thought. And rightfully so, even when she didn’t know the whole truth about his taking Calum’s place. Any hope she’d had of getting her husband back was shattered.

She led them quite a distance across the city until they came to the garden—an expansive, enclosed area surrounded by a high wooden fence, in which many plots of vegetables and other plants were grown for harvesting. The garden was deserted at this hour. Alma led Gunnar toward the sheds at the back, where they obtained two shovels and a wooden wheelbarrow. Alma thrust one of the shovels into Gunnar’s hands.

“Let us start digging.”

She sank her shovel into a bare patch of earth and got to filling the wheelbarrow. Gunnar helped, though he couldn’t shake the awkwardness between them.

“Thank you, by the way,” he said, between shovelfuls. “For believing in my story.”

Alma made a sound. Not a good one. Something between a scoff and a sigh.

“Not the first time you have said this,” she said. “Reminds me what a fool I was to believe you before.”

Gunnar winced. She was right, again.

“I am sorry I lied.”

“You are sorry you were caught,” she said. “And I wouldn’t say I believe you quite yet, besides. I don’t really have a choice in the matter but to go along. But we will see soon enough.”

They dug for a couple minutes longer in silence. Gunnar’s insides were twisted up with something he couldn’t untangle. It was guilt, and something more. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.

“Listen. If it’s any consolation… it’s not all suffering. There are moments of reprieve. And there are many people experiencing the same as you at any given moment. Good people, who band together for safety and company and the like. And dreams. You can still dream in—”

“I’d like to just focus on the task at hand, if that’s all right with you,” Alma interrupted.

Before long the wheelbarrow was full. Alma fetched an additional bucket and filled it with dirt likewise, just in case. She ordered Gunnar to carry the wheelbarrow, seeing as he was undoubtedly the stronger of the two. Again, he didn’t argue. Nor did he complain when the wheelbarrow’s weight was twice what he expected, and nearly toppled him in his efforts to balance it. Calum’s body was plenty muscled, lean as it was, but navigating a foreign body still took some getting used to.

They were nearly halfway home when Gunnar asked to stop for a moment, his arms aching from the load.

“It is not much farther,” Alma said.

“I need a break,” he insisted, to which Alma pressed her lips impatiently. “Hey, I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got.”

She shot him a look then. “With what is not yours, you mean.”

Alma scanned the dark-windowed dwellings around them, nervously checking for watchful eyes. Somewhere nearby, Gunnar did overhear the sound of idle coughs in the night—the sick and restless struggling to sleep.

Gunnar hoisted the wheelbarrow in his grasp and they continued on. They arrived back home without incident, thank god.

Thank Oleth, Gunnar thought, trying out the phrase for himself with a healthy dose of mocking.

Gunnar hauled the wheelbarrow inside. Alma shut the door behind them. Ellis was still dead as ever, though it appeared Zola had tended to him, wiping his face clean with some water and cloth.

“Will this be enough?” Alma asked, indicating the dirt they’d brought.

“Should be plenty,” Zola said. “Now if you’ll give me some space.”

Gunnar didn’t need to be told twice. He sat on the edge of the bed, tired from all their digging and dirt-hauling. Alma chose to sit at the table, distancing herself from him.

They watched as Zola dumped the bucket of dirt onto Ellis, starting with his feet. Then she used the bucket to scoop dirt from the wheelbarrow, covering him up to his hips, to his chest, to his shoulders, saving his head for last. There was still some dirt left by the time she dumped her final bucketful onto Ellis head, but by then he was totally covered, just a human-shaped mound on the ground of Alma’s home.

Zola knelt beside Ellis and appeared to pray silently over him.

“Will you sing to him?” Alma asked. “Like you did for Calum?”

“It won’t be necessary,” Zola said. “This man’s death is fresh. The tether of his soul is strong.”

She proceeded to hover her hands over Ellis’s buried body, as though searching for something, feeling for something.

“Out of curiosity,” Alma said, “if Calum… or Gunnar, rather, were to die again in Calum’s body… would we be able to perform this ritual a second time? And bring Calum back as we intended the first?”

Out of curiosity, my ass.

Gunnar regarded Alma sitting forward in her seat, her serious expression flickering with candlelight as she willfully avoided his gaze. She wished to be rid of him, of course. While she claimed her conscience couldn’t withstand Ellis’s murder, Gunnar knew she wouldn’t hesitate to snuff the life from her husband’s body now if it meant returning it to its rightful owner.

“Firstly, so much time has passed since Calum’s death, his connection will have weakened from that alone,” Zola said. “Secondly, Gunnar’s soul has formed its own connection to the vessel. There’s no guarantee we wouldn’t simply call him back the second time. And lastly… your suggestion undermines the destiny Earth has laid out for us.”

“Destiny?” Alma asked, incredulous.

Zola paused her soul searching and regarded Alma plainly.

“Whatever your disappointments may be, Alma, Gunnar is here for a reason. We are being led toward a greater purpose, and there is much more at stake than just your husband’s soul.”

Alma shifted in her seat, pulling at her robes in discomfort. She lowered her gaze thoughtfully, before glancing at Gunnar from the corner of her eye. She didn’t like Zola’s answer, but it seemed she trusted her at the very least. However hard a pill it was to swallow.

Alma had no further questions for Zola for the remainder of her ritual, but at one point she did turn to Gunnar and hold his gaze, her eyes alight with a question she clearly wished to ask.

“What?” he said.

“Do you really think you can lead us to the source of the Unmaking?”

Truthfully, Gunnar had hoped he might get to enjoy some life amongst the living before being thrust into some ‘greater purpose’ but even then he supposed anything was preferable to the alternative.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “It’s possible, I guess. But who knows how much has changed in seven-hundred years.”

“Yes,” Alma said, her pensive gaze drifting to the floor between them. “You would know nothing of our world now… but then again, neither do I, apparently. If everything you have said is true, then I have lived a sheltered life.”

“I believe I have found him,” Zola said, her eyes squeezed shut, hands inches over Ellis’s shape. “I feel him near.”

Gunnar and Alma watched as Zola did… something. It was impossible to see, whatever it was, but her focus deepened, her hovering hands trembling with the effort, as though she had to physically reel Ellis back to himself like a stubborn fish against a raging current.

Gunnar glanced at the nearby window, where the darkness appeared to be brightening with morning’s infancy.

Alma gasped. The dirt mound moved. Shifted. Zola continued doing whatever the hell she was doing, until suddenly Ellis sat bolt upright, dirt sloughing off from his wrinkled face, arms raised and shivering with confusion. He gasped, flinching away from Zola beside him, flinching away from Gunnar and Alma as he discovered them opposite. He jumped to his feet, sandals gritting in the loose dirt.

“Ellis?” Alma said, standing. “Is it you?”

Ellis only stared, wide-eyed. Lost. He turned in place, observing the makeshift grave he’d just risen from, along with the girl still kneeling beside it. Zola simply watched him.

Ellis’s lips quivered. “That was… a dream. An illusion.”

“It was no dream,” Zola said.

“That wasn’t real. None of it was real. It was…”

“It was real,” Zola said.

“That was… that was…” Ellis stiffened, head reared back as he pointed a shaking finger at the girl. “Witchcraft!”

Zola started to say something more, but Ellis didn’t stick around to listen. He bolted for the door. Alma reached for him, but was too late. He escaped outside, vanishing into the early morning dark. Alma hurried into the doorway, peering out.

“We need to go after him,” she said.

“Let him go.” Zola stood, dusting off her robes. “It is almost morning. In the meantime, we should clean up as much as we can. If he wishes to make an accusation… let’s make sure there’s nothing here to find.”

26

ABOMINATION

ELLIS

He ran harder than he’d ever run in his life. His lungs felt fit to burst, his airways ragged and burning.

Burning, burning, burning…

Visions of hellfire. Raining ash. Tortured screams.

Ellis slid to a halt along a dark, nondescript path he didn’t recognize. He recognized nothing at the moment, his brain scrambled, his thoughts torn in impossible directions. Impossible dimensions.

A dream. An illusion. A trick of sorcery.

He leaned against the dwelling beside him, panting, gasping, sucking air noisily through his fear-constricted throat, heartbeat painfully pummeling his breastbone. He could still feel the singe of embers atop his wispy scalp.

He fought to keep those visions at bay, forced it all down, swallowed his horror like a foul elixir swimming in his gut. But no matter how hard he tried, the aftertaste couldn’t be ignored. Couldn’t be forgotten.

He continued onward, scurried along the streets of Gloam as the dark sky brightened with the faintest halo of early morning cerulean. He arrived outside the same door as before—when he’d come running to tattle on Alma the first time. He knocked hastily. A moment later the door opened, and he was faced with a man with a patchy beard and tired eyes.

“Sorry to bother you so early, sir,” Ellis said, struggling to smooth the tremor in his voice. “But I was hoping I might speak to Mother Marjorie.”

“Marjorie?” Her husband, Harold, blinked wearily. “She’s not here.”

“She’s not?”

“No, I believe she’s risen early and gone to the church.”

“Gone to the church,” Ellis repeated. “All right. All right, yes. Thank you. Gone to the church…”

Ellis darted straight there. By the time he arrived outside its double doors, he felt he could barely pick up his feet. He stopped a moment, taking deep breaths, regaining his composure.

He could still hear them in the back of his mind—the screams of men, women, and children, the howls of the monstrosities that preyed upon them. It had been such a tiny glimpse, and yet those sights and sounds stretched wide in his memory, his sanity stretched thin in remembering them.

He also remembered being held against his will while the witch forced poison down his throat. The agonizing cramps that had racked his body, the convulsions, the taste of bile and blood and toxins bubbling in the back of his throat, his last vision of the world being them looking down on him in their cruelty.

Ellis pulled his way through the church doors, into the nave, between the pews. He hastened along the center aisle until he noticed them ahead, standing on the raised platform behind the pulpit together. Mother Marjorie and—

And…

Ellis stopped. Stopped everything. Walking, blinking, breathing. They turned to see him, frozen in the aisle there. Mother Marjorie cocked her head curiously, surprised to see Ellis so early in the day. The other…

The other…

Gooseflesh broke over Ellis’s body. A shudder he could not hide.

“Ellis?” Mother Marjorie said, the creases of her expression deepening with confusion. “Are you all right?”

The thing standing with Mother Marjorie donned an Elder’s robes, but it was not an Elder. It was not anything. Ellis could scarcely describe it even as it stood plainly before him, an entity better suited to the hallucinatory hellscape he’d just awakened from.

“Ellis, what’s wrong?” Mother Marjorie stepped forward, as the other lingered patiently behind her. “What happened to your face? And you are covered in dirt…”

He couldn’t take his eyes off the nightmare, except to glance occasionally at Marjorie who seemed not to notice the company she kept. Fleshy ropes and pincers bulged from its sleeves, a wriggling mass protruding from its hood. It watched Ellis with black eyes embedded deep in its restless visage. Those eyes could swallow Ellis whole. Not physically, of course. But the parts that mattered most…

“I… I’m sorry to…”

Ellis never finished the thought. He turned and fled. His dragging feet carried him back through the church doors and into the greater sunlight, running fast on the power of terror alone.

No, no, no, no…

This cannot be!

He stopped in the middle of the square. A few other early risers moved about, fetching water and the like. Ellis recognized his city less than ever. The people in it. The strange faces wearing stranger expressions as they passed, as though there was something wrong with him! And perhaps they were right. Perhaps there was something terribly wrong with him. That young woman, that girl, had placed some kind of curse on him, of course! That, or none of this was real. Perhaps he was still dreaming. Perhaps he was still…

“Ellis!”

Marjorie pressed through the church doors, following after him. Ellis couldn’t find the strength to flee any farther. He remained rooted as she came to him, that same bewildered look in her eyes.

“What on Earth is going on?” she asked.

Indeed, Ellis thought. What on Earth is going on?

“I am sorry,” he said. “I do not know what has gotten into me, Mother Marjorie. I-I believe I have had a terrible dream, and… I am still not quite oriented, I’m afraid.”

“A dream?” She came to stand before him, looked him over head to toe. “You look like you have been in a brawl, Ellis.”

“Oh. Yes. That…” He looked down at himself, was still covered in dirt. “I suppose Father Ryker told you what happened yesterday…”

“Yesterday? No, I don’t believe he did.”

Ellis was surprised to hear it. He thought surely Father Ryker would have told her of Ellis’s bad behavior and the subsequent beating it had earned him.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ellis said.

And he meant that. His fight with Alma and Calum—the imposter!—was suddenly inconsequential to the rest. To everything that had transpired since. He opened his mouth, the beginnings of that tale reaching for the tip of his tongue, but he stopped himself.

Mother Marjorie’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. She could tell he had something else to say. Something more than a bad dream.

Or maybe she sees something else in you, he thought.

“You must take better care…” She looked as though she wished to reassure him with the touch of a hand, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. He was quite filthy, after all. And haggard.

You are the abomination now.

He flinched with his own thoughts. A sudden spasm.

“Are you quite sure you’re all right?” Marjorie asked.

“Yes, yes,” Ellis said. “I am all right…”

Mother Marjorie watched him closely another moment or so, and Ellis felt so surely she could see through him as easily as a reflection in the water.

“Is this about next week?” she said. “Are you nervous for it?”

“Next week?”

“For your Descent,” she said. “You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

“My Descent…” Ellis repeated, as his guts churned with ice water.

“Have you prepared your letters? You still have a few days, of course.”

“I have prepared my letters,” Ellis lied. “Yes. I have not forgotten.”

He had completely forgotten. And perhaps it was a willful thing, to forget. Because he was absolutely nervous. There was no denying that. Not only for the Descent, but for everything that would precede it. Writing his letters. Delivering them. His wife and children had shunned him long ago. He wasn’t even certain they would accept his letters, let alone read them. But it was part of the ceremony. Part of the tradition.

“It is a nerve-racking thing, to be sure,” Mother Marjorie said. “But it is exciting, too, is it not?”

Easy for her to say, Ellis thought. She was twenty years his junior. Twenty years before she had to truly think on such things.

“I should be heading home,” he said. “I am sorry for the bother. I did not mean to interrupt you and…”

It flashed against his mind’s eye once more—the creature in the church, wearing what Ellis now believed to have been Elder Lawrence’s robes specifically, if the creature’s height had been any indication. But he couldn’t be certain, and so he didn’t finish the thought.

“That is all right, Ellis,” Marjorie said. “Elder Lawrence and I were actually discussing the situation with Alma and Calum. Have you anything to report?”

Yes, actually, I just met with Alma and her witch! It was a lovely time. They poisoned me and brought me back from the dead, but not before I was able to glimpse the glorious fires of hell with my own eyes!

“Nothing to report yet,” Ellis said. “Apologies.”

Mother Marjorie nodded understandingly. She regarded the church over her shoulder.

“The Elders are worried,” she said. “They believe the witch has already found her way into the city.”

“Oh dear,” Ellis said. “I will be sure to keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”

“Please do.” Marjorie reached for him again, as though to touch his shoulder, and promptly withdrew her hand a second time without getting so far. “But I mean it, Ellis. Do take care of yourself.”

She started back to the church. Ellis felt only a pinch of relief to have her gone, to finally turn away himself and start heading home.

He should have spilled the whole truth to Mother Marjorie but instead allowed himself to cower. He had failed in his duties. And it wasn’t simply that Elder Lawrence had taken on the appearance of a nightmare. That was certainly a worrisome thing, but…

It is only an illusion. It is not real. I have been cursed by the witch.

He had been made into an abomination against his will. Unless that too was part of the illusion? Yes, that was a possibility. Certainly he showed no signs of death, did he? Other than still wearing the dirt of his temporary grave…

Avoiding the glances of his neighbors, Ellis hurried home and shut the door behind him. He leaned there a moment, catching his breath and his wits. In the low gloom, he saw those visions once more, startlingly bright in his mind’s eye. Bright as eternal hellfire.

He moved to his bed, crawled atop the cover. He curled up in a ball, squeezed his eyes shut against the swell of morning light through his window. But the visions were relentless. He wished so badly to sleep, to silence those anxieties with nothingness, and yet feared the dreams he might have.

Dreams, dreams, dreams. Only dreams…

He could still feel the stinging heat on his naked shoulders, could still taste the sharp flavor of smoke in the back of his wheezing throat. Never before had he felt a dream so authentic. So life-like. And never before had a nightmare followed him into the waking world.

As Elder Lawrence’s writhing face surfaced in his thoughts once more, Ellis burst into tears.

27

PROVIDENCE

ALMA

They made quick work of piling the dirt back into their wheelbarrow, and returned both the wheelbarrow and bucket back to the gardens. They were spotted along the way by some other early risers, but proceeded with intent so as not to look guilty or too out of place.

“Now let us get back to Zola,” Alma said as they departed the gardens for the final time.

Upon returning home, Alma’s heart leapt into her throat at the sight of Ryker’s gleaming head waiting outside their door. Had Ellis sent him, she wondered?”

“Ah, there you are,” he said, looking surprised to see them out and about so early. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Alma fought to maintain her smile, aware that their deceit had only deepened since last they spoke. With more lies to tell, they threatened to engulf her.

“I just wanted to check in again,” Ryker said. “See how things were going since yesterday. No more trouble with Ellis, I hope?”

Alma saw nothing in Ryker’s demeanor to suggest he knew anything about recent matters.

“No trouble.”

“Good. And what about you, Calum? Any progress? Any new dreams to report?”

“No dreams,” Gunnar said. “But I did remember some odd things.”

“Oh?”

Alma wasn’t sure what Gunnar might say, and so found herself just as rapt as Ryker.

“I remembered my parents,” Gunnar said. “Just some small details, really, but… it was something.”

He of course referred to the letters he’d read, Alma realized. Calum’s father’s letters, from under their bed. He had read them yesterday after she’d revealed them to him. Alma couldn’t help but feel a bit nauseated now, listening to this deception. To look upon her husband’s face, and to hear his voice and the lies he told, it was an affront to life and love itself. Those were not his memories to claim, and yet he did so effortlessly.

“I am glad to hear it,” Ryker said. “I knew your father well, Calum. He helped train me in the fields when I was a younger man, when you were just a boy. Long before I was elected to Father Ryker.”

“Well,” Alma said, wishing to put an end to this farce. “I was just about to take Calum to the well and show him how to fetch his own water.”

“Oh, very good,” Ryker said. “I will leave you to it. And I will inform the Elders of your progress, Calum. Before much longer, I am sure much of this… strangeness, will be behind us. Time heals most things, after all.”

Except death, Alma thought. Death was another matter entirely.

Alma hardly waited for Ryker to give his farewell before she ushered Gunnar back inside and shut the door. Much to her surprise, Zola was not waiting for them after all.

“She is gone,” Alma said, relieved. “Thank goodness.”

“I wonder where she goes,” Gunnar said. “Where do you think?”

“Hopefully someplace very hidden.”

Alma sat heavily on the bed. After all their digging, all the excitement with Ellis, on top of a poor night’s sleep, she was exhausted.

“Were you actually going to show me to the well? Gunnar asked. “It was a good idea. I should learn these things.”

Alma sighed with reluctance and disappointment. “Maybe another time. Not now.”

“Are you sure? We do need more water, as it turns out. And after this, you won’t have to—”

Alma stood wearily once more. “I am sure. And it is fine. I would like to go alone, actually.”

Gunnar faltered. “Oh. All right, then.”

She could hear it in the tone of his voice that he took it personally. But as exhausting as fetching water sounded at the moment, the thought of giving the man inside her husband’s body reassurances sounded even more so. A hurdle too high.

She picked up their jug and went for another stroll to the nearest well. She offered friendly smiles to neighbors along the way, who did not return them. In line at the well, she watched as each person handed the bucket to the next. But when it came her turn, the woman ahead of Alma simply dropped the bucket back into the well and left without a second glance.

I am officially an outcast, she thought.

She filled their jug, then thrust the bucket into the arms of the man after her, staring him in the face as he refused to even acknowledge her.

Her thoughts began to storm. These people, every last one of them, would have done the same in her shoes, she thought. They rejected her not because they believed she’d done something wrong, but because they were afraid to confront how easily their own beliefs might change in her shoes.

She found Gunnar asleep on their bed when she returned. The very sight of him stung her with spite. She looked upon the man in her bed and hated him fiercely. Loved him dearly. A disorienting pair of emotions. Somehow he looked most like her Calum while sleeping. Perhaps because his features were rested, and not manipulated by someone unfamiliar with the muscles and expressions that had made Calum, Calum.

It all came rushing back to her—her husband’s fate, his suffering in that other place. What was happening to him at this very moment? Was he in pain? Was he lost? Lonely? All she wanted was her sweet Calum back. Now she was thrust into some half-baked destiny to hunt an unknown cosmic threat, which was apparently harvesting their world and its soul? It was all a bit much to stomach.

She jumped as someone knocked on their door. Frantic knocking. She stood listening against it and the knocking persisted. She pulled the door open just a crack.

“Please let me in…”

A distraught, red-eyed Ellis pressed himself into the opening. Alma was so shocked by the sight of him that she stepped back, allowing Ellis to push into the house and shut the door behind him. He panted heavily, as though he had run the whole way.

“Where is she?” he said, eyes bulging as he stepped into the room, turning, scanning. “She has to undo this. Make it go away…”

“What are you talking about?”

“The curse your witch has put upon me!” Ellis whisper-screeched. “I need it gone!”

“It’s not a curse,” Gunnar said from the bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes as Ellis’s arrival had awakened him. “What you saw was real.”

“There is no possible way any of it was real,” Ellis said, sounding on the brink of tears.

“Well, it wasn’t a dream.”

“No, it was a nightmare!” Ellis paced about as though he might suddenly find Zola hiding in the shadows. “And it is still happening. It won’t end… it won’t end…” He plopped himself down in the chair by their table, head in his hands. “It’s all wrong. Everything is wrong. Elder Lawrence, he… he…”

“Ah,” Gunnar said, scooting to the edge of the bed. “So you saw them, too? For what they really are?”

Ellis lifted his gaunt face from his hands. “For what they really are?”

“Your Elders aren’t human,” Gunnar said plainly. “And if I’m not mistaken, it would seem death breaks the illusion. That’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

“Who have you told?” Alma asked. “Did you go to Mother Marjorie?”

Ellis’s gaze turned faraway, remembering.

“I wanted to. I tried to, but… I saw it. I saw Elder Lawrence and… and… How am I supposed to face them next week? How am I supposed to pretend…”

“Next week?” Gunnar said.

“Ellis’s Descent,” Alma said.

Gunnar nodded as he understood. Then his eyes brightened as he seemed to realize something.

“Now everything is out in the open, I guess I can say this out loud. When you first described it to me, Alma—this Descent—the first thing that came to mind was that it’s probably just a convenient means of disposing of those past their reproductive prime. Making room for new families while feeding a steady stream of souls into the hellscape.”

Alma’s belly plummeted through her bowels.

“What are you talking about?” Ellis asked. “Speak it plainly.”

“He means to say that those who have joined Prophet Tobias in the Under are probably dead. All of them.”

Alma hated to say it. It sounded ludicrous. So impossibly wicked, that it defied belief. Then again, a few days ago she might have said bringing back the dead was equally ludicrous, and yet had now witnessed it twice.

“You’re both talking crazy again,” Ellis said, folding his arms defensively. Stubbornly.

“I am having a hard time accepting it too, Ellis, believe me.” Alma shook her head with frustration. “It is difficult to entertain the idea that everything we’ve been taught is a lie, but… it must be so. Gunnar met Calum in that place. It is the only way he could have known my name upon waking. Which of course means that Calum is still there. Suffering.” She squeezed her eyes shut against this unbearable notion. “And his only hope of escaping that torment is if we can put a stop to it here. As much as I hate to accept it… I must do whatever I can to help him.”

“I want no part of this,” Ellis said.

“That’s too bad,” Gunnar replied. “Because you’re already part of it. We all are, whether we like it or not. Whether you die today or two decades from now, you’re going to find yourself in that place again unless we discover a way to dismantle it.”

“I… I… I am just an old man!” Ellis threw his callused, knobby hands in the air. “What good am I to such a cause?”

“You are not so old,” Alma said. “You can do plenty. For starters, you could turn those prying eyes of yours onto those who actually need to be watched for a change.”

Ellis winced at the mere suggestion.

“We need to come up with an actual plan,” Gunnar said.

“Zola managed to find her way into the city,” Alma said. “Surely we could exit the same way she entered.”

“We can’t just leave,” Gunnar said, which was a surprise to hear as Alma thought that was the whole point. “Not without knowing where we’re headed. It’s too dangerous out there to be wandering aimlessly, right?”

“But is that not what you are supposed to be good for?” Alma said. “I thought you knew where it was—the entity that’s done this.”

“I don’t even know where we are right now. Not to mention my memory of this world is seven centuries out of date. No, our plan should start here, in this city. We need others on our side.”

Alma could not imagine convincing anyone of their story. To convince their neighbors that everything they believed was false, that their leaders were false, and in turn that Oleth must be false… all without tangible proof? Not even she had fully come to accept these contradictions.

She watched Ellis slumped in the chair, his mind brimming with so many thoughts that he’d become dissociated by them.

“We need others like Ellis,” she said suddenly, spurring him from his daze. “People who can see things as they are. I cannot think of any other way to convince them, without unveiling the illusion upon their minds.”

Ellis scowled. “What are you proposing? That we slaughter our neighbors one by one? And resurrect them with your witchcraft?”

Alma put a finger to her lips, contemplating.

“You are insane or stupid or both!” Ellis exclaimed. “If you are actually considering it!”

“In any case, we should wait for Zola,” Gunnar said.

“Agreed,” Alma said. “Hopefully she will return to us tonight. And in the meantime, we should go about our business as usual. Gunnar and I will have breakfast with everyone this morning. Ellis, you should do the same. But keep your distance, obviously. It would look strange to be seen together after what an ass you have been as of late.”

Ellis scoffed, but did not disagree.

“I do not have much of an appetite,” he said as he pushed himself out of the chair and started for the door. He paused there, brooding. He looked over his shoulder at each of them. “Damn you both for dragging me into this nightmare.”

“Damn us all,” Gunnar said, “if you won’t help us put an end to it.”

Ellis scoffed once again. And with that, he departed.

Alma sensed twice the amount of eyes upon them entering the food tent as the day before. Word was no longer spreading—it had spread. No doubt thanks to Ellis’s outbursts in church yesterday.

After collecting their food, they joined Neil and Rose and baby Chance at one of the tables. Laurie was absent.

“Laurie is unwell,” Neil said, holding their small boy in his lap. “Worse today, actually. Rose and I will take food home with us.”

Alma peered around the crowding tent and noticed many others who appeared ill, but had not stayed home as Laurie had done. In fact, the surrounding noise was split roughly half and half between wheezing and general chatter.

“It seems the bug is spreading,” Gunnar said.

“How much worse is Laurie, exactly?” Alma asked.

“Her cough is quite bad,” Neil said. “And she is completely fatigued. It was all she could do to sit up this morning to feed the baby. I brought him here to give her a chance to rest.”

Alma only hoped that whatever Laurie had contracted was not the same as what had claimed Calum.

They weren’t sitting long before Neil and his children departed, taking some food home with them. This left Alma and Gunnar alone. They ate in near silence, stealing awkward glances at one another. Unfortunately, Alma could not force herself to feel normal when nothing was normal, nor could she force herself to shrug off her lingering grief.

“Do you think we can trust Ellis not to give us away?” Gunnar asked suddenly. “I’m worried his fear will get the better of him…”

“Ellis is a selfish man who fears only for himself,” Alma said. “We can take solace knowing he fears our leaders now as much as us.”

They finished their breakfast without much else said between them, Alma doing her best to ignore the incessant gawking of their neighbors. Then, upon stepping out of the tent into the warming daylight, they were approached by a stout woman with tears in her eyes, a lump in her throat.

“Alma?”

Alma had seen the woman before, but had never interacted with her personally and so did not know her name. How the woman knew hers was its own mystery.

“Yes?” Alma said.

The woman’s eyes were so full of tears she must have been blind with them. She opened her mouth to speak but struggled to do.

“Why don’t we speak over here, where it is more secluded,” Alma said, and guided the woman into the shade around the side of the food tent. There, the woman wiped her eyes dry. Her mouth trembled. She looked at Gunnar—at Calum, in her eyes—and suddenly seemed to forget her words altogether.

“What is your name?” Alma asked.

“Oh… Tamara. My name is Tamara. Apologies, I…” She swabbed her eyes a second time, as they’d already filled to brimming again. She regarded Gunnar once more, and her astonishment was plain to see. “Is it true what they say? That you… you…”

She fumbled, but her meaning was clear.

“That Calum died?” Alma said.

Tamara peered sheepishly in either direction, checking for busybodies. “And you brought him back?”

“Yes,” Alma answered. “It is true.”

Tamara looked at Alma’s husband once more, studied him with the expression of someone who wishes to look away but cannot.

“You show no signs,” she said. “You do not look the least bit dead…”

“Thank you very much,” Gunnar replied.

He had the gall to smile then, at his own words. It was all Alma could do not to roll her eyes.

“I would like to show you something,” Tamara said at last. “In private, if you wouldn’t mind. Both of you.”

The woman brought them to her home. It was much like theirs but in another district on the other side of Gloam. She opened her door with a guarded glance over each shoulder, then hastily ushered them inside. Alma understood her caution. She couldn’t be seen inviting the witch collaborator into her home now, could she?

Once inside, the woman showed them to her bed—or more specifically, to the ground beside her bed, hidden from the vantage point of the open window. There her husband’s body lay.

“It happened just last night,” Tamara said, trembling something fierce. “I woke to the sounds of his…” She couldn’t bring herself to describe it. “Actually, it was his thrashing that woke me. He couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know what to do. Before I could even think to find help he was already gone.”

Tamara hugged herself as though she could hold herself still, to no avail. Alma knew the feeling all too well. She embraced the woman, felt her stiffen with surprise under her.

“It is all right,” Alma whispered. “It was the same with my Calum.”

Tamara melted in her embrace. She sobbed. Gunnar shifted restlessly beside them. When finally they parted, the woman looked at Alma with another question in her eyes, one Alma could have guessed word for word.

“Can you do it? Can you bring my Gregory back?”

“Not I,” Alma said. “But… we know someone who might help.”

They departed the woman’s home in silence, moving through the narrow, meandering alleys as the sounds of hacking coughs floated from so many open windows in any given direction.

It was on Alma’s mind. She knew it must also be on Gunnar’s.

“I fear there is a deadly plague upon our city,” Alma said. “Tamara’s husband wasn’t the first, and won’t be the last.”

“You’re thinking the same as me, then,” Gunnar said. “Aren’t you?”

She was. Though she wasn’t sure she liked it one bit.

“How many more Tamaras might there be come tomorrow morning?” she said. “How many others will seek us out for their dead at home?”

“We couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity,” Gunnar said. “It’s almost like…”

“Like providence,” Alma said.

Though it felt like anything but.

28

OPENING UP

GUNNAR

They screwed in the backseat of her car.

But unlike previous trysts, there was a mutual melancholy about them. A preoccupation of the mind. A robotic rhythm. Going through the motions. This was lovemaking for the sake of distraction. To temporarily forget, however impossible that was.

Josie started to cry, still moving her body in rhythm with his, succumbing to the awful truth overwhelming them on all sides—inside and out. Gunnar was soft within seconds, though he’d already been heading in that direction. Josie lay herself down with him along the length of the seat, and there he held her, felt the new cadence of her hitching sobs.

The parking garage was mostly quiet this early in the morning. Somewhere over their heads, through the many layers of squeaky white tile floors and fluorescent lights, Henry lay in what would surely be his deathbed. It was only a matter of time now.

As they lay together reflecting on this reality, the parking garage dropped into total darkness. Lights out. Gunnar noticed it first, staring at the car’s cloth ceiling with his eyes wide open as Josie squeezed tears from hers upon his chest.

And shortly after the power went out, everything started to shake.

Gunnar opened his eyes to Alma gently shaking him awake by the shoulder.

“What is it? What’s happening?”

Zola stood at the end of the bed, softly illuminated by the burning candle on the table.

“It is after dark,” Alma said. “Let us head over to Tamara’s.”

Gunnar took a moment to collect himself—his whereabouts, his whenabouts. It was violently disorienting to dream of a past life.

“Hurry up and put on your robes,” Alma told him.

“I’m going, I’m going…”

He swiveled out of bed and draped his robes over his head. Alma blew out the candle. They stole into the night, the three of them, and began their journey to the other side of town. Alma had already told Zola of their plan, which apparently Zola had already figured was coming.

“Your city is soon to be ravaged,” she said. “I have heard it spreading with my own ears.”

This piqued Gunnar’s curiosity. Where did Zola hide herself away during the day, he wondered, that she could still monitor the city and its people?

“You were already gone when we returned from the garden this morning,” he said. “Where did you go?”

“It is better you not know such things,” Zola said. “Your leaders would surely pry it out of you, if they thought you did.”

That was true enough. But it didn’t stop Gunnar from wondering.

They arrived outside Tamara’s home. The window was blocked with a wooden shutter, much like the one Alma kept. Gunnar could faintly see the flickering glow of candlelight through the gaps where the shutter didn’t sit flush, as well as the pacing of a shadow. Alma knocked on the door. It opened just a crack, Tamara’s wary face peeking through.

“It is us,” Alma said.

Tamara let them inside. It wasn’t just her waiting for them. Another man stood in the corner, eyes darting to each of them as they entered, before his gaze landed on Zola and stayed there.

“This is Gregory’s brother, Spencer,” Tamara said. “He agreed to help me with the dirt.”

Her husband’s body was already moved, lying in the middle of the floor in preparation for their arrival. The aforementioned dirt lay in a great pile beside him, ready and waiting to be swept over his body.

“This is Zola,” Alma said. “The young woman who helped me.”

“You are just a girl,” Tamara said, stunned. “You can’t be older than sixteen…”

“Fifteen,” Zola answered. She paced to the middle of the room, standing over Gregory’s body. “Do you have any questions before I begin?”

“I…” Tamara hesitated, clasping her hands beneath her chin, “I must admit, I am worried.”

“What about?” Zola asked, her tone gentle. Kind.

“I am worried that what the others whisper is true. I don’t wish to go against our teachings, but…”

“You are afraid that I am wicked,” Zola said. “And that what is about to happen will bind you to my wickedness.”

Tamara appeared at a loss for words, hearing her prejudices guessed so plainly. Her open mouth swelled with an apology Zola didn’t give her the chance to speak.

“I can’t prove to you my innocence,” Zola went on. “All I can do is ask for your trust. But it is your choice to give it.”

Tamara looked from Zola to Alma to Gunnar, the latter of whom she looked up and down, seeing in him what she hoped to soon see in her Gregory. Life renewed. And that’s how easily it was decided.

“I can’t pretend I am a good judge of character,” Tamara said, “but I don’t sense the least bit of wickedness about you. Maybe that’s just my hope, blinding me to anything that might prevent my Gregory’s return. But I… I trust you. I do.”

“Good,” Zola said. “Then I will begin without delay.”

As Zola covered Gregory’s corpse with dark soil, Tamara invited Gunnar and Alma to sit upon their bed beside her and the man called Spencer. Spencer seemed less convinced of the whole thing, but was the quiet sort. He watched Zola with a conflicted brow, and many times stole glances at Gunnar, clearly at war with his own doubts. Ultimately he was here in support of his brother’s wife—and his brother, of course—and in the end that was all that mattered.

Gunnar felt a pang of guilt at that, remembering his dream.

I did a little more than support my brother’s wife, didn’t I?

That had been another life, he thought. Another him.

Right?

Zola seemed to be improving in her talents. It wasn’t very long after Gregory’s burial, with her hovering hands plucking at the invisible tether between body and soul, that the body beneath the soil came to life in a burst of terror and confusion, a spray of dirt across the floor from his flailing arms.

“Oh!”

Tamara and Spencer audibly gasped. The man sitting waist deep in dirt looked about the room, from Zola to the rest of them, eyes big, mouth agape. A moment of stunned silence.

“Oh, Gregory!” Tamara pushed from the bed and dropped to her knees, throwing herself around her revived husband. “Oh, I didn’t think… I didn’t…”

Gregory’s brother stood with both hands cupped over his heart in disbelief.

“W-was it a dream?” Gregory said, still perspiring with the horror that had followed him here. “Was it only a terrible dream?”

“Tell us what you saw,” Alma said, leaning forward from the end of the bed.

It was a painful effort to describe it, but Gregory managed to do so, his wife still clinging to him all the while.

“The very ground was alive,” he said, his face paling just in recollection. “I saw people pulled beneath the waves of it. There was no escape, but I was… I was far enough to avoid detection, and… and…”

Gunnar listened to Gregory’s account with a fair amount of familiarity. Once his story was finished, and Tamara and Spencer were thoroughly horrified by it, Zola suggested that Gunnar share his own, as well as the gist of what he knew.

Here we go again, he thought.

It was easier this time around, at least, now his story was practiced, becoming more streamlined each time he told it. He could see the doubt in their faces—Tamara’s, Spencer’s, even Gregory’s—but it would always be this way at first, he knew. Even when confronted with an impossible miracle, letting go of preconceived notions was a lot to ask. At the very least, Gunnar would leave them with much to consider tonight, and perhaps by morning their firm beliefs would be softened, if only a little.

“I suggest you lie low for a while,” Zola told them. “You will be tired for a couple days, Gregory, as Gunnar can attest.”

They nodded with understanding. And then, with a sudden swell of relief and gratitude, Tamara threw her arms around her husband once more, clutching him tight, bursting into another outpouring of tears.

Gunnar couldn’t help but notice Alma watching them, eyes alight with envy.

After leaving Tamara’s and Gregory’s residence, Gunnar, Alma, and Zola stood shrouded in the shadows of a nearby alley, where they discussed their plans moving forward.

“More will come,” Zola promised. “We should prepare ourselves.”

“Should this grow into something substantial,” Alma said, “it won’t do for us to be visiting individual homes like this, hauling so much dirt from the gardens, back and forth…”

“We should just do it in the gardens, then,” Gunnar said. “Dig several graves at a time. If we really think this will reach that kind of volume.”

Zola nodded. “It will. And that is a good plan. That would work.”

“Am I alone in feeling strange about all of this?” Alma said. “It almost seems too perfect, doesn’t it? The timing…”

“It feels strange because it is,” Zola said. “But sometimes that is the way of destiny. Like my mother used to tell me—opportunities will come and we must seize them.”

“Will you be able to handle it?” Alma said. “You are only one person. I don’t wish you to wear yourself to a shadow.”

“I can handle it,” Zola said. “I am already better at it now than when you brought me Calum.” She peered behind them, at the mouth of their small alley. “Anyway, I should be getting back to my hiding place. I will find you again tomorrow night, and we will go from there.”

Zola slipped around the next corner, out of sight. Gunnar was half-tempted to follow her, just to see where she went.

“Let’s hurry home as well,” Alma said. “Better not to be seen slinking about after dark.”

Their walk was a lengthier one, passing through so many districts that all looked the same to Gunnar, so that it always came as a surprise when they ventured down yet another alley, followed by another still.

As they walked, Alma appeared lost in thought, her gaze constantly downcast even as she effortlessly led them homeward. Gunnar saw in her eyes the same longing he’d noticed in Tamara’s home.

“I hope you know that I understand you,” Gunnar said. “I know you wish things were different, and… I don’t blame you for that. I would feel the same in your shoes.”

“What I wish is that my Calum hadn’t died in the first place,” Alma said. “But that’s well behind us now. As well as my hope of having him back.”

Alma turned to the dwelling beside them and pushed inside. They’d arrived home. It would be a while longer before Gunnar could tell any of them apart.

He followed her in, then remained by the door as Alma kicked off her sandals and dragged her feet to bed, where she sat heavily, shoulders slack, her form barely visible in the dim moonlight through the open window.

“I am not exactly sleepy,” she said, “but it is probably a good idea to try and get some rest before—”

“Would you like to know what Calum said about you?”

Alma shifted in the dark. “Hmm?”

Gunnar went to his side of the bed, where he sat opposite her, cross-legged. Alma turned to him, sitting much the same, each of them facing the other’s shadow.

“I spoke to him, as you know,” Gunnar said. “I asked him about his life here, in the waking world. That’s when I learned your name, of course, and the name of your city. He had much more to say about you, though.”

Alma was quiet. Gunnar couldn’t see her face well enough to know the expression.

“And what did he say?” she asked.

“He said he was married to a wonderful woman named Alma. He said you were his best friend.” Alma lowered her head as she listened. “He said you were the kindest, most understanding person he knew… and the most open-minded… and that there didn’t exist another soul like yours. It sounded to me as though he loved you a great deal.”

Alma made a sound, a sniffle, betraying her silhouetted emotions.

“He loved me in the only way he could,” she said. “Which was more than enough for me.”

Gunnar recalled Calum’s comments, about Alma loving him more than he deserved, about their not having children. He also recalled Alma’s comments just the other night, which at the time had seemed to imply Calum’s impotence. Was that what she referred to now?

“Calum told me that he wanted children, but struggled? Is that what you mean?”

Alma sighed, her voice thick and uneven.

“It would be too easy to place the blame on him,” she said. “He would have very much liked to have children, despite the simple fact that he was not attracted to me… or any woman for that matter.”

Oh.

“Oh,” Gunnar said. “I see.”

“But if I am being truthful,” Alma went on, “our coupling couldn’t have been more convenient for me. I have never desired children of my own. Even when it is the sole ambition of our people, to repopulate, to rebuild… I do not wish to be a mother. I am more than happy to help care for the others of our community, as needed, but that is all.” A sharp intake of breath, followed by another pitiable sigh. “Mind you, I’ve never shared this with anyone. Not even Calum. I feared he would think less of me. But now he is gone… I wonder if I should have told him, if only to ease his own burden and guilt. Maybe it would have helped.” Alma wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Anyway… thank you for telling me this, Gunnar. I appreciate it.”

“Of course,” he said. “And your secret is safe with me, by the way.”

He smiled, then realized in the dark she wouldn’t be able to see it. And maybe that was for the best.

29

EPIDEMIC

ELLIS

He was there again, in the screaming pits of hell. Pressed between an impossible weight of bodies. No room to move. No room to breathe. He squirmed, pinched amongst the throngs of slick and knobby shoulders and hips. His ears rang with the disharmony of so many voices begging for mercy, begging for release.

Amid those pained moans, he did hear a familiar voice call out. They did not call his name, exactly, but they—

“Father!”

Ellis turned round and round, squished, pushing back as the others sandwiched him, searching for the source of that voice. Searching for them…

“Father, please!”

His girls. Somewhere close. Somewhere in the mass. He fought to reach them, forced himself through the squeeze of bodies as his daughters beseeched him to rescue them from the pitching waves, as the undersides of their feet began to cook upon the hot coals.

Ellis woke drenched in sweat, out of breath. He pulled the clinging cover from his dripping body. He breathed deeply, the air stuffy with morning heat because the sun was already risen.

Somehow the screams had followed him here to the waking world.

He jumped out of bed. He pulled the wooden shutter from his window and peered outside, where the wails of his neighbors echoed into a larger, shiver-inducing cacophony.

“What on Earth…”

He threw on his robes, stepped outside, and shrank back against his door to avoid the rush of people who suddenly passed, a gasping body carried between them.

Another scream. A woman’s terrified shriek the next alley over. Ellis wandered thoughtlessly in that direction and was promptly driven to a halt by the sight of another body lying slumped in the shade of the neighboring dwelling. Someone else moaned nearby. It slipped from a dark window beside Ellis, followed by a hacking wheeze.

Sickness. Terrible sickness.

Ellis hurried through the streets, dodging and slipping past so many as they dragged their loved ones from their homes in their arms, shouting for help, for anyone, as their spouses and children clutched at their chests and throats.

How can this be?

Ellis couldn’t make heads or tails of it. It had only been one night, and yet somehow it seemed the whole of Gloam had been transformed.

Unless I am still dreaming.

His daughters’ voices reverberated through his skull, and for a moment he could not tell dream from reality. He made his way straight to the infirmary tent. It was just as he feared. A crowd had formed outside, their sick overwhelming the infirmary’s capacity so that many were forced to wait with their loved ones lying in the dirt, sobbing over their gasping, croaking heads.

An alarm bell rang in his head. He turned without another word, racing from the infirmary and into the district beyond. His heart was pounding. He worried that if he didn’t slow down he would surely die of a heart attack. But he didn’t slow. He couldn’t. Not until he knew for certain.

Their front door was wide open as he arrived. The sounds of crying children floated into the street. He stopped a few paces from the door, reminding himself that he was not welcome here. Then someone emerged—a young woman with silky black hair, just like her mother’s.

“Nadine,” Ellis said.

She looked his way, eyes unfocused in her haste, then stopped as she realized it was him.

“Dad,” she said. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Spare me,” Ellis said, taking one step closer. “I have only come to see that you are all right.”

His eldest daughter started to speak, then looked over her shoulder into the house, afraid someone inside would see them. Namely her mother, Ellis knew.

“We are fine,” Nadine said. “But you shouldn’t be here.”

“Your sister is all right? And your mother?”

“We are fine, I said,” Nadine repeated. “We have taken in both Alice’s and Leland’s children from next door. Alice has fallen gravely ill. Leland is with her now at the infirmary…”

Alice and Leland had once been Ellis’s neighbors, too, before he ruined everything and was forced to relocate across town.

“You need to leave,” Nadine told him. “Before mother—”

“Is that you, Ellis?” someone shouted from inside.

Another form stepped into the open door. A woman who looked just like Nadine, with added lines around her eyes and mouth, and silver strands in her black hair. She emerged with an already hardened gaze, which narrowed to slits as she met Ellis’s.

My sweet Francesca.

“What do you want?” she said. “We’ve enough children to take care of as it is.”

“I am not here for your…” Ellis gritted his teeth. “I wanted to see you were all right. That is all.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” Francesca snapped. “Obviously.”

Ellis sighed. “Yes, I know that.”

“Now if you’ll excuse us, we have our hands full. Come back inside, Nadine.”

Ellis stood helplessly as his wife ushered their daughter back into the house, where someone else’s children cried and hollered for their parents to return. Francesca cast one final dark glance his way—stifling a worrisome cough against her closed fist as she did—before shutting the door.

Ellis wandered back to the infirmary. In the brief time that had passed, the crowd had already grown. Their community leaders now stood outside the tent flaps, turning people away. Ellis crept through the crowd, through the sick, the dying, the desperate, until he was close enough to hear Father Ryker’s words booming over the rest.

“The infirmary is already full! Aid will be delivered directly to your homes as it becomes available! Please, go back to your homes!”

The crowd shouted back their dissent, their grievances. Ellis forced his way closer to the front, where Father Ryker and Mother Marjorie repeated their message again and again for all to hear.

“Any word from the Elders?” someone shouted. “What do they say?”

Ellis couldn’t be sure, but he swore Father Ryker clenched his jaw in response to the question, eyes averted from the man who asked it.

“As a cautionary measure, the Elders have sealed themselves in the church!” Marjorie announced. “But they are soon to confer with Prophet Tobias for guidance on how to proceed! Any further news will be shared with everyone as it reaches us! But in the meantime, everyone should return to their homes and wait for further instruction!”

“We are accepting all the help we can get from all able-bodied Gloamians!” Ryker shouted. “Everyone else, return to your homes and care for yourselves as best you can until we have a chance to deliver aid as it becomes available!”

That left Ellis out, he presumed. Able-bodied? Not him. He was much too old to be running around the city in such a manner. Much too feeble. Absolutely.

He slipped away from the crowd, as many continued gathering despite their leaders’ orders to the contrary.

What a mess, what a mess…

Ellis walked without knowing where he was headed, as the city unraveled around him on all sides.

Will this month’s Descent be postponed?

Now that was a thought. A selfish consolation. The Elders had sealed themselves in the church as a precaution. Depending on how long this went on for, this month’s Descent would surely have to wait, which meant he had more time. More time for what, he didn’t know. Whatever Alma and her witch were planning, he supposed.

Suddenly Ellis knew exactly where he was going. He arrived there in a daze. He knocked three times. It was a moment before Alma answered, sleepy-eyed, her robes askew on her body as though she’d slept in them.

“Ellis?” she said. “What do you want?”

“Do you have any idea what’s happening out here?” he said.

She appeared confused. Ellis helped himself into her home, pushing past with or without an invitation.

“Ellis, you can’t just—”

“A plague has fallen upon our people,” he said, sitting upon the chair at their table with a despondent groan. “Death stalks our streets… and I cannot decide if is punishment for the corruption we’ve allowed into our city, or if it is—”

“What are you saying?” Alma asked, shutting the door and removing the window shutter. The daylight revealed the man in her husband’s body on the bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “How much worse has it gotten?”

“The sickness…” Ellis paused as visions of the dead and dying in their city streets flashed before his eyes. “This morning it has… compounded, immeasurably. The infirmary is overflowing. The dead are already beginning to line the streets.”

“The infirmary…” Alma pondered something. “And what of the Elders?”

“The Elders have locked themselves in the church. Mother Marjorie says they’re to consult with the prophet, but until then they are…” Ellis gave a helpless wave of the hands.

“It’s just like Zola said last night,” Gunnar said. “She knew it would get worse.”

“Last night?” Ellis said. “What was done last night?”

“Someone came to us for help,” Alma said. “Zola performed another of her rituals.”

Ellis’s stomach churned, his guts tying themselves in knots.

“How are we to know that she isn’t responsible for all of this?” he said. “First it started with him. And now the witch has breached our walls, suddenly the whole city—”

“It didn’t start with him,” Alma said. “Even Father Ryker said that others were ill in mine and Calum’s absence. Calum was simply the first to see the worst of it.”

“Right. The first. And it just so happened to correspond with your little dreams, did it? Little messages from your witch? I think she is not what she pretends to be.”

“Your leaders are not what they pretend to be,” Gunnar said. “You’ve got it turned around.”

“Or that’s what she would like us to think.”

“All right, Ellis,” Alma said. “Let’s say you are right. What do you intend to do about it? Slay the witch, and hope everything returns to normal? Is that it?”

“Well, I…” He hesitated.

“You intend to do nothing,” Alma said, “because you know nothing. You are merely afraid, as you always are, and so you go around making your fear everyone else’s problem. If we are to be subjected to these witless hysterics of yours again, so help me I won’t hesitate to return you to that hellscape myself.”

Ellis held his breath in the wake of Alma’s gossamer-thin temper. He stole a look at Gunnar on the bed, found a similarly shocked expression on his visage, perhaps a hint of admiration.

The worst part, Ellis thought, was that she was absolutely right.

There came a knock on the door. The three of them froze, exchanged glances. Alma smoothed her rumpled robes and answered it, opening the door just slightly so as not to give anyone a view inside. She must have readily recognized whomever it was, as she promptly stood aside and let them in.

Three bodies moved into the house—a man and two women. Ellis believed he also recognized them, though he did not know their names. However, they seemed to recognize him just fine, and froze at the sight of him.

“Alma, is he…”

“He is fine,” Alma said. “Do not worry over him one bit.”

It took visible effort for them to swallow their doubts. Ellis understood he did have a bit of a reputation.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Alma asked, addressing the man of the group.

“I feel normal,” he said. “Aside from the nightmares. I had so many dreams of… that place.”

That place, Ellis repeated privately.

“So this is the latest one you’ve brought back from the dead?” Ellis said.

“Yes, just as was done with you, Ellis,” Alma replied.

She wished to make it perfectly clear that he was in no place to stir up trouble over the matter. And it worked. Ellis kept his worrisome thoughts to himself.

“Have you heard?” the woman asked. “That it has spread?”

“More than spread,” the man said. “Gloam is ravaged with disease as of this morning.”

“And this is…” Alma gestured to the other woman the couple had brought with them.

“I am Rita,” the woman answered for herself. “We have seen one another at church, I believe, but never spoken. It is my daughter. Along with so many others, I awoke this morning and…”

“And you would like our help?” Alma said.

“As you helped us,” the other woman said, and placed a hand upon her husband’s shoulder.

Helped, Ellis thought. They kept using that word. It felt wrong to use that word. Inaccurate. Was it really helping anyone, such sacrilege? Undoing Oleth’s will?

“Of course we will help you,” Alma said, and kindly took the woman’s hand into her own. “Although, as we’ve been talking about it… things might need to be done a bit differently going forward.”

“We don’t care what must be done,” the grieving woman said. Her eyes were full of tears now, at the mere notion of Alma’s promise. “Whatever you need from us, we’ll find a way.”

Alma explained the situation—something about meeting in the gardens tonight, and to bring their bodies with them. It all sounded so unbearably macabre, Ellis could hardly stomach listening to it. Then, with their plans laid out, the group left Alma’s home and once more it was just the three of them.

Alma leveled her gaze on Ellis, hers most severe.

“You are not to breathe a word about this to anyone,” she told him. “Do you understand?”

Ellis shook his head grumpily. “I want no part in this, as it is.”

“Do I have your word, then?” she said. “That you will not cause us problems?”

“Yes!” Ellis threw his hands up and stood from the chair. Whether any of it was true or not—that their leaders weren’t what they pretended to be—Ellis feared if he got too close, the Elders would see him for what he was now. An abomination.

He crossed to the door, preparing to take his leave as he couldn’t stand to spend another moment in this room with his fellow heathens, the air positively swimming with sin.

“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” he said, before stepping out at last into the death-riddled streets.

30

NEW RELIGION

ALMA

“What are we doing?” Alma muttered aloud, resting her head against the door as she closed it behind Ellis.

“The best thing we could be doing,” Gunnar told her. “What better way to convince the others of the truth, than this perfect opportunity to show them firsthand?”

Yes, perfect, Alma thought. Too perfect, some might say…

She straightened as she remembered something.

“I need to check on Neil and Laurie. Wait here.”

She excused herself outside, and was abruptly halted by the noise beyond their door. The city was alive with a choir of anguish. Down the alley, their neighbors fled to and fro, eyes glistening with fear of the inexplicable horror that had so suddenly descended upon them.

Alma hurried to the dwelling next door, where she could already hear their voices from inside. She knocked, tried to keep her fist steady even as she was bursting with anxiety. Neil answered the door, looking like he hadn’t slept a wink.

“How are things?” Alma said. “How is Laurie?”

“She is holding on,” he said. “But her condition is worsening.”

Laurie lay in bed, indisposed, shining with a sickly sheen of sweat.

“I meant to go to the food tent,” Neil said. “But first I needed to fetch water, as she has been so thirsty…”

“Do not worry yourself,” Alma said. “I will bring food. How are the children?”

She peered toward the second smaller bed where Rose sat cross-legged in her frumpy sleepwear, watching them with her signature blank stare. Their baby, Chance, lay in his little sleeping pile beside their bed, none the wiser.

“They are all right. Miraculously, it is only Laurie who has fallen ill,” Neil said.

So far, Alma thought.

“All right. I will return soon with food for everyone. You sit tight and keep your family safe, Neil.”

“Thank you, Alma.”

Alma left back into the street, where she witnessed two men hauling another in their arms. The third appeared quite dead. Would she be seeing his corpse again soon? she wondered.

What am I doing? What on Earth am I doing?

She could not stop asking herself this, even as the goal became ever clearer.

Alma and Gunnar made their way to the food tent. There was a gathering outside. Father Ryker stood at the entrance, instructing the sick to return to their homes with assurances that food would be brought to them directly. As they reached the front of the churning crowd, Alma informed Ryker that they were well, and had come to deliver food to Neil and Laurie. She held up the empty wooden crate she’d brought to demonstrate.

“That is very good of you,” Ryker said. “Might I ask… when you two are finished and have filled your own bellies, would you join us in delivering aid to other families as well? We are shorthanded as it is and would greatly appreciate the help.”

“Of course,” Alma said. “We will do whatever we can.”

Gunnar did not argue. He had not said much at all, in fact, since leaving home. Alma watched him carefully as they quickly ate their meals inside, his attention someplace else.

“Are you feeling well?” Alma asked him.

“Hmm? Oh. Yeah, I’m all right.”

“You seem distracted.”

Gunnar nodded. “I guess I am. I’ve been having dreams of the past. It’s a little disorienting to wake up seven-hundred years later. And now, with everything happening here…”

“I understand,” Alma said, and she believed she did. “So much is happening so quickly. It is overwhelming, to be sure.”

This has to be the right thing we’re doing, she thought.

After finishing their meals, they collected portions for Neil and Laurie’s family and carried them back. Neil was most grateful. Laurie was still asleep and likely wouldn’t be eating anytime soon.

“I fear for her,” Alma told Gunnar as they left, a blooming pit of dread in her chest. “I do not think she will make it another night.”

“Well,” Gunnar said, “should worse come to worst, at least we know we have a solution now.”

A solution for death, Alma thought. It was an incredible way to look at things.

“Do you feel we are doing the right thing?” she asked. She wasn’t sure how much she valued Gunnar’s input, seeing as he wasn’t a true Gloamian and didn’t understand them as a people whatsoever, or appreciate their beliefs, but she was starved for reassurance in any case.

“I think we’re doing the only thing we can,” he said. “We are outnumbered, and there is no other way to convince your people of the truth. Not without seeing it for themselves.”

“Yes, that’s true. I just cannot seem to rid myself of this… feeling. This wrongness.”

“This whole clusterfuck of a situation is wrong,” Gunnar said. “What we’re doing is the least of it.”

“Cluster… fuck?”

“Think of it this way,” he went on. “The souls of our dead are being intercepted by a thief, right?”

“A thief,” Alma repeated. “The Haunted Meteor.”

“Right. Exactly. We’re not so much bringing back the dead as we’re reclaiming their rightful souls, you see? At least, until we’ve dealt with the thief in question.”

Alma liked that line of thinking, she had to admit. She liked it very much. It agreed with her—made the twisted and unthinkable into something noble. Altruistic.

“That is a good way of looking at it,” she said, and almost smiled. But not quite. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” Gunnar said, and smiled in that way Calum never had. “Any time.”

They returned to Father Ryker at the food tent, where they were given assorted portions and told where to deliver them, carrying out these deliveries all across Gloam as part of a larger team—about thirty helpers, all told.

It was a great deal of walking. A great deal of knocking on doors. A great deal of death and despair waiting behind them. Several times the pungent stench of disease wafted into the alley at their feet, many having already lost the battle. Alma so badly wished to gently touch the wrists and shoulders of those she offered food and tell them their fears were for naught, that their grief was curable.

Their souls reclaimable.

“Our zombie recruitments are growing by the hour,” Gunnar said as they started back to the tent for the umpteenth time.

“Zombie?” Alma said. “What is that?”

“It means…” Gunnar made an awkward sound in his throat. “Actually, let’s forget I said that…”

The sun was already sinking below the western wall when they were relieved of their duties, with a new wave of helpers enlisted to fulfill supper deliveries. As an added thank you, Father Ryker allowed them extra rations for themselves. Alma couldn’t help reflecting on the fact there would be a significant surplus at the end of the day, considering how fewer mouths there were to feed.

“You have both been an immense help today,” Father Ryker told them on their way out of the tent. “Truly, I can’t thank you enough. If you’re up to it, there is a good chance we will need help tomorrow morning as well.”

“If we are not sick ourselves,” Alma said, “then we will be here.”

They passed the infirmary on their way home. There was still a gathering outside, anxious townsfolk seeking updates on those inside, as well as others still trying to bring their loved ones to an already overcrowded tent. Mother Marjorie could be seen dismissing the newest arrivals. As they turned away, angry and powerless, Marjorie gazed across the square and noticed Alma and Gunnar walking together. Gunnar raised his hand and waved.

“Don’t do that,” Alma told him.

“Do what?”

“Don’t antagonize her.”

“Waving at someone is antagonizing them now?”

“You know she doesn’t approve of us. She’ll be looking for any excuse to keep a closer eye.”

They arrived home at last, dragging their feet inside. Gunnar dragged his straight to bed, where he pulled his robes from over his head and flopped down with a heavy sigh, his bare chest aglow with the failing blue of twilight. He took another deep breath and let it out slow, his body all but melting into the covers. Alma stood watching him, her thoughts momentarily frozen. Then his head rustled as he glanced her way and she remembered herself.

“It is a good idea to get some rest,” she said. “Before Zola comes in a couple hours or so.”

She joined him at the edge of the bed, and contemplated removing her own robes. It had been so easy before. Effortless. Thoughtless. Suddenly less so. She reclined beside him, leaving her robes on. Gunnar made no comment. A couple minutes later, Alma heard the slightest snore from his nostrils.

Insanity.

She would likely get no sleep at all, despite how drained she was. How sore. There were far too many things still to consider. The future had never been so unpredictable. The present so unreliable. There were just so many loose threads, and no sure way to tie them all together. The only thing they could do was…

Alma woke to the sound of their door closing shut. A figure in the dark. It moved toward them, slender and mid-height.

“Zola?”

“I knocked but there was no answer,” Zola said. “So I let myself in.”

“Oh,” Alma said. “I am just glad it is you.”

Gunnar stirred awake beside her, groaning pleasantly.

“It’s as we predicted,” Zola said. “The sickness has spread.”

Spread is an understatement, Alma thought.

“We have already been approached by another family in need,” Alma told her. “We are to meet in the gardens tonight.”

“That is good,” Zola said. “But we should be careful. There will surely be many still awake and restless. Many eyes and ears to avoid.”

Alma put on her sandals as Gunnar pulled on his robes and sandals likewise. Once more they left quietly into the night, huddled close as they scurried in the direction of the gardens across town.

“How are you holding up, Zola?” Gunnar asked, keeping his voice to a whisper. “I’m sure you’ve been on high alert, wherever it is you’re hunkered down.”

Zola only smiled, knowing Gunnar’s true aim.

“Do not worry about me,” she said. “I am quite safe where I am… hunkered.”

Several times they froze and held their breath as the moans of the sick floated from open windows, and as grief-thickened voices lamented their dead in the dark. Never before had Alma witnessed such wretchedness within their walls.

As they neared the garden exterior, however, a different kind of murmur reached them. A swell of low, conspiratorial chatter. They crept through the garden entrance, and the sight within stopped Alma in her tracks.

An entire crowd of robed bodies awaited them, most of them standing, a fraction lying prone on their backs.

The living and their dead.

“Oh my goodness,” Alma whispered.

One of those figures noticed them and stepped forth from the rest. It was Tamara, closely followed by her husband, Gregory. They approached with bright, hopeful expressions. Tamara gestured to the crowd, quite proud of their turnout.

Alma could hardly speak. “Are all these people…”

“We have shared our truth with many trusted friends and neighbors. As well as Gunnar’s truth,” Tamara said, nodding in his direction. “I can personally vouch for everyone here.”

Alma turned to the adolescent girl beside her. “Zola, can you manage this?”

“I will rise to the occasion,” Zola said, her confidence unshaken. She eyed the row of bodies across the bare garden plots, where many shallow graves had already been dug in preparation for tonight. Not one, not two, but six graves in all. “How many are there total?”

“There are ten,” Tamara said. “We would have dug as many graves, but those of us strong enough to dig were already struggling to stay standing after the fifth…”

“Six graves is more than enough,” Zola said. “We should begin right away. We don’t have time to dither.”

“Yes, of course,” Tamara said.

Zola was already advancing toward the group, who had since fallen into a reverent hush, mesmerized by the sight of the infamous witch. Zola instructed them to lay their bodies in the graves, deciding amongst themselves who would go first and which four would go last.

“Funny how quickly beliefs are abandoned,” Gunnar muttered, “at the first sign of hope for something better.”

“It will not be like this for many,” Alma said. “Perhaps not most, in fact. These are just the least stubborn of them.”

“The early adopters, so to speak,” Gunnar said, though Alma wasn’t sure of his meaning.

Alma heard something nearby. Movement. A scuff of feet. She turned and saw them—a figure near the entrance of the garden. Upon her turning, the figure stepped back and out of sight. Alma hastened there, rounded the corner with her hand balled into a fist.

“Ellis?”

The old man stood against the garden fence, breathing heavily. He hadn’t tried to retreat from her.

“What are you doing sneaking about?” she asked.

“I am not sneaking,” he said, panting. “I just didn’t want to be seen by your… followers. I came to warn you.”

“Warn me? Of what?”

“Mother Marjorie,” he said. “She is patrolling in search of your witch. She is headed this way.”

Alma peered in either direction along the garden exterior. It was only them for now. Alma grabbed Ellis by the wrist and led him toward the garden entrance.

“Come with me,” she said.

Ellis tried to protest as Alma brought him toward the graves, toward Zola and the others.

“We must stop,” she said. “And hide. All of us.”

“Hide?” one of the others repeated.

“Ellis has just informed me Mother Marjorie might be heading this way. We can’t risk her interrupting us. We need to lie low until she has come and gone.”

They moved without delay. There was nothing which could be done for the graves, not in whatever little time they had. But they dragged the unburied bodies with them as they retreated along the back of the garden, crouching low behind the rows of crops there. And there they waited. And waited. A few minutes passed. Alma began to steam, wondering if Ellis had them all hiding from shadows, the coward that he was.

“We are hunkering now, aren’t we, Gunnar?” Zola whispered.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” he said.

“Shh,” Alma said, as someone appeared near the entrance.

A sole shadow. It stepped into the opening of the gate, a darker shape than the dark shapes surrounding, and there it lingered a moment, peering in, scanning. Alma prayed Mother Marjorie would venture no farther, come no closer, or else she might see the long rectangular depressions in the soil, the shapes halfway buried therein…

Mother Marjorie took another step into the garden. She paused once more, stiffening, and Alma became certain she sensed them. Did she peer directly at them, then? It was difficult to tell.

Leave us be. Go about your frivolous witch hunt elsewhere.

At last, the shadow at the entrance turned away, back into the street, and departed on their path to nowhere.

“What is she doing out this late?” Gunnar asked.

“She is under instruction from the Elders,” Ellis said. “They believe your witch to be inside the city walls.”

“Thank you for the warning, Ellis,” Zola said, much to Alma’s surprise.

It was odd to be thankful for anything in regards to the old man, but she had to admit he’d done them an immense favor just now. It was odder still to hear those words from Zola, who had only just murdered Ellis a day or so prior.

They waited a moment longer before they came out from hiding. They dragged their four remaining bodies back to the gravesite. Zola retook her place between the various burials, her audience taking their places many steps back. Ellis agreed to stay as a lookout for them, standing guard outside the garden entrance. Alma and Gunnar joined him there while Zola resumed her ritual.

“You said you wanted nothing to do with this,” Alma reminded the old man. “So why are you here?”

Ellis chewed the inside of his wrinkled cheek.

“I don’t rightly know. Maybe what you said before… was true. Perhaps I do focus on others’ shortcomings because I fear facing my own. My Descent would be next week if not for all of this, and I was ill-prepared for it. I have not done right by my family. I have spent many years avoiding my own guilt.” He looked at Alma directly, his eyes dark but for the pinpricks of moonlight in them. “Maybe I have the chance to do right by them now… before my eventual mortality comes due.”

Alma felt a stunning swell in her heart at Ellis’s words. Not only did he seem genuine, but she was struck speechless by his apparent capacity to reflect. To change. Could it be?

“Well I am glad to hear it,” she said. “And though I cannot believe I am saying this… I am glad you are here tonight.”

There came a ripple of exclamation behind them. Alma, Gunnar, and Ellis each turned to see what it was, and discovered many new shapes had sprouted up from the garden soil. A different kind of crop entirely. The others’ disbelief washed over them. Several fell to their knees, awestruck. Alma watched as the living grasped hands with the reborn and plucked them up and into their trembling arms. They became clamorous in their emotions. Alma was tempted to warn them of their volume, but decided against it. It was futile. Such relief could not be smothered or silenced.

As their excitement settled, Zola urged them to take their loved ones home, where they could safely nurture their confusion with the answers Tamara and Gregory had already provided.

For now, however, time was of the essence, and there were still four bodies left to be buried.

The remaining group proceeded to bury their four dead in the same graves. Alma watched as Rita and her husband buried their daughter’s corpse last, her body the smallest of them. Zola knelt between the graves once more. Emotions were already high after witnessing the first miracle, and those who still waited could hardly contain themselves in anticipation of the next.

This is what hope feels like, Alma thought.

She had not felt it before. Not truly, not like this. The mission they had been born into, inherited from their predecessors and pursued without question, had never instilled in her any sense of hope. Repopulate, restore, rebuild. How many years had her people toiled to that end, with no end in sight? This city’s walls had never once been expanded. It existed now as it always had. Because Gunnar was right: they had been living a lie. But no more.

This is the right thing.

Alma’s last shreds of doubt, which had been ingrained in the very hollows of her bones, at last dissolved into the warmth of her marrow, giving way to pure, trembling hope. She recognized it in the others’ faces, and felt a touch of it now upon her own brow.

It wasn’t long before Zola’s power took hold. Those four graves heaved upward one after another in quick succession. Another round of gasps rolled through the attendees, hands clapped over mouths, between bosoms, as words failed them. It was a race to pull their loved ones onto their shaky feet, brushing dirt from their faces, their shoulders, all the better to cry upon.

Alma turned to observe the resurrected man beside her, only to find him already looking back. She jolted, meeting his gaze—Calum’s gaze, and yet so different, for she had never seen such intensity there before. It was as though Gunnar could see her thoughts, and knew exactly what had spurred her to look his way. That longing for something she believed she had lost and could not have again.

Something she was beginning to realize she had never truly had in the first place.

PART III

HELL ON EARTH

31

THE PIOUS

MARJORIE

Marjorie arrived home on blistered feet.

She’d been on them all day within the infirmary tent, racing back and forth between so many sick and dying Gloamians. So many deathbeds. And after all of that, she’d taken it upon herself to walk the city streets. A cursory patrol, was all.

Then she returned home, where her husband, Blake, had spent the day watching over their two children who had fallen ill the previous night, like so many others.

She shut the door quietly, so as not to wake the boys. Their dwelling was divided into two halves, the children in one, Marjorie and her husband in the other. Marjorie peered into the boys’ room, their bodies side by side in their bed, unmoving in the blackish gloom. Even from the doorway she heard their labored breaths. She went to them. Crouched at their bedside. She prayed for Oleth to see them through, to grant them the strength to overcome this terrible disease.

They are only children, she pleaded.

She woke and it was still night. Dark as ever. She turned to her sleeping partner, his snores sounding much like the clawing breaths of those in the infirmary.

A strange feeling came over Marjorie then.

She checked on her children once more. From the threshold of their room, she could hear one of them straining more than the other. A deep rasp in his lungs. Marjorie loomed over their bed, studying them. It was her eldest boy, Danny. Somehow he still slept, even as his chest purred with congestion. The sound was a clamp on Marjorie’s own chest, a chill through her belly.

She startled as her husband came to stand against her, hands around her waist.

“Do you hear it?” Marjorie whispered. “He cannot breathe…”

“He is breathing,” Blake said. “He is asleep, and he is breathing. Come back to bed.”

“I am afraid for them…”

She wasn’t merely afraid. She was paralyzed with fear. How could she sleep? How could he sleep, when their children were in the curse’s grip?

“Nothing more can be done,” Blake whispered. “All we can do is pray and hope that Oleth listens. Please, come back to bed.”

Praying is not enough, Marjorie wanted to say but didn’t dare. How many Gloamians had spent their day praying? How many of the dead outside the infirmary were prayed over in their final moments?

Nevertheless, Marjorie allowed her husband to lead her by the hand back to their bed, where they climbed under the covers and nestled into one another’s warmth. She willed herself toward sleep, just to smother her worries with a healthy dose of unreality.

Beside her, her husband began to cough.

When next she woke, the sun was partly risen, the pale light of a clear sky bleeding into the sleepy murk of their home.

Her youngest boy tearfully pleaded for help in the next room.

Marjorie rolled out of bed. A blur of groping hands and sweeping feet. She chased around the divide into the boys’ room, where she found her youngest, Zachary, shaking his brother to no avail.

“Move away from him,” she ordered as she took Zachary’s place.

She grabbed Danny by the shoulders, her ear to his lips, listening for breath. Feeling for it. There was none.

Oh, please, no…

“Danny,” she said. “Danny, wake up.”

She shook him, patted uselessly upon his chest, as though that could stir something loose.

“Blake!” she shrieked.

Her husband was already coming. He arrived beside her. He brushed her away the same as she’d done to Zachary, taking her place, feeling for breath just as she had, his eyes wild with determination and nowhere to put it.

“Oh, god.” Marjorie paced, turned on her heel. “Is he… is he still…”

Her husband surfaced with blank terror in his eyes. Marjorie pushed beside him, screamed her son’s name, shook him harder. She pulled him against herself, clung to him, his small body limp in her arms, and finally noticed just how cold he was. No warmth emanated from his body. He was already long gone…

This cannot be.

Marjorie choked her sorrow down as something greater seethed to the surface. Her watering eyes dried in an instant—tears baked from the hissing surface of her cheeks. She lowered her boy onto the bed and stood straight, rigid, her expression bleached stone. She turned from the room and left them. She threw on her robes and stormed from their dwelling on stomping feet as the sound of her name on Blake’s crying tongue rang hollow to her ears.

Their city was a moaning husk. On the brink of something irreversible. Marjorie felt it, felt herself vibrating on that same wavelength—on the brink.

She arrived in the church square. It was especially desolate this morning as most were staying in their homes with their loves ones, with their dead, who would soon be brought and lain neatly in the church’s shadow to be blessed and handed over to the Elders for burial in the Under.

Not mine. Not my boys.

She stormed straight to the church’s entrance, pounded her fists on its locked doors. Of course no one answered. But that didn’t stop her from pounding even harder.

“Marjorie?”

Of all the people who might see her like this, of all the people in this city who might be out walking at this hour, it had to be Father Ryker. Marjorie barely paid him any mind. She felt the heat of her fury burning through her, dripping sweat beneath her robes, the bases of her fists hot with the friction of their pounding on the church doors.

“Marjorie,” Ryker said, closer now than he’d been. “What is going on?”

“My child is dead!” she screamed. Ryker startled as she turned on him. “Everyone is dying, and our prayers have gone unanswered! The Elders have offered us nothing! Where are they? How long must we wait, while they ‘confer’ with the prophet? What does he say?”

Ryker appeared at a loss. “Perhaps they are keeping themselves safe from the illness, should there be any chance of them contracting it. Perhaps we will hear from them at tomorrow morning’s sermon.”

“Tomorrow morning?” Marjorie said, her guts a mass of writhing terror. “My youngest is also sick. Am I to lose them both before our leaders have anything to say about it?”

It did not seem that anyone would be answering her fervent pleas. Marjorie bolted from the church and retraced her steps home. She was nearly there as her husband appeared from around the corner up ahead, their second child in his arms.

“Blake!”

She ran to him. His eyes were full of tears, their son in his arms, clawing at his own throat.

“He can’t breathe!” Blake cried, continuing on in the direction of the infirmary.

Marjorie raced alongside him, her eyes never leaving her boy—my baby boy!—as she intermittently remembered his brother still at home, now alone, dead in his bed…

I cannot withstand this. I will unravel here in the street, a ribbon of flesh and tears matted and stamped in the dirt.

All thought escaped her. It was only movement. Bodily motion, carrying them onward. The gray, tattered form of the infirmary loomed ahead. Her little boy’s breaths scraped painfully through his throat, rattling like twigs caught in a breeze.

“Hold on, Zachary,” her husband wept.

They rushed him into the tent. It was quite dark inside, at this early hour, and the shadows teemed with infection. The air smelled of it. A sourness. A foulness. Only two of their healers were up and about, tending to the sick, moving like ghosts from bed to bed, their faces wrapped in protective cloth.

“Please!” Blake called, demanding that someone take notice of them and their boy.

One of the healers drifted to them through the shadows. She hurriedly directed them not to a bed—there were none available—but to an empty place on the ground in the corner of the tent where covers had been laid out, just a sheet of fabric to separate Zachary’s body from the dirt. Other bodies were laid there as well. Marjorie could not tell whether or not they lived—whether or not her boy was being laid amongst the sick or amongst corpses.

“He can’t breathe,” Blake said.

“He was breathing fine only moments ago,” Marjorie added. “This has only just started…”

She hoped this detail was worth something. If it had only just begun, then surely there must be something they could do to reverse it, before it progressed to…

To what? What is the next stage of this horrible disease? He cannot breathe. He cannot breathe! The next stage is simply… having no need for breath at all.

The second healer wandered their way. They moved Marjorie and Blake aside as they crouched over their boy, lifting his head this way and that, as though to try and extend his airways. Already Zachary was not fighting so hard. But it was not because his ordeal had lessened.

Please help him, please help him, Marjorie prayed.

When both healers straightened onto their feet, while Zachary lay quite still on the ground, his delicate neck still arched, head peculiarly bent, his shadow-pooled gaze staring off into nothing, it was all Marjorie could do to stay upright. Blake positively howled. The others in the infirmary—those few who survived the night—stirred restlessly at the sound.

Marjorie found herself comparatively inert. There was only room enough for one of them to scream, to howl, and so she yielded to his screaming, his howling, and felt its vicarious release. At least for a moment.

But as Blake folded himself onto the ground atop their child’s body, Marjorie could not join him. Instead she turned and roamed through the dark, back to the infirmary tent flaps. She needed air. Fresh air. Not the stale odor of expiration. She stepped outside into the ever-brightening day. She stopped, rocked back on her heels. The world turned, and she teetered.

Movement caught her attention. Vaguely. Her weary gaze drifted in its direction, and she spotted two robed figures heading in the direction of what she presumed was the food tent, as it was almost that time now.

Alma and Calum.

Marjorie bristled. Her vision darkened. Reddened.

That they should all suffer, their faith and prayer earning them nothing in the midst of their destruction, while the heretic and her abomination existed unscathed?

It was enough to drive a mother mad.

32

RECKLESS

GUNNAR

Despite their late night, Gunnar rose early with Alma the following morning, and together they got to work assisting Ryker and the kitchen staff with meal prep, doing all they could to get a head start on the day. Once that was finished, they began the actual deliveries. As it turned out, this proved an effective means of finding new allies.

On their fourth delivery, the man who answered the door greeted them with recognition. Gunnar didn’t think he’d ever seen him before—a portly blonde man with a receding hairline—but the man appeared to know them quite well.

“It is you,” he said.

“It is us…” Alma replied, unsure. She offered the container of warm soup and wrapped bread she held. “We come offering today’s morning meal. Something hearty, to boost your strength.”

“It is too much for only me,” the man said, eyeing the food in Alma’s hands. “For my wife… did pass in the night…”

“Oh,” Alma said. “We are terribly sorry to hear that. If there is anything—”

“But you are here now,” the man said, and his wide, strangely hopeful eyes darted between them. “And I have heard of you, Alma. And you…” He regarded Gunnar with some secret clarity. He did not say Calum, because somehow he already knew it was not Calum with whom he spoke.

“And what have you heard?” Alma said, pulling his attention back.

The man peered over his shoulder into the dark of his home, where Gunnar could easily guess his late wife lay.

“I have heard you can undo this disease,” he said. “More than that… that you can undo… all of it.”

“And what do you make of this rumor?” Gunnar said. “Does it offend you?”

The man didn’t hesitate shaking his head, his cheeks quivering.

“Not at all. In fact… it is the only thing that has kept me going this morning. When first I discovered my wife had… succumbed…” He swallowed, as the experience still haunted him. “My first instinct was to follow her across that threshold. And then I remembered… the stories I heard…”

“There is to be another meeting tonight,” Alma said. “In the gardens. But you must keep this to yourself. Or at the very least, tell no one of this who might be frightened by it. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” the man said, and his eyes had since brimmed with tears. “Yes. I understand.”

“Good. Now take this from me,” Alma said, thrusting the soup and bread toward him again.

The man accepted the food and, his face brightening with the promise of a better future, closed his door.

He would be the first of many like him they would meet that day.

When Alma stepped out of Neil’s and Laurie’s home, her expression was grimmer than Gunnar hoped it would be. Not that he’d believed there would be any improvement, of course.

“I don’t believe she has much longer,” Alma said. “Poor Neil…”

“But he knows his options,” Gunnar said. “Right?”

Alma nodded, but didn’t look any more hopeful. Even with the power to undo death, it seemed the sense of loss was made no less severe.

“And now the boy is sick,” Alma added, which explained the glumness. “He has a fever and the beginnings of a cough. It will only get worse.”

Gunnar was tempted to repeat himself—that the obvious option existed, even for a baby. But of course this simplification ignored the pain of watching someone you love suffer, regardless.

A pain Gunnar knew all too well.

They waited patiently as the light through their single window withdrew and shadows took its place. They lay on their bed in silence, staring into the deepening shadows across the ceiling of their thatched roof, lost in their own thoughts.

“Gunnar,” Alma said suddenly, twiddling her fingers across her belly. “You never did tell me who Henry was.”

Gunnar sharply inhaled. An unexpected question. Was that really what she was thinking about, at a time like this?

“Henry was my brother. Before all of this.”

Alma rolled onto her side, facing him.

“You had a brother?”

“Yes. A younger brother. By three years.”

“And is he in that place, too? In the afterlife?”

“I don’t think so.”

Despite all the years, decades, centuries he’d had to process these things, it never seemed to hurt less, thinking about it. The wound always opened fresh.

“You don’t think so?”

“My brother was very sick near the end. He… well, he was already dying when everything started. He passed before the worst of it, before the world became unrecognizable… before the net was in place, I think.”

“The spiritual net,” Alma said.

“Yeah. That one. At least, I never ran into him there in all my seven-hundred years. And I ran into plenty of people I once knew. None I cared to catch up with any time soon, but… that’s hell for you.”

“Then perhaps that is a blessing,” Alma said. “That your brother made it through. He was spared that suffering, at least.”

Is it fucked up that I wish he hadn’t been? Gunnar thought. Is it fucked up that I wish I’d gotten to see him again, even in that place? To tell him everything I never got the chance to say, but wish I had?

Just then there came a knock on the door. They each sprang to their feet to answer it. Alma beat Gunnar there. Through the doorway, standing under the moonlight with her hood pulled over her head, Zola smiled at them, and Gunnar was struck by how refreshing a sight that was, amid a disordered landscape of anguish.

“It’s going to be a very busy night,” she said, and her smile broadened into a cheesy grin.

Excited as a kid in a candy store, Gunnar thought.

The streets were even quieter tonight, and as they neared the garden walls, the murmurs therein could be overheard at an even greater distance than before. Gunnar exchanged a nervous glance with Alma, saw the same thought behind her eyes.

How many of them are there?

Someone stood at the entrance. A familiar old man.

“Your reputation precedes you,” Ellis greeted, then looked over his shoulder and into the gardens.

“My goodness,” Alma said. “There must be fifty or more people by the sounds of it.”

She was wrong, however. There were even more than that. Gunnar couldn’t believe his eyes, as they were faced by an overwhelming crowd of Gloamians inside. There had to be nearly a third of the city crowded into the gardens tonight. The sight was simultaneously awe-inspiring and daunting.

“We’re going to be found out,” Gunnar muttered, but his words were lost in the low swell of enthusiasm that arose from the people as they entered—overjoyed to see Alma, her abomination, and her witch.

The crowd spread themselves out as they approached, revealing the large swath of earth they’d prepared. Once more Gunnar’s breath caught in his throat. They had to have dug over thirty graves, by his estimate. Three rows of ten or so, with just as many bodies already buried, ready and waiting.

“Zola,” Alma said, grabbing her by the hands. “Are you sure you are up for this?”

“Of course I am,” Zola said, beaming. “This is my purpose.”

And with that, she got to work. Her audience—her newest fans—watched with bated breath as the adolescent girl knelt by the first graves and began working her inexplicable magic.

Alma whispered into Gunnar’s ear, “All of these people will need to be taught your truth. I am sure whatever they’ve shared amongst themselves is full of holes. Are you prepared for that?”

Gunnar studied the crowd as they eagerly waited in anticipation of Zola’s miracle. These were desperate souls clinging to the hope of being reunited with their loved ones. Whatever they had been told about him, about the afterlife, about the true state of the world, it had likely gone in one ear and out the other in light of what they were really after. They would need to be taught everything from scratch, no doubt.

Their moonlit faces focused on the young woman as she moved between the graves, crawling on hands and knees, touching each mound and tugging each invisible tether as she went, calling misplaced spirits back to their bodies.

With so many graves to tend to, Zola was only halfway through them all before the resurrected began sprouting from their plots. They burst up from the soil gasping, their loved ones gasping in kind. The crowd erupted with tearful exclamations, unable to contain their joy as they pulled their trembling resurrected up from the ground and into their arms.

Gunnar winced at the volume. He peered toward the garden entrance, where Ellis continued keeping watch. Even if he warned them of someone’s approach, they would hardly have a chance to hide everyone, or the graves they’d prepared. For all intents and purposes, they were out in the open now.

It was only a matter of time.

33

GRAVE MISFORTUNE

MARJORIE

Marjorie jolted from a restless sleep to the sound of her partner wheezing beside her. Her eyes were heavy as she blinked the thinnest membrane of sleep from them. Her head ached. Her husband tried to smother another cough so as not to wake her. She touched him, a hand on his back.

“Are you all right?”

She already knew the answer. He would soon be worse, like all the rest. He would soon be…

“I am fine,” he said, though he could hardly spit it out before he was racked by another coughing fit. He sucked air, a sickly rasp.

“Can you breathe?”

“Of course I can breathe,” he said. “I am fine, sweetheart…”

Their children were dead. Even disregarding his health, neither of them were remotely close to fine. And to think he would soon be heading that way as well. Marjorie was overcome. She tried to smother her sobs as her husband tried to smother his illness. Then it was Blake rolling over, touching her on the back.

“I said I am fine,” he told her, and stifled another wheeze. “I am not going anywhere…”

Marjorie couldn’t take it. She climbed out of bed. She boiled with guilt as she did it, leaving her poor husband alone this way. Surely he knew the truth of his condition, the truth of his impending fate. He needed comforting more than she did, and yet…

“I need air,” she said, snatching her robes from the floor.

Another cruel thing to say, she realized, when her husband needed air the most.

She stepped outside, shut the door, and stopped a moment just to breathe. Just to have a moment alone. The lump in her throat thickened. The coals behind her eyes burned hotter. She couldn’t stanch the flow of tears as they came. She sniffled once, then turned on her heel and moved away from their dwelling where Blake wouldn’t hear.

Then she was simply moving. Clutching herself as her emotions clutched her airways. She stole aimlessly through the dark streets, catching whiffs of decay from open windows, the sounds of grief and illness carried upon the nightly breeze.

Until suddenly she heard others’ voices nearby. Excited whisperings. She approached the next alley, peeked around the corner, and spotted four women standing outside one of their dwellings. To Marjorie’s astonishment, the women were smiling. Not just smiling, but grinning tearfully, their wet cheeks catching the silver moonlight. One woman held another’s face in her hands as though to marvel at her visage.

“It’s a miracle!” she cried. “Truly, a miracle…”

Marjorie recognized the woman whose face was held. She had seen her at the infirmary only a day ago, had turned her away for the infirmary had already reached capacity. The woman had been terribly ill then. A cough worse than Blake’s, at the time.

Impossible.

Marjorie stepped out of the shadows, approaching with caution.

“Excuse me,” she said, and was greeted by their gasps and flinching shoulders. “What’s going on here?”

The women exchanged wary looks. Open-faced secrecy. Marjorie took another step closer.

“I remember you,” she said, addressing the previously sick woman. “At the infirmary. You look… quite recovered now.”

The woman stuttered, unable to find her words. They were all terrified of Marjorie. She was both surprised and pleased by this.

“What is this miracle?” she said. “Please, tell me. I have lost two children today, and I fear my Blake is next.”

One woman stepped ahead of the others, reluctant but brave.

“Our friend here did not recover from the illness,” she said. Then she smiled, as the immensity of their secret overwhelmed whatever fear she felt. “She has recovered from death itself.”

Marjorie’s heart plunged into the cold lake of her belly.

“What do you mean, from death itself?” she said. “Tell me what has taken place.”

Another nervous look between them. Perhaps regret. Suddenly no one wished to speak.

“I demand you tell me,” Marjorie said. “Or you will have the Elders to answer to.”

The Elders, she thought disdainfully. As if they care about us anymore.

But that didn’t matter for the sake of bluffing.

“It is Alma and Calum, isn’t it?” Marjorie said, and watched as the women’s faces flashed with knowledge. “Yes. I can see that I am correct. Where are they now? Where is this being done? Tell me. Tell me this instant and I will forget that I ever saw you.”

After the briefest hesitation, one of the women turned her eyes to her feet and said, “They are in the gardens. But please, Mother Marjorie, you don’t understand—”

“That’s all I needed to hear, thank you.”

Marjorie left them. The world buzzed with the vibrations of her feet. By the time she reached the garden walls her blood was hot in her veins, her body damp with sweat beneath her robes. Someone stood at the entrance, and visibly jolted upon noticing her approach.

“Mother Marjorie!” Ellis exclaimed, a bit too loudly for a normal greeting. He meant to warn the others, of course.

“Out of my way, you rat!”

She shoved past him, into the gardens, where she promptly slid to a halt upon seeing the gathering there. The others noticed her arrival, their fear-starched faces announcing their guilt. Because they knew what they were doing—who they had chosen to align themselves with.

Alma and Calum appeared shocked to see her as well. Marjorie scanned the grounds, the many pockets of dug earth between them. Rows and rows of long, semi-deep holes…

Oleth have mercy on us.

Marjorie moved closer. “What is this? What are you…”

It was a moment before she noticed the young woman crouched amongst the graves. Their gazes connected, locked with recognition despite having never lain eyes on each other before.

“It is you,” Marjorie said. She shot a look at Alma. “You have brought evil into our city.”

“You are mistaken, Mother Marjorie,” Alma said. “We have only—”

“You have brought corruption to our people!” Marjorie shook her head, scanning the open graves once more, some emptier than others. “This cannot continue. This… this will not go unpunished!”

“Now wait a second,” Calum said, stepping closer.

“You stay away from me,” Marjorie ordered, a finger pointed.

“Let us explain,” Alma said.

“Explain?” Marjorie would have laughed if she possessed the ability. “I see before my very eyes your blasphemy…”

“If our mission is to restore humanity, then surely we must save every life we can,” Alma said.

“These lives are already lost!” Marjorie exclaimed. “What you are doing now is undoing Oleth’s will!”

“Oleth is a lie,” Alma said.

Marjorie couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her. Neither could many of their onlookers, as nervous murmurs began spreading through the crowd. Perhaps Alma and her witch had not told them the same story.

“What did you say?” Marjorie said.

“You heard me.” Alma stepped ahead of Calum, addressing not just Marjorie, but everyone. “We have all seen enough to begin piecing these truths together for ourselves. Whether we are strong enough to admit it, and accept it, is another matter. The afterlife we’ve been promised is not real. Your loved ones, who have now seen it with their own eyes, can tell you as much. They will tell you as much. It is a hellish place that awaits us. Even those of us who have done nothing but serve Oleth’s will all our lives.”

Calum came to stand shoulder to shoulder with Alma as he leveled his gaze on Marjorie.

“Your leaders aren’t what they appear to be,” he said. “I see the Elders for what they are. Ellis has seen them, too. As will everyone else who has faced the truth. You’ve been misled, Marjorie. This entire city has been built on lies. The one you call Prophet Tobias, whatever it may be, is a false prophet. The thing you call Oleth is not a god. It is harvesting you.”

“Harvesting?” Marjorie grinned at the preposterousness of their lies. “Do you not understand how crazy you sound? Do you all not hear this lunacy? Clearly they mean to fool you. They want for you to turn your backs on your faith—”

Marjorie was interrupted as the nearby ground broke open, naked limbs bursting through the soil, gasping mouths turned heavenward. Marjorie screamed. Stumbled back. One after another the half-filled graves exploded, human bodies reaching, clawing. In an instant Marjorie was forgotten, the others turning their attention instead to the abominations clambering out from their holes and into the waiting embraces of their families. Quivering, weeping abominations.

Marjorie couldn’t speak. Could hardly move. She turned cold at the sight of them. Finally she fled. Or tried to. Ellis, the old fool, stepped into her path, blocking the way out of the garden. No matter, Marjorie thought. He could be shoved aside easier than most.

Before she could reach him, however, someone grabbed her from behind. A hand around her bicep. She whirled, still staggering. It was Alma who stopped her. Marjorie jerked out from her grasp. She bumped into Ellis behind her. She recoiled from him, from the others as well, closing in. Alma, Calum, their witch.

“Stay away from me!” Marjorie screamed.

She tripped over her own sandaled feet, went sprawling to the dirt. Ellis loomed over her, his wrinkled face saddened to see her in such a state.

“Ellis, please,” she said. “What are you doing? This isn’t you!”

“It is me,” Ellis said. “What he speaks is the truth.”

Marjorie followed the line of Ellis’ gaze, and happened upon Calum, coming to stand over her just the same. They grouped around her, with nowhere left to run. “Stay away from me, the lot of you!”

“There is an easy way we might show you,” Alma said, her face a haunting mix of shadow and moonlight. “To prove to you that what we say is true.”

The young witch produced something from her robes. A pouch whose string she loosened before reaching inside.

“No,” Marjorie said. “No, stay back…”

“It will only hurt for a moment, Mother Marjorie,” Ellis said. “It is the same as what was done with me.”

“You’re insane! All of you! Don’t you see, you’ve been tricked!”

Marjorie attempted to retreat, bumping into Ellis as Calum tried to wrangle her arms, to pin her down while the witch bent with a fistful of something black and powdery. She thrashed, hollered for help, for the others to snap out of their unholy reunions and see what was being done to her before their very eyes.

“What is going on here?”

A new voice. A familiar voice. Never before had Marjorie been so happy to hear it.

“Father Ryker!” she screamed. “Help me, please!”

She tugged her wrists from Calum’s grip and scrambled onto her feet. Nobody fought her then. They were caught. She was saved.

“Father Ryker!” She ran to him, standing in the open garden entrance, his bald, gleaming head a beacon of safety. She moved behind him, then cast an accusing finger at her assailants. “They mean to kill me!”

“That is not true,” Alma said. “Well… it is true, but it is not the whole truth.”

“They have congregated here, Father Ryker, to perform the most heinous of rituals! They have already performed it countless times, I am sure. These people, these poor people, they have been led astray, coerced and dragged into their evil schemes…”

“Yes, I know,” Ryker said. “I know all about it.”

Marjorie’s mouth continued to jabber wordlessly for a time, as her mind hitched, failing to understand Ryker’s meaning. The others appeared just as stunned, hearing his words.

Father Ryker turned to see Marjorie behind him, his gaze and his voice chillingly calm.

“I have already seen what they do,” he said. “I know their secrets.”

Marjorie’s head was spinning. “But then we must do something. We must go to the Elders at once, and—”

“I will be doing no such thing.”

“B-but…” Marjorie withdrew from him, as she realized he was no savior at all. “They say that our leaders are corrupt. That our prophet is a false one. Surely you do not believe them? Surely you do not agree with what is taking place. Surely you must know…”

“All I know,” Father Ryker said, “is that our city has made no progress in the years I have been alive on this cursed planet. All I know, Mother Marjorie, is that I understand the pain of losing the ones we hold dearest, and that our leaders have fallen silent in our greatest hour of need.”

“You… you…” Marjorie felt it again. That burning rush of hatred, as though her very blood had been set alight. “You have always been weak of faith, Father Ryker. I have always known it.”

“Wasn’t it you who told me only yesterday that all our prayers have gone unanswered? That our Elders have offered us nothing in these trying times?”

“I had my moment of weakness, I’ll admit…”

“It was not a moment of weakness, Marjorie, but a moment of clarity,” Father Ryker said. “I know the feeling, because I have felt it myself. I felt it all those years ago when I lost my sweet Mary. I have been feeling it ever since, merely going through the motions of this farce we call a life.”

“No,” Marjorie said. “No, that is not what I feel. That is not at all what I feel!”

She bolted—a dash of sandals upon the hard dirt, a blur of shadows in the alleys and windows she passed as she fled the garden, fled their wickedness, their misguided deeds. Their voices called after her, but quickly faded with distance. They did not pursue. Not as far as she could tell, anyway, for she did not slow. She only ran harder, out of breath, toward the only place she might.

34

NEW ALLIES

ALMA

Nobody moved as Marjorie fled the gardens. Alma’s pulse quickened as she looked between the others, hoping someone would.

“We should go after her,” she said.

“No,” Father Ryker said. “Let her go.”

He turned to face them, and Alma saw in his eyes that what he said before was true. He did know everything—all their secrets, somehow. And yet he was here, standing alongside them.

“Father Ryker…”

“Do not waste your breath trying to convince me of anything, Alma,” Father Ryker said. “I already know, and it is all right. I am not here to condemn what you have done.”

“How did you know?” Gunnar asked.

“Well, it was you, for starters,” Ryker said. “I have known Calum for many years. And not even an amnesiac—a blank slate—would behave quite as you have. I also made a promise to the Elders that I would take responsibility for you both, and I have done that. I have kept a close eye on you, whether you knew I was there or not. I saw your late-night comings and goings. I watched from afar as those I knew to be dead walked from these gardens on their own two feet. I knew that what was done to Calum was happening still, within our walls.”

“With much better results,” Zola said. “No more misplaced souls, as of yet.”

“And you are the infamous witch our city is so afraid of,” Ryker said, turning to greet her. “It is as Alma said. You are only a child…”

“Perhaps in appearance,” Zola said. “But I am more capable than most in your city.”

Father Ryker smirked at that, as it seemed he couldn’t disagree.

“Of that, I have no doubt.” He gazed beyond their little group, at the others who remained utterly distracted by their reunions with their loved ones. “I suppose my Mary’s body is too far gone for your ritual, after all these years.”

“The dead must be intact,” Zola said, regretfully. “And relatively fresh.”

Ryker forced a smile. “I was not holding out hope, in any case. And I am surprised to see you here, Ellis. After everything that’s happened.”

“You could say I was… forcefully shown the light,” Ellis said with a hint of resentment.

“And you,” Ryker said, turning his attention back to Gunnar. “I have not caught your actual name.”

“Gunnar,” he answered. “My name is Gunnar.”

“I overheard most of your conversation with Mother Marjorie, but there is still plenty I don’t know about you, about all of this. I have many questions.”

“I’m an open book,” Gunnar said.

“You say that our leaders are false? That you and Ellis have both seen them for what they are?”

“There’s been an illusion placed over your city’s people. Death seems to break it. I’m fairly confident everyone Zola has brought back will now see them for what they are as well.”

“Then I wish to be next,” Ryker said. He regarded Zola sternly. “That powder of yours. It will do the trick?”

“You mean now?” Alma said.

“Yes, if there’s time. Can it be done?”

“It can be done,” Zola said, already fishing her pouch out from her robes again.

“Wait,” Alma said. “What about Mother Marjorie? She’ll be going straight to the Elders, I’m sure. She’ll tell them everything.”

“I have no doubt you are right,” Father Ryker said. “And I would like to be ready for them. I have felt myself under some illusion for some time, though I haven’t known the truth of it, and couldn’t break it on my own. I am ready to do so now.”

Zola gestured for Ryker to follow her to the open graves. The others appeared apprehensive as they noticed his approach. They looked to Zola, then to Alma and Gunnar across the garden, searching for reassurance. Then Zola instructed Ryker to lie down in one of the graves and all air of potential threat dissipated. The others gathered to watch as he swallowed a mouthful of Zola’s poison, and shortly thereafter began to convulse.

“After tonight, we will need to organize,” Alma told Gunnar and Ellis, watching with idle interest as the others assisted Zola in covering Ryker’s corpse. “And quickly. If the Elders do not come for us now, it will only be a matter of time. There will be many others like Mother Marjorie who can’t be persuaded, who will happily join them in their witch hunt.” Alma turned to Gunnar directly. “Perhaps we should focus our efforts on a larger gathering, so that you can address everyone at once.”

“Me?”

“To tell them your story. Explain things, as you have done for me. It will be like…” Alma smiled softly, thinking it. “…like delivering a sermon of your own, this time the truth.”

“You don’t think they will come for us tonight?” Gunnar asked.

“I don’t,” Alma said. “I even wonder at Mother Marjorie’s chances of contacting them, seeing as they’ve sealed themselves in the church. In any case, all we can do is act quickly. We’ll start first thing in the morning. We’ll visit those we can, and tell them to spread the word of another gathering, but only for those who will join our cause.”

They waited, and before much longer Zola had Father Ryker bursting from the ground, gasping for air. Alma, Gunnar, and Ellis joined the others to see for themselves. Someone offered Ryker a hand, pulled him up and onto his feet. Ryker swayed there, steadied by the hands of his admirers—members of their flock who had long placed their trust in him as one of their community leaders.

“It is even worse than one can imagine,” he murmured. “One moment in that place is too long, and yet… some part of me had hoped that I might see her…”

“It’s too large and crowded to have any hope of finding anyone so easily,” Gunnar said. “Even after seven centuries, I hardly saw those I’d known in life more than a couple dozen times.”

“Seven centuries?” Ryker said. He became momentarily lost for words, just thinking about it. “I cannot imagine. How did you not lose your sanity?”

“I’m not so sure I didn’t,” Gunnar said.

Alma filled Ryker in on what they had just discussed, in regards to organizing the next day. She also told the others still present in the garden to help spread the word, if they could.

“But only to those who can be trusted,” she emphasized. “Namely, the people who have already taken part. If we can hold a meeting with everyone, Gunnar can help fill in the blanks and answer many of the questions you still have.”

With that, everyone began filtering out of the garden. Soon it was only their core group left—Alma, Gunnar, Zola, Ellis, Ryker—standing just inside the garden entrance as the others headed home for the night.

“Where is it you’re staying?” Ryker asked the girl, sounding more concerned than curious. “The Elders are searching for you more now than ever, you must know.”

“I am safe,” Zola said, giving nothing away.

Ryker seemed to understand, nodding. “Better that we not know. But wherever it is, you should be getting back. If Marjorie was able to reach the Elders, there’s no telling when they might come. They could already be sending volunteers here, for all we know.”

Zola agreed. She departed alone, going her own way as Ryker offered to walk the others home. Ellis excused himself as well, and bid them all a safe night.

“Do you trust him?” Father Ryker asked in Ellis’s absence. “Can he be trusted?”

“I believe he has had some change of heart,” Alma said, and truly did believe it. “It took a while to sink in, but he accepts things as they are now. Mostly I think he fears for his family.”

“And what about you?” Ryker asked. “Have you undergone the resurrection?”

Alma felt an icy twinge beneath her breastbone at the mere suggestion.

“I have not. Though I am not sure I feel it necessary.”

Even she knew this was a convenient excuse. She was afraid. Not just of dying, or the off chance that her resurrection would go awry, but of that place. She did not wish to see it. She did not wish to know with full certainty what her Calum suffered through. It was hard enough to imagine.

Ryker had many questions for Gunnar as he escorted them. Most of it Alma had already heard.

In the final stretch of their journey home, they were stopped by someone poking their head out from the front door of their dwelling. Alma recognized the man as Marjorie’s husband, Blake.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Father Ryker, is that you?”

They came to a stop. Blake smothered his face into the crook of his arm as he violently coughed. At the end of it, he sucked in a great breath of air.

“It is me,” Ryker answered.

“Have you by any chance seen…” He tried to stifle another bout of coughing and failed. “Have you seen my Marjorie? She stepped out some time ago… said she needed air… but she has still not returned.”

Alma exchanged glances with the other men.

“No,” Father Ryker lied. “I have not seen her. You should return to bed, Blake. I’m sure she’ll return soon enough.”

Blake appeared no less worried, though he nodded and shut the door.

They continued on. They passed the church square along the way and stopped for a moment, eyeing its front doors which were shut. No sign of Marjorie there.

Once they arrived outside their home, the three of them stood a moment, a pregnant silence growing between them.

“I fear for what may happen tomorrow,” Alma said. “We will surely be met with resistance. It is only a question of how much.”

“No matter,” Ryker said. “In the morning I will help spread the word as you’ve suggested, Alma, and we will meet again as planned. If what Gunnar says is true, well… the Elders will have much to answer for, won’t they?”

“Thank you, Father Ryker,” Alma said. “For everything. It is no small relief to have you on our side.”

Father Ryker said his goodbyes and they returned inside. Gunnar took a swig of water from their jug, removed his robes, and plopped onto the bed with a weary groan.

“Another successful night of resurrection,” he said.

“Do you think there’s any chance that if we solve what’s happening here in Gloam, it could solve the problem altogether?” Alma asked, taking her place on the bed beside him.

“No, I don’t think so,” Gunnar said. “This isn’t where the… Unmaking, as you call it… originated. Unless by some miracle Gloam happens to be built on the ruins of Toronto.”

“Toronto,” Alma repeated. “How do you know it isn’t? Much has changed in the last seven-hundred years, as you said.”

“I mean, I guess it could be, but it seems highly unlikely.”

She lay thinking about that—as well as all the other things she no longer knew to be true—until another question entered her mind.

“Gunnar?” she said softly, turning to see him in the dark.

She was only greeted by the soft blow of his sleeping breath.

35

SOMETHING GHASTLY

MARJORIE

She arrived at the church with the taste of iron in her throat, the ice of spent adrenaline in her veins. She remembered the doors were locked, and so started with a knock, only to discover the door was already ajar.

Oh.

She pushed the door open wider still. Peered inside. The church’s interior was faintly lit, not only with moonlight through the high windows, but by candlelight—a series of tall candelabra arranged along the front of the stage at the head of the nave. Marjorie looked once over her shoulder into the church square. She was alone. No one had followed. She stepped into the church, began shutting the door behind her.

If you go to the Elders, your boys are dead forever.

She paused, contemplating.

The witch can bring them back. Your husband, too.

The temptation was palpable. Dangerous. The surge of hope she felt just considering these ideas, it was enough to stop anyone in their tracks. She squeezed her hands into fists, shook those dangerous thoughts from her mind. That was lesson number one in avoiding corruption. It would always come in the form of some tempting offer. The ability to see it, to deny it, that was true faith.

Marjorie steeled her nerves. She shut the doors completely. She moved with purpose between the pews, toward the stage where all those candles flicked their flames in waiting. The Elders had to have lit them, she thought. But where were they now? And when had they unlocked the doors?

It was as if they were waiting for her.

This gave her pause again, halfway onto the stage. She peered across the empty seats, toward the doors she could still leave through, if she wanted. She could still change her mind.

Don’t be a coward. You’re just trying to give yourself an excuse to do the wrong thing.

That was the truth. The temptation was strong. Too strong, for a weaker person. But Marjorie was anything but weak. She continued onto the stage. To the door on the other side. Much to her confusion, that door was already ajar as well. She pushed it open further. In the room beyond—where she had sat through many meetings with the Elders about the ongoing, petty issues across their city—another candle was lit, sitting prettily upon the desk. Marjorie went there and stood, hands clasped reverently. It was strange to feel expected at this odd hour.

As her eyes adjusted to the low light, to the darkness surrounding, she noticed beyond the desk, the final door was also slightly opened. A sliver of black in its gap. Total darkness, that.

How strange…

Too strange. Marjorie waited a minute longer, watching that door, watching its dark opening, expecting it to open further any moment and for the three Elders to greet her at last. But no one came. She was alone in here. Just her and the single lit candle.

Perhaps they were here earlier. They lit candles for a ceremony of their own, just the three of them. A prayer for Gloam, perhaps? On Prophet Tobias’s instruction?

It made sense. A lot of sense. Nothing eerie about that. But then they’d also unlocked the church doors, knowing anyone could come at any moment. Except not just anyone had come. She had come. The strongest and most devout of their congregation. While the others had succumbed to temptation, she had maintained her convictions. Perhaps it was Oleth who had guided her here. It was specifically her they waited for, she just knew it…

Marjorie glided ever so dreamily around the Elders’ desk toward that final door. She stood at its gap and listened. She did hear something. A pleasant, low drone from the darkness. The hum of some deep and spacious place.

The Under.

She pushed the door, watched it drift soundlessly until the doorway was full of shadow and nothing more. What lay beyond was strictly confidential. She was blind to it. Wasn’t meant to see it yet. Not until her own Descent.

“Hello?” she called into that waiting dark.

It swallowed her voice right up. No echo. That steady, deep drone continued.

“Elder Lawrence? Elder McKinley?”

She didn’t call very loudly. She didn’t wish to shout. That would have been inappropriate. Obscene. And also—there did exist another temptation in her. She hoped they didn’t hear, so that she might indulge her curiosity.

The Elders must be informed, she thought.

Even if it meant crossing a few lines. Literal and figurative ones.

Marjorie grabbed the candle from the desk and brought it to the threshold. Beyond the doorway lay a narrow corridor. She stepped into it. Her body fizzed with the thrill of venturing someplace unknown. Forbidden. One step became two became three. She looked behind her and saw nothing, now the candle from the desk was in her hands. She pressed onward.

They must know.

The corridor didn’t stretch far before she was faced with a set of stone steps, spiraling down. Without her candle she might have tripped and tumbled to her death, the staircase was so utterly without light.

The Under, she thought again.

She wasn’t meant to see it. Wasn’t meant to have come this far already. Some part of her knew she should turn back. Another part of her remembered that her children were dead, that her husband would soon join them, and that she had nothing to keep her here any longer. She wanted to see what lay ahead, no matter the consequences. She relinquished all conceits that she was doing this for any other reason.

She started down. One step at a time. Her candlelight flickered and throbbed along the curve of the descending staircase, down, down, down, deeper beneath the church. Beneath Gloam.

It just keeps going…

She marveled at just how deep it went. It disoriented her, wondering how far below she’d come, how high above the others were, not knowing. It made her unsteady. She placed a hand upon the wall, tracing the stonework as she continued down.

The staircase was so long, Marjorie couldn’t fathom the Elders climbing it each morning. No wonder they did not make appearances in Gloam most days.

There came a warm gust of air and Marjorie froze in place, one foot tentatively reaching for the next step. The air was moist. She listened, but only heard the same low, cavernous hum. She placed her foot down. Then the other. She resumed her descent.

My Descent…

She was a bit early on that front. Hopefully the Elders could find it in their hearts to forgive her. Surely they would be grateful to know what transpired above—that the witch had indeed breached their walls, and was now corrupting their subjects out in the open!

The staircase went on for so long that its end was a shock as Marjorie’s candlelight revealed flat ground around the final bend. She stepped off the last stair. Another muggy breeze touched her. A puff of warm, damp air. She moved ahead, leaving the staircase behind her in favor of another corridor. This one twisted gradually, winding circularly inward, she believed.

She saw something ahead. It was light. Dark, crimson light glowing along the stone curvature. Marjorie followed it, growing more vivid the farther she went, the passage continuing to turn in on itself. Another spiral, bringing her toward some obvious center. She floated onward. Dreamlike. The crimson light pulsed. In and out. Fading and reappearing along the cracked stone. That sensuous warmth continued blowing toward her at odd intervals, gusting her with its moisture. The stone walls glistened with it.

And then the corridor reached its end.

Marjorie peered along its termination, where the narrow walls gave way to a larger chamber. The chamber was mostly dark except for that throbbing red light. Off and on. Off and on. She saw now where it originated, sitting in a membranous heap in the center of the chamber, an overflowing shape through which the red light strobed. Whatever it was, it moved. Slippery and quivering. Other things moved as well. Shadows within the surrounding shadows. Marjorie wished to speak, to ask her Elders to show themselves, but instead remained transfixed on the blinking ruby at the room’s center. That low drone, which she had heard from the very height of the staircase, was loudest here. Constant. A guttural rumbling. She felt it through the sore soles of her feet, through her ankles. A vibration.

A figure appeared before her. It moved across the light, interrupting its fading ebb. The outline of an Elder, Marjorie thought. The figure came to stand between her and the amorphous thing, its silhouette peering in her direction.

“Is someone there?” the figure asked.

Marjorie thought to answer but her tongue was paralyzed. Her feet, however, moved of their own accord. She retreated one step. Two steps. Involuntary movements. The red light regained itself, swelling brighter. Another silhouette joined the first. Two robed figures. Two Elders. Marjorie had come for them, but all at once couldn’t bring herself to reveal her presence, to tell them of the emergency topside where suddenly her body wished to be—up there, with the people and the moon and the stars, the cool nightly breeze. Not whatever this breeze was, this odorless warmth that felt more like a breath than a breeze.

“Marjorie, is that you?”

For the second time tonight, Marjorie fled. She careened off the damp walls, sandals scuffing and slipping across the stone. She chased her way round and round, back to the staircase, that ascent she had been dreading all the while in the back of her mind. Arduous. Endless. She could not tell whether she was pursued, for the sounds of her own panting and scraping feet masked all others.

Why am I running? What am I afraid of?

She couldn’t answer these questions with any specificity. Only that it was all distinctly wrong. That place beneath, with its uninhabitable darkness, its uncanny exactitude of shape, its sparseness of all that even suggested human life.

It is harvesting you…

Calum’s words bellowed into the forefront of her thoughts as she scrambled ever onward up the staircase, a terrifying new meaning in them she hadn’t understood before. She’d seen no signs of the others down there. Prophet Tobias’s students. Only warm rock and red light. And something else…

She tripped on the steps and dropped her candle. It rolled, tumbling off one step and skipping down the rest. She didn’t stop for it. Didn’t turn back. She scurried ahead, crawling on hands and feet like some kind of subterranean gremlin. Up, up, up. She tripped many other times along the way, bruising her knees, peeling her hands raw across the stone. She’d taken such care in her descent, surely the way back would be faster, she thought. Then her reaching hands found no further steps. She pitched forward, sprawled onto the flat surface of the first corridor. It was pitch black. She picked herself up, raced onward, hands blindly groping for the doorway she knew awaited her at the corridor’s end.

“Oh!”

She hit the door with both hands, jarring her wrists. She fumbled for the handle. It wouldn’t turn. She pushed and pulled but the door wouldn’t budge.

No, no, no, that’s not right.

She shook the handle in both hands, the door wiggling noisily in its frame. But it wouldn’t open.

“Marjorie?”

She turned, breath caught in her throat. Someone was coming. Soft steps, slowly climbing. Much too slow to have caught up with her already, she thought. She forced herself back against the door, the darkness ahead breaking with the faint glow of candlelight.

“Marjorie?” Elder Lawrence said. “Is that you?”

He appeared at the end of the corridor, holding the candle she’d dropped. He reached the head of the staircase. He started toward her, the great hem of his crimson robes sweeping the stone. The glow of candlelight held before him granted his visage an alien geometry, shadows where they shouldn’t be. He came to stand a few paces away, giving her just enough space with which to feel unthreatened, perhaps. She felt it all the same. Threatened.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone so concerned that it bordered on parody.

“I… I just…”

“You look as though you’ve seen something ghastly,” he said. Then, in lieu of a response, “You really shouldn’t have wandered into our quarters. You know better than that.”

“Yes, Elder Lawrence,” Marjorie said. “I do. I do know that, I’m sorry, it’s just… there’s been an emergency.”

Some part of Marjorie believed that if she ignored that bit of awkwardness down below, she could simply pretend she hadn’t seen anything she wasn’t supposed to see.

“An emergency?”

Elder Lawrence came closer. Close enough that, in the candlelight, Marjorie could see there was nothing wrong with his appearance. Just a trick of the strange lighting, that was all. And perhaps that’s all there had been down below, in that chamber full of shadow and red light. Just a trick.

“Tell me what’s happened,” Elder Lawrence said. “What’s the emergency?”

Marjorie told him everything. Never mind that the door was still locked at her back—how had that even happened, anyway?—or that there was still no explanation for what she’d seen down in the Under. She told Elder Lawrence of Alma and her witch, of the mass resurrections happening in the gardens. She told him everything Calum had said, their outrageous claims against the Elders, against Prophet Tobias. Everything.

“They’re crazy, obviously,” she said. She forced a smile, whether Elder Lawrence could see it or not in the flickering candlelight. “They claim to see things as they are… that you and the other Elders are not… well…”

“Hmmm,” Elder Lawrence purred. He stepped closer, only room enough for another body between them. “And what do you see, Mother Marjorie?”

Something snaked out from beneath his robes, fat and glistening.

36

THE REPENTANT

ELLIS

As soon as Ellis broke away from the others, he quickly looped back in the same direction the girl had taken. He just barely managed to spy her shape farther along the street ahead, slipping from view. Ellis hurried in her footsteps.

Think you’re so clever, Ellis thought. Like you know this city better than I do? I know the nooks and crevices of this place like the back of my wrinkled hand.

He turned the next corner and nearly shrieked as Zola stood waiting, catching him following at her heels. Except… that wasn’t quite right. Zola was not waiting for him. She leaned against the back of the dwelling there, head bent, shoulders heaving in a troubling manner.

“Young woman?”

She flinched at the sound of his voice. “

Why are you following me, Ellis…”

Ellis studied her, the way she appeared unable to stand straight, the exhausted manner in which she panted.

“You are unwell,” he said.

“I am just tired, that’s all…”

“You told the others it was not a demanding task. But here you are, on the brink of collapse. Why did you lie about it?”

“I did not lie,” Zola answered indignantly. “I just… was not specific.”

“You lied,” Ellis said, smiling at the girl’s clear attempt to rationalize her actions. “These resurrections are draining you.”

“I will be all right.” She pushed herself away from the wall, wobbling on her feet. “I only need a bit of rest… and then I’ll be—”

She did not finish the thought as suddenly she swooned in place. Ellis was there in an instant to catch her. She grabbed hold of him in kind, steadying herself against him.

“You are really unwell,” he said.

“I will be all right, I said.” She pushed away from him, only to catch herself one-handedly against the same dwelling.

She reminded Ellis of someone then. Someone close to him.

Little Nadine, he thought.

His daughter, back when she was close to Zola’s age. So determined, such a streak of independence. Willful. It occurred to Ellis how much effort the girl before him put forth to be perceived as wise beyond her years. Whatever her protestations to the contrary, she was still only a child.

“Let me help you,” he said, stepping closer. “You will not make it back to your hiding place on your own.”

“I am fine.” She turned to see him, her face glossy in the shadows, the whites of her eyes flashing their disapproval as she all but rolled them in their sockets. “I don’t need your help. Really.”

“Yes, you do. Or else you will be discovered facedown in one of these alleys come morning. Here…”

Ellis put an arm around her shoulder as he steadied her away from the wall once again. She did not fight him, nor pull away. She only sighed disappointedly, before she proceeded to walk with him as her support.

“What do you feel?” Ellis asked. “When you perform these rituals?”

It was a labor for the girl to walk and talk at the same time, but with Ellis’s help she managed it.

“It is a pulling within me. As I trace the thread between body and soul… I feel my own being plucked. A vibration. It is… a tension in the muscles. When it is over, a release. But with so many…”

“You are weary.”

“I fear I will sleep days after this,” she said, her voice becoming vague and dreamy. “I fear…”

Ellis gave her a shake as she drooped in his arms. She stiffened her legs, stood straight again.

“How much farther?” he asked.

“It is not too far…”

Ellis kept her standing as she continued to lead, slipping from alley to alley, until he formed an inkling for where they were headed.

“So,” he said. “Why not tell the others the toll it takes?”

“They need to believe I am strong. That I can handle it. Because I can. Really. Handle it…” A sharp intake of breath. “It is like any other muscle. The more I use it, the stronger it gets.”

“But muscles also need rest…”

“I do not need lessons on overworking myself, old man.”

Ellis smiled at that. Anyone else, he might have been offended. But she reminded him so much of Nadine, it almost hurt.

“Why were you following me, anyway?” she asked.

“I was curious. The Elders want you badly, you know. A target as valuable as yourself… I wanted to make certain that your choice of hiding place was truly safe enough.”

“It is,” Zola said. “And I can handle myself. I have not survived all these years in the wilds by luck or happenstance…”

“Oh, of that, I have no doubt.”

It wasn’t long before they were nearing Ellis’s suspicion. Down a narrow back alley, they soon found themselves moving along the rear of the infirmary tent. Zola guided them to its opposite corner, where the fabric had been slit cleanly with a knife to allow entry. Ellis pulled it aside, helped Zola through. The infirmary was darker than dark this time of night. Zola whispered for Ellis to take her a couple steps farther, whereupon he stepped on something hollow. A clunk beneath his sandal.

“The hatch there,” Zola whispered.

The infirmary hummed with silence, interrupted only by the occasional sleepless moan of the bedridden. Ellis released Zola momentarily as he crouched and searched for the trapdoor’s handle. He pulled it open. Its hinges lightly squealed. Below was impenetrable darkness.

“You climb down first,” Zola said.

“Huh? Why me?”

“So you can help me down after.”

Ellis hesitated, wary. He lowered himself into the hole, finding the wooden ladder built along the wall of the shaft below. It was much too dark to know how deep the cellar was, and so he tested each rung carefully, until finally his foot touched hard earth. He stood away from the ladder. The cellar was only deep enough that he didn’t hit his head upon the ceiling. Above him, Zola began to lower herself through likewise. Ellis reached for her, hands hovering, grazing her robes as he prepared to catch her should she fall. Luckily she did not. It was only as she was about to set foot on the ground that she seemed to lose her hold on the ladder. She stumbled. Ellis caught her once more. Steadied her.

“Thank you,” she said, and moved away from him. “Hold on a second…”

She disappeared into the dark, guiding herself by memory. Then there came a clicking. A clacking. A scraping. Sparks. A light ignited. Her silhouette appeared to him, until she turned and he saw the lit candle she held. She placed it aside on its dish.

“You’ve been down here all this time?” Ellis said, peering about the cramped storage cellar.

There were many cellars like this scattered about Gloam. This one belonged to the infirmary, where they stored various tinctures and tonics which needed to be kept cool lest they spoil. It appeared Zola had stashed her own belongings in one of the crates at the back of the room, and made a discreet nest for herself behind them. Ellis drifted there, peeking curiously into one of the crates, which he noticed she’d fashioned into a kind of secondary hiding place. It was there she must have hid when their healers came down into the cellar, he thought.

“It has proven to be a good hiding place,” Zola said. She collapsed, slumped against one of the many crates. Ellis tensed, reaching, with nothing he could really do to help her. She was here now, at least. “Thank you for your help, Ellis.”

“Will you be all right?” he said. “Will you recover?”

“I will recover,” she said, and forced a smile. “I just need some rest. That’s all.”

Ellis nodded. He looked around, still marveling at just how close she’d been all the while—how easily, in theory, someone might have found her all this time.

“You want to tell me the real reason you followed me tonight?” she said.

Ellis tried to look perplexed. “Hmm?”

“Curiosity,” she said. “But there is something else eating at you, isn’t there? I can tell. You hide your emotions terribly.”

“I do not.”

“You do. It is worry in your eyes. And grief. You are hardly the only one, you know.”

Ellis clenched his jaw. That this teenage girl should read him so openly, it was cause for shame.

“I am not yet grieving,” he said, vexed. “But… I do fear for someone.”

“Family?” Zola almost sounded surprised to hear it.

“Yes. Though they might not consider me as such these days. I believe it is only a matter of time before the illness sweeps through them.”

“You don’t need to ask for my help, Ellis. My gift is for anyone who might need it. That includes you. Is that what worries you?”

“I…” The waves of shame were hitting him tonight like a relentless storm, one after another. “I know I have behaved badly. That I might not be… the most deserving…”

“It’s never too late to change,” Zola said. “But it’s like my mother used to tell me: apologies aren’t enough. You have to mean it. And that means doing right by those you’ve wronged.”

“Hmm,” Ellis said, once more thrown by the juxtaposition of this strange girl’s wisdom and foolhardiness. “Yes, I intend to do just that.”

Zola shifted where she sat, getting more comfortable. Ellis was certain that as soon as he left, she would crawl to her little nest of covers and quickly conk out.

“Somewhere in there is a better man than you think,” she said. “Better than the others think, too. It is just a matter of…”

She never finished the thought, as she was overtaken by a great big yawn. Ellis moved away, toward the ladder and hatch.

“Yes, well… I suppose I will just have to take your word for it. Anyway, I should leave you to your business. And trust I will not breathe a word about this to anyone.”

“I trust you will not,” she said. “Goodnight, Ellis.”

Ellis narrowly avoided embarrassing himself further as he ascended the ladder. Once out, he shut the hatch, slipped through the slit in the back of the infirmary tent, and started toward his next destination.

Instead of heading home, Ellis made another detour. To a home that had once been his. He had done this many times over the years, listening outside his family’s window, ascertaining the state of things in his absence. Usually he found that his family was doing quite fine without him. Tonight was another story.

Ellis heard his daughter’s cries from the open window. Only hers. Alone. Her hitching sobs were peppered with hacking coughs. She, too, had fallen ill. The sound was a dreadful avalanche upon Ellis’s heart. He straightened from the shadows, peering inside.

“Nadine?” he whispered. “Nadine?”

From the darkness, her hoarse voice replied, “Daddy?”

She had not called him that for many, many years. To hear his grown daughter utter the word, it was like hammering an icicle through the center of him. He moved without thought. He went to the door, pushed it open, stepped into the house and all its foul, deathly odors. He smothered a cough of his own as the stench threatened to overwhelm him.

“Nadine!”

She was slumped against the end of her bed. There was no room to lay on the bed, for it was already covered with bodies. Children who were not Ellis’s, but their neighbors. On the other bed lay Ellis’s wife and second daughter.

Francesca. Sophia…

“Daddy,” Nadine croaked. “I cannot… I cannot breathe…”

She inhaled. The sound was that of wind through a keyhole. Ellis panicked. What could he possibly hope to do? He had seen the result of this ungodly disease too many times now. He knew how it would end.

“Don’t leave me,” she begged. She reached for him, clutched his robes in her shaking hands.

“I am not going anywhere,” Ellis promised her.

He sat with her, took her into his arms, held her tight as she lolled her gasping head against his chest. Each inhale was a battle all its own, each exhale a pitiful, short-lived shudder.

“I tried,” she said, and could hardly speak the rest. “I tried… to help…”

“It is all right,” Ellis whispered in her ear. “It will be all right…”

He gazed at the upturned feet of his younger daughter, his wife, side by side on the opposite bed.

It is all right, he told himself. It will be all right.

The witch would help him. Help them. She had already agreed.

“Stay…” Nadine whispered. “Stay with me…”

“I am here,” Ellis said. He squeezed his poor daughter tighter than he should, fearful of ever letting her go. He had already left them once. Everything felt too little, too late. “I am here…”

He cradled her against his own shrunken body until the only gasping breath left in the house was his own.

37

LAST SUPPER

MARJORIE

Mother Marjorie dreamed of deep, dark places. A bottomless pit of stone and shadow. An illuminated heartbeat, irregular and wet, nestled in fleshy grotesqueries. She dreamed of red robes. Long and rippling. They bulged with impossible appendages. Glimmering eyes from the voids of their hoods.

When she woke she still felt she was dreaming.

A voice whispered in her ear but she didn’t hear its words. Instead she only felt the hard floor beneath her joints, the kink in her ill-positioned neck, the sensitivity of her inflamed vulva, as well as the aching pit deep in her lower abdomen.

A squirming beneath her ribs.

“Wake up, Mother Marjorie,” the voice repeated. “It’s time to go home to your husband.”

Marjorie opened her eyes. The church was steeped in blue morning murk, the sun yet to rise over the city walls. She pushed herself up on hands and knees, groaning with the effort. She was sprawled in the center aisle of the empty nave. She craned her neck toward the stage, toward the pulpit. Also vacant. She was alone as far as she could tell. How long ago had it been that someone whispered in her ear? To her mind, it only seemed a moment.

She reached for the nearest bench and used it to pull herself to her feet. She winced with pain. Sharp and then dull, a throbbing in her groin. She leaned against the bench for a time, catching her breath.

What is this feeling…

She tried to recall what had happened, but her thoughts only circled it, never landing, the truth somehow blurred and evasive. She gave up for now. She needed to get home. She needed to check on Blake.

Oh, Blake…

Had she really forgotten him? No, she most certainly had not. She could never.

The ache in her belly found its way to her heart, stinging and sorry. She hastened to the church doors, even as her injuries—what injuries? What is this sensation? What has happened to me?—tried to slow her down. She pushed outside into the weak light. She wrapped herself with her arms, huddled and hurried, homeward bound.

Near the edge of the church square, a painful rod went through her. She staggered, leaned against the nearest dwelling, a hand to her stomach where the pain ignited. Then subsided. She took panting breaths as she regained herself, pushing onward.

Please, Blake. Please be all right. Please hold on.

It was inevitable his illness would claim him like the rest. She only hoped she could see him again, speak to him again, at least one last time.

One last time…

It all came flooding back to her. At the gardens. Alma, Calum, Ellis.

Father Ryker.

He had fallen in with the heathens. An unfortunate turn of events. But now the Elders knew everything. Marjorie had told them. They would take the necessary actions. They would punish the heretics, purify their city, make things as they once were, as they were meant to—

Marjorie moaned as another wave of searing pain tore through her, like a broken branch traveling through her digestive tract. She stumbled and leaned again on the nearest thing. Her body grumbled, her stomach a mass of quivering emptiness. Was it hunger or pain? It was difficult to tell. She felt so intensely hungry, beneath the discomfort. Hollowed out and yet so full…

It was only the thought of her husband that kept her going.

She lumbered ahead, through the sleeping alleys and the hush of a half-dead city. Outside her home, she was greeted by the sound of her husband’s voice through the open window. A terrible cough. Sicker than ever, by the sounds of it.

But still alive!

She hurried inside. She paused at the threshold of their room as another horrid swell of aching nausea moved through her. Hot, acidic, and full of piercing spines. Then it receded. Glorious, temporary relief.

“Marjorie? Is that…”

Blake was overcome with another bout of wheezing. Marjorie went to him. She climbed across their bed to be beside him.

“It’s me,” she said. “I’m here.”

She put her arms around her husband and he trembled. She squeezed him from behind, nestled her face against the fuzzy nape of his neck. He coughed some more, rasping, barely able to breathe. She had reached him just in time, she thought. He would be gone soon. The simultaneous sorrow and gratitude she felt was a bizarre concoction. That he wouldn’t be alone in his final moments. That these were his final moments in the first place…

“Everything’s going to be okay,” she whispered. “I’m here. I’m here…”

She clenched her jaw as another surge of agony wormed through her. Perhaps they were both dying, she thought. Wouldn’t that be poetic? She couldn’t ask for anything better, if that was the way it had to be.

The ache in her stomach had grown. It rose into her throat—a swollen bubble of nausea. She burped. Couldn’t help it. Followed by a persistent gurgle from deep inside her. A most unpleasant sensation. She had been sick before, had felt the churning of bile in her belly, rising up. But this was different. Something else. She might have liked to have been sick, just to feel the resulting relief. Instead her bowels continued to stir. That pressure in her lower abdomen returned. Not a cramp, not any kind of constriction, but an outward push.

“Blake,” she whispered.

“I thought you weren’t…” Her husband stifled another cough. Only barely. “I thought you weren’t coming home…”

“I did. I am home. I am here. With you…”

Her voice tapered into yet another roiling in her gut. She moaned with it, her breath hot and sour against the back of her husband’s head. She wished it would subside, at least a little, so that she could enjoy another moment with him. Just one more, at least.

As the nausea faded, something else lingered in its wake. That emptiness. It too had grown since last she felt it. She wasn’t just hollow, she was…

Starving.

“Blake…”

She squeezed him tighter. Her crushing embrace sent him coughing again. She was sorry, but couldn’t let him go. She was afraid she might lose him. If these were their last moments together, they needed to count.

She breathed in the scent of her lover’s hair, tangy with his sweat, and the growl in her belly became a roar. How long had it been since she’d last eaten? Had she eaten at all yesterday? She didn’t think so. Not with all the chaos, under the ghastly shadow of her children’s demise. Whatever was happening to her body, her intense hunger wasn’t helping. Perhaps the hunger itself was the cause. Poor nutrition. Her body was eating itself. And judging by the ungodly sensations in the pit of her stomach, her body feasted with teeth.

“Oh,” she moaned. “Oh, Blake…”

All at once their bed felt so small. Barely room for them both to lay. She had to hold on even tighter, lest she fall off the edge. She snuggled into him, her nose pressed to the back of his skull. The scent was overpowering. He was wheezing again. Wetly. His lungs full of fluid.

“Stay with me,” she whispered into the shell of his ear.

Her lips grazed him as she spoke. The scent of him in her nostrils, the vague, salty taste of him in her mouth. She breathed him in. She nuzzled in closer. Pulled him in tighter. Her stomach lurched. Or something lurched within it. She nibbled her husband, on the lobe of his ear. Warm and pliant. That roaring inside her was like nothing she’d ever felt before. Blake made a noise. A sigh. A whimper, as her teeth took hold of delicate tissue.

“Blake,” she said with her husband pinched between her teeth so that his name sounded like blay.

There was movement between them. Between her body and his. A pressing. A stretching. It was her. She took a mouthful of his ear, gently settling her teeth over the better part of it. Blake moaned. Coughed. His body trembled against hers, pushing against the odd angles of her swollen belly.

I’m so hungry.

This thought was not hers alone, but something else’s. Some other part of her, which was not wholly her but their minds were as one. Many as one. Another spasm. She set her teeth firmly and bit. Blake flinched, pulled away. But he wasn’t strong enough. She kept hold of him in her embrace, bit deeper, felt the crunch of cartilage, the gush of hot blood over her tongue. Salty. Tangy. She jerked back and forth as he pulled this way and that, until the broken ear was severed.

She chewed him. Swallowed.

As Blake tried to scream, Marjorie placed her mouth on his and took another bite.

38

GATHERINGS

ALMA

The trees blazed, each branch sleeved in flame, and under the rain of ash there sat a nude man, cross-legged on the hard ground, head bent thoughtfully.

Alma moved closer to him, to see him better through the smoke. A great piece of tree collapsed between them and she startled. The naked man did not react at all, as though he were sleeping in an upright position. She stepped over the burning branch. And from there she saw it was him.

“Calum?” Her voice came out smothered. Too quiet even to her own ears. She crept closer still. “Calum?”

He did not respond. Would not look at her. His head remained bent, eyes closed. Pensive. Meditative. She crouched before him, and all at once every fiber of Alma’s being wished to reach for him, to touch him, and so she did. A hand upon his naked shoulder.

“Calum, look at me…”

Without lifting his head, or his eyelids, Calum spoke in a calm and dreamy voice.

“Do not trust him, Alma,” he said. “For he is not a good man.”

She opened her eyes with her heart already beating in her throat. Voices. Loud voices. They were just outside, a whole gathering muttering and shouting over one another. The house was dark—

“Oh!”

Alma gave a shout as the window shutter was promptly knocked out of place. It clattered to the ground beside their bed. Gunnar jerked upright, only now rousing.

“Open up!” a man hollered above the rest.

“Come on out!” a woman’s shrill screech followed.

“Come out here and face us, witch!”

“Witch!”

“Devils, both of you!”

“Confess to your sins!”

“Confess!”

“May Oleth have mercy on your souls!”

“Jesus Christ,” Gunnar said, climbing to his feet. He moved toward the window where he peered out, keeping a safe distance from its opening.

“Answer for your wicked deeds, witch!”

“Look at what you have done to our home!”

“Their deaths are on your hands!”

“You did this!”

“You have cursed us!”

“We know you’re in there, Alma!”

There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run or hide. Fists pounded on the door. Alma grabbed the slim blade she kept hidden beneath her pillow and climbed out of bed.

“And what are you planning to do with that?” Gunnar said.

“I don’t know if you noticed,” Alma said, “but there is a mob outside our door.”

“Yeah, I did notice that.”

The fists continued to pound. Someone dared press themselves right to the open window—an ugly, snarling beast of a man whose eyes glinted with his misplaced fury.

“We see you in there!” he barked.

Emboldened by their unified outrage, someone pushed the door inward. It snapped open violently, wobbled in place. Alma and Gunnar each took a step back. Two men stumbled across the threshold. Drunk with grief. Stinking of it, too. Alma pointed her blade at them both.

“Your deaths will be on my hands, too, if you come any closer.”

“Out of the way! Out of the way!”

Just outside, someone pressed themselves through the crowd, spilling into view at the doorway. It was Father Ryker. Alma wasn’t sure what one additional man could provide, but she was grateful to see him all the same.

“Get out!” Father Ryker demanded. “The Elders demand it!”

The two intruders inside their home exchanged disbelieving glances.

“The Elders?” one of them said.

“I have just spoken with them,” Father Ryker said, gasping as though he’d run all the way here. “And they will be most displeased to hear of this… this barbarism…”

Both men deflated, their rage running from their faces and taking all their color with it.

“We didn’t mean…” The man faltered. He looked between Alma and Gunnar, his accusation lingering on his brow. “Please understand, Father Ryker. We are at our wits end. Our city is falling to ruins as we speak, at the hands of this witch!”

He pointed a trembling finger Alma’s way. Father Ryker slapped the man’s hand down. The sound would have been comical if not for the pounding of blood in Alma’s ears, the slipperiness of the blade’s handle in her fist.

“Enough of this madness! Out! Out with you, all of you!” Father Ryker forced the two men from Alma’s home with just the advancement of his feet—as well as the promise of the Elders’ judgement behind his words. “You should all be ashamed! Ashamed, I say! Looking for someone to blame, when we are all in this horror together! We should be helping our neighbors, not pointing fingers based on superstitious hearsay!”

At last the crowd outside had quieted. Alma hadn’t even gotten a good look at them, how many there were, but it had sounded like a considerable gathering. All for her and Gunnar? The rumors and hearsay must have been fairly precise, considering.

“What of the Elders?” someone asked. “What do they say?”

“They say to remain in your homes and protect what little dignity you have left,” Father Ryker said, his tone sharper than Alma’s knife. “They expect better of you. Much better. They will address the city soon enough. And in the meantime, for the sake of all your souls, I hope you will reflect on your choices here today, before you condemn yourselves to a road you can’t return from. Good day to you all.”

Father Ryker shut the door. He remained there, head bent as they listened to the dissatisfied dispersement of the crowd—a shuffling of feet and bitter murmurings—until finally things were properly settled once again.

“Is it true?” Alma said. “You spoke to the Elders?”

“That was a lie.” Ryker sighed. “I could not think of anything else to dissuade them from their plans. It troubles me greatly, being unable to tell if they are like children or altogether insane. That the only thing keeping them in line is the promise of eternal damnation… and yet somehow not even that is enough.”

“Some things never change,” Gunnar said.

“It is good you are here, Father Ryker,” Alma said. “We should discuss our next steps.”

“Our meeting will need to wait until after dark,” Ryker said. “After this, I don’t believe we’ll manage it in the daylight.”

“That is fine,” Alma said. “Let everyone know where and when, tell them to spread the word only to those we can trust.”

“And where do we suppose will be safest?” Ryker said. “The gardens are the most secluded, certainly, but I fear everyone will soon know about your previous gatherings there.”

“What about the food tent?” Gunnar said. “It’s enclosed, and there’s no reason for anyone to be there after dark.”

“I like that,” Ryker said. “Less chance of anyone walking by and seeing us, and plenty of room.”

“Then it is settled.” Alma clasped her hands, eyes narrowed as she thought everything through once more. “We will spread the word of our meeting at the food tent this evening, after the sun has set. There, Gunnar will address everyone, tell them everything he knows…”

“And then what?” Ryker said. “Once everyone’s caught up, what do we ask them to do with that information? What is our overall goal?”

“Our overall goal is to unite our people against the liars who have controlled us for far too long,” Alma said.

“And then?” Ryker said, not yet satisfied.

“And then…” Alma regarded the man inside her husband’s body, with whom they would all be placing an immense amount of trust in the coming days. “Then we must venture beyond our city’s walls to find the source. To take back our world.”

“Simple enough,” Gunnar remarked halfheartedly, as Alma noted the doubtful shifting of his eyes.

Father Ryker considered all of this. Alma understood it was a lot to process, and quite a leap of faith, with so much still left unsaid.

“Then I will begin spreading the word now,” Ryker said at last. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea for either of you to be showing your faces much today, after what’s happened this morning.”

Alma did not like being told to hide, but knew he was right. Another mob could just as easily form around them at any point if they were not careful. She nodded that she agreed.

As soon as Ryker was gone, however, she started for the door.

“Where are you going?” Gunnar said.

“I need to check on Laurie and Neil.”

It was a short walk between their dwellings, but Alma still felt vulnerable, knowing now how many of her fellow Gloamians apparently had it out for her. She knocked on their door and waited on antsy feet. Neil answered. His eyes were bloodshot. He’d been crying a great deal.

“It has happened,” Alma blurted.

Neil nodded that it had, and struggled not to lose himself.

“You are the first I’ve told,” he said. “I haven’t had the strength to face anyone yet.”

“Where is she now?”

“I have wrapped her in linens and placed her beside the bed. I didn’t want Rose to see her that way.”

“Can I speak to you a moment?” Alma asked. “Preferably inside.”

Neil let Alma into their home, shutting the door behind her. The smell was more obvious inside. Sitting upon her own small bed, Rose regarded Alma with big, lost eyes. It was not an unusual expression for the girl, but in this instance Alma knew it was mourning she saw in her gaze. On the floor beside her bed, her baby brother lay in his nest of soft cloths, coughing and rasping. A heart-rending sound to hear from any child so small.

Across the room, beside the bigger bed, Alma saw her best friend’s shape, wrapped just as Neil described. Under normal circumstances, the deceased would have been brought straight to the infirmary for confirmation, then to the church for the Elders’ blessings. But of course Neil had held onto Laurie, for the Elders were absent, and… for other reasons.

“I told you what we have been doing these past couple nights in the gardens,” Alma said. “We will do the same for Laurie, of course. If you will allow it. If you will put your trust in me.”

“My Laurie has always loved and trusted you, Alma,” Neil said. “How could I not?”

“Tonight there is to be a meeting after sundown. Gunnar is going to address everyone there, to share his truth and answer questions as best he can. There will be many others present who can now corroborate his story. I would like for you to attend this meeting, Neil. Things are likely to progress quite quickly. Rest assured, when things are settled, we will bring Laurie back, along with many others.”

Neil agreed he would be there.

Alma returned to Gunnar, found him sitting at their table in thought. He looked up upon her entering.

“So? How are they?” he asked.

Alma took a seat at the end of their bed, letting out a much-needed, exasperated sigh.

“My closest friend is dead and I am not as sad as I should be, because I know it is temporary. I don’t like this feeling.” She ran her fingers through her hair, pulled it back neatly over her shoulders. “Also, I dreamed about Calum last night, in that place. He was sitting beneath the burning trees, calm as ever, and…”

Do not trust him, Alma. For he is not a good man.

Alma studied the man at their table. Calum. Gunnar. Both good men, as far as she could tell. Was it childish to assume her dream had been anything more than that?

“If we somehow manage to fix all of this,” she said, leaving out the rest, “and undo what has been done… where does he go, do you think? If he is there, and you are here, in his body…”

“He will go where he was meant to go all along,” Gunnar said. “Where we are all meant to go.”

No, Alma thought, where you were meant to go all along.

She was surprised at the gnawing bitterness she still felt for the man in her husband’s body. She thought she’d moved past that.

“And that is not temporary,” she said. “He will be gone forever.”

Gunnar pressed his lips in thought. He made a sound, a regretful one, and as he started to speak Alma interrupted him.

“Do not apologize again,” she told him. “It is not your fault. None of this is your fault. I am just… thinking out loud, I suppose.”

She went to the window, peering out into the quiet alley. So quiet, it seemed impossible that so much hatred and bigotry could be brewing amongst her neighbors behind closed doors.

Hopefully those who do not hate us will be enough, she thought.

It was a long day of waiting. They passed the time going over Gunnar’s speech, preparing him for the questions their people would likely ask him. Ryker stopped by again with food, and did them the favor of fetching water so they wouldn’t need to brave the streets.

“I’ll be back at nightfall,” he said. “And we’ll head to the food tent together.”

Eventually the sun went down, and night did fall. As they waited for Ryker to come, something occurred to Alma.

“What about Zola?”

“What about her?” Gunnar said.

“She won’t know where we’re meeting. She hasn’t been told.”

“Hmm.” Gunnar thought about it. “She’s come straight here the last few nights. Maybe she’s on her way here now.”

Just then there came a knock on the door. Alma hurried to answer it, hopeful.

“Father Ryker,” she said, his appearance not quite what she’d been hoping for.

“People have already begun to arrive at the food tent.” he said. “Are you both ready?”

“Yes, but…” Alma paused. “I am wondering about Zola. No one will have told her about our meeting place. And if she comes here, we’ll be gone.”

“Oh.” Ryker peered along the darkened alley, as though he might see her coming at that very moment. “I am certain she will follow, one way or another. She’s done it before.”

That was true enough, Alma thought. Not only had she followed them through the Deadlands, but she’d even managed to locate their dwelling within Gloam’s maze.

Alma blew out their candle and they proceeded to follow Ryker to the food tent, which was a strange sight to behold in the night. The flaps were closed, but a slight warmth shined through from the torches that were surely lit inside. Alma felt jittery with nerves. She had to remind herself that she wasn’t even the one everyone was coming to see. They paused outside the tent flaps. She regarded her husband’s sweet face, hardened by the anxiety of the man underneath.

“Are you ready?” she asked him.

Gunnar took a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.”

Father Ryker entered first, holding the flap open for them both. It was then Alma heard the whispers. The murmurs. A great many voices. Upon their entering, those voices fell silent.

“My goodness,” Alma breathed aloud, as she tried to process the overwhelming turnout.

“Jesus…” Gunnar said. It was the second time Alma had heard him say it. She did not understand the meaning of the word and made a mental note to ask him about it later. “Okay… here we go.”

The crowd—over a hundred people, at least, including both the living and the newly risen—blinked idly at them as they approached, neither of them knowing quite where to begin despite going over Gunnar’s speech for the better part of the day. Alma noticed many familiar faces. Neil had come with both his children, his daughter holding her sick baby brother in her arms.

Gunnar cleared his throat, gathering his confidence.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said. “We’ve asked for this, uh… meeting… so that we could hopefully explain what’s happening in this city… and to many of you, after…” Gunnar swallowed, and the resulting gulp was loud. “…after the extraordinary changes you’ve been through.”

Gunnar seemed to struggle finding his next words. Hoping to bridge the gap, Alma decided to speak then. And as she did, an idea quickly formed. This wasn’t all on Gunnar’s shoulders. She had plenty of explaining to do herself.

“Many of you have heard rumors these last few days. Falsehoods, or perhaps misunderstandings. About me. About everything. In order to address those rumors, I think it would be best if we started at the very beginning. Which starts with me, actually. And my Calum, several nights ago.”

Alma went on to tell her story. This wasn’t quite what she and Gunnar had planned, but suddenly it made the most sense. These were her people, after all. Fellow Gloamians. A little over a week ago she had been just like them. Before everything went askew. Better to start with her, she thought, and give them a relatable foundation on which to build the rest of Gunnar’s story.

She told them about Calum. His death. She told them of her dreams, of the woman in the north, and her journey through the Deadlands. She acknowledged the absurdity of her mission, as well as the blasphemy it implied, and the desperation that allowed her to overlook those reasonable misgivings. But in the end, her desperation had led her here, to this moment. Back in Gloam, amongst her people, just when they happened to need a miracle the most.

“I have been thinking on this a great deal lately,” she said. “The strange timeliness of it all. Like providence, I keep telling myself. But I no longer believe it is like providence. It is providence. Superstitious fear mongers will tell you that I am responsible for all of this. That Zola, who has conducted miracles here in our city, is responsible. We have dedicated our lives to prayer, asking Oleth for miracles, and the moment we are delivered one, so many deny it simply because it came from beyond our walls. But this plague was coming to Gloam regardless. It was already here, in fact, before any of this began to manifest. Zola is not the cause, but the cure.”

Alma took a moment to breathe, a moment to study the eager visages looking back at her. Hanging on her every word. It was such a relief to be met with curiosity and not just skepticism—although some healthy skepticism never hurt anybody.

“I tell you all this,” she went on, “because I would like for you to hear this man out, what he is about to tell you. It will sound far-fetched, especially after what we’ve been taught all our lives. But many of you can now attest to what he is about to say, in part. You know what awaits us in death, that it is not what was promised…”

Alma paused as she heard a most troubling sound. Gunnar heard it, too. They each turned to the tent flaps behind them. An approaching commotion.

“Uh oh,” Gunnar said.

Uh oh. Alma could not think of a more succinct summary of her thoughts than that.

Their voices drew nearer. Louder. The light of their torches was soon cast upon the exterior of the tent, flickering and hot and bright, because there were so many.

Another mob, Alma thought. Bigger than the last, perhaps. Ryker pulled one of the tent flaps aside, peering out.

“We know what you’re doing in there,” someone said.

“And we know she’s in there with you.”

“Hand over the witch,” someone else said. “We’re putting an end to this curse tonight!”

“Curse?” Ryker said. “What curse do you mean?”

“What curse do we mean?” someone mocked. “Look around you, Father Ryker!”

“We are but a quarter of what we were!” someone else cried. “The witch has culled us with her devilry!”

“You refer to the plague, then,” Father Ryker said. “Not a curse. The only curse upon our city is one of ignorance.”

“He is in allegiance with the witch!” someone shouted. “He is not to be trusted!”

“Hand her over!”

“You are all out of luck!” Ryker shouted back. “For your witch is not here…”

“Liar!”

“Send her out!”

“We will come get her ourselves if you won’t!”

“You will be sorely disappointed!” Ryker warned.

“Her reign of terror ends tonight!”

Something struck the cloth over their heads. Alma craned her neck to see it. A bright spot of light upon the tent’s ceiling. A glowing flame. The tent’s cloth caught within seconds. As Alma’s gaze remained fixed on the initial spread, another was thrown, landing not far from the first. The flames chased frighteningly fast across the tent’s surface. The others sprouted from their seats, shouting, pointing overhead. The crowd outside continued to shout.

“Come out of there!”

“Come on out, lest you burn in your cowardice!”

“They are insane,” Alma said, though she’d only meant to think it.

The glow of firelight outside shifted through the cloth as their torch-wielders moved closer, closing in, touching their flames to the entrance.

“Everyone out the other side!” Father Ryker exclaimed.

Everyone swarmed that way, Alma and Gunnar and Ryker bringing up the rear. The others tripped over their own feet, over themselves. The burning ceiling was already beginning to fall in flaming strips from above. The smell of smoke was thick in the air. Glancing sidewards, Alma did see the glow of additional torches moving fast along the exterior of the tent, following them to the other end. Someone gave a shout from the front of the crowd. Their captors were already there waiting. But seeing as the tent was burning down behind them, they had no other choice.

Alma tensed as Gunnar took her hand in his.

“Stay with me,” he said.

They pressed to the backs of the clumping bodies before them, as everyone funneled through the exit in a scrambling panic. More screams followed outside. Alma gripped Gunnar’s hand tight in return, as they bumped and pushed along with everyone else. The tent’s burning cloth collapsed behind them, a great billowing curtain of ember falling at their heels. She felt the fire’s heat, tasted its smoke. The crowd shifted ever closer to the exit. Many fell sprawling, crawling on hands and knees. Closer and closer, Alma felt the rush of heat pushing at their backsides as the cool of night kissed their faces.

Then came their turn to step into the fresher air. Freedom from the flames. Alma didn’t make it two steps before someone’s hands were upon her, tearing her from Gunnar’s.

“It’s her!” they shouted. “It’s her! The witch’s little helper!”

They dragged her from the tent. She lost her footing, fell to her knees. Others were there, closing in.

“Let me go!” she screamed. “Release me at once!”

She thrashed in their crushing grips. Somewhere close, Gunnar shouted similarly.

“Get off of her!”

The night filled with the others’ cries. The meaty sounds of fists upon cheeks and chins. Feet scuffing in the dirt. It was bedlam.

Oleth save us.

A fleeting thought. An old habit, spurred by years of ingrained worship. These words played across Alma’s mind with no real conviction behind them... and yet it was then the church bell started to toll.

Everything seemed to freeze—all except for the fire, as the tent burnt to the ground beside them. The church bell rang and rang, an urgency to its rhythm. Alma’s captors’ grips loosened in their distraction, but she was too distracted herself to capitalize on the moment.

“Is that what I think it is?” someone said.

“It is the Elders,” another answered. “They have emerged at last.”

“Do not go to them,” Alma warned.

“You be quiet,” the man on her left arm said.

“We must bring them with us,” another said, as he gazed repugnantly upon Alma at his feet. “The Elders will want to hear of their crimes.”

“And know that it was us who stopped them!” exclaimed another.

“Wait—”

They hauled Alma to her feet. They had Gunnar as well. By now many had wandered closer, members of the mob and their own gathering alike, peering in the direction of the church as ash and ember snowed from the smoky black sky.

“Don’t do this,” Father Ryker said, restrained just the same. “Things are not as they seem—”

“Sorry, Father Ryker,” another of their captors said. “But you have left us no choice.”

“It’s okay!” Gunnar shouted. He gazed across their foes and allies both. “What better opportunity to see things as they are, now your illusions have been broken!”

Alma wished she felt as confidently as he did. Instead, as they began shuffling toward the sound of the tolling bell, she felt only a pit of dread where her heart should be.

39

MOTHER

MARJORIE

The bed was soggy beneath them, moistened by a steady flow of blood. She gazed upon her husband’s visage, a landscape of hollowed bone and grinning teeth, flecks of pink meat in the crevices where her tongue couldn’t adequately probe. Already she missed him dearly, but the babies inside her demanded their fill, and what was she if not a good mother?

There had been much resistance at first, albeit feeble—much moaning, much groping and pushing. But it wasn’t long before he yielded to her. She’d felt his breath against her lips as she’d eaten his—warm and rhythmic and slowing—before he grew quiet and still altogether.

She had gorged herself on him then, pulled him inside out, leaving no part wasted as her own insides clamored for his. As he became diminished, she became swollen. Her distended belly lay draped over the empty space where his used to be, now a length of gleaming spine and sparkling ribs, the soaked bedcovers stained red underneath.

The minds within her belly spoke with the voices of the Elders. Lawrence. Vincent. McKinley. Their whispers seeped through the haze of her own thoughts, pulsing to the forefront.

Feed, feed, feed, they said, until their bodies were full.

Rest, rest, rest, they said, until their bodies were fattened and grown.

Get up, get up, get up, they said, once it was time for Marjorie to take her next steps.

The sun had only just set, leaving a taste of pale evening light over the stone walls. Marjorie waddled into the fading streets, wearing a mask of her husband’s viscera, belly heaving under her robes. The stirring bodies inside her led the way, pressing from side to side with their tiny feet, their prickly shells. She veered and stumbled accordingly from one alley to the next.

First they led her to the gardens, which were empty tonight. There she fetched a tool from one of the sheds. A long, narrow, pointed trowel. Next they ordered her to the city gates, where she jammed the trowel into the locks and disfigured them, so that no one would be leaving without some costly inconvenience first.

Why am I doing—

What is the purpose of—

Who is this meant to—

She could not finish her own thoughts before the others’ took their place. No more than she could stop her feet from carrying her toward her next destination.

I am guided by Oleth’s will. I am but a vessel for justice against the corruption in our city.

Next Marjorie found herself heading to the church. She was forced to hide along the way, as a torch-wielding mob marched past, searching for something. She could vaguely guess what. Or whom.

Oh!

Marjorie moaned as the children inside her stretched ahead. She stumbled onward. Soon the church loomed big and square and perfect before her, compared to the rudimentary dwellings in which the rest of them lived.

The church doors were unlocked again, as she knew they would be. Specially for her. She entered, shut them behind her. The nave was mostly dark, but once again she saw the stage was lit with all manner of candles suspended upon their candelabra like the night before. She ignored that for now. Instead she turned to the wooden stairs beside the entrance and began to climb.

Oleth wills it. Yes, my children. Yes…

It was a difficult ascent with such a bulging belly, so much weight she wasn’t used to carrying, but she managed it. At the top of the wooden stairs, winded, Mother Marjorie set foot in the bell tower. The bronze bell hung still before her, large and gaping. She grabbed the rope attached to the clapper inside, dangling like a metallic uvula, and with a brief hesitation, began to rhythmically pull it against the rim of the bell.

Gong, gong, gong…

She rang the bell many, many times. Enough that there would surely not be a single soul in Gloam who did not hear it. With each pounding gong, the things in her belly hummed in reply, skittering across the stretched lining of her belly. She pulled, pulled, pulled until her arms became sore with it. Then finally she let the clapper rest. She moved to the tower’s ledge and peered down into the square. No one yet. But in the distance, through the maze of alleys she saw the approaching flicker of torchlight. The mob from before, coming to see what the hubbub was about.

Yes, yes, good…

Marjorie waited and watched as townsfolk steadily began to arrive in the church square. They came as a large group mostly, though there were odd stragglers and independents who wandered in from other directions, until finally there was a healthy gathering in the square down below. The strangest thing, however, was that they lingered there, as though hesitant to enter the church doors. So Marjorie called down to them.

“The Elders have conferred with Prophet Tobias!” she hollered, and watched as their many faces turned heavenward to see her leaning at the bell tower’s edge. “They are ready to address the people of Gloam!”

The crowd gradually began funneling through the church doors. Their unintelligible voices floated to her in tones of curiosity and burgeoning hope.

Peering down into the square, Marjorie glimpsed a select few who appeared to be led against their will. She recognized them. Alma, Calum, Father Ryker, escorted by force.

Let them come.

Let them in…

Slowly but surely they disappeared beneath her feet. Behind them, the square was mostly emptied. Which meant Marjorie’s job was mostly complete.

She waited a few minutes more, scouting for any final souls who might roll in. When there were none, she began her careful descent back down the tower steps. She pulled the front doors shut. She paused there, glancing over her shoulder into the nave where the pews were only half full.

So many dead. So many lost.

She reached into her robe pocket and produced an iron key. She hadn’t expressly known it would be there, and yet there it was, in her hand. A special key. The Elders’ key. With it, she locked the church doors, then proceeded to drop the thick wooden arm into place as well, barring it from the inside. Just in case.

She made her way to the front of the nave, traveling with an attempted grace but falling short, as it was awkward to maintain her balance with such a belly. She did catch stray glances as she went, as onlookers took notice of the state of her beneath her robes. She simply smiled and nodded. That, too, seemed to startle many of their congregation.

Never mind them, never mind them…

She mounted the steps to the stage. She paused, swaying. Her body was so full, her gait so lopsided, it was a battle not to fall over. She took one step at a time, careful. She moved to the lectern, leaned herself against it, hands on either side for support. Her stomach was so preposterously bulbous that it pressed uncomfortably against it. The congregation fell pin-drop silent. She gazed across their faces, caught the bewildered stares looking back. It was only then she remembered her face, smeared with her husband’s flaking blood.

Oh. Right…

“Good evening…” She broke off momentarily, her belly straining. She inhaled deeply, eyes downcast. When she looked again at the crowd, their expressions were even more puzzled than before.

“Where are the Elders?” someone shouted. “We have waited long enough!”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the pews.

“The Elders are coming,” she replied. She gripped the lectern more firmly as her insides shifted, as the life inside her seemed to detect the amount of life gathered before her. Eager. Hungry.

Now, now, settle down…

Marjorie winced as their pointed appendages scrambled against her inner contours. Excitable. Impatient.

“What is the matter with you, Mother Marjorie?” someone called.

“What is that on your face? Were you attacked?”

She braced against the pulpit, white-knuckled. A frenzy of movement through her middle. A tickle of pattering feet at the base of her esophagus. When next she opened her eyes, lifting her gaze to the congregation, she couldn’t stop the belch that escaped her. Violent and moist. There came a gasp from the front row, as though they feared her letting loose on them.

But I am not sick. I am simply… full.

The tickle in her throat became a clawing. Another bubble of air rose up. Fearing she would belch again, she forced a cough instead and—

“Oh!” exclaimed many.

Something fluttered from Marjorie’s mouth, carried on the warm breeze of her sickly wheezing. It landed on the lectern, slick with bile, arched on its many limbs. A slimy thing, armored in spiny protrusions. It rotated on its stick legs, wings brushing themselves upon its back. The very sight of it, dripping, poised for liftoff, seemed to inspire its brethren to follow in its footsteps. Her bloated body came alive with movement. Marjorie doubled over, a stampede of feet raking through her chest. She grasped the edges of the lectern. She coughed again, gagged, spat another wet specimen onto the floor between her feet.

Oh, what is this sensation? This agony?

There wasn’t room enough for them all to pass. They pressed in other directions. She straightened, the pain lifting her onto her toes. A terrible whine escaped her, as her mouth became overcrowded. The audience began rising to their feet. Afraid. They called her name, but she could not answer. She was…

Coming apart at the seams.

The sound of her scream was distorted through the weaving of insect legs, as her belly opened under her robes like a burst barrel. They came free of her. She fell to her knees, toppled onto her side. Before her, off the edge of the stage she saw her fellow Gloamians scattering, their mouths wide with terror as hers yawned with an outpouring of countless children.

Her final gift to the world.

40

HUNTING PARTY

GUNNAR

They were guided into the church like prisoners, shuffling with their arms restrained. The church was dim and moody, lit only by a series of tall candle stands along the front of the stage. The seats were already mostly filled up as they entered, so they sat near the back of the crowd, their captors sliding into the pew behind them. Always within reach.

Gunnar’s heart slammed in his chest. He regarded Alma beside him, saw her worry-stricken brow. Next to her, Father Ryker scanned the room with a different kind of horror in his eyes, a disgust Gunnar believed he recognized. It was the look of someone who once believed they’d known their neighbors, and no longer did.

There was movement in the aisle. It was her. Many heads turned to see as she drifted strangely between them, wobbling on legs unfamiliar with the sudden weight that had been introduced to her body—an immense rotundity beneath her robes. Had she always been pregnant? Gunnar wondered. Surely not. Not to that extent, anyway.

He gazed toward the stage, where the Elders would surely emerge in due time. Marjorie climbed its steps, made her way to the pulpit. There she leaned with great relief, as it was clearly a strain to be on her feet.

“Good evening,” she said, then winced. Took a deep breath.

“Where are the Elders? We have waited long enough!”

“The Elders are coming…” she replied, though it seemed a great effort to speak. She held fast to the pulpit before her. Not only did she appear to be spontaneously pregnant, she appeared to be on the brink of childbirth at this very moment.

“What is the matter with you, Mother Marjorie?”

“What is that on your face? Were you attacked?”

Her face was dirtied with what appeared to be dried blood. Either she’d been dealt a terrible blow to her mouth, or she’d buried her head into some rare meat. Altogether she gave the disconcerting impression of a lunatic on stage, gritting her teeth while trying to smile through them.

What the hell is going on? Gunnar thought, as his earlier notion of exposing the Elders in their own church drifted farther and farther from him, some new and terrible reality playing out in its place.

Mother Marjorie burped. Gagged. Gunnar was sure she would be sick, but she seemed to hold it down. Until…

She burped again. This time she released something, only it wasn’t vomit. Something spat from her mouth onto the pulpit before her. Everyone saw it. Everyone gasped. Gunnar couldn’t be sure what it was, they were too far back. Then Marjorie doubled over, still gagging, coughing, until she keeled over onto the floor with a heavy thud. People stood from their seats, preparing to help her, and then—

“Oh!”

The church filled with cries, as the air filled with… something else. Something alive. Marjorie juddered on the floor. Her mouth was wide, and Gunnar saw clearly the gleaming joints and bristled feet of many things emitting from her, taking flight on milky wings. The others jumped to their feet. Gunnar and Alma and Ryker joined them. Screams from the front rows. Gunnar caught glimpses of darting bodies over their heads. A woman in the row before them let loose screaming, until her mouth was abruptly plugged by one such body. She recoiled. Gunnar recoiled. Her lips stretched over its wriggling form, sharply bent hind legs prying, seeking access. A stunning sight to behold. The woman clawed at the thing as it overcame her, slipping deeper into her gullet, until at last she collapsed onto the floor between their pews.

The crowd flew about in a panic. Gunnar spotted several more of them—bug-eyed, bug-mouthed victims failing to stop the creatures’ insertions into their throats.

Gunnar glanced at Alma and Ryker beside him, trapped in their row by the frantic rush of bodies through the aisle, each of them peering about in a state of shock, eyes and mouths gaping in awe.

“Close your mouths!” he shouted at them both. “Don’t let them into your—”

Gunnar snapped back as a buzzing shape struck him square in the face, jamming its jittery, prickly legs into the wet cavity of his mouth. He stumbled back, collapsed onto the seat of the pew. He grabbed the thing by its jerking legs, felt the slice of their barbed exteriors, drawing blood. Suddenly Alma was over top of him, reaching, grabbing at the thing as it scrambled about his lips. Its twitching head shivered against the hard palate of his mouth. It cut him there, a sharp, piercing sensation which made Gunnar’s eyes fill with tears. Biting? Pincering? Probing? Alma grabbed hold of its body—what still remained outside of him, anyway—and growled with the effort of pulling it loose. Its wings continued to flutter beneath his lips, crushed beneath Alma’s hands. With another hard pull, she managed it. She pulled it free, shrieking and biting. Its head was not unlike the Elders’ heads, Gunnar noted. A tangle of tiny feelers, black eyes, with an extended proboscis, wet with Gunnar’s blood. It wagged in Alma’s grasp, until she hurled it away, over the heads of the crowd surging all around them.

Ryker took Alma by the hand, Alma taking Gunnar by his, forming a link as they pushed into the aisle, into the flow of bodies racing for the exit. But there would be no exit, they discovered. The others were already piling up there, pushing against the doors at the church’s entrance. Howling. Pounding. Begging.

The doors are sealed, Gunnar thought.

Another insect briefly landed upon the back of Alma’s head before lighting off again. The air was full of them. The others’ bodies were beginning to litter the floor at their feet, collapsing into the aisle as they convulsed, eyes rolled back, jaws bulging against the invading parasites already inside.

Shouts of ‘We’re trapped!’ erupted from the front. Shortly thereafter there came the sound of creaking, splitting wood. A crash. A screaming roar. A plume of dust blew up from the crowd near the entrance.

“The bell tower stairs have collapsed!” Father Ryker shouted. “Go back!”

Keeping Alma’s hand, it was now Gunnar in the lead as he directed them from the center aisle back into the rows of pews, away from the pushing hordes. They moved toward the side of the nave, where still more townspeople fled, arms over their heads. Others climbed upon each other’s shoulders, reaching for the high windows which quickly proved unreachable. Gunnar led Alma and Ryker along the outer edge, toward the stage. Seeing as there was nowhere to run, their best recourse was to—

Hunker down, Gunnar thought.

“There!” Alma said, and pointed over his shoulder.

Gunnar saw the opening at the side of the stage, the crawlspace underneath. They went there. Alma climbed under first. Father Ryker second.

As Gunnar prepared to follow them through, a nearby sound drew his attention away. The squalling of a baby boy. Gunnar scanned the open nave—the incomprehensible mass of bodies fighting near the entrance on the other side, the ever-present cloud of insects hovering, swooping, preying over their heads. It sounded again, the peal of a small child in distress.

“Hold on,” he shouted beneath the stage as he turned and started for the pews once more.

He found them three rows deep—Neil with his daughter and baby boy, all on the floor. Gunnar hurried to them. Dropped to his knees. The baby boy screamed in fear, otherwise unharmed. Neil convulsed on his back, a bloody froth dripping from the corner of his mouth. The girl lay beside him thrashing as one of those things scratched and fought to find its way into her mouth. Gunnar grabbed the creature from her beating hands. The incessant thing turned on him in an instant, biting, squealing, the hard carapace of its body folding and bucking under his grasp, a sensation that sent Gunnar wincing in disgust. He threw it to the ground, stomped it under the heel of his sandal. It burst like the overgrown beetle that it was. Gunnar scooped the baby into his arms. Meanwhile the girl hovered over her father, desperate to help him.

“Rose,” Gunnar said, hoisting her baby brother against his hip. “Rose, come with me. Please.”

She turned to him and Gunnar saw clear, indisputable heartache behind her otherwise expressionless gaze.

“It’s too late,” he said, and prayed she could understand him.

He offered his hand. Rose considered him, considered her father whose back arched gruesomely in the air in the throes of some terrible agony. A dozen more of those things hummed over their heads, zipping back and forth through the church in search of additional victims.

Rose took Gunnar’s hand. He pulled her to her feet, led her from the pews, racing for the stage where Alma’s face peeked out from the shadows, anticipating his return. Gunnar crouched and handed the boy over to Alma, then ushered the girl in after him.

Something smacked Gunnar like a flat hand against his back, followed by a shooting pain in the back of his neck. He reached over his shoulder, toward the weight of the creature perched between his shoulder blades. He groped at it, felt the flutter of its wings against his fingertips. It jabbed him again, the needle of its proboscis piercing his flesh. He cursed, crumpled one of its wings into his fist, and yanked it from over his head. He hurled it across the stage floor. Before it could come crawling after him, he ducked and scampered beneath the crawlspace with the others.

“Are you all right?” Alma whispered.

“Yeah, I think so.”

It was dark and mostly enclosed under the stage. The chaos was muffled. The light from the candles up top seeped through the gaps in the floorboards, just barely enough to see the others by. Vaguely. Alma, afraid but determined. Ryker, darkly pensive. Rose, with her usual faraway gaze. The baby boy, Chance, continued to cry and cough, though he’d exhausted himself, his voice only a pitiful rasp.

Beyond the stage, their fellow Gloamians’ screams were starting to thin. Someone sprinted nearby, out of breath, followed by a sudden yelp and a thud as they hit the floor. There came the thump of footsteps over their heads, someone frantically chasing across the stage. They ran for the door at the back. Pounded on it.

“Please!” the woman screamed. “Elder Lawrence! Elder Vincent!”

She screamed again. Short, panicked bursts. The creatures must have hounded her, as she gasped and stumbled about. Gunnar was sore along the back of his neck where the one had stuck him.

Why do they go for the mouth? he wondered.

The woman’s footsteps sprinted overhead before she let out another scream, pitched forward, and spilled off the edge of the stage and onto the floor before their secret crawlspace. Her mouth was crammed with spiny legs. She sliced her hands upon them, trying to pull it loose to no avail. In another instant the creature pulled itself into her, out of reach, and she began to shiver and shake like the others. Gunnar, Alma, and Ryker simply watched, not daring to move, not daring to draw the attention of the other insects, whose remaining victims were in short supply now, by the sounds of it.

Eventually the church fell into a new kind of silence. There was the occasional flitting of wings, the rustle of twitching bodies. The woman just outside their crawlspace spasmed just so, eyes rolled back to their whites, mouth leaking a mixture of saliva and blood, perhaps something more.

In the minutes that followed, baby Chance’s cough only seemed to worsen. Gunnar tensed each time, startled and agitated both.

They will hear us. They will find us.

There came the creak of an opening door. Gunnar held his breath. So did the others, he was sure. Footsteps emerged upon the stage. Three sets, if he wasn’t mistaken.

Elder Lawrence.

Elder Vincent.

Elder McKinley.

Baby Chance continued to cough. Gunnar met eyes with Alma, each of their clenched jaws communicating that something must be done. The Elders walked further out onto the stage, their scuffing feet approaching. Baby Chance wheezed. Alma pulled up the many layers of her robes, wrapped the little boy in their excess. Wrapped him tight. Enough to muffle him. But it wasn’t enough.

Please, Gunnar thought. Please be quiet.

The Elders’ footsteps came to a stop. Gunnar leaned close, found the shape of the child’s head with the cup of his palm. It seemed the filter of Alma’s robes only made it harder for Chance to breathe, gasping violently. Gunnar clamped his hand over the mound of the child’s face. Held him firmly. Felt the boy’s warm breath through the fabric as he twisted and squirmed.

Please stop coughing. I’m sorry, I am…

The Elders seemed to observe the aftermath of their horrid ambush. Close by, there came a woman’s choking wheeze.

“Oleth,” she said. “Oleth… have mercy on me.”

The floorboards creaked beneath the Elders’ weight as they moved away, toward the woman’s voice. As she went on speaking, Gunnar thought he recognized her.

“I did as you asked,” she said. Each inhaled breath was a grisly chore. “I did… everything you asked.”

“You did very well,” one of the Elders said, their voice not entirely human. “And now you may rest, Mother Marjorie.”

A sound escaped her. Was it relief? Was it gratitude? Or was it sorrow? Despair?

“Will I see them again?” she asked. “Will I see my Blake? My Danny? My Zachary?”

“Oh, yes,” one of the Elders said. “They are all waiting for you.”

Mother Marjorie began to weep. But it wasn’t long before her cries faded, growing softer, milder, until at last the church was returned to its previous silence and the Elders drew together at the head of the stage. One of them crouched, rummaging where Mother Marjorie’s body lay, then proceeded down the steps of the stage and toward the front of the church. Distantly, faintly, a click, the rattle of wood, the squeak of hinges. They had opened the church doors, Gunnar thought. Then the footsteps returned, climbed the stage steps, rejoining the other Elders there.

“Rise.”

A wave of movement. A collection of stirring bodies. Gunnar, Alma, Ryker, and even young Rose startled as the woman at the mouth of their crawlspace jerked abruptly into motion. An uncanny rolling of the head, the neck, the shoulders, curling forward as she straightened onto her feet without the use of her hands. She wobbled onto her feet, though she remained oddly bent in the spine, her upper body sitting slightly off center, her hip jutting sidewards.

“Bring us the witch.”

Gunner couldn’t see them from under the stage, but listened as the bodies lumbered about the church. The woman staggered ahead, out of view. A great number of footsteps brushed toward the front of the nave, toward the entrance, spilling out into the night on the Elders’ orders. All those previously felled bodies, Gunnar thought, resurrected by means far more heinous than anything they had done…

Gunnar turned to Alma, found her already looking back with a shine of concern in her eyes, likely thinking the same thing he did.

Zola was in trouble.

41

LAST RESORT

ELLIS

Ellis watched the rise and fall of an entire day through the window of his old family home, his daughter’s corpse held against himself as he willed her heartbeat to return, and then eventually willed his to match hers, because what was the point otherwise?

His family was dead. He had thoroughly failed them, had not cared for them well enough in life and now this was to be his punishment.

Not everything is about you, you self-centered wretch.

His wife’s voice in his head. Words she might have said if she were still alive. She usually had him figured out with a devastating precision.

Somewhere in there is a better man than you think…

The girl’s words. The witch’s words.

Better than the others think, too.

What did she really know? She was only a child. She may have been a powerful little thing, imbued with magic and special insights learned from a hard life outside the comforts of a community, but she was not all-knowing or infallible. She could be as wrong as anyone. Wrong about him.

I am not a better man. I am a wretch. I am the rat who stalks this city’s streets.

He regarded the dead woman in his arms. Nadine, a beauty one could scarcely believe had ever come from the likes of him. Dead. But not gone. Not gone...

Because she can still be saved. They can all still be saved.

What was grief or sorrow in the face of second chances?

It was in the midst of these thoughts that the church bell started to ring. Ellis straightened. Surprised. Confused. He had spent so long submerged in his anguish, his thoughts had formed a hazy film over them, so that it was a moment or two before he processed the sound.

A sermon? At this hour? And then, his thoughts clearing even more, The Elders have emerged again?

He gently moved his daughter’s corpse away, slipping out from under her. He wandered to the door, opened it, peered out into the dark night. The church bell rang, and rang, and rang, on and on.

His mind flashed with images, horrid memories of Elder Lawrence’s true form, a nest of monstrous appendages wrapped haphazardly under the costume of their holy robes. Whatever that church bell signaled, it was nothing good, Ellis thought.

He regarded the darkness of his old family home, before closing the door behind him and stealthily making his way toward the sound of that tolling bell. He arrived at the edge of the church square from an inconspicuous alley, whose shadows he kept to as he watched what unfolded next.

Someone was up there in the bell tower, ringing away. A shadow in the moonlight. Down below, the empty square began to fill with curious arrivals. They came in a large crowd. Where were they coming from? he wondered. Was this Alma’s group?

They came to stand in the square as the church bell continued to toll, venturing no farther than that. Curious. The bell ringer must have thought it curious also, as they finally ceased their ringing and came to stand at the tower’s edge, peering down, revealing herself as Mother Marjorie.

“The Elders have conferred with Prophet Tobias!” she called. “They are ready to address the people of Gloam!”

Finally the crowd started heading inside. Soon after, Ellis’s previous question was answered. He spotted Alma, Calum—Gunnar—and Father Ryker, apprehended and escorted in the hands of the crowd. This was not their group, Ellis thought. Not entirely, anyway. Something had obviously gone wrong at tonight’s meeting.

Now they are walking into a trap.

The Elders, whatever they were, were not stupid. They knew of the witch within their city’s walls. They must have also known not to trust Calum, an unknown, and yet had chosen to let him loose in their city as well. They were using him and Alma as bait, naturally. Except their witch had somehow managed to remain undetected much longer than the Elders probably predicted. Perhaps they had not known to what extent Father Ryker was compromised, or that his faith had been waning long before recent events. And perhaps the Elders had not counted on the plague making such a mess of everything, distracting even Mother Marjorie from her mission.

The biggest question on Ellis’s mind now, however, was this: why did the Elders want the witch so badly? To the point of letting so many other loose ends unravel in the mere hope of catching her?

He watched from the shadows as his fellow townspeople filtered through the church entrance. Mother Marjorie vanished from the bell tower and soon reappeared in the doorway down below, looking out. Ellis shrunk back slightly as he felt her gaze move over him, searching. Then she shut the doors, and the square was empty once more.

Something terrible was about to happen. He could feel it. The others had to feel it, too. But then why were they ignoring it? Perhaps they believed they had the numbers now. Or perhaps—

Ellis’s train of thought was derailed by an eruption of cries from the church. He froze, listening. Pulse quickening. He drifted from his hiding place into the empty square, as their voices drifted out and across the black night.

Terror.

He wandered closer. The screams only became louder. More fraught. As he came to stand before the church, a violent series of bangs against the doors startled him back. Bodies heaved against the other side. A storm of helpless wailing. The volume of their screams climbed even higher, impossibly high, a shivery chill tracing Ellis’s spine as he realized he was listening to the sounds of desperate souls fighting for their very lives.

Oh, dear god…

His instincts were not as he thought. He raced for the church doors, grabbed their iron handles in his fists and pulled, pulled, pulled with all the meager strength he possessed in his thin frame. But the doors held fast.

Oh, dear god, dear god!

The others were still inside, of course, but Ellis had not seen the young witch. Zola. Where was she? He believed he knew. Something must be done. Something to save them, if there was even time left for it.

Ellis bolted from the church, from the open square, shambling hurriedly in the only direction he could think to go.

I must save them, he thought, for if I do not, my family is truly forfeit as well!

He raced for the infirmary. He slipped in from the back, just as they’d done the previous night. The tent was even more silent than before. Deserted. Their healers, however many were left, were surely in the church now with everyone else.

Ellis hurried for the trapdoor. He knocked four times in quick succession. He pulled the hatch open. Down below, only darkness.

“Hey,” he whispered into the hole. “Girl…” No answer. “Zola?” No answer.

He performed a quick search of the infirmary until he found a half-used candle, as well as one of their handheld lighting mechanisms. He struck it many times until its resulting sparks caught, burned. He lit the candle, carried it back to the trapdoor. He crouched there, peering down into the interminable darkness.

“Zola?” he called again. “Are you there?”

No answer.

He set his candle gently upon the floor, lowered himself onto the ladder. As he neared what he believed to be the bottom rung, he grabbed his candle from the ledge of the trapdoor’s opening. He touched the floor below and released himself, stumbling. The candle’s flame wagged wildly as he steadied himself.

“Zola?”

He moved toward the back of the cellar, legs stiff with dread for what he might find. Or might not find. A nightmare was unfolding outside, sinking its claws into their city. Was she not meant to prevent this? Was she not the miraculous answer to all their woes?

He neared the back of the cellar, revealing her crates, her belongings therein. Just past them, shuffling slowly, his candlelight unveiled her crumpled nest of sleeping materials—as well as the girl nestled in them, sleeping like the dead. Ellis saw the tremble of her eyelids, the furrow of her brow as his candlelight reached her.

“Zola,” he said, and went quickly to her, all but collapsing to his knees in his urgency. “Zola, wake up. Wake up, girl!”

He gave her shoulder a shake. The furrow of her brow deepened. Agitated. He shook her again, harder, and those dreaming eyes opened at last. A moment of incomprehension. Her wandering gaze latched to him. She recoiled, forgetting herself, this place. Then it all came crashing back.

“Ellis?”

“What are you doing still asleep?” he said, his confoundedness overridden by the imperative problem at hand. “Everything is at stake!”

“What?” Zola pushed herself up, squinting in the low candlelight. “What time is it?”

“The sun has risen and set since I last saw you. It is the following night.”

“That’s impossible…”

“It is true.”

She appeared momentarily disbelieving.

“What do you mean, everything is at stake?”

“The Elders have called everyone to the church. But it is wrong. Something grievous has happened there. The doors are sealed, the others trapped inside. I heard their screams. I did not know what to do. I came straight here to find you.”

“Alma? Gunnar?”

“All inside the church, I fear. It is only us left.”

“Oh. Oh no…”

Ellis jumped back as she sprang to her feet and began rummaging through her belongings. She heaved something from her crate, then delicately set it on the ground before continuing to rummage through whatever lay underneath. Ellis tried to focus his candlelight on the thing she’d pulled out. A small potted plant. Ellis had never seen a plant so healthy and sickly at the same time, with its bare, gnarled branches, and the deep warm brown of its bark.

“What is that?” he said.

Zola grabbed him by the wrist and forcefully directed the candlelight closer to the crate she searched through, gathering her things.

“What are you searching for?”

She produced a wooden bow and a quiver full of arrows, which she slung over her shoulder. She reached back into the crate and next produced a dagger, except that its blade was equally wooden as everything else. She handed that to Ellis.

“What is this? It is wood.”

“It is carved from the same wood as that tree at your feet,” Zola said. “It is a special plant.”

“Special?”

“It is precisely the reason I have survived the Deadlands all these years. All my life, really.”

Ellis marveled. “That plant? That tiny thing? But how?”

“Well, that is only a branch. There is more where it came from,” she said nonchalantly, as she continued to rummage. “It is the only living thing unsusceptible to the corruption, as far as I know.”

Ellis was momentarily speechless.

“Unsusceptible? Is that possible?”

Ellis couldn’t believe it. All this talk of false leaders, a false afterlife, and everything else Alma’s false husband endlessly jabbered on about, and this witch possessed something so crucial as this? And it was only being mentioned now?

“You’ve kept this to yourself all this time? This plant… this could single-handedly turn the tides—”

“It is not so simple as you’re thinking,” she interrupted him. “The plant can survive in its own right, but it does not alter the corruption in any reverse manner. It simply prevents its spread… especially when ingested. Which I suspect will be rather important in the days to come, should we survive this.”

“What do you mean, in the days to come?”

“I have a feeling once your Elders are dead—assuming we can manage that—the corruption will spread through this city as it was always meant to, as it would have otherwise.”

“You mean…”

“Your Elders are the direct offspring of the corruption, are they not? They’ve pulled the wool over your eyes for a reason, as Gunnar suggests. They’ve spared your people from the corruption for that same reason. A better harvest. Ah! There it is…”

She pulled a final object from her crate, what appeared to be a long length of narrow rope with a rusted, metallic claw attached to its end.

“What is that?”

“This,” Zola said, “is how I scaled your city’s walls. And it’s how I’ll scale your church’s bell tower, too. Come on, let’s go.”

Ellis tried to follow as best he could. He blew out the candle and followed Zola up the ladder, back into the infirmary.

“Thank you for coming to get me,” Zola said, as they slipped through the back of the tent. “I fear I would have slept the rest of the night if you hadn’t.”

“You were quite exhausted last night,” Ellis said. He observed the wooden dagger in his hand as they proceeded through the dark alleys, back in the direction of the church. “What am I supposed to do with this, anyway?”

“Use it to defend yourself, of course. If it comes to that.”

Ellis couldn’t help but gulp. Defend himself from what? The monstrosities wearing their Elders’ robes? Somehow he doubted a meager wooden dagger would suffice.

“I hope you aren’t thinking that I’m to follow you up the bell tower,” Ellis said. “I am not nearly strong enough to be climbing up the sides of things.”

“I will do the climbing, and then I will see about unlocking the door from the…” Zola trailed off. She threw an arm across Ellis’s chest, stopping him. She guided him back alongside her, around the nearest corner from which she peered out, surveying something ahead.

“What is it?”

“There are…” She trailed off again. “The townspeople. They are outside, but... hurry, follow me.”

Before Ellis could utter another word, Zola led him by the wrist around the next corner, into the small space between its structure and the next. From there, she peered out again. Ellis couldn’t stand not knowing, so he did the same.

Many figures wandered under the scant moonlight. Gloamians, like Zola said. Strange and shuffling, as though their joints didn’t work properly, as though they had never learned to walk until now. Very odd indeed. It appeared they moved in no determined order, gazing this way and that, all headed in different directions. Before Ellis could get a better look, Zola pulled him back.

“What are they doing?” he whispered. “I don’t understand.”

“It would appear they are searching,” Zola said.

“But they were in the church a little while ago. You don’t think…”

“Come on.”

Zola pulled him along again. They crept into the next alley, where more Gloamians drifted lazily about, stiffening at odd intervals, faces raised as they seemed to listen.

“They are not themselves,” Ellis said, before Zola quickly led him once more across the open path, darting into the next shelter of shadow.

They moved through the rest of the city this way. Eventually they reached the church square, and could see from afar that the doors were open. There would be no need for scaling the bell tower after all.

“Everyone is outside now,” Zola said. “But they have been changed.”

Ellis never would have expected his heart to sink as it did, learning that so many of his neighbors were now unlike themselves, or overtaken by something nefarious.

“The others… Alma and Father Ryker… do you think—”

“Come on,” Zola urged once more, and began pulling Ellis toward the church.

This time, Ellis dug in his heels.

“Hold on a second!” he said. “It is only us against them, you foolish girl! We don’t stand a chance.”

“It is our only chance,” she said. “They are hunting us. Better to strike first and catch them by surprise.”

She stuck her head out, surveying the empty square. The townspeople appeared to have dispersed in all directions, everywhere but here. Ellis hated to admit that Zola was probably right, except he couldn’t foresee any conclusion that ended well for them. Then again, what other options were there?

“Are you ready?” Zola asked. Ellis shook his head that he wasn’t, to which she replied, “All right. Let’s go.”

42

MASKS OFF

ALMA

The baby under Alma’s robes stopped squirming. Stopped coughing. Stopped breathing. And still Gunnar held his hand over the child’s face, concealed beneath the fabric. Alma was horrified but could say nothing. Meanwhile Gunnar’s attention was solely on the creaking floorboards over their heads, the Elders whispering amongst themselves as their puppets filed out of the church in search of Zola, wherever she was.

It’s over. Everything we accomplished. The momentum we gained. Gone.

They’d been led into a trap they should have predicted with ease. Then again, how could they have possibly planned for this?

She regarded the man beside her wearing her husband’s skin, and seethed with fleeting hatred. There and gone. She could not hate him for long. Yes, he had believed it was a good idea to come here, to go along with the mob’s demands, and yes, Alma had her unspoken reservations, but they had not exactly been in a position to resist much more than they had.

Where is Zola, anyway?

She would know what to do, Alma thought. She had survived worse than this in the Deadlands, surely. Had she seen this coming all along? Alma wondered. Was that why she hadn’t come tonight? Not even to warn them?

The Elders continued to whisper, but Alma couldn’t understand a word they said. Their voices were low, and their words were… unlike words at all. Bizarre. Was this how they spoke in private? When they could shed their disguises, and talk amongst themselves?

If they stayed hidden much longer, Alma thought, the puppet mob would return, perhaps with Zola in hand. Then they would be outmatched. The Elders would return to the safety of their locked doors. But here, now, they were three against three. Alma assumed Rose would be of no help, of course…

Suddenly the Elders fell silent. Alma held her breath. Then, from across the church, there came a familiar voice.

“Stop!” Followed by, “Ellis, get behind me!”

A chill traced Alma’s body then, along her shoulders, up the back of her neck and scalp. A pleasurable sensation. Inspiration. She unwrapped the baby boy from her robes. Her heart sagged with sorrow at the reality of it, then sparked once more as she reminded herself these things were only temporary.

Nothing truly dies.

Words of the young woman standing out there now, braving the odds despite the terror she must have felt. Alma gently placed Laurie’s dead child aside beneath the shelter of the stage. She glanced at young Rose, regarding her baby brother with what might have been understanding. Always hard to tell with her.

It will be all right, Alma wished to say but couldn’t. Not now. Maybe later, if they were lucky. If they did what needed to be done, rather than lose themselves in the hopelessness of it all.

She looked at Gunnar, saw the same expression in his eyes that she felt in her own.

It’s time to go.

They moved. Gunnar slipped out from the crawlspace first, followed by Alma, followed by Father Ryker. They sprang to their collective feet, saw the church as it was, as it had been transformed since last they’d seen it. Crushed insects littered the floor, the pews. Some lay twitching on their backs, their barbed legs curling in on themselves. It seemed they had a very short expiration without a suitable host to claim. Which suited Alma just fine.

The Elders took notice of them with great surprise as they emerged from their hiding place. A glimmer of vulnerability across each of their faces, flickering in the candlelight. At the other end of the church, obscured through the shafts of moonlight coming through the far windows, Zola stood at the mouth of the center aisle, bow drawn, an arrow nocked and pulled, ready to be fired at a moment’s notice. Ellis stood behind her, quivering with what appeared to be a dagger in his hand.

Father Ryker audibly gasped beside her. It was only then she remembered that he would not see the Elders anymore as she did—as men in red robes.

“How kind of you,” Elder Lawrence spoke, “to bring yourself to us directly. I suppose our flock need not persist in their search.”

“Ellis, shut the doors!” Alma called to him.

It was an effort for the old man to tear his gaze away from their leaders, but he managed it. He shut the church doors, lowered the thick wooden bar into place, sealing their army of puppets outside, should they return. Zola remained as she was, aimed and ready to strike. The Elders stood calmly, hands clasped invisibly before them, draped in their long sleeves.

“The infamous witch from the Deadlands,” Elder McKinley said, not an ounce of warmth about his face. “Prophet Tobias would love to meet you.”

“I would love to meet your prophet as well,” Zola said. “But are you creatures not all one and the same?”

“We are Oleth’s children,” Elder Vincent said. His normally thoughtful voice darkened with an uninhibited impatience. “Whereas the one below is another thing entirely. A long limb, you could say.”

“One of the weed’s many branches,” Zola said. “I’ll admit, I’m not so interested in speaking with weeds. I’m much more interested in uprooting them.”

Elder Lawrence smiled. Alma wondered if the others could see it—whatever his face must have been to their unobstructed eyes.

“You are so full of confidence for one so young,” he said. “Your soul… much bigger than its vessel would suggest.”

“Purer as well,” Elder McKinley added, all but salivating, judging by his tone. “The purest we’ve had the pleasure of finding in quite some time.”

“Truth be told, Oleth is not so interested in speaking, either,” Elder Lawrence said. “It is more a matter of appetite.”

Zola let loose her arrow with little warning. A whistle of sliced air. It struck Elder Vincent square in the head, embedded deep into the soft flesh of his face. Something incredible happened then. Alma couldn’t rightly make any sense of it, what she saw, only that in the instant Elder Vincent’s head recoiled from the arrow’s impact, upon snapping forward again his soft pink flesh had become something gray and crawling, its elaborate texture incomprehensible. The head was entirely different, in fact. And the wooden arrow, previously puncturing his cheek, was revealed to have pierced the creature’s deeply recessed black eye.

In an instant the creature known as Elder Vincent crumpled forward onto the stage, nothing more than a heap of alien appendages unspooling from crimson cloth.

Elder Lawrence and Elder McKinley moved into action. A quick-footed dash. A billow of red robes peeled from wet, unfurling bodies. The shine of great, shimmering wings. They beat the air, lifting off the stage. Alma became momentarily paralyzed. They were hovering malignancies, their exteriors giving the impression of something turned inside out, an amalgamation of hardened shell and exposed sinew, gleaming and fresh.

Zola had another arrow nocked and drawn within seconds. She let it fly, another whizz of broken air—but only that. The Elders were fast. One of them hurtled in Zola’s direction. She dived into the many rows of pews. Ellis screamed and fled around the corner near the entrance, where the bell tower stairway had collapsed. The beast wasn’t interested in him anyhow. It landed briefly atop the backs of the seats, its curled, insectile claws clamping, thrusting, pushing airborne once more as Zola scrambled on hands and knees between the pews.

Help her, was the first full thought that surfaced in Alma’s scattered mind. But with what?

The second Elder swooped over her head. She ducked, stumbled, caught herself against one of the pews, and saw that the creature came not for her but for Gunnar, as he ran headlong in Zola’s direction. He dropped to the floor as the beast dived for him next. It clattered against the seats and lifted off again with a garbled vocal distortion Alma had never had the displeasure of hearing before.

I was not prepared for this.

She glanced to the stage, where Elder Vincent’s corpse lay under the soft glow of candlelight. Then she looked to the candles themselves, to the sturdy candelabra holding them. It was the best weapon available to her, she thought. She dragged one from the stage into both hands like a long staff, as its candles toppled to the floor, rolling. Father Ryker took her lead and grabbed one for himself.

Somewhere in those pews, Zola crawled as the Elder pursued overhead, its wild, writhing form buzzing, circling. The other Elder remained with Gunnar, who succeeded at least in dividing their attention.

“Help Zola,” Alma told Father Ryker.

They raced for her, for the thing hovering in the moonlight, in all its monstrous glory. Alma took a swing at it with her candelabrum. It was a heavy instrument, unruly, but she connected with a satisfying thump, as Father Ryker came from the other side, thrusting his like a spear. Together they swung and jabbed and prodded the airborne beast as Zola squirmed out from the pews beside Alma, jumped to her feet, and pulled another arrow from her quiver.

“Alma!” Gunnar screamed.

The second Elder came at them, a black and hissing demon through the gloom. Alma turned on her heel to face it, candelabrum raised as it clipped her with its dangling appendages. It knocked her back, sent her slumping to the floor at the end of the pew. Zola ducked low as the creature blew past, onto her knees upon which she spun, pulling her bowstring taut before letting another arrow fly into the creature’s back. The air filled with that noise again—a disharmonious shriek—as the Elder crashed to the floor below the stage. Its impact caused the remaining candelabra there to wobble on their bases.

Alma climbed to her feet just as the final Elder seized her candelabrum, tossed it like a weightless twig, and struck her with one of its many pulsating tendrils, sending her to the ground once more. She skidded along the center aisle, toward the entrance, where she rolled to a stop, aching. Gasping.

It was then she heard the bodies beating against the doors. The puppets were outside, trying to get in.

Ellis was there. He crouched, his arms around her, assisting her back onto her feet.

“Take this,” he said, and forced his wooden dagger into her hands, his fearful eyes pleading. “I am but a feeble old man…”

“Mhmm,” Alma said, still catching her breath.

Someone screamed. She turned to see Zola on the ground, Father Ryker standing over her, thrusting his candelabrum against the demon as it pressed upon them, insect wings blurring, strobing with moonlight. A silhouette of impossible limbs. One of those limbs lashed out, sliced the air with a deliberate flick. The candelabrum came free of Father Ryker’s grasp—as his left arm came free above the elbow. A geyser of blood. The Elder swiped him aside with ease then, sent Ryker tumbling over the nearest pew. Gunnar was there, rushing to take his place as the beast closed in on the girl left exposed on the ground.

“No!” Alma screamed.

The word tore loose without thought. Without reason. They were meant to protect Zola, and yet the sight of him—Calum, but not—placed in the way of danger sent her heart into her throat, her blood freezing in her veins. Everything seemed to slow then. Gunnar placed himself across Zola, covering her, his back to the many lengths of reaching tendrils. Alma’s sandaled feet pressed forth unbidden, sliding, scuffing, her fist closing tight over the dagger’s handle, blood pounding between her ears. She did not think. Only acted. Reacted. She leapt off the ground, dagger poised high behind her head as the Elder pressed its hideous self to Gunnar’s shielding body. The dagger pierced flesh. She felt the scrape of bone, the snap of ligament. The creature’s howl filled her senses. It reared up, withdrew into the air once more. Alma went with it. She dangled between its beating wings, the wooden blade held firm, notched into one of the Elder’s many joints as it swung through the air, flapping higher still into the moonbeams over the dark nave. She felt the disturbance of air as each lashing limb missed her by mere inches, spared only by the beast’s reluctance to injure itself.

“Shoot it!” she screamed. “Shoot it!”

From her vantage, she could not readily tell that Zola had already resumed doing just that. Not until one of her many arrows pierced the translucent membrane of one of the beast’s wings. With her free hand—the one not holding onto the wooden dagger for dear life—she grabbed the arrow and gave it a deliberate tug, ripping wide the delicate skin through which it was caught.

The Elder struggled to carry their weight. They plummeted, crashed into the pews. Alma lost her grip on the wooden dagger as it remained embedded in the Elder’s flesh. She struck the back of her head on the edge of a pew along the way.

Stars. Twinkling and bright. Fuzzy.

She lay groaning. There came the twang of a bowstring. The punch of an arrow finding its target. The creature screeched. Another arrow was let loose, and the sorry whimper that followed told a clear story.

Alma pulled herself into a sitting position, then hoisted herself standing. Zola nocked another arrow, walking purposefully toward the stage where the previous creature lay squirming, having crashed there. She fired another arrow into its mass. It gave a reflexive jolt, twitching, settling again. Going still.

Alma found it difficult to believe simple arrows could defeat such extraordinary creatures, but alas it was done.

“Shit,” Gunnar said, rushing along the pews where Father Ryker had been tossed. “Ryker, are you…”

Alma hurried to meet them. Father Ryker lay on his back, splayed along the seat of the bench, the stump of his left arm dangling. A steady stream of blood pooled to the ground. Without hesitation Gunnar lifted the hem of his robes, tore a long ribbon of its fabric into his hand. He knelt with Father Ryker, wrapped the length of cloth around his bicep. Father Ryker was barely coherent, eyes glazed over, face dim in the church’s shadow. He winced as Gunnar knotted the tourniquet tight. Gunnar ripped yet another length of his robe, which he bundled and pressed to the bleeding stump. Father Ryker moaned in reply.

“That’s good,” Zola said, observing. “If he can hold on just a while longer, I’ll treat his wound as soon as we are finished here.”

Ellis ran to them, panting tiredly despite having done very little. “The others… at the doors… they have fallen silent. I don’t hear anything outside.”

“It would seem now the Elders are dead, their control has waned,” Alma said. “We should leave the doors barred, just in case.”

“Agreed,” Zola said. “Now all that remains is the one below.”

“Ellis,” Gunnar said, and motioned for him to come. “Stay with Ryker in the meantime, yeah? Apply pressure to the wound here, like this. You see?”

“Yes, I see,” Ellis said, sounding reluctant even as he did what Gunnar asked, taking his place between the seats and kneeling beside their wounded, delirious community leader.

“Don’t leave his side,” Alma told him.

“Don’t worry about me,” Ellis said, offended. “If you three really mean to go down below, well…” He hesitated. “I would pray for you, but I don’t know who to pray to anymore.”

“Thank you, Ellis,” Zola said, and judging by the look in the girl’s eyes, she meant it. Deeply. “For finding me.”

The old man made a dismissive sound, a clearing of his throat, and waved them away. Then Alma remembered something. She hurried to the front of the nave, to the opening underneath the stage. She bent there, peered into the underlying darkness where she could just make out the girl’s shape.

“Rose? It’s safe to come out now. Are you…”

As Alma’s eyes adjusted to the shadows—as much as they possibly could—she saw the young girl now cradled her dead brother in her arms. She looked up at Alma, her stare suggesting nothing in the way of sorrow, and yet Alma detected it so enormously.

“My brother,” Rose said. She looked upon the dead child. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Come on out of there,” Alma said. “It’s all right.”

The girl crawled carefully on just her knees, her brother tucked safely against her until she was out in the open once more. In the low light, Alma could still faintly see the bluish hue of the baby’s lips. She couldn’t find the proper words for Rose. So instead she simply guided the girl over to Ellis and told her to sit.

“Stay here with Ellis, all right?” she said. “We’ll be back as soon as we can. And then…” She paused. “…we’ll go from there.”

Rose didn’t look up from her baby brother. Alma bit her lip uncertainly, then moved to the creature, where she plucked the wooden dagger from its back. Its corpse gave off a foul odor—a sharp putrescence, with a hint of something sweet, a fragrance that sent Alma’s stomach rolling.

She joined Gunnar and Zola by the stage. Zola led the way up the steps, where Elder Vincent lay dead and stinking much the same. Gunnar grabbed one of the remaining lit candlesticks from the still-standing candelabra, handed it to Alma, then took another for himself before they progressed to the door beyond, into the empty waiting room. Only one more door remained.

Whereas the one below is another thing entirely…

“Are you ready?” Zola asked them.

Gunnar answered that he was. With the damp wooden dagger clenched in her hand, Alma nodded that she was as well. Zola opened the door.

Together, they ventured into the bowels of truth.

43

PROPHET TOBIAS

GUNNAR

Their candles didn’t provide an abundance of light, but it was enough to see the ground before them, so that when they ventured beyond the door and into the stone corridor beyond, they did not fall and break their necks upon reaching the head of the stairway. They stopped there a moment. Zola, with her bow drawn, peered into the dark below where the steps appeared to spiral out of sight.

“Do you hear that?” she said.

Gunnar listened. He believed he did hear something. The bellowing draft of air from some deep dark place under their feet. He also believed he felt it, that draft. It was mildly warm. Warmer than the chill of the stone surrounding them.

“I hear it,” Alma said.

Zola continued down. Alma followed. Gunnar brought up the rear. Their soft steps were muffled in the confines of the spiraling stairway, the darkness swallowing up their sounds greedily. As they ventured deeper, Gunnar noticed the shine of their candlelight took on a different quality. The stone steps became rather slick, the air thick and muggy. There was obviously some source of heat waiting below. And moisture.

What are we walking towards?

Their descent went on longer than any of them expected. It left plenty of time for Gunnar to wonder about all manner of things.

For instance, how was a structure such as this even built? He supposed seven-hundred years was plenty of time, but with whose help? Had the Elders recruited humans some odd-hundred years ago? Misled, perhaps, by some slapdash religious ideology which they’d managed to refine and expand upon to this very day? Gunnar could easily imagine how that must have gone. The emergence of immortals would have been plenty convincing to the desperate survivors of their post-apocalyptic wasteland.

“We are nearly there,” Zola whispered over her shoulder.

She was right. They had reached the foot of the staircase. The flat stone floor before them continued to spiral, the corridor ahead always out of reach, out of sight. The warm air gently pushed against them. The walls were all but dripping with whatever that moisture was.

A warm breath, Gunnar thought, and couldn’t rid the feeling.

It continued to drone, softly vibrating through the stone under their feet.

They followed the corridor round and round, until there appeared a faint light ahead. A soft, strobing red reflecting off the wet stone. Zola slowed. She repositioned her bow and arrow in anticipation. That light grew stronger as the corridor continued to turn in on itself, spiraling toward some central location. And then…

The corridor gave way to open darkness, except for the red light pulsing in its center. Brighter. Dimmer. Brighter. Dimmer.

“Wait,” Alma said, as Zola prepared to step into the chamber.

Gunnar stared solely into that strobing red light, and saw the warped film surrounding it. A soapy skin. Not just a light, or a beacon, he realized, but an organic housing, too.

He wasn’t sure what Alma wished to wait for. Perhaps only her wits, which he could understand. For him—and probably Zola as well—this was just another unfolding horror in a series of unfolding horrors. For Alma, this was a complete destruction of everything she’d believed since her earliest years. This was not an underground community for transcendence like she’d been promised. She would not find her parents here, nor anyone else she’d lost to the traditions of their so-called religion. Now only the truth lay before her, in all its disappointing ugliness.

“What’s wrong?” Zola said.

Alma shook her head. “Nothing. I just… needed a moment.”

Now it was Alma who took the first step. Zola glanced at Gunnar, a wordless exchange. An acknowledgement. They followed Alma into the chamber. She approached the flashing red light at its center. Gunnar noticed the larger anatomy of the thing as they came closer. A thick, round cushion of gray tissue bubbled up from the ground, forming the entity’s base upon which the sheer, gelatinous dome was situated. Under that dome, suspended beneath its window-like skin, the red light continued to blink, in and out, its rhythm matching the strange hum they each felt through the floor.

Like a breath, Gunnar thought again. Or a heartbeat.

Alma stopped just a few paces away. Zola and Gunnar stopped on either side of her. Even at this distance, Gunnar could detect no further details in the light itself. It was just light, as far as he could tell. No other mechanism he could see that triggered it.

“Are you the one they call Prophet Tobias?” Alma said suddenly.“Are you… the one called Oleth?”

Something in the chamber shifted. The air itself, balmy as it was, seemed to stir around them. That low drone paused momentarily, and left them standing in utter silence. Then it returned. The warm air continued to puff as it had before, as though the chamber had taken a great, deep breath. And maybe it had.

The red light strobed brighter, more intensely than ever before. Gunnar and the others reared back, squinting. In its powerful light, something appeared on the outer bulb. A shape manifested, pressing against the translucent shell, stretching its skin outward in the shape of a delicate, five-fingered hand. Gunnar couldn’t believe his eyes. So he blinked them, several times. The shape remained.

Zola moved closer, stepping toward the dome, reaching for it.

“No,” Alma said, and stopped the girl with a hand upon her shoulder. “Don’t touch it.”

“I believe that’s what it wants,” Zola said.

Alma considered. “Then let me do it. Should anything happen… we can’t afford to lose you. Nor you, Gunnar.” She glanced his way, her lovely face traced in the red light. She regarded the strange entity, the shape of a woman’s hand still pressed to the outer membrane. “But me… I can be lost.”

“Alma…” Gunnar said.

She did not heed his voice one bit. She offered him the candle she held, then gently pulled Zola back, taking her place. Zola didn’t argue with her, either. Instead she observed her own hand, which she had come so close to placing upon the entity’s surface. The small hand of an adolescent girl. Now Alma was reaching for the thing, Gunnar couldn’t help but notice that her hand seemed to match the one reaching back. Larger than Zola’s, smaller than his.

Alma hovered there a moment, a last-second reluctance to touch it. She blew out a slow and steady breath. Finally, clenching her jaw, she placed her palm against the gelatinous orb.

The red light bloomed brighter in response to her touch. Alma stiffened as some unseen current moved through her, arching in place, rising onto her toes, face lifted to the darkness above. Her eyes rolled back, their lids rapidly fluttering. She exhaled from her parted lips, and as she did there came a circulation of warm air around them, as the entity seemed to exhale in kind.

It was an effort not to pull her away and sever the connection that had been made. Her mouth trembled slightly.

“You…” Her voice emitted as a deep-bellied croak. “You are not supposed to be here.”

Gunnar exchanged another wide-eyed glance with Zola. It seemed the entity—Prophet Tobias, or Oleth, as it were—used Alma as a conduit for speech. Now it waited for a reply. An explanation.

“Other way around, actually,” Gunnar said. “You’re the one who’s not supposed to be here.”

The crimson light briefly dimmed, then brightened once more, holding strong. Processing, Gunnar thought.

“I have always been here.”

Gunnar’s stomach dropped. What could that possibly mean? If this thing was simply a branch of the entity that had taken over their world seven centuries ago, then surely—

“That’s a lie,” Zola said. “We know what you are.”

Gunnar hadn’t even considered the possibility that the entity might lie. He had taken it for granted this thing would speak plainly. Which was naive, he realized, after the deception displayed by the Elders, or given that its false afterlife was quite literally a hellscape designed to squeeze every ounce of suffering that it could from them. This was a malevolent being, without question. It would be a mistake to believe humanity had a monopoly on deceit.

The red light dimmed and brightened a few more times in quick succession. Alma twitched. A jolt of energy. She clenched every muscle, straightened like she was.

“You know nothing. You are a dying species on a dying planet.”

“And you are the infection,” Zola said, sharpening her gaze. “Which we have come to cleanse.”

“You are but corporeal things, fragile, destined to expire and rot. You are incapable.”

“We are body and soul,” Zola said. “Just like you.”

The croak of Alma’s voice changed in pitch, so as to indicate subtle amusement.

“You pretend at understanding me. But you have deceived yourself. What you are—the construct of identity, of self-awareness—will be consumed, will be transformed… will be no more. You will cease. While I am eternal.”

“I don’t pretend,” Gunnar said. “I was there when you fell from our skies, and all these years later you still haven’t finished the job.” Gunnar paused, reflecting. “You’re not eternal. You’re just another disease. We’ve beaten plenty of those before. What’s one more?”

The entity’s crimson light weakly sputtered. The pattern reminded Gunnar of the flashing lights he used to see on internet modems as they booted up. Could it be the entity was confused?

“You are not supposed to be here,” it said for the second time. Gunnar gathered its meaning was different now, however. “How?”

“It doesn’t matter how. What matters is that you were unaware. What matters is that we’re more capable than you think. We know what you’re doing here. We know what you are. We know where you are. And now we’re coming for you.”

These were bluffs. Hunches. Informed estimates. And it was a private relief to learn the entity responsible for their so-called apocalypse was not in any way all-knowing. It could be surprised. It could be tricked.

“It is a hopeless endeavor,” the entity said. “For I am embedded. Ineradicable. Your kind could not be rid of me even in the earliest stages, and now it is far too late.”

There’s nothing they can do to stop it. It’s over…

Josie’s words, from so, so long ago. They occurred to Gunnar now like it was only yesterday, her voice crystal clear in his mind. All the twisted emotions of that day rose up in him now, all these years—all these centuries!—later, like he was hearing the bad news for the very first time again. A world he could never return to. Sins he could never take back, make right.

As his train of thought derailed, Zola seemed to notice his absence of mind and took the reigns once more.

“It is not too late,” she said, as she put away her bow and arrow, and took the wooden dagger from Alma’s clenched fist instead. “The Earth’s heart still beats. I know because I feel it. And so long as it does, there is still hope of saving it.”

“There is no hope. Your souls will become trapped like the rest. The heart you speak of will soon turn still. This rock will go cold and gray. And with your suffering to sustain me, I will set forth to more fertile lands where the feast shall begin anew…”

“Gunnar?” Zola said, pulling him back as his attention had been divided, staring into that vivid red light. “Is there anything else you wished to say?”

He shook his head. “No. Nothing.”

“Good.”

Zola deftly pushed Alma aside, severing their connection as she drew her wooden dagger along the dome’s trembling skin. It parted like any flesh would, billowed open, loose and flowing. It pooled silkily to the ground, the red light within exposed. It flashed. A single, blinding pulse. They each flinched, shielding themselves from… Gunnar didn’t know what. The unknowable. But aside from the bright flash, he felt nothing. No change. Unharmed. If it had done something, he couldn’t tell.

Zola stepped into it, onto the spongy surface of its base, and grasped the light in her fist. A daring move, Gunnar thought, considering their complete lack of understanding for it. The crimson light shined through Zola’s fingers, strobing erratically. Zola visibly flexed with the effort, squeezing it harder still, crushing it. Smothering it. Gunnar feared for her, but resisted interfering. Then all at once it seemed to burst—a spray of red rays from Zola’s fist into the outer darkness, quickly fading.

The chamber’s warmth pulled inward. A final gasp. The flames of their candles were extinguished in the cold chill that followed. It was a moment before Gunnar realized they stood in complete darkness, as the red light left its memory burned across his vision.

“What just happened?” Alma asked. “One moment I was reaching for it, and then…”

“We communicated with Oleth,” Zola said. “It used you as a kind of… mouthpiece. But it was not so interested in communicating, as it simply wished to intimidate us. I destroyed it. This branch, anyway. I think…”

“I don’t remember a thing,” Alma said.

There came a scuff of feet on the stone, a gasp as Alma collapsed in the dark. Gunnar reached for her, for the sound, touched his hand to the back of her head where she knelt. She took hold of his arm, then the other as he helped her to stand.

“I feel quite drained,” she said. “I don’t know how I’ll manage the stairs, but… I feel we should leave this place.”

“We’ll carry you if we must,” Zola said.

Zola found them both in the dark as well, and assisted Gunnar in walking Alma back through the chamber, into the winding corridor. With Alma between them, Gunnar and Zola felt along the walls on either side, guiding them back to the stairs once more. Alma panted tiredly as they began their long ascent.

“Did we learn something, at least?” she said.

“We learned it can be harmed with simple tools,” Zola said. “I burst its bubble with my dagger, and snuffed out its light. As far as I can tell, the life which previously inhabited the chamber below is gone.”

“Hmm. I suppose that is something,” Alma said.

“There’s more,” Gunnar said. “It didn’t seem to know about me. Who I am, or where I came from. My knowledge of the world before seemed to surprise it.”

“What do you think that means?”

“Well, it means this thing we’re dealing with isn’t all-knowing. It’s not a god. It’s a creature like the rest of us.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Zola said. “It’s not just a creature. It manipulates its surroundings, both physically and spiritually. It is powerful, in ways we still don’t understand. But it is not… infallible… is what I believe you mean to say, Gunnar.”

“Right,” Gunnar said. “That.”

He would have liked to have seen her then. Zola. To study the teenage girl who carried herself so impressively, and used words like infallible.

Because you’re not just a creature like the rest of us, either, he thought. Are you?

“How you holding up?” Gunnar asked of Alma, as she took each step carefully, one foot joining the other before tackling the next.

“I am holding up,” Alma said, gripping his shoulder.

Up and up they went, the journey back to the surface so much longer than the journey down. Twice they paused so that Alma could catch her breath, though she refused to sit and rest her feet for even a moment.

“We must get back to Father Ryker,” she said. “I am worried for him.”

“Zola could always bring him back, should the worst happen,” Gunnar said. “Right?”

“The Earth can only heal so much,” Zola said. “If he has lost a great deal of blood… well, it would be a matter of trying, I suppose. There is no guarantee if the vessel is too far gone.”

Gunnar didn’t like the sound of that.

They continued climbing in the dark, until finally they touched upon flat stone once more. Through the open doorway ahead, and the waiting room thereafter, Gunnar could see the faint glow of candlelight on the stage beyond.

They walked Alma into the church, where Ellis still waited with Ryker and Rose, the latter of whom still cradled her lifeless brother in her arms.

“What happened?” Ellis said, still holding Gunnar’s scraps to Ryker’s wound.

“We spoke to Oleth,” Alma said, despite not even remembering it.

“You did?”

Gunnar noticed a flash of what must have been envy or regret on Ellis’s brow, for not having been able to see it for himself.

“It was not the prophet you were told to believe in,” Gunnar said, reassuring him. “It was a monstrous extension of Oleth, like we suspected.”

“What of Father Ryker?” Alma said. “Is he…”

“He still breathes,” Ellis said. “But I don’t know how much time he has left.”

“We will take him straight to the infirmary,” Zola said. “I can treat his wound there. I believe he will make it, so long as I can do that. Ellis, if you’ll help me with him. And Gunnar, if you’ll help Alma home in the meantime. You two should get some rest. We can pick up tomorrow morning. See where things have landed.”

“Yes,” Alma agreed. “That sounds like a plan…”

Ryker roused slightly as Ellis and Zola helped get him standing, much like she and Gunnar had assisted Alma up the stairway. Ryker could barely manage it, blinking his eyes dreamily, clammy and unwell. With Rose—and baby Chance—in tow, they all made their way to the church doors. Gunnar lifted the wooden bar, pulled the doors open wide…

“Oh my,” Alma gasped.

A great pile of bodies waited outside, slumped and crowding the church’s entrance. Unmoving. Lifeless eyes staring. Everywhere Gunnar looked he saw open mouths with odd trails of blood and slime down chins, across cheeks, where their invaders had evacuated their hosts. The inscects in question lay curled and withered amongst the corpses.

“This is nearly everyone,” Ellis said. “Is it just us, then?”

“There could be others,” Alma said. “Those who didn’t attend our meeting, who weren’t part of the mob… and who didn’t come when the bell rang…”

“Tomorrow we’ll see how many can be salvaged,” Zola said.

It seemed wrong to leave so many dead out in the open as they were, but of course there was nothing they could do at the moment. Alma was near collapse. Ryker was near death.

“Rose, why don’t you come home with us,” Alma said. “We’ll see to your mother and father in the morning. All right?”

They parted ways then, Zola and Ellis with Ryker, Alma and Gunnar with Rose, holding her dead brother close.

At their home, Gunnar offered Rose his place in bed beside Alma and took a spot on the hard ground, where he lay some of their extra beddings—which provided little in the way of comfort but would be enough for one night. He told young Rose he would watch over her baby brother while she slept. She seemed reluctant to sleep, but as soon as her head was down the girl was unconscious.

Alma sat at the edge of the bed, preparing to lie down herself. She regarded Gunnar with what appeared to be fondness, but might have just as likely been a trick of the shadows.

“Good night, Gunnar,” she said.

“Good night,” he replied.

She lay down. Gunnar stretched out at the foot of the bed. Within minutes, both Alma’s and Rose’s sleeping breaths filled the dwelling, and soon thereafter lulled Gunnar to sleep as well.

44

AFTERMATH

ALMA

Despite her exhaustion, Alma still managed to rise before the sun. She peered out the window, where the air was crisp and the sky was beginning to brighten with early morning light.

Gunnar made a noise from the floor. Alma paused, listened. She took a seat at the table and watched him for a time, in the dark. The rise and fall of his chest. He looked most like Calum when he was sleeping, his features rested. Otherwise Gunnar did not utilize her husband’s face quite the same. It was an unusual thing.

Do not trust him, Alma. For he is not a good man…

She remembered Calum’s words—was it a message, or just a dream?—but could not infer anything about Gunnar that would indicate he was a bad man. And yet…

Alma was startled as she noticed a wet streak traveling down Gunnar’s cheek. A teardrop. A moment later he opened his eyes. As memory and recognition washed over him, he wiped his face and discovered her watching him.

“Oh. Good morning. I didn’t think…” He paused. “Did you get enough sleep?”

“I never sleep much these days.” Then, without much in the way of tact, she asked, “What were you dreaming about? Before you woke?”

Gunnar rubbed his eyes.

“Nothing much. Just… my brother again.”

“Henry.”

“Yeah. Henry.”

“You were…” Alma knew it was inappropriate, but some part of her needed to know more about the man in her husband’s body, his character. “It was an emotional dream, then?”

Gunnar was silent for a time. He craned his neck to view the bed, young Rose still asleep. Then he lay down once more with a sigh. Alma watched in the low light as Gunnar’s eyes darted back and forth along the shadows of the ceiling, thinking.

“What is it?” Alma asked.

He closed his eyes. “Alma…”

“Yes?”

He sighed again. Anxious.

“Alma, I am not a good man.”

His words struck her like a tolling bell, ringing loud and full of alarming vibration.

“Why do you say that?”

Gunnar wrinkled Calum’s face in a way Alma had not really seen before. With such sadness. Such remorse. As though it pained him to even think on whatever it was he thought.

“I told you my brother died before the worst of the world’s collapse,” he said. “He left behind a wife… who loved him very much. I loved him, too, of course. We both did, but…” He swallowed what might have been a lump in his throat. “What I’m trying to say is… I slept with my brother’s wife. Before he’d even passed. I betrayed him. We both did. It wasn’t just me, which is beside the point, I know, but… I thought… I don’t know what I thought. I have tried to rationalize it all these years, trying to let myself off the hook. Like telling myself we were both scared and hurting, seeking comfort in each other that way. But I betrayed my brother at the end of his short life. I lied to him in his final moments.”

Alma left her chair, sitting on the ground beside him at the foot of the bed. He cracked his eyes to see her there, then promptly closed them again. “Gunnar, that happened so long ago…”

“And yet it feels like no time at all.” His mouth contorted as he struggled to smother his emotions. “I just keep thinking about how he’s gone forever. How I’ll never get the chance to make up for what I did.”

“You think he knew?” Alma said.

“I…” Gunnar sniffed. “No, I don’t think he did. I can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.”

“Better,” Alma said. “He did not know, which means he was at peace in the end, does it not? As far as your brother knew, he had his brother and loving wife beside him. That is what counted. And like you say, what was done was not out of malice. If there was any love between you and your brother, I am sure he would be pained to know you have punished yourself all these years.”

Seven hundred, to be precise, she thought.

Gunnar covered his face with his hands.

“That is not all I have done,” he said, and his voice became even more choked than before. “I have seen terrible things in that place, Alma. I have done terrible things. I’m not even sure who I am anymore. I feel I’ve been washed away, and only the most bitter parts are left of me…”

Alma touched him gently upon his arm, as he continued to hide himself with his hands.

“I do not believe you are a bad man, Gunnar,” she said. “In fact I believe you are a good man. Because you are.”

“I killed him, Alma,” Gunnar said. A shuddery breath. “I killed him…”

“Your brother?”

Gunnar shook his head. “Calum.”

Alma’s heart jumped in her chest.

“What do you mean, you—”

“It wasn’t an accident,” Gunnar went on. “I saw the opening and… we fought for it. I overcame him, and… I took it. I took what was his, because… well, because that’s what I do.”

Alma withdrew her hand. A reflex.

“So you see… I am not a good man.”

She looked upon Gunnar, who could still not bring himself to look her in the eye. Probably that was for the best, for if he did he would see her conflicted thoughts.

When it became apparent she would not be able to navigate these strange feelings anytime soon, Alma stood and set Gunnar’s robes on the foot of the bed.

“You should get dressed.”

“Do you understand what I’ve told you?” he asked.

He sat up, and now it was Alma who could not look at him.

“The sun is rising,” she said. “And there is much work to be done today.”

She grabbed their empty water jug and set out to fill it.

They met with Zola and Ellis at the infirmary, where Father Ryker was now stable and recovering, though heavily sedated. With Ellis and Rose to watch over him, Alma and Gunnar followed Zola back to the church, where the previous night’s victims lay just as they’d left them, scattered and piled outside the entrance.

Zola examined the bodies, determining the damage that had been done. She checked about a dozen of them, which just so happened to include Rose’s father, Neil.

She stood with a regretful look in her eye.

“What is it?” Alma said, heart aching for the news she already sensed was coming.

“I’m afraid the damage is severe,” Zola said. “The creatures appear to have penetrated the brains themselves, and not in a gentle manner. I could still try the resurrection, but I fear I would be inviting souls back into… less-than-functioning vessels, if there is even any function to be regained.”

“All of them?” Gunnar asked.

“So far they all appear the same. I can always check more, but…”

“No,” Alma said. The very notion of bringing life back into a body unable to properly house it seemed a terrible experiment. “There are plenty of plague victims yet. Those can still be recovered, can they not?”

“Yes, those bodies should be fine.”

That meant Laurie, Alma thought. She was still in their home, wrapped just as Neil had left her. That alone was a boon, knowing they could give the poor girl back her mother, at least—and Alma back her closest friend.

“So what’s the plan now?” Gunnar said.

“Resurrections,” Zola said. “If we can gather up as many—”

She faltered as someone approached at the edge of the church square. Figures, six or seven of them.

“Tamara?” Alma said.

Tamara and her husband, Gregory—previously resurrected—as well as Gregory’s brother, Spencer, who had helped them that first night. They were joined by a few others, perhaps friends and neighbors within Tamara’s district, though Alma did not remember them at any of their subsequent resurrections.

They came to join Alma and the others near the church.

“You live!” Alma said. “I did not think… I was so worried…”

“We heard the commotion last night,” Tamara said. “Then we saw the fire at the food tent, and when the church bell started to ring…”

“I had the most terrible feeling,” Gregory said. “It didn’t feel safe, knowing what we did. And clearly…”

“You were smart to trust your instincts,” Zola said.

“Yes,” Alma said. “The Elders are dead.”

Tamara looked as though she could hardly believe it. “Dead?”

“As well as the creature we once called Prophet Tobias,” Alma added. “There’s much to tell you, Tamara, but for now… suffice to say, Gloam is officially free of its false rulers. Though they didn’t leave many survivors in their wake…”

“All these people,” Tamara said, observing the countless corpses in the square. “So you were right about everything. Can they be brought back?”

“The damage to their bodies is beyond mine and the Earth’s ability to heal,” Zola said. “Simpler wounds, and illnesses, sure. But what has been done to them…”

“But we could use your help,” Alma blurted. “If you would be willing to offer it.”

“Yes,” Tamara said. “Of course.”

“Anything,” Gregory said.

Alma was relieved to hear it.

The sky was beginning to darken with an incoming storm.

Zola wished to amass all the bodies they could find before beginning the rituals, which Alma believed to be a good plan as well. But it also meant they needed to move quickly, before the inevitable rain made a mess of their graves in the gardens.

With the help of Tamara and her group, they swept the city from one dwelling to the next, gathering any dead they could find along the way. Ellis also made certain to mention his family—his wife and two daughters, and the children they had been looking after—located in his old home.

They also discovered the horrific aftermath of Marjorie’s husband, Blake, who appeared to have been eaten. Picked clean. The implications were enough to make Alma temporarily sick.

There were many instances Alma found herself carrying bodies with Gunnar’s help. An unpleasantness remained between them—an avoidance of the eyes, the false starts of speech neither of them seemed able to finish. This couldn’t go on forever, Alma knew. But still she could not settle her feelings.

When eventually all the intact corpses they could find were lying in the gardens, the clouds overhead began to bark with thunder.

“I count only twenty-nine bodies,” Gunnar said.

His tone was that of disappointment, which Alma thought she could understand. In light of their previous numbers, these remaining few seemed a crushing defeat.

“Some is better than none,” Zola said. “It is something.”

Gunnar assisted Alma in burying Laurie and her boy, Chance. They buried the baby as shallowly as Zola deemed possible, so they would be able to tell when the poor creature regained its feeble life.

When all the bodies were buried, they gathered before the graves—Alma, Gunnar, Rose, Tamara, Gregory, his brother, and the other small handful of townsfolk lucky enough not to have heeded the Elders’ call the previous night—and knelt in the damp dirt as they watched Zola begin working her magic.

Overhead, the storm continued to churn and growl. It began to sprinkle, but that was all. No downpour. Alma hoped it would last. She wrapped a comforting arm around Rose beside her, as Zola started with her mother’s and brother’s graves first. Hands hovering. Lips murmuring. The soft hush of drizzling rain all around them.

Laurie came to life with an upheaval of dirt. Rose flinched under Alma’s arm. The others gasped. After a brief hesitation, Rose sprang to her feet and ran to her mother. Alma joined them, standing near as Rose embraced Laurie, who appeared at a loss for words, wiping dirt from her eyes, which were still filled with the horrors she’d just been plucked from.

“I… I don’t know… oh…” Laurie’s reeling thoughts seemed to catch up with her. “Oh, Rosie…”

She gripped her daughter tight. Her fearful eyes happened upon Alma then, her probing stare searching for answers Alma didn’t feel quite ready to give. Because she knew, as relieved as Laurie must have been, she would not be so relieved to learn of her husband’s fate.

And then, in the grave beside them, the smallest mound of dirt began to wiggle.

The evening swelled with such emotion that even the storm over their heads couldn’t compete. What meager rain they received soon dissipated.

Around the gardens, many revived souls learned the fates of their loved ones—those at the church who would not be so lucky. A bittersweet affair, Alma thought—to be spared the horrors of their afterlife in exchange for the aftermath here.

Instead of returning to the dwellings which had once been their homes, the resurrected were guided to the now empty infirmary, where there were plenty of cots for everyone, plus the comfort of company in similar spirits. Even Ellis, once shunned by his wife and children, now found himself welcomed back into their circle as he was able to provide answers to their mounting disorientation.

Additionally, Gunnar was available to answer questions and explain things as best he could.

As Alma stood with Zola near the tent’s entrance, watching the man in her husband’s body deliver reassurances to the modest crowd, she couldn’t help noticing he had an easier time of it now.

The longer she watched, however, the more Alma’s mind wandered. Thoughts of Calum. Of his suffering. Of Gunnar’s confession this morning.

I should hate him, she thought. I should hate him…

She wondered what might have been, had Calum come back as intended. Would he have known what to make of his experience? Of the afterlife? Of the Elders’ true forms? Gunnar possessed knowledge of the old world, which meant he knew the whole truth, as Calum would not have. Was that enough to mean something? Was that enough to warrant Calum’s suffering in Gunnar’s place?

She wondered if there was still time to make it right. To unmake him. And how terrible was she for wondering?

“Zola,” Alma said, and turned to the girl beside her. “I know you must be quite tired after today’s rituals, but… I wonder if I might ask a final favor of you.”

“What is that?” Zola said.

Alma chewed her lip. Debating. “I wonder if you might have strength enough for one more.”

45

THE PENITENT

GUNNAR

Gunnar looked upon the faces of the survivors—fewer of them now, and most entirely ignorant of their previous preparations, their secret meetings—and was curiously struck by the child-like wonder he saw in their eyes.

He paced along the length of the infirmary and delivered his story as though it were a lesson to a classroom. He paused intermittently for questions, and was relieved to receive them.

Most of what he had to say was not easy to hear. He could see it upon their collective brows, the worry and distant reflection on those no longer with them, the realization that those souls could no longer be spared their new eternity.

“But there is still a chance to save them,” he explained. “Or at least a chance to relieve them of their suffering. Which brings us to the next chapter of our story…”

By the time Gunnar finished answering questions, night was fully upon them. And as the last remaining citizens of Gloam tucked themselves into their cots, Gunnar noticed one in particular was missing.

He found Zola speaking to Ryker in the far corner of the tent, near the floor hatch where Zola had apparently been hiding these last several days.

“Do either of you know where Alma went?” Gunnar said, interrupting. “It doesn’t seem she’s here.”

“She is at the garden,” Zola said. “I was just telling Ryker…”

“At the garden?”

“Yes. I was just telling Ryker that Alma has asked to undergo the ritual.”

Gunnar’s heart struck the inside of his chest painfully.

“She what?”

“She has asked to be left there for the night,” Zola added. “I am to bring her back at sunrise.”

Gunnar couldn’t make sense of it. Why would she want that? The Elders were already dead. There was no point in breaking that illusion anymore. “Why has she done it? Do you know?”

“She said she needed to do it. For clarity.”

For clarity, Gunnar thought. Could it have something to do with their talk this morning? His confession? Perhaps she needed to better understand her husband’s fate. Gunnar supposed he could understand that, though it didn’t calm his heartbeat any.

“Is that wise, do you think?” he said. “After what we just experienced, down underneath the church? What if there’s… I don’t know, some possibility that Oleth recognizes Alma’s soul? What if something happens? What if it doesn’t let her go?”

“It is only one night,” Zola said. “We will perform the ritual tomorrow morning. She will be all right.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, but I have a good feeling. And I trust these feelings. You should trust me, Gunnar, and get some sleep.”

Gunnar glanced at the infirmary tent flaps, in the direction of the garden across town. He imagined Alma’s body buried in the dirt there. She had gone in secret without telling him. Without telling anyone. Except Zola, of course. Why had she done that? Why had she felt the need to sneak away and—

“Gunnar,” Zola said, commanding his attention as his thoughts spiraled perilously. “She will be all right.”

“Yeah,” Gunnar said, relenting. “Okay.”

He left them, Zola and Ryker, and paced across the infirmary toward a few of the available cots there. He took a seat, still lost in his thoughts. The others’ chatter surrounded him. So much uncertainty. He could hear it in their voices.

She wishes to see where I’ve stranded her husband. And she will hate me all the more for it.

“What are you looking at? Are you looking at Gunnar?”

Gunnar looked up to see Laurie sitting nearby, her baby boy in her lap. The baby boy—Chance, Gunnar reminded himself—stared intently at him, in that curious way babies sometimes do. Laurie smiled kindly at him.

“My Rose told me what you did,” she said. “That you saved their lives last night, in the church.”

Gunnar regarded the girl beside her mother, sitting hip to hip, her head turned away shyly as her mother spoke of them.

Did she also tell you that I smothered your baby? I’m guessing not.

“Thank you for taking care of them when…” Laurie faltered, as the pain of her husband’s death visibly clawed at her.

“Of course,” Gunnar said, and forced a smile even when he felt like no hero at all.

“Would you just look at him,” Laurie said, as she shifted her boy around in her lap. Still his eyes remained on Gunnar, as though transfixed. “He is enamored with you!”

Gunnar wasn’t sure what to feel about it, other than strange. Something about the child’s eyes.

“He can tell I’m not Calum,” Gunnar said. “He can tell there is something off about me.”

Laurie’s expression softened, as she hadn’t considered that.

“I suppose that could be it. Is that what you see, Chancy?”

Laurie spoke as though it were an endearing interaction—just a curious baby noticing what most adults could not—but all at once Gunnar felt himself enclosed. Suffocating. Because there was something off about him. He was not this man. He was not this body. This truth would soon drive Alma away, and perhaps the others as well, in time. He didn’t belong here. He had not done enough to earn his place, even still, and perhaps never could.

“Excuse me,” he said, and abruptly stood from his cot.

He left the tent entirely, stepping out into the breezy night. The storm had brought with it a cold front, so the air was crisper than usual. He moved until the murmurs of those inside faded to nothing. Then he kept moving. He walked to the gardens, to the rows of empty graves. All but one. One half-filled grave that must have been hers, buried under a shallow mound.

Again, his heart pounded. His breath became short. He sat beside her and willed his nerves to settle, his guilt to soften its sharp edges.

Come back to us, he thought. Hate me if you must.

“Just come back.”

46

AMEN

ALMA

It was the longest night of Alma’s life.

Assuming Zola kept her word.

There was no way to decipher the passage of time in a world of eternal hellfire. The sky was an unending mural of shifting smoke. The scorching winds carried an endless chorus of screams and wailing from some far distance Alma wished never to travel.

She prayed she would not be forgotten in this place.

While she did not experience the specific horrors described to her in the others’ words, she bore witness to plenty of horrid sights all the same.

She met nightmarish creatures, wickedly decorated in all manner of obscene protuberances, with eyes of glass and coal whose lust for suffering reached depths far beyond that of any earthly creature she’d ever met.

She glimpsed torturous landscapes—acidic swamps, flesh-eating flower meadows, canyons of broken glass across which men, women, and children opened their bodies in search of merciful release.

She felt her skin blistered by the heat of inescapable flame, her flesh rended by claw, tooth, and blade. Felt her cheeks wetted with tears she couldn’t hope to hold back, and her throat bruised inwardly with involuntary screams.

Eight hours. Ten hours. Twelve hours.

However long her stay went on, it felt doubly so.

Long enough to witness all of this and more.

She called his name hopelessly.

“Calum! Calum!”

As though she would ever find him in this place. There were too many souls, scattered by so many rippling waves, submerged in the bloody waters of misery, churned and resurfaced over and over again so that no two souls could hope to find each other again with any ease.

And yet, even in her limited time, Alma did see a familiar face. A woman she almost did not recognize, for she had never seen her with such a deadened expression before.

“Pamela?”

The woman barely acknowledged her own name, merely glancing in Alma’s direction as they walked side by side along what appeared to be a continuous river of human waste.

“Pamela? It’s me. Alma.”

The woman glanced at Alma again, then forward, shuffling without stop. She recognized her name, it seemed, but not Alma. Or perhaps she just didn’t care to be bothered with familiarity.

“Do you remember me?” Alma said, still following. “We taught at the nursery together. In Gloam, of course.”

Still no response. Just shuffling footsteps. A distant gaze.

Looking at this woman, no one would ever suspect that she was once the last soul on Earth who possessed the capacity for laughter. Alma could still hear it, her joyous voice living in her memory forever.

But this version of the woman did not possess the ability, it seemed. It had been squashed out of her. Bled from her. The transformation was enough to stop Alma in her tracks. She watched the old woman continue on, following the ever-flowing current toward some unknown destination.

It was then Alma was doused in startling, blinding light.

Even knowing what to expect didn’t stop Alma from thrashing upright. A spray of dirt into the crisp morning air. There were hands upon her. The hands of an adolescent girl. Blinking grave soil from her eyes, Alma grasped Zola’s hands and allowed herself to be pulled onto her trembling legs. Zola steadied her, held her, as Alma learned to stand on her own two feet all over again.

“Zola? Is it really over? Am I really…”

“It’s over,” Zola said. Her small hands brushed at Alma’s face, wiping dirt from her brow.

Alma hugged the girl. There was nothing else she wanted to do more. She squeezed her tight, as if she might float away if she didn’t, back into that shallow hole, into those bottomless depths…

“It was terrible,” she said. “Oh, Zola, it was truly…”

Alma opened her eyes, saw the palest morning light in the eastern sky. Daylight was still but a distant dream.

“Has it only been the one night?”

“Yes,” Zola said. “Like you asked.”

Alma pulled away from the girl. She peered about the garden, studying their surroundings dubiously.

“It felt so much longer…”

“How do you feel?” Zola asked.

Alma took an immense breath of cool morning air, like silky heaven to her lungs, and felt incredible relief with its release.

“I feel…”

She paused to reflect. How did she feel? Liberated, most assuredly. But there was more. A complex emotion she wasn’t sure she fully comprehended. Or two emotions, rather, wrestling against one another. A new understanding had wedged itself between them, better separating the halves of her.

“Did you see what you needed to see?” Zola asked.

Alma’s tribulations flashed before her very eyes. A living nightmare. She had seen more than necessary, she thought. But that evolving feeling inside her was not what she expected, was not at all the shape she thought it might take.

“I think so,” she answered. “Have you seen Gunnar this morning?”

“I believe he is still asleep,” Zola said. “He was here most of the night.”

Alma was momentarily dumbstruck. “Here?”

“It was late last night when I noticed he wasn’t at the infirmary. I found him here, sitting by your grave.”

“Is he at the infirmary now?”

“Yes, I believe so…”

“I must go to him. Thank you, Zola. I believe this has helped…”

Alma left her then, hurrying for the garden entrance, out into the alley, heading for the infirmary. But she did not make it that far. As she turned into the intersecting street, she was halted by the sight of someone rushing toward her.

It was him. Gunnar. Calum, but not. He slid to a stop, nearly tripping over his sandals as they spotted one another. His hair was a mess. His eyes appeared tired, even in their astonishment to see her. While he remained rooted in place, Alma closed the distance between them. His lips moved, yammering something she wasn’t altogether interested in hearing. Something about Zola leaving without him, that he had not meant to sleep so long.

Alma didn’t hear the rest as she silenced him with her embrace. She pulled him against herself, squeezed him much like she had squeezed Zola moments ago. She felt the shudder of his surprise. She squeezed him harder still.

“I am sorry,” she said.

Gunnar gulped, the wet sound of his confusion loud in her ear.

“You… you’re…”

“I am sorry for not understanding you. But I do now. At least I think so. And I forgive you, Gunnar.”

His breath was erratic, and she could all but hear his tongue dancing wordlessly in his mouth, searching for a voice that wouldn’t come.

“I have seen the hellscape with my own eyes. I could scarcely imagine a day spent in that place… let alone a year… let alone seven hundred. Who could be blamed for taking an opportunity to escape such a place?”

“But…” Gunnar cleared his throat. “But Calum… he is… I have…”

Alma released him, holding him at arm’s length so that they might meet each other’s gazes.

“While I am devastated not to have him here with me, knowing he is trapped in that foul afterlife… I understand he would be there in any case, if not for Zola. It is all the more reason to solve this mess.”

Alma couldn’t hold Gunnar’s gaze for long. He looked desperately elsewhere, as her words seemed to slide off him, slippery with his own guilt. She slid her hand along the contour of his face, held his warm cheek in the palm of her hand.

“Look at me.” There was hesitation, but he did. “Calum is a strong man. Stronger than he knows. And now my heart has known hellfire, my spirit is all the more ready to fight against it. Not just for him, but for all of us. And you will lead us there. Won’t you?”

His eyes darted away again. Just for a moment.

“You will,” she told him. “Because you are a good man.”

“Alma? Gunnar?”

Someone called from the distance. Farther along the street, a robed figure came running. It was Ellis. He arrived in a winded state.

“There you are,” he said. “Is Zola with you?”

“I am here,” Zola said, surprising Alma as she trotted up alongside them. For how long had she been so close?

“You must come,” Ellis said.

“Why?” Alma said. “What is it?”

“A few of the others rose early this morning, and took it upon themselves to investigate the church. I believe they wished to see it for themselves… the truth of the Under. Anyway, they’ve found something down there I think you’ll want to see right away.”

Ellis led them into the church itself, through the dark nave, through the meeting room, into the stone corridor beyond where someone waited, a burning torch in hand. It was Tamara’s husband.

“I will let Gregory take it from here,” Ellis said.

With his torch to light the way, Gregory led Alma, Gunnar, and Zola down the spiral stairway once more. Alma asked Gregory what it was they’d found, but like Ellis he seemed unsure how to describe it.

“There are drawings on the walls of the inner chamber down below. We don’t know what to make of them.”

Arriving at the bottom of the stairway, they traveled the circular corridor to the center, where the central chamber was more brightly lit now, with multiple torch-wielders hovering around its perimeter.

“Alma, Gunnar!” Tamara said, glad to see them. Then, with the reverence she might have once greeted their Elders, “Zola.”

“What have you found?” Alma said.

They gathered together on the far side of the chamber, the stone walls revealed in the light of their torches. Strange shapes were traced in black, perhaps also carved into the stone itself—jagged, meandering lines that didn’t appear to be anything at first glance. At least, not to Alma’s eyes.

It was Gunnar who stepped forth, eyes alight with recognition.

“It’s a map,” he announced. “A map of the world.”

“The world?” Alma’s mouth hung open as she scanned the firelit wall before them. “How can you tell?”

“I’ve seen world maps before,” Gunnar answered. “But this one is flipped, compared to the ones I grew up with. You see, over here…” He pointed to the righthand side, toward one of the large, irregular shapes connected to another irregular shape underneath by the most delicate appendage. “This is where I lived. Where I died, too, seven-hundred years ago. And…”

“What do these other markings mean?” Zola asked, as she indicated them—circles and X’s drawn in red, yellow, and blue. There were many, many scribbles of black in between. Perhaps a dozen or so yellow. Only one marking in red, and one blue. “Do you recognize those places?”

“I recognize this one,” Gunnar said, and stood on tiptoe to indicate the red marking, a circle high over their heads. “That’s gotta be Toronto. Or what used to be Toronto, anyway.”

“The city you spoke of,” Alma said. “From your time.”

“Yeah,” Gunnar said. “Where it all started.”

“And where are we?” Zola asked. “Can you tell?”

Gunnar examined the map for a time. He paced along the wall’s length, studying the other half, the other floating shapes there, before returning to the first.

“If I had to guess, I would say we’re this one here.” He pointed to the blue marking on the wall, located on the same floating shape as the red marking, but lower and on the opposite side. “It appears to be the only blue marking on the map. Just like that other marking is the only red one. It’s impossible to know for sure, but I’d say that’s a pretty good hint. And if I’m right… we’re either in California or Oregon. It’s hard to tell.”

“If that is us, and this is our destination…” Zola stood on tiptoe as she attempted to trace a line from the blue marking to the red one. “Then we are not so far from the source after all.”

“Well, it’s farther than you’d think,” Gunnar said. “All this space between, that’s hundreds of miles. A couple thousand, at least. On a good day—and I mean, a good day seven centuries ago—a journey like that, on foot, would probably take a few months. But as dangerous as the world is now?”

Zola turned to face them, her visage so bright, so eager. “We can make it. I know we can. This is good news. We must share it with the others immediately. We must start making preparations!”

She ran from the chamber then, bolting for the stairway with or without the help of a torch to guide her. Gunnar couldn’t help but crack a smile—that smile that wasn’t anything like Calum’s. Alma felt it herself then. A swell of something light and good. Was it excitement she felt? Or was it simply hope? It had been some time since she’d had any of that.

She turned her attention to the map once more, awed by the revelation.

“The world is much bigger than I thought,” she said. “And we… are so much smaller.”

“And yet the world chose us to save it, apparently,” Gunnar said, that lopsided smile broadening. “Seven-hundred years ago, I might have told you a much different story…”

“What do you mean?”

Gunnar waved his hand dismissively. “Remind me to tell you about it another time. We should all head up. Make sure Zola isn’t making promises we can’t keep.”

Gunnar offered Alma his hand. She considered its familiar shape. Calum’s, but not.

“Yes,” she said, accepting. “Good idea.”

With the others’ torchlight trailing after them, they returned up, up, up to the world of the living.

Ready for Book 2?

A SPECIAL THANKS

Dear brave reader,

I must say thank you. Without readers like you, authors like me wouldn’t be allowed a paddle in this violent, ever-changing sea—otherwise known as the publishing world.

I was just a scrawny eighteen-year-old when I wrote my first novel, The Writhing. A bit nervous and unsure of myself, I held onto it for TEN YEARS, writing a couple more novels in the meantime which I was equally unsure about. It took me a decade to realize my stories weren’t doing anyone any good just sitting on my laptop, and in 2019 I decided it was finally time to take the plunge. All I can say now is thank you. I only write this disturbing filth with the utmost love and sincerity. To be granted your curiosity means more than you can ever know.

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Table of Contents

- Title Page
- Copyright
- ALSO BY ABE MOSS
- Contents
- Half Title
- Contents
- The Dream

- I. The Woman and Her Corpse

- 1. Leaving
- 2. Telltale
- 3. The Deadlands
- 4. The Land of Misery
- 5. Long Night into Dawn
- 6. Misery Loves Company
- 7. Harsh Exchanges
- 8. Chewed
- 9. So Close
- 10. Bright Side
- 11. Science Experiment
- 12. The Opportunist
- 13. A Grave Interruption
- 14. Alive
- 15. Fireside

- II. Prayers & Pestilence

- 16. The City of Gloam
- 17. The Elders
- 18. Neighborly
- 19. Loyal Pets
- 20. Predators
- 21. Rising Tensions
- 22. Push Comes to Shove
- 23. Imposter
- 24. The Spy’s Demise
- 25. Revival
- 26. Abomination
- 27. Providence
- 28. Opening Up
- 29. Epidemic
- 30. New Religion

- III. Hell on Earth

- 31. The Pious
- 32. Reckless
- 33. Grave Misfortune
- 34. New Allies
- 35. Something Ghastly
- 36. The Repentant
- 37. Last Supper
- 38. Gatherings
- 39. Mother
- 40. Hunting Party
- 41. Last Resort
- 42. Masks Off
- 43. Prophet Tobias
- 44. Aftermath
- 45. The Penitent
- 46. Amen
- A SPECIAL THANKS
- FREE STORY
- MORE BY ABE MOSS