Category: Fantasy

Daddy’s Little Girl (Part 3)

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Horror, Shyla's Stories2 Comments

“AHHHHHHH!”

The shriek entered through the open windows and echoed through the castle. The Queen shot upright in bed, assaulted by the fresh morning’s sun. The screaming continued as she jogged through the halls to alert the guards. Of course, they were already making their way towards the sound, so the Queen followed unnoticed. Outside, the cook stood over the garden, looking as pale as death. At the arrival of the concerned crowd, she looked up, and whimpered.

“I came to get tomatoes,” she whispered through quivering lips.

At her feet lied the gardener, or what was left of him. He had been torn to shreds. His blood was splattered across the vegetables and ground into the dirt. His limbs were unattached, his head evidently gnawed upon by something inhuman.

“Wolves Madame, the wolves are back,” the guard stated calmly, and started away.

******

“How could you? He was a perfectly humble man. No trouble at all,” the Queen pleaded uselessly.

The King cut his eyes at her, and sipped his red wine. “He had become trouble,” he finally said.

The Queen rolled her eyes and plopped into her chair. It was nearly dinnertime, but they had asked for privacy tonight. The King would not need to eat, anyways. And the Queen was losing her appetite by the minute.

“He grew, curious,” he continued. “Always out there, at all hours. He’d seen me on my runs. Eyed me when I’d come in.”

“Why would he be out so late?” the Queen asked, genuinely concerned.

“Watching me, I suppose.”

“Well, it would seem he got an eyeful.”

“Yes, it would.”

The King gulped back the rest of his glass’ contents and set it on the table in front of his Queen. She sighed, and refilled it. On the other side of the wall, the maid pulled her ear away from the door and gasped. Shakily, she ran back to her chambers, chased by the memory of the beast.

******

Outside, a thick fog was rolling in. The prince would be sending a carriage for Charlotte at dawn but in such conditions it was sure to be late. She wanted her last evening to be special, but could barely pull herself out of bed after the morning’s events. She had decided to visit her greatest confidante, the maid. Only she was not in her chambers when Charlotte arrived, but hurried in just moments later, grasping for air.

“What’s the matter Ellie?” Charlotte asked.

The maid turned with a start. She had expected her room to be empty.

“Oh! Princess, you frightened me.” She tried to smile and catch her breath but Charlotte was not convinced.

“Do tell me,” she insisted, rising from the bed now.

Still shaken up, Ellie broke into tears and embraced the girl. She wanted to blurt out the horrible truth, that the King was a monster – the beast she had seen so many years ago. But she couldn’t. Instead, she wept for Charlotte, who had to carry this man’s genes.

“Is it my father?” Charlotte whispered in a calm, omniscient, tone.

Ellie looked into her eyes and saw in them beautiful, pure, truth.

“We should get out of here,” Charlotte whispered lower now, never breaking her stare. When the maid did not respond she repeated: “Ellie, please. Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to go with the prince, nor stay here with my father.”

“You know?” Ellie asked.

Charlotte nodded and looked away. “I saw him, just before my… illness. He tore our coachman to bits and pieces. It was horrific. That’s why he – that’s why he got rid of me.”

Ellie fought the dizziness. The coachman? The coachman who had suddenly quit last winter? Of course, that coachman. How many of the resigned groundskeepers and castle employees had really just been – no. The thought was too much. Charlotte was right; they had to leave.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Read Part 1

Read Part 2

Daddy’s Little Girl (Part 2)

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Horror, Shyla's Stories3 Comments

The next morning, a viewing of Princess Charlotte was the Kingdom’s main event. Princes and Kings came from all across the lands to gaze upon the resting beauty. All were taken aback by her, and brought gifts they soon decided could not possibly be worthy of her. One by one the butler escorted the men in to have their look, leave their gifts, and postulate their plans to win her hand. One by one they were escorted out, deemed undeserving by the King. Some left angry and foul mouthed, spewing threats that sent shivers up the maid’s spine. Others left in tears, desperate for one last chance. The effect Charlotte seemed to have over them was powerful and unexpected, but the King and Queen were not at all surprised. In fact, they seemed bored.

“May I ask what qualities in a mate you are seeking for her?” the maid asked the Queen that evening while she bathed.

“I seek nothing. It is the King who has strong ideals about what she might need.” Squeezing water from a sponge, the Queen took a moment to ponder on this before continuing, “and I think I’d agree. She should be with someone who can handle her potential for voracity.”

The maid wondered what that meant, but decided not to ask. The Queen had been quite herself all day and she saw no reason to disturb that. Instead, she nodded, and prepared the towel.

“The men who visited today were all handsome, but so weak,” The Queen stated as she stepped out of the tub.

The maid wrapped the Queen in the towel and used another to dry her hair. Some did cry, that was true, but others seemed very strong-minded. Preferring not to disagree with her highness, the maid continued to nod.

“You might need to rest some more. You’re awfully quiet today. I hope you didn’t hurt your head when you fell.”

“I didn’t,” the maid smiled. “I’m just a little tired. I might take my sleep earlier tonight. Once you’re settled down.”

“I’m settled,” the Queen insisted. “I’d rather like a night cap by the fire. But otherwise, I’m fine. Please, go on.” She smiled warmly, a familiar sentiment that eased the maid.

In the library, the Queen made herself cozy on a chair by the fire. She brought the strong liquid to her lips and held it there, teasing herself with its delectable scent. She was always very thankful for night caps. The first sip melted over her tongue, tingled her throat, and finally warmed her belly. It was just what she needed after a day like today. Her husband would be far from the grounds by now, assumed secure in his chambers. It was on these nights that she could really unwind.

Being with him was not nearly as treacherous as she had expected it to be when he first took her. There was a brief time in which she even believed she loved him and wanted to stay. Now, she had simply accepted her fate. After Charlotte’s birth some seventeen years ago, she knew there was no turning away. If she had been able to escape before, she might have, but not now. Now, she simply basked in nights like these when he was away, and she could roam freely.

Of course, her favorite place to come to was still the library. Being alone with her books, her mind fluttering from the liquor, reminded her of being a girl again; a naive, impressionable, girl. She was happy to know that her daughter would not be so. Inheriting the beast from her father, dormant as it might be, had made her feisty in a way that appealed to the Queen. If she had learned anything living in this world with the King, it was that it was better to have a little fight in you – better to be the predator than the prey.

The Queen watched as the fire cast dancing shadows upon the wall, and drifted into a dream of her youthful days, dancing at balls, laughing a genuine laugh, smiling a believable smile. She missed those days, no matter how she tried to deny it.

“Your Highness, Your Highness! It’s the Princess, she’s awake!”

The Queen’s eyes shot open, her nasal cavity immediately invaded by the scent of peat from both the dead fire and the spilled whiskey on her dress. “Wh-What..” she started as she tried to focus on her surroundings.

“A Prince,” the maid exclaimed, “A prince came and woke her with a kiss. We cannot find the King.”

At the news the Queen perked up, alert, and dove off of the chair and towards the door – because she had to get to her Princess; had to know she was safe.

In the viewing room, she found Charlotte rightfully confused. She was fighting the Prince off of her, while guards stood as steadfast observers. She had tears in her eyes but was not exactly crying; just very frustrated and confused.

“Darling!” the Queen hollered and the room fell still, all eyes on her. It took a moment for the guards and prince to remember to bow, and as they did so Charlotte leapt off of her bed of captivity, letting the thorns tear at her skin as she rushed to the Queen.

“What’s happening, mother? Please, tell me what’s happening!”

“Shhh.” Pulling her in for a hug the Queen explained, “We discussed this Charlotte, you fell ill and we decided it was best to let you sleep until”

“Until a madman touches me!” Charlotte shot a glare at the prince who huffed at the insult but said nothing.

After a moment of jarring silence, the King strode in. Charlotte was scolded for her rudeness and made to thank the prince for awakening her and curing her ailments. As she knelt to him respectfully, she felt a sudden cold rush through her. She might have been woken, but she knew the nightmare had only just begun.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Read Part 1

Read Part 3

Daddy’s Little Girl (Part 1)

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Horror, Shyla's Stories5 Comments

Like all fairytale princesses, little Charlotte’s birth was nothing short of a miracle; a beauty in an ugly place of ignorance and prejudice, not as far far away as some might expect. She was darling, silent, and obedient. But as she grew more curious, and more rambunctious, the King became wary. He sought advice from the Kingdom’s well respected doctor, who had a dreary conclusion to draw: Bestowed with cleverness, and a proclivity towards intellect, he was sure hysteria would soon be upon the Princess Charlotte.

So very closely she was watched, that after being found defiantly sneaking about the castle at the tender age of fifteen (thus proving the doctor’s theory), Charlotte was put to rest on a bed of roses that adorned the vicinity with thorns. There, in the deepest of induced sleeps, Charlotte would lie until a suitable prince might come along – one who might be trusted with the task of keeping her safe, and quiet.

“This will do. Remember to give her one dose each morning. We wouldn’t want the effects to ware off at an inopportune time,” the doctor chuckled as he was escorted out of the castle.

“Oh, of course.” The King returned the smile, anxious to be rid of his company.

As the doctor turned to leave, he paused and glanced back at the King. “I must ask, if it’s not an imposition – you said she was poking around, did she happen upon –”

“Dr. Kitz, I told you that in confidence. I expect the matter will not be brought up again.”

The doctor bowed his head apologetically, and stuttered a vow of silence. The King closed the heavy doors in the man’s face and grunted his disapproval. The doctor had been intrusive, but at least he had provided the King with a definite solution to his problem. Charlotte would no longer be an issue.

******

“There’s a storm coming, your highness. Shall I fix the fires?”

The Queen looked up from her daze and met the eyes of her maid, but seemed to look right through them. After a moment the maid backed away, unnerved by her Queen’s empty glare. It had been nearly two decades since she had seen that look in her eyes.

She shuddered to remember the first night it happened. She had only been at the castle for a few weeks. The King and Queen had been newlywed and the Kingdom’s celebratory festivities were just starting to wind down. It was the first quiet night since her arrival, and the maid was looking forward to it. She had been getting along quite well with the Queen, and had even made her giggle once or twice. It had set her completely at ease. That particular night, she had been doing her rounds of the castle, sure to open all of the shutters to let in the bright harvest moonlight. Then, humming a tune through the dissipating darkness, the maid had caught the sight of what she could only describe as a beast through the window. It stood on two sturdy hind legs in the distance; its fur white as snow, eyes red as blood, soul black as night.

Startled, the maid yelped and let her candle tumble to the floor. Despite the yards of space between them, the monster seemed to sense her fear, and turned so that its eyes met hers before it leapt into the shadows of the trees and disappeared. In her catatonia, the maid hardly noticed the candle had set her skirt ablaze. It was only when she turned to run, hyperventilating, that she came face to face with the Queen who had been silently watching the events unfold. The maid yelled out, frightened by both the realization that she was not alone, and by the fact that her highness was standing so very still. Suddenly, the maid could feel the heat sneaking up her legs, and smell her own flesh melting away. She jumped, breaking the Queen’s empty gaze. Snapping out of what seemed to be nothing short of a hypnotic state, the Queen poured her glass of water onto the small but painful flames below them. The maid had not even noticed the water, and wondered if she had been holding it the whole time. She might have asked if she were not overwhelmed by the strangeness of it all. Instead, she watched, mouth gaping and heart pounding, as the Queen wandered off down the hall.

Frightened and confused, the maid had told no one about the monster she had seen. Eventually, the memory became less tangible and more oneiric.

Tonight, the Queen had that same eerie look in her eyes. The recognition sent the memory of that night flooding back to the maid. It washed over her like a wave, so that she was woozy and unsteady on her feet. In her mind’s eye, images of the beast flashed incoherently until she felt her body succumb to the exhaustion. She collapsed to the floor and it was only then that the Queen rose, and came to her side (though with very little urgency). The world blackened and the maid soon awoke in her chambers, tucked into bed with a cool breeze grazing her face. She let her eyes flutter open and saw that the Queen was just leaving, closing the door behind her.

The window was wide open, sheer curtains blowing in the wind. Much like that night so many years ago, moonlight poured in splashing her in the face. Only now, it was not so welcomed. She turned her back to it, squeezed her eyes shut, and said a silent prayer. In the distance, she thought she heard a howl. So, she prayed again.

Down the hall, the princess slept, sound as death.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Read Part 2

V Positive

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Horror, Sci Fi, Shyla's Stories4 Comments

The sun dominated the sky that day. Clouds cowered under its gleaming oppression. Even the birds seemed to fly low. Derek squinted, knowing immediately that he should have stayed home. And he should have. That was the day Derek’s life fell to shit.

He fought the heavy doors of the testing facility open. Their weight surprised him as much as his own weakness did. He told himself it was just early and he was tired, but honestly, lying to himself was getting old. There was nothing salubrious about it.

Inside, Derek was greeted by an older woman dressed in disdain. It was obvious that she hated being there, which struck Derek as odd considering most such facilities ran on volunteers. He’d never been in one, but many anecdotes attested that volunteers were generally people who had lost someone to the merciless disease. People whose grief drove them. Derek supposed it was likely that one day, the grievers might wake up to realize their services hadn’t done a thing to change circumstances. In fact, the numbers grew each week. That could make a person grow bitter – like the woman leading him down the hall.

“You’re running on borrowed time, Mr. Alvarez,” she announced with a tone that denoted lack of surprise.

Positive. He thought the word, but could not get his tongue to pronounce it.

“Positive,” she said for him, avoiding eye contact as she skimmed the test results. “And the gene,” she added without emphasis. Derek could have sworn he saw her shoulders drop an inch or two, though.

Derek watched her silently, choking back anger or hysteric sadness, whichever was threatening to push to the forefront. The bitter lady was now visibly smothering her tired loathing and reaching deep down for something that might mimic patience.

“The gene, as you must know, is a birth defect.” Spiel time. Standard, he imagined. “About 40% of people are born with it these days, and it lies dormant until it comes in contact with the virus. Now that that’s happened, you are V-Positive, and the gene will begin to mutate.”

She handed him two bottles of pills, placing the first in his left hand and the second in his right. Pointing, she continued.

“These ones will suppress the symptoms, and these will slow the change.”

Slow. Not stop. Derek winced. The med-cocktail would only slow the inevitable. Sooner or later, he was going to turn into a monster.

“The virus can be transmitted through any bodily fluid. We ask that you respect the right of others to not be infected by malicious intent.”

She looked away again – seemed to drift off to a place only she could see. When she returned mere seconds later, her eyes had softened.

“Even with the medication, certain circumstances can cause a flare up of symptoms. Among them is increased heart rate and body temperature. The sun and sexual activity are the two leading causes of outbreak. You’d do best to avoid these.”

She reached into her pocket and drew a small syringe, thick enough to insert the microchip.

Without warning she stuck the tip in Derek’s arm and injected.

“This chip will measure body temperature and other symptom levels. It also has GPS tracking. We will receive urgent notification the moment you become at risk.”

“And then what?” It was the only question Derek asked that day, but he already knew the answer.

She sighed and then looked him square in the eyes. Without quiver or hesitation, she said, “And then we put you down.”

Derek held her stare, and as he did so, his heart rate increased.

Devoured

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Horror, Shyla's StoriesLeave a comment

“Please don’t make me,” Alice murmured.

Her brother, Eric, shot her a look and pushed the plate of food nearer to her face. The salt-water fumes charged through her nasal cavity and landed in the pit of her empty stomach. It lurched forward, but came to a prompt stop when it realized it had nothing to give.

She hated fish; she hated seaweed; she hated not knowing where she would ever find a decent meal, again. She did not, however, hate Eric’s ambition. Since they’d been on their own he had provided well above her expectations.

“What is it?” she asked hesitantly.

“I’m sure you don’t want to know.”

That was true. Whatever it was it would sustain her, but for how long? How long were they meant to live this way?

Pushing the dreary thought from her mind, she closed her eyes; took a deep breath; and scooped the mystery flesh into her mouth – gills and all.

Four years later, the world was still broken, but Alice was fierce and strong. She and Eric had become quite the team, only occasionally having brief encounters with other survivors. Mostly they’d make some trades and move on. Groups were not their thing. Eric had become quite the fisherman – and Alice quite the fish eater. Something about the meat fueled her. She was sixteen now and despite the elemental exposure, hard labor, and lack of rest, she had grown into a stunning young woman. She was tall; lean yet muscular, with eyes of emerald and caramel skin that seemed to glow in the sunlight. She looked remarkably healthy, and it was not lost on her that the men they would come across could not help but gawk. She was never in danger though, and seemed to wield a certain power.

It was the mermaid meat. She knew that, now. She gobbled it up happily every night. It seemed there was enough to last a lifetime – or several. It would have to. Consuming the mermaid’s flesh had given Alice eternal life, and eternal wealth. In these times, that just meant she would never starve, again.

Alice was pleased with her vigor, but it panged her to see Eric suffering, so. The mermaid could only be consumed by one; could only offer its powers to one. Eric had given it to his weak younger sister that day on the beach, and was paying the price with each passing month.

Often, Alice thought about what capturing the mermaid must have been like. She envisioned her brother, mighty and heroic, slaying the creature. In her fantasies, it was like a fairytale. But she knew in actuality, it would not have been so magical. It would have been violent, bloody, and monstrous.

The first time she saw a mermaid was the day before the war. It had washed up on the shore near their house, and Alice had been the first to spot it. The creature had a fish tail below, and smooth creamy skin up top – her breasts bared shamelessly. Her eyes were red and dug into Alice’s soul as she writhed and hissed. She even had horns, just like Alice was told she would. She was an omen, just as Alice had read about.

And now that she had consumed her (or one of her kind), Alice herself was the Omen. It would only be a matter of time.

Just before her eighteenth birthday, Eric drifted off to the next world. She committed his body to the sea, whispered well-wishes to his soul, and thanked the heavens that he would not suffer through her transformation. She could already sense it beginning, and she was ashamed of how good it felt.

The air became thick and clogged her airwaves, filling Alice with a thirst that even six years of destitution had never brought on so strongly. Naked, she crawled towards the sea, carried by her throbbing desire to splash about in its coolness. She huffed and puffed until she finally got far enough out to sink into its abyss. Below the surface her legs stiffened and coalesced until she had only one. A stinging sensation over came them as scales fought their way out of the skin that was simultaneously greening in color. The mass that had become her lower body grew a fin and flailed about, thrashing her body with it. A school of fish tried to scoot by, but Alice caught their scent. She could feel her jaw rip open, tearing at the hinges until her mouth hung low and wide. Instinctively, her body lunged towards the fish and she scooped them into her maw, devouring every last one. Her teeth, small but sharp, shredding apart the contents of her meal quickly and effectively.

She looked around; her body and mind screaming for more. She swam deeper and deeper, following a new monstrous intuition deep inside of her. The scent was staggering, and made her tingle from nose to fin. At the bottom of the sea she found it – a man, strung down with rope and a rock in his lap. He looked familiar, but mostly; he looked nectarous.

I See the Future

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Horror, Micro Fiction, Sci Fi, Shyla's Stories2 Comments

I see the future. It’s not pretty. It’s a hellish symphony trapped inside my head.

Time stops. Trees burn and crumble to ash. Waters freeze over. People in stasis beg for death but the Angel of Mercy ignores their cries.

Some call it the end. But I know it’s just the beginning. Slowly but surely we adapt. In all the ugliness of destruction is the beauty of evolution – the monstrous beauty of regenesis.

Skins toughen; harden. Eyes sink and sharpen. Gills sprout, furs thicken. Teeth become tools.

We divulge into mayhem and then find peace. It’s both catastrophic and cathartic. Life is precious; it’s worth killing for.

I see the future. It’s not pretty, but it’s pretty damn amazing.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

Romance, Necromance

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Horror, Micro Fiction, Shyla's Stories9 Comments

The moonlight showered down upon her skin, making it glow in all the right places. She tried to stay alert; tried to focus on her task.

The leaves rustled, and she couldn’t help but peek. The gravestone remained intact, but seemed to smirk.

Control was key.

A giggle swept through her. The art of control, the art of power – it made her quiver with excitement.

And then there he was.

He stumbled toward her, dazed. And when he approached she saw his eyes had sunken into an abyss. But still, behind them there was a glint of recognition… wasn’t there?

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

Destruction and Pleasure

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Horror, Micro Fiction, Shyla's StoriesLeave a comment

It is with alacrity that these beasts set out to extirpate. So it is with that same enthusiasm that I confront them. My pulse dances under my skin, my heartbeat setting the tempo. The desire to demolish – to remove something from existence – surreal and inexplicable. It’s subhuman; the layer that most people try to suffocate beneath the surface.

But I don’t. I thrive in that lower layer, a manifestation of the social repression that has dragged humanity to this disgusting present; where it’s just the predator and the prey. I’m not a hero. I don’t kill them to save anyone. I kill them because I want to.

It offers me a grin, baring its salacity. I smile back, matching it’s hunger.

The Call

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Horror, Micro Fiction, Shyla's StoriesLeave a comment

Under the guise of the sheep

You call to me, across worlds

The scent of your deception reeks

But still, I rouse for a peek

 

How fallible we are, after all

No costume, nor mask, can hide

Our weaknesses; outside us they reside

Assisting the sting of broken pride

 

So I came, as you intended

And I am reluctant to regret

The way I squirmed and smiled

Wrapped in your lies; no fret

 

I ignored the easy yellow glow

Beaming from your once kind eyes

And let you hunt me, willingly

Until there was only darkness and desire

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

And then the Feeders Came

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Horror, Shyla's StoriesLeave a comment

Jeanette stared at the sunrise as it melted its glow over the city’s smog. The smell of jet fuel and sweat mingled through the air and carried up her nasal passage, making it tickle and itch. It was amazing to her that as the population shrunk, the stench of labor grew.

“Going hunting today?” Abe asked.

Jeanette shrugged. The question seemed superfluous. She couldn’t remember the last day she hadn’t hunted. She also couldn’t remember the last day one of the feeders hadn’t hunted her. The hunt was all that existed anymore.

“Listen,” Abe continued, his tone suddenly stark. “We gotta head north. I know how you feel about it but -”

Jeanette snarled dismissively. It was the closest she’d come to a laugh in a long time. A week ago she would have shot words as sharp as darts at Abe. Head north for what? It’s a bullshit lie. The feeders are there too, you know. They’re everywhere. You know that. But today, today she didn’t have the fight in her. So she just snarled, and kept her eyes facing forward. From her peripherals, she could see Abe huffing, his heart aching at her coldness.

“What’s left for us here, Jeanette? Vicki and I have thought it through. Even Garret says -”

“I don’t care what Garret says.” There they were, the darts. Laced with poison at the mention of Garret; an amateur who couldn’t last a day on his own. They had taken him in for his eidetic memory thinking he’d be  an asset – until a few days ago when he had almost gotten them all killed.

Abe stepped back as a show of faith. He knew he had taken the wrong approach and was surveying his mind eagerly for the right one. Jeanette faced him and let out a slow, frustrated, sigh. Her resistance to heading north was purely based on logic. Travelling ill-equipped and malnourished was a bad idea. It was best to stay put, where the grounds were familiar. But she had to admit, Abe’s logic was sound too.

The malnourishment would not be solved by staying put. They had depleted their food sources. The Hudson was their best bet now. As for Garret, he might be a coward and a poor shot, but he was a human map. He’d get them there. That was true.

“I agree, Jeanette. The theory that these things can’t survive the cold is just that, a theory. But how do we prove it if we sit here, rotting in the sun, shooting feeders from afar until we run out of squirrels and ammo?”

Abe smiled at Jeanette in that warm way that always settled her. By sundown the four of them were headed north, with Garret leading the way and Vicki by his side, gun-drawn at all times. She was one of the few soldiers who had stayed behind with the civilians when the military pulled out of their zone. Jeanette had prodded her for answers: Where was the military going? What was the plan? She never answered a single question. Within hours of the abandonment, the fences had been torn down and most of the population made a run for it – most right into the arms of feeders.

“It’s a good time for it,” Abe assured Jeanette who couldn’t help but look unsure of each step she took. He continued, “by the time we get there, we should still have a month or two before the snow.”

“And then?”

“And then, we acquire winter survival skills.”

“If we make it that long,” Jeanette mumbled.

“We will.”

On the third night, Jeanette scratched a seventh slash in her rock. She liked the idea of keeping track of how many feeders they encountered. It was a hangover from being a records keeper in a past life. She had to admit, the trek had not been quite as dangerous as she had expected, and it gave everyone a reason to keep going. Goals were healthy.

She sat by the fire, quietly thinking about how glad she was that they were all doing this together. Hell, she and Garrett were even being civil again. The fog was thick, a blanket that made everything seem a little unreal; a little magical, even. The air had a sweetness to it she couldn’t place, and even though they were still eating rodents, she was excited for the fish. The Hudson was known to have had over 200 species at one point.

As she lay under the heavy sky, Jeanette drifted off to all the best thoughts and let good dreams take her over. For once, things seemed to be falling into place.

And then the feeders came. A hoard of them greater than any other they had ever encountered. Jeanette was thrust awake by inarticulate screams. Vicki was probably giving orders to the others; Garret was probably babbling through tears; Abe was likely hollering for ammo. He was kicking wood from the fire towards the coming monsters. But they were still coming, and it was over before it began.

A small group leapt on Abe, taking him down in one swift motion. His screams became garbled as his wide eyes stared into Jeanette’s from across the way. She sat, frozen, only partially upright where she had been sleeping so peacefully just moments before. Simultaneously, a larger group descended upon Garret. He tried to run but fell, inviting the feeders down onto him. Vicki ran towards Jeanette, hand extended, wanting to pull her out of her shock. But Jeanette just stared at the hand, trying to process how her dream had so quickly turned into a nightmare. And how the world had so quickly become this Hell.

The feeders got Vicki from behind. The blood splattered across Jeanette’s face, bringing her back to life. She scrambled up and ran. She ran faster than humanly possible. She ran further than humanly possible. And not once did she look back.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©