by Paul Freeman
“Look,” Logan said, “you folks seem decent enough and I can see you’ve had trouble… but we’ve got a community here and we got us rules about how we deal with strangers. We haven’t survived this long without bein’ mindful of strangers arrivin’ at our gate.”
“Come on, Logan, you can see these folks need our help,” one of the gatekeepers said.
“Pastor don’t like strangers bein’ admitted without his say so,” Logan said, turning to face the man.
“Pastor ain’t here.”
“Exactly.” Logan turned back to the strangers. “We can give you some food and extra blankets but you’ll have to wait out here while I get them.” As he spoke the baby began to cry.
“God damn it, Logan let them in.”
“Here,” the man said as he fished a pistol from his belt, “this is the only weapon we have. You can’t send us away.”
“Please,” the woman said, tears pooling in her eyes, leaving wet trails down her dirt-smeared cheeks.
“Damn it. You can answer to Pastor,” Logan rounded on the gatekeeper before relenting with a nod of his head.
“You have a pastor?” the woman said. “It would so fill my heart with joy to have the little one baptized.”
“Pastor don’t really do much preachin’ or any kind o’ God’s work anymore,” Logan said and glanced over to the large wooden building sitting in the center of the small town; a white-washed church with a large cross on the roof. The front doors were barred with two criss-cross beams of wood nailed across the entrance.
“Come this way, ma’am, I’ll get you folks some food and a warm fire,” the gatekeeper said.
“Eat. We’ll talk when you’re done,” Logan added.
“What about my Amy?” Logan had almost forgotten about Jeb.
“Look, Jeb, we’ve got to close the gates for the night. You know what kids are like, she’ll be with her friends. Go on home and wait for her to show up.”
Jeb rubbed his face and eyes before looking over Logan’s shoulder. Light was fading from the sky as the oil lamps hanging from posts all around Colony were being lit – bright light and fire were the only ways to keep the feeders away – it made the land beyond the safety of the stockade seem all the darker.
The burden of leadership sat heavily with Logan. He had never asked to be put in charge, but it was Pastor’s bidding that he assume the responsibility of leadership while he was away – and Pastor was away a lot. He still had the newcomer’s pistol in his hand as he strode across the town square. Leastwise the folk who called Colony their home thought of it as a town, their town; a small beacon of light in a world that had succumbed to darkness. Some of the Old-World buildings still stood, two stories made from concrete that had stood the test of time. Other materials had not fared so well. Most of the glass windows had been replaced with wooden shutters. Corrugated metal or simple planks of wood covered holes in the tiles. Resources were in short supply since the Fall. A lot of new homes constructed from timber had replaced the Old-World buildings now. In some ways Logan preferred it that way, trusting more in a material he and the other folks had harvested and shaped themselves.
The strangers had been placed in one of the spare wooden houses in the town. There was more than one home standing empty in Colony, its previous inhabitants lost to the darkness. He knocked on the door and let himself in without waiting for an answer. The woman sat by a fire blazing in the hearth holding the baby in her arms, while the man sat at a heavy wooden table, his head over a bowl of steaming broth.
“Sam brought you some food I see. His wife is the best cook in Colony,” he said.
The man looked up from his meal. “It’s mighty fine. We’re certainly grateful for your hospitality.”
Logan simply nodded, embarrassed that it had been him who tried to stop the strangers from entering Colony. “Do you mind?” he asked, indicating a chair opposite the man. The man nodded and Logan sat down. He glanced around the small room. “The folks who last occupied this house went out one morning to gather apples from an orchard we have a little ways south of here. They never came back and we never found out why. Must have run foul of some feeders. We keep tellin’ everyone not to get caught outside after dark. It’s amazin’ how many of them still do.” His mind wandered to Jeb and his teenage daughter. He was full sure the girl was hold up with some friends or a boyfriend somewhere, but in these dark times he understood Jeb’s worry.
“We live in dark times right enough,” the man said, interrupting his thoughts.
“Yeah, we do. So what’s your story?” he said, getting straight to the point.
The man put down his spoon and cast a quick glance at his wife. Logan saw her give her husband a brief nod. “We lived in a community much like this one. An old mining town up in the mountains. We hadn’t had sight nor sound of a vampire in years, nor another human being for that matter. Sometimes we wondered were we the last people left on Earth. Or maybe we were just lucky to live where we did, deep in the mountains. That was until a week or so ago. They came at night, terror out o’ the darkness…” The man paused, picked up his spoon and then dropped it again.
“We were woken by screams,” the woman continued, “horrible, terrible roars of people dying. When I looked out of the window I saw a feeder, his face lit up by the moonlight with blood covering his chin as he held down a woman I once called friend. His eyes gleamed manically… leastways that’s how it seemed, maybe it was just the moon reflecting off them. Most people say their eyes just look black and dead.”
“How did you guys get away?”
“Our home had a cellar with a hatch in the floor leading down to it. We just climbed down and waited for dawn. Praying that hatch wouldn’t open,” the man said. He then offered his hand across the table. “I’m Bart Wesley by the way and this is my wife Penny, short for Penelope.”
Logan took Bart’s hand and then slid his pistol back across the table. “I can’t make any guarantees. When Pastor gets back he has final say. And he ain’t too fond of strangers.”
“We keep hearin’ a lot about this Pastor. You make him sound like a man to fear.”
“Oh he is, he is,” Logan answered without a trace of humor.
CHAPTER FOUR
The area around the scratch tingled hot and cold while pins and needles danced across the tips of his fingers. He hurried through the trees, no longer worried about a sneak attack; the servants of the Demon had gone to ground, unable to bear the light of day. They were creatures of night, dark, evil beings who could not bear the touch of the sun.
As he ran through the undergrowth his foot caught on something solid making him stumble and then fall. Cursing, he picked himself up and looked back to see what had tripped him. Barely visible in the undergrowth were two lines of rusting metal curving away into the forest. Train tracks. It had been a long, long time since a train rattled down this line. He had no time to brood on the past or the wonders of Old-World. Already his arm was going numb. He knew the scratch was unlikely to be fatal, but once it had gone through his system it would paralyze him for hours, leaving him as vulnerable as a newborn fawn, and although he did not have to fear the feeders while the sun cast its warming rays over the forest there were more threats in the world than just vampires.
He reached the point where he’d tethered his horse to a tree expecting to find it there waiting for him. A pile of shredded meat, blood and entrails was all that remained of his ride. Feeders prized human blood, craved it, it was unusual for them to attack animals, although not unknown. An uneasy feeling crept over him. Had they purposely slaughtered the beast in order to weaken him? The thought of them forming such tactical thoughts scared him more than the size and speed of the alpha male. This was one vampire not to be underestimated.
He looked up at the blue sky and the light warming the air of the forest. Spring was turning into summer and the heat of the sun would keep the feeders at bay for longer. The dark winter months were the worst. He could feel sweat on his brow
and neck. He had a long way to go and only his own two legs to carry him there. A small stream trickled its way through the woods. He bent down on one knee and cupped his hands. The cool, fresh water was good and invigorated him somewhat, but when he tried to stand up his leg buckled and he fell to the ground. The venom was acting fast.
He dragged himself over to a tree, trying to ignore the stench from his horse’s remains. He pulled out a small plastic jar from a pocket in his coat. As he unscrewed the lid a pungent aroma wafted up from a green paste. He scooped out a measure of the poultice with his fingers and smeared it over his wound, before awkwardly tying with one hand a cloth over the bitter-smelling unction. He then took out another jar, this time with a grayish-green powder. He added some water from a metal canteen and swirled it around until the water clouded and the powder dissolved. He drank it down in one go wincing at the bitter aftertaste and the unpleasant sensation of the grit-filled liquid.
He knew he should have taken these measures earlier, but he wanted… needed to put distance between himself and the clan. If his homemade remedies did not work well enough he did not want to be left so vulnerable where they could easily find him once night fell. Now, with the horse dead and the venom acting so fast he had no choice. All he could do was wait. Once he would have added ‘pray’ to that thought, but he no longer directed prayers to Heaven. My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
With his back to a tree he drew the sawed-off shotgun—the weapon had a shortened stock for more flexibility—and placed it across his lap. It was loaded with two cartridges and he had two spares in loops on his belt. Not enough to take out the large vampire clan, but should be enough to frighten off any bears or wolf packs who might come sniffing around. What he really needed was a fire, a very large fire, but his energy was sapping fast. All he could do was hope the poultice and herb concoction he’d drunk would work its magic.
By midmorning the only movement he had left was in his fingers, toes and neck. He’d never felt so vulnerable in all his life. Several rustles in the bushes had made his heart skip. He doubted he’d even have the strength to pull the trigger of the shotgun if he needed to. A large crow landed beside him and regarded him curiously but he scared it away with a croaked shout, inwardly shivering at the thought of the carrion bird taking a shine to his face as its next meal.
As the sun rose to its highest point in the sky, embracing him in its warmth and light he finally felt some feeling returning. At first it was a tingling sensation at the site of the wound, he imagined he could feel the poultice drawing out the poison. His hands and feet were the first things he could move. Before any strength returned to his limbs a large, shaggy, brown dog with a gash across its face, making it the ugliest dog he’d ever seen, emerged from the trees. Wild dogs were a major problem in the world since the Fall, constantly attacking any livestock folk attempted to raise. Many of them were cursed with rabies, a disease to drive both man and beast to madness.
“Shoo!” he cried, but the dog simply turned its head sideways. He imagined it was figuring out which part to eat first. “Begone!” His voice was still weak and he fought with all his might to move an arm. “Damn you, shoo!”
A second and then a third dog crept from the trees.
“Shit,” he said hoarsely.
The first dog walked over to the stream and lapped at the water before walking cautiously up to him. He curled his finger around the trigger of the shotgun but could not bring up his arm to aim at the dog. At that moment if he’d fired he’d more likely shoot his own foot off. Two more dogs appeared and together they formed a semicircle around him.
“Waiting for your buddies were you?”
One of them began nuzzling at the remains of the horse, but the rest were more intent on fresher meat. A low growl rattled in the throat of the lead dog. Fear gripped his heart in its icy clutch. All men die, but this would not be a good death.
A high-pitched cry startled both him and the dogs. A stone flew through the air and hit one of the hounds in the flank. It gave a surprised yelp and then a whine as it examined its injured side. The pack took up defensive postures, growling and barking at the trees. He was grateful for the intervention, but it didn’t mean whoever or whatever was trying to chase away the dogs hadn’t just as ill intentions in their heart.
A screeching ball of hair no more than four foot high burst through the trees. The sudden explosion from the undergrowth was enough to set the pack to flight. Even the dog tearing at the horse’s entrails looked up from its gruesome meal and took off after its brothers and sisters. Feeling began to creep into his limbs in the form of aches, but it meant he could raise the shotgun and point it in the general direction of his savior.
A small girl with waist length matted curls crouched down in front of him regarding him curiously. Her clothes were little more than torn rags and her skin was covered in grime. She looked wilder than the dogs.
Clearly she was some sort of wild child; her clothes were practically hanging off her, what was left of them. Her hair obviously hadn’t been washed or tended to in a very long time. Maybe there were parents somewhere around. The Fall had done some crazy things to the minds of some folk and he’d come across a lot of crazies in his travels. Could a child survive out here on her own? he wondered. What would she do at night? How would she defend herself against the feeders? She was doing well enough against the pack of dogs. He wondered what age she was, nine – ten.
He raised the gun and took aim. Her eyes opened wide. And he fired.
CHAPTER FIVE
Jeb slung his hunting rifle over his shoulder and grabbed an oil lamp hanging by the front door of his house. Like most residents of Colony he had gathered various weapons over the years. Anyone who had survived the Fall had had to arm themselves and not just against the feeders. Like most, he did his best to maintain his weapons but supplies and resources were ever scarcer and much of the Old-World weaponry was unusable. He also had a pistol he’d taken from the body of a cop back when there was such a thing as law enforcement. The cop had been bitten and drained of his blood by a feeder right on the street just beyond Jeb’s front yard. That was the day it started, leastwise the day it had started for Jeb. He and his wife had barricaded themselves into their home, hoping it would all blow over. If he’d known then what he now knew he’d have used the knife to cut the cop’s head from his shoulders there and then and left it there. The very next night, at sundown, the cop rose again and the first thing he did was snatch one of Jeb’s neighbor’s kids. She was only six. Jeb had heard the screaming from his own place. That night chaos ruled the streets and the world turned to Hell.
As he walked across the square several people were moving quickly to get indoors. Harry, the guard on the wall was one of them. No vigil was kept at night from outside. No marauders would come in the dark, too frightened as they were to face the threat that darkness brought and no sane person wanted to be out where the feeders could find them.
“Hey, Harry, open the gate.”
“Jeb?” Harry said.
“I’m goin’ after my little girl. She hasn’t come back to Colony.”
“You know I can’t open the gate after sundown.”
“Open the God damn gate, Harry.”
“Logan…”
“Screw Logan and screw you. Open the gate or I’ll cut a hole in the damn thing.” Jeb slid a very large knife from his belt.
Harry thought for a moment and then appeared to reach a decision. “I’ll come with you.”
“No, man. This is for me to do alone.”
“We’ve been through a lot together, Jeb. You’ve been a good friend to me and mine. If your Amy is in trouble then I’m going to help.”
Jeb relented with a nod.
The two men slipped through the gate and closed it behind them; Harry had grabbed another man to drop the heavy beam across it once they were through. There’d be no getting back into Colony until the sun came up, unless they fancied climbing the wooden stockade and
risk the chance of getting a bullet in the head from one of the vigilant Colony residents watching from the safety of their home.
They hurried across the field, moving between the dark shapes of the Colony cattle, the cows lowing in protest as the men ran past. They were headed for the south-west field where Amy and some others were planting corn and rooting out any weeds encroaching on their tilled field. They’d done well to establish their community when the world had fallen apart. Jeb often thought it was easier for the young ones who’d never known Old-World comforts. Kids like Amy had never experienced electricity at the flick of a switch or water on tap. Hell she’d never even had a shower; they washed themselves in the tub with water heated over a fire. The world had reverted back to more primitive times. A hard thing to come to terms with for people who were used to the trappings of the so-called civilized world. They’d fought hard to build what they had now. Marauders were a constant threat, homeless men who banded together to take what they could. It’s why they were so mistrustful of strangers and kept any contact with other groups to a minimum. Pastor had insisted it be that way.
I could really use Pastor’s help right now, he thought. The one-time preacher seemed to have a second sight when it came to feeders. He could sniff ’em out like no one Jeb had ever known. Pastor said the Lord had turned his back on the world and he would do the same to the Almighty, but Jeb often wondered if men like Pastor were God’s own instruments in the world. Men with a fire burning inside them, a hatred for the demonic creatures who ruled the dark that went beyond an obsession. Pastor hunted them down wherever he could find them, destroying their nests while they hid from the powerful rays of the sun. It was this that gave him hope that Amy had simply gotten herself lost while courting that Davis boy.
“Here,” Harry said, hunkering down and holding his lamp over a patch of dirt at the edge of the cornfield. “Footprints headin’ into the trees.”
