Holy shit.
So this is a box I found that was hidden in a mall for presumably ~6 months by now. Aside from the latch, there were rubber bands keeping the box shut. Inside the box is a bundle of tightly-folded pieces of paper. It is a story/recollection written by a 19-year-old girl who has apparently killed a random person just because she was wondering what it would be like. According to the paper, she wrote this just a few hours after the murder and that I am the first person to read it.
So yeah, I doubt I’ll be able to sleep tonight.
Anyway, I typed up the entire story because I seriously need to share this. Here it is.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------If you found this note in a small wooden box with a heart on it, then *congratulations!* You are probably the first person to read this. I didn’t really plan on sharing this with anybody, but for some reason I think it’s exciting that somebody out there, a complete stranger, will come across this note and read my story. Someone I will never meet, sharing such a personal bond with me. I’m fascinated that either one of us could die - even as soon as tomorrow - with the other being completely clueless to the fact. To you, my entire life is within this note, and so I will live for as long as your memory can carry me. Writing this, I’m wondering if that makes you feel fascinated or violated. It’s so exciting.
I’m sorry if my story is a bit disorganized, but I’d like to get it down while it’s still fresh on my mind. First, I’ll tell you a little bit about myself. I’m a first-year college girl and have led, by most standards, a pretty unspectacular life up to this point. I grew up in an upper-middle class school district with decent teachers. I did track in middle school and some of high school, and I’ve had two boyfriends. Now, I’m studying for a career in occupational therapy, because I feel the field is undervalued and provides tremendous help to people.
I’m giving you this background because there’s this strange misconception that if you want to kill someone then you’re either sick in the head or you have anger management issues. But, it’s very apparent that I don’t fall into either of those categories. It’s true that most murder cases are in a domestic setting where someone loses control of their anger or something. But the thing is that those people kill under provocation, whether by a singular outburst or by a slow-burning series of misfortunes. Those people kill because in that brief moment, they want a specific someone, for a specific reason, to be hurt or killed.
What I’m talking about is wanting to kill someone for no specific reason, maybe just to see what it’s like. Do you ever get that? I wouldn’t know how others feel, because it’s not something I ever talked about. But I’ve been curious about what it’s like to kill someone ever since I was a child. Not killing anyone in particular, just a random person. It’s always just fascinated me that if I put my mind to it, I can approach anyone, and in five minutes they would be completely gone from this Earth.
But I’ve never done so for a couple of reasons. First of all, for most of my life it was logistically impossible for me to do it without getting caught. I only got my driver’s license a couple years ago, and even then, the preparations would take too much time, definitely stirring suspicion. It was only once I started college that I realized this was no longer an obstacle.
Another reason is that I was afraid of causing harm to too many people. You might laugh reading that, at how hypocritical it sounds. But, let me explain: Why should I feel bad about killing someone if they’re too dead to care? Who would I be feeling bad for? Contrarily, it’s the grief of the living that I’d rather not be responsible for. Because of this, I knew it would take a good deal of research before finding a suitable person to kill, and I’ve never had the means to do so - again, until I started college.
And now, having just experienced it, I’d say it was pretty satisfying in the end. Something I would try again? Probably not, since my curiosity has already been satisfied. It really wouldn’t be the same a second time.
But anyway, if by any chance you’re also curious to kill someone, then you’re welcome to take notes.
***
I started a hobby of people-watching soon after I entered college. People-watching is interesting to me because it’s taking one of the infinite extras in your life and turning them into a main character - without them knowing, of course. It’s so easy to forget that every single one of the hundreds of strangers you pass every day has a life story as deep and complex as your own. One thing I noticed about people-watching, and wanting to kill someone, is that you are in more constant awareness of this. When I find a person to observe, their story slowly becomes more clear to me over time, gaps being filled - it really is amazing.
I usually went to grocery stores on weekends and looked around in people’s shopping carts. If I saw something that interested me, I decided to observe the person for a little bit. Of course, since my goal was to find someone to kill, I ruled out anyone who had children or a partner with them. Wedding rings were another tell-tale sign.
So maybe once a weekend, I would find someone who fit my criteria, at which point I would follow them home and note their address. From there, it became incredibly easy to investigate a little bit more; most people have normal work hours, meaning I could spend afternoons going through their mail or looking around in their house. I repeated this with several people (and had one close call), but for varying reasons I didn’t really feel satisfied enough with them to kill any of them.
I started getting a bit impatient and thought that I might just settle for killing the man named Devon, even though I didn’t really want to kill someone wealthy. But then, I came across someone new - someone who just, felt perfect. The feeling only strengthened as I investigated her further, and I knew that she would be the one for me to kill.
A young-looking woman I met at the grocery store, as per usual. She was doing some light shopping with a basket. Her hair was wavy and dark brown, sitting inelegantly on her slumped shoulders and surrounding her tired-looking face. Her bare fingers told me she might be single, but beyond that, my gut was almost certain of it. This woman just seemed so…plain, really. I guess I felt a greater acuity for the personal lives of strangers ever since I started my people-watching. But the way she carried herself, I just got the feeling that if she suddenly died, nobody would be around to miss her. Of course, I still wanted to investigate her a bit.
I followed my usual routine of checking out her place during her work hours. I learned immediately from her mail that her name is Linda Watson. Linda lived in a quiet apartment complex, her mailbox easily accessible right outside her door. Instead of quickly shuffling through it, I decided I could take her mail back to my dorm and return it before she was finished with work (she only lived about 15 minutes from me). I did some research and learned how to open and reseal the envelopes without damaging them, which took some technique along with a hair dryer, rubbing alcohol, and Q-tips.
This made it easy for me to learn a little more about her. Linda is was a 33-year-old woman who worked for a small accounting firm - I’d rather not name the place outright. Her birthday was December 11th which, coincidentally, was approaching in a couple weeks. I also managed to find a bank statement that gave me a nice look into how she’s been spending her past month. It was at this point I realized that my assessment of Linda Watson as an extremely plain woman was pretty spot-on, because there was absolutely nothing interesting on the list. A trip to Old Navy, a bunch of Starbucks, something about $40 from Amazon - no restaurants, no movies, nothing that would really imply she was spending any time socializing. That aside, I also found a cooking magazine, so I guess she was into cooking.
Apartments are harder to break into than suburban homes, because there are fewer doors and windows. Every time I got Linda’s mail, I would check the front door and the windows in the back, but they were always locked. This was a bit frustrating because I was really interested in getting into her house. So, I came up with a sort of plan that I thought would be fun, even if it didn’t work.
Last Saturday, I visited Linda Watson’s apartment complex as I would on weekdays. The difference is that this time, I wanted her to be home. I thought it would be interesting to have a conversation with her. If I got lucky, I could take advantage of the situation to discreetly unlock a window from the inside. So, I walked up to her door wearing nothing warmer than a light sweatshirt, and knocked. The adrenaline rush was crazy. I was afraid I might screw something up.
The door opened, and in front of me stood Linda Watson, exactly as I remembered her from the grocery store. It was at that moment, making eye contact for the first time, that I realized I was running the risk of beginning to care about this person. As selfish as it is, I couldn’t kill a person I cared about, even if it’s a 33-year-old woman standing in a doorway with a slightly perplexed look on her face, giving me a reserved “Hello.”
Arms crossed from the cold, I shyly returned Linda’s greeting. I explained that I was walking my dog near the woodsy area behind the back of her apartment, and that he had gotten away. I had been looking for my dog for an hour and was wondering if Linda may have seen him roaming about. Of course, Linda sympathetically apologized for the situation and that she couldn’t be of use to me, but that she would keep an eye out. I wore a defeated expression in response, apologizing in return for troubling her.
It somehow went exactly as I had hoped - Linda invited me inside to warm up a bit with some coffee. I outwardly hesitated before accepting her offer, although on the inside I wanted to jump through the door and hug her for cooperating so well. And that’s how Linda Watson ended up with a 19-year-old girl next to her on the couch - who knows if it was just a nice gesture or if she really has no better way to spend her Saturdays than talking to some kid she just met (who happens to be interested in killing her).
Linda soon learned that my name is Maria (it’s not) and that I attend the nearby community college (I don’t). I was a little bit nervous that she would ask me too many questions because I didn’t have many answers prepared. I was able to steer the conversation toward her, and she was pretty happy to talk. I asked what she does, and she told me that she works for the accounting firm I already knew about, communicating with outside clients and keeping records. I told her I was pretty nervous about growing up. She told me to enjoy college and to make lots of friends because there’s less opportunity once you start working.
When I asked if she was married or anything, she laughed. Of course I knew she wasn’t married, but I wanted to hear more about her love life. She said that she doesn’t currently have a boyfriend (I guess she’s at least had boyfriends, but who knows how long ago). When I asked her about kids, she said she doesn’t want them until she gets a better job. On top of that, she told me that her family has a history of some genetic diseases such as arthritis and depression, which she is afraid to give to her kids.
It’s funny that she mentioned that because when I asked to use her bathroom, I noticed a tube of prescription pills on the sink. It was labelled duloxetine, which I looked up later and discovered that it is in fact an antidepressant. I had a joking thought that maybe by killing her I’d be doing her a favor, but quickly decided I was a terrible person for coming up with that.
The rest of the visit was pretty dull. We talked about food and some other mundane stuff before I eventually made an excuse to leave. I didn’t get the chance to unlock a window or anything like that, but I didn’t really feel the need to go through her apartment anymore. As early as the drive back to my dorm, I was already thinking about how I would best like to kill Linda Watson.
The choice was between effectiveness and fun. I decided to go with fun, because it would be way more satisfying to kind of dissect her as I killed her, rather than just getting it done and calling it a day. Fast-forward one week to December 13th - today, actually. Linda Watson turned 34 two days ago. I made a fun little wager with myself where if Linda was spending her birthday weekend alone, I would pay her a visit and kill her. If she was out or had company, I would stop by next week or something instead.
So this morning, I drove over to Lowe’s and bought an axe. Again, I expect you’re laughing, but that’s also kind of the point. An axe is so kind of cliche and a “movies” thing that I actually thought it would be the most fun. Swinging it at someone and everything, it’s a really entertaining image. They actually had a bunch of different axes, so I picked one that had a good weight but was still light enough for me to swing quickly.
The drive after getting the axe was when the adrenaline really picked up. All that kept going through my mind on the way over was “Wow, I’m really doing this.” Not in a bad way, just like a surprised this is real life sort of thing. I also got this strange rush of recollections of the time I spent with Linda. It was like my life was flashing before my eyes, except it was just the rather mundane hour I spent with Linda - like snippets of our conversations, the sound of her laugh, her facial expressions and stuff.
I also wondered to myself what the crazy serial killers would be feeling at a time like this - schizophrenic delusions? Sexual buildup? I have no idea, but what I felt was kind of like ridiculously alert and numb in the senses at the same time, however that’s possible.
Before getting out of the car, I had the sense to stuff the axe into my backpack to look a little less ridiculous walking across the parking lot. The handle was sticking out, but that didn’t really matter. At that point my heart was pounding so hard I could feel my throat throbbing. I tried controlling my breath, but it’s really hard to not breathe fast when your heart is pounding like that.
I reached Linda Watson’s door and quietly put my ear to it after setting down my backpack. I heard a voice that wasn’t hers - company? No, it was just the TV, mixed with her occasional tapping footsteps behind the door. I actually kept my ear there for a really freaking long time, because I wanted to make absolutely sure nobody was over. Probably 10 minutes of that and a lot of reassuring myself convinced me.
I quietly opened my backpack zipper and held the axe in my hands. My fiercely shaking hands. What the hell was this kind of reaction that my body was making? I told my body to shut up, that it’s no big deal, but of course it wouldn’t listen. It was actually bizarre how much my hands were shaking. It must be the adrenaline buildup. I rolled my eyes at myself and got my hand to rest on the doorknob. If it’s locked, I’ll knock, it’ll be basically the same. I took a deep breath and forced my muscles into action.
I swiftly turned the doorknob. Not locked. In one movement, I opened up the door and slipped inside. Linda Watson, just a few steps away into the kitchen. I see - she was in the middle of cooking. She immediately jumped and turned around, startled. I expected that. Quickly, I let go of the doorknob and adjusted the axe into both hands. In the following split second, I realized that she would probably start to make a lot of noise. Looking back, I’m an idiot for not considering that. Just as Linda’s mouth opened to speak - maybe even started speaking - I forcefully swung my axe into the side of her head.
But, my axe was facing backwards. I hit her with the blunt end of the blade. I actually did this on purpose, because in that split second I somehow decided that it would be the way to keep her noise to a minimum. It actually worked. I felt barely any resistance in the swing as I collided with her head, knocking it clean aside. Linda’s half-formed syllable came out as a kind of weird grunt - a noisy exhalation is probably the best I could describe it. That happened at the same time as her head smacked into the cabinet from the force, and she fell backwards without any ability to keep her balance. I didn’t hesitate at all to keep swinging at her while she was half lying down on the ground, this time my axe facing the right way. I didn’t really know where to swing, so I kind of just started hacking at her collarbone area and chest. It didn’t feel like the axe was going too deep, but there was a nice “thunk” sort of sound every time the axe embedded into her. I even felt the soft sinking sensation ripple into my hands, like the axe was a kind of physical extension of my sense of touch.
On a whim, I swung once at her throat, but most of the swing actually missed and I hit the floor by accident, causing a loud, dull whack to resonate through the apartment. I didn’t have time to think about it. I swung again with better aim and got a more centered hit, feeling the bone or cartilage or whatever is in there, so I must have split it open. Right after that, I decided to swing at her face, and I got this diagonal cut along her nose and mouth, which felt pretty good so I did it once more.
I finally briefly stopped to survey the damage. Linda was bleeding ridiculously. The blood was kind of coming out in waves, in sync with her beating heart, probably. It was pooling all around her and riding along the cracks between the tiles. Her light blue shirt was all torn up and stained dark, kind of mixed with a fleshy mess around her chest. It was all just glistening red. Her face wasn’t much better, covered in dripping red at this point, and her lip was kind of hanging off, revealing red-stained teeth in a really weird way, like a zombie or something.
Linda wasn’t dead, though. Her limbs were kind of weakly, aimlessly trying to move while she was stuck on her back. More than anything, she reminded me of a bug that you crush but it still pitifully moves its legs around before it dies completely. That’s basically what she was doing. But I didn’t know how long it would take for her to die, or what kind of condition she was in. I ended up grabbing a big knife that was on the counter that she was using to cut up meat. Trying to step around the blood, I reached down and carved into the upper half of her neck, trying to sort of saw it from the left side to the right. It was a little awkward because the area was so soft and squished around the knife as I was cutting. But the sensation was completely different from the axe. It actually felt like I was cutting a tough piece of raw meat (which I guess technically, I was).
The blood started pouring out, and I hoped that I severed the most major arteries in there. It must have worked, because after a moment Linda’s limb movements kind of just had the strength drained from them, soon resting still on the floor. I took a few seconds to catch my breath. No time to stick around and think about the experience. I shook the knife blade through a dirty pan in the sink to clean off the blood, then threw the knife into my backpack. I did the same with the axe. I also took her laptop that was sitting on the counter. It had some recipe open for veal and mushrooms. I didn’t really take the laptop to use it, since I have a perfectly good one myself that I got for college. I just wanted to look through it for fun.
I finally went outside and closed the door behind me. I got some blood on my sweater and jeans. But funnily enough, I actually anticipated that so I wore dark colors.
The drive back to my dorm was just a constant replaying of the experience in my head. I guess that’s still kind of happening even now, actually. But it felt pretty nice. Linda Watson is dead. I kind of let the weight of that sink in. The sensation of having completely removed a human life from existence. It’s crazy. I don’t know how else to describe it.
Anyway, I threw the axe and knife into a dumpster on campus, which I think is picked up every Monday, so they’ll be gone by then. My roommate goes home on the weekends, so I have the dorm to myself today. It gave me the chance to go through Linda’s website history. I was right in thinking that’s where her deepest secrets would lie.
There was actually a lot of dirty stuff, like the names of websites for porn videos and stories and things like that. Same with her searches. A lot of the websites were boring, like cooking websites and recipes, and game websites like Bejeweled and stuff. I eventually got to the “one week ago” section of her history, and it gave me a chill.
There were a whole bunch of searches like “methods of suicide”, “how to tie a noose”, “dangerous household chemicals”, “carbon monoxide poisoning” - like a lot of them. She was probably ready to write a book on suicide after all the research she did. So I guess Linda was contemplating suicide. I wonder if it was influenced by her depression.
The irony is actually striking. Maybe Linda was going to die anyway. Or maybe she couldn’t find the courage to do it. If that were the case, I almost literally gave her a birthday present by killing her. That’s actually really comical in a messed-up way, and it leaves a weird taste in my mouth. The part I don’t get is that I didn’t see any of those searches up until the “one week ago” section, nothing more recent than that.
I ended up throwing the laptop in the dumpster with the other stuff. It’s been a few hours since then, so I’ve had some time to calmly think about everything. Like I said, it was pretty satisfying and I’m glad I finally got around to it. I feel like I can finally cross it off my bucket list, or like I’m tying loose ends with myself. This is probably the first and last time I’ll write the name Linda Watson - it’s back to living a normal college life, except I might do some people-watching every now and then because it’s definitely fun and interesting.
But I’ll always wonder how many people there are like me. I’m sure there has to be a lot, because there is just nothing strange about it to me, being curious about killing someone. Sadly, it’s something that people can’t exactly just talk about, so I guess I’ll never know. I’m sure that anyone would just lie about it even if you asked them. But you can’t help but wonder if that person in the grocery store, who stares at you as you pass by, might be considering what it would be like to kill you. If I could, I would tell them all about it, so they could decide for themselves. But who knows, maybe I got lucky, and that person is you. I actually really, really hope so.
~♥
Tactical Data: L45.967.22
Remnants of the damaged audio files recovered from the wreckage of the battlecruiser Emperor’s Fury (holo files were completely unsalvageable)
Subject: Private Maren Ayers, Medic, 128th Platoon “Iron Jesters”
Receiving: Captain Serl Gentry, Doctor, Special Research Ops
Captain Gentry: Have a seat, Private. I can imagine that you’re upset after what you’ve just been through.
Private Ayers: Upset? Don’t be silly, Captain: this wasn’t a complete surprise. Nature doesn’t just adapt. Nature cheats, changes the rules, and slips out the back door with your wallet while you’re still trying to figure out what happened.
Captain Gentry: I’m not sure I follow.
Private Ayers: Sorry; those aren’t my words. That’s from my father, the venerable Dr. Talen Ayers. It’s his own special flavor of insight: one part renowned research geneticist and two parts backwoods yokel. Always embarrassed the hell out of me.
He’d throw that proverb out whenever I complained about unexpected results in my research. Force of habit, I suppose.
Captain Gentry: Private, if we could start at the beginning?
Private Ayers: It’s like the time an entire control group of my fruit flies decided to breed small enough to escape the netting in its container and spread into the other habitats. They deliberately ruined three months of long-chain protein sculpts. At least it seemed deliberate to me.
I was twelve at the time and had been slaving away on my own custom mutation of Drosophila melanogaster for a school project. Dad just laughed, told me to use jam jars next time. Old bastard. He didn’t have a clever maxim ready when I dropped out of grad school to join the marines, did he now?
Captain Gentry: Private Ayers, if we could please just stick to the matter at hand?
Private Ayers: Sorry – too personal? You said to start at the beginning, but I guess you’re not interested in my daddy-daughter issues. It’s just… it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to really talk with anybody who has more than a boot-camp education, and we’ve got a long flight back to civilized space.[1]
Captain Gentry: (Clears his throat.)
Private Ayers: OK, I’ll cut to the chase.
Captain Gentry: Please.
Private Ayers: Six months back, our platoon was headed to a remote sentry outpost on the frosty side of Anselm, swapping chairs with the poor slobs who had been assigned to that ice world for the previous year. We had just warped in-system and were calculating to make our final jump when we got the priority call from Korhal IV: all Minotaur-class battlecruisers were being recalled to the capital to be refitted for interatmospheric combat.
Instructions were for any non-critical missions to belay their progress, drop any passengers and payloads at the nearest habitable checkpoint, and warp to HQ posthaste. Retrieval would be assumed by secondary military vessels as command deemed appropriate. That sobered us up real fast. You know as well as I do that the term “habitable” can be used a little too loosely by the Dominion.
Captain Gentry: Unexpected transfers are a part of military life, Private.
Private Ayers: Yeah, well, I don’t think anybody was happy about being indefinitely sidelined for a vehicle upgrade.
Our nav comp calculated that the nearest rock fitting these criteria was a barren mining world on the edge of our in-system range: Sorona. You’ve seen it – a rust-orange planet with a slender asteroid ring around its midsection. Looks like a fat kid wearing a dirty little belt.
Captain Gentry: (Laughs, then catches himself.)
Yes, I’ve seen Sorona.
Private Ayers: Right. I’d been a medic with the 128th platoon for two years at that point. We called ourselves the Iron Jesters, under the command of Lieutenant Travis Orran. Only a handful of our crew had ever seen combat before, and most of that was just minor peacekeeping actions. Yeah, we were hardly the Heaven’s Devils, I know; they don’t send war heroes out to sit watch on Anselm. Regardless, I don’t think any of us imagined that our temporary setback was going to be somewhat more than temporary.
That was six months ago. Six months, Doc.
Captain Gentry: That’s Captain….
Private Ayers: Regardless, there was no welcoming committee waiting for us on the hot tarmac.
Captain Gentry: This is not uncommon, Private. Some of the smaller colonies lack the personnel to keep a starport fully staffed.
Private Ayers: This wasn’t a case of arriving during lunch break, Doc. The place was empty. Had been for a long time.
The lieutenant’s plan was to gather whatever supplies we could carry and slog the fifteen miles to the nearest colonial outpost, a little hole in the ground called Cask. There we would make contact with the local mayor and try to find a comfortable place to camp out for the duration. Lieutenant Orran joked that we’d at least be able to work on our tans before shipping out to Anselm. There were a few laughs; I think we were all trying to look on the bright side of the situation.
The zerg cut that short.
(This is followed by a long pause and the sound of Gentry shifting in his seat.)[2]
Captain Gentry: Please, Private.
Private Ayers: We were about five miles from the colony when the ground just… just exploded all around us. All I can remember is a chittering sea of claws, gnashing teeth, and blood. So much blood. The zerg swam through our platoon like fish in an ocean of red. Private Braden was just in front of me, and I watched as his arm was ripped clean off – armor, bone, everything – and he went down under a pair of the beasts.
You and I both know there hadn’t been any zerg activity in terran space for years. I’d heard of these xenos, seen the training vids. But nothing can prepare you for the sheer animal terror that hits you when these monsters attack. The speed. The savagery. I’ve seen hundreds of zerg since that time, but the first attack still haunts me. Always will.
(Another long pause.)
Captain Gentry: So how did you survive the ambush, Private?
Private Ayers: Well, it was the lieutenant who kept his head, who finally pulled us out of a blind panic. He called for the Jesters to drop their packs, circle up, and open fire. I can remember his voice – steady and even in the midst of that chaos. He’s a good leader. A good man.
Five marines were already wet piles on the sand before the first shot was fired. On instinct, I had holstered my A-13 and was headed to Braden with medkit charging when Private Delme grabbed me and shouted that I should save my breath. She was right. There’s not much my nanos can do when a marine’s had his viscera pulled out through the belly of his CMC.
It probably wasn’t two minutes before Lieutenant Orran called for a halt. The smoke cleared, and we just stood there, stunned.
Captain Gentry: Stunned? Come now, Private. All Dominion marines are trained for the eventuality of a zerg attack.
Private Ayers: You’ve never seen combat with the zerg, have you, Doc?
Our troop of sixty marines had just dropped by twelve, and three more would be joining them shortly. The zerg had caught us flat-footed, and all the training in the world hadn’t counted for squat. The worst part? After checking and double-checking, we were only able to recover ten alien bodies. Ten xenos. A handful of zerglings had taken out a quarter of our platoon in a matter of minutes.
And we wouldn’t have seen the next dawn if the colonists hadn’t heard our shots and come to investigate. We saw a dust cloud on the horizon, red in the evening light. The lieutenant called us into formation, and we readied ourselves for another attack. Then we heard the welcome sputtering of a heavy terran motor. A mining vehicle – a big ore loader, by the look of it – was heading our way, and we started cheering.
The cheer stopped when the vehicle got within eyesight.
Captain Gentry: Not what you had expected?
Private Ayers: Let’s just say that the loader had seen better days. Deep gashes cut through the chassis in places, and the treads appeared to have been gnawed through on one side. Mounted on the front of the transport were two hydralisk skulls, and the plasteel headlights shone grimly through the empty sockets. Not the welcome wagon we’d been hoping for, but at least it had room to spare for our platoon in the dented ore trailer. We loaded up and tried to ignore the hopeless look on the faces of the civvies crewing the thing. They’d obviously been expecting more than our wide-eyed platoon.
We got the story on the drive back. The zerg had first hit the outlying Soronan settlements about eight months ago and then quickly swept across the remaining terran holdings. Yes, that’s right – eight months. The colonists claimed to have been sending emergency messages to the Dominion and any nearby ports on a daily basis ever since then. No reply. They assumed that their comm station must have been faulty. Helluva time for the fones to go out, huh, Doc?
Captain Gentry: So how did a civilian population of unarmed miners survive an eight-month siege by one of the most dangerous enemies mankind has ever come across? This has us baffled.
Private Ayers: Any chance you got a look at the recon vids from when you finally decided to show up? If they haven’t already, have your tech boys pull up the schematics on Cask.
The colony is well named. Situated in one of the most perfect natural fortresses I could ever imagine, the colony is a military architect’s dream come true. Cask is nestled in the folds of a high-walled canyon that terminates under a massive arch of rock. Apart from providing shade from the planet’s twin suns, the arch shields the colony from anything but the heaviest air attack. A land-based assault would be forced through a narrow bottleneck that the miners have affectionately named the Wedge. Even our single transport was scraping the walls as the miners opened the scarred paristeel gates to let us pass inside the makeshift barricade.
Doc, the zerg had been swarming the Wedge for eight months on a daily basis and had been held off by civvies armed with shotguns and mining lasers. It was the first time I’d ever heard of civilians stemming a zerg assault, and I think we dared to hope that a strategy of attrition might bear fruit. The zerg couldn’t sustain this kind of activity on a practically lifeless world forever, could they?
Captain Gentry: I am unable to relay any further scientific information on the xenos than what you have been cleared to see in your training vids, Private. Please continue with your report.
Private Ayers: Right. Sorry.[3]
So we made contact with the local leader, who grew more and more despondent as we made it clear that, no, we weren’t part of a larger force and, no, we didn’t have any idea when our transport would return. The colony’s doctor had taken his own life only a month before, so I found myself quickly inundated with sick and injured civvies.
Malnourishment had set in once the supplies had run low, and the civilians were scraping together whatever they could from the beleaguered hydroponic gardens and a native mold that grew along the shadowed edges of the canyon. The stuff was acidic, tasted like paste, and had an odd peppery scent. But it had enough protein and carboxylic compounds to keep the people from starving. The acid had worn through most of the enamel on their teeth, so I actually spent a lot of time doing dental extractions. Not what you’d expect following a zerg attack, I know.
The first wave of zerg hit only an hour after our arrival. We were unloading what gear we had been able to bring with us when the Klaxon went off. In between the sounding alarms, I could hear a rustling crescendo as the canyon walls seemed to shiver. The lieutenant had us drop everything and take posts along the makeshift walls the civvies had erected.
Being ambushed by the zerg is one thing. Being prepped, locked, and loaded for them is an altogether different experience. The first zerglings turned the corner to meet a withering crossfire of three dozen C-14 rifles and eight mining lasers. A shower of ichor painted the canyon walls, and the next wave of creatures rushed forward, the aliens wet from the remains of their siblings. They were mowed down just as quickly.
The next twenty minutes were filled with regular bursts of gunfire punctuated by the hissing cries of dying zerg. After it became obvious that my field-dressing skills wouldn’t be needed, I took a spot on the wall and started firing with a loaned C-7.
Firing. Punching wet holes into zerglings. Watching them squirm, drop to the ground, twitch before going still. Hippocratic Oath notwithstanding, it felt good.
Captain Gentry: Mmm?
Private Ayers: Yeah. It felt really good. Putting spikes through those fekking demons. After they had murdered so many of us… just being able to kill and kill and kill and…
(Soft sounds of crying.)
Captain Gentry: (Into his lapel) This is Gentry. I don’t think I’m going to be able to get any further here. Get meds down here and a gurney prepped for –
Private Ayers: No! No, I’ll be alright. Just need… just need a minute.
Captain Gentry: (Still into his lapel) Hold on that.
Private Ayers: (Sniffs, then takes a big breath.)
I apologize, Captain. For a moment I was back down there and…
Captain Gentry: Steel yourself, Private. This is information the Dominion needs to save lives. Remember that.
Private Ayers: Save lives? Ha. I’m glad you put it that way, Doc. That will make this much easier.
So my platoon is locked down on this dirt world, and the zerg are hitting us on a daily basis. Like clockwork. We hold the line. Days go by. Weeks.
We learned to conserve ammo, relying on the mining lasers the civvies had jury-rigged onto platforms above the walls to control the xenos. The Wedge really did seem to nullify the zerg offense: no matter how many claws stormed down that canyon, they could only get close enough to scratch at the barricades before being picked off. It was almost more work to burn away the corpses with the lasers when the attack was over.
We settled into a routine. Attacks would come at indeterminate times during the day, but only once in any twenty-four hour period. It started with a few dozen zerglings, then spilled into a rush – hundreds of the things crawling over each other in such masses that each shot was guaranteed to pierce two or three bodies at a time.
Captain Gentry: Alright, Private, now we’re getting to the important information. What form did the attacks take? Were you only assaulted by the smaller zergling strain?
Private Ayers: Yes. I asked about the other types of zerg that I’d learned about – hydralisks, ultralisks, devourers – you know, the whole cast of uglies. Apparently they had been part of the initial assaults, but their numbers had diminished as the siege wore on.
Captain Gentry: Diminished?
Private Ayers: Diminished and then disappeared entirely. The colonists noted this as a significant change as the months passed, and we surmised that this was a sign of the zerg population being worn down to its cheapest weapons.
Captain Gentry: Is that still what you think was happening?
Private Ayers: No. I wish I had seen it for what it really was.
Captain Gentry: Care to elaborate?
Private Ayers: I’ll get there. You need to hear the rest to understand.
The civvies were grateful to have us there, and they made sure that we were provided with water from the colony well and ammunition hot off the colony’s modified tool factory. The food and supplies that we’d packed in provided some relief, and our tech-savvy Private Hughes did a checkup on the comm gear. It was all up to spec: as far as he could tell, the messages had been going out. It’s just that nobody was answering.
(A long pause. Captain Gentry again clears his throat.)[4]
Captain Gentry: Go on.
Private Ayers: It wasn’t until the first few weeks had gone by that my suspicions started to grow.
Captain Gentry: About the comm system?
Private Ayers: No, about the zerg. Why would I be suspicious about the comm? I’m no techie. It was the constant and utterly fruitless zerg attacks that got me thinking.
I was reminded of an argument I’d had with my father after his lecture one day. We had been focused on evolutionary theory, and I made the mistake of complaining about one of his tenets – something about instances of mutation occurring more frequently in populations that suffered from drastically diminished numbers. I thought it was ridiculous to consider a population of organisms as some sort of collective unconsciousness that could react to threats with a gestalt reasoning apart from the whole.
Captain Gentry: “Gestalt reasoning”? Private, I’ll give you high marks for vocabulary, but you’ve just used a lot of fancy words to describe the widely accepted zerg cerebrate concept. It’s certainly nothing new or groundbreaking.
Private Ayers: Pardon me, Doc, but I don’t think you understand. That’s not what he was proposing. He claimed that a separate population of individuals within a species could have a group-wide increase in its offspring’s mutation frequency due to severely dropping numbers. This supposes that some sort of biochemical communication exists at the genetic level for all species. Even my damn fruit flies.
Captain Gentry: So… you’re saying that an isolated group can mutate to deal with unexpected situations. This is nature slipping out the back door with your wallet, right?
Private Ayers: Well, you’re getting warmer.
The theory was stupid, I thought. It didn’t follow any formulas, algorithms, or predictable patterns. Most of science is like a pistol, right? You load it, pull the trigger, and it fires a slug. Once you understand the mechanism, you can predict it every time. Why do you think I joined the marines? Daddy issues aside, I mean. Fire guns; patch the holes they make; and win the battle. Simple, clean, and easy. My father hated my hunger for that simplicity, an unrealistic black-and-white universe that he called “a foolish binary fantasy.”
“Maren,” he’d say, “sometimes A plus B doesn’t equal C. Sometimes it equals M; sometimes it equals 42; and sometimes it responds in the form of an essay. You have to accept the fact that the most important questions have too many facets for you to count. You have to step back and be content with the fuzzy big picture.”
He failed me that semester in spite of perfect test scores. Said I just didn’t get the most important part.
Captain Gentry: So Cask had you rethinking your father’s theories?
Private Ayers: Yeah. It burns me to say it, but yeah. Something about being stranded on a desolate rock, being surrounded by homicidal cockroaches, and eating alien mold. I finally started to see the big picture. Father would be so proud of his little girl.
First of all, why would supposedly intelligent spacefaring aliens deliberately and systematically throw their forces at an impenetrable target? And why do so at such a constant, methodical rate? Cask certainly didn’t hold any position of strategic importance. Neither did Sorona, for that matter.
My studies in xenobiology had never gone too deep; I was out of school, out from under my father’s thumb, before zerg physiology was really taught at a scholastic level. From what I’d been able to piece together from the dumbed-down boot-camp vids, the zerg Overmind used an adaptive form of DNA to incorporate other useful bits from distinct, unrelated organisms into its own genetic palette. This made my fruit fly gene sculpting look like child’s play.
What if whatever consciousness was controlling this population had recognized a unique dilemma in this terran holdout on Sorona? What if my father’s theory was true? What if the inverse relationship between a population’s survival rate and random mutations was a concept not only understood by this consciousness, but also used to overcome obstacles when all other tactics proved useless? Was our desperate holdout providing a damn testing ground for the enemy?
Captain Gentry: I’m impressed, Private. I can’t go into detail here, but your field analysis syncs up with much of the data our tactical team has been running through. What was your conclusion?
Private Ayers: I had to know. Had to know if we were being used, even helping the zerg by playing into a forced mutation strategy. We had to seek out the hive responsible for this population of xenos. We had to destroy it.
The lieutenant laughed at me. I tried explaining it to him again, and he cut me off; this time his expression was stern. He told me that he had no idea how long we were going to be stuck on this rock and that, through the grace of whatever god looked out for atheist marines, he had found a way to keep his platoon alive in the midst of a zerg assault. He was going to sit tight and wait for the cavalry. “Leave the science to the scientists, Private.”
That stung. Believe it or not, it stung. I’d been trying to distance myself from my father and his world of intellectual vagaries for years, and now I ached for that understanding. That perspective. Here I was literally stuck in the center of what was potentially the next evolutionary step of an entire species, and I lacked the tools, training, and support to do anything about it.
Captain Gentry: So what did you do?
Private Ayers: I did what I could. I waited until the next attack had petered out, and I climbed over the barricade.
Captain Gentry: A little field research?
Private Ayers: Exactly.[5]
The other marines all started shouting, and I could hear Private Delme calling to the lieutenant. Something about “losing another quack to suicide,” and I had to smile at her tender concern. Hey, if the pattern held true, the next attack wouldn’t come until tomorrow morning at the soonest.
The lieutenant had reached the top of the wall and was yelling by the time my feet hit the sand. I ignored him and got to work, collecting samples from carcasses. The attenuated surgical lasers on my armor made quick work of this, and I kept my C-7 at the ready in case the zerglings weren’t as dead as they seemed.
By the time I had gathered a good sampling, Lieutenant Orran had raised the gate and was standing just inside, fuming.
What was he going to do? Shoot the only medic on the planet? I was shouted at for a good hour and then confined to quarters. The moment my door was shut I set to work, turning the room into a miser’s laboratory. Most of the equipment I needed could be adapted from the instrumentation in my armor, and within the hour I was doing comparative analysis on the flesh of our attackers.
Captain Gentry: You built a lab out of your armor? Again, I’m impressed, Private.
Private Ayers: You higher-ups think we grunts are all a bunch of brain-dead apes, don’t you? Didn’t really expect us to see what was going on?
Captain Gentry: “Going on”? I don’t know what you’re implying, Private, but I suggest you continue with your report.
Private Ayers: Uh-huh. The lab was nothing fancy – just enough to run some basic tests. It didn’t take long to locate the mutation, even with my rusty training. You know how human transplant surgery is all about fighting the host’s bodily rejection of the foreign new flesh? Well, imagine the reaction if the new cells are from an entirely different species.
The zerglings’ connective tissue – the tough, leathery stuff that binds the hardened zerg exoskeleton to muscle tissue – was blistering. Every sample that I collected showed some level of swelling and agitation due to the bulbous pustules clustered across it.
My next discovery took me completely by surprise. The agitated flesh had a unique peppery smell. A smell I’d grown accustomed to at every meal since we’d arrived on Sorona.
Captain Gentry: The same smell as the –
Private Ayers: Why the zerg would want to absorb a local mold into their potpourri of genetic features was beyond me.
Maybe this wasn’t deliberate. An alien infection caused by some?? insidious algae? Ha. I doubted that anything could get through the bio-defenses of these monsters, but it was possible. I decided to dissect one of the smaller blisters, an angry green specimen the size of my fingertip. I charged up the med-laser and made a small incision.
Captain Gentry: And?
Private Ayers: And I woke up two hours later in the med-bay with my skin burning. Lieutenant Orran was standing over my gurney, his face sick with worry. He told me how the grenade had brought him running, how he had found me underneath a collapsed wall in the next room. That’s when I glanced down and saw the remnants of my suit. The entire right side looked like a candle that had been held to a flame: the armored plates had been fused together. The lieutenant told me that, the next time I wanted to “off” myself, I should remove my armor first. Yeah, he’s a funny guy.
I asked him to take me to my quarters. Either Lieutenant Orran was feeling pity or he had just given up fighting me, because he ducked under my arm and half dragged, half carried me from the med-bay. My room had been flattened, with the walls blown out in all directions. I was lucky to have survived.
“This wasn’t a grenade,” I told the lieutenant. “It was a blister.”
He laughed, convinced that I’d gone insane. I asked him to explain how I had managed to find an acid grenade in my quarters. He supposed that I’d cobbled it together from parts of my suit: they’d found pieces of my makeshift lab scattered throughout the wreckage. I could hardly fault him, you know. Who would believe my story about vicious alien pustules?
In the end, I was confined to another room with Private Delme on constant watch. My skin blistered, cracked, and then started peeling; you can still see the patches on my hand here. I told the private about my worries, about the need to broadcast what was happening here. I told her that maybe news of a new zerg mutation would get somebody to listen to us.
She only nodded, smiled, and then focused on cleaning her sidearm. Delme must have cleaned that stupid thing a dozen times over the next few days.[6]
Captain Gentry: Meanwhile, your troop was still coming under daily zerg assaults, correct?
Private Ayers: The zerg? Oh, no. They stopped coming.
Captain Gentry: They stopped?
Private Ayers: Yes, sir. One last assault the morning after my accident, and then nothing. Delme told me that everybody was being cautiously optimistic, and even I dared to hope. Maybe this really was some sort of miraculous infection that had blistered the zerg into submission. Did we owe our lives to the Soronan mold?
Lieutenant Orran relented after a few days and let me out of my confinement. I’m not sure who was more relieved: me or Private Delme. Another week went by without incident, and the lieutenant decided to risk a scouting party. He picked three marines from a crowd of raised hands; we were all feeling some high-grade claustrophobia after so long in that damned Wedge.
I found some tools and got to work on my poor melted suit, and I freed up the leg joints to a point where I could wear the ugly thing. Zerg or no, it felt better to walk around in my modified CMC again. I wasn’t the crazy wannabe scientist anymore. I was a Dominion medic, damn it. My father’s views on nature as a shrewd pickpocket had been gloriously shattered by an infectious mold.
Captain Gentry: Yes, yes. What did the scouting party find?
Private Ayers: We were all curious when it got back, and the civvies gathered around too, hopeful to hear if the attacks were over for good. Lieutenant Orran decided to break protocol and take the report in front of the crowd.
Orran asked if the party had encountered any hostiles. The three marines just looked at each other and smiled. Private Godard even started laughing. They said that they’d found an entire valley full of sick, dying zerg. Claimed that the beasts were swollen with disease, sluggish.
Private Evans said that they had spent the afternoon emptying their clips into “the poor bastards.”
The civvies started cheering, and Lieutenant Orran had a big grin on his face. It was the first time those canyon walls had echoed something akin to hope in a long time. But something the marine had said struck me as odd. Maybe I’d misheard him. I had to shout over the noise.
I asked if they’d really emptied all of their clips. I asked how many of these sick zerglings they had seen. Evans smirked and shrugged his shoulders. Said he wasn’t sure, but the valley was full of ’em.
My insides went cold. This was wrong. Very wrong. An infectious disease would result in a population producing fewer offspring, not more. The zerg weren’t dying. The zerg had found their mutation. A new strain was swarming, and the Wedge was about to burst wide open.
I turned and ran. Lieutenant Orran called after me, confused by my reaction. I had to get to the comm station, had to make some attempt at getting the message out. I don’t remember how long I ran, but I made it to the station by the time the first explosions started echoing through Cask.
(Another long pause.)
Captain Gentry: Private?
Private Ayers: The rest you know, or at least most of it. You heard my message. You came. The right motivation got you here with an entire fleet of battlecruisers in only four days. Four fekking days! You monsters had been listening to this colony die for months and didn’t lift a damn finger until we had some precious military intel for you!
Captain Gentry: I’ll ask you one more time for the rest of your report, Private. You’re on dangerous ground here.[7]
Private Ayers: The rest of my report? You want to know what happened in those four days? I got to see a wall we’d defended for six months dissolve under a slowly crawling wave of acid. I got to watch a platoon of marines giving their lives one by one, trying to stop an endless horde of swollen green xenos inching closer and closer with every detonation. I watched the last rays of hope disappear in those marines’ eyes as the next generation of explosive zerglings arrived – creatures that had gained the ability to roll into balls and project themselves along the terrain faster than a fully armed marine can run.
And finally… finally I got to watch a colony of civilians die, screaming in slow motion while this new breed of zerg destroyed Cask inch by inch, an endless series of explosions echoing through the Wedge.
Captain Gentry: That’s your report?
Private Ayers:' That’s my report. Yes, I know that I have rambled and not shown you the proper respect due a superior officer. I also know that I’m not going to see the end of this flight, that you’re just the first and gentlest of the Dominion interrogators who will be visiting me. I’ve known ever since you brought me onboard with Lieutenant Orran. He’s not going to see daylight either, is he?
Captain Gentry: If that is all, Private, I can have you escorted to –
Private Ayers: That is most certainly not all. Perhaps you’ve been listening close enough to my report to know what this is.
(Sounds of a gasp and a chair scraping backwards.)
Yes, I brought a sample for your labs, Doc. It’s significantly bigger than my fingertip, isn’t it?
Sit down. Sit down, sir. You stand up again, and I will blow this room through the fekking hull. I barely survived a blast in a suit of armor, and that pustule wasn’t half as big as this one. That’s right: sit still.
You were so anxious to get my report; you probably should have gotten me out of this beat-up suit of armor first, eh? Or at least searched my storage vials for foreign matter, maybe deactivated my little lasers? A dumb field medic would never turn violent, would never suspect….
Captain Gentry: (Whispering into his lapel) This is Gentry: I need security in interrogation room 7E stat.
'Private Ayers: Oh, by all means, call for security. This won’t take long.
I know that you bastards heard our cries. That you’d been listening the entire time. I know that you wanted to see how long a civilian population could stand against an incursion. And I know that you wanted to see how the infamous zerg adaptability would deal with an insurmountable problem. I can read the excitement in your eyes from this new data, you sick, murderous sonuvabitch. Well, I’ve got some bad news for you.
I saw something else in those four days. I saw the zerg pull back once they’d beaten the Wedge and destroyed the colony. The lieutenant and I watched the creatures turn and crawl from the smoking ruins of Cask, watched from our hiding place in the cliff face where you found us. They left because their experiment was done. It was a success.
You thought you were experimenting on them? They were experimenting on themselves. It’s how they grow, how they become stronger.
And for the last twenty-four hours before your fleet arrived, we listened to the massive spore cannons that they’d grown in the surrounding mountain ranges. Cannons that could have been turned on Cask at any time, mind you. But that would have ruined the experiment. No, these cannons were firing spores into space – no doubt on trajectories to other zerg planets. They were sharing what they’d learned with the rest of the Swarm. I know that it has been years since we’ve seen any zerg activity in terran space. But I hope you’re prepared for the next encounter. The zerg are coming. The zerg are nature in all her fury.
Still recording? Good.
Dad was right, Doctor. Nature doesn’t just adapt. Nature cheats, changes the rules, and slips out the back door with your wallet while you’re still trying to figure out what the hell happened. Now shut off your recording and stand up.
(The recording registers a long pause, a gasp, and a wet explosion. It then cuts to static.)
Prologue: Dark and deep, Lake Zhava lies in the highlands of Nephalia, near the border with Gavony. Villagers who live on the lake's shores and fish its waters have long spoken of a monster living in its depths. But despite the villagers' pleas, the church of Avacyn has sent no cathar or angel to protect them. As the madness in Innistrad grows, how will the villagers face the horrors of the lake?
Mia didn't believe in the old horror stories.
Not because she didn't believe in horrors. Quite the opposite. She believed in many things that even most adults would consider too horrible to think about. Spirits that haunted the living. Reanimated corpses, stitched together by madmen. Werewolves, feral and ravenous. Vampires who viewed villages as nothing more than a selection of choice morsels. She believed in these things, things that were not polite to speak of—as if not speaking of them would keep them from being real.
No, there were too many horrors in the world, horrors the village elders feared to name, for her to give much credence to town gossip, vague in details and heavy in hysteria.
Wilbur had quite a different opinion.
"It is too real," he insisted, pounding his fist on the grass. "Veryl said he saw it once—just a glimpse, but it was as wide as his ship."
Mia rolled her eyes. "Veryl also once claimed he kissed an angel," she said. "How long have we heard tales of the Gitrog? And how many credible people have seen it? Aren't we a little old to believe such nonsense?"
Wilbur stood up, shaking his head. "This isn't some dumb story. You don't go out on Lake Zhava every day, Mia. You don't see what I do. Especially lately. The unnatural fog. The lingering chill. There's more than fish in those depths."
"Is that your expert opinion as a fisherman? A fisherman who has turned fifteen and still isn't allowed to sail on his own yet?"
Wilbur blushed. "This has nothing to do with that, Mia! I'm being serious, and you're being a jerk."
Mia shrugged as she walked toward her flock. A few had straggled farther afield than she liked. "There's no sense in being afraid of the dark, Wil. What you should be fearing is what's in the dark."
Wilbur scowled, chasing after her. "What is that, another quote from your brilliant father?" Mia didn't take the bait, but Wilbur pressed on anyway. "Famed slayer, traveling the land as a noble agent of the Skiltfolk, but too busy to deal with monsters back home?"
"Too busy to deal with the whining delusions of small-minded townsfolk!" Mia whipped around, brandishing her crook. "Look around, Wilbur. None of this matters. This village doesn't matter. We don't matter. This stupid little hamlet isn't even big enough for real terrors to haunt it! We're just a no-name nowhere mountain town slowly driving itself to madness through runaway imaginations."
She turned, looked out at her flock, and sighed. One sheep had wandered far from the group. The little bell around its neck jangled faintly as it continued its adventure up the stony hillside. She started after it.
"Is that what your father told you when he left you behind? That you don't matter?"
Mia stopped in her tracks. She shot Wilbur an angry glare. Wilbur, to his credit, looked slightly green and like he was trying to swallow the words that just flew out of his mouth. Mia scowled.
"You didn't mean that."
"...Maybe I did—"
"We both know I can take you in a fight. You didn't mean that."
She turned away before Wilbur could answer and whirled the crook above her head, breaking into a light run. A short jog, a few sharp commands, and one crook under a stubborn sheep's chin later, she had herded most of her flock toward the field.
She glanced back to see if Wilbur had run home. To her surprise, he still stood there, looking dumb and lost.
"I didn't mean that!" he shouted across the field. Mia sighed, a smile sneaking across her face.
"I know." Mia let out a sharp whistle, herding her sheep onto the path back home. Wilbur hurried across the field to catch up.
"And it's not because you could take me in a fight. I mean, you could. But that's not why." Wilbur fell into stride next to her. Mia laughed.
"I know, Wil. That's why I like you."
The two walked on, the comfortable silence between them broken by occasional bleats from sheep.
Later that week, Mia awoke to a cold, gray dawn and found a section of her sheep pen broken. A quick count showed that one sheep was missing. She spent the morning searching to no avail. A rambunctious sheep probably broke out of the pen, as they were wont to do from time to time, and wandered off to get eaten by wolves in the woods. Mia cursed her luck and mended the fence, thinking nothing more of it.
Mia walked through the market, picking at the meager wares. The village's marketplace had never been thriving, but last season's poor crops and the decrease in caravans coming through the mountain pass made the options even more sparse than usual. Even the selection of fish seemed paltry, with the best offering being a sad sack of unimpressive cod.
"Poor haul this week, Lehren?" Mia nodded to the old fisherman.
Lehren shook his head, letting out a sigh. "Haven't spent much time on the waters. Fog's heavier than usual. Dangerous."
"It's dangerous all right," croaked a voice. "And not just due to fog. Wise fishermen are staying off the lake."
Mia looked at the speaker and rolled her eyes. "If all the fishermen were as wise as you, Veryl, they'd all have starved to death by now."
"The wise know that the Gitrog rises again!" pressed Veryl, a sneer sneaking into his voice. "Only a fool would fish the lake."
"I've never met a fisherman so afraid of the lake, or so eager to blame his poor skills on imaginary beasts." Mia picked out the fattest cod from Lehren's haul, making a show of handing him extra coin as she did so.
"Watch what you call imaginary, girl," a deep voice rumbled.
Mia turned to face the speaker and stopped, surprised. Kalim, barrel-chested and towering above the rest of the merchants, looked stern as ever. Thick brows, a thick, dark beard, thick arms sculpted from hauling nets—the only slender thing on his body was the curved fishing knife on his belt.
"The Gitrog is real. Surely a slayer's daughter knows better than to doubt the monsters of the world."
Mia noticed several other merchants and shoppers leaning in to listen or sneaking furtive glances. She gritted her teeth.
"A slayer's daughter knows to first rule out all other possibilities before crying 'monster' like a frightened child."
Veryl sidled up behind Kalim, greasy blond hair flopping across his eyes. "Rude words from a shepherd girl. Talking like you are the slayer."
"I'm more of a slayer than you are a fisherman, Veryl." As much as she wanted to knock the smugness (and just a few teeth) from Veryl's face, she knew better than to throw a punch with Kalim watching. She turned her attention to him.
"Surely you of all people do not believe Veryl's tall tales about actually seeing the Gitrog, Elder Kalim."
"I believe. For I have seen it."
The marketplace fell silent, and Mia lost all decorum as she stared at Kalim. Veryl started to say something, but Kalim put his hand across Veryl's chest, shushing the lad, and turned to address the whole marketplace. "The Elders convened last night, and we decree that fishing on the lake is suspended until further notice. We will post the announcement in the square this afternoon." He held up his hand against the groans and alarmed shouts. "The safety of the village comes first. I...I have also written to the Church of Avacyn for help." His gaze fell back on Mia. "Perhaps you could write your father as well."
A hushed silence fell over the crowd. Mia's pulse quickened as she met Kalim's gaze. Beneath the calm and commanding exterior, she saw it—terror, deep and rumbling, a flooding undercurrent in his otherwise resolute stare. She swallowed, a feeling of dread creeping up and clenching her throat.
"Father, I finally found some coriander!" Mia and Kalim turned as Wilbur came running down the market street. He waved the leafy greens, a stupid grin plastered on his face—until he tripped and went sprawling across the cobblestones. Mia let out a nervous laugh, exhaling—only then realizing she had been holding her breath. Around her, onlookers resumed their previous activities, some laughing at Wilbur, many whispering and murmuring, all dispersing, the tension of the moment broken.
Kalim took the coriander and ruffled Wilbur's hair. Wilbur looked around sheepishly until he caught Mia's eye. His face went from goofy embarrassment to serious in an instant, his brow furrowing. You okay? he mouthed.
Mia blinked, surprised, and shrugged. She started to speak, but Wilbur had already turned to Kalim, chattering and leading him from the marketplace, away from her. She stood alone, awash in a whirlpool of emotions, thoughts, and questions.
"He asked you to write your father?" Wilbur stared, incredulous. Mia nodded, stirring slowly. "But...he hates your father."
"Trust me. I haven't forgotten."
Mia tasted the soup, then offered the spoon to Wilbur. He sipped, made a face, and reached over to throw another pinch of salt into the pot.
The two huddled in Mia's cabin near her small hearth. The flickering flame cast a warm glow over the room as the woodsmoke mixed with the savory smell of mutton stew. Mia carefully pulled the pot off the fire and set it down on a nearby table while Wilbur retrieved a fresh loaf of bread from his pack. Mia slumped into a chair and drew a knife from her hip, slicing the bread. Wilbur frowned. "Tell me you've cleaned that since using it to cut rope in the sheep pen this morning. Or since cutting mutton for the stew. Or since cutting your hair three months ago."
Mia scowled. "It's my best knife. Multifunctional."
Wilbur shrugged, grabbed bowls from the nearby shelf, and sat down to spoon out generous portions of stew. "Do you even know how to reach him?" Mia looked up, confused. "Your father, that is."
"I know the branch of Skiltfolk in Drunau where he is based," Mia answered, sheathing her knife. She dipped the bread into the stew and took a bite, marveling at how it always seemed to taste better when Wilbur helped make it.
"Has he ever written back?" Wilbur watched Mia intently, ignoring his stew.
"I have never written him."
"How could—"
"I did not want to trouble him with trivial matters." Mia ate another spoonful and gestured to Wilbur's stew. Wilbur grumbled, then took a bite.
"Are you going to write him now?"
Mia continued eating, trying not to grind her teeth. Wilbur didn't seem to notice.
"Do you think he'd come? Maybe bring others? I mean, I don't think even he could take on the Gitrog without help—"
"I don't know!" Mia slammed her fist on the table, cutting him off. "I don't even know if I'll write to him."
"But—I mean, this is what he does, right? Slay monsters?"
Mia stood, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation. "We still don't know if there is a monster!"
Wilbur gaped at Mia, dumbfounded. "You still don't believe?"
"I still don't know for certain. It's all anecdotal evidence—"
Now Wilbur stood, an edge of anger sharpening his voice.
"My father has seen it! Veryl has seen it! Mia, I don't know why you refuse to—"
"Veryl is still an idiot, and your father is—your father." Mia looked into Wilbur's eyes. The two stood across the table, faces flushed and tempers raised. Even in that heated moment, Mia couldn't help but notice she and Wilbur stood eye to eye. Just that summer she had stood taller than him by a palm.
"My father is what, Mia?"
"An Elder. It's his job to err on the side of caution," Mia backpedaled.
"He said he saw it. He's not issuing decrees because he's cautious. He saw it."
"Unless he didn't." Mia sat down and started eating Wilbur's stew.
"Are you calling my father a liar?" The pain in Wilbur's voice cut far deeper than the angry shouting moments ago.
"People make mistakes. See things in the fog. They always have. A slayer must distinguish—"
Wilbur groaned. "Stop talking like that, Mia! You're no slayer!"
"And you're no fisherman!" Mia's eyes flashed angrily.
Wilbur's brow scrunched in anger for a moment, then his face slowly cleared and he sighed.
"None of us are. Fishermen, that is. Not until aid comes from the Church." Wilbur walked to the pot, grabbing Mia's empty bowl and scooping himself more stew. Mia frowned. Stupid Wil, can't even get angry long enough for a real fight. She shoveled stew into her mouth as Wilbur sat back down.
The two ate in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.
"It's not just anecdotal."
Mia looked up over her bowl at Wilbur, curious. Wilbur stared into his. "Boats destroyed. Property damaged. And recently, livestock going missing. Pa says we're lucky no person has been hurt."
Mia paused. Her missing sheep...
Wilbur looked up. "Please, Mia. You have to believe. Or at least, pretend to. Just...be safe? I—I don't want you to get hurt."
Mia hesitated. Wilbur looked at her with the same seriousness as that moment in the market, a seriousness that looked strange on a face so familiar. It made him seem older. It made her feel...she couldn't figure out how it made her feel, so she looked away.
"You're right," she sighed. "I'm not saying I'm convinced," she interjected, catching Wilbur's excitement out of the corner of her eye. "But there's enough reason for doubt. There's the possibility. And the moment we move from improbable to possible, we must stand watch. Now, vigilance and diligence is demanded—if you're on watch, no noise is harmless and no shadow can be ignored."
"Why do you always talk like you're reciting some slayer handbook?" Wilbur rested his head against his hand, raising an eyebrow at Mia, a crooked grin sneaking onto his face.
"I may not be a slayer yet, but I turn fifteen in just two months." Mia went over to the cabinet and began rummaging through it, partially to find something, and partially to avoid looking at Wilbur's stupid face. Stupid, dopey, kind, sweet face.
"You're going to join the Skiltfolk?"
Mia pushed aside some old parchment and books in the cabinet, still searching. "I'm going to try. I have no intention of tending sheep the rest of my life—aha!" Mia turned around, bringing a small case back to the table. Though simple, it looked sturdy—oak panels, iron reinforcement, a heavy lock on the front. Mia reached to the necklace hidden beneath her blouse, took the key, and unlocked the chest.
"Oh wow." Wilbur's eyes grew wide as she pulled out a small crossbow, ornately dressed in silver. The craftsmanship was clear, even in the dim firelight. Holy runes lined both sides of its stock. Though it was slender and light, Mia felt its power as she cranked back its bowstring with a practiced hand. She took sight down its length, pointing it toward the front window, her finger lightly brushing the trigger. A heavy twang rang out, dust flurrying in the flickering light, cast loose by the reverberating string.
"Is that your father's?"
"It's mine." Mia grinned. "You don't think Olgard, famed Skiltfolk shieldbearer, would stand for the embarrassment of a daughter who couldn't defend herself, did you?"
"I know you can handle yourself. I just didn't know you knew how to shoot." Wilbur leaned back, admiring the weapon. "Why do you keep it locked up?"
"Weapons heighten tension and danger, even if there's none present before." Mia took out the quiver of bolts, counting through them. "Only have your arms at ready when necessary. Only draw them when you must."
Wilbur shook his head, grinning. "I think, very soon, no one can tell you to stop speaking like you're a slayer."
"I certainly hope so." Mia picked up the crossbow and quiver, walking to the small room in the rear to place it by her bed. When she returned, Wilbur had already cleared the bowls. He smiled at her.
"Thanks, Mia. Even if you're just doing this for me."
"Don't flatter yourself." Mia grinned at him, ignoring the fluttering feeling in her stomach.
Wilbur stood. "You'll see. The Church will send help. Or, if you decide to write him, perhaps your father will come back. In the meantime, though, we'll do what we can to keep the Gitrog at bay."
"If it exists." Mia couldn't help herself. Wilbur graciously ignored it.
"I trust my father to do what he can to keep us safe."
Wilbur looked at her again, serious again.
"And I'll do what I can to keep us safe."
Mia walked up to him, close, their noses inches apart.
She then planted her palm on his face, giving it a light shove.
Wilbur laughed in surprise, stumbling back a step. Mia rolled her eyes.
"Get out of my house, Wil. Lest the Gitrog eat you as you walk home in the darkness."
Wilbur grinned and gave her a little wave, turning and walking out the cabin. Mia walked to the door and watched him amble out of sight.
Yeah. That was the correct way to react to his stupid face.
The joy of that evening didn't last long. Days turned to weeks, creeping by cold and dreary. As winter approached, the fog reached its gray tendrils farther and farther off Lake Zhava, creeping deeper into the village before the feeble sun would chase it back to the shore. On colder mornings, it even enshrouded Mia's cabin on the hill.
Mia kept her crossbow by her bed at night, and carved time out to practice her aim.
In all that time, no slayer from the Church came. Soon, the caravans stopped altogether, and more and more fishermen loitered around the marketplace, huddled together, grumbling and whispering. Mia broke down and wrote her father, scrapping a dozen drafts before settling on a brief and formal missive asking for aid.
She received no reply. Shortly after, the postal rider stopped coming to town. Within two days, accounts of the Gitrog devouring the mail carrier transformed from rumor to story to fact. Mia thought the poor lad didn't want to make the cold and dangerous trek to a wretched little village. He probably chose to spend the winter in Drunau instead.
However, there were many Gitrog rumors that Mia couldn't explain away. By first snowfall, three more sheep had gone missing. Each time, the fence was broken in a different spot—as though something was testing the strength of her pen. Or, as Mia reminded herself, spooked sheep pick random points to break fences. But what could be spooking them? The latest time, she had heard the fence snap in the night, but by the time she burst out of the cabin, crossbow in hand, there was nothing but broken wood and alarmed bleating.
After that, she had finally given in and hired the local carpenter to help her reinforce the pen, dipping into the money her father had left her. Though she hated spending anything she hadn't earned herself, she knew she was fortunate to have this cache. The fishermen, banned from the lake early in the season, struggled as snowfall began. Many relied on the kindness of neighbors—but the poor soil of the village could only produce so much. Fights in the local tavern became more frequent. Cursing the Gitrog intensified. More and more townsfolk retreated to their homes earlier and earlier in the day, barring their doors and boarding up windows as the pervasive fog rolled in thicker and deeper than ever before.
Through it all, it appeared that Wilbur was right when he promised his father would do something. As winter deepened, armed men and women began patrolling the streets, some wielding torches and blades, but many armed with only a pitchfork or meat cleaver. They always wore heavy cloaks with the hoods drawn up—to guard against the creeping chill, but also as uniforms. Mia wondered what a baker with a bread knife could do against the Gitrog. It gnawed at her until one afternoon, she made the mistake of asking Wilbur.
"They're patrols. Extra eyes. You said it before yourself, Mia. 'Vigilance and diligence.' We watch, and sound the alarm if we see anything." Wilbur looked annoyed, his lanky figure dripping from the rain.
"I just wonder if it's actually useful." Mia also wondered why Wilbur refused to take off his coat and boots. Or take a seat. Or smile.
"I just wonder if you'll sell me the wool so I can go home."
"You're not staying for dinner?"
"Some of us have more than ourselves to take care of." Wilbur crossed his arms, and Mia wondered when he had grown taller than her.
"What, do you have to walk around brandishing your fishing rod, protecting the people?" The words left her mouth as her heart begged her to shut up.
"There are things I can't tell you. You see the surface of what we're doing to keep the village safe, to keep people alive, and all you can do is mock."
The truth in his words dragged like sandpaper across her heart, leaving her bloody and raw.
"Why are you still here, Mia?"
Mia looked at his the stern line of his mouth, his furrowed brow, his eyes cold and questioning. Her stomach churned between anger and sadness, a bitterness rising in her throat. Wilbur pressed on. "Why haven't you left for the Skiltfolk headquarters to take your test and leave us behind like your father did?"
"I am not my father. And I...I'm not fifteen yet."
Wilbur laughed, and Mia's chest tightened. She had never heard that laugh from him—empty of joy, full of daggers.
"You knew the snow would come before your birthday. You know the pass is nigh unpassable after the snowfall. If you really wanted to test, you would've left already." His words snapped, sharp and biting as the frigid air. "You're scared. Scared you're all memorized rules and bluster."
Mia grabbed the bundle of wool and threw it at him. "Take it. Get out."
Wilbur reached to the pouch at his belt, but Mia gave him a hard shove. "I said get out! Keep your father's coin. I don't want it."
"You mean you don't need it."
Mia bit her lip. It was her own fault he knew how to hurt her most.
Wilbur turned with the wool under one arm and tossed the pouch behind him as he crossed her threshold. The coins bounced out and scattered, clattering against the floor.
Mia paused, sweating despite the cold. This was the third time today she'd had to change the water for her sheep, breaking through the ice that formed in the troughs. Between this and all her other errands and chores, she hardly had a moment to catch her breath. The sun was already sinking below the horizon, throwing a few last, feeble rays against a sky of iron clouds. The wind howled as she returned to her cabin, cutting through her coat, chilling her to the bone.
At least it isn't snowing, she thought.
Two hours later, Mia watched the flurry of white slowly overtake the scenery through the window. Of course. What a perfect end to a cold and miserable birthday.
She had hoped to make it into the village. Hoped to find her way to Wilbur's house. They hadn't spoken since their fight, and the intervening time grew heavier every passing day, lending heft to the silence and breadth to the distance now separating them. Though she did not put much stock in them, she couldn't help hoping that her birthday would bring Wilbur visiting like he used to.
She sighed, forehead on the glass, breath fogging.
She didn't know when she had dozed off—just that something woke her some time later.
She stretched. The fire had died down to soft orange embers, and outside, the faint glow of moonlit snow edged a silhouette of the landscape. The storm had broken crisp and clear, stars winking in the inky sky. All seemed so peaceful. What had woken her?
Then she heard it again.
A loud snap-crack! rang outside the cabin. Mia sat up with a start, heart racing. She listened intently, peering out into the silvery semidarkness, senses on alert, mind racing. Nothing but silence.
She took a deep breath and leaned back, head drifting sleepily back onto her arm. It was likely a frozen tree, bursting as its sap expanded in the cold. Nothing to worry about if there wasn't anything el—
Suddenly, Mia was sprinting, grabbing her crossbow, throwing on her coat, and bursting outside, fear and dread clutching at her chest.
It wasn't the sound that scared her.
It was the silence that followed.
No bleating of startled sheep. No jangling of bells. Even as she ran out into the snow, she could hear nothing. She held her crossbow at the ready, slowing to a brisk walk as she approached the pen.
The sight that greeted her stopped her cold.
An entire side of the pen was in tatters, the fence posts ripped clean from the ground. Broken planks littered the snow, and as she watched, one post cracked and the lean-to roof collapsed.
Slowly, Mia crept closer, praying and hoping, even though she already knew. As she quietly crossed into the pen, her fears were confirmed.
Not one sheep remained. Instead, blood and gore covered the ground and splattered the few planks still standing. Cold wind swept through the wreckage, and the pungent smell of viscera hit her. She doubled over, crossbow falling by her side as she inhaled through her coat sleeve, trying to calm her stomach.
As she gathered herself, a strange shape in the snow caught her eye. She snapped erect, crossbow leveled, squinting at the...thing. She cursed herself for not bringing a torch, slowly moving aside, shifting her shadow away.
The pale moonlight revealed a massive footprint in the fresh powder. She walked closer. The imprint looked like a large, webbed foot, with three talon-like divots at one end. As she looked across the pen, she saw several more prints, scattered among sweeping, dragging tracks and more pools of blood.
The Gitrog.
Mia's pulse pounded in her ears as she gazed out. Leading away from the pen was a wide swath of drag marks and three-toed, webbed footprints pointing to the woods toward the lake.
Her mind swam. The Gitrog was real! It had devoured her flock. Which also meant it roamed quite far from the lake. Which meant it probably had ventured into the village! She had to tell Wilbur. Had to apologize. Had to warn them! She began marching toward the faint lights in the distance, boots crunching through the snow, when a nagging voice in her mind stopped her.
If a menace is confirmed as monster and not man, a slayer must track and isolate it if possible. Slay it away from townsfolk and cities—avoid the panic and mayhem of frightened innocents.
Mia stood, her breath flaring in front of her in pale puffs, torn on what to do. Surely there's no way she could handle something like the Gitrog. Not alerting the town seemed incredibly foolish. She needed to talk to Wilbur—Wilbur's father, rather. Kalim and the Elders would know what to do.
But would they even help her? After all her doubts? Even if they wanted to help, what could they do? The image of bakers and farmers armed with bread knives and pitchforks flashed through her mind. If the Gitrog could devour her entire flock with hardly a sound...
Mia looked down at the crossbow in her hand. The silver gleamed in the moonlight, and she ran her finger along the runes etched in the side. She reached to her hip and rested her hand on the hilt of the long dagger there. The familiar blade had seen more use as a utility knife, but its cold iron edge was crafted to slay spirits and witches.
She had dreamed of becoming a slayer, following in her father's footsteps. But he left her here where it was "safe" and gave her a flock to keep her busy—keep her distracted. Her weapons gathered dust or became household tools, even as she tried to hone her skills on her own. Now, here she was—fifteen years old, with danger falling into her lap. She had played the role of shepherd too long, waiting for permission to become what she most wanted.
Mia took a deep breath through her nose, the cold air sharpening her focus. This was it. Her first step toward becoming a slayer. A practical trial. Even if she couldn't take down the Gitrog, she would at least track it, learn more of its patterns, perhaps even catch sight of it before it slipped back into the lake—and then she could bring that information to Kalim, or her father and the Skiltfolk of Drunau.
Mia shouldered her crossbow and followed the tracks methodically, her reckless, fear-driven pace slowing in the face of purpose.
It didn't make any sense.
She had followed the tracks carefully into the woods. They were easy to follow—the Gitrog did little to hide. However, the tracks vanished just a short span past the tree line. It did not make sense, unless the Gitrog could climb thin trees or burrow into ground frozen solid. Something that left footprints that big didn't just disappear.
She doubled back, examining the tracks more closely, expanding her search to the surrounding area. That's when she found it—a fresh, human footprint some distance from where the Gitrog trail ended. At first, she feared someone had been caught. However, the faint, isolated print didn't suggest struggle. Something didn't add up.
Mia again held her crossbow at the ready and spiraled out from the footprint looking for clues, ears sharp to any sound. Two spans from the footprint, a series of tracks and signs of dragging resumed—but they weren't Gitrog tracks. Human footprints intermingled with long furrows like sled marks, headed to the lake.
Anger replaced fear. Mia walked faster, eyes darting between the tracks and her surroundings. Someone had gone to the trouble of faking an attack, of making false prints, then sweeping away their tracks. Someone wanted to make her look like a fool. Someone had slaughtered her flock.
Someone was going to pay.
The tracks led her almost straight to the lake. As she got closer, her pace slowed. Flickers of torchlight danced by the shore. She moved quickly from tree to tree, staying under cover. Soon, she was near enough to hear voices drift through the cold night air. The torches illuminated several figures, all wearing dark cloaks with hoods pulled up. From Mia's spot, she couldn't make out any faces—nor could she hear any words that were spoken. They stood in a circle, heads bowed, chanting something in a low drone. After a moment, they filed onto a nearby ship, a fair-sized fishing vessel. Lehren's ship, Mia realized, heart dropping. What was going on?
Mia watched as the hooded figures boarded. She ground her teeth, suppressing an angry shout, as she watched each stop to load their cargo—lamb carcasses lifted from a nearby sled. She nocked a bolt, about to demand an explanation, when a strange sight stopped her.
One of the hooded figures stood on the boarding ramp, blocking the way. Even with the high ground, the one on the ramp seemed dwarfed by the figure before him, the latter casting an imposing shadow in the moonlight. The taller figure leaned forward and whispered something to the person on the ramp, then walked past. The two bumped shoulders, and the face of the figure on the ramp caught the moonlight. Mia stifled as gasp as Wilbur gave one last lingering gaze into the woods before turning to board.
A million questions flashed through her mind—but she had no time for them as the ship began to pull away from the shore. Slinging her crossbow across her back, Mia sprinted, leaping to catch the boat as it pushed off into water, hanging on the small ladder on the stern. She was sure she would be seen, but peeking over the deck, she saw most of the hooded figures had moved to the bow, looking ahead. A few held torches and lanterns that illuminated the group feebly. Only one stood near her, and his eyes were glued to the horizon as he helmed the ship. Two more poled on either side, pushing hunks of ice away from the ship. Her feet dipped into the water as the ship bobbed, and she shifted up a rung—but she didn't dare move farther.
As she clung to the ship, voices drifted back to her, familiar voices she had heard countless times. They talked about the weather and the icy conditions as though they were all just gossiping at the marketplace. If it weren't for the hooded cloaks and pile of dead lamb carcasses piled high at the center of the deck, Mia would've thought this were a casual outing onto the lake. The effect was dizzyingly surreal—a terrible dream come to life.
She wasn't sure how long she held onto the side of that ship. The temperature dropped as they sailed farther onto the water, and the fog grew thicker. Just when she thought she couldn't hold on any longer, they lurched to a stop. Mia looked about—on all sides, gray mist obscured her sight. The water looked calm, a few jagged blocks of ice bobbing nearby.
"We are here," announced a deep voice. Mia knew that voice, knew the face even before she looked over the deck, even before she saw Kalim pull down his hood and stand before the gathered assembly.
"Brothers and sisters, tonight we bring sacrifice in the hopes that it brings peace. Tonight, we offer that which was unwillingly given, from a nonbeliever. Tonight we gift the Gitrog with the sheep of the slayer's daughter."
Curses and dark muttering spread among the gathered hooded figures, but Mia had stopped listening at that point. She had pulled herself over the ledge of the boat and had the butt of her crossbow lined up with the back of what she was fairly certain was Lehren's head. Just one quick, sharp blow, she thought.
The figure coughed a sad, wheezing cough. Mia grimaced. She couldn't hit a frail old man.
A frail old man who helped half the village slaughter your entire flock.
She sighed. Lehren started to turn.
Thud! Wumpf.
Lehman dropped like a sack of potatoes. Mia immediately flipped her crossbow around, aiming it at the cluster of figures in hoods—just in time to watch them begin to throw the lamb carcasses overboard.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
The hooded figures turned to stare at her almost as one. Not one person spoke. Mia took an uneasy step back, lifting her crossbow higher.
"You do not understand, child." Kalim broke the silence, striding forward. He sounded calm and quiet. She trained the crossbow on him, and Kalim halted.
"You have a lot of explaining to do," she snarled, "and reparations to pay."
"Your sheep are serving a greater purpose," Kalim said. Many hooded figures muttered in agreement, echoing Kalim's words.
"What purpose is that?" She swung her crossbow to aim at a figure who had started inching toward her. The figure halted, and from beneath the hood, Veryl's face stared at her. She shivered a little, almost not recognizing him. His cheeks had taken on a gaunt look and his eyes flickered wildly from staring at her to gazing back to Kalim to looking off in seemingly random directions.
"We must appease the Gitrog!" shouted one of the hooded figures.
"The Gitrog!" echoed among the crowd.
"There is no Gitrog! You destroyed my pen and slaughtered my herd!" A sudden realization dawned on her. "It was you all, wasn't it—killing my sheep, a few at a time, before tonight?"
"They're the only thing that could stop it." Kalim again moved toward her, right hand now drifting towards his waist. Mia raised her crossbow again, but this time he continued at his glacial pace forward, forcing Mia slowly back. "The only thing that could satiate its hunger. The only thing that stopped it from coming for us."
"You're mad. You're the only one who's seen it." Mia took another step back, her foot hitting the edge of the boat.
"We have all seen it. Why do you think we're all here? We have seen the truth. We have gazed into its eyes. We know we cannot stop it. We can only feed it so it does not feed on us." Kalim was almost upon her now. Her eyes jumped to the other villagers in hoods. Familiar faces, twisted by shadows and the moonlight, gazed blankly back at her. She didn't want to shoot Kalim, but if he didn't stop...a sudden idea flickered in her head.
"Show me, then."
Kalim stopped, looking at her. Mia stood up straighter. "Show me your Gitrog." Kalim stared at her for a long time.
Finally, he took a step back and waved his hand. The other villagers all rushed to the pile of sheep carcasses, carrying them to the bow of the boat and casting them into the water. One loud splash after another broke the stillness of the lake and the quiet of the night. Soon, all that remained was a bloody stain on the wooden deck. All the hooded figures stepped back from the edge. Mia kept her crossbow trained on Kalim, walking with her back to the edge of the boat until she could look off one side toward the bow. She saw an inky patch of water spread, the blood from the sheep staining the water. A few bubbles floated to the surface, then stillness resumed.
A tense silence ticked by as everyone on the ship watched the placid waters.
"Nothing," whispered Mia. "There's nothing there."
She turned to the villagers on the boat. "Do you all see now? There's no such thing as the—"
A sudden burst of water and roar of sound cut Mia's tirade short. The horrific sound of the crunching of bones rang out across the water, and hooded villagers scrambled and shoved their way toward the back of the boat. Mia pushed her way through the terrified crowd, rushing to the bow to see what happened.
The water churned and roiled a short distance from the boat. Mia squinted her eyes in the moonlight, looking for what was out there. As the water settled, she saw it. The monster. The Gitrog.
She scoffed.
"That? That's it? That's the Gitrog?" She looked back at the villagers huddled on the other end of the boat. "It's...it's just a giant frog."
Veryl ran up to her, pushing back his hood. He grabbed her shoulders before she could swing her crossbow up and shook her violently, a look of sheer terror in his eyes.
"You don't understand, Mia! If it isn't satisfied by the sheep, then we are all—"
Mia never did get to find out what they all were. At that moment, Veryl went flying backward off the ship, screaming through the air, and disappeared with a splash into the water. Mia didn't understand what happened—until she saw the Gitrog open its mouth again and a dark shape lash out and fly at the ship. She dove for the deck as the thing whizzed overhead, striking the mast and knocking shards of wood clean off the boat. As villagers screamed and cried, Mia realized—that thing was its tongue.
Another loud crack boomed out as the Gitrog struck again, punching a chunk out of the mast this time. As the Gitrog pulled its tongue back, Mia sprang up from the deck and took aim with her crossbow. Just as she pulled the trigger, however, a sudden force hit her from behind and she fell back to the deck, hard.
She turned around and saw a hooded figure clinging to her legs. "What are you doing!" she cried, squirming against his grasp.
"You must not anger the Gitrog! We cannot bear its wrath!" The hood had flopped down in the struggle, and Mia saw the village baker clinging tighter to her legs, his voice squeaking as he shouted.
"Too late for that," Mia grunted, pulling one leg loose. She kicked hard, hitting the baker square in the nose, her boot producing an audible crunch. The baker let go and Mia rolled away, scrambling to her feet.
"The sheep no longer satisfy it!" She looked back to the cluster of hooded villagers crying out.
"It wants more."
"Feed it the girl!"
"What did you just say?" She stared at the woman who shouted the last thing. It was the blacksmith's wife, Sarah, who had once baked her cookies for her birthday.
"Kill her! A sacrifice to the Gitrog!" Sarah let out a chilling scream and rushed towards Mia, drawing a mean-looking knife. With a shout, several others followed suit, hoisting their makeshift weapons. Mia scrambled backward, loading a new bolt into her crossbow as the crazed villagers descended on her. Sarah slashed at Mia's face, coming closer with each swing, when another battering from the Gitrog's tongue swatted her and two others overboard.
Screams rang out, cut short by sudden gurgles and muffled pleas for help. In the chaos, another pair of hands grasped her throat from behind, squeezing hard. Mia struck out blindly with an elbow. The grip loosened and she turned around and fired blindly into the stomach of her assailant.
The man fell back, and Mia caught sight of familiar blue eyes—Kyle, the cobbler's apprentice—just before another hooded figure charged her, his hood down—Terrance, Veryl's younger brother. Mia reached for another bolt, but he was on her, an actual sword in hand, swinging wildly. Mia stumbled back and fell, the tip of the sword grazing her shoulder and drawing blood. Terrance drew back for a killing stroke—and was knocked across the back of the head by another hooded figure wielding a club. As Terrance slumped to the deck, Mia finally loaded a bolt. She leveled the crossbow to the club-wielding figure's face, finger on the trigger.
"Wait! Mia, it's me!" The figure threw back his hood, and Mia cried out.
"Wilbur! What is—"
"I'm so sorry. Everything got out of hand. We were just trying to keep the village safe, but when they started stealing your sheep—"
Another loud crash resounded behind them as the Gitrog's tongue swung by.
"So you've seen it before this?"
Wilbur shook his head. "Only bubbles."
A burst of splinters rained down on the pair. They looked up—just in time to see the Gitrog's tongue retract, leaving a massive hole in the mast. With a slow, creaking groan, the mast wobbled, leaned, and finally snapped and toppled over, smashing against the side of the boat and into the water.
"Tell me more later." Mia grabbed his hand, fired the crossbow at another villager charging toward them with a pitchfork—Verna, flower girl—and ran for the aft of the boat.
"Where are we going?" Wilbur shouted.
"I—I don't know!" Mia looked out at the chaos surrounding her. With each swing of the Gitrog's tongue, more villagers were knocked into the water or grabbed and swallowed whole. Some just cowered in the boat, trying to hide. A few had dived into the water and were now trying to swim away. Mia considered jumping overboard as well—until she saw one swimmer (Elder Ethan's son) disappear beneath the water, leaving nothing but a trail of bubbles in his wake.
"There's nowhere to run." Mia and Wilbur spun around, looking at the speaker. Kalim stood before them, his gaze locked onto Mia.
"Dad! What do we do? This...this is insanity!" Wilbur still held tightly onto Mia's hand, and even in all the mayhem, Mia could feel his pulse throbbing through his fingers.
"Your dad's right," Mia said, looking at Wilbur with sudden clarity. "We can't outrun it. We have to try to kill it." Mia let go of Wilbur's hand and raised her crossbow, drawing one of her bolts as she looked back to Kalim. "That's our only hope now."
To her surprise, Kalim laughed.
"You are a fool. You cannot kill the Gitrog. There is only one thing to do." Kalim's eyes narrowed. "Sacrifice."
Kalim lunged forward, fishing knife suddenly drawn and in his hand, swinging straight for Mia's throat. Mia stumbled back, surprised, falling to the deck and barely dodging the assault. She scrambled back as Kalim flipped the knife in his hand into an icepick grip and drove it down toward her. Mia rolled out of the way of a second strike and fired her crossbow wildly. The bolt lodged into Kalim's shoulder on a lucky shot—but he seemed not to notice, slashing again at Mia's face—just as Wilbur tackled Kalim to the ground.
Mia loaded a new bolt and aimed it at the two struggling on the deck, unable to get a clean shot. Just then, the ship lurched to port with a sudden thud. All three turned to look at the source of the sound. Immediately, Kalim and Wilbur pushed off each other, scrambling to stand while Mia swung her crossbow around, backing up as fast as she could.
The Gitrog lumbered forward onto the ship, its webbed limbs heaving its body over the side of the boat and plopping wetly on the deck. Kalim, Wilbur, and Mia stood frozen and staring. The Gitrog gazed back at them with blank, dead eyes. With lightning speed, Kalim reached out and grabbed Mia, flicking the knife against her throat and holding her body to him in a bear grip.
"Oh great Gitrog! I offer this girl in sacrifice to you! Eat, and forgive this village of its sins, and slumber so we may live in peace!"
He's mad. Mia pushed against his hands, but Kalim's grip was too strong. Wilbur was shouting something, but all Mia could see was Kalim raising his hand, the dagger flashing in the torchlight.
Thwap! The Gitrog's tongue suddenly lashed out and smashed straight into Kalim's face. The dagger flew out of his hand in surprise as he let go of Mia, both hands grabbing onto the tongue. The Gitrog pulled, and Mia was knocked into the ground as Kalim flew forward, his yells muted by the monstrous tongue wrapping around his head. Mia scrambled up, letting loose one, two, three bolts into the Gitrog as it dragged Kalim along the ground. The beast didn't even flinch as the bolts were buried into its flesh, drawing its tongue slowly back. Mia watched in horror as Kalim's head disappeared into its gullet, watched as his feet kicked desperately once, twice, then no more as the Gitrog's maw closed down. Another swallow, and Kalim's feet disappeared as well.
Mia was vaguely aware that Wilbur was shouting as she turned to again grab his hand. She tossed her crossbow down as she ran to the aft of the boat, stopping only to knock over a torch onto the deck. As flames bloomed, she saw the Gitrog slowly waddle toward them, stopping to devour the villagers huddling behind barrels. She watched as it scooped up the unconscious form of Lehren. She watched as it lethargically plodded through the flames, coming slowly their way.
Only then did Mia snap back to herself. She turned forward and without a pause dove into the icy water, dragging Wilbur with her.
The two swam hard, pushed beyond endurance by terror and adrenaline. Slowly, the boat became nothing but a bright ember fading in the fog. The two swam, the freezing water a thousand needles stabbing into skin, toes and fingers falling numb, then hands, then bodies as they flailed back toward the shore. Mia was certain the Gitrog would find them at any moment, would drag them under, would swallow them whole.
Somehow, they made it back onto land.
The two crawled from the water. Wilbur flopped down, face-first in the pebbles, shivering. Mia forced herself to sit and tried to think. They needed to make it back to her cabin. Back to warmth. Otherwise the cold would kill them before the Gitrog could. Then, the moment they were dry and warm...they would leave. Flee the village. Leave it all behind. Run anywhere else. Face down a thousand vampires, or werewolves, or ghouls. Anywhere without the Gitrog.
A wet plop sounded from behind Mia.
She sat, frozen.
Another plop.
She needed to stand. Needed to see. Needed to run.
But she could do none of those things.
Another plop, and suddenly Wilbur was dragging her to her feet, pulling her away. The two didn't make it far before they collapsed on the stones. Mia's muscles screamed. The adrenaline had worn away, leaving nothing but stiff bodies locked with terror. Slowly, she rolled over.
The Gitrog loomed over her, its girth taking up all her vision. It gazed down at her, its eyes two black, fathomless pits, empty of emotion, empty of thought. Mia stared into its eyes and saw...nothing. Wilbur was pulling her to her feet again, yelling something about running, but Mia couldn't hear him. A low drone echoed in her skull, growing in volume, as she fell into the endless hole of the Gitrog's gaze. She fell, tumbling through oozing shadows, fell through the crevices of her mind, collapsed through the membranes into the spongy slime of delirium, cocooned by a strange warmth seeping into her bones and chasing away the pesky cold of doubt and fear and uncertainty. She knew, knew everything now. She saw truth in its blackest form, the clarity of a thousand lifetimes compressed into one moment.
She turned to Wilbur, who was still tugging at her arm. She saw his lips move, trembling blue, saying something to the Gitrog, begging, pleading. She reached a tender hand to his cheek, stopping his babbling. He did not see. He could not hear. He did not know yet. Wilbur turned, his frantic eyes locking with Mia as the Gitrog loomed over them. How green they were, two crystal clear pools, currently swimming with tears. Mia could see herself in them, in their fractured, speckled surface. She smiled, and for a second, Wilbur seemed to calm a little. She saw trust and faith in his eyes, and she smiled as she caressed his cheek, smiled as she ran her fingers through his sandy hair, smiled as she slid her dagger out of its sheath and through his rib cage in one smooth motion.
She heard him then, finally surfaced from the drone in her skull to hear his gasp of surprise, his breath turning from the ragged pant of hypothermia to one of pain and shock. Mia smiled softly and put a finger to his lips, sliding the dagger out, then back in again, this time through his abdomen. She smiled as Wilbur slumped against her, smiled as he whispered her name weakly. She whispered quietly in his ear.
"All hail the Gitrog," She breathed more than spoke. She put her ear to Wilbur's chest, listening as his pulse slowed and stopped. She looked up at the Gitrog, bowing her head in supplication.
"All is sacrifice."
The Gitrog gazed down at Mia. Then, slowly, it opened its maw, and a monstrous tongue lapped out, grasping the body of the broken boy beside her. Mia sat in her position, a wide grin on her face, as the slurp and crackle of bone and blood and organs sloshed over her. She smiled as the wet sounds of webbed feet plodding against stones echoed away from her. Smiled until all was still again, the chill fog pierced by the now-rising morning sun. Then she rose, still smiling, stumbling away from the shore.
When spring broke that year and the snows finally melted, a young apprentice rode his horse through the pass, into a sleepy little fishing village near Lake Zhava. He carried with him a satchel of letters, many long overdue, written before the first snowfalls of the winter before. He did not think too much of the windows and doors snapping shut as he rode by; many small hamlets had fearful or mistrusting townsfolk, especially after a harsh season. He also noticed but didn't think much of how many empty homes there seemed to be, letters delivered to properties clearly abandoned.
His final letter carried him to a small cabin on the hill. As he rode up, he couldn't help but notice a dilapidated pen of some sort rotting nearby. He feared he would find yet another empty home, until he noticed the small wisps of smoke coming from the chimney. He knocked on the door, and a wild-eyed girl answered. She seemed uninterested in the post, even unimpressed by the letter that came from the Skiltfolk of Drunau. However, her eyes lit up when he mentioned the lake, and she invited him in to stay for the night, offering to feed him and give him rest, and even to take him onto the lake if he wished. The boy blushed and agreed, as he had always been curious of boats and the water. He thanked her for her kindness.
Mia smiled.
