“The salamander is one of, if not the best known, divergent species. Fallout in the aftermath of the Great War mutated members of the order Caudata to tremendous sizes, averaging seven feet long. They are mostly docile creatures, although a sudden movement will lead to a surge of aggression toward the source. Caution is advised if encountered. Do not move until the salamander is out of sight.”–Excerpt from the Almanac, twelfth edition.

***

Alexandria grips the veranda’s railing so hard her knuckles turn white.

It was supposed to be easy. Enter the late farmer Red’s house, jot down his possessions in her trusty journal, and leave before the thunderstorm ravaged the fields.

Yeah, right. Alexandria slips the journal in her interior coat pocket, biting her bottom lip. Moments later, a gust of wind blows her hair back, chilling her deep to the bones. She studies the fifteen salamanders lazily ambling about. Even with her hunting knife, they’re too big. Too toxic.

If any of their blood gets on her, she’s done. So she scrunches up her nose and braces for the moist smell of mildew to hit her once she steps inside the house.

Boom!

Alexandria whirls around, knife outstretched. Somewhere at the edge of the property, a salamander lies on the ground, twitching. A massive wound opened up from neck to tail. Already, she imagines the plumes of noxious gas billowing over the slain salamander, blowing toward her. Thunder roars overhead before another lightning bolt strikes somewhere north of Lazarus.

Alexandria checks her barometer. Its needle continues to fall. Then she checks her wristwatch. In a few minutes, she should’ve been crossing farmer Owens’s door, sopping wet but victorious. “Why did I have to do this today,” she groans, peeling her fingers off the veranda railing.

Inside the house, she’s sheltered from the violent winds and salamanders, but that’s it. However great farmer Red was, he sucked at housekeeping. She grimaces as cobwebs stick to her shirt and pants. It’s nothing compared to the grit and mud that splatters onto her clothes daily, or the gory bits of creatures Owens makes her dissect.

Yet, there could be spiders here. Big spiders, venomous spiders, maybe one of those black widows that somehow survived the Great War. “Why didn’t I listen to you, Anna?” Alexandria says, trailing her fingers over a tapestry. “Right now we’d be playing soccer or something.”

Of course, no answer. Anna is at master Brown’s house tinkering with mechanical devices. Probably enjoying cookies and a warm fire. The house is resolute in its silence, a ghost of farmer Red’s dreams. Something must’ve died here the moment he did. She can’t imagine living here and being happy with the house.

She jumps at the sharp crack of another lightning bolt. Alexandria pulls out her journal and readies her pencil. The tapestries might be worth something. At the very least, they’re recyclable. She pauses, glancing at the one she’d touched. It features an image of the distant mountains overlooking Lazarus. The city is little more than red and gray rectangles, but she appreciates the artist bothered to include it at all. Most leave it altogether in favor of more fantastical dreams.

She taps the pencil on the page. Author’s note: Do NOT recommend surveying during bad weather. Too many salamanders.

Satisfied, Alexandria slides the pencil into the leather loop attached to the journal. She strolls up to the window and peers through. The other salamanders give the dead one a wide berth, but that means they’re coming closer to the veranda.

“Fuck!” One of the smaller salamanders plods over the stairs. Five feet maximum, she guesses, but the three neon blue stripes running down its back are a blaring warning.

Slowly, Alexandria backs away. And of course at that moment her journal drops from the windowsill. It hits the porcelain floor, startling her.

She jumps, catching herself mid-air. But it’s enough for the salamander’s eyeballs to rotate toward her. She freezes. “No…” she mutters, every muscle in her body alight.

Its obsidian tongue lashes out like a whip. The window fractures from the impact, then caves in at the second blow. Alexandria scoops up her journal and shoves it into her coat pocket, sprinting to the back of the house.

Three rooms, three windows. A second floor, and no doors. She grits her teeth and chooses the rightmost window, the one just a little closer to the road.

Something slams into the door. The other salamanders aren’t stupid. They usually organize themselves, selecting the fastest to flank their prey while the strongest charge.

“Go away!” She grabs a blanket from Red’s musty bedroom and wraps it around her hand. Then, she grabs a metal figurine off his shelf and positions its head at the corner of the glass.

She thrusts. The window shatters, shards ripping through the blanket. She chips off the worst of the remaining pieces before throwing the blanket over the bottom frame.

The door crashes down. Something thumps its way toward her. Alexandria plants her boot on the blanket and throws herself outside. She hits the ground shoulder-first, a sharp pain tearing through her arm.

But she’s free. She sprints for the roads, cutting a wide path around the salamanders. They’re crowding the veranda now, neon blue stripes lighting up. Tails swish and smack into each other. One by one, they surge into the house.

Too close. Alexandria doesn’t slow until the farmhouse is nothing more than a silhouette through the gentle rain. Panting, she walks the rest of the way to the first inhabited farmhouse. Its lights sing to her, a beacon of civilization in the nothingness of rural Lazarus.

She finds it hard to imagine that beyond the farmlands, there’s nothing at all. Maybe the corpses of cities from the Great War, incinerated and blown to rubble. Or the occasional house or derelict ruin. Maybe a cultivated species out there runs wild, mutated beyond anybody’s guess.

The salamanders certainly count. Frogs, centipedes, eagles–the list goes on and on. So many creatures mutated into monsters. Either strong, like the salamanders, or weak but fast reproducers, like the centipedes.

But no humans.

The world is so, so empty. Lazarus is the last bastion of hope they have. Yet every day, the mutants are harder to repel, strengthening beyond the concept of evolution.

It’s more than that, too. Their intelligence. They’re adapting to the strategies Lazarus uses to defend themselves. Alexandria should know. The scar on her upper left arm is proof of that.

Why did her ancestors fight? Humanity was once great. Until they fucked up and nature killed what remained. Nature always wins in the end.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Which is why her boots are filthy, hair glued to her neck, cuff of her shirt torn where a piece of glass caught on the fabric. Her shoulder still hurts, so she hugs her arm to her chest, massaging the bruised muscle.

And the cold. It nips at her face and hands. What she’d do just for some gloves and a proper hood. What she’d do to be born before the Great War, when people didn’t have to worry about anything.

Too little, too late. Alexandria clenches her fists and sprints up the few steps to the farmer’s porch. When she knocks on the door, she plants her hands on her hips, tapping her foot on the porch.

Waiting. And waiting. The minutes stretch on, so Alexandria knocks again, louder this time. Nothing. Maybe the farmer is showering. Stupid during a raging thunderstorm, but then again, she’s the one out here.

Another five minutes pass. She slams her fist on the door, then raises her voice over the roaring downpour. “Are you in there!” she shouts.

When she doesn’t get a reply, she presses her ear to the door. Faint music reaches through. High notes end at a crescendo. What had Owens called it again? Classical music?

Alexandria cups her hands around her mouth. “Hello?”

The music ends in a sudden screech. She shudders. A muffled thump is all she’s able to make out. Something chirps inside. “Chirping?” Feathers rustle. Or papers, or leaves, but the sound is unmistakable. Then, a new piece plays, this time some long-dead rock artist belting out lyrics over a guitar and drums.

Now she’s getting worried. Alexandria paces back and forth, gnawing on her lip, struggling to keep her hand from closing around her knife’s hilt. There has to be an answer. A parrot most likely.

The farmer’s not here. She’s wasting her time. She glances at a side window. Golden light radiates from inside. No self-respecting farmer would dare light a lantern indoors unattended, ever. If not showering, then what’s going on inside?

Bracing herself, she steps out into the cold rain. It batters her immediately, soaking down to her skin. Alexandria drags a cinder block and stands on it, peering through the window.

A basic oven sits in plain view. To the left is a granite countertop, and to the right an open space leading to the living room. A brown carpet stretches from a set of cabinets to the couch. One corner of the carpet is darker than the rest, an irregular splotch that looks like…

Alexandria shakes her head. It can’t be. She leans until her cheek presses against the cold glass. Just one glimpse is all she needs–

She gasps and jumps off, digging her fingers into her scalp. “What the fuck,” she says, trembling. “I have to be dreaming.”

The music changes tracks. Classical music starts up again, but the notes wash over her. Alexandria bolts. Her legs ache and her shoulder is killing her, but she pushes until that farmhouse is far behind her.

She’s never seen a human body torn apart like that. Organs spilled out of the remains of the farmer’s chest. Perched atop it, a feathery gremlin-like creature feasted on his liver.

Alexandria can’t unsee it. What was that thing? The almanac has nothing on something like that. As thunder booms and the road grows slippery, she shuffles through her memories.

Nothing matches that thing. Terror squirms in her stomach. She keeps running, because it’s all she can do, and whatever happened to the farmer, he’d died fighting. His knife was thrown aside, slick with blood.

The next farmhouse is closer. Alexandria passes it entirely. The thunderstorm’s a bad omen. Nowhere is safe. She passes two more farmhouses, one lit up, the other silent. Rain drenches her. She throws her wet hair back and pushes forward, forward, past more farmhouses until finally, Lazarus shines through the cold gloom like a diamond.

Farmer Owens’s house straddles the boundary between the farmlands and city proper. Her heart jumps. She’s so, so close. Warm light floods from his windows, through the curtains, inviting her to enter.

Then her foot catches on a root. Gravity slams her into the mud, jarring her bones. Her muscles burn. For a few seconds, Alexandria lies on the ground, struggling to make sense of the world spinning around her.

It’s the thought of that gremlin creature that stirs some deep-rooted primordial fear. Adrenaline pumps into her arms and legs. In an instant, she’s on her feet.

Her vision washes black for a brief second. Nausea creeps up her throat.

Come on, I can’t stay like this! She clenches her fists and advances another dozen steps before the world lurches and she reels.

“Come on,” she murmurs to herself. “You’ve been through worse, right?”

Footsteps squelch toward her. Alexandria pulls out her knife and points it at the newcomer, digging her feet into a stance. Her chest heaves, pain blooming at the bottom of her ribs. “Leave,” she snarls, shaking.

“Alexandria.” It’s Owens, coat billowing behind him, umbrella extended and face a patchwork of scars and… is that regret in his eyes? She returns her knife to its sheath. “I shouldn’t have sent you. I’m sorry.”

She deflates. She wants nothing more than to lie down and erase her memory of what she'd seen. It keeps bouncing in her skull, flashing wherever she looks.

Of that farmer, gutted to ruins, and that thing eating his liver.

“Fifteen salamanders are inside farmer Red’s house. I barely escaped them. I saw another dead farmer, killed by something I didn’t recognize in the almanac.” Alexandria struggles to keep her breathing steady. Her eyes burn, and her throat clenches. “It looked like those gremlins you told me about. It was eating his liver.”

Owens shrugs off his coat and passes it to her. The sleeves hang over her hands, bottom reaching halfway to her knees. But it’s nice and warm.

They huddle under the umbrella. While they’re walking back to his house, Owens clears his throat, face set like stone. “Farmer Red was torn apart.”

Alexandria raises her head. Did she hear right? “What?”

“He died on the opposite side of Lazarus. His liver was missing. Rhodes was investigating, but it happened just last night–” Owens pinches the bridge of his nose, turning his head away. “I sent you to record his belongings because I felt you were safe. I should’ve known better.” He sighs. Suddenly, he seems like a man bearing the weight of the world. His wrinkles stand out, making him look twenty years older.

Farmers bear the weight of the world, what little scraps remain of it, that is. They warned Alexandria of the commitments she’d make, and she jutted out her chin and accepted her apprenticeship under Owens, ready to conquer.

She’s jealous of how simpler things seemed then. Apprentice for two years, pass her classes, pass several milestones, learn a weapon, ace the final Shovel test. Finished.

Nobody told her she’d carve up creatures almost daily. Nobody told her the mutants were growing stronger. Nobody told her that one day, Lazarus wouldn’t be able to defend itself against the mutants.

“It’s okay,” Alexandria mumbles, even when it’s not. For the first time, a traitorous thought worms into her brain. Did I make a mistake?

A bright light flashes at the corner of her vision. She pauses, staring at the greenish globe pierce through the belly of the thunderstorm. A faint emerald trail twinkles behind it as it approaches the mountains.

“A shooting star,” she says softly.

Owens stops too, hand stroking his stubbled chin. “Make a wish, the legends go.” The shooting star dims, until finally, just as quickly as it burned through the atmosphere, it fizzles out. “I wish for peace. Too much to ask for, don’t you think?”

Alexandria concentrates on the final few specks of light. “Maybe one day, when things get better. But if you think yours is too much to ask for…”

“What’s more impossible than world peace?”

She should be horrified he’d joke like that. But he knows her. Instead, she smiles for the first time today.

“I wish that one day, we’ll live outside Lazarus and do better than our ancestors.”