Year 2049, 19 years after the Great Shower:
My predictions were wrong. The Fog rose earlier than I could have ever imagined. Fifty-seven of us lost our lives to it, unable to escape to our emergency shelters under the mountains. Perhaps that was a stroke of luck. We hadn’t the resources to feed all thousand and change for an extra couple of weeks. With their deaths, our food barely lasted. Now the men leave for the fields, emaciated and gaunt. I can barely distinguish them from skeletons: their flesh thin around their pronounced cheek bones and ribs.
I fear that the guards will be unable to defend the village from the monsters. Recently empowered by the Fog, swords will not pierce their hides, and arrows will not find their targets. Perhaps the Elders will choose to allow the use of guns, but after last year, we’ve run low on ammunition, too.
I’m not alone in these thoughts. We can all see the writing on the walls. We will not withstand the Fog for much longer. Our hope rests in the rumors that our fathers told us about as bedtime stories: bastion-cities built just after the Great Shower, domed and protected by the best technology Earth has to offer.
The guards come for me. My son, the stories I’ve told you – the last remnants of a better world – will not die. They, and I, will live through you. I will always be beside you. I love you.
-Stanley Crane, Diary Entry #324
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His dad had been dead for less than a year. Matt remembered the painstaking statistics his dad had run on the Fog, trying to analyze patterns and maximize the farming season. The Elders weren’t doing anything of the sort. They shuffled around Last Rest, the rhythmic thumping of their walking canes on the packed dirt a constant reminder that every last soul in the village was under surveillance. Everyone had a job to do, and a mistake could be measured in lives lost. All except for Matt and the rest of the undesirables. Too young and useful to dispose of, but somehow at fault for the dire straits Last Rest found itself in.
The sun was shining brightly, illuminating the thousands of blades of grass around him and the even more numerous leaves forming the canopy of evergreens above him. This grotto was the explorers’ unofficial home, a place to clear their heads before being sent outside Last Rest. It had been a beautiful day until he heard those cursed thumps.
“Mister Crane, how is it that you’re still here? I believe we were quite clear about your mission.”
Matt played around with the straw in his mouth, eyes shut.
“Did you not hear me, you fool?”
Oh, it was quite impossible not to hear him. The man’s voice had a strange timbre to it. It reminded Matt of the bastard child of a frog and mosquito – high-pitched but guttural. But Matt had precious few options to take his vengeance on the circus that ran the village. Petty disobedience was the most powerful weapon in his arsenal.
Of course, Isaac had better weapons in his. The elder rounded the tree Matt was leaning against and promptly began to beat him with the cane he held in his hand. They hurt about the same as if he were being attacked by marshmallows. “You insolent child. You’re alive because of me, you know. I vouched for you; said you could be useful. And this is how you repay that trust?”
Matt rolled his eyes. “Sending us out right now – with the Fog rising – is a death sentence. You just wanted to save face, didn’t you, old man? Let me do something useful instead. I can harvest potatoes twice as fast as some of the oafs you have out there right now.”
Isaac’s face turned beet-red. “Are you questioning me, Mister Crane? You’re too young to have seen the world before it collapsed. We have. All you have is second-hand knowledge from a man too stupid to have done some simple math – his only job. You will do as we say. Leave. Now.”
He rose from his seat on the ground and caught Isaac’s cane as it came in for another blow. “My dad was twice the man you ever were, jackass. I’d worry more about doing that ‘stupid’ math than slandering a dead man.”
“You… you…” Isaac sputtered. “I’ll bring you to trial over this, do you understand? I’ve been nothing but generous to you, boy, but you’ve worn my patience thin.”
Matt backed away a step and raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “Hey now, Mr. Isaac, I’m just defending my poor father’s memory. Listen, I’ll go out with the squad this afternoon. Is that acceptable?”
The older man tsk’d, twirling the few strands of white hair he had on his chin – far from the respectable beard he surely thought it was. “You’re lucky you’re a good fighter, boy. Go, but never take that tone with me again. I’ll have you thrown into the Fog the next time you do.”
Letting out a sigh, Matt watched as Isaac left, eyes trained on the man’s hunched-over form. Every part of him urged him to strike the old man down for the various sins he’d committed, but he knew it’d serve no purpose. While his dad had been a mathematician and a historian – far from the fighter that Matt had become – he’d taught him to always take the decision that left him the greatest odds of surviving to see another day.
Being sent out beyond the mountains now, with perhaps a handful of weeks before the Fog rose past the peaks, was truly beyond reckless, even for the elders. Normally, the explorers would be sent out in the spring, just after the Fog had receded. That gave them plenty of time to make it back and report their findings before the Fog swallowed them. This… it stunk of desperation.
It didn’t take long to corral his merry band of misfits; most had had the same idea of just lounging around and enjoying what would likely be their last moments of peace for the next two weeks, if that. Matt looked each of them in the eyes, knowing the full weight of the words he was about to say.
There was Sarah, a girl only nineteen, a year younger than himself. She’d done nothing wrong, but her brother had stolen rations during last winter. That was a crime normally harshly punished, but the brother was a guard – one of the few people strong and skilled enough to fight the mutated animals – the monsters – that occasionally found its way to Last Rest. So his sister was punished instead, a reminder to never violate the rules the elders had set.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Steve was four or five years older than him, but no one really knew. Steve’s parents had died just after Last Rest had been established, and people still cared enough then to help the toddler survive to adulthood. Ever since he lost his right foot when the granary collapsed three years ago, he’d worked odd jobs to secure his place. But the elders were thinning the herd.
Jack was a former guard, the only other member of his squad with any combat experience beside himself. But the old man had cataracts in his eyes, and he stumbled around as if he were drunk. Still, he insisted on dying a fighting death, something about “semper fi,” an old phrase from when the Marines were still around.
And then, there was Diego, a preteen kid who had stumbled into the town from apparently nowhere, feet bloodied and frame skeletal. He didn’t speak much, and if he did, it was usually in Spanish – something that very few among Last Rest knew how to speak. The glazed-over look in his eyes indicated some kind of trauma, the same kind that old Mr. Wilbur had had before he was “let go.”
It was because of Diego that this mission had been put together. The elders had insisted that they find the airship that Diego claimed he had arrived on, and investigate it for any survivors or supplies. Based on Diego’s directions, it would take just under a week to get there, but Matt wasn’t so sure he could take the boy at face value. An addled mind made for addled memories.
“Are you all ready? Bags packed with rations, tents, water, and compasses?” Matt asked, thumbing the pommel of his sword.
Jack nodded, his gray beard cracking to reveal a wide grin. “Been ready.”
Steve sighed. He held onto his spear for support as he walked over to Matt. “I’m not sure we’ll live through this, Matt. The last guys didn’t, either. And we’ve got a man who looks ready to die, a kid who hasn’t said a word in days, and Sarah.”
“Point taken.” Sarah couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with her arrows if she tried, but putting her into the frontline of combat given her waifish build would be an exercise in futility. “We don’t have another choice, though. If you want to try and stay, be my guest, but they’ll have you executed one way or another. The guards will drag you away kicking and screaming if they have to. Trust me.”
Shaking his head, Steve turned away and began walking deeper into the forest. “Let’s get going, then.”
Sarah turned to follow him, but anyone with eyes could see her shaking violently. It was more than the bitter cold that permeated their bones, though. It was the nervousness they all shared – except Jack – and tried to conceal.
The evergreens grew scarcer and scarcer as they climbed the worn path through the mountains, ascending ever further. Breathing became more and more difficult, and the heavy layers of clothing he wore did nothing to warm him. Sarah had tried to get them to stop a few times already, but while there was still sun, they had to move. The coldness of night could kill, and they had to make as much progress as they could before then.
It wasn’t until hours later that the sun had begun to dip below the horizon that Matt finally gave the order to pitch tents. They had yet to crest the mountains, something that Matt had feared would be the case given Steve’s condition. Finding a suitable campground took more time than Matt was comfortable with, but their things were settled by the time there was no light left, save for their meager campfire.
“Go rest. I’ll take first watch. Steve, you’re next, and Sarah will take us through to the morning after that,” Matt said, putting his pack down on the snow – yet another new factor to deal with – to use as a chair. He unbuckled his sheathe, placing it on his lap so it wouldn’t poke into the snow. The rest of the explorers didn’t hesitate to make good on his offer. Every ounce of rest was golden, and Matt had it the easiest of any of them. A former guard himself, he had been fed well until recently, and trained for tasks similar to the present one.
Matt checked his wristwatch. It was barely half past five. It would be a while before midnight. Turning his back to the fire, Matt pulled out a leather tome, running his hands over its torn cover. It, along with his watch, were the last things he had from his dad. It was Stanley Crane’s diary, a record of the world as it had been and the world as it was now. It was also a storybook, filled with people that Matt felt he knew as if they were family. People that he would never meet.
A distant howling tore Matt’s attention away from his book. He gently placed it back in his bag and picked up his sword instead. He hoped that he had only heard a wolf, the wild animals having climbed far into the mountains to avoid the Fog, as the people of Last Rest had. Still, even wolves could kill. It wasn’t close enough to warrant ruining his squad’s rest, but Matt could kiss his one way of passing time goodbye.
Wind whipped him in the face, itself howling as it blew through the mountains. Matt bit back a curse. It was very cold. The wolf joined the wind, and this time, the creature was closer. It had probably seen their fire. Matt considered dousing it, but knowing that the wolf already knew where they were, he decided against it. He’d need to be able to see if he wanted a fighting chance. The moonlight wouldn’t be enough.
He quickly roused his teammates, bringing Diego to the fire and leaving him by its edge. By now, the singular wolf’s howl had multiplied into what sounded like half a dozen, give or take, and they weren’t far at all, maybe a mile or two.
“Sarah, stand by Diego. Watch over him, and see if you can’t shoot some of them,” Matt said.
“Just aim away from us, please,” Steve begged, drawing a glare from the short brunette. Matt cracked a smile; Steve still found the energy to push Sarah’s buttons. Steve would have hell to pay after this. Sarah was particularly verbose in her curses.
“Just stand behind me, Steve. Stab at whatever you see. Any damage you can inflict on these suckers will help us out immensely. And Jack, you know what you’re doing?”
“Of course,” the old man huffed, stroking his beard with a manic glint in his eyes. Matt just hoped that Jack didn’t stray too far from the rest of them.
He began to see the moonlight glint off something – many somethings – in the distance. They were here. “Get ready!” he yelled, unsheathing his sword and dropping into his familiar stance. Gripping the weapon with both hands, Matt knew he only really had one chance at this.
Then the wolves were upon them. Bounding at them with immense speed, Matt raised his blade and swung it with the determination of an executioner, bringing it down just as the first wolf reached his ankles. The blade cut deep into the animal’s neck, and Matt fought to reclaim his sword from the carcass it was buried in. Fortunately, Steve’s spear proved a sufficient deterrent to protect Matt. As his sword came free, Matt yelled, “Spear back, Steve!”
No sooner had Steve stopped trying to stab at the wolf in front of them that Matt sprinted forward, driving his sword into the mangy creature’s eye, not stopping until the iron would go no further. A second wolf slid off his sword.
There was not a moment to breathe; the other three had all chosen Jack as their target. The old man had one of them hanging from one of his arms, teeth lodged deep. Of the other two, one had a hand ax in its skull, while the other snarled at the embattled veteran. Matt surged forward, roaring to draw the attention of the wolf still on the ground. It leapt at him, but it was dead before it even reached Matt. A second hand ax caught it in the back of its head.
Matt returned the favor by stabbing the last wolf between its ribs numerous times until it let go. A few arrows littered the battleground, their white fletching clashing with the blood-stained snow around them. The wolves were gaunt, their fierceness likely caused by the promise of a long-awaited meal. They were hardly doing better than them.
“Geeze, Jack,” Steve whistled in admiration, watching as the veteran poured a little alcohol on his forearms, taking a bandage from one of the packs around their fire to dress his wound.
“I want to die fighting the monsters that killed my brothers. I’m not ready to die just yet, kid.”