I’s but a boy and no higher than a mule’s ass when I fell in alongside the others in the shotgun infantry because I couldn’t ride a mount for the life of me and besides, whenever there was wreckage up the way or somewhere we couldn’t get a wagon through, I’d slip ahead and function just as well as any scout in my quick footwork. The Rednecks (called so much because of the kerchiefs we displayed around our throats) were a marching group that I was born into—there’d at one time been such companies that traversed the wastes besides the wizards. That was before Baphomet or Leviathan or even Mephisto; this was when the demons we’d come across were of lowly intelligence or manageable strength. That is not to say that there were never any close calls in those days—after all, the demon armies that’d come so long before had taken the world, but still a human could scratch by and sometimes even bands of us would take up arms, march in the dens of those blasphemous creatures, and deal with them in the ways we knew how. The day I’d been given the long gun, Jackson had not been so eager to do so because I think he was my father and he always had a certain warmth and he’d taken me in as a son, but I never knew for sure or even asked. It was in the way that I’d sometimes catch him watching me from the corner of my eye whenever I was feeding the hounds or cleaning around camp, and that’s how I’d come at guessing he was my dad—it was that and his affections that’d be rare and foreign in the company.

The Rednecks marched the eastern United States in the days with more towns and even in that time there was a hope among them that this too should pass as all other historical calamities, but the eve of destruction was upon us (maybe it was always). No one remembered dates in our company so I couldn’t say when my birthday was and so I don’t know how old I ever was in my life, but that didn’t matter because an adult was so when they were given their weapon and pushed to the fore. We were warriors for God and some would comment on how we’d tricked ourselves, because sometimes, camped on roadsides or even in downtowns when allowed, we’d erect that great big wooden crucifix that Sibylle kept along with her things and we’d kneel and pray on the ground and it was good—for all of those I’ve witnessed bonding themselves in their religion, damning themselves or others because of their bodies, our religion (not so much old-time as the song goes) seemed to set us free. As much as we concerned ourselves in those prayers, it was that we were the image of God, and so should do God’s work. So, we did.

The company marched north in the foothills of the Appalachians with those great dead and brown mountains on their lefthand then they’d lodge in Charlottesville for a time and then cross over the range and march south with the mountains on their lefthand again till they reached midway through Tennessee and then they’d cut southwest and touch with Marietta before heading northeast then north again. It was a cyclical patrol they took and it just so happened that Sibylle was pregnant all those years ago on the verge of a swing up north and that’s how I came into this world in one of those old canvas tents, the first sights probably dirt and whatever rags that’d been gathered around; some of those in the company told me that Sibylle had squatted, dropped me clear on my head then remounted her horse and ordered everyone else to carry on—she was strong, but I always took that as a folk story anyway.

The story goes that Sibylle took many men to her tent—women too when the mood so pleased her—and so it could’ve been any number of the men in the company that was my father, but I really like to think it was Jackson.

The woman wasn’t ever looked down on for it—her promiscuity was seen as a strength if nothing else and besides she wasn’t married—it took me growing up to understand she’d went on with a persona to do the things she did. She was the first to fight, the last out of a bad situation, and whatever nonsense a man might give her, she’d return with near immediate violence. She was a hard woman, but not without kindnesses in her own way. Maybe the world did it to her, or it could’ve been the fighting, or it could’ve been any number of other things—it would do no good to speculate over a dead person like that. What I do know is that stories would permeate whenever we’d sit around trash wood fires and people did speculate her motives. She wore a cowboy hat and a pistol across the front of her pants, so the holster swung between her thighs, and she was missing her left eye—over the socket was a brown leather patch tailored in Charlottsville. My mother—if that is what she should be called—spat, drank, fought, spoke gruffly, and was business until nighttime. Given the nature of her, the stories around those fires would come and oftentimes the questioning over her missing eye would enter circulation; some said it was thumbed out of her skull by a scorned lover and yet others guessed it was a demon that got it. No one ever knew for certain because she never offered an explanation, and I was never told.

As far as I know, the woman weened me quick as a babe and then I was out of her tent and among the company; this is where Jackson took me on and mentored me; my first words—I don’t recall what they were—were said to him. When I was still much too small to even help sufficiently with chores, I remember he’d tell me stories from books, and it wasn’t long until Jackson was teaching me the letters and the words they formed; his recital was dim in the tent at night whenever he’d pitch an elbow alongside my sleeping bag on the floor and lay there and read to me by the light of a candle. I’d fall to sleep quick, but he never seemed to mind; more than once I woke before him and the candle would still be going, and the book would be placed beside him on a small table and at some point, in the night, he would’ve thrown an arm across me.

The childhood I had in the company was shorter than others, but for the moments it had, I do cherish. I learned to read which is more than most and I learned the self-sufficiency that came from such a life, but that’s not exactly so accurate; for all the skills they’d given me, self-sufficiency was hardly a bother in those times I patrolled the Appalachians with them. It’s not like anything else. It was family in the way that I trusted each of them—every single one. And as I grew up, we’d sleep sometimes three or five to a tent so that I’d never worry because there were always warm bodies beside me. Warm bodies that’d fight for me just as I’d for them. If it came to it, we would die for one another, because our goal of ridding the scourge was greater than any one of our lives. So, we believed, and maybe we were right.

Or maybe we were fools; some of the townsfolk or merchants or travelers we’d occasionally converse with had no qualms in telling us so. It wasn’t that we were ever contracted to take out demons, so oftentimes we’d be given flak in our endeavors. A town would be just as likely to look at us pitiably as they would be to offer us refuge or meals and sometimes, we’d accept supplies that were offered freely, but it didn’t matter because we did what we did for ourselves and it wouldn’t matter the reserves we had—the only time the company was threatened outright by humans were the events in which we attempted to conscript others; the conscripts were plentiful, but many townsfolks did not care for us taking their citizens. Parents cursed us for leading their children astray, city leaders decried us for depleting their populace, but there was always more ready to take up the righteous cause. In the time when I started the fight, our numbers fluctuated gently above or below the cusp of a hundred.

Then I had a brother too, during a time before I’d been put to the company’s task of demon-slaying he was born, but I think biologically we only ever shared Sibylle; even still when the boy was ushered on by her, Jackson took him to raise as well and the boy was handsomer and smarter than I’d been, but there was little jealousy I had for him. His name was Billy and as years went by, he shared the face of another man in our company—John. It’s doubtful that John ever made a claim on my brother—there was none I ever knew of anyway—but not a soul among us seemed outwardly affronted by the bohemian arrangement of our family. John in question was a like many of the men in our company, aloof and his origins were from a land I didn’t know from the south; I’d heard it said a few times that when he’d enlisted years prior, his name before was Juan and the others among the gang took to calling him John; if it bothered him, he never showed it—what he cared about most was the guitar he kept with him wherever he went. Some naked black nights among the rocky hills, around the trash wood fires, he would serenade the gathered crowd in Spanish song, and I never knew the words, but his voice was always slow and never loud and it was only once the company procured a cache of liquors that he’d call for his guitar and someone would bring it, and no one complained; often times a person might glimpse the sway of those gathered, lilting sitting silhouettes listening against the darker shadows beyond.

I’d been given the gun and put to the sole mission and quickly fell in with John because he led the infantrymen and with me being the newest as well as the youngest, the hazing began immediately; I didn’t know how to walk a straight line or keep up with anyone else (never mind I had half the stride of a man then) and any time I’d tidy my pack, I’d find my gear strewn on the ground and the deflated bag resting atop it like a blanket.

My feet ached and John shouted, “Vamanos!” So, I vamanosed at the rear of the pack. We were marching ahead of the wagons and the others, and we’d just left a small trading unit on our trek up I-85, beyond Marietta but not quite across what’d once been Lake Hartwell; some of the maps read okay but many of the roads were hard travelling with their uprisen destruction and the strange weeds we saw from time to time that sprouted from cracks like twisted decaying yellow fingers. The roads could be hard travelling on whatever vehicles we had and so the infantrymen would be sent ahead to be sure the way was clear. The traders we’d met further south on I-85 said there was a nest somewhere and they’d given the place a wide berth and we’d walked so far ahead of the company I was certain the traders were stupid or liars as the road beyond seemed empty and clear save the dead rust buckets lining each shoulder that’d long since been pushed or towed from the way. Just as I’d thought so, John came to a halt at the front and knelt and withdrew a scope to gaze ahead and gave a brief signal for all others to go low.

Twenty people knelt there on the broken asphalt and I was among them, at the rear as it was my first bit of action, so I saw them exchanging glances to one another while John peered through the scope and many of their faces were not much older than mine and one of them lifted a ball cap from his head and steam rolled off his short kept hair before he scooped the cap back over his crown, holding it by the bill. “You smell that?” asked the young girl next to him.

“Stinks,” someone said.

The young man with the cap finally muttered, “Oh, I know that smell.” He then removed his pack and began fighting with it.

John whispered, “Masks!” The word hissed through his teeth, and he was quick to put on his gas mask and did so with an expertise greater than anyone else present. He took his scattergun from the strap on his shoulder and pulled from his knees onto his heels.

The mask was difficult to see through, and hot with the sun coming on us the way it was, and I shifted around for my peripherals were consumed by the blackness therein. There were few less quick on the draw than I and one of them was the boy with the cap; he’d dropped his hat and was still attempting to yank the strap of the mask free from the pack he’d thrown between his knees; he had the filter end out and was pulling hard and panicked while the head straps remained stuck on some piece of equipment within the recesses of the bag. John crept near the boy, gun held like a mop by his side and tore the mask free from the bag before punching the boy lightly in the chest with the hand that held the mask; the man let the mask fall to the boy’s lap. The boy scrambled to slide into it and John watched over us, returning to his position at the fore and I saw the creatures scratching across the road up the way, raised grotesquely swollen heads sloppily rolling on their small bodies.

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“Mutants,” said the young man once the mask was over his face; his cap lay on the ground, shorn from his head.

All readied their guns, so I took mine and saw that some reached for sidearms then shifted across either side of the road at John’s motioning requests. We took to the sides, hiding among the bulwark of jalopies and I stuck near the rear of the group, sidling down against the wheel of a van and peeked around the corner to spy on the creatures drawing nearer. Gas expelled from their heads then reflated and I can not say who it was that fired first, all I know is that the maelstrom of bullets that followed was deafening; expertly the company pincered the creatures, taking careful aim and ending each. Chlorine gas erupted from the manmade holes in the creatures’ heads and their bodies laid in the road, flat and grotesque in the yellowing fluids that ejaculated from their wounds.

John moved forward and began taking his sidearm to those demons that still pushed on a limb or trembled with life and the others knew the drill and began doing the same and I crept from my hiding spot behind the van, partially in awe at the quick organization and partially ashamed for never having fired my weapon. I took to the crowd of demons and began firing my own weapon at any potential among their blasphemous ranks and in minutes the crowd of fart heads (I’d not yet heard that nickname) were as dead as could be.

The Chlorine gas dissipated and some of the infantry began removing their masks and the young man who’d had difficulties with his mask prior now kept it protruding off his forehead like a horn and he was smiling as were the others and I felt my hands shaking; the recoil of the shotgun could’ve been to blame, but I think it was an introduction to new terror, the possibility of mortality—of my own mortality.

John removed his mask and joined the crew of us there in a knot among the unmoving demons and he rummaged through his coat and removed a small cigar, lit it from a match, then placed it in the corner of his mouth. “Coño,” he spoke to me, and I knew that word, “Why are you so scared? I see you shaking. What’s gotten under your skin?” His smile was playful and then the others joined in teasing me and from there on, I promised to steel my nerves forevermore, knowing I’d break it anyway.

So it would be that before the rest of our jolly band arrived on the scene, the scouts would push on in fewer numbers and John specifically asked for me to accompany them.

Moving from the south were the others and their blots became more focused on their arrival and ahead of them all was Sibylle riding the aged painted stallion; beyond her were wagons and jury-rigged vehicles and walkers too, and I thought I could just make out the gas-powered caleche Jackson drove for the plumes of smoke it sent from its exhaust.

“There’s a nest ahead we should clear,” said John, dead in tone and shouldering the strap of the shotgun.

The young man, still with his mask clasped to his forehead, searched the muck, and found the hat he’d lost. “Smells somethin’ awful.” He made a face.

A handful of us moved ahead, perhaps six of us, and left the others to meet the rest of our crew.

The young man, now carrying the gas mask by his fingers lackadaisically with his shotgun in the crook of his elbow, fell in alongside me. “Name’s Gibby. You?”

“Harlan.”

“Nice to meet’cha, Harlan. You’re one of Sibylle’s aint you?”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Well sure, you hang with that mechanic all day. What’s his name?”

“Jackson.”

“That’s the one. He’s good with his hands, but I hear he’s a lame shot.” There was quiet among us as we took the road further, each of us kicking up loose asphalt or snagging boots along those weird weeds; John was in the front, three others in the middle—they jabbered among themselves—and me and Gibby there at the back. The sky was azure, and the clouds were white as cotton and drifted overhead like there wasn’t an issue with the world. A flock of birds took across in a lopsided formation and upon either side of the road and beyond were dead woods without leaves, naked and gray and tired seeming. “Don’t take none of what that old guy said about you. I mean, don’t let it go to your heart. You know?”

“I wasn’t.”

“He’s just a real tough sonofabitch. I’ve been with the company,” Gibby’s eyes traced the sky overhead like he figured the math invisible before his eyes, “Three years or so and he’s a good one. He’s saved me so many times I’ve lost track.” The young man grinned, and I saw he was missing a few teeth. “You saw what happened with that mask of mine. He might talk hard, but he’s soft in there.”

“I guess.”

“You didn’t ever shoot anything moving before today, did you?”

“I shot a feral hound some time ago.”

Gibby looked on with mild surprise, “Did you? Wasn’t a good dog, was it? Like a pet?”

I shook my head.

“It gets easier with time—the scouts and the ones in the infantry always crack up and try to take potshots at the newcomers. You’re green so don’t let it get you down.”

“Alright.”

“Never seen a nest, have you?”

“Nope.

“Well, you’re in for something.”

John froze in his step and traced his eyes across the ground before turning to us and calling us to gather. Marked across the dilapidated road were yellowed smatterings of liquid; chlorine hung in the air. “Masks,” he whispered, “Guns ready.” Each of us subordinates did as was ordered. He pushed us near the trash wood off the road, past an overturned emptied trailer, and as we pushed through the median where a thin and vacant forest grew sickly, there was another road just beyond, just as poor, and further still there was a hole the size of a well on the far side of that newly seen road and we hushed along, following John’s lead and we went crouching in the shadow of him, keeping mind of noise. He motioned me forward in the line and the sound emanating from the pit was liquid and nauseating.

“Yes?” I asked as I came nearest to him, hunkered as low as I could be.

“Ever use a grenade?”

I shook my head and unease swelled but I pushed it away.

He took the round object from his belt and passed it to me. “There’s a pin. Pull the pin. Throw the grenade in that hole. It’s that simple.”

I moved to the edge of the hole, teeth bared from within my mask, fingers wrapped hard around the grenade, and I came to the edge and was immediately struck by a sudden lurch of vertigo as it went further into the earth than I could’ve imagined—the creatures clung to the walls of the tunnel, fat heads opening for the gas to spill forth from their ridged cloacal maws. I teetered on the tips of my toes and the air was thin and the lens of the mask through which I saw the world became fogged from the gas that erupted from the impossibly deep pit. There, just beyond those wretched things, I felt as though there was a light in the darkness breathing up at me like the earth and stone beneath was alive.

Ripping the pin from the grenade, I held it outstretched and dropped the thing; it went bouncing from to and fro within the hole and I was dazed and could not pull away.

Two hands yanked me from there just as I’d gone blind in the gas and the explosion erupted, sending a vibration beneath our feet. John ushered me away and the others followed, and I dared a glance over my shoulder to see the earth open then close and the tunnel fell in on itself—one of those things had clamored to the opening only to touch the ground with a near human palm before being sucked beneath. The ground encircling the hole fell in as did a portion of road and once it was done, there was a massive dip in the earth there, a testament to what was.

We took up along the tree line of dead vegetation, and I was still staring at the place the nest had been, dust coming to a fog around our knees and John barked out, “Keep your eyes sharp—see if there’s any stragglers.” There weren’t any left, but we took up a formation, sweeping the area; Gibby whispered something and kicked a rock and John flinched at the noise, giving the young boy an expression.

The nest had been cleared and we awaited the arrival of the others on the open road in a semicircle fashion, maintaining a level of apprehension at any potential threat—once the rest of the convoy had arrived at our location, we fell in alongside them and I took a moment to find Jackson; he was there in the caleche alongside Billy who sat over on his side in the throes of a good nap with his face in his hand—smoke bellowed up from the rear of Jackson’s contraption so that an open spot formed in the convoy for no one wanted to catch a face full of the black fumes. I began walking alongside the wagon’s slow pace.

“How was it?” asked Jackson.

“Scary,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, “It’s always scary. Did you kill anything?”

“I did.”

“Good. If you keep doing that, you’ll be just fine.”

“John’s something.”

“He is. But you’d do well to keep on his good side. He’s tough, but competent.”

We moved on the rest of the day till the sun threatened darkness by horizon clouds and we took up camp just on the edge of Lake Hartwell—though by that time it was hardly a lake and looked shallow enough to be a nothing more than a decorative reflective pool.

The convoy unpacked canvas tents, took to burning stews over butane eyes and lighting lanterns and meager fires and John pulled me aside in the fray of passersby and told me that if I were to ever hesitate with an explosive like that again, he’d kick me into the hole and save everyone the trouble. I merely nodded at him and he took on towards the front of the convoy where Sibylle would be and my troupe of scouts was disbanded and I aided Jackson in folding out the rear of our wagon and we put on supper while Billy, still small and talkative, rummaged through the larder boxes I removed from the caleche and the boy, mischievous, found the jar of sugar we kept and began excavating the granular powder with his fingers and lathering his tongue with it and grinning; I stepped after him and snagged the jar from him, returning the cap over the container.

“Hey!” said Billy.

“We’ve only got so much.”

“So? We can get more.”

A warm smile overtook me then, “You plan on paying for it?”

“Sure. I’ll pay you back.”

“Of course, you would. How about until you’ve got enough money, you don’t eat all the sugar, huh?” I asked him.

A thought dawned over him, “It was your first patrol! Did you shoot anything? Did you powpow them?”

“Come help,” I moved over to Jackson where the man was cutting the bad parts from potatoes and I began at them with my own knife and Billy sat on the ground at our feet, playing with the bits that fell from our knives.

“Did you kill monsters?”

“Shh,” said Jackson, “Don’t bother Harlan.”

“I can talk about it,” I said.

Jackson frowned, “Alright.”

“What were they like?” asked Billy.

“There were dragons and shadow monsters and more,” I laughed.

“Were there, really?”

“Sure.” I laughed and dropped a potato into our pot broth.

Jackson pointed his knife not in anger, “Don’t joke about dragons.”

“Do dragons exist?” asked Billy.

“You just don’t joke about them, okay?” said Jackson.

“Have you ever seen them? Tandy and Tubs says they’re made up.”

“Well,” said Jackson, sending his own potato into the broth, “They’re right then.”

We ate a mess of watery stew—potatoes and onions and cloves of half-good garlic was what was left for hearty prep and in the night, after we’d finished our meal and washed our utensils and taken to the tent, Billy found the play gun that Jackson had made for him from scrounged scrap metal and pointed it at me and told me that he’d shoot me and I laughed and wrestled the gun from his little hands, putting him into a headlock and tossing the metal piece to the dirt floor of the tent.

“Quit playing—s’time for bed,” Jackson told us and although I was too old for it, Jackson read a story to Billy and I listened and I think Jackson knew I was listening because he’d periodically hesitate a page turn and look over to see me in my bedroll still awake; the story was old and it was about a man named Don that liked to read books and the man wanted to be a knight, but he had it all wrong.