» 01 – The Squire «
Ewan Hastings shuts his eyes tight, trying to push away the lingering shadows of dark dreams.
When he opens them again, he’s almost relieved to find himself still sat on a park bench in Rushcutters Bay. The glow of the sun warms his skin and the gentle scent of petrichor carries on the breeze. It’s a space he comes to often, a small hermitage away from the bustle of Australia’s largest city. Cool, salty winds waft off the harbour, New Albion’s famous Harbour Bridge visible across the water.
Typically, the park was a break from the stress of university. Today, he sought refuge from the dreams that had caused him restless nights for weeks now. They weren’t nightmares per se; if Ewan could bring himself to tell someone else, he’d say they were what he imagined premonitions to feel like. He woke from them in a cold sweat and with a sense of purpose, the feeling that there was someone out in the world who desperately needed his help. The how and why alluded him, leaving him burdened by unease.
Trying to stay in the moment, Ewan watches an exotic bird perched nearby, sketching it on a notebook propped up on his crossed legs. He has to back at university soon for Art History, but for the moment he’s happy to feel alone. The shadows of the world have felt longer and deeper recently. His dreams should be hopeful, containing a knightly figure of white light, but it was hard to ignore that they made the darkness around them harsher.
A voice cries out, panicking Ewan and sending the bird squawking into the air. Across the park, a mother is searching for her daughter, crying out her name. As Ewan looks around, he thinks he sees a small figure move between the reeds by the water’s edge. Setting aside his things, he rushes over to save the girl from suddenly plunging from soft ground into deep water. He breaks through the reeds, and falls.
The sensation of plummeting lasts somewhere between seconds and hours, until Ewan crashes hands first into a thick muck. It takes him a moment to remember how to breathe, shake away the disorientation blurring his vision. By the time he pulls himself upright, he can take in the thick mist and shallow wetlands that rolled out as far as he could see in every direction. A pale moon provides the only source of light. The city is gone, despite having once existed only steps away.
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Ewan tries to rub the sight from his eyes, wake up from what was obviously a dream. He fails, and the surreal view establishes itself as reality. The moorland is familiar, and he wonders if it’s because he’s dreamt of it.
A distant howl echoes across the moors, drawing his attention to the shadowed forms gathering on the horizon. Even through the thick mist, Ewan can tell they had blazing lights for eyes. He hesitates just a moment, then begins to run. His boots sink into mud and a heavy mist weighs down his light coat, but he pushes himself forward nonetheless. Each new howl sounds a little closer.
I’m going to die, he thinks, and I’m not even going to know why.
Trampling heather and wildflowers underfoot, Ewan is vaguely aware at the disquieting beauty this place would hold if he wasn’t running for his life. No sign of humanity was in sight when he started sprinting, so Ewan is half-convinced he’s hallucinating when he sees an unlit lamppost standing alone on the moor.
Only crashing into it assures him it’s real.
The metal is cool, slick with dew, and Ewan uses the moment to catch his breath, breathing raggedly, acid draining the energy out of him. But he knows he can’t stop here. Even with blood pounding in his ears, he can tell the howls are getting closer.
I can’t die here, he tells himself. I have something I need to do.
What that something is exactly, Ewan’s isn’t quite sure. But if his dreams really have been preparing him for something, arriving in this otherworldly moor must have something to do with it. So he continues on, staggering ever forward until—
A dirt-covered hand shoots out of the thick undergrowth, grasping for and catching his leg as he crests a small hill. Ewan crashes forward, the thought idly crossing his mind that of course this godforsaken place has zombies too. The ground he hits is dry, stinging his hands as he throws them out to break his fall. He kicks out, struggling out of the hand’s grip, turning to strike the shambling corpses in its rotting jaw.
He stops himself when he sees the bewildered face of a young woman, a finger raised to her lips in a silent plea for him to keep quiet. Her clothes look handmade, a tunic and moss-coloured pants, while strange medallions hang from her neck. Dyed blonde hair with black roots frames her face, cut just before the shoulder.
“Who—” he begins, cut off when she reaches forward to force a hand over his mouth.
“If you don’t want to have your soul torn from your body,” she whispers through gritted teeth, “I suggest you keep your mouth shut.”
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