“So what?” Andy said, admiring his unpainted nails in the candlelight of the inn’s busy common room.

“So… it’s sacrilege,” Raven said, looking at the eldest for confirmation.

“They look like moons like this though,” Andy said. “Or the whites of a zombie’s eyes. Pretty cool, huh?” He spread his fingers before his face dramatically. “Oohh.”

“It’s not conventional,” Carrion said woodenly, hesitant to challenge Andy. His eyes drifted to the revolver hanging at Andy’s hip and he slouched back in his throne.

“It’s sacrilege,” Raven said, sneering at Andy. Clara could tell he was the runt of the group with something to prove. “There is no excuse.”

“Excuse my interruption.” A fourth, older man approached, standing above Raven’s chair. “But I’m trying to relax, and idle accusations turn the wine sour.”

“His fingernails aren’t painted,” Raven wined, stabbing a finger at Andy.

“Thought I’d go with something new,” Andy said, addressing the newcomer. He was about Andy’s age; each held the other’s gaze. The older goth had long hair, almost down to his stomach. He was roughly shaven, his makeup patchy, his dark trousers baggier than the strangle-tight cut which the youth wore.

“Well, paint them in the future.” The older goth turned back around.

Raven stormed off in the opposite direction, taking his figurine with him.

“Shall we parlour?” Carrion offered his hand to the empty spaces at his table.

“Much obliged,” Clara said, trying to subtly match the haughty way he spoke.

“Yeah, alright,” Andy said.

The muzzle of her submachine gun poked out beneath her cloak as she lounged in the chair but nobody seemed alarmed. Guns were fairly normal in the wasteland, no matter which apocalypse zone you were in. She noticed the odd sidearm on the patrons in the inn, and a shotgun hung behind the bar, but nothing else big. No assault rifles, the likes which she’d made Andy leave with their jeep. If anyone asked, she’d explain that they were out in the wasteland that afternoon.

The goths withdrew their occult books and proceeded to discuss dark magic. Clara had pocketed the black book which she’d stolen with her, resting it on her lap as proof of her allegiance to the cult. There was some sort of ritual happening tonight, and Clara quickly discovered that it was common for goths of surrounding settlements to travel to Hallow Hill to participate.

“Which settlement are you from?” Clot asked.

“We drift around,” Clara said. “Whever the dark lord needs us the most.”

Carrion took the lead over philosophical discussion as though he was educating the rest. Clara was content to sit and listen, absorb their culture and gain their trust. Andy kept the drinks coming, dozing in his chair, gazing into the fireplace.

“One’s appetite for life must never surpass the master’s,” he said, going on about subservience and self sacrifice.

“I agree,” Clara said.

“A shame he did not choose you for a concubine,” Carrion said.

“A great shame,” Clara said earnestly.

“It may be the fatness about your thighs, which demonstrates indulgence.”

Clara fought to keep her expression neutral. “Must be.”

“There is always next winter,” he said, refilling his challice.

“When’s tonight’s ritual,” Clara asked, suddenly keen to get the conversation over with.

“The same time as usual, midnight.”

“How long have you been a disciple for?” the other goth asked.

“A few months,” Clara replied. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Clot,” he said.

“My name’s Lunar,” Clara said. “And this is Shade.” She pointed at Andy.

“It’s nice to make your acquaintance,” Clot said. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“I do work outside of Hallow Hill,” Clara said. “We spread the word of the lord far and wide, trying to convert others to his service.”

“I wasn’t aware that was an ambition of his most dreadfullness.”

“Well, it’s a new project.”

“Interesting,” Carrion said.

“Though it pains me to say, we must depart,” Clara said. “Disciples, your company this evening has been exemplary.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” Carrion stood beside her and took her hand. He kissed it softly.

Clara shivered and bit her tongue, clenching her other hand into a fist. “How nice,” she said flatly. “Shade, we’re going.”

Andy chugged the rest of his beer and the two of them exited without making a scene. Outside, the sun had set. A chill wind swept through the bracken and weeds growing beside the road.

“I think you pulled, sis,” Andy said.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“Shut up.”

They approached the village on foot. Candlelight dotted the windowsills. An overcast sky hid the full moon from view, shrouding the village in darkness. Behind the village, the castle was obscured and lifeless. Clara wrapped her velvet cloak around her to ward off the cold.

“Right, what do we know?” she said.

“We know that Raven can’t carve a statue for shit.”

“Very helpful,” she said. “There’s a ritual at midnight, and it involves offerings of some sort. Perhaps there’ll be another summoning, maybe a sacrifice. If the goths are aware of the value of the briefcase they stole, they could have taken it to their master already, or be saving it as an offering during the ritual. It might also be in the possession of some affluent member of their society.” She glanced around the village, trying to spot any buildings that stood out. It didn’t seem like they had much in the ways of wealth of hierarchy here, other than the castle.

“We’d better explore,” she said. They passed a threshold where old-world buildings met the new. Patches of concrete lay buried beneath mud. Brickwork buildings crouched in disrepair, partially rebuilt from local stone and patchwork timber. Water dripped from thatched roofs overhead into two muddy drains on either side of the path. A bucket lay in the mud, smelling of excrement beside a broken, rotting cart wheel. Clara turned her nose up at the stench and kept to the centre of the path.

An old woman sat muttering to herself on her porch. A cat appeared in the alleyway beside her, watching as Clara walked by. Rats splashed in the drain on the opposite side, squeaking and retreating into cracks beneath the ground.

Ahead, the path flattened and spread outwards into a small courtyard. There were no wagons as she might expect, no commerce. Three more paths lead from the courtyard. One was barred by an ornate metal gate. Beyond the gate, a fenced pathway snaked through a copse of barren trees up the hillside, towards the castle. There was no way through the gate, except to climb it.

Five cages hung in the centre of the courtyard from a repurposed electrical pole like a grotesque bird feeder. A leg dangled down from one of the cages. A man sat inside.

Clara stopped. “I think we’ve found our sacrifice. This must be where the ritual is held.” She checked her watch: Seven o’clock. They had plenty of time to kill before midnight. Clara scanned the edges of the courtyard. The soft clatter and murmur of residents flitted across the cobblestones, coming from inside the surrounding buildings. Dim firelight shone behind wooden blinds, shimmering in a rare un-smashed glass window.

Would it seem unusual for her to approach the prisoner in the cage? Clara told herself that she needed a closer look in order to gain information on the upcoming ritual, however, her heart tugged her forward with just as much force as intrigue. Before she knew it, she was walking into the centre of the courtyard, hand pressed gently against the stock of her submachine gun. The prisoner did not move as she approached. He barely had the room to sit upright. Clara came within earshot, then a thought occurred to her. What if this wasn’t a prisoner at all? What if he was a willing sacrifice? Revealing themselves as enemies of the cultists could be a big mistake.

She stood still, unwilling to make the first move, weighing up her options, then opted for a neutral greeting. “Good evening.”

The prison didn’t respond.

“So you’re the sacrifice?” she said.

No response. He looked at her through dark eyes. His face was filthy and swollen, caked in blood. His clothes were torn, but something about him seemed familiar. Clara dug a torch out of her bat-bag, twisted the lens to the dimmest setting and shone it on the prisoner. He squinted in the light, turning his chin. There was a tattoo on his neck: two crossed tusks made an X.

“You’re a Hog,” Clara said.

The prisoner turned his head back around. Clara pocketed the torch and stepped closer to the cage. Suddenly, he grasped the bars and leant in.

“Blue Eyes,” he croaked.

“You were in the truck?”

He nodded, pressing his face between the bars. “Help me.”

Clara swallowed. Okay, this complicated things.

“I was ambushed… by these fucking emos.” He coughed hoarsely, like grinding stones, and spat up a globule of blood. “Water.”

Clara checked their surroundings again. Moonlight breathed a soft glow upon the concrete courtyard, encircled by deep shadows. Window shutters were locked against the cold, orange candlelight glowed through the slits. A dozen watchful eyes could be upon them, and she wouldn’t be able to tell.

“We’re too exposed,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

He just stared at her, hand outstretched.

“We’re undercover,” she explained. “The payload is likely in the possession of some cultists here. We don’t know what their intentions are, but once we find it, we’re going to take it back.”

“Payload?” he said. “Sod the payload, help me.”

Clara’s chest ached. She turned from the cage, making a show of looking around the courtyard. Truth was, she couldn’t meet his gaze, not for what she was about to say.

“Our mission remains the same. We’ll rescue you when the time is right.”

The prisoner was silent.

“If you’ve seen the payload, or might know where it is, then that might speed things up,” she said. “It’s a metal briefcase. Our working theory is that they’re going to offer it to their demonic master during tonight’s ritual.”

“Demonic?” he said. “Ritual? What the fuck?”

“Yeah, they worship a demon here.”

The prisoner wheezed and shifted in his cage. “Where are my Hogs?”

“Dead,” Clara said. It was better to be blunt.

“Abigail?”

“Dead. It’s just us left.”

“I can be useful to you.” His voice was desperate. Clara had heard the tone before. It often preceded death. “Don’t leave me here.”

She forced herself to meet his eyes, and remembered how they’d looked before in the open window of his pickup truck as he pulled up beside her outside the Massive Fun warehouse. It had been Clara’s idea for him to drive ahead and distract the horde. But even if it hadn’t, it wasn’t her fault that he got captured. It wasn’t her responsibility. She chose to rescue him for her own reasons.

“I’m not leaving you. I’m not a monster. We will return. We’ll get you out of there, I swear. But not now.” She shook her head, holding his gaze. “We still have a mission to do.”

The man’s face dropped, and he closed his swollen eyes.

“We’re not going to abandon you, but before we save you, we’re just cultists. Don’t blow our cover or we’re all dead.”

She hoped he saw her sincerity, for all their sakes.

The prisoner nodded slowly. Clara turned her back on him, following a path they hadn’t yet explored.

“Robert,” he shouted after them. “My name is Robert.”

His name latched onto Clara like a ball and chain as she dragged her feet over the concrete. Her heart sank into her stomach, and she closed her eyes for a moment. They would save him… They would try.

“Well he’s fucked,” Andy said.

“Not necessarily.”

“Really?” he asked.

“No. I’ll think of something.”

They had been in similar situations before with prisoners, people stranded, people starving. Clara had seen a lot of people die when they didn’t have to. But over the years, she’d been able to save a few through small gestures. A little food spared here, a padlock shot off its latch there. Though, it was never easy to convince Andy to lend his strength to humanitarian aid. She sometimes chastised him for his stoicism, but she had to admit, it was necessary at times like these. They would not jeopardise the mission just to save Robert’s life, nor would they abandon him to barbarism of the ritual. It was a matter of timing. They had to get eyes on the payload before the ritual started, then she could arrange a plan.

Whatever she decided, Andy would follow her, at least until the shooting started and he got carried away with things. He trusted her with the plans; she didn’t take that trust lightly. She had to think rationally, do what was best for them both. Even if that meant making some difficult decisions.

But not if it meant watching a helpless man die.