Jason knew the war was catastrophic.  The book told him as much, despite the fading ink and brittle paper, cracking as if from an aftershock.  It was a relic, recording events mostly forgotten.  The worn edges and aching spine proved it both treasured and well-traveled.  It was titled “Tales of the Atra”.  Tales, as in fairy tales, he wondered?  Could the book be trusted?  He turned the page as delicately as he could, but even that proved a little overeager.  The page came loose from its binding, no less than a baby tooth falling free at the slightest effort.

                Instantly, he froze.  The book wasn’t his to damage and he didn’t know what that would cost him.  He wasn’t worried about money . . . he had none.  He was worried about retribution.  His father could be . . . temperamental.  It wasn’t as if he could hide it, not with his father sitting beside him.  A twig filled bramble of auburn hair fell across the page as he turned uneasily to voice an unheard question with troubled eyes.  “What happens now?”

                His father’s baritone boomed even in whisper.  “Do you know how long I’ve had this book?”

                Guessing, Jason said, “Years?”

                “Try decades.”

                As if in payment for his crime, Jason nervously handed the page to his father.

                “No.  You keep it.  That page was bound to fall out sooner or later.  I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve stared at that picture.  I think it’s been etched into my brain.”

                In confused relief, Jason glanced down at the backside of the page.  He’d expected more words, not a picture.  He wasn’t disappointed, but tiny indented valleys were created by the sketch atop the now illegible words.  The brown smudges didn’t help.  Jason knew blood stains when he saw them, though none quite so old.  As if their time of the month, both father and son routinely tortured and saw to the death of countless people.  Upon completion of their unpleasant task, you’d think their victims had exploded.

                Blood was nothing new.  The picture was.  Especially since it was signed “Scott Jacobi”, his father’s name.  Though, Jason only thought of him as “Scott” when he was pissed at him, and never out loud, because that would prove disrespectful.

                At the moment Jason was in a bit of awe and cautiously asked, “Is that . . . Is that an . . . Atra?”

                The surprise came insomuch as none who still drew breath had ever seen one.  As far as the fifteen year old knew, that would’ve proven true 200 years earlier, just the same as now.  So who drew this?

                “Yes.  That’s an Atra.  I sketched it about thirty years ago.”

                “B . . . but how?”

                Sarcastically, his father quipped “With a pencil.  What would you have used?”

                Jason loved it when his father attempted to make jokes.  Happiness was hard won when on the run from a seemingly endless line of people who wished you dead.  It wasn’t just that, though.  He didn’t always feel safe, even under his father’s protection.  He could be unpredictably violent, but never when he was any shade of happy.  So, Jason thought he’d continue the trend, riding the wave for as long as it’d last.

                “Blood, of course.  One can never count on having a pencil handy.”

                A knowing smile stretched across his father’s rough exterior. “True indeed.  But how would you keep it from smearing all over the page?”

                Without a word Jason reached into his torn, mud stained pocket and after a moment of rummaging liberated a rusty pair of nail clippers.  This wasn’t so uncommon.  Nail clippers proved a quick stand-in for scissors, which were far more unwieldy when attempting to travel light.

                Jason made a show of opening the lever and twisting it around in a silent “Tadaaaa”, then proceeded to dig the blood and grime free from beneath his pointer finger.  He held up his finger as if another miraculous gesture waiting for applause, then continued to clip away the outer edges of his overly long fingernail.

                Once at an inverted V-shaped point he held his finger aloft and pronounced “Built-in pinhead!”

                His father’s roaring laughter was rarely ever heard.  He had very little reason to let it loose, but he did now and it filled the little porch, adjacent to the barn in which their latest victim was bound, unconscious and awaiting a grisly fate.  Jason couldn’t help but join in the merriment, as if it were Christmas Day.

                After a full minute of smiles so wide they actually hurt from muscles rarely stretched, Jason returned his attention to his father’s surprisingly detailed sketch.

                “But, really, how?  No one knows what they looked like.”

                A little surprised his father said “That may be my only book, but I’ve read and owned hundreds.  A few went into eye-witness detail about what they saw.  I just put the pieces together and that’s what I came up with.”

                Studying the sketch, he noticed the vivid details.  He was in awe of the vine-like tendrils; imagining each squeezing a human neck until they popped like a cork.  His father punctuated as many of the alien’s compound eyes as possible, no less than that of a wasp.  There must’ve been thousands and each paling in comparison to vistas laid out within their minds.

                “So this is the only picture of an Atra . . . in existence?”

                “I can’t say.  Others could’ve easily done the same thing.  But if you’re asking if there are photos somewhere beneath layers of ash, I’d say doubtful, but possible.  The thing is from what I’ve read, anyone who was able to get that close had already signed their death warrant.  I’d imagine the eye witness reports were viewed from binoculars.  Even that’s a little far-fetched.  You know the Atra could read minds . . . hundreds of minds all at once.  So, they’d know.  Maybe in the beginning . . . when humans swarmed the Earth, there were too many eyes watching, so a few survived the encounter . . . at least long enough to detail their findings.”

                Thinking himself special and barring any possibility to the contrary, awestruck, Jason said. “The last Atra.”  Then he turned to his father and excitedly said. “You know that’d make a great title for a book!”

                His father warmly smiled. “That’s already been done.  I’ve read it.”

                Incredulous, Jason quipped. “Really?!?!  What were they like?  I mean really like?”

                “Mostly terrifying.  As you can see in my drawing, they’re plant based with decidedly insectoid qualities.  The picture doesn’t do them justice, I’m sure, but they towered over lowly humans.  Twelve, fifteen feet.  Something like that.  And they moved like lightning.  Or at least they rewired the human’s brains to believe they did.  They could do that.  They could implode heads, boil blood and rip your arm from its socket and beat you with it.  All with their mind.  No reason they couldn’t imbed or alter memories to make themselves appear in another form.”

                “I’ve read an account where one walked right into a hangar full of soldiers and tore it apart from the inside out, because what they saw enter was a general, coat heavy with medals.  They didn’t run, scream or even fire a single shot.  No.  They saluted.  And then they died.”

                Jason was absolutely mesmerized and urged him to continue.  “Stupid humans.  But how did they ever win the war?”

                “The humans didn’t want to admit it for fear of death, but they didn’t win.  They couldn’t admit defeat and maintain morale.  Without warning, the attacks became less frequent and less devastating.  Shortly afterwards they vanished.  A second wave replaced them, but they were weaker.  Still deadly, but weaker, as if sick.  They were easier to take down.  It still took a group effort, but it was at least possible.  If I had to guess, I’d say the humans managed to kill maybe five of the first wave, probably less.  To put that in perspective for you, the Atra arrived by the thousands.  The second wave was only a few hundred.  It doesn’t really make a lot of sense, but according to the record that’s what happened.”

                It wasn’t an easy thing to grasp.  Jason couldn’t help but wonder how the humans from nearly 400 years ago even stood a chance.  At least they’d finally gone extinct.  Like most, he constantly rooted for the Atra when such stories were told, but they were dwindling the world over.  Soon the tales of the Atra would be extinct, just like the Atra themselves, centuries earlier.  Still, everyone knew humans were the enemy.  But by the little history Jason read, the whole fucking planet would’ve died out if the moronic humans hadn’t “won” the war.

                Jason wanted to know why, so asked.  As he shifted to face his father, the weathered bench they sat on creaked as if the wooden planks were so many bones lined up and groaning in protest. “So, how did humatrans come to . . . um . . . exist.  Is exist the right word?  Maybe, born?  I don’t know.”

                Jason’s father loved sharing knowledge.  Over the course of his life he’d soaked up far more than his share.  It was nice knowing it had a place to go. “I think bred is the right word.  I’d like to think we’re mostly Atra, sharing a hint of human DNA, but it’s more the opposite.  The weaker Atra did eventually die.  Even the ones who went into hiding were tracked down with a dedicated fury.  The humans were fueled by revenge and a good amount of stupidity.  Even a wounded bear holed up in a den can easily kill.”

                Jason’s quizzical look interrupted his father’s reverie.  He immediately knew why and explained.

                “Yes, I said bear.  I know you don’t know what that is . . . probably because they’re extinct too.  You know I read books on more than just the war.  Bears were predators, but might as well have been ants compared to the Atra.  I’ll tell you more about them someday.”

                As curious as Jason was, he wholeheartedly agreed. “Yes, someday.  I want to know how I came to be.”

                “Well, the Atra didn’t just die.  They did, but it’s not that simple.  They weren’t native to Earth, so no one fully understood their physiology, even after being studied.  Not even today.  But yeah, scratch the binocular idea.  I’d say humans were only able to accurately describe an Atra after death.  But no one really knows why they didn’t decompose at the same speed as everything else on Earth.  Human scientists studied the remains for countless years.”

                On the edge of his seat, Jason asked. “What’d they find?”

                “Nothing they could comprehend.  Not to make excuses for their stupidity, but the Earth had just been torn to shreds.  Tools were hard to come by and few were thinking clearly.  Everyone must’ve been looking to the sky every few minutes, expecting the Atra to finish what they’d begun.”

                Jason gave his father a look of mock betrayal.  “Don’t stick up for the humans.  They had it coming.  You told me so many times, the weak can’t complain when they die.  Humans were weak.  All of them.”

                Scott, his father, had indeed said this, word for word, in the continuous effort of strengthening his son against a world wanting to devour him.  He hadn’t forgotten, but now “remembered” and recanted.  Though minor, Jason passed yet another test, unorthodox as they were.  Jason was afforded no classrooms and the consequences for a failing grade were far more dire.

                “Of course, son, you’re right.  Sympathy is for the weak.”

                Jason asked his next question partly as a means of getting back on course and part actual question, never having quite believed the humans were that stupid.  “Seriously?  They found nothing?”

                As if to accentuate the moment of silence, the storm they’d noticed brewing picked up, howling and stripping the last of the Autumn trees of their precious, but long since dead leaves, like babies passed, but held close to their bosom.  A splatter of rain hit the partly caved in barn roof, mostly shattered glass, the decrepit porch they both sat upon and their faces; dripping down their cheeks as if crying in tune to an ounce of sympathy for humanity neither had ever possessed.

                The moment ensued as more drops fell.  Being on the run, they’d lived most of their lives outside.  This was nothing new.  Scott played it off as an effort to remember, but was in actuality studying his son.  Whether noticed or not, he did this often, as if examining a priceless painting for minute signs of forgery.  Jason’s father was a perfectionist.  They’d been dealt the worst of hands, but more than a refusal to give up, he wouldn’t accept anything less than progress from his only child.  Any less than his best would result in death, which meant constant learning and yes, constant testing.

                So far, he was pleased with the results.  They’d had a rocky start.  Early on, Scott hadn’t been able to force upon his tender child the brutality necessary to live a life riddled with shame.  Nothing was worse than shame.  It was debilitating, no less, if not worse than amputation.  It was essentially dissection of the soul.  They’d both suffered from it when his mother had been robbed of the opportunity, no, the God-damn right, to maim herself at Jason’s birth.  It was her fucking duty as a mother and showed her patriotism!  And she wholly embraced it . . . as any and all mothers should.

                Yet, this wasn’t the moment for looking back.  Scott was ripped from his reverie.  Time was slowly engulfing him in layer upon layer of cocoon.  It wasn’t all that uncommon.  Nor was this the first time his son had noticed, so broke his father free.

                “I’m not gonna get soaked out here.  It may be shit, but we’ve finally got a roof.  You coming?”

                After a moment to regain his wits, he embarrassingly answered, “Of course.  Can’t get the book wet.”

                In a hurry, it slammed shut with a force no century old book should be subjected to.  The loose page, the last Atra, rippled in the growing wind and was nearly lost to time, but Jason held it firm; firmer still after it began to tear from age and the few droplets acting as acid.  How his father managed to keep the tome in such excellent condition may prove a mystery even greater than the war and how humatrans came to be.

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                The barn’s interior streamed with dust infused water and would soon flood, but only in low-lying areas.  Time had allowed the ground to not only be freed from the rotted floorboards, but to shift.  Even inside this pathetic excuse for shelter, there existed both high ground and low.  They were fortunate enough that countless storms had eroded only the ground beneath the ragged holes that would forever mar what remained of the barn’s roof.

                Case in point, they managed to remain dry even as the weather outside grew to a fury.  The same couldn’t be said for the wind.  There was no stopping it, but the duo weathered all forms of nature’s wrath with little other than a tarp for protection.  This ancient war-torn building was on its last legs, but for them . . . it was luxury.  It even allowed for a campfire.  It was no wonder they felt safe enough to have a moment of down time.

                Even so, it was the barn that drew the unwanted visitor, now bound, gagged and unconscious, desperate for a drop of youth.  Jason wished to be a part of that fight, but his safety remained one of the last vestiges his father still wasn’t ready to part with.  They’d both felt the danger, an ability all humatrans possessed, but repetition dulled the senses.  Neither were worried, not really.  Still, they had a checklist and ran down it.  It was as detailed as most evacuations from an earthquake or flood, but by now, utterly routine, with each step memorized.  Not all steps were duplicated between the pair.  While Jason’s task was to stay out of sight, his father remained the protector.

                From a myriad of battles Jason noticed his father’s weapon of choice was brass knuckles.  Not a gun, of any sort, or even a knife.  All were too deadly.  He was too smart for that.  He couldn’t allow death to happen in such a way.  Death must be planned, lest it cost your own life.  This much Jason knew well, but this wasn’t just another lesson learned.  Unlike so many others, this one spared no room for failure.

                Forever tired of the mundane, he itched for combat, but the risk was too great to jump in unprepared.  This was his father’s opinion and it endured, despite Jason feeling ready for the greater part of the last three years.  It didn’t matter.  His father’s will was indomitable and defiance never ended well.  So, he settled for, “Maybe next time” time and time again.  This made most lessons an exercise in patience, preparing him to embrace the quiet times.  Stealth was imperative to a hunter, but not all moments of silence required combat or even heightened awareness.  Not all moments were fraught with danger.  Nor could all of life’s questions could be answered with bloodshed.

                Jason hadn’t forgotten his history lesson, but would return to the subject at a more convenient time.  He still wanted to know how he came to be; how everyone came to be.  However, they had pressing business to attend to and in the interest of fun, Jason began with small talk.

                “He fought well.  I saw from the corner.  You know he knew where I was.  He glanced my way half a dozen times.”

                This was of little surprise to his father.  “I know, but at least you were out of harm’s way.  You still remember the time you nearly lost your head?”

                Jason’s smile drooped, “That was five years ago.  I haven’t come that close to death since.  You know I can fight.  Hell, you’re the one who taught me.”

                His father’s, “I know” was followed by the typical silence.

                “So, when are you going to allow me to fight?  I’m not asking to go solo.  I know I’m not ready for that.  But I can join you.  I can help protect you.”

                His father had a skill for being heartlessly blunt.  “You’d get in the way.  Even if you managed to stay alive.”

                Jason opened his mouth to say “Fuck you!” but stopped himself.  His father was not a nice man.  That quiet history lesson was nothing more than a moment and a rare one.  There existed a very real need to obey the man.  Protection was one thing, but Jason lost track of how many times his father threatened to kill him . . . if he couldn’t or wouldn’t learn.  This particular argument wasn’t worth dying for.  Even if it was, it wasn’t the time.  If and perhaps when that moment came, Jason wanted to be much more prepared.  He wanted to actually have a chance.

                Jason couldn’t think of anything in the moment, so shut his mouth in disgruntled silence, until his father broke it.

                “You’ll get your chance.  You must be careful.  I know you’ve heard this a million times, but I need you to tell me why, again, now.”

                His father said “now” calmly, but Jason knew from experience the second time would be ear-splitting and if there was a third, full of bloody violence.  So, he took door number one, though he gulped before reciting the degrading mantra his father dreamt up so many years ago.

                “Children are food.  I am the juiciest of steaks.  The war set Earth into chaos.  It brought us to the edge of extinction.  Now that youth can be stolen, it’s just easier to take it from kids like me.  We fight back less and once dead, it hurts our murderers less as they grow younger.”

                It was a simple truth and to the point, but so fucking heartless.  Especially since he’d first been forced to say it when he was eight fucking years old!  Jason wanted to add “Happy now?” at the end, but thought better of it.  In moments his father changed from “kind, loving and even playful” to “deadly business”.  It was like a switch inside him and easier to flick than if this shit barn had electricity.

                His father’s look implied he knew about the addition Jason nearly put to words and just glared at him for a moment before saying, “Go on.”

                Jason’s eyes pleaded, but knew it was useless, so continued.

                “Danger surrounds me because I wasn’t afforded the advanced age most mothers gifted their newborns at birth.  I don’t appear any older than I really am.  My EA matches my AA.  My Estimated Age matches my Actual Age.”

                As always, Jason’s face was repulsed, not just from what he’d been forced to say, but from the shame of it all.  His mother hadn’t hurt herself, so he hadn’t aged.  That stupid, fucking nurse cut the umbilical cord too soon.  That was the link between pain and growth.  Without it, he’d gain nothing but a lifetime of shame.  He knew it all too well and shouldn’t be forced to relive it every time his sadistic father had a lesson to teach.  But of course, he wasn’t done and begrudgingly continued.

                “I must watch out for DOE.  Death of Existence.  It’s worse than death.  If I were to accidentally kill someone older than me, I would reduce in age, shrieking until I was nothing but a contorted corpse of a baby; worse than how I began.”

                After all this untold embarrassment, relived shame and indictment, as if his very birth were a crime, his father had only one word to say, “Good.”  Jason felt his stomach churn.  This had always been a fucking pop quiz.  It couldn’t be anticipated and hadn’t happened for some time, but still he figured after that tender moment . . . damn, it just felt like betrayal, because he just knew his father planned the whole God-damn thing!  It was his fucking version of tough love!  But why?  Why now?!

                As if in answer and mock love, “Son, I know you’re still a little squeamish in torture.  The anger you’re feeling now will help weed that out.  I know you hate me.  Use it.  Don’t go overboard, but take it out on this piece of shit who tried to kill you.  Do NOT be shy.  Do NOT be naïve.  When he wakes from the pain he will try to persuade you to let him go.  He’s only here for your youth.  Do NOT give him a second chance.  Use the anger I just gave you.  It’s a gift.”

                So, now Jason knew the why of it all, but did he really believe forcing his own son to insult himself was a fucking gift?  Yeah.  He really did.  For his father, the end always justified the means.  If this made him tougher then it was all worth it.  Hell, if forcing his own son to strip down to his birthday suit and dance like a chicken while trying to dodge darts made him stronger, he’d do that too!  Fuck him!!!  If only he could actually say that instead of obedient silence!

                “Now.  Let’s get down to business on this piece of shit.”

<><><><>

                As far as Jason knew torture was a work of art, fine art to boot.  His father introduced him to it in stages.  First, when he was only AA4, he’d taught him the finer points of death through the slow torture of helpless, dying animals.  It was ok for the animal to die.  The pain, the youth; neither would prove debilitating.  He’d learned any and all living creatures, from dogs to plants to microscopic organisms grant youth when you kill them.  This proved true even when Jason or his father were sick, because the act of getting better is the death of bad bacteria.  It was a literal war deep inside you.

                He’d been taught how youthing equals pain . . . tons of it.  Jason learned through experience when he’d killed his first squirrel.  It began as a mild cramping, but in every muscle of his body.  Then those same muscles began to twist as if in a steel vice.  His body was rewriting his DNA to make him younger.  How could it not hurt?  But that bad?  His father warned him, but really, nothing could’ve prepared him.  Fortunately, it hadn’t lasted long, but it was just a squirrel.  He was told murdering a person was ten times worse.  Jason had yet to try it.

                Even so, before the squirrel died, the lesson was intertwined with his first foray into torture.  It was a visual display.  His father had done it.  None, but a demented eight year old would openly, willingly torture an already dying squirrel, but that’s what was expected of him the next time.

                Squirrels make something like a chittering sound.  It’s indescribable when you torture them.  Certainly, it’s high pitched, but it’s the sort that hurts more than the ears of a child.  It tears their soul apart.  Jason could only wonder if that’s what his father wanted . . . to murder his son’s soul.  Why not?  Wasn’t he safer under that bitterly frigid aura his father emanated?  No sympathy meant his chances of survival would double.

                The squirrel hadn’t lasted long.  After seeing his father’s horrific talents, it was far easier for his eight year old self to put an end to the suffering little thing.  Of course, that was also the idea.  Jason had to commit the final act.  Only the murderer youths.  Death knows the difference.  Youth can’t be transferred in any other way.  This was an Atra trait; the humatran’s grisly inheritance.  Though, many had tried, there was no youth without the murderer experiencing pain.

                Since that point, time and time again, Jason was expected to torture the animals they’d trapped.  Torture was a sadistic joy for Scott, but involving Jason was a means of deadening both his heart and soul for the sake of survival.  It took years for young Jason to realize this and constantly resisted as would any sane child.  However, the punishment was also horrific.  His father would literally beat him down.  This was deemed as yet another lesson and not just for the sake of obedience.  Little Jason had to learn how to fight.  For that, he must first toughen up.  What better way than to beat the shit out of your own kid, as it also served the purpose of killing love and sympathy alike.  Oh, how very strong he’d soon be.

                So, eventually, fear ushered in obedience.  His father had already pinned this new, previously unharmed squirrel to a wooden plank with needles in each paw.  That unholy screech was slowly filtering out the pain into pure terror.  Jason loathed it.  He told himself he’d never get used to it, but that’s exactly what was happening.  The noise had seeped into his dreams.  Time and time again it woke him in sweat drenched nightmare, but it was becoming normal.  He’d learned to sleep through it.

                Slowly . . . and slowly was so important, as it made the torture last; Little Jason brought the wire cutters to bear and eventually snipped off each paw one by one.  Seconds after, he puked all over the helpless thing as it squirmed in its own bloody mess.  His father slammed down a screwdriver dead center and suffered the brief youthing . . . that time.  It seemed merciful or perhaps a reward, but it was neither.  It was obvious his son couldn’t continue and the damned thing was actually getting away.

                This was no cause for applause.  In fact, his father was downright pissed.  Food was hard to come by when on the run.  They must eat what they killed . . . every time, lest they starve.  Now, both their dinners would be marinated in his son’s vomit.  It’s not like they had a sink to wash it off.

                So, it went year after year and it took its toll.  Even now at fifteen, Jason appeared to be thirteen.  Over time Jason slowly learned the fine art of torture, but it wasn’t as graceful as his father’s masterpiece.  It never would be . . . not as long as Jason still had that pesky, pint-sized conscience.  It proved to be his father’s nemesis.  The damned little thing just wouldn’t die; and it would surely be the death of him.  His father would know.  Time and time again he’d told stories of how sympathy and charity paved the way to slaughter, no less than suicide.

                Jason himself tried to murder his own sense of ethics, if only because he needed the pain in his heart to fade, but it never did.  Sure, he played a great game, but he knew his father could tell his heart wasn’t in it.  This time would prove no different, even if he poured all the hate he’d stored up into the helpless man in front of him.

                Far from second-guessing himself and despite all business sense, Jason noticed his father’s upturned lip as he glanced up; the expression proved needlessly sadistic when it came to torture.  It served as his father’s best version of stress relief; even more so than the fight that led to it.  By now, Jason knew better than to doubt he looked forward to these encounters, as they broke up the boredom.  The possibility of death gave his father reason to live.  Jason felt it too, as the adrenalin flowed.  He also embraced the brief moment such brutality was focused elsewhere.

                His father practically giggled when he said, “Get ready, son.”

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                “Pain is a living, breathing thing.  It’s the most vicious of beasts, but it can be tamed.  Never domesticated.  It’s forever wild and unpredictable.  Not only is the intensity of youthing different depending on what you kill, but the agony often stretched down different veins at different speeds, suddenly splintering or reversing back the way it came.  Completely unpredictable.  But once each possibility is mastered, you’ll have conquered it.  This is the key to endurance.  It’s a skill most never truly understand.”

                Jason remembered this lesson from years earlier.  He knew he was still a novice.  He knew youthing was a unique brand of suffering, but pain was still pain.  As he stared down at the filthy man they’d bound, Jason couldn’t help but wonder where his endurance leveled out at.  It’d better be God-like to withstand what was in store for him.

                The intruder wasn’t a pushover, though.  He’d lost his battle with his father like all before him, but the length of the fight still left beads of sweat upon his cheek.  Most had dried in the ensuing hours.  His father needed rest.  Not really, though.  He’d weathered so much worse.  Jason wasn’t guessing.  No matter how intense, he liked to time the combat, as if rounds of boxing he’d once witnessed, in a life he barely remembered.

                If rated 1 to 10, Jason would give the man a solid 5.  That seemed pathetic and maybe would’ve been to someone less skilled than his father, but under the circumstances, the man could’ve done much worse.  After all, only one had ever garnered an 8, the highest he could recall.  It marked the only time, other than the naivety of Jason’s younger years, he ever really feared the possibility of his father’s defeat.  This mattered.  Defeat meant death.  Just as it now did for this piece of shit.

                Even as a child, Jason knew it made sense to let some live, but his father never did.  It wasn’t hard to imagine they’d learned their lesson, but his father never believed it.  It wasn’t too far-fetched to use them as a sounding board telling others to stay the fuck away, but when did that ever work?  His father never believed it because that would require a trust in the basic good of society, which he believed was a fantasy.  He didn’t trust them because, rolls reversed, he couldn’t forgive.  He hadn’t forgiven.  So how could anyone else?

                The jury was still out on Jason’s opinion, but there were definitely times he wholeheartedly agreed.  After all, it was him they’d come to slaughter, not his father.  That tended to color his perspective, no matter how forgiving he wanted to be.  Even so, with the exchange of murder for youth, revenge had become an art out of necessity.  His father taught him as much.

                “We don’t kill.  Death will always find us when we do.  We take them to the brink of death and let the wildlife or the elements finish the job for us.  We mustn’t even let them bleed out if we’re the ones to cause the fatal injury.  It doesn’t matter how long it takes them to die; death knows the difference.  The timing can be crucial.  Don’t take a chance if you’re not sure.  If you’re wrong, it’ll be your final mistake.”

                Jason remembered this as well.  The lessons were too numerous to count.  Many were repeated to make the necessary impact.  This one was drilled into his skull along with a few other “mistakes” that would be his last if he made them.  This much Jason well understood, but one thing never truly sunk in.  Where was the need to torture?

                His father answered simply enough, “They tried to kill you.  Don’t they deserve it?”

                Of course, it was rhetorical.  Rarely did his father ever ask for his opinion on anything.  It was more of an effort to enlighten his son to the glaringly obvious, except it wasn’t obvious to Jason.  He wouldn’t exactly call himself forgiving, but his heart was still intact.  Since day one, his father had been trying to murder any semblance of tenderness in his petite, child heart.  He hadn’t succeeded, but he’d managed to chip away at it, bit by bit.  If Jason had to guess, only the core remained.  At least the blood pumping through it hadn’t deteriorated to a blackened sludge, like his father . . . not yet.

                Jason didn’t know why he expected a different answer.  Even so, it was hard to deny the logic of it; knowing if given a second chance, without his father present, they’d surely try again and likely succeed.  What was there to forgive?  Except for how helpless they all appeared once bound.  Even the foul mouthed, unrepentant bottom-feeders were eventually reduced to whimpers near the end, as if they’d seen God.  So many in this decaying world openly embraced the release of death, but none wished to do so in agony.  All begged for a blissful end after some quality time with his father.

                Time would tell if this poor excuse for a man would be any different.  Delicate with his craft, his father attached his favorite self-clamping pliers to the man’s thumbnail.  Then an unassuming pocket knife flipped open; blade sharpened to a shine.  Though never used in battle, it proved a useful tool when things slowed enough to allow for precision.  The glue he often used to pin eyelids open had dried up a few victims ago, so he’d resorted to slicing them off instead.  He just had to be delicate.  Puncturing the eye itself would defeat the purpose.  Fear was always more palpable when one couldn’t retreat to the darkness.

                Thrashing head movement was an issue, as none were fortunate enough to sleep their way through the procedure, so Jason found his position, straddling the man’s softly heaving chest.  From there he fought greasy tangles to cradle the man’s head in the best vice-like grip he could muster.  He was starting to rouse.  Too bad.  His father liked it best when their first view was the blood pooling around their cornea.

                The man’s eyes fluttered groggily as the pain from the duel reminded him he wasn’t dead . . . yet.  A few moments passed before he recognized Jason, but this was no less than the boy he sought to murder.  Did he ever actually know his name?  Did it matter?  Apparently, his poor performance fighting his father hadn’t uploaded into his brain quite yet.  All he thought was, somehow he had another opportunity to finish the job he’d started.

                Jason watched as the confusion faded to fury.  He hadn’t known he’d been hog tied.  His attempt to wrap his grimy fingers around that scrawny neck failed utterly.  Fear seeped in.  Such an easy kill to cost his life.  He knew this marked his end.  Jason could see the revelation dawn as his eyes dimmed.  Having been unconscious, there hadn’t been a reason to gag him, but still he said nothing.  His lips pursed in defiance . . . until the pressure around his ears tightened and the blade came down.  Then he let loose, as expected.

                “N . . . No . . . No . . . No . . . Nnnnnoooooooo!!!”

                It was too late for that.  The time for pleading had passed, as if it would’ve done any good.  He tried to tear his head away, but Jason had too much practice.  Teenager aside, along with his fortitude, his strength was constantly on the rise.  Still, without the glue and being conscious, another step was needed.  Scott’s shadow loomed as a presence demanding more attention than the growing torrent thrashing against the barn’s shaky walls.  Then he spoke in a voice that boomed just as loud.

                “Close your eyes!”  It wasn’t a request, nor was it relayed as one.  “I’m not tearing out your eye, but I will if you don’t close them!”

                If anything, a deeper fear set in.  Despite the wind, Jason could taste it in the air.  So could his father, but now wasn’t the time to revel in it.  He didn’t have to spell out what he was about to do and didn’t want to waste his breath trying.

                “You need to see what I’m going to do to you!  No fucking happy place!  Close your God damned eyes!”

                He didn’t.  Of course he didn’t.  They never do.  That’s why the glue was such a loss.  Scott gave no more warnings.  He plunged the blade directly through the man’s cornea and slowly began to scoop.  The fluid leaked out as his eyeball “deflated”.  Then the screams arose, which sweetened the air even more.  Fear was a lure to all humatrans; a gift passed down from the Atra.  The scent it emanated was very real.  It existed to weed out the weak and ironically cemented the all too human idiom “Survival of the Fittest”.

                “Hold the fuck still!  You really don’t want me digging too deep!”

                Annoying as it was for his father, the fun had begun and he couldn’t hold back the smile that stretched across his face.  He twisted the blade and angled it, as if a fork trying to scoop up a pile of noodles.

                “Damn!  Looks like I gotta take it by the root!  This might hurt!”

                Scott nearly broke out in laughter.  He shouted all he said just to be heard over the doomed man’s shrieking, but he wouldn’t have had it any other way.  The screams were music to his ears.  They only grew as the knife squirmed between the man’s shriveling eyeball and his socket.  It really wouldn’t have taken too long to sever the nerves, as he’d done so on countless occasions, but the key to successful torture was to make it last.  That and he had to be careful.  Killing the man would cause him to youth and he had no clue how old this idiot was.

                “There we go!  Got it!”

                Jason watched in a practiced numbness as his father dug mud dried fingers into the bloody socket.  Infection was never a worry for men this “terminal”.  Once he had the desiccated eyeball in hand, he flipped it around expertly to show the man with a quip.

                “Here’s lookin’ at you!”

                Without a second thought he dropped the useless organ into the man’s screaming mouth.  His throat was as wide as it could be, allowing the eyeball to slip inside with ease.  He immediately clamped his mouth shut as the convulsions of choking ensued.  It took a minute to realize it sunk too deep to hack back up.  In his trauma, he hadn’t even realized Scott had walked away.  Upon returning and with a mouth now agape in the efforts of regurgitation, Scott poured a cup full of rainwater down his gullet, washing down the eyeball.

                “You’re welcome!  I know your kind!  Always fucking hungry!  I could see it in your eyes when we fought!  You haven’t eaten in days!  Your kind doesn’t care about youthing!  You were fucking hungry!  Youthing was just the price you had to pay for your next meal!  But you’re NOT going to eat my son!”

                The crazed look in the eye that remained swam with pain, but also a signature guilt at the truth.  Who he killed didn’t matter, so much as the age.  Youthing didn’t matter, so much as the meal.  Food was hard to come by and although cannibalism wasn’t overly prevalent, neither was it uncommon.  Both adrenalin and urgency had fueled his fight, not strength.  Scott knew as much.  He knew the man saw Jason as a gift he might lose, but what else was he going to do?  Starve?

                “Now close your fucking eye!  I’m going to slice off your eyelid so you don’t miss a fucking thing!  It’s either that or lose them both!”

                After a moment of panic, the man did as ordered, but finally, inevitably pleaded his case.

                Through shudders of agony he said, “You’re right, ok!  I was going to eat your son!  But it wasn’t just for me!  My wife is pregnant!  She needs to eat!”

                That gave both Jason and his father pause, before Scott said one word.  “Where?!”

                “No.  No.  I won’t let you kill them!”

                “Doesn’t fucking matter!”  He spat on the bound man.  “Your kind has no willpower!  No fucking control!  She’d cut off her arm to grow the baby!  But not for the baby’s future!  The bigger the baby, the larger the meal!  You’d both kill and devour the child!  Then eat her arm together!  When she bled out you’d eat her too!  You’d feel like shit about it, because you’re nothing but shit, but you’d still do it!  Tell me I’m wrong!”

                Only the raging storm could be heard over the deafening silence.  He’d already considered the idea.  He’d told himself he wouldn’t . . . he couldn’t.  Then he burst out an excuse.

                “Why do you think I wanted us to eat your son?!  So, I wouldn’t eat my family!”

                In a moral rage full of hypocrisy at the travesties he’d already committed, Scott slammed his pocket knife into the man’s shoulder.  More screams echoed forth.

                “Eating my son would’ve been nothing but a delay.  You’d get hungry again soon enough!  You’d tire of the child’s wailing!  You’d tire of your wife’s screams full of the terror of having eaten her own arm!  She’d still bleed out!  You’d still murder the child!  You’d still eat them both!”

                “No!  We . . . We have more . . .”  He realized in a whirlwind of shitty ideas, he’d just scrapped the sludge from the bottom of the barrel.  “We’d have . . . you too.”

                Scott promptly carved his knife into the man’s nose, from one nostril till it poked out the other.

                “You won’t be needing this anymore!”

                He sawed back and forth until the blade ripped downward and a gush of blood flooded over the man’s quivering lips.

                “You’d never EAT me!  You’d never survive the youthing!”

                “Chase!”  The man gurgled crimson bubbles.  “I was going to chase you to the river!  Let you drown!”

                “Why?!  Why the FUCK are you telling me this?!  Do you WANT me to castrate you?!  Because I’m about to!”

                In a sudden wave of shame, the bound man screamed.  “Kill me!  You’re right!  I’d eat them all!  Killing me . . . saves them!”

                “Oh, you’re gonna die, alright!  But it won’t be quick!  Now tell me fucking where?!”

                “N . . . No!  You’ll murder them both!  I know you’re hungry too!”

                In a moment, Scott reached into a bag and grabbed a wrench, rusted shut years earlier.  He slammed it as hard as he could between the man’s legs and bellowed.  “I’M NOT YOU!!!  I don’t eat people!!!  Where are they?!”

                No words came forth as the screaming took over.  A familiar reddish shade could be seen staining the front of the bound man’s grimy jeans.  This was followed by a smell not nearly as sweet as the man’s ripened fear.  He’d lost control and shit himself.  Yet, this too was both normal and expected.

                “You want it to stop?!  Tell me where they fucking are?!  Or I can always use my pliers on your shithood!”

                The screaming stopped, seemingly sealed inside a full body tremble, dying for release.

                “Pr . . . Promise me!  Promise me you won’t kill them!”

                “Do I look like a baby killer to you?!”

                Between the beauty of catatonia and the urge to wail for his momma, the doomed man eked out the word “No.”  Then, “Woods.  South.  Ten minutes.”

                Jason failed to restrain himself one moment longer and belted the helpless man in the head.  Blood sprayed from his nose and soaked the boy’s fist, but he didn’t care.  He hit him again and again and again, until he slipped back into a blissful state of unconsciousness.

                The whole while, his father watched in admiration, no less proud than if he’d just been handed a diploma ancient humans once received.

<><><><>

                As if protesting in equal measure to how Jason felt, the wind danced with the rain in a fury.  This seemed the makings of a tornado and so much the untold fortune for actually having found shelter.  So how idiotic was it to walk away?  Yet only a fraction of the boy thought this way.  His heroic side was kicking in.  Such an opportunity was rare.  Jason obeyed his father, but never truly condoned such horrors.  Even so, didn’t it take a monster to kill a monster?

                The bastard wanted to “eat” them both!  He even assumed that’s what they’d do once his suffering was at an end!  Such revelations freed the beast hibernating deep inside him.  He didn’t feel like a monster anymore; not this time, at least.  This was justice; pure and simple.  More so, he now had the incredibly rare opportunity to save not one, but two lives.

                It helped that he hadn’t let the facts seep in.  Jason didn’t want to dwell on the likelihood this pregnant woman was no less a cannibal and condoned her man’s attack.  It’s even possible it was her idea.  That was forgivable, right?  She was only trying to prevent the bastard from eating her and her unborn child . . . right?  So many excuses flooded his young mind.  Like how helpless she must’ve been and how she’d never actually kill and eat her own baby.  What mother could consider such blasphemy?  Even as he thought it, he knew how common it actually was . . . or must be.  His mother was not the rule, but rather the exception.

                He couldn’t think about that.  He had to save her.  Not for her, but for him.  Jason had done so much.  Like a horrific, black butterfly tearing free from a rotting cocoon, his father had transformed him from a state of innocence to a blood soaked, wrath-filled demonic presence.  It lived inside him, disintegrating anything bordering happiness.  It wasn’t always possible to keep the thing buried.  Jason needed absolution.  Out here the only hope of that was to perform a good deed . . . in whatever means possible.

                So, it didn’t really matter whether or not she deserved saving.  Her death would seal his monstrous fate and he didn’t think he could bear the cost.  Newly dedicated to this cause, he braved the storm and the freezing swamp the forest floor had become.  It was early winter.  The snow had already graced them with a dusting, but who’d know?  The first snow always melted.  As soon as they were ten feet from the barn, Jason noticed a change.  Snow was merging with the rain.  Hail may fall.  His purpose was clear, but he longed for the shelter they’d so callously forsaken.

                That didn’t last long.  Who could say how old the barn was or what it had already endured in centuries past.  Either it wasn’t as stable as it appeared or it couldn’t withstand another round against nature’s fury.  The unlikely trio would prove to be the barn’s final occupants.  The crash was barely audible over the howling torrent, but Jason turned to see a section of the wall had imploded.  His father turned too and both witnessed the death of something surely ancient.  It was surreal.

                As the roof collapsed, there was a scream, as if the barn itself cried out in its death throes.  Jason knew better.  The bastard had been crushed, impaled, something, but he was dead.  Nothing more was heard from the man.  Even if a whimper, it would soon end, as each beam ripped away in sequential disintegration.  Five minutes more and all that remained of their “shelter” was the foundation.  Jason didn’t miss it anymore.  It would’ve been their tomb.  How could they have gotten so lucky?

                Despite the fact Jason beat the bastard unconscious; he knew his death wouldn’t cost him.  He wouldn’t suffer the youthing or DOE because he hadn’t killed the man.  Nature had.  Such deaths were forever lost in the wind and benefited no one.  Suicide was no different and was deemed “a waste of the humatran product”.  Society strongly advised planning death with a recipient for youthing.  Some paid heed, but most couldn’t care less.  When you’re dead, there’s no deeper price to pay.  The bastard had gotten off easy.

                As in the past, Jason knew his father had only just begun.  He’d planned to slowly tear out each of his fingernails, then toenails.  He’d carefully monitor the victim of his wrath, to make sure death wouldn’t find them from anything he’d done.  Then came the amputation of the fingers, then toes.  It was truly a grisly process, of which no one was more deserving than this piece of shit.  Too bad.  Sometimes fate steals the reins.

                His father had a strict rule about leaving nothing behind, so they’d packed before leaving.  This included the hallowed book and Jason’s now coveted page.  They never knew what they might need or when a location may be compromised.  The future was a fickle, unpredictable thing.  In the moment, it seemed sage advice.  In the barn’s wake, his father stared at him, as if to cement it in his adolescent mind.  It was a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget.

                In reverence to the tempest, they moved in short stretches, from tree to tree.  Upon his father’s advice they’d tethered themselves to one another before leaving the barn.  Jason slipping proved this yet another stroke of wisdom, as his father reeled him in.  It might be prudent to hunker down, but what of the woman and her baby?  It seemed his father had the same inclination, as he pressed southward.

                Ten minutes south, the bastard had said, but that was minus gale force winds.  At such a slow, careful pace, ten minutes may be an hour or two.  The temperature was dropping rapidly, as if winter weren’t a gradual process, but something sudden.  Both pulled their well-worn scarves over everything but their eyes.  Both wore gloves, but holes offered entrance to the biting cold.  They’d scavenged what they could from the bastard, but either he hadn’t owned much or stored it all with his woman.  Neither spoke a word.  Even if they had, at only a foot’s distance, they’d need to scream to be heard.

                Hail formed from the ice crystals swirling everywhere.  Each stung upon contact with bare skin, but despite the recycled nature of their gear, they were mostly protected due to layers.  Everything was turning white before their eyes, as if the sky vomited a blanket of snow.  Even the soggy ground was beginning to crunch with each beleaguered step.  Jason had a feeling this winter wouldn’t be as kind as the ones he remembered.

<><><><>

                Being on the outskirts of Madison, Wisconsin, the middle of nowhere was vague at best.  However, Earth now existed as a rewritten book.  Perhaps a better analogy was a clean slate, as if a chalkboard.  Having been erased, residual, smudged and smeared chalk always remain.  Not to mention, rarely is the whole board ever cleared.  Pieces are missed, especially on the edges.

                So too had the Atra razed each massive city from the map.  When it was all said and done, only the remnants remained.  Even centuries later, after society rebuilt, life was splintered.  Truly the only kingdom that remained was that of nature herself . . . and she thrived.

                Not that Jason could know, but it’s feasible the barn they’d just escaped was actually within the city limits before the war.  Time and the elements covered much, but bits and pieces of ancient civilization were strewn everywhere.  Such as the jagged steel frame they hid behind.  It was certainly out of place, but overgrown and rusted to match nature’s décor.

                As powerful as his father was, the covert approach was best.  It was highly unlikely her man had left her unarmed, even if only against the wolves that reclaimed this land.  Jason would know.  He’d witnessed his father slaying over a dozen, as the years wore on.  Due to youthing, it marked as one of the exceedingly rare moments, when Jason, regardless of age, was not only in charge, but served as protector.  This reverse role proved a poor fit, but at least he lived to tell the tale.  It was written in blood with every scar.

                The pregnant woman wasn’t easy to spot.  The tornado raged on at a distance, but closer than they’d imagined.  It seemed possessed; desperately trying to uproot every tree and occasionally succeeding.  Though obscured by flying debris and a few yards, she appeared to be gasping.  Jason couldn’t tell if she was actually in labor.  It easily could’ve been the wind.  He felt it too.  Whenever a gust abruptly altered course in his direction . . . he felt suffocated.

                She had little enough to protect herself from such an invisible foe.  Her gun may have been loaded with feathers for all the good it would do.  Jason thought such a gale would laugh in the face of the all-powerful Atra . . . even an army of them.  Nature couldn’t be swayed or coerced.  Nor could it be intimidated or torn asunder.  Though this girl they now faced wore layers to brace against the deepening cold front, she was no Atra.  If ever she possessed any degree of power, she didn’t now.  She appeared both helpless and frail.

                She was cannon fodder for the storm.  She was likely moored only due to the added weight of the baby inside her.  Though her outer layer had been stripped to tie her to the nearest tree, which was surely a monumental task for a woman about to give birth.  Jason wondered if strength remained to lift her gun, much less fire it.

                His father hadn’t spoken a word, but signaled his son to flank.  Jason understood.  It was a well-practiced routine between the two.  Yet, the danger of untethering seemed greater than any threat from the pitiful woman.  In response, Jason lifted the rope.  His father nodded in agreement . . . remaining together was best.  Both knew as much from the beginning.  Would these fucking tests never end?  Really?  Now?  Even so, had Jason asked, he already knew his father’s response.

                “No.” promptly followed by, “There’s no better time to test than when it actually matters.  Pass or fail, you’ll never get it wrong again.”

                Such fucking wisdom plagued young Jason, if for no other reason than it was true.  As in the time, he later discovered, his father had purposely killed a wolf, just so Jason would be forced into the leadership role, if only for an hour.  Naturally, he sucked at it, but “what not to do” was forever ingrained in his mind.  His performance wasn’t much better the next time a wolf fell, but different mistakes were made.  He never repeated the same ones.

                Next, his father signaled for Jason to step into her view; him alone.  He understood this tactic too.  His father was no coward, but each garnered different reactions.  The woman was less likely to shoot a child, who posed less of a threat.  Of course, that wasn’t always the case.  Children were preyed upon in this world, but it was unheard of to murder while pregnant.  Not only was it foolhardy, but deeply frowned upon by society.  It was nearly a crime to risk the baby’s life in such a way, as the fetus could never survive the youthing process.

                Why then not approach together?  Simply put, emotions were running high.  Who thought rationally in the midst of nature’s wrath?  That wasn’t really it, though.  Her man, the now dead man, wasn’t of a larger stature, like his father.  Between father and son, Jason was more likely to appear as “her man’s triumphant return” . . . at a distance anyway.  Especially since, she had to assume success meant youthing, which meant she was on the lookout for someone younger.  Under the circumstances, the gale aided the illusion, which would immediately fall to pieces upon seeing two figures.

                Jason may have understood and been willing, but what of the tether?  That question was soon answered when his father cut it.  Stupid!  What was the lesson for?  Though, Jason already knew this answer too and what his father would’ve said.

                “Different circumstances.  You made the right call for the tornado alone, but what good does that do us if we get shot?”

                True, Jason thought, but what good does it do us to placate her and then get blown away by the wind?  It was a valid argument, but it all boiled down to trust.  Not that there was any trust in nature’s behavior, but trust in his son to take the proper precautions.  Either way, a choice had to be made.  There were no good options.

                Jason disagreed.  He figured they should’ve approached together.  Should she fire, the wind would steer each bullet clear, but what did it matter?  Ultimately, his father must be obeyed and even Jason knew this was not the time to argue.  Not to mention, the rope had already been severed.

                So, Jason steeled himself, taking what may be his final breath before the tempest stole away all the rest.  Then he stepped into open view.  Even at a mere twenty feet away, she didn’t notice.  She appeared to be hyperventilating, convulsing.  Now was NOT the time to give birth!  A single glance back to his father signaled “approach”.  She wasn’t about to shoot anyone or anything.

                This wasn’t a sprint.  With no time to retie the rope, both moved forward hand in hand.  Yet, they moved no faster than before; as if underwater.  The weather wouldn’t allow anything more.  She still hadn’t noticed the pair.  Jason could see the woman was screaming, but nature jealously deafened all noise but its own.  How she was able to draw breath enough to let out a peep was beyond him, but he figured this wasn’t exactly something she could control.

                At ten feet, her eyes opened for the briefest of moments.  Fear filled them, but not from Jason or his father.  She knew death would soon claim her without their help.  Her own baby would deliver her.  Over the centuries, the lack of medical assistance had ended countless women’s lives.  Jason knew hospitals made use of anesthetic as much as possible, but pain was pain.  No matter how or from where, pain translated to fetus growth.  This made traditional birth impossible.  The baby would grow inside the womb until it was too large to escape.

                This growth process was continuous from insemination.  Any pain from any source during this time added to the fetus’s “advancement”.  She’d likely been impregnated a mere three to four months ago; the average time a humatran woman could expect to carry a child.  Anesthetic curbed this pain and slowed growth as did other methods of pain relief.  None were terribly successful any more than such efforts made towards the ease of youthing.  These were considered “primal pains” and couldn’t be fully quenched . . . at least not by any ingredients found on Earth.  It was as if death demanded an audience.

                So too, would this woman perish without a C-section.  Her womb would soon rupture, as would other internal organs inevitably crushed by the growing fetus.  Internal bleeding would ensue and all this added to the pain, which increased the baby’s growth rate.  Death was inevitable, but nor would the baby survive, having suffocated.  The mother’s torn placenta would destabilize the life giving nutrients.  Blood vessels would burst as the baby was also crushed, having no exit from the deathtrap their mother had become.

                It was a truly horrifying way to die.  Jason had witnessed far worse on a purely physical level, but the death of an innocent never failed to rip his heart to shreds.  This only added to his internal motivation to save the baby, at least.  He wasn’t a doctor, but one wasn’t required to see how hopeless the mother’s situation was.  She may require a C-section, but even one crudely performed, would end her life without medical intervention.  Even if that weren’t the case, all such hope vanished in the midst of nature’s wrath.  The mother’s life was forfeit.  Just as in a hospital . . . only the child’s life mattered now.

                Jason knew this, but had faith they’d catch her before birth.  His heart fell the moment he knew labor had begun.  Honestly though, such knowledge was purely hand-me-down from his father.  He’d never had the opportunity to witness a birth, not even of an animal.  This fed into his desire to play savior, despite the self-mutilation that usually followed.  It wouldn’t this time.

                Instead he found himself wishing to slit her throat, just to end her pain.  Death would find him if he did and her pain would become his.  So, her suffering endured.  His father may be able to hold her years, but she could be much older than she appeared.  Even so, who willingly subjected themselves to youthing . . . in a fucking tornado?  However, that may be unavoidable.  Crude or not, a C-section was needed to save the baby, but in her deteriorating state, that may end up being the cause of her death.  It didn’t matter.  Jason fully expected his father to try.  Otherwise, why make the trip?

                Only a few feet from the woman, Jason struggled to wrap a rope around a tree for stability.  Nearby, his father did likewise.  Once accomplished, Jason moved to secure the woman as well . . . in preparation to free the baby.  Even screamed, his father’s booming voice was heard as more of a whisper.  It was just one word . . . no.

                After a moment of staring at his father, incredulously, something finally snapped inside Jason.  With the roaring tempest, explanation from either was impossible . . . nor was there time.  If the umbilical cord remained uncut, the moment the mother died, the baby’s fate would also be sealed.  DOE would steal away whatever sliver of hope remained.

                In that single instant, Jason made a choice.  He would sacrifice his life for the baby’s.  He’d never done a single heroic act in his short life.  Normally, that wouldn’t bother him so much, but he hadn’t led a mundane existence.  Thanks to his father, he’d stumbled into a gray area.  Soon after, he fell head long into a darkness he’d not thought possible of himself.  He came out here to be redeemed, if only for a fraction of his charbroiled soul.  He thought his father had the same idea.  Jason couldn’t have been more wrong.

                He knew it was a cardinal sin to disobey his father, but he’d already settled on death.  There wasn’t anything left to lose.  So, he moved to tie the woman with the remaining rope.  She wouldn’t fight back.  She’d slipped into a coma from the trauma.  He just had to secure her to the tree better than her coat could.  Scott watched in a growing fury.  He’d get no less in return had Jason not been preoccupied.

                His father was seen as “Scott” when Jason was pissed off at him.  Scott’s patience had always been thin.  To be honest, openly defying him was beyond liberating, but then all his senses were heightened.  When death awaited . . . everything mattered.  The slightest movement became epic.  With it, his fear vanished.  Jason had forever been plagued by the constant dread of death, but the threat of it had never been in the service of any greater good.  This too set him free in a way he never thought possible.

                This freedom allowed Jason one other gift . . . the ability to shut out his father.  For the first time in his short life, it didn’t matter what his father did, even if he murdered him on this very spot.  Hell, Jason was half expecting exactly that, but it was the effort that counted, not the result.  Succeed or fail, he made the attempt to do one good thing.  In comparison, death held no power.

                Jason had his own knife and gripped it tight enough to whiten his knuckles, lest it be forever lost to the wind.  He couldn’t lose it now that it finally held a purpose worthy of use.  That’s exactly what happened, no matter how honorable his intentions.

                Jason had been punched by his father . . . many times.  It served as yet another “lesson” to strengthen him enough to survive the future.  Scott called it “tough love”, but Jason never felt the love, just the pain.  Every blow resonated throughout his body.  He never believed his father when told he was going easy.  What child could?  He believed him now.

                Jason remained conscious, but was at a loss how his head remained attached to his shoulders.  His knife went flying as if it had wings; never to be seen again.  That was the least of his concerns.  Scott was untying his tether, the only thing that kept him grounded from the wicked punch.

                Liberated or not, fighting back was ludicrously stupid, but Jason had already made up his mind to do exactly that.  All of whatever his life had been would end . . . now.  He stood up, dizzily unstable and fell back, cracking through branches bent back as a whip.  He didn’t stop there, but flipped with the wind, not once but twice, before slamming onto his back.

                Scott stared on; his expression unreadable for both the distance and the scarf.  He took a careful step forward, whether to help or finish what he’d started, Jason could no longer guess.  It seemed wholly unimportant.  With considerable difficulty, Jason stood.  At a distance of ten feet, father and son locked eyes in a way only men could.  In that moment, Jason knew two things.  First, he wouldn’t die this day, at least not from his father’s hand.  Last and most importantly, that this was goodbye.

                Both men knew it.  Both men accepted it.  Both men knew no children existed here, not anymore.  The baby was already gone and the boy had passed his final lesson.  Haphazardly guessing the direction, Jason walked toward Madison, embracing an uncertain future.