John awoke wet for the third night in a row, though he had begun to get used to the slick unpleasant feeling of the wet mattress against his back. His parents' faces stared down at him from the wall. He quickly left his father’s oppressive gaze and set off to his private waters to wash the coldness from his body passing through the rotten smell of his workshop. The minute he opened the workshop door he was blasted by the whipping of a cold wind from over the mountains. The rain from his journey to the village had pulled the warmth from the valley and replaced it with the biting whispers of the winter to come. A frost had gathered on the ground and the leaves shattered as he walked to his oasis. The water was freezing but not entirely unpleasant. It did little to ease the aching in his bones but managed to erase the tiredness from his mind. He would be sure to put a thick shirt in his pack for his journey, there was no telling how long John would be on the hunt for Preacher’s daughter.
The thought caught in his head; this would be the first time he had travelled more than a two day’s journey from his home. Furthermore, he realized that he didn’t know anything about the surrounding valley or what lurked in its shadows. A chill crept up his spine but didn’t know if it was from the water or the rising fear in his heart. He pulled himself out of the water, a deep shiver hurried his steps back into the relative warmth of the barn. He fumbled with the small fire pit in the main room before it lit and sent rays of warmth through his body and the usually cold underground cellar. The cold season was coming, but he couldn’t be sure how long he had before the snow started. He was confident he could be back from searching in a manner of days, assuming he didn’t get lost and his goal was even possible to accomplish. If the girl was alive, she was likely in the hands of drifters or savages, a problem he likely wouldn’t be able to solve.
He spent the early morning cleaning the rotten guts that now attracted numerous flies into his workspace and gathered the food, clothes, and tools he would need for his investigation. His father had brought home a rucksack, a large bag with built-in supports for heavy loads over a long walk as well as straps to keep the pack tight. However, it was in the burnt remains of the house outside of the barn, a sweat broke on his forehead at the memory and an itch nagged at his arms. He neatly and carefully selected only the essentials for his trip, separating the stock into two bags. His satchel contained his food, medical supplies, and tools, adding a coil of rope and extra oil for the longer journey as well as his traveling cup. The cup was a dented silver hue with black tarnish on the handle and lip. It had been one of the first items he made after the construction of the forge in his workshop; he had been proud of the achievement even if his father had not. The other bag, a thick canvas sack that was tied off with a rope, contained an extra set of clothes, a separate ration of cured meats, a large skin of water, pouches of minerals for cleaning water, and a small skillet.
He took the knife from its concealed position in his jacket and sharpened the blade, John had never actually killed anything with it but knew that a blade was more useful when it could cut more than a thin sheet of paper. It was also good for skinning and butchering any small game he could trap if his food stores ran low. As he sharpened his knife, he considered the idea that Preacher was lying. John wasn’t given any proof of her disappearance, nor was he even sure of what she looked like. He had heard the faithful refer to her as beautiful, with brown hair and emerald green eyes. Not much for him to go off, though it was still likely she would be the only person who wasn’t trying to kill him on the road. The knife slipped and cut a small gash in his thumb, his reward for being distracted. The pain sent a wave of fear through him, he had experienced the closeness of death before, but never at the hands of strangers. The idea of being killed by someone or something he didn’t know was more terrifying to him than any of the threats Preacher had laid before him.
Yet for some reason, John still found himself packing for the journey. A certain sense of wonder and excitement slowly thawed the fear. He could finally see the world; he had an excuse to search for more. He could explore the ruins of the old world and find the secrets that lay buried in the rubble of the dark times. He could live up to the title of gov and show the faithful the truth that his father searched for. He stopped in his tracks; a plan grew in his mind and across his face. John knew what he had to do. He collected his bags and threw his jacket on, locked his barn and made his way back down the path to the ruined campsite. If his father was out there searching for the remnants of the old world, then John would rebuild it first. He would beat his father to the answer and make him see John's worth, that his way was the right way. The world didn’t need to search the wastes and ruins for a solution, the world needed someone to show them the truth. Those emotionless machines weren’t demons or monsters, but something made by people to build a better future. The people were corrupt and evil, not the machines, and he would prove it to them. Prove it to Preacher, who spent his whole life destroying the very machines that could save them. There would be no reason to find living remnants of the old world if he could remake the people who built it.
John traveled down the path south of the village, he had stayed the night on the outskirts of the village in a small worn-down shack preacher had allowed him to occupy when he had to stay several days for a request from the holy man. It was little more than a closet with a stack of hay in the corner but was far more useful than the destroyed remains of his halfway camp. The exhaustion weighed on him from the three days of traveling he had done but his feet and heart felt as light as a feather in anticipation of the mysteries that lay before him. A cautious anticipation but anticipation nonetheless. He wasn’t sure what he would find along the way to the cursedwood but knew that if he could manage to bring this girl back, the first step of the rebirth of the world wouldn’t be the last.
The road through the ruins was worn and lined with partially burnt torches that were lit and put out every morning and night by Watcher and Hunter. Like most of the roads leading to the village, great care was taken in ensuring that any creatures wandering in had no means of staying there, either by outright killing the monsters or destroying places where they could nest. Burnt out buildings, debris, and desiccated remains of various creatures, both human and otherwise, littered the southern borders of the faithful encampment. The forest that lay beyond the was home to many threats to the chosen people’s way of life that needed near weekly cleansing or rather, exterminating. John had heard rumors of a holy group that took up the task of cleansing the demons and abominations of the world but had never encountered them personally. He doubted he would ever want to, being labelled a Gov would make him a target for such cleansings.
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The destruction grew denser around him until the sides of the road were nothing but charred barren lands with piles of ash where the cleansing flames had done their godly duty. The only object that was spared was a green board on metal rises with white faded letters on it. “Now Leaving Gran Jun” The village had no name, as with its people, names were considered prideful and were one of the sins that led to the old world's imminent demise. Though this didn’t stop govs, drifters, or wandering traders from using the name to identify the faithful village. Preacher would smile and correct anyone who used the name but ultimately found it useless as the various Govs of the valley would go out of their way to do so in spite. This had evidently been a decent sized settlement John observed as he walked, in its prime he estimated it could easily house and provide for thousands of people if not more. A land of plenty and peace his father had told him, though all that John found now was death and decay, a world that used to be.
It was dark by the time John had crossed the river out of the ruins, a long road speckled with metal machines scorched and battered stretched as far as he could see, dense lines of trees sat ominously guarding either side of the road. He grabbed the torch he made from the ruins of his camp and managed to ignite the cloth with a few well-placed strikes of his flint set. The area off the side of the road was flat and he discovered a campsite near the tree line. It appeared to be a common stopping place for travelers and faithful alike, arches were carved into the wood of logs that had been set by the firepit and had been crossed out only to be carved once again beside the first. He stoked the fire to life and ate some of the salted meats he carried with him, no need to ration the meat this early he thought. As he ate, he counted the number of symbols on the log beside him, a total of twenty symbols had been carved into the wood and a solitary arch remained untouched. He wondered if it had been the daughter who carved it there or if it had been Small Helper to mark that they had been here. John took out the deer bone knife from its concealed position and felt the weight in his hand. He felt the urge to cross out the arch, the sight of the boy spitting on the arch ingrained in his mind. An act of solidary defiance to show he felt the boy’s pain.
After he finished his meal, he laid a mat across the ground between the sitting logs and the fire, both for warmth and to conceal himself from any who came across the camp while he slept. That sleep didn’t come easily as the sounds of the wild lands rang out from every corner of the dark just past the light of the fire. He jumped at the slightest of rustles, the knife clutched in his hand against his chest. He was afraid, the arch stared at him from the log, begging to be worshipped and prayed over but all he felt was loathing as he remembered the kind mockery from the people who did so. The symbol they worshipped was one of fear, the thought of being alone in this world drove them to pray for something more. They were afraid of being lost without a purpose, so they created one. To follow the laws of a man who told them to be afraid of the old world, and they graciously accepted. He stared at it in disgust until the calls of the dark subsided into nothing.
John was in a chair, a large desk sat in front of him covered with books and research notes. Odd bones of creatures dotted the room on shelves and live specimens were in jars on a workbench to his right. Insects of various sizes and colors squirmed inside, searching for a way out. The man across the desk cleared his throat loudly, he stood in front of John and waited for him to answer.
“What do you want?” He heard himself ask, though he didn’t consciously speak the words. “I’m extremely busy and have no time for these ridiculous proposals.” There was an edge of annoyance on his voice, the sight of the man irritated john.
“All I’m asking is for you to consider the possibilities. If it is a new species, then we need to inform the council.” The tall man begged from the opposite side of the table, his voice ground against John, like a mosquito that refused to die no matter how many times it got swatted down. The council did need to know about it, John thought, but if they found out then it would be taken away from him. All his years of research would be for nothing, the itch on his hand burned and screamed to be satisfied.
“I can’t do that. If the council knew they would keep me from doing my research and may even take away the few freedoms we have here. You know they don’t want this type of knowledge to be made public and I don’t intend to tell anyone. If you’re that concerned, then you should tell them yourself.” A chuckle came from John's mouth. “But you aren’t allowed in, and they wouldn’t trust you without proof.” The man looked at John with disgust.
“Then I’ll take the specimen with me. That will be proof enough. They can analyze it there and determine the facts for themselves.” The man’s brown eyes shone with determination. The itch in John's hand burned fiercely sending waves of pain up his arm and a twinge on his brow. This man dared to take his research away, he would ruin this community. The researchers would go back to being dogs of the council, or even worse end up as lab rats. He couldn’t allow that.
John stood from the chair and walked over to his workbench. The specimen sat motionless in the jar, staring, and watching. The pain intensified as he studied the insect. He picked up the jar and turned to the man, a look of confusion on his face.
“Fine, take it. But know that what you’re doing is condemning the rest of your peers to death.” John said with venom, waiting for the man to reach for the jar. “I’ll give them the specimen, but you’ll no longer be a member of this community. You will throw away everything you’ve done here, and I’ll burn that research lab of yours to the ground.” John’s words were callous, but this man deserved it. He threatened the very lives of everyone. If he wanted to be the good dog he was, then he would learn the price of loyalty to the council. The man considered John's words for a moment, the flames of hatred and betrayal in his eyes.
“Burn it then, if this is your idea of freedom then I’m better off with the board as a test subject than under your thumb.” He stated with a dry anger. He reached for the jar and took it in his hand. John’s hand latched onto the man’s as he tried to pull away. John felt the itch leave his hand and burrow into his colleagues’ wrist. The jar fell from his hand and shattered on the ground, the insect took off and circled around the man who clutched his wrist with his arm pressed against his chest.
“Take them.” John whispered. “Take them to the council and show them what you’ve found.” A dark wave of thoughts drifted into John's mind and clouded his vision. The insect dove for the man’s head and burrowed into his eye. The tall man screamed and clawed at his face with his good hand, his other hand pulsed with a sick blue green light as a bulge formed from his wrist and slithered up his arm. The screams stopped and a dead calm look came across his face. John knew that by all rights the man was dead, but he served a new purpose now. The man rose from his knees as the bulge slithered into his neck then down his throat. The slight blue-green glow from his eyes sent a chill down John's spine. “This is the only way; they must survive, and the council must die.” He chanted over and over again. “They are the way, the truth and the light. The shepherds have returned for the flock.”