John awoke with a start. He was soaked again, though this time it was from sweat and not the rain or his leaky walls. He was at the camp; the first light of dawn barely blessed the valley with its warmth. The fire had long since died and John sat on the mat confused. His mind was clouded with an unsettling dread and a phantom itch gnawed at his left hand. John knew he had dreamt but couldn’t recall any details from his sleep. He shook his head, clearing the fog from his mind and studied his surroundings. The ground was barren on both sides of the road, a silty yellow dirt that puffed in great dust clouds as he pushed himself from his mat. The only green was that of the forest, which he realized in the early morning light was more shrubs than trees and thinned out just beyond the line. They had been planted there, he observed, a line of overgrown shrubs leading into the ruins that obstinately clung to life. The arch stared at him from the log, but he ignored its pleas and collected his items before heading back on the road once more.

The cold air from the previous days had passed, a slight warmth had returned to the valley which John was appreciative of. According to preacher he was to head down this road until he reached the pilgrims altar, whatever that meant. John imagined it would be off the main route somewhere, but he didn’t know how far that would be. It seemed to John that Preacher didn’t even know where the altar was or how to get to the woods. Just vague directions and no facts to go off. He was essentially making this investigation up as he went. He wondered if he could really call it an investigation though. He kicked a rock down the path as he walked and thought. John had no idea what he was looking for, no hint of what could have caused the disappearances, what Preacher’s daughter looked like, or if they had made it to their destination. That was the only thing he did know, was where they were all headed; the cursedwood. John kicked the rock into a pile of wreckage, a loud echoing ting rang out from the pile.

A high pitch chitter called from the wreckage, followed by another from behind john then another from the rubble to his left. A chorus of chittering echoed in the road. The hairs on his spine stood on edge, he found himself running, sprinting, away from the sounds but they followed him from every side. He didn’t look behind him but heard the shifting and scraping of metal as he ran past destroyed cars. He had been too careless, too confident in the abilities of Watcher and the others to keep the dangerous creatures away. He had left that behind and was now in their territory. His feet ached as he ran and stumbled along the road. Everywhere around him the sounds called and hissed. He ran until a building came into view on the side of a fork in the road. He ducked into the main door and pressed his back against the wall. The chittering had stopped, he wasn’t sure how long ago they had stopped or how much space he had put between him and whatever made the noises. He panted heavily; his whole body was shaking. He was scared again.

“Damnit!” he yelled at himself. How could he have let his guard down? He didn’t know anything about this place or what made its home in the shadows, yet he carelessly strolled along, not even considering the dangers. He cursed his father too. How could he not have prepared him for this? How could he let John be so blind to the dangers of the world? Why wasn’t he there for him when he needed his father most? Of all the things he had told John, he never once told him how to stay safe while travelling. Not even Hunter, who had taught John how to hunt and skin, had warned John of the dangers that lay in wait beyond the guarded town. Gulpers he had learned to deal with, snakes too. He learned how to keep ants and small insects out of his food stores. Yet for all his knowledge his father didn’t teach him how to survive out here like he did. He screamed again. John realized suddenly his continued mistake and clasped his mouth. His eyes darted frantically in the dark, he was so busy being mad and scared he forgot to check the building first. What if one of those things was inside? He pulled the torch from the side of his pack and fumbled to light it. The cloth caught and was greeted by the ugly sight of a stone arch at the far end of the room, melted candles and spoiled food littered the wooden altar that stood in front of the idol.

He laughed at the sight, of course it would be here when he was in danger and afraid. The arch wanted him, the faithful wanted him. It demanded praise for saving John, but it would not receive it. He slapped himself across the face, snapping him back to his senses. He slowed his breath and closed his eyes. The arch was a symbol, a statue, nothing more. The faithful didn’t want him, men like Fisher and Preacher made that abundantly clear. He would never be accepted by the village, even if he found this girl. The symbol was a crutch, an excuse to hide and be safe in the comfort of their fears. He opened his eyes and was calm.

The room was small, even smaller than the main room of his underground home, wooden benches were broken and thrown against the walls leaving nothing but the altar and the pulpit before the arch. John assumed this was the pilgrim’s altar Preacher had told him of. It was worn and decrepit, he doubted anyone could consider this a holy place by the state of it. He walked towards the stone arch, the light casting a flickering shadow on the wall. He stepped on something soft, and it squished underneath his foot, sending him falling to the floor on his back. The torch landed with a spark next to him which he grabbed and lifted the burning cloth in front of him.

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A sac sat on the floor, surprisingly it hadn’t burst under the pressure of his foot. He twisted himself on the floor and crawled to inspect the odd sac. It was a strange mix of black, tan and red and the texture reminded him of the inside of an animal’s skin. He poked it with his finger, it was smooth and was warmer than he had expected but gave as his finger sunk into the sac. He felt a fluid on the inside but wasn’t quite sure as to what kind of liquid it could be. He considered the possibility of it being an egg, the idea sent a wave of terror through his neck that quickly receded. He recalled a book that stated sacks like this would have been common in live births and didn’t know of any animal or insect that laid non shelled eggs. It wasn’t a spider egg he was certain; he had found several in his time removing haywire and dangerous machines for Preacher and his faithful. If it was an egg, it was from a creature that he had never seen.

It didn’t seem like it had a heartbeat either, so John assumed it wasn’t alive. He wanted to puncture the sac and find out its contents but decided against the idea. No reason to take unnecessary risks. He lifted himself off the ground and swept the torch slowly around the room, the only thing left intact as far as he could tell was the shrine and the various offerings to the stone symbol that sat in bowls on a ledge behind the wooden altar. The bowls contained various food items and what he assumed were valuable trinkets and personal items, sacrifices, and offerings of personal significance. Molded fruit and meat filled most of the bowls giving the front of the room a stench of rot and decay, but clearly more than just village faithful stopped into this pilgrim’s shrine; a tarnished ring sat on the ledge while a necklace made of white stones hung from a melted candle. Most interesting to John was a brass bracelet that was placed in a bowl with a small square clock inset into the band. The glass was shattered, and he knew that the mechanisms had long since stopped moving. Its placement in the bowl, in fact its very existence here, meant that some gov or drifter had passed through. No faithful of preacher would ever own or keep such a trinket, not even a broken one.

He noticed as he inspected the bowls that one held food that was much earlier in the stages of decay than any of the other bowls. The wooden bowl contained one long Chile, a now brownish color with hints of green only at the very top of the pepper, a poorly made and oblong loaf of bread that was spotted with blue and black fuzzy mold, and a shriveled red apple that had been chewed through by some sort of bug based on the small holes throughout the fruit. John knew that it was customary for the faithful to leave food offerings being the only earthly things the religious village considered to have any value. The apple was telling, it meant the pilgrim had access to food that didn’t grow in the fields of the faithful. John deduced with the apple and the familiar poorly made bread that the group of pilgrims he was after had passed through the temple not too long ago. John knew it was certainly sooner than a season ago, which brought many questions to his mind. He looked up for more clues and spotted another of the sacs in the corner behind the statue.

He drew his torch closer; the sac was similar to the one he had stepped on in the middle of the room but was far bigger and was mostly black and tan with soft pinks mixed in. The sac was smoother than the other and reminded him more of hide than skin, but it still had the same warmth that its counterpart had as he placed his hand on it. The sac shook as he touched it, again it was filled with liquid. John’s curiosity got the better of him as he took out his knife from its hidden pocket. He carefully pressed the edge against the outer layer, softly as to ensure it didn’t pop and splash him. To his surprise, the knife wouldn’t cut the sac. Confused, he rubbed the edge against his skin and was able to shave off a small patch of hair on the top of his hand. The knife was still sharp, so he wondered why it didn’t cut the leathery casing of the liquid.

He positioned himself on the opposite side of the statue, his torch held by a small candle holder on the ledge. He angled himself away and stabbed the sac with the tip of his knife. This time the sac popped, spraying liquid up and away from where John had been. A few drops landed on his hand and began to burn. He pulled back quickly, dropping the knife with a metallic clatter, and pulled out his skin of water and doused his sizzling hand. Acid, he knew. The sac had been full of a strong acid that had left red and pink flesh in small circles on his hand. He had acted quickly enough, diluting the acid, and preventing further damage. He was thankful that he had taken the precaution of being away from the sac when he pierced it. Had he been more careless, he would have likely died from an infection that large scale burns would likely form, especially since he didn’t have the supplies to treat such injuries. He heard the continued sizzle as he cradled his hand against his chest. He searched the area for the source and found it.

Horrified, he turned and scrambled away from the statue, nearly smashing the lone sac in the middle of the room with his undamaged hand. Again, he was thankful for the toughness of the container as he pulled himself outside the temple and planted himself firmly on the grass on his back. He looked up at the sky and breathed heavily. He heard the sickening pop and splash of liquid from inside, the acid eating through the dozens of sacs that were piled behind the leg of the stone arch. He didn’t know what the sacs were or why there were so many hidden from sight. But the most disturbing and horrific sight was the partly decayed body that the sacs had been piled on top of.

He wanted to go home.