As Zelda leaned against the porch railing, the night air was thick with the scent of pine, a fragrance both grounding and ethereal. The towering trees stood like silent sentinels, their dark forms outlined against the star-strewn sky. The woods were alive with a hushed symphony: the whisper of wind through the needles, the soft rustling of unseen creatures, and the distant call of an owl. Each breath she took seemed to draw her deeper into the stillness, the pine-scented air wrapping around her like a comforting embrace. The world beyond the trees faded into insignificance, leaving only the tranquil presence of the forest, timeless and serene, a reminder that even in the darkest hours, nature’s quiet beauty endured.
She felt a deep sense of contentment, sharing this moment with her husband. The quiet of the woods mirrored the quiet peace she’d discovered, in the last week. It was a stark contrast to the uncertainty and restlessness she’d once felt, a purposeless existence where she’d always been searching for something more. Placing her hand over his, she realized that she’d found something she hadn’t even realized she was searching for: a sense of belonging, of being accepted for who she was.
August, his gaze fixed on some far point, seemed to blend into the night. They’d come outside when Gretchen had started screaming; Zelda had watched, through the window, as John stormed out and Fred decided—somewhat belatedly—that he should probably intervene. “Fred might never recover from finding that book,” he remarked, sounding not entirely displeased.
Her expression grew troubled. “Gretchen didn’t seem too happy with me,” she admitted. An observation, which sounded like the understatement of the year when she voiced it out loud. “The look she gave me earlier could’ve formed icicles in Hell.”
“According to Dante,” August replied, “Hell has icicles. On Cocytus, the frozen lake in the ninth circle. It was formed from the tears of Lucifer, and the flapping of his wings kept it frozen.” Tapping his fingers against the railing, he considered. “That’s where the souls of traitors are punished. Caina, Antenora, Ptolomea, and Judecca are the four zones, but Caina is my personal favorite. Named for Cain, who betrayed his brother Abel, the souls here are traitors to their kin. Encased in ice up to their necks, they suffer in the cold, with their tears freezing on their faces.”
“You can always be relied on to say something romantic,” she deadpanned.
“I think justice is quite romantic,” August countered, his tone philosophical. “Sometimes, when I’m feeling discouraged, I like to imagine my father there.” Exhaling heavily, he shook his head. “Although, in my worst nightmares, I’m right there beside him.”
She cocked her head, confused. “You’re the most loyal man I know.”
His smile was almost a grimace of pain. “I tell myself that I’m loyal to a higher code, but the first oath I swore was to do no harm. Being trapped in ice, frozen and isolated, might be the ultimate punishment for a man who’s chosen murder over healing. Or I could end up in the seventh circle, reserved for those who commit violence, wading through a river of boiling blood.”
“Do you think I’m going to Hell?” she asked.
He turned sharply. “What?”
“Heaven is where you are.” Her voice was soft. “I’d rather suffer in some infernal Rube Goldberg machine, with you, than be bored with the angels.” Lips quirking in a smile, she gestured behind her at the window. “Which is how we wound up standing here, hiding from our own guests!”
Leaning down, he kissed her forehead.
August needed a vacation, she decided, and so did she. And Gretchen needed to—read a book, or something. She’d like Surén, if she gave him the chance. He’d advocated for women to do everything completely nude, and that was right up her alley. Although, considering how she’d acted tonight, Gretchen would probably be better off indulging in what Surén called the joys of self-experience. “Why does that meddling and intrusive cow care what I do?”
“Gretchen is afraid, and fear breeds contempt.” A line appeared in August’s brow, as he rested his elbows on the railing. “She despises what she doesn’t understand, and what she doesn’t understand here is how you can be content in a life she considers a prison.”
Zelda threw up her hands in exasperation. “Nobody’s asking her!”
He shrugged dismissively, although his face remained serious. “Judgment is a form of control, an attempt to impose one’s own worldview on another. She can’t fathom a world where you’re right and she’s wrong, so she tears down your choices to reinforce her own crumbling sense of self.”
Which made sense, Zelda supposed. Most people couldn’t stand the idea that someone else might be happy living in a life they themselves found terrifying or unattainable—or making compromises, indeed, that they chose to believe they’d never make. It was a mirror they didn’t want to look into, walking in someone else’s shoes, because what if they weren’t the Jesus meets Che Guevara they believed? What if, when push came to shove, they turned out to be just like everyone else?
“We project our fears and failures onto others,” August added, after a moment. “Especially our loved ones. It’s not about you, it’s about the shadows of her own inadequacies that she sees in your choices.” He reached for his cigarettes, remembered he couldn’t smoke around her, and grimaced before brightening. “That being said, John executed a textbook flanking maneuver, catching the enemy off guard and redirecting the confrontation without a single casualty. For what it’s worth, I think he’d be an excellent officer—and undoubtedly was, before.”
Zelda chuckled at his military metaphor, the warmth of his presence wrapping around her like the blanket. “Are you going to tell Klaus that?” she teased, her fingers brushing the knot of his tie before curling around it, pulling him down to meet her lips. She wanted to finish what they’d started earlier, and while that might not be strictly possible a girl could dream…or sneak her husband into some convenient shadow, where the glow spilling out from inside didn’t reach.
But then, she felt it—a subtle shift in the night air, the faintest breath of cold that hadn’t been there before. The breeze that’d whispered through the pines seemed to falter, as if it, too, sensed something was amiss. She hesitated, her kiss slowing as a creeping unease slithered down her spine.
The symphony of night creatures—crickets chirping, the occasional hoot of an owl—suddenly ceased, as if the entire forest were holding its breath. The silence pressed down on her, thick and stifling, every nerve in her body taut with anticipation. Her eyes darted to the dark line of trees, where shadows seemed to dance and flicker, just out of reach of the moon’s light. Another gust of wind swept across the porch, colder than it should have been, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She shivered, despite the warmth of August’s body so close to hers, a cold sweat beginning to bead at her temples. Her heartbeat quickened, each pulse a drumbeat in her ears, drowning out the preternatural stillness.
Every instinct screamed at her to run, to get inside and bolt the door, but her feet were rooted to the spot. Suddenly, a snapping branch broke the quiet. As a figure emerged, her breath caught in her throat. At first, she thought she was seeing a ghost—a specter of the battlefield, with a face ravaged by the horrors of war. But it was Alex. He staggered forward, the remnants of a Luftwaffe uniform hanging off his gaunt frame, tattered and soaked with both fresh and dried stains. His skin, waxy and pale, was mottled with a sickly greenish hue, spreading like a cancer across his flesh. One eye was swollen shut, a dark, oozing wound marking where he’d likely been struck, while the other glinted with a wild, feverish light.
His lips, cracked and bleeding, curled into a grotesque smile as he took another step forward, his movements jerky and unnatural, as though his body were no longer fully under his control. The stench hit her next—a foul, nauseating blend of rot and decay, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid odor of sweat. It was the smell of death, of something far beyond the point of no return.
Her hand tightened around the railing as she fought the urge to retch. This wasn’t just Alex—it was what war had reduced him to, what all the violence and hatred had stripped away, leaving only this horrifying shell. He was a living corpse, a twisted reminder that beneath all the propaganda and the glory was this brutal, unforgiving truth. And now, that truth was standing before them, bringing with it all the terror and devastation that had been lurking in the shadows.
His lips peeled back from his teeth in a rictus grin. “Hello, Zelda.”
Grabbing her shoulders, August pushed her aside as he stepped in front of her.
Alex’s chuckle emerged as a low, rattling sound, more akin to a death rattle than genuine amusement. “The knight once again protecting his lady,” he mocked. “How chivalrous.”
She tried to move past August but his hand shot out, holding her back. Alex almost vibrated with rage, although something in her action seemed to make him pause. “You’re hurt,” she quavered.
The words sounded inane in her own ears and apparently to Alex, too; shaking his head, he plucked at what remained of his shirt. “It’s not all my blood,” he assured her. “Although it’s nice of you to pretend you care.” His voice, along with his expression, had turned horribly knowing.
Her fingers tightened on August’s arm. “I do care. Alex, I—
“You left me to rot!” Alex shouted. “For what? For this? For him? The world is burning, and you’re here, playing house with the Devil.” That awful chuckle wheezed out of him again, thin and strained. High spots of color burned on his cheeks as he stared her down, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. “I was never good enough for you, was I? Not when there were monsters like him around. You say you wanted someone kind, but that was never what you wanted. You wanted power,” he hissed, the words dripping with disgust. “You wanted that.”
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She felt like Judas, staring back at this revenant who’d once been her closest confidante. Beside her, tense, August said nothing as she drew a deep breath and swallowed. “I know you think I betrayed you,” she acknowledged. “But I didn’t…I didn’t choose him to hurt you.”
Alex took a step forward, and then another, climbing the steps and facing her across the porch. More of his sour, rancid smell wafted toward her, like meat left to fester in the heat of summer, layered with a foul and cloying sweetness that made her stomach churn. Looking out at her from within that moving corpse, though, her friend’s gaze still held a horrible awareness. “Everything I did, I did because I thought it would save you. But you never needed saving, did you? You were just like the rest of them. Blind, or maybe worse—you saw everything and still chose complicity.”
“I never meant for any of this to happen,” Zelda whispered. “Alex, I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry that you’re married, or sorry that you’re knocked up?” He cocked his head to the side, somewhere between confused and amazed. “I tried to be the hero, Zelda. But heroes don’t get the girl, do they? No, that’s reserved for the bastards who take what they want, the ones who destroy without care. I tried to help you, again and again, and you spit on everything I did…I guess, all this time, I should’ve been a psychotic freak with a big house.”
“We’ve both made mistakes,” she began, “but we don’t have to keep making—
“You made me do those things!” Alex’s shriek was like razor blades, rending the night with his pain. “You and everyone just like you! If you’d just seen me, if you’d just let me be the man I could’ve been for you, none of this would’ve happened! But you never wanted a man who’d respect you. No, you wanted someone who’d treat you like the worthless object you are. And now you’ve got him. Was it worth it, Zelda? Was he worth everything we lost?”
Her lower lip trembling, Zelda didn’t respond.
A gun appeared in Alex’s hand. “Was it?” he demanded, thrusting the weapon at her. “Was it?”
She shrieked, her words lost in a wave of cold horror. Beside her, she felt August stiffen, but when he spoke he sounded perfectly calm. “Alex, think about this. What’s your endgame here? You pull that trigger, and what do you gain? What does Zelda gain? Nothing but more pain.”
Still clutching the gun, Alex wiped at his mouth. “You tell me.”
“You want answers?” August stared at him across the expanse of decking, his gaze firm. “I’ll give you answers. But, first, let’s put that gun down. We’re both smart men—we can resolve this without bloodshed.” He hesitated. “No one else needs to die.”
“Alex, please,” Zelda whispered. “This isn’t you. You’re not a monster.”
“How could you?” he demanded, his grip tightening on his weapon. “How could you betray everything we fought for, everything I sacrificed? You’ve thrown your lot in with the very people who destroyed everything we believed in. And for what? A life of comfort while the rest of us rot?” Shaking his head again, the movement, he seemed almost amused at himself. “You could’ve saved me, you know. If you’d just left with me, when I asked you to. But now…now I’m just another corpse to you, another mistake you’ll pretend never happened.”
“Alex, please.” Zelda’s voice was barely audible. “I’m scared.” And then she saw it: her friend, or whatever remained of him, terrified and alone behind those eyes. The part of Alex that remembered laughing together on the swings, the part that no amount of horror had been able to touch, he wanted to put the gun down. He was just as much of a hostage as she was, just as petrified and just as confused. “Remember when we used to talk about what we wanted to do, when all of this was over?” She swallowed, her voice growing stronger with her newfound hope. “We wanted to make things better, to rebuild. We…we still can.”
And for a split-second, Alex hesitated. Then the shutters slammed down and she felt something in her heart extinguish. Her friend had chosen this course, and no amount of regret would stop him. He must’ve gotten the gun when he’d gotten the uniform; it was an officer’s standard issue Walther PP, black and evil in the night. “You made your choice, Zelda. You chose to lie with the wolf, to take his protection and forget what he really is. But don’t you dare pretend that you’re innocent. Every drop of blood on his hands—you supported him, you made it possible!” His tongue flicked out, over his peeling lips. “You can’t run from what that means, anymore.”
August remained composed, although he radiated tension. “Don’t punish Zelda for my crimes.”
Releasing the safety with a soft click, Alex smiled again. “Oh, no,” he cooed. “It’s you I want.”
“You’re not aiming that gun at me, Alex,” August replied. “You’re aiming it at everything you feel you’ve lost. But killing me won’t bring any of it back.” Drawing a deep breath, he studied her friend for what seemed like an endless moment. “I can’t help what I am, but you still have a choice. Don’t become the very thing you despise, just to prove a point.”
“I came here for one last chance.” Alex’s voice broke on the words, tears welling in his eyes. “One last shot at making sense of all this. But now I see there’s nothing left. You’ve taken everything from me, you deranged war criminal, and there’s no going back.” He raised the gun and, this close, Zelda could see straight down the pistol’s barrel. “Do you even understand what you’ve destroyed? Not just for me but for everyone in Massachusetts? Everything we were supposed to fight for is gone! You turned us into monsters—and now you get to walk away? I don’t think so.”
The door behind Zelda slid open with a quiet whoosh, a sound that barely registered over the pounding of her heart. Fred, ever the oblivious optimist, stepped out onto the porch, his brow furrowed in mild confusion. “Ho,” he began, his voice carrying that familiar tone of cheer, “what’s all this?” Fred’s eyes swept over the scene—the tension in Zelda’s stance, the wild, frenzied look in Alex’s eyes, the gun in his trembling hand—and understanding dawned in an instant. His jovial expression faltered, replaced by a flash of alarm, but it was too late.
Alex’s attention snapped to the newcomer, his finger twitching on the trigger. Time seemed to stretch, the air thick with anticipation. August’s hand moved almost imperceptibly, the gleam of metal catching the corner of Zelda’s eye as he drew his own weapon. A deafening crack split the night—two shots, impossibly close together, so close they almost became one. Zelda felt a warm rush of air whip past her cheek, and then….
Fred’s body jerked violently, the force of the impact tipping him backward. His arms flailed, grasping at nothing as his balance betrayed him, and he toppled like a felled tree. The back of his head struck the porch with a sickening thud, the sound reverberating in the sudden silence. For a heartbeat, he simply lay there, his eyes wide and unseeing, fixed on the stars that glittered coldly above. Zelda’s breath caught in her throat as she stared down at him, willing him to move, to blink, to breathe. But gradually, the awful truth settled over her like a shroud—Fred was gone.
Gretchen stumbled out onto the porch, her legs giving way as she dropped to her knees beside her father. The sight of him lying so still, so lifeless, was a blow she couldn’t comprehend. “Dad?” she whispered, her voice trembling with a hope she didn’t dare entertain. But there was no response, only the unyielding silence of the night. “Dad!” she screamed, shaking him as if her desperation alone could wake him. “Dad, please! What happened?”
Marie-France knelt beside her husband, her trembling hands finding his limp, unresponsive one. She clasped it tightly, her voice cracking as she whispered, “Fred, please…. Please, stay with me.” Tears streamed down her face, her grip on his hand tightening as though she could tether him to the world by sheer will. But his eyes remained fixed, distant.
John hovered nearby, his hands shaking as he tried to pull Gretchen away. “Gretchen, let me….” But she fought him off with a wild desperation, refusing to leave her father’s side. Her grief was raw and visceral, a force that pushed him back. He hesitated, torn between the need to take action and the helplessness that clearly gripped him. “I’ll call for help,” he mumbled, his voice tight.
Amidst the chaos, Alex lay sprawled on the steps, his hand still clutching the gun that’d sealed his fate. August approached cautiously, his eyes scanning Alex’s face for any flicker of life, any sign that the man he once knew still lingered in that broken shell. But there was nothing. No breath, no movement—just the empty vessel of a man who’d been consumed by his own demons. Resigned, August holstered his weapon, turning away from the body that had once been his enemy.
Her best friend was dead. The man she’d once shared secrets with, laughed with, trusted with her life—gone in an instant. And the one who’d ended that life was her husband, the man she’d once viewed with fear and resentment, the man she had come to love in ways she never imagined. Vengeance had brought more vengeance, a cycle as old as time, and she wondered if this war would ever truly end. Alex had become someone she didn’t recognize, but so had she. The mirror no longer reflected the idealistic woman who believed in clear lines between right and wrong. It showed someone who’d chosen survival, for herself and for her child. But survival demanded a toll, and she wasn’t sure if the price she’d paid was too high. Had she done the right thing?
Could anyone truly do the right thing in a world so broken?
August stared at her, waiting to see if she still wanted him. Did she? What was this really about for her? She loved him, yes, but he was a murderer. But in this world, weren’t they all, in one way or another? Her sister had nearly died because people like Alex saw themselves as heroes, convinced they were on the side of righteousness. At the end of the day, though, war was war, and violence was violence. There was no clean way to wage it, no honorable way to wound each other.
A person could do everything right, and still fail.
She couldn’t save the world—no one could. But she could save one person. And as she looked at August, alive and breathing, she knew that in the ashes of this nightmare, she was grateful that her person was still with her. Yet beneath that gratitude was something darker, a recognition that survival had twisted them both in ways neither could undo. War did funny things to people, forced them into choices they’d once abhorred. The good guys didn’t always win, and in a world like this, she weren’t obligated to die for a cause that wouldn’t remember her name. Making the world a better place meant starting at home, with what she could fix…who she could fix.
Somewhere in the distance, Gretchen was still demanding that her father wake up. Marie-France was sobbing, her wails cutting through the night like jagged glass. And then, faintly, Zelda heard the first of the sirens. The police were coming, she thought disjointedly. Someone must’ve called them. But the station was miles down the road and how long had she been standing here, frozen in place, as Fred’s life bled out onto the porch? Fred was dead, and in his death, there was a cynical reminder of how thin the line between life and death had become, how arbitrary survival was.
The cost of her survival was laid bare in the devastation around them. A good man had died, a family shattered…and in the midst of it all, she found herself unable to feel anything but a hollow, selfish relief that the man she loved was still alive. Was this what survival truly meant—being left to grapple with the bitter dregs of guilt and love, knowing that the scales would never balance?
She raised her hand the slightest fraction, a tentative, almost involuntary movement, as if she needed to prove to herself that she could still move, still reach out. The moment she did so, the dam broke. She was in her husband’s arms, clutching him with a desperation that belied the calmness of her earlier thoughts, as if by holding him close she could somehow keep the shadows at bay. “Zelda,” he murmured, but the words were less important than the way he held her, the way his heart beat steady and strong against her cheek, the way his breath moved in and out, a simple, vital rhythm that meant he was still here, still hers.
She pressed her face into his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne, the warmth of his body grounding her in a way nothing else could. “You’re alright,” she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of everything unspoken. “Tell me you’re alright.”
He stroked her hair with slow, deliberate movements, each touch an unspoken reassurance as the sirens grew louder, their wail merging with the sobs and screams that filled the night. “I’m fine.”