They were watched from two small towers, on either side of the gate, by a handful of guardsmen. Grade supposed they were guardsmen, but beneath their broad hoods and patchwork raiment of plastic sheeting, they could just as easily be guardswomen.

“Do you ever get used to it?” the boy asked. Grade understood the question, and raised his gaze to meet that of the nearest guard. The man’s hands were wrapped tight around a spear, his fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm. The guardsman held his gaze for a moment, before shifting his weight to spit over the edge of the watchtower.

“No, I don’t suppose you do. But you learn to embrace it. Those stares are the only real protection we have.”

“Well… those stares, and your gun.” The boy beamed as he said the word.

Loud curses and grunts sounded from the tower to their left, and with a shudder, the gate began to swing apart.

“Faster,” the boy called out, “you’ve made us wait long enough.”

When the gap had widened they saw a group of people waiting for them on the other side of the fence. The band was lead by a large, stout man, with a shaved head and a jet black beard, and forearms as thick as any he’d ever seen. He was unarmed, yet standing in the centre of the footway, the rain splashing off his head and pouring from the coarse tangles of his beard, he looked more fierce and dangerous than the rest of his party combined, armed as they were with spears and clubs and crude wooden shivs. The boy went to take a step forward, but Grade blocked his path with his staff.

“We wait.” he said.

After a moment, the man at the head of the party walked out to meet them. He stopped a full ten feet short of Grade and the boy, meeting the eyes of each in turn.

“I’ll suppose you’re here about the priest.” the man said. “You’d best come in.”

Once again, the boy went to walk towards the gate, but Grade left his staff planted firmly in the mud at the boy’s feet.

“You’re Benero.” Grade said. The man tensed at the sound of his name, but quickly mastered himself.

“Aye, Benero. I’ll suppose the priest told you that. And that there’s Pike, and Cerdyn and Clare. The littleun’s Green and the tallun’s Ashton. We’ve nought to hide from you here, much less our names. So if it please you, I’d like to get inside.”

As they walked through the settlement, the boy was bubbling over with enthusiasm.

“You scared him, I could see it in his eyes, a man as big as him, and he was scared! How did you do that? With just his name…” The boy hesitated for a second, before sidling closer to Grade and lowering his voice. “Did you use… your magic?”

Grade stopped dead in his tracks, turning to face the boy with a suddenness that made him yelp in surprise.

“If I ever hear you say that word again, I’ll build a pyre, right here, in the centre of the street. I’ll tie you to it with thick, heavy rope, and light the greenfire under your feet to make an offering of you.”

Colour drained from the boy’s face, and all he could muster in response was a slow, shuddering shake of the head. Grade continued down the footway, and the boy fell in close beside him. Grade took no pleasure in scaring him so, but it wouldn’t do for any of the passersby to overhear talk of magic.

They were made welcome in a shallow cavern that had been fronted with a huge lean-to of wooden planks and rusted metal sheeting. Grade made note of the presence of guards, the two men Benero had called Cerdyn and Pike, standing sentry even here, safe within the perimeter of the settlement. The cavern was well-lit within, and rows of benches had been arranged in front of a low platform. Already, a small crowd was seated and waiting their arrival. Benero walked up to Grade and the boy.

“After the priest disappeared, we knew it was only a matter o’time until one of you turned up to investigate. Only thing is, we didn’t know exactly when that might be. We put aside a few cuts o’meat and fish, even some ale, but it’ll take a few moments to get everythin’ ready for you.”

Grade had disliked the guards, and disliked the crowd of settlers, but the way in which Benero was conducting himself now escalated his concerns. Green priests were always met with suspicion and fear. Grade needed that distance to conduct his work, but in a single, well-meaning gesture, Benero had lowered the priest to the status of the townfolk. It may have been a simple oversight on Benero’s part – but Grade didn’t think so. The settlement looked nothing like the disorganised, fragmented community Rais had described in the reports he’d radio into the priests every seven days. Could Rais have underestimated them?

“Fitting fare for a gathering of settlers, no doubt, but I fear you’ve wasted your time. Priests of the Green need no sustenance but the rain. Your own priest should have made that clear to you. Show me to where he lived, and I’ll leave you to your meal.”

The boy’s disappointment was apparent, but Benero seemed unsurprised by Grade’s response, and didn’t even try to dissuade him from leaving.

“Oh Rais, made that clear, he did.” Now it was Grade’s turn to falter. Benero noticed his hesitation, and seized upon it.

“Oh, you’ll execuse me using his name, I hope. I know we commonfolk aren’t meant to know the priests’ names. Only Rais – there I go again – made himself a real part of this community.”

They exited the cavern in silence, and as they stepped out into the rain, the two guards that had been posted outside fell in behind them. Grade’s hand slipped, almost sub-consciously, down to the pistol holstered at his side.

Benero troubled Grade. The settlements were expressly forbidden from raising one of their own to any position of formal leadership, instead bound to rely on the guidance of the priests. But with Rais vanished, it had left a power vacuum that Benero had filled, albeit in a subtle, hard to define way. Even with the guards beside him, Grade wasn’t worried about the possibility of open conflict – he was the veteran of a dozen fights, and he’d won each with increasing surety – but Benero struck him as clever, too clever by half.

They walked past the centre of the settlement, with its run-down shacks and thick tarpaulins sheltering the entrances, and turned from the main footway. Here, fewer trees had been felled, and the tangle of branches and thickets helped reassure him. As they disappeared under the canopy, Grade readied himself to ask Benero about the disappearance – but again, Benero was a step ahead, venturing the answer before it had even been asked.

“Nothing suspicious to it, far as we can tell.” The rain drummed on the thick canopy above them. “He told us he was moving on. We didn’t think to ask him his business because, well, a priest’s business is his own. But I will say we miss his guidance.”

It wasn’t unheard of, Grade knew. Priests were regularly transferred between settlements, others brought back into the Green Camp. Grade didn’t have perfect knowledge of every settlement, and every priest, but he knew enough to know that Rais hadn’t been acting on orders. That left the possibility of defection – occasionally, priests would get the fanciful idea that they’d be better off without their brothers and sisters, and strike out on their own – or the possibility of death. Grade hadn’t know Rais very well, but the little he’d gleamed of the man through his reports was enough for him to wish that he’d been murdered. No matter how brutal his death, it would have been a blessing compared to the end he’d suffer at the hands of Priest Hunters.

“When did he leave?”

“Eighteen nights back. He packed up his things, said a quiet farewell to a few of us, and slipped out into the dark.”

Rais had missed two reports, and it had taken Grade and the boy four days to make the settlement. The timelines fitted, and it wouldn’t have been the first time a missing priest had simply wandered out into the wilderness. But there was something sinister to Benero. He’d been able to pre-empt their arrival, and even their line of questioning. Grade started to question where Rais’ loyalties had lain.

“Well, this here’s where Rais rested his head. I don’t suppose you’ll want us three gettin’ in the way o’ your investigations, so we’ll leave you to it.” Benero raised a broad smile.

“There’s rain enough for the both of you to eat and drink, but should you want some salted pike with wild garlic, come back on over to the cavern.”

When they were alone, the boy spoke.

“Couldn’t we have joined them,? At the meal, I mean. Just for a moment.”

“No, and you know exactly why.”

“You needn’t have eaten. But I could’ve. I’m not a Green Priest, not yet. They can see me eat.”

“It’s a slippery slope, and I’d wager they’ve already had Rais break bread with them. The damned fool, what was he thinking?”

“You could sit with Benero, keep an eye on him. I don’t trust him.” The boy’s gaze explored the room. “What do you think happened to Rais?”

“I hope he’s dead. If he isn’t… I have a feeling that Benero and his men know more about us than they have any right to. If Rais colluded with them…”

“We’re dead.”

Grade let the boy’s words hang in the air, before squeezing his shoulder.

“No. If Rais told them about us, about our order… then they’re the ones that won’t see another morning.”

Grade’s thick jacket had all manner of pouches and compartments sewn into it, and from these he produced two small bars of dark, rich-smelling food. He threw one to the boy.

“It’s no pike, but it’s still food.” The boy pulled a face, but ate the bar all the same.

Rais’ house had been built by the priests, and it shared the same characteristic hiding places as every other priesthole. He set to searching for anything Rais had left behind, while he left the boy to prepare for the night ahead., unpacking their thin bedrolls from the pack the boy carried with him, setting a fire and drying their clothes. Grade checked every beam and board, but turned up nothing. Rais’ food, his powders and potions, even his radio. All were gone. Grade found himself feeling thankful that priests of Rais’ rank weren’t issued pistols.

“Nothing. Either Rais really did clear out of here, or else Benero and his boys have scoured this place from ceiling to floor.

The boy looked up from unrolling his bedroll. “What about outside?”

“Outside?” the constant rains and sodden earth made it near-impossible to store anything outside, but if Rais had considered himself in danger, he may have tried it. Grade reached into his jacket and pulled out a small metallic tube. He offered it to the boy.

“Do you know how to use this?”

The boy’s mouth broadened into a smile. “Yes! Or at least… I think I do. I mean, are you sure? I’m not supposed to…”

“I’m sure. Just tonight. I have a bad feeling about Benero and I don’t wish to linger here any longer than necessary. Take that and search outside.”

The boy fumbled with the tube, sliding his hands over it until it eventually clicked, and a beam of red light shone from one end. The boy let out a stunned laugh as it did, before running gleefully out into the wet night.

Grade went to resume the boy’s chores, lighting the fire in the narrow stone chimney with a handful of dark powder and his flint and steel. The fire instantly roared into life, great green flames licking up the sides of the chimney, invigorated by the splashes of rain that made it down the flue.

It was then he heard a muffled voice. Grade whirled to face the source of the sound, drawing his pistol as he did. The voice spoke again, this time seeming to come from behind him. As he turned to face the opposite wall, realisation dawned on him. He replaced the pistol in its holster, and reached into the depths of his jacket. It was his radio, crackling to life for the first time in eighteen days, for the first time since Rais had disappeared.

“Grade, come in. Grade, come in.” the radio repeated. The voice sounded familiar, like a strange distortion of the missing priest.

“Rais, is that you?” The radio crackled.

“Oh no, I told you, Rais just up-and-left. It’s just me, Benero.” The voice lost Rais’ familiar lilt as it carried on. “Turns out, we found a few’a Rais’ things, stashed away. This radio included. More fool me, it had slipped my mind entirely. You’re welcome to ’em, of course. Rightly yours, even if Rais’ left them with us. We’ve left them for you in the main hall. There’s even some pike left for the boy… and for you, if you’re feeling hungry.”

The radio clicked off, just as the boy burst through the door, the red light from his torch bouncing all over the room.

“I found this. There’s wild garlic, everywhere, but I found a patch of bare earth. The soil was loose, and there was this, just under the surface.”

The boy handed Grade a small plastic bag, no bigger than a leaf. Inside of it was a torn scrap of paper, the same paper the priests used for their writings. The note was short and scrawled, and said only two words: “They know.”

“I’m scared.” the boy said. Grade knelt in front of him, and put a hand on each shoulder.

“When a priest takes his vows, he denounces fear. He rises above it, and becomes more than lesser men. He arms himself with pistol and powder. He arms himself with magic. No man can touch him. Don’t feel fear. Feel sadness. These men needn’t have died, but they have chosen it for themselves.”

Grade rose to his feet. He reached into his jacket, and produced a dozen bundles of powder, handing them to the boy.

“Now remember your teaching.”

A fierce wind whipped the rain into a frenzy as they made their way back towards the hall, and the clouds were so thick that no hint of starlight was visible. Both Grade and the boy were cautious, assessing every shadow and flicker of movement with practised eyes, but they reached the main cavern unaccosted. From inside, they could hear sounds of laughter, raucous calls echoing across the stony walls. A single figure stood guard, someone they didn’t recognise.

“Benero is inside. Go ahead.”

The man’s voice wavered as he spoke, just slightly. As Grade and the boy drew level with him, Grade paused and looked him in the eyes. He held his stare for the briefest of moments, before casting his glance down towards his feet.

The main cavern was packed with people, and Grade was little surprised to see that almost all of them were armed. As they pressed further into the throng, a group of men moved into position behind them, closing their retreat. From the corner of his vision, Grade could see the boy’s hand shaking. Benero was on the dais at the back of the cavern, and as Grade drew closer, the crowd hushed to silence.

“At last, the priest has come to join in our revels. I told you he couldn’t resist the salt-crusted pike.” A ripple of laughter passed through the crowd. “Rais so loved our cooking. He was hesitant at first, but we were just so accommodating. He developed quite a taste for it, by the time he left. That, and our ale.”

As Benero talked, Grade could sense the surrounding press of men draw closer, inch by inch.

“He was a dear friend to our community, and sorely missed. He helped us channel the water away from this cavern, stopped it flooding it every few weeks. He helped us grow crops, even in the marshland on the outskirts of the town. And he told us wondrous stories of faith and fervour, of the power and piety of the Green Priests. ” Benero pulled out Rais’ radio transmitter and held it up for the crowd to see. “He taught us much and more of your order. But there’s one thing I couldn’t believe, no matter how many times I heard him say it. Your… gun, he called it.”

Grade indulged the man’s curiosity, pulling out the pistol and leveling it at his head. The crowd surged forward. but steadied themselves.

“Why, there it is. Rais would have us believe that that little trinket could take a man’s head, clean off… all you had to do was point it at him.” Benero lifted the radio transmitter, and with a single movement of his huge, powerful hands, crushed it into pieces.

“Well, it’s pointed at me now, and I don’t feel any different. If you’d be so kind, priest, I’d like to inspect that for my-”

A gunshot echoed through the cavern and Benero’s head exploded into a pulp of viscera. At the same instant, the boy threw handfuls of the paper parcels at the feet of the crowd, sending green flames roaring into the press of people.

Time seemed to slow for Grade. With each squeeze of the trigger another fell, the cavern growing quieter with each lost voice. When he ran out of ammunition, he pulled out his dagger, closing the distance between the panicked guardsmen before they could even raise their weapons to him. The boy was skirting through the panicked crowd, blinding the terrified onlookers with more bright flashes of green light.

Soon, the cavern had quieted to silence, and they found themselves alone.

Grade mounted the dais and pocketed the remnants of Rais’ radio, along with the small assortment of vials and powders he found on Benero’s person. When he turned, he saw the boy standing in the centre of the room, shaking violently.

“Do you still feel scared?” he asked the boy. He reluctantly met his gaze, and Grade could see the sweat dripping through his fine hair.

“Yes.” the boy answered.

“But why? They all died before they could so much as heft a spear at us.”

“It’s not them I’m scared of.”

Grade bent and took the remainder of his powder parcels from the boy’s pockets. Good, he thought to himself. We’ll make a priest out of you yet.

As they approached the entrance of the cavern, the sound of rain grew louder and louder, and they saw the lone guardsmen, still standing at the entrance, seemingly frozen in place. His eyes bulged wide as Grade and the boy approached, and seemed to grow wider still as they walked past him, into the sodden night.

“We can’t… are we just going to leave him? What if he… tells other people?”

“Let him tell the story. Did you see his eyes? ”

“I… suppose I did…”

Grade smiled at the boy.

“Remember what I said. That stare is the only real protection we have.”

Thoughts of netting one of the tiny fish and casting a baited line into the lake darted across her mind and were gone as quickly as the minnows when one tried to scoop them up.

Fishing was tightly regulated, and only a select few were given access to the lake for the purpose of catching fish.

But that was life at Lakewall, doing your job. When your job was done, the day was yours to do whatever you pleased. Usually that meant reading, or sitting by the lake, for Carrie at least.

Standing, she took a moment to brush the dirt from her pants, though the effort seemed somewhat futile. She didn’t think her clothes would ever be truly clean again. She missed clean clothes. She missed comfortable sweat pants, a large pizza and action flicks on Sunday evenings. She missed Tom.

Missing Tom always brought back memories, ugly, bloody memories of hiding in her apartment when the cutters came. Sad, heartbreaking memories when Tom had faced the cutters, defending her and his home. Violent, soul-crushing memories of Tom being cut down as she watched from her hiding place wedged into the cabinets under the sink. Stomach-churning memories of the cutters disemboweling Tom, cutting him to pieces and cooking him on a fire they made in a stock-pock on her kitchen floor.

Thomas Walingford Wanderpaw Michaels, the sweet, caring, daring German Shepherd she had rescued from the shelter when he was just a puppy. Tears began to burn her eyes and she sucked in a deep breath, blowing it out slowly, holding the water-works at bay. She had doted on the dog, and now he was gone. Carrie hated when someone suggested that he was “just a dog”. Tom had been her best friend.

Carrie turned in place, watching as the inhabitants of Lakewall went about their lives, envious of Drake Pillman as he rowed out toward the center of the lake and dropped his line into the water.

It was her day at the gutting station, to clean and gut whatever the fisherman or hunters brought in. Though she didn’t care for the job, it was better than washer-duty. Cleaning other people’s soiled, stinking, filthy clothes was far worse than tearing the guts out of a squirrel or deer.

The gutting station was kept at the far end of the longer section of the palisade wall, furthest from the main camp. The 150-yard-long section of wall stretched from the mid-point of the lake shore to butt up against a limestone rock outcrop that ran for several miles to the north.

The other section of wall began at the midpoint of the opposite side of the lake and ran to a sloping drop-off 65 yards from the edge of the water.

A single narrow gate on the long side, near the shore, was the only way in or out. Nothing wider than two people standing shoulder to shoulder could fit through the entry.

With the lake acting as a barrier to those wishing entrance into Lakewall, for good or ill, the split wall allowed residents direct access to the water and a more open view that helped to quell feelings of confinement.

The wind was coming from the northeast, and fine ash drifted down like bleak snow, covering everything in a powdery gray shroud.

Carrie hated the gritty, faintly slippery feel of the ash. It got into everything, and under her clothes it made her skin crawl unpleasantly. It clogged the sinuses and left a thin, bitter paste on teeth.

The ash was also a constant reminder that the city, even though it was almost 70 miles away, still burned. But it was only one of a number of cities that burned, along with large swaths of countryside.

Carrie walked up to the gutting station, took a deep breath and resigned herself to what she thought of as the pit-stink. It was a smell of fire and ash, of animal guts and unwashed people, and the dead bodies that had been piled up far outside the wall and burned.

“Hi, Devlin. How’s it look today?”

The thin, sweating man looked up from the cutting table and grinned. “It looks like a heaping pile of guts, girl. Hunters’ve been busy. Got another deer, four squirrels, three rabbits and a pheasant. Can you believe it? A pheasant, for cryin’ out loud.” Devlin tossed his head, throwing a long tangle of sweat-dripping hair out of his face, only to have it slide right back to the same place.

“Wow, they have been busy. They’re gonna hunt those woods clean if they keep it up.”

“Probably 700 acres of woods back there,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the woodlands that made up the back side of Lakewall, “I wouldn’t worry too much.”

Carrie glanced at the five-gallon buckets situated on either side of Devlin’s feet, one for offal, the other for trash to be carried outside and burned. A bowl was kept to the side for any trimmings that could be used as bait.

“Lots of mouths to feed around here,” Devlin said.

“Just over forty people now, I think.”

“And every one of them working hard to keep this place safe and operating smoothly. Burns through a lot of calories.”

“Hey, did you hear that Gordlick is working on making a mounted arrow throwing thing for the wall? I can’t remember what he called it.”

“Ballista?”

“Yes, that’s it!”

“He’s pretty crafty. Lucky that one came early.”

Carrie nodded in agreement. “The wall was half-way done when I showed up. He and the others made quick work of it.”

Devlin finished stripping the skin and fur from the rabbit he was working on, setting the carcass on the pile next to him on the long table. He laid the pelt out carefully.

Carrie said, “Rich is gonna be busy, too. He’s back in the woods, building another mud-brick hut.”

Devlin grunted with disapproval. “He’s not making survival videos for the internet now. Those huts are nice and all, but these things won’t wait. He needs to start showing some others how to tan hides.”

Devlin stepped back from the table, stretched and pulled off the handmade leather apron the gutters used, passing it to Carrie over the table full of animal carcasses.

“Gee, thanks, Dev,” Carrie said with a smile, “just what I wanted.” She slipped the strap over her head and tied the thong around her waist.

“I’ll take the offal to Dan and Nancy for the stew-pot. Shouldn’t be anything else today, other than what’s left there.”

“I saw Pillman rowing out. He might have something later.

Devlin nodded as he scooped up the offal bucket. “If he does, he does.”

Carried reached beneath the table and pulled out a clean bucket for the offal she would collect, though it wouldn’t amount to much.

“Ok, girl, you don’t have too much…”

The clang and peal of a bell cut Devlin off, and his mouth snapped shut, his head whipping around to look in the direction of the gate. ClangClang-Clang.

“All hands. People approaching,” Carrie said, recognizing the sequence. Her eyes grew wide, fear creasing the ash clinging to her face.

The last time the bell had rung that pattern fourteen attackers and three people inside Lakewall had died.

Carrie reached beneath the cutting-table and slipped a pump shotgun from where it always hung on old bicycle hooks. She stepped around the table and stopped, turning back to grab the heavy cleaver they used for breaking down deer and the rare pig.

She slipped the handle of the cleaver into the leather thong tied around her waist and turned back toward the wall, now moving with a purpose.

After eight months of living in Lakewall, Carrie knew one thing for sure.

Sometimes, wildlife wasn’t the only thing you had to gut to stay alive.

You won’t see any signs about autophagy at the zoo. Believe me, I’ve searched. I’ve read every sign there is to read in this zoo, and I’m a third of the way through the big cat books in the gift shop. Boring as shit, animal books. The animal signs have much more interesting information. Facts like: wombats poop in cubes, a baby giraffe falls six feet to the ground when it is born, or a group of tigers is called an ambush. Most interesting of all is why there are dogs in the cheetah exhibit. No, they are not food. Cheetahs are often shy around humans, but can mimic the dogs’ behavior and become calmer as long as the dog is calm. Over the course of what I assume was years, these creatures formed a familial bond. Therefore, I kept both animals alive so the dog could help me hunt.

The other big cats only lasted a few weeks. I had to let them pass, for lack of utility to myself and lack of ability to kill them even if I wanted to. The elephant, on the other hand, I let die on purpose. Anyone who thinks I’m going to keep an elephant fed when I can hardly feed myself is dumber than a lemming, who jumps off cliffs and swims into the ocean until it drowns simply because it’s following the leader. Besides, the elephants have the largest area, most of which could be used for planting edible veg. Now most of that land belongs to James, who asked to take charge of the Animals of Africa exhibit. Not smart of him to request it, as it is not well-protected in case of attack, but I wouldn’t argue. I took the aquarium. It’s more self-sustaining and the next best food source behind James’ elephant farm. He and I trade when he starts to get sick of rodent meat.

The one thing James and I truly agreed on was how we would handle a hostile invasion. If we were ever outnumbered by any unfriendlies, we would unleash all the deadliest animals on our enemies. For that reason, we gave some animals just enough food to stay alive and hungry. If we were invaded, James would run to the gorilla, hippopotamus and rhinoceros exhibits, while I’d be in charge of the cheetah and dog, along with the poisonous snakes and spiders. I can’t remember the name for fear of snakes, but James has it. I know fear of spiders is arachnophobia, and even know fear sharks is called galeophobia, but can’t for the life of me remember fear of snakes. But our animals were our livelihood, and our most powerful weapons. If we couldn’t have the land, nobody could have the land.

James and I had a bit of a falling out three weeks in. He killed one of the flamingos for meat, since they were so comfortable around humans he didn’t need to hunt them. What he didn’t consider was the flamingo’s ability to fly. All he got was one, then the others disappeared with nothing left behind other than the pond of fish and shrimp in their exhibit. Since then, James and I have had a less symbiotic relationship. We were more of just…cohabitants. Like the tapir and the llama.

Until he became my prey.

I have since forgotten what exactly led to the argument. Chances are it had something to do with wanting more territory. In all fairness, he made some fair points. The majority of the land was considered to be mine, and we were so self-sustaining we could’ve brought in an entire family, only nobody ever came. My issue was trust. As much as I could use the help, I didn’t want the flamingo assassin accidentally polluting what little water we had on reserve.

This exchange metamorphized James from calm to killer. At first, I thought they were little more than juvenile pranks: trading with empty corn husks, poison ivy traps, all relatively harmless. I decided to retaliate when the pranks grew annoying. My goal was to nip it in the bud (just as he had done to prevent my azaleas from blooming) and come up with a prank severe enough to convince him he was messing with the wrong guy. One night, I stuck two glass cages full of the southern pacific and red diamond rattlesnakes in his sleeping quarters. He was never in any danger, the cages were sealed closed, but he couldn’t sleep for days due to fear I would do it again.

Ophidiophobia.

That’s the word for fear of snakes.

James’ insomnia may or may not have led to some delusional thoughts. I’m not a psychiatrist, but I believe some psychosis was a factor. Not unheard of, considering our being the only two human survivors we know of. Still, that does not excuse what he did.

I had just returned from my most successful hunting trip with my dog. We got two turkeys, so big I couldn’t carry both by myself. Upon arrival at the zoo, I was making my way past the cheetah exhibit to tell James the good news when I heard whimpering from behind me. I figured it was just my dog greeting the cheetah, until the whimpers evolved into yelping sobs. The dog was howling in terror by the time I had returned to the cheetah exhibit to see the cheetah motionless on the ground with blood leaking from its belly. I immediately knew what James had done.

Crossed the line.

As I stormed to Africa, I lost track of whether the dog was growling, or if I was just hearing myself. I blacked out between the walk up to the former giraffe exhibit and locking broken-nosed, busted-lipped James in the cheetah cage. Not the cheetah exhibit…the cheetah cage. Where they can only walk in small circles. Where they can only stay for eight hours or their sanity is sacrificed. An eighth the size of a prison cell, meanwhile a cheetah’s natural habitat can span over five-hundred square miles.

We never spoke. I didn’t, at least. He tried reasoning with me, but I was deaf as a squid. I only stared, contemplating what my next action would be. Should I let the rattlesnakes have him? Should I let the dog have the revenge it deserved? Should I lock myself in the cage with a knife until only one of us walked out? In the end, no death was worthy. So, I did nothing.

A human can live twenty-one days without food.

James survived for eighteen.

He didn’t need to watch. The thick slopes of the valley were impassable even in dry weather, and the months of rain had washed away any trace of footpath or foothold, choked up the clearings with thick tangles of leaves. The rivers that fed the lake had become swollen rapids, more impassable with each rotten, swollen bough that clogged their waterways. The mouth of the valley was the only way in or out. But still, he didn’t have to watch. It didn’t matter that they were hidden, because no-one would ever come looking. His rifle sat by his side, untouched. He didn’t need to watch, but sometimes, he liked to remind himself that they were alone, and safe. That they were gone. That everyone was gone.

He picked up his rifle and emerged from the hide. The rain cascaded off his jacket. His tight, aching legs soon loosened as he walked. He pulled his cap off and tucked it into a back pocket, turning his face to the sky. He felt the cold rain on his head, pouring down past his ears and stinging his eyes. He opened his mouth, wide as he could, and laughed through the rainwater. He walked, eventually turning away from the narrow clearing and into the trees, brushing past wet ferns and tall grasses. The sound of the rain changed here, the drumming of a million raindrops dashing themselves against the leaves above. He walked deeper and deeper into the forest, navigating an unseen path past mossy rocks and small streams, towards the cabin. As he walked, he sang, a low, throbbing tune, resonant and primal. There were words to his song, but what did they matter? There was no-one else to hear them. The bass of his voice seemed to harmonise with the flat, hollow patter of the rain.

When he reached the cabin she was sitting at the window, just where he’d left her. She was staring out onto the lake, a thousand ripples and splashes vying for her attention, the only attention in the world. She didn’t move as he drew into sight, her eyes locked to the water, failing to even change focus. He climbed up creaking steps onto the porch and opened the heavy outer door. He unlaced his boots and hung up his jacket, leaving his cap to dry on the sill. Inside the cabin, he placed the rifle back in its locker. He stood at the entrance to the lounge and watched her for a moment. She sat on the window seat, her legs folded up beneath her in a way he couldn’t imagine ever being able to imitate. She was wearing the pyjama top he’d bought her, years past. It had been a Christmas present. He watched her, and he hoped. He walked to the window and stood beside her, placing a hand softly on her shoulder. He followed her gaze, out onto the lake.

“It’s beautiful on days like this.” he said.

“Beautiful.” she agreed.

It had rained like this on their wedding day. The morning had been gorgeous, warm and golden, but the evening had turned to storm, heavy clouds settling over the church. They’d said their vows to the sound of raindrops on stained glass, echoing through the old building. They’d walked from the church to the reception, alone, sheltered under an umbrella, and he’d apologised for the rain, for the clouds, for it not being the day she’d dreamed of. She’d tucked herself under his arm and laughed. She’d said “I’m with you. This is everything I’ve ever wanted”, and he’d believed her.

It was cool in the cabin, the morning’s fire nothing but embers. There was a time when they’d tried to keep the fire burning all day round, to stave off the chill of the valley’s fog, but now, each morning, he’d come back to glowing ashes. They’d always joked that she was cold blooded, that she needed to bathe in the sun each day just to function, but now she sat in the cool air wearing thin night clothes.

“I’ll make us something special for dinner” he said, “I haven’t checked the traps today. There might be some rabbit. I think I saw some wild garlic starting to flower. Remember those beautiful white flowers?”

She seemed to brighten as he spoke, her attention phasing back into the room, the lake losing its hold over her.

“A whole sea of them. We were on holiday somewhere. Where was that?”

“Monmouth, I think. Or near.”

“Symonds Yat.”

“Exactly right.”

He squeezed her shoulder.

“I’ll make something special. I won’t be long.” He put on his coat, his boots, his hat, but he left the rifle in its locker. He stepped out into the rain, and turned to head back into the trees. He looked over his shoulder as he walked, and saw her there, staring out at the lake again. He knew there was hope still. There was always hope. He walked deep into the shade of the woods, and as he pulled wild garlic from the soft, sodden earth, he knew he’d make her understand.

I have slept in this place with you all for weeks, we have become close – may I suggest family? With hands intertwined, we travel as one to a better place. We will ascend together. I won’t let your hand leave mine.

Before coming to this congregation, I was no more than one of you. I was ordained just before I came here, I had my first sermon here. I will have my last sermon here. My last life ended when I walked through those doors. Together, we became one congregation. We could never be apart. It was where we began this community, and it is where we shall go into the light, hand in hand. As one, we were promised so much – we were chosen by our Lord to shepherd his coming. We have been forsaken.
Do any of you recall the night we spent on the grass, standing among the headstones? Next to the generations before us, we became the last of our lines to walk the earth. I could feel the tremble of the hooves on the dirt before I saw them, clouds of dust hazing my view. The ground quaked under my soles, and I had to use you all for balance, for fear of falling under their canter. The horsemen have come.

We watched as a white horse rode past us; if horses had fire flaming from their nostrils. A beast on his back – I cannot call what I saw a person; its skin was falling off in places, scarred and puckered from sickness, wielding a bow and arrow. We watched as a crown landed on his head. It was spiked, and cut into its forehead. Blood, as black as its heart, trickled down its face and into its eyes and mouth. Its hair billowed like Christ, I could see the sky through the holes in its hands. He was an exact replica for the Lord, yet we knew it to be the imposter. It laughed as it cantered past. Disease started with small pox marks on the face, the arms, the legs. It turned the skin black. People began to smell like rot, you and I included; noses became desensitised to the smell, some of them even fell off. Our hair fell from our heads, taking the skin with it, leaving welts on the skull. They wept yellow, dripping into the eyes. Many became blind. They did not have to see their sister’s face cascade from her skull.

After him followed a red mare. It’s mane ablaze and steam emitting from her skin, her rider wielding a sword akin to that of a soldier. The rider’s hair was the colour of lava, hot and red against her dark skin; she looked burnt from the heat of her horse. Muscular beyond all belief, she could have crushed me with one finger. Her cry filled our hearts with fear, causing us to fight amongst one another. Was she screaming from her pain or ours? Her sword, almost like Excalibur, stabbed my brothers and sisters where they stood, piercing them from front to back. Each fell on their faces as she pulled her sword back. She had bested us that day. How long had she been carrying this weapon, in order to slay humanity.

A black steed strode past us; an old man, probably the same age as my Grandfather, with scales in his hand rode upon it’s back. Double the price of wheat, he cried out, triple the price of corn, starve them out of their homes! None of us got our breakfast that week, we couldn’t afford the weetabix. He brought a famine the likes of which we had never seen. Crops burnt from the inside out, rotting from the roots; potatoes oozed and strawberries exploded. Slowly we were starved; it killed our mothers, fathers, grandparents and children. Headstones popped up in every churchyard. The black steed reared above every new grave, taunting the dead. Malnourishment diminished us and forced every soul together. The dead turned to fresh meat. Who knew grandma was so tasty?

I watched, hand in hand with you, as a steed of skin and bone withered past us. I could almost touch it’s bony frame with my threadbare fingers. I could see through it’s papered skin, mottled grey. The sun showed it’s organs; small and broken, it should have been as dead as I felt. This horse’s rider had a wheeze I had never heard before, a rasping laugh and a hacking cough all rolled into one. His finger gently caressed our friends, and each of them fell. They had survived so long, and deserved so much more. Bested by the gentlest of touches from Death himself. Bones became the new gravel beneath our feet, innards spreading down the street like rivers. Mass graves opened up on the commons, where my own daughter is now buried. We had just run out of space and energy to hold more funerals. I hope that she’s enjoying the afterlife… that she’s waiting for me on the other side.

As one we go into the night, whilst day shines brighter than ever. My friends, my family, my people; wherever we go, we will be going together. Hand in hand, arm in arm.  Our love for each other will be the last words to leave our parched lips.Our days shall never end when we are together in the promised land.

My dear friends, I fear we have been lied to. We are not the chosen ones that we were told we were. We have been abandoned. We are alone.

As one family, we will never be apart. I want you all to know that I loved every single one of you like a brother, like a sister, like a friend. My love for you will never waver. We may never go to heaven. Perhaps we’re already here. It is now midnight.

God is dead.