Next, I harness my desire to see ghastly ink made manifest. My blood goes cold. Shivering, I watch the drawing slowly morph from a crude simulacrum to that of an actual rabbit. It takes on fur the drab tone of concrete, all the better to camouflage itself. A nose, whiskers, and all other aspects of a rabbit bleed forth from the wall. With a wet slap, the fully formed creature falls limp to the ground.
I do the best I can to still my chattering teeth as chills cascade through my bones. It will take rest and replenishing my spent blood before the hollowness associated with summoning fades. Before I feel fully human again.
Rousing itself, the rabbit’s bloodshot eyes flick toward me, whiskers twitching. Doing my best to fight back the fatigue setting in, I press myself further into the shadows, sitting, then enact what I’ve come to call bloodsight.
Closing my eyes, I see through the same crimson lenses as that of the rabbit, eyes flitting from one point of interest to the next in rapid succession. Disjointed from my human body, I’m at my most vulnerable in this state, but I need to scout ahead. I compel the rabbit to leave the shadows of the stairwell, and it—we—reach the final stair to investigate.
The three men below are a motley assortment, their civilian clothes having been augmented by military gear, Kevlar vests, and Kalashnikovs. Conscripted men out for a night’s patrol now concluded. They’ve set up lanterns that cast scarlet light across the materials stacked in the lobby. Through our enhanced senses, we smell homegrown tobacco burning, a prized commodity during deprived times such as these.
Through the veil of bloodsight, we see more liquid in a bottle being passed from one man to the next. The three of them have made impromptu seats out of the somewhat malleable concrete sacks near the entrance where the bloody tripwire was triggered, something they seem oblivious to. Each one rests his Kalashnikov near their abrasive couch. We were right to leave. These men aren’t going anywhere.
Our next move is to make our way into the middle of the soldiers, oblivious and tempting. I will us forward, then exit bloodsight.
Like a forlorn lover, the cold welcomes me back into her heart-stopping embrace. Teeth clacking together, fingers and toes numb, I fumble with my more mediocre human senses to see the larger picture. The moment to move.
Peeking around the stairs sheltering me, I watch the rabbit come to a stop amidst the soldiers who seem too far gone in drink to notice their furry intruder. It takes a moment before one of the men is startled out of banal conversation and points at my creation. Just as the men rise and stumble toward it, I compel my charge to leap away from the entrance and into the shadows.
Hunger: that which galvanizes.
Grabbing their rifles, the men give chase. I vault down the flight of stairs toward the entrance, but my numbed limbs betray me as I knock over a spent bottle of vodka on the ground. A voice calls after me from the darkness. I shove my hand into my pocket, grabbing a handful of grisly iron.
Making it to the entrance of the building, I spin just in time to see one of the soldiers emerge from the shadows, fumbling with the safety on his weapon.
I hurl the nails, compelling them forward at speed, gasping as the sudden resistance tears two of my fingernails off. Many of the nails sink ineffectively into the soldier’s vest, but some pierce the man’s unprotected arms, neck, and face. He falls to the ground shrieking.
Bursting forth from the apartment high-rise, I lift one shoe, hurriedly smearing the sole with blood, then do the same to the other. Sprinting once more, I compel my blood toward the ground with each step.
I hurl myself into the coming dawn.
Home. Safe.
A proclamation more to myself than to claim any sort of truth.
Looking left and right, the floor my apartment is on mirrors that of the abandoned complex in its eerie calm. The sun had risen just as I made it home; the streets having become a shooting gallery once more.
A disjointed part of me seems to snap back into place; the bloody rabbit having dried up and vanished, it’s spent vitality returning to me once more. I still don’t know how to dismiss the things I summon, but I’m sure this war will give me plenty of opportunities to practice.
Producing my keys, I make extra noise so as not to startle Katya. She typically doesn’t sleep when I’m out scavenging.
The key eases itself into the lock, twists, and is removed in a brisk movement. I push open the door, feeling one end of the tripwire come loose. The attached blood is nearly dry however, so I hardly feel the typical itch cascade through my veins. Once inside, the smell of an unwashed body greets me. Cloying, sour. I would open a window to air the place out, but they’re already boarded up with precious wood, and Katya cannot stand the door being open for more than a few moments at a time.
I shut the door with a click and go to one knee. Lifting the sleeve of my jacket and sweater, I see there’s still enough fresh blood on my forearm. Repeating my last ritual for the day, I reattach and smear fresh blood across the thin, corded string. Fatigued as I am, the sensation is nauseating, but I’ve survived on ritual, and so it shall remain.
Rising, I unsling my pack and ease it to the ground so as not to disturb Katya. If she hasn’t come to see me by now, it means she’s asleep. It’s the most calorically efficient way to pass the time, and to disregard the fiend always gnawing at our insides.
Walking into the small living room, Katya rests on my small couch beneath a few blankets, greasy hair covering a dirty face. Her breathing is soft, from the belly. Despite my own fatigue, I sit on the coffee table across from her. The furniture creaks as my weight settles but, for a few quiet moments, I simply look at the young woman. What she represents; the resources she consumes.
Liev was a small dog. A small dog for a small apartment. His meat, coupled with what little canned goods and dried fruit we have left, leaves me concerned.
It has been five days since we ate bread. Three since we drank clear water.
I could go back to the old home I found the other night. It’s quiet, removed. There’s even a garden with some salvageable vegetables. It’s far from the main roads and patrols—secluded, remote. Somewhere I could be alone. Could hole up. Stock what little I have left and outlive this war, if possible.
I shake my head, knowing I couldn’t live with myself if I did that. There may be a war going on, I may not fully grasp what I am but, on some level, I know I’m still human; I’d rather die than abandon the girl breathing softly on my couch.
The rhythmic dripping of my blood onto the carpet drags me back to the here and now. My sleeve is still up. I need to disinfect and bandage my self-inflicted wounds.
Were it not for Katya, I’d likely have died from an infection that had set in shortly after she arrived. She’d seen to the lacerations wrapped around my arms, using antibiotics she’d gotten ahold of before coming to my apartment. Katya never told me how she acquired something so valuable, and I never asked.
Katya doesn’t stir as I rise from the coffee table. I go to the medicine cabinet in my bathroom, sterilize and bandage my cuts using precious supplies, and do the same for the raw, infantile skin where two of my fingernails used to be.
I drag myself through exhaustion to my room and, aside from my jacket and shoes, I don’t bother undressing. I’ve nothing clean to change into, and I’ll simply put the same things on when I wake. Might as well preserve what little warmth I can from the moldering rags I call clothes.
I collapse into the oblivion of a rotting mattress, and stinking blankets.
No scavenging tomorrow night. I’ve not the blood for it.
Waking, I feel Katya’s meager weight at the edge of my mattress.
Prying open heavy eyelids, I look to the wall opposite my small, boarded-up window. Uneven shafts of light stretch themselves out after a long day, dusk already coming to replace dawn’s shift.
I make some waking up sounds, something to let Katya know I’m coming to. With the young woman, movements need to be a slow, steady thing. Nothing tha
t might startle her.
“You found wood,” she says. It’s not a question. She must have gone through my bag. No doubt the bloodstained planks have left her with more questions than answers but, by now, Katya has to know something about me is different. That’s fine. So long as she doesn’t tell anyone, that’s fine.
“Found wood,” I echo as I push myself up to sitting, peeling away sour smelling blankets. As per usual, Katya looks cloistered within herself. “Didn’t run into anyone. Quiet night.” I rub my eyes, exhaling through my nose.
She brushes some loose hair behind her ears. “We can cook tonight?”
“We can try.” I let the statement hang. What little there is of Liev will barely keep one person going, let alone two.
A writhing knot tightens in my guts. It’s not hunger, but certainly a friend of fear.
Perhaps I should go out tonight. But where to? What places haven’t been picked clean? What good are supplies we cannot eat?
My musings are interrupted by shivers up and down my spine; the normal kind of cold this time. The creeping cold of night riding upon the coattails of dusk. What little warmth the apartment provides during the day now cringes beneath the season’s weight.
I stand, unsteadily, put on my worn out sneakers, and grab my jacket which I dumped on the floor before falling asleep. I put it on, ignoring the stiffer bits of material where my blood has stained the inner sleeves. I feel for and confirm that my knife is still in the jacket pocket. I clench its cold, contoured handle as the knot inside me coils tighter.
I hear Katya rise and turn to face her. “You’re coming upstairs?”
She nods. I look at her; the thick sweater she has on will not do. “Put on your jacket. Hat too. This will take a while.”
The young woman nods and goes about layering herself up. It’s a matter of minutes before she too is dressed for the cold. Checking my pockets and pack once more, I confirm I have all I need to be successful tonight: my knife, the scrap wood, and hunger.
We leave the apartment.
The stairwell is pitch black. The railing, our only guide. It sings as cold hands glide along it. Katya’s never been up to the roof, so I count off the steps so she can memorize how many there are per floor. After two sets of stairs, I stop and hear that she’s got the hang of it.
I haven’t bothered to lay any traps here. The fear that Katya or someone else might stumble upon them is too great. I reach out to the tripwire inside my apartment and, sensing its moisture and coherence, am comforted to know no one has broken into my place since we left.
It takes a few more quiet minutes before we reach the door to the rooftop. I’m breathing heavily, the pack of wood weighing me down. Katya didn’t bother to help, but it sounds as though the stairs are effort enough for her.
The door handle is frigid to the touch. I twist it, gears protesting, and budge it open. An implacable wind spiced with autumn and decay whips at my face. The door groans the rest of the way open, and I step onto the rooftop, Katya right behind me.
The tarp I rigged across the ventilation shafts weeks ago shudders in the wind. What little water that has pooled in the plastic sheet will be collected tomorrow so that Katya and I might take succor in its tepid remains.
I do my best to ignore what lies beneath the tarp.
Leaving the stairwell, we head over to a corner where a small fire pit stands. While scavenging one night, I’d come across a barrel that was not so large as the ones the soldiers and rebels burn precious wood in to keep the cold at bay. It was a burdensome scavenging trip, but with the additions of a makeshift grill atop the barrel, Katya and I have enjoyed some cooked canned goods since the fire pit’s installation. It’s one of the few things I’m proud of doing since the war began.
The walls surrounding the rooftop are high, a few feet above even my average height, and I can just spy dusk lazily sinking beneath them. The windbreak at our chosen corner is a mild relief from the frigid gales buffeting the rooftop.
I lay my pack down, the knot inside of me constricting tighter and tighter with each breath.
It’s still beneath the tarp. I look away. Sniff. Look again. It—he—is still there. My little friend, wrapped in what few rags I could spare. Seeming to sense my dread, Katya takes my hand in her own. The wind conceals more sniffling before abating.
Liev was a small dog. I never liked small dogs, but my family had given him to me as a parting gift when I left for university. They knew how hard it was for me to connect with others, that I sometimes felt lonely around what few friends I did have. Lonely even amongst family.
Liev had nuzzled up to my more melancholic moments, his fur soaking up the tears without complaint. It was his simple, abiding love that nourished my starving soul. Something pure. Never questioning, and always available. A depressed man hates to admit a smile, but a pet seems to delight in eliciting them.
Rags beneath a tarp.
That coiling mass inside of me? It’s grief. I know that now, but acknowledgement only threatens to thrust that very grief to the surface.
I took Liev to the roof to avoid having to bury him. I simply couldn’t do it. At least, in the cold, his body would be better preserved. Part of me wished to keep my friend as whole as he deserved to be, but a darker part of my mind knew why I left him to Fall’s delayed decay. A practicality within myself I’ll never forgive.
Katya squeezes my hand. Eventually, I squeeze back and compose myself.
I ask her to start piling the wood. She nods, going to the pack and stacking the boards within the small fire pit.
Ginger steps take me to the tarp which hangs a few feet above Liev. I crouch beneath the plastic sheet, then sit before him. The small note pinned to the outermost rag whips in the wind. It contains the things I wish I’d said to Liev before he died on my mattress while I slept.
Hunger: the thief.
I take the note and unfold it, reading a few lines. The tears come unbidden and, amidst the clatter of stacking wood, I allow myself a moment to grieve. Grieve for my friend and my lacerated soul. The coiled mass inside me tightens, squeezing sorrow to the surface.
“I miss you so much,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry for what I have to do.”
Reverently, I scoop up the frail bundle, cradling it to my chest, my shoulders shaking uncontrollably.
A dirge joins the howling winds.
My steps are sluggish. I’m so very tired. Tired of surviving, and tired of war eroding what little morality I still possess. How much longer can I stay human through all of this?
Katya sits by the fire pit, head down. I lay Liev down and sit next to her. Neither of us speak for some time; the frigid winds elicit sniffles from us both now.
“He was a good boy?” she says.
I bite my lip, nodding. “Yes, Katya.” I shudder, breath becoming shallow. “He was a very good boy.”
I can’t think about it any longer. My hand goes to the knife in my jacket pocket. I kneel before the bundle, peeling the rags apart one at a time. My little friend’s burial shroud comes undone easily enough, revealing a small desiccated body. The cold has kept his body whole, but I moan at how still Liev is. He isn’t supposed to be so placid, like he’s merely sleeping.
The wind rustles small tufts of his fur.
I drop the blade, desperately petting the fur back into place. Petting the cold, lifeless body before me. The knot inside finally wrings all my anguish to the surface. I weep, rocking back and forth. I moan, resting my head against his stiff body.
Katya places a hand on my head, encouraging my tears as they moisten Liev’s fur one last time. She pets me as I pet my dear friend, whispering of better times to come, of how all things shall pass.
But I continue crying, knowing no amount of my blood will reanimate my friend.
Eventually, there are no more tears to shed, and the cold has finally begun to penetrate my senses. Sniffling, I fumble around, looking for my knife through teary eyes.
I look to Katya who is holdi
ng it, blade out. She looks at its edge as she speaks. “I spent my summers on a farm. With my grandparents.” She exhales, looking down at Liev, then at me. “I’ll do this, Pyotr. You cannot.” She slides closer to me, brushing an errant tear from my dirt-caked cheek. “Start the fire. We won’t be long.”
Katya pockets the knife before delicately wrapping Liev. Gently, she picks up my friend, and goes behind the stairwell. I watch the two of them disappear, still on my knees, exhausted.
I start a fire.
Samuel Hale
About the Author
Samuel Hale is the author of numerous short stories such as Krov and The Chain. Sam enjoys writing Historical Fantasy which utilizes his degrees in Anthropology and Education to bring history to life with intricate magic systems and hard-hitting action. When he isn’t writing about mechs and shieldwalls, Sam serves as an editor for the independent publisher Inked in Gray, as well as the host of the podcast Distropia where he and his co-host, Del Washington, examine tropes alongside various (un)related tangents. Sam thoroughly enjoys cats, tats, and yoga mats.
Ritual
By Ernest Solar
As the sunlight peeked through the trees and burned away the morning mist, a young man stood at the edge of the forest. His raven black hair hung past his shoulders and shaded much of his once striking face. The leather skins he wore were tattered, his chest bare. His torso was lithe and muscular like a mountain lion’s, but his height was deceptive. He leaned heavily against an oak staff that he had carved with great care. The knuckles on his hands burned white with strain as his green eyes peered into the village of his birth. His name would become Wuul.
Wuul watched his sister, Flower of the Morning Dew, emerge from the center hooghan, his parents’ dwelling. The smoke from the vent hole was white and thick. His parents were awake. Flower of the Morning Dew had completed her duties. Wuul watched his sister gracefully glide among the hooghans as if her feet never struck the ground. He admired and envied her muscular legs with each stride she took. He marveled at her lean form and long, dark hair as she smiled at a passing toddler.
The First Stain Page 2