by Garrett Kirby
Two small, horrendously gaunt forms waited with building anticipation as their father climbed the ancient, rusted ladder leading from the underground tunnels to the ruins above. Both of their mouths were twisted up into large, crooked grins which clearly showcased their avid excitement. When their father assured them it was safe to come up, the two instantly scurried after him.
Their names were Thak and Gron, and they were not of the desolate world above. In fact, until quite recently the two had not been permitted to so much as see the surface world, though they had been told a great deal of what awaited them by those much older and wiser than themselves. It was a strange, treacherous land of jagged terrain and desolate cities; a silent, haunted place where the winds wept of wrath and ruin.
Unfortunately, it was also the only place where their kind could hunt for food, and that made expeditions to the surface mandatory, even for those such as Thak and Gron, now that they had come of a decent age. However, they were still a great deal smaller than most of the other tunnel dwellers, and were not able to do much hunting of their own. But they could still be taught a thing or two in the meantime, and for now that was enough.
They exited just between two skeletal structures which provided cover from any watchful eyes. Much of their hunting depended on their ability to remain unseen, for most of the surface folk simply turned and ran at the sight of them. Well, perhaps not the young ones so much as their father, Mort, who was significantly more imposing with his massive size, and great, jagged claws. But the twins were likely to become just as mighty once they hit their growing period, if all went well.
The ashen land was silent around them, save for the occasional dejected groan of wind. They’d arrived just before nightfall, as their eyes were much more accustomed to darkness than light. Because of this, most of the surface folk had already turned in for the evening, though that didn’t stop travelers from wandering through this dilapidated city, usually in search of the nearest inn or way station.
Their father replaced the iron cover leading to the tunnels below, and began to navigate toward the main path, where they were most likely to find game. Thak and Gron followed without hesitation, eager not so much for the hunt as they were for the sightseeing. Yes, it was the same old sorry place full of partially-standing concrete structures which they had now seen several times over, but each outing nevertheless felt like a grand adventure compared to their life in the tunnels, and while their father had taught them a great deal about hunting the fleshy surface folk, he also did not try to discourage them from admiring the world they had been kept away from for so long.
The trio ducked in and out of cover as they went along their way, pausing often to ensure nobody was around to see them. The surface folk usually stuck to the main path, but Mort was meticulous in his approach, and constantly stressed the advantages of caution.
“Slow and steady, that’s how it’s done,” he had told them on their first outing, speaking in the chittering, almost insectile language of their kind. “If you’re impatient, you’ll likely scare off your next meal, or worse: attract unwanted attention.”
The children did not have to ask what their father had implied then. They knew quite well that he spoke of the Thunder Man, a cunning surface dweller who was known for hunting their kind, and named such for his strange staff which he carried with him wherever he went, a weapon said to harness the power of thunder itself.
For this reason, as they closed in on the main path crossing the city, it was perhaps unsurprising that the two boys nearly jumped out of their skins at the first of many harsh, crackling roars which echoed in the distance. Even their father was given brief pause by the sound.
After a moment of stunned silence, Thak said, “Was that him, Father? Was that the Thunder Man?”
“I don’t believe so,” Mort replied in a whisper. “Wait for me here, and don’t make a sound.”
He left them for a short time in what had once been a small corner store, and there the two young children huddled between a pair of empty shelves, concealed by a protective veil of shadows. When their father returned, he said, “Come quickly, children. There is something I’d like you to see.”
They followed him to the main path. It was an old, concrete road running just along the edge of a steep and jagged cliff overlooking a vast, barren desert of ash. This they had seen plenty of times before, but what they hadn’t seen was the strange phenomenon happening in the skies above the desert, for here there was a section of clouds which had changed from gray to a deep purple-black, which Thak thought looked eerily like some terrible bruise in the sky. He and his brother watched on, curiosity turning to astonishment as a single bright, emerald streak burst out of the strange clouds, stabbing harshly at the ground below. This bright flash initiated another deafening crack of thunder, which at once frightened and exalted the young creatures.
“A Witch Storm,” their father said. “A horrible thing to be caught in, but from a distance? A true sight to behold.”
“It’s amazing,” Gron said, and then winced as another wave of thunder rolled across the land.
“I’ve never seen anything like it, even in my dreams,” Thak added.
Their father stared down at those young, wide-eyed faces, and a crooked smile crossed his uneven face. “Perhaps the two of you could wait here and watch for a bit, while I go and finish hunting.”
Thak and Gron looked up at their father, clearly surprised by this. “But only if you promise to stay out of sight,” Mort added quickly.
“We can do that,” Thak said. “Right, Gron?”
Gron nodded. “Yes!”
Mort scanned the area, and spotted a small building just a short way off. It was hardly more than a pile of rubble, really, but what remained would provide plenty of cover from any passing surface folk. “That’s where you’re to go,” he said, pointing. “Stay inside, and await my return–and do this quietly.”
“Yes, father,” the boys said in unison.
Mort waited a bit while they set off, a smile on his face as he watched them go. It might have passed for a softening of his expression, were his face not a jagged and distorted mess of uneven flesh and protruding bone. Regardless, the elder creature easily remembered when he’d first laid his black, beady eyes upon a Witch’s Storm, so many years ago. Oh, how it had amazed his younger self! He knew he could not deprive the children of such wondrous sights, especially after they had been locked away for so long. He only regretted that he could not stay to cherish this moment with them. But there was still work to be done, and so, once they were hidden safely out of sight, he returned to the hunt.
#
In the hour that it took their father to return, Thak and Gron watched the storm from the safety of the old building. The two sat together in total silence, completely absorbed in the magical show, though they did tend to jump with fright whenever a fresh wave of thunder rolled over the land. However, each discharge of emerald energy more than made up for the troublesome noise, and quickly replaced their fear with a sense of awe, despite the way it stung their eyes.
When Mort lumbered his way back, the two were still huddled closely together, and for a moment neither of them seemed to notice their father, nor the fat, fleshy treat he was dragging along behind him.
“Enjoying yourselves?” their father asked as he ducked into the ruined edifice.
“Yes,” Thak said. “It’s beautiful.”
“And frightening,” Gron added. “But mostly beautiful.”
Mort nodded, and followed their gaze to the barren lands beyond. The storm had progressed a bit in their direction, but was still a considerable distance away. “Well, we best be getting back,” he said. “I found us a nice plump one to eat. Your mother will be pleased.”
“Oh, but it seems like we only just got here,” Gron said with a whine. “Must we go so soon, father?”
Mort considered this for a long, quiet moment. The roads had been particularly empty on this day, save for the now-dead human he held within his grasp, and while the storm was still a good distance off, it was quite improbable any wanderer would risk further travel until it had dissipated.
“I suppose we can stay, for a little while,” Mort said, and although he followed this up with a sigh, he brightened at the excited looks coming from his children.
“Do you mean it father?” Thak asked, his wide eyes full of disbelief. “Truly?”
“Yes,” Mort said. “But next time, the two of you are to focus on hunting, and hunting alone. No more sightseeing, understand?”
They both agreed, and Mort took a seat on the dusty ground. Long had it been since he’d taken the time to truly admire in such a sight, but as Thak and Gron snuggled closely on either side of him, it occurred to him that there was no better time than the present.
And there they sat, much longer than Mort had originally intended, all three of them lost in the moment.
#
The man had been walking for some time, following the sporadic footprints he hoped belonged to the boy known as Humphrey Brannon, who had now been missing for three hours. Normally this was far from unusual for Humphrey, who was known as the resident relic collector in the small town of Bell. However, Humphrey knew the dangers of being out in the middle of a storm as well as anyone else, and still he had not returned.
Luckily for Humphrey–and his worried mother–the man was not afraid of such raging irradiated tempests, which while certainly devastating, were much slower than most typical cloud formations. Still, he didn’t want to be outside when the storm did arrive, but one quick sniff at the air told him that he had an hour, give or take, before the storm passed over to their part of land. These things had a rather peculiar, almost sour stench to them, and with practice it was possible to gauge the distance of one by scent alone.
The man didn’t suspect it would take him long to discover Humphrey’s whereabouts, as he was fortunate enough to have the dust and ash on his side. It had taken little investigation to deduce which set of prints were Humphrey’s, as there were few tracks leading away from town, and those that were heading away tended to go to the west, along the path to Jammisburg.
Humphrey, being a connoisseur of old-world relics–though, in the man’s mind, scrap was probably more appropriate–was more likely to diverge from the path. Thankfully, some of the more recent tracks did precisely that, leading the man south.
And yet, despite his good fortune, the man couldn’t help but grumble to himself as he followed the tracks. Had he not been warning the people of Bell for weeks about the dangers of traveling alone? Surely no piece of scrap metal was worth risking the dangers of the land by oneself, no matter what the condition. But of course the people of Bell, and every other town the man had visited, seldom took heed of his warnings. And why would they? To them the man’s most important feature was his rifle, a rare sight on this side of the Ashlands. Never mind whatever wisdom he wished to impart on the good people; in their eyes, he was only good for killing the twisted creatures that came up from the tunnels below.
Ah, well. Perhaps one day they would take his teachings to heart. There was no use being frustrated now, not when he had a task to focus on.
The footprints led the man roughly a mile from Bell, to a considerable cropping of ruins which had likely made up a sort of small city in the time before the land fell to dust. Many of these ruins still held shapes vaguely resembling houses and buildings, and only a small amount had completely collapsed under the crushing weight of time and decay. It was undoubtedly a treasure trove of unusable junk, and certainly a perfect fit for one such as Humphrey Brannon. Nevertheless, it was also the perfect hunting grounds for the mutants who prowled the land. The man knew this well, for he’d ended many of the tunnel-dwellers in these parts.
He didn’t have to follow the footprints for much longer after that, and when he found their end, he knew quite well what had happened to Humphrey Brannon. Even if there had been no pools of coagulated blood in the dust, he would have known it by the near-human footprints leading to and from the scene, accompanied by the deep impression beside them, where something heavy and limp had been dragged away.
A damn shame, thought the man as he leaned down to examine the blood. It had been more than a few minutes since Humphrey was attacked, but the blood, and subsequently the trail his assailant had left behind, were still relatively fresh.
In the distance the man heard the roar of thunder, and gripped his rifle tight in his hands. He stood upright, took in a long, steady whiff of the air, and gave a small nod of confirmation to himself. He would be cutting his time short, no doubt about it, but he couldn’t allow the creature to get away, for it would only return to hunt once it was finished devouring its kill, just as all the tunnel dwellers did.
Blood for blood, the Thunder Man thought as he set off after the beast.
#
The storm had begun to dissipate as it closed in, and all its disastrous enchantment faded with it. Still, it wouldn’t be entirely finished by the time it reached them, and Mort knew he would be a fool not to head back now. After all, he’d seen many such storms begin to calm down in the past, only to gain a second wind shortly after, becoming even more ferocious than when they initially started.
The children looked quite disappointed when he told them it was time to leave, but could he blame them? The tunnels were far from interesting, especially when compared to the open, infinitely explorable world above, but they were still home, and home meant safety.
“There will be other storms, don’t you worry,” Mort said. “Perhaps one day you’ll see a storm even more exciting than this. Now, come. The hour grows late, and I’m sure your mother is eagerly awaiting our return.”
This time Thak and Gron obeyed–though a bit more reluctantly than Mort would have liked–and together they began to head back the way they’d came. Despite his certainty that they would not encounter a single human on the way back, Mort insisted that they keep to the shadows and continue to move from building to building with extreme caution, explaining to the young ones that, if nothing else, it would make for good practice. He also told them that it was never wise to let their guard down, no matter what the situation.
They’d been graced with good fortune this day, and he knew it. The hunt was surprisingly successful, considering the storm. The fleshy had to be one of his easiest kills thus far, as it was so absorbed in searching through the rubble that Mort had no issue sneaking up on it, and sinking his large claws deep into its neck.
And on top of that, his children had seen something truly magical. He was glad to have had the chance to experience the moment with them.
They came to the halfway point, and both Thak and Gron waited patiently as Mort stopped to check his surroundings. Here there was a wide, empty road which they would have to cross to get to the next building, and they knew their father was quite scrupulous in checking this particular area of the city. There were many structures here that could still be traversed on multiple levels, making it the perfect place for a surface dweller to seek shelter from the coming storm.
Mort watched the buildings for a time, his eyes moving back and forth to scan each window and opening. Nothing moved in that long period of silence, and after a while Mort nodded to himself.
Without a word he began to cross over to the next building, and the twins began to follow, when a resounding crack exploded around them, quite similar to the sounds of thunder, but much louder… and closer.
Mort stumbled back, and for the briefest of moments was confused as to what invisible force had caused him to nearly lose his balance. Then his free hand went instinctively to his chest, and came away hot and wet.
Understanding finally hit him when he saw the surface dweller striding out of a crooked path between two buildings, a long staff of both metal and wood in its hands, smoking at one end.
Wasting no time, Mort dropped the body, and began to charge.
#
The creatures were gone when the man found the spot from which they had spectated the storm, and it was here he noticed the smaller tracks joining the larger ones. The tracks had gone east, undoubtedly back toward the old tunnels from which the monsters came. Having scouted the city several times in the past, the man knew just which pathways to take. So, while Mort and his children were stealthily moving from building to building, the man progressed at a much smoother pace. He abandoned the tracks entirely, taking long, narrow alleyways which were mostly devoid of debris, allowing him to move briskly through the ruins of the old world and quickly find his way to the creatures.
When the man did find them, he’d almost abandoned the element of surprise. They were preparing to cross from one building to the next, and he spotted them just in time to duck back into hiding. Once the big one was sure that they were safe, he would cross into the open, giving the man a perfect opportunity to strike.
He did not have to wait long to hear the big one’s footsteps, and when he did, the man moved swiftly out of cover, rifle at the ready. He took aim without the slightest bit of hesitation, and squeezed the trigger. The creature stumbled back, a bewildered expression on its warped face. The man watched as the creature took notice of him, and allowed a harsh smile as it came barreling in his direction, undoubtedly attempting to protect the smaller things. That was fine, it just made the monster an easier target.
The man continued to fire, each shot greatly slowing the charging beast; round after booming round ripping and tearing into its thick hide, all while the man took a few casual steps backward, keeping a reasonable distance from the feral thing. Finally, ten rounds later, the monster fell limply to the ground. It landed with a satisfying, meaty thud, and let out one single breath of hot air before going still. The man squeezed one final bullet into its head, for good measure, and then turned his attention on the two small not-yet-monsters, both of which were frozen in horror.
They stood like that for a long while, the two small creatures staring at the Thunder Man with wide, terrified eyes, and the Thunder Man staring back, his face cold and devoid of emotion. He couldn’t help but feel that it would be wrong to kill them now; felt in some way that it wouldn’t be much different from killing human children. And was it, really? These creatures, as feral and grotesque as they would become, were still human in some distant way. It was far easier to see this in the children than their father, but it was still there, buried beneath the centuries of mutation. It was in their eyes, which showed clear signs of emotion, and in the way the two small forms huddled together for protection, paralyzed at the sight of the man before them.
The monster, thought the Thunder Man with a hard, cruel smile. To them, I must seem the monster.
With a defeated sigh, the man began to remove his finger from the trigger. Would it be wrong of him to let the creatures flee, knowing that they would only return after they had grown, no doubt looking to put his head on a pike? He honestly didn’t know the answer, but the thought of killing such little things put something vile in his stomach
The man just began to lower his rifle when he glanced once more to the corpse of their father… and then beyond that, to the lifeless form of Humphrey Brannon, whose body slacked far to the left where his spine had been snapped in two, and whose opened neck still seeped fresh blood. The boy’s wide, lifeless eyes stared at the sky without seeing, and his mouth hung open, having drawn its final breath.
The man’s gaze returned to the child-things. He imagined them down in the darkness, slurping Humphrey’s cooling blood from his arteries, imagined them chewing through the rubbery muscles of his non-beating heart, the look in their eyes not one of fear, but of content. The man wondered if their father would have scolded them, would that they couldn’t finish their share, explaining in a strange and alien language that fat meat such as the boy’s was hard to come by. Would they attempt to eat Humphrey Brannon quickly, or would they save him until he became ripe with rot?
And as the man’s finger trembled over the trigger, he asked himself one final time if the frightened things before him really were all that far from humanity, knowing it was a question he could not truly answer.
“Ah, hell,” the man muttered under his breath.
His hands seemed to work almost independently from his already guilty conscience.
Muscle memory guided him. His aim was nearly subconscious, a well-trained thing belonging to a creature which dedicated much of its life to hunting, not so unlike the larger thing he’d felled not even a minute prior. But he saw what he’d done. He was forced to behold the consequences of his actions, whether he wanted to or not.
When it was all said and done, the man took a seat against a ruined wall at his back and laid his rifle on the ground beside him. It weighed heavily in his grasp, and his arms had gone awfully weak.
The sky was going purple above him, and each strike of emerald energy illuminated the otherwise dark city. The storm was coming dangerously close, and yet the man remained there for the moment, having no desire to rise back to his feet. The cost of protecting his own weighed like a brick inside his skull. They would have come back, though. He knew that much with absolute certainty. They would have come back.
He looked once more to Humphrey Brannon, thinking that perhaps another glance at the terribly broken boy would be answer enough. But from where he sat the two child-things were also visible, equally contorted, robbed of their lives by his very hand. As the man gazed upon Humphrey and the child-creatures, he realized under these darkened skies they appeared remarkably similar.
Garrett Kirby’s first short story, “The Other” was published in Franklin/Kerr’s “Down With the Fallen” horror anthology in 2017. He has since gone on to publish another short, “Mother of None”, in the first installment of Toledo Ohio’s “Of Rust and Glass” e-zine in 2020, as well as various articles and product reviews for GamingLyfe.com