Thoughts of death hung low like a dense, lingering fog. It was more akin vengeance, though most rebranded it as justice. The Seed Hunters sought retribution for their losses and Jason fit the bill. Though not a decision fit for the masses, opinions did sometimes sway. Either way, they were unavoidable, held aloft upon the rising tide of pain. Someone must pay the price, but such camps were always led; some would say like sheep to the slaughter, but it wasn’t that simple.

It was true Seed Hunters led a life that skirted what most deemed civilized. Many would call it a life of misery and they weren’t often wrong, but where in this desiccated world could one find solace from tragedy? Others would say they led a life of servitude, if not penance. Seed Hunters existed much in the vein of missionaries of old. Theirs was a simple life with a simple goal . . . continue what the rupture began.

The world swelled with fear from multiple sources. One was rather self-explanatory . . . was it possible for Atreon to expire, evaporate or otherwise fade? Earth revolved on oxygen, yet humatrans were a species fueled by something better defined as otherworldly. Atreon was the gas that spewed forth from an Atra seed. It was what inspired human evolution to a more enlightened state; not the next stage of humans, but beyond them. Humanity was extinct.

Even so, could humatrans meet the same fate? Once upon a time Atreon flooded the atmosphere to the point of saturating the clouds to release it in liquid form. None knew if it had truly waned over the centuries, but it was a likely hypothesis and not one worth testing. It was common knowledge that Atra seeds regenerated, given a decade or so. These reformed seeds could be burst manually.

Some dedicated their lives to the thankless task. These existed in a permanent state of ostracion. Never fitting in, they were forever ousted from society; rarely aided, but mostly ignored. Yet, in a world full of death, such camps existed as safe havens, for the most part. They traveled, camped, liberated Atra seeds and repeated. They became their own family of rejects and haven to orphans. It couldn’t hurt that many were special. Many were drawn to the seeds as if born to the life.

These inherited the title of “shunters”. Few city folk argued they held purpose, but the derogatory term helped to widen the separation between normal and nomadic. Those self-appointed as “normal” never could’ve foreseen the Seed Hunters embrace of the insult. Down through the centuries “shunters” evolved to become exactly the opposite . . . a term of endearment. It now stood as a symbol of pride for a people who practiced liberty and justice far more than “normal”.

The main difference was “shunters” joined to form a family. Yet, family protects one another. When a Seed Hunter is hurt, much less killed, retribution is always in store. Rarely did it matter if a situation was out of control or fueled by self-defense. Blood called for blood. Death called for death. Such was Jason’s fate. Being unconscious, his “trial” went forth without him, though it’s unlikely his presence would’ve garnered a more favorable outcome.

<><><><>

Cries for death issued forth in all manner, for many had claim.

“What of the boy? How should he die? He deserves it and slow.”

“Slow means torture. He needs to be tortured. Far too many of us died.”

“It was too high a price. He can’t be let to live. Two suffered DOE and now Cynthia’s EA6! It isn’t fucking right! Let him live?! Let him go?! You ask too damned much!” Tamerlane Tudor nearly screamed, continuing with, “Vengeance is our birthright! If none had died, maybe. But no! Never! Not like this!”

Within the sheltered circle stood 24 shunters. Beyond them were rows of tents in concentric circles. The occasional tree popped up between, but the area was mostly cleared. The exception was the Queen Tree, a towering oak, which stood proudly in the center of the gathering. Prior to yesterday the camp was pristine with order, but the wake of the tornado left much askew, if not destroyed. However, shunters were scavengers by nature and allowed very little to go to waste. Even refuse could be used as kindling. Cleanup was a work in progress, interrupted only by this impromptu meeting.

Not all were involved in the assault. Some simply refused, as was their right. This wasn’t a dictatorship, but resembled a religion, now driven by a faith that waned. All were now present; those that remained, anyway. A good fourth of their numbers were dead, reduced or otherwise out of commission. For what, they wondered? What could possibly make such a sacrifice all somehow worth the price they’d paid? Many began to doubt, but especially Cynthia, who was now swallowed by clothes that fit just yesterday. Her miniaturized body still held all the knowledge and experiences of her now lost 30 something alter ego. She threw in her two cents with a hatred boiled up from a mouth of innocence.

“Their right, God damn it! Look at me! Just fucking look at me, for Atra’s sake! I’m fucking EA6 again! No one fucking does that! It’s a death sentence! Add my name to the list of the dead! I won’t make it to EA7! I’m fucking dead! And you want to release the bastard that caused it?! Who the fuck do you think you are?!”

The Queen Tree was at least as old as the one it was named after; a woman who even now stood in the vast shade of it. She was layered in furs, not of the grandest sort, but far more regal than the rags that adorned most. This proved a badge of respect, for it was she who led the camp . . . a comely young woman with a slightly crooked nose. “I’m the same as I always was. Youth can’t change who I am. I’m Wferium Tdena. I’m one of the first of those who came before the rupture. Do not stray! Do not forsake she who leads you!”

Berial, self-named, had always been loyal to a fault. “The ancient few be revered! Still, that may not be enough this time. We’ve lost so many. And all for a test? You say he’s special. I believe you. I trust in you. Who am I to disagree? But when will the line be drawn?”

“My dear, Berial. You’ve always been there when needed. I’m grateful you survived the ordeal that claimed so many. You will be needed and soon. You know I’m loyal to those who trust in me. What has come to pass has a purpose, a reason and a goal. I ask you now to trust in me and my wisdom, no less than in the past.”

From Aryl Czar, who some called the wood nymph for her stealth, “The ancient few be revered! Please, we beg of you, tell us why this had to happen?! Who is he that he should live when so many needlessly die?!”

“Beloved wood nymph, it was not needlessly. Their deaths were not in vain. This boy will help to bring hope for the future. He is the last of his kind. He is the first of an ancient. The final ancient, the rogue, who now calls himself Scott Jacobi, though he has been known by many, many names in his vain effort to flee his destiny. I knew him as Sarafyn Tdena, my brother. As you know, as is prophecy, all the ancient firstborn are gone and lost to time. That was true until fifteen short years ago. It was then that Scott, Sarafyn, finally found one he loved so much he could not leave or kill. With her a child was born, pure of advancement as the prophecies state. As you well know, only those of an ancient line can read minds. The closer to the source the easier it is. My firstborn, Jarayal, could too, but that was so long ago I nearly forget. If he remained you would see. But young Jason, he can read minds too. I unlocked him and tested him. His father wished him sheltered till the end of his days, which would’ve come soon enough without my intervention. I had to be sure, so I called some of you to test him further. And for that there have been losses and you all have my deepest condolences. But please never doubt the worth of it.”

“Though the ancients be revered, tell us please that you do not plan to replace our lost with the one who killed them.” This spilled forth from Cynthia, who was forgiven her jaded nature due to her fate.

“Cynthia. Do not doubt our fate. None of you must. We are one and not one of us will now let death befall you. The price paid was indeed high, but we must move forward now. Not backwards. We must see to it the price paid in blood reaps rewards. Our mission now has clarity with a piece of the prophecy fulfilled. He must join us now as powerful kin. Do not doubt he will bring about freedom from our oppressors.”

This, of course, could not be allowed to happen. Loyal as they were, still they danced around the subject to find out exactly where Wferium’s loyalties lay. Dietram, another of her flock, spoke as he must. He had to use what was left of him. His legs were dead weight. He hoped that didn’t apply to anything higher, though he suspected it did.

“What of us? Will you pay for the doctors to fix us? We cannot be left this way. We did as you asked, so now the price falls on your head. You must rectify this.”

“Dietram. Everyone has a part to play. Even the dead. As much as I loathe it, your part has come and gone. I have seen it. And you have played it well. You are free to do what you will.”

He did. None failed to notice the Dietram’s callous lack of formal greeting. Though tempers were high and none faulted him for it. They may fault his next move. Hidden between his useless legs lay something deadly and his conscious struggled with whether or not to use it, but that was before Wferium’s answer. That was before the one he once revered made plain to all that more than just his legs were useless. There was a price to pay for such a remark, ancient revered or not, because he no longer felt any such ties to loyalty. She had all but released him from it anyway.

In the aftermath of the tragic event, aside from aiding the wounded and collecting their dead, concentration fell upon the other reason Joan was chosen . . . a food source from the grocery she ran. Not that much remained, but they’d picked clean every shelf. Shunters were outcasts by nature. None were privy to the charity of handouts and food was scarce, as winter had just set in. This wasn’t a secret Wferium could divulge to young Jason, who was meant to believe she was on her own, to enhance her need of his protection.

In the chaos, none took notice the sheargun was missing, bar Dietram, who hid it away. This he dug out once all eyes had turned away. This he aimed and this he fired. The pins that shot forth did so with purpose. It seemed something guided them, but that was just a trick of the eye. Wheelchairs weren’t exactly in popular demand, but chairs had been provided for the newly disabled. Parked at the front, Dietram was only ten feet from her when he pulled the trigger, but he wasn’t the only one who took notice. The most loyal of the survivors, Berial leapt forward with a determined self-sacrifice.

Berial’s body, particularly his head, became a cushion for the pins that now protruded from every part of his body that still mattered. His eyes popped like little balloons and he gave one last gasping gulp as he involuntarily tried to swallow the four pins that had lodged deep inside his throat. Then he died, for the most part painlessly. Berial’s loyalty had been earned with decades of unfettered service. None knew his true age, but he was not what he appeared. Most agreed his AA possessed three digits. This meant Dietram’s death was imminent.

Dietram had accepted and perhaps even embraced his own death, but he hadn’t planned to DOE. No one ever did. Witness accounts taught there existed no worse way to die. Even torture provided breaks between the agony. DOE was never so kind. That aside, Dietram still planned to die. Without Berial’s interference he wouldn’t normally have fallen victim to DOE, since he aimed for Wferium’s legs, but death still would’ve found him . . . shunters weren’t the forgiving type. Upon realization of what he’d done, Dietram turned the weapon on himself. This hasty plan was also shattered when a fellow shunter kicked the sheargun from his grip. Dietram’s momentary delay resulted from shock; not from fear, but rather that a friend had to pay the price for his vengeance. At least his efforts weren’t completely in vain. Before the exquisite pain ravaged his already damaged body, Dietram found solace in the fact Wferium had also collapsed to the ground.

The beginning of Dietram’s long drawn death throes were ignored as renewed loyalty flooded the congregation and all moved in to offer the ancient their aid. One or more may have kicked Dietram’s writhing body in passing. All due respect was paid to Berial, but he was beyond all help now. None needed to check. Deitram’s youthing pangs were evidence enough of the crime. Death would be judge, jury and executioner. None would spare him such a well-deserved fate.

As far as Wferium was concerned the damage was minor, but death had never been the goal of the ill-planned attack. The ancient’s upper right leg had given out and though she retained some feeling in her right foot, she could do nothing with it. The neural pathways had been shut down almost immediately and as a result, she crumpled into the freshly fallen snow.

Wferium had never endured such a thing, but that didn’t mean she was ignorant of the effect. She was in no better position to afford basic health care than anyone else in her throng. Nor would it have presented a favorable case for her to heal while so many of her flock languished in newfound agony. Age meant wisdom, not wealth. Such wasn’t the case for all ancients, but she’d chosen this underprivileged lifestyle and now must endure the result of it.

As brave as she was, she’d caught herself flinching as the shot rang out. It wasn’t so much the sound or the sight, as it was the foreknowledge. She knew well that these things would come to pass. She could’ve changed them. She could’ve saved her devoted Berial. But to what end? She saw that doing such things would only cause the growing unrest to overwhelm her. It also would’ve ended young Jason’s life and the future needed him. This event, though crippled with sorrow and loss, served to turn the tide back in her favor. The renewed trust would prove to save the boy’s life. It proved no less than a trade . . . Berial for Jason.

Jason’s acceptance was quite another matter. That was never a possibility. As much as she loathed it, he’d be cast out, as the wounding would open her eyes to the “error of her ways”. All these things must come to pass. All those who died to stop Jason were nothing compared to what the future held, but that was too far off for anyone to see, ancient or not. Every detail was shrouded and cloaked. What guided her had nothing to do with hard facts and everything to do with the persuasion of feeling. Or perhaps another, better word would be faith.

After having passed her “test” as effort mattered more than success, Wferium now felt compelled to protect the boy and the ability to glimpse the immediate future showed her how. After all, the event at Joan’s store had also unfolded exactly how she’d predicted. One might’ve thought just accepting him into her fold was a better option, but untested she couldn’t be sure he was the one. Beyond this, all such simple solutions proved unfruitful . . . resulting from a potent mix of fear and mistrust. Neither did taking him by force improve matters, but at least he’d learned to trust her.

Wferium’s ability to divine the future was a powerful boon, but not much of a secret; at least not among her flock. Some chose instead to call her seer, which helped to cement her true status as an ancient. This was vastly different than the same derogatory title used to describe the clueless and countless generations of humans that existed before the Atra arrived. Wferium deeply resented the widespread comparison, especially from Jason. It was no different than calling her human. In contrast, her kind were the first generation of humatrans, having survived the Atra gas. They were pioneers exploring a new and deadly frontier. Humanity avidly sought their extermination. By now, their numbers were dwindling, but those who remained earned the title of “ancients”.

Over time they gained certain abilities inherited from their Atra forbearers. The most basic of these was telepathy and precognition, or the ability to see into the very near future. Those who revered her knew of it, which wasn’t always a good thing. Along with power came expectation. As Wferium looked around she could see the suspicion that would soon arise from her own people as to this newest event. Had she really not seen it? If she’d known, she surely would’ve stopped it. She would’ve saved Berial’s life. Though her visions weren’t perfect it was rare when she couldn’t see at least 24 hours beyond the present moment. So then did Berial die for nothing? Berial had saved her life, but she was the one who should’ve saved his. This too would soon threaten to disband her flock. She didn’t yet know how that would play out, but it didn’t matter. This strand of the future saw Jason Jacobi to safety. In fact it was the only one that could.

Of course, that safety meant he’d be back with his father, which was the last thing she’d wanted, but sometimes the luxury of choice presented no good options. One might think she’d accomplished nothing, but they’d be wrong. At great cost, Wferium had achieved what none ever had or perhaps even could. She’d planted the seeds of doubt which should ultimately set the boy free. Try as she might, she’d never possessed the power to set him free. She was only a catalyst. Wferium could not open his doors or live his life for him, but she managed to show him the door existed and gave him the key to unlock it.

She did wonder one thing though, which was strange enough. It was a piece of the past she didn’t know and couldn’t figure out. Though her brother, Sarafyn Tdena, existed as a hermit, a wanderer and to some an outcast, he was also an ancient and could see the future perhaps even clearer and farther than even she. If that was so, he must’ve meant for these things to come to pass, had he not? He, like herself, could’ve altered or utterly stopped these wheels from turning. Jason’s tumultuous relationship with his father had finally boiled over. He’d left his father, assuming permanently, but was that even possible? Even so, it would’ve taken remarkably little for him to have interceded after certain events began to play themselves out. He hadn’t even tried.

The only solution Wferium came up with was that the user had been used. Sarafyn must’ve known his son would survive. That it was all just a test, though a dangerous one. He must’ve known what Wferium’s choices would be. He must’ve known his son would and will now return to him. Yet what of the knowledge so well hidden, but now at least partially revealed? What of the unlocking? How could it not cause chaos and turmoil? What was the point to it all? Did she truly suffer through all this tragedy for nothing? Was that even possible? She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d doubted herself so. Sarafyn had used her, just like he always had. She’d sworn centuries ago she’d never again let that happen. Yet it had and Wferium could no longer predict the cost of it.

<><><><>

Jason remembered little. His hand was bleeding, but it was far from alone. Throbbing pain lit up vibrantly across his body, along with a sticky wetness. Had he been lacerated when carried through the shattered window frame? Had he been given something or just still suffering the remnants of his father’s wicked left hook? Either way, the headache that accompanied whatever they’d done seemed to be thrilled he was awake, because it was hosting a parade in his honor, marching band and all. The blindfold hadn’t helped, but rather prompted him to focus on the pain instead of his surroundings, of which he knew little to nothing. He’d been stashed away somewhere, but nowhere warm. The cold seeped in with every new synapse that fired. He tried to bring his hand up to remove what must’ve been a scarf wrapped around his head and eyes, but couldn’t guess why; his head having graduated to be the coziest part of his existence. If he could concentrate enough to think, he’d realize the layers stole the purpose of a pillow. Maybe the stench drove him awake. Like pretty much everything else, nothing had actually been washed in what seemed like a millennia. It didn’t matter. He’d been tied up; feet too . . . trussed up like a pig for slaughter.

What, he wondered what they’d feed him to? He’d seen his father kill in that manner a countless times. It was never pretty. Of course, the animal had to eat the person alive. Tied up, a man was no threat. In no other way could the animal take the blame for the death, preserving his father’s life from imminent DOE. The screams, he remembered them clearly, but the memory seemed to hurt his head all the more. Not one had ever managed to die with dignity. Not that way. Jason doubted he’d be the first.

In an attempt to flee the suffering, Jason allowed his mind to wander; unintentionally delving into a different version of agony. He’d failed Wferium and lost whatever secrets she held dear. She unlocked his mind, but now he’d get no chance to enjoy the power. He wondered where she could be. Had she already been some doomed animal’s final meal? Was she being held elsewhere? He heard some voices nearby, but soon realized that wasn’t quite true. What he was hearing, and faintly, was someone’s thoughts.

“This can’t be happening.” a woman thought. “She can’t seriously be willing to let that bastard go. Not after all he’s done. After all he’s killed. I’d kill him myself, but . . .”

The woman had to be talking about him, but who was this “she”? Who made these decisions? Most of all was it really possible for him to survive this and even, maybe escape. Had his father come to bargain for his life? No. That would be out of character. What he’d done wasn’t something his father could forgive. He’d view it as betrayal after all he’d done to protect him. If they ever again met, he’d be lucky to survive his wrath. Unless, of course, indifference ruled. Was it even possible all this was just another fucked up test? If so, his father never greeted failure with any brand of kindness.

What of all the lies and secrecy? Surprisingly, Jason knew he wanted this confrontation, but only on his terms, which meant somewhere safe. Maybe now they could simply trade thoughts at a good distance. Either way, he needed answers and somehow he’d have them . . . if only he managed to avoid death’s razor-edged teeth. The importance of these revelations was clearly astonishing. They seemed to help engage mentally what physical prowess was denied. It proved a distraction granting him something truly bizarre . . . hope. He embraced them for just that quality.

He needed to know more. He listened, but not with his ears. Still, it was his ears that first heard something new, but it wasn’t all that new. It was the familiar, though faint blast of a sheargun; maybe even the very same. Chaos ensued and all the thoughts garbled as dozens of people screamed them all at once. It was, in fact, too much too fast. It felt as if his very brain had split in two and he screamed in his own muffled, constricted way. His brain wasn’t something he could just shut off. Everything grew in volume as he diminished to the only thing that could save him . . . unconsciousness.

<><><><>

Wferium had little time to peruse new choices and wasn’t even sure the course of events she’d chosen could be changed. What if she could? If she somehow managed to keep Jason free from his father and his plans, then would that freedom lead to the boy’s death? She’d already struggled endlessly to prevent that fate and saw no other options.

However, that wasn’t entirely true. Time had a way of flowing past her sight and into the deep dark unknown. In essence, she knew little more than the average humatran, but of the future strands available to her, she’d already chosen the only one certain to end in his safety. Some ended in shadows and mystery, but without doubt, she’d witnessed his destruction in all other avenues.

What of the gray areas? What of the open ended scenarios? They were all fraught with danger, but not from anything definitive. No. Just the knowledge of him all alone in this ravenous world was too much for her to bear. It put the future at disastrous risk. Had Sarafyn seen this too? Did he know she wouldn’t seek other options? Could he see her not having the fortitude to resign the boy to an unknown fate? Not even his foresight was infallible. The last she knew he could see, perhaps, twice a few hours beyond herself, but that was over a century ago. Every skill was mastered with practice and her brother was nothing if not diligent.

Wferium felt cursed. Rarely had she second guessed herself to such a degree. The result of her past choices defined her current options. That was always the case, but now a luxury stolen. Mentally, she found herself at war with a master strategist. For the first time in centuries, she had no idea what the future held. It terrified her.

<><><><>

As he was under, Jason dreamed impossible things. That wasn’t terribly uncommon. Most dreams defied all logic in some way or other, but these dreams felt real. He didn’t know the difference anymore. Didn’t all dreams feel real? Time would tell, he thought.

He found himself in a wide open field. The corn didn’t flow so much as the wheat could in the temperate breeze that blew his hair into little whirlwinds. Beyond that lay plains of grassy, low rolling hills. Jason knew little to nothing of crops, but still wondered why the distant area had not been used. It hadn’t even been tilled or planted. It was completely untouched as if no man or woman had ever stepped foot in that serene and peaceful place.

On the horizon there existed a hint of light illuminating the encroaching darkness, which was, he supposed, how he knew the wheat from the corn. That didn’t make any sense, though. He was no farmer. These were not things he’d ever dealt with and wouldn’t have been apparent to him. Furthermore, there was a tightness to it all, as if crowded for space. Some of the wheat even mixed in with the corn and vice versa. Was that normal? Somehow he knew the grassy knolls were fertile. They certainly looked it. So, why not make use of it instead of this collaborated jumble? Why not expand? He didn’t have the answer, but questioned why not? There was no explanation for the things he somehow inherently knew, so why not be privy to all of it? Was he the farmer? If so, he’d make a note to broaden the field. Though, if he truly was the farmer, wouldn’t he already know why the field hadn’t been touched?

These ramblings were distracted by the growing brightness of the far off light. He was looking forward to this sunrise. This one was special, but he didn’t know why. Either way, he knew the view would be better from the crest of the hill, so he headed towards it, brushing past flaking bits of crop as he walked. It took a while, but he reached the edge of the field and bordering it found a fence previously hidden by the maturity of the crop. It was tall with barbed wire on top. It was very strange. He couldn’t guess how, but he also felt the roots of the fence traveled deep into the earth, as if twisted steel were just another kind of crop. This barrier seemed impenetrable.

Parts of the crop blew with the lazy wind and sizzled ashy sparks whenever they met the fence. Even next to him he could hear and smell the corn as it cooked until it burned. The fence seemed to emanate heat. It had been, as was now obvious, electrified. For the life of him he couldn’t figure out what kind of crop warranted such intense protection and, he feared, from what? Couldn’t there at least have been some distance from fence to crop? A wildfire seemed imminent. The line seemed to end in a forest full of oak, but he couldn’t tell if that marked the end of the fence. The other direction led to a farmhouse, which was equally protected.

He could’ve gone to the house. The lights were on. Someone was home and awake, but the light from the hillcrest had grown and it beckoned him near. Maybe, he thought, there was a gate at some point, but if so, how would he open it? His hand moved forward and he hadn’t even known it. This light was more than an urge, it was someone else’s purpose and he was being forced toward it. It was easy to resist at first, but regardless of the danger, he too wanted to be near that light. Dying for it was another story. Still, the desire grew, from within and without. He began to doubt . . . everything, bar the light, which now resonated in his mind as something sacred.

Was this light worth dying for? The answer was obviously no, but with each second that ticked by he became less and less sure of it. His hand was up again, fingers so close. He hadn’t wanted that, hadn’t willed that or planned it, but there they were. He put them back down, but it was harder now. He wrapped his hands behind his back and cupped them with an enclosed fist. Reluctantly he looked back at the farmhouse, but less and less of him cared about it or who might be inside. He found that mildly strange, because they would surely have answers to at least some of his questions. Maybe they knew about the light, which seemed less and less like the rising sun, but even brighter with a halo of sparks. He squinted, but wouldn’t, or perhaps couldn’t, fully close his eyes. It was a beautiful sight. If he wasn’t careful it would be his last, but more and more his body, if not his mind, seemed to accept that as inevitable.

Wasn’t suicide frowned upon? Why would he want it even if it wasn’t? Why didn’t the whole idea terrify him? Was he really going to kill himself over some stupid light? How in the world could he discuss these things so calmly? As he stared questioningly at the farmhouse, he realized his arm was once again outstretched. In fact, both were. If he hadn’t been paying attention he wouldn’t have known he was losing control of his legs and feet too. He willed them to, if not move backwards, then to at least stay put. His arms became rigid and felt as if they’d break if pulled back again. Still, he tried, but soon found there was a distinct pain in the attempt. It was an agony spreading down his body to his legs, only easing up upon letting go.

Within seconds the farmhouse lost all interest. So too, did any further resistance to his body. The mere idea of it seemed sacrilegious. He reached out to willingly embrace the deadly fence, for the light he now knew he must be near, no matter the cost. Then he was shaken awake.

<><><><>

In her confusion, Wferium had taken too long. Questions were already forming on people’s faces. Some, she now knew, had sided against her for betraying Berial and causing, or at least not preventing, his unnecessary demise. As well they should. It was tragic, but a sacrifice worth taking. She still believed that, no matter the cost. Even though she couldn’t really fault her flock for their lack of understanding, she hoped they’d place their trust in her wisdom. She knew better. She’d witnessed countless outcomes, but not one resulted in unflinching loyalty. Apparently, that was a thing of the past. She’d made too many concessions for the “greater good”.

An hour or two passed in her disillusioned state and Dietram laid dead, looking nothing like his former self. His body twisted like a contortionist, but in ways unnatural even for that long lost profession. The searing pain even gave spark to his useless legs, as they twitched in the final minutes. He’d been spared DOE and the few extra hours of excruciating torture it would’ve brought. Worse yet, but expected was his age when death finally claimed him. He remained the same age he’d always been, but now appeared a mere teenager. It was a sad end. Winter would soon claim him as the last of his body heat quickly dissipated.

Even as a humatran pin cushion, Berial seemed infinitely more peaceful, but that was likely because he’d been posed and covered. With a sardonic twist someone had even put a smile on his lifeless face and the atrophying effect of rigor mortis had set it in place. Wferium brooded over these pivotal events and the deaths that defined them. She second guessed herself; wondering what, if anything, she could’ve done better. And beyond it all, she mourned the loss of her friend and loyal confidant, Berial. Wasn’t it always in the aftermath that conviction waned?

She was being bombarded by questions. No one spoke a word of it, but her now splintered and scattered congregation, knew she could read their delicate minds. So, they thought their questions directly at her. “Why didn’t you stop this?” or “Why are you just sitting there? Did a pin hit your head? Did you get sick from it?”

The latter came because some, well most for now, couldn’t find any good reason for why she hadn’t prevented Berial’s death. More so, they couldn’t find any good reason why the ancient would want such a loyal follower to die. What could possibly be the reason for the treason? Could it be explained away somehow? Was she mentally unstable? Could it be forgiven? Or, like last night’s pointless assault, was everyone now expendable for the sake of this boy?

Wferium heard all these thoughts and feared them. By now she’d seen the future that ended in her death because of these tragic decisions and her seeming inability to act on them. However, she’d since gained some semblance of fortitude and also saw the future that still retained the possibility of life for both her and Jason. It all hinged on the one person who remained, for no good reason, nearly as loyal to her as Berial had been. Her name was Meraine Talbotte. She was new to her flock, but certainly not young. Her AA, also like Berial, was well over a hundred. She hadn’t been part of the previous night’s test and that, Wferium was sure, had gained her some ground towards sustained loyalty.

Meraine was not blindly loyal. Like most, she was still coming to terms with recent events and how she fit into them. She wasn’t at all certain she trusted Wferium, but being an ancient meant something profound; something she couldn’t be expected to comprehend. Even so, Meraine wasn’t nearly as devoted to Wferium, as she was to the cause they both believed in. Nearly 78 years ago she’d been converted to something called Futurism. Whether it was a religion or not didn’t matter.

Futurism directly involved prophecy, which was propagated by a few of the ancients who remained. Hidden among those was the tale of the firstborn, which was obscure. Not only was it uncertain what the firstborn was to actually accomplish, but the very belief had faded. Texts referring to it were hard to come by. The reason for this was simple. Just as society had once believed the earth was flat, when it wasn’t, so too did modern society believe that all firstborns had died long ago. Well, on that account they were right. They certainly had. That unfortunate truth couldn’t negate the fact not all firstborns had the privilege of birth. There was one remaining . . . maybe more. Who could know?

Meraine remained devout. Even today, especially today, most Futurists were no longer aware of the firstborn prophecy or disregarded it as myth. Meraine had coupled herself with Wferium Tdena, a known ancient, for her continued belief in this lost prophecy and for her connection to her brother, Sarafyn Tdena, who though seemingly lost to time, had no record of paternity. Of course, that meant little to nothing. He could’ve been dead. Ancients can die too. They have. Or he could’ve already fathered a bevy of children, as many had never been recorded in the woefully incomplete archives. Through Wferium, she learned he’d been in self-imposed exile for far longer than her meager lifespan. His firstborn too could’ve perished by now. If so, then it would’ve been she who’d been the fool to believe in the firstborn prophecy for so many decades. That’s what most people believed anyway; stubborn, misguided Meraine Talbotte had wasted her long life on a myth.

Never had she allowed the doubts of others to deter her faith. That, however, was due in great part to the continued support of Wferium Tdena, who discovered her silent ruminations on the subject by looking inside her open mind the first day she’d arrived at camp, a mere three years ago. Meraine was old then, but she often was. There was nothing for it. Time marched on as her quest for the truth superseded trivial things like youthing. In fact, anyone who hadn’t known better could’ve taken the two women for sisters, though most would agree, regardless of the wrinkles, that Meraine was the most comely of the pair.

Wferium was serious most of the time, as if the trials and travails of time had literally been etched into her face. It had been said many times, or rather thought because none would risk the insult, that the ancient appeared older than her EA. Meraine couldn’t read minds. Not anymore anyway. She lost that ability long ago. She knew about Wferium’s nature from observance, but the details were offered openly. The ancient said they shared some sort of bond, if not kinship, and once joked, “When you feel the age seeping into your bones, know that, next to the old hag that I am, youth will always be on your side.” Actually, it wasn’t so much a joke as it was a kindness, for it wasn’t one of Meraine’s better days. The aches and pains that accompany the elderly had taken particular hold of her that day, especially in her back. It was always in her back. She’d suffered a serious injury back when she was only AA13. Neither was Wferium immune to such things.

The youthing process erased such troubles, or could, depending on the AA of the victim. Such was Wferium’s gift to her. Life, doled out in chunks of twenty or less. She’d lost count of how many had to die to give it. It wasn’t Meraine’s first time, of course, but it was in her nature to never take life needlessly. Wferium concurred, but believed an entirely different definition of the word “necessary”. Despite Wferium’s riveting speech to Jason about the uselessness of morals, the ancient herself, possessed some. The long centuries had indeed jaded her towards it, but she did feel loss, if not guilt, whenever one of her flock either left or died. This, she’d told Meraine, to help ease the grief of death the younger woman felt so keenly.

A few years later, when it was all said and done, Meraine appeared a striking twenty something. She asked the ancient, why she didn’t do the same. Her answer was simple. More saw her as what she was, an ancient, and flocked to her, if she played the part and looked the age. Of course, the age of an ancient looked more like dust and bones without at least a few well planned murders. Meraine saw the wisdom of it. She was wise enough to know the younger generations saw things in a different light. She should know, after all. She too appeared quite old until recently.

So, Meraine wondered, why would she lose that influential appearance now? Well, that answer was simple as well, as she had told her only yesterday. The agonizing event that cost so many lives, tested more than young Jason. It doubled as an example to her congregation of just what she could do. Of course, for Jason it was all an elaborate ruse, but to make him fight it had to be believable and the best way to do that was with a particularly nasty murder. It had worked. It had literally thrust the young man into the game. No more lingering doubts and no turning back.

Yet, how about what Wferium could do? She could’ve killed someone infinitely younger. Though Joan appeared it, she was not terribly young herself. A murder at that age would’ve killed anyone, but an ancient. Still, the intense, lingering pain must’ve been near to unbearable. It lasted the remainder of the night and well into the following morning. Her survival was, for lack of a better word, inspiring.

Meraine desired to see this and she had, but only the after effects. What she wanted was to witness the murder. Strange that, with her ill-tempered nature towards it, but Meraine wanted to witness this miracle from start to finish. However, Wferium forbade it, saying little more than it wasn’t for her eyes to see. However with patience and prodding, she was eventually told the truth of it. Wferium had foreseen the event, all of it, not just the beginning, and if Meraine were a part of it she’d end up as one of the dead, though she wouldn’t reveal how.

This then was the dilemma Meraine now suffered with. How could she sacrifice so many? Naturally, she had said the course of events made the loss necessary to Jason’s belief in the broadening of his existence. That there was more to his tiny life than met the eye and his belief in that sad truth was necessary for him to fulfill his vital role in the future, whatever that may be. She hadn’t elaborated because she didn’t know. All she knew was that the boy was of incredible importance and certainly wouldn’t have been tested if she’d foreseen his death as a result of it. Meraine couldn’t help but wonder if Jason being Wferium’s nephew had anything to do with it.

Yet why? Why was it all necessary? There must’ve been a better way. Meraine believe wholeheartedly in the boy’s true nature as the firstborn of prophecy, but did he really have to be jump started into reality? There were easier ways. Had Wferium told her there was little time for that, then Meraine would’ve believed her, but quite the opposite, she’d hinted that he had some sort of journey ahead of him. So, if time was not of the essence, why was the test?

The only answer she could come up with was Wferium didn’t know. Perhaps she’d feared Sarafyn’s wrath and had to act quickly before it came to pass. Maybe she’d foreseen only this one option and could only work with what she knew. She feared the unknown just as much as those significantly younger; likely more so, since her life, if planned right, had no need of haphazard guessing. In other words, she’d grown accustomed to and perhaps even spoiled by her constant and reliable foresight. It had, on countless occasions, kept her and her flock free, safe and still breathing, which was a large part of why they’d stayed and put both their trust and faith in her.

So, why see preventable death and do nothing to stop it? Was that not betrayal? Yet, Meraine herself had been sheltered and protected from the event. What made her so special? If Wferium’s desired result for the boy required her own death, would she still have prevented it? Meraine didn’t think so. Sure, she would’ve said that it was regrettable, sad and even mourned her, but she still would’ve made the sacrifice. She hadn’t asked because she feared she already knew the answer. It would’ve been something like, “My dear child, we all make sacrifices for the future. If it required my death, then I too, would go willingly into the unknown.” That was, of course, bullshit. Meraine knew Wferium. The past three years had brought them very close. Meraine knew none feared the unknown more than Wferium, and perhaps all ancients, including her brother, Sarafyn. Foreknowledge was a drug and she imbibed often.

So, it all boiled down to one question. Could Wferium still be trusted? She wondered if it had all been in vain. Had she always been willing to do whatever was “necessary” for the future? Had every member of her congregation always been in direct and dire danger of it? If forced to guess, Meraine believed the answer was a resounding yes. So, then what was this future? Was Wferium a prophetess? Was this future really worth all the death it demanded, as if humatrans sacrificed to appease some angry, but likely undeserving God?

Of course, the answers weren’t quite so simple to her as they would’ve been to nearly anyone else. Meraine believed wholeheartedly in the firstborn prophecy, which vague as it was, deeply and directly involved the prophecy of the future. Most people still believed in that, for what it was worth, but conveniently deleted the firstborn, as if they could somehow open the sealed door of the future without the special key that unlocked it. Ludicrous.

So, the future mattered greatly to Meraine and she believed in its worth, but at what price? How many more must die to see its fulfillment? Did the gains really outweigh the losses? This was, she suddenly thought, the basis of faith. Belief in something unknown and the willingness to sacrifice all required to achieve it. Wferium was obviously willing to do just that, but was it really required or was she simply misguided and maybe even senile? Should Meraine really follow in such, possibly wayward, footsteps?

In the end, she decided it didn’t matter. Wferium really shouldn’t have any hold over a devotion that existed long before she even knew the ancient. All she really did was confirm her beliefs as true. That alone held a great deal of importance, but belief in the boy didn’t require trust in the ancient. Even so, there were those in the camp who believed in the firstborn prophecy, but did not believe Jason was truly him. Meraine was not one of them, but really couldn’t explain why. However, it wasn’t all smoke and mirrors. No. Meraine hadn’t spent the last three quarters of a century just waiting and hoping. She was studying and researching. There just weren’t that many clues, but those she knew of seemed to add up. So, it was an educated guess that Jason was the firstborn. She coupled that with her trust in Wferium’s facts, if not the woman herself, and her own faith to feel nearly certain that she had the right boy. After all, that was one of the scant clues . . . the firstborn would be a boy.

Whatever loyalty she may or may not have for Wferium, she’d invested far too much time in the firstborn prophecy to allow him die now. Anyone could see that’s where things were heading, but her choice was not easily defined, nor was the path that now lay before her. Wferium told her once that every day she saw possible futures of which only one would actually come to pass. In other words, Wferium still had to make choices like everyone else. It was just a little bit more complicated. Meraine wondered if the decisions she now faced were similar. Was this how Wferium felt all the time?

No matter. Meraine had made her choice. Regardless of how she felt about Wferium she would protect the boy. The question now was how? For that she had to consult the ancient. This was not a happy thought. More than wavering trust, there was a strong likelihood this protection would require running away with him and that would mean leaving the wounded Wferium behind to her dim fate. That would probably mean leaving her friend to die. Meraine couldn’t protect both and already knew who the ancient would tell her was more important.

Still the question of how lingered. Now divided, the camp had begun its descent into chaos, aiding Meraine as she worked her way through the tents to her friend’s side. She wasn’t hard to find. She’d hardly moved from the Queen Tree since being wounded many hours ago. Though many doted on her shortly after she fell, none did now. Once she arrived, Wferium mustered up her remaining confidence and said something that really shouldn’t have surprised Meraine.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

After a moment’s pause Meraine next spoke sarcastically, which she hoped would mask the latent anger, as if that was even possible. “I’ll bet I know why too.”

Ignoring the attitude for more important matters, “You know there’s little time. Why say it. You must get Jason out of here. You want to say goodbye, so goodbye. You can’t understand why I do what I do. You’re angry. You’re worried for my safety. A jumble of emotions. You’re confused. I know all these things, but there’s no time to discuss them. You’ve got to go.”

Understanding the situation, Meraine asked, “How much time have I got?”

“I don’t know. Every word we speak changes things. Changes the future. I see things nearly every day, but not every minute. I saw this much. I waved off all aid and all possible protection to allow you to approach. How that altered the future, I can no longer say. But I guarantee you have next to no time left. Stop worrying about me. I may very well die here, but I promise I will not roll over and take it. I will fight.”

“It didn’t have to be this way.”

Meraine expected to be rebuked for both wasting time and doubting her judgment, so was surprised at her answer. “I know that now. I know. And I’m sorry. But you’ve got to go now.”

Some degree of respect had instantaneously been renewed with that rare apology, but then most people do suddenly see the error of their ways near the end. “Which way do I go?”

“South. A bit to the west. There’s a field in Oklahoma, just outside Durham. On the Texan border, just inside it. What was once the Black Kettle National Grassland. A seed. A powerful seed that I’ve been saving, avoiding. I don’t know the cost of it. I can’t see that far ahead, but if an important person crosses an important place, something’s got to happen. As always you will be guided to it, but first you must be in or around the town of Durham.”

It was a lot to absorb, but she had a good memory. People were watching. They’d never stopped. Since the few hours after Berial’s death, there’d rarely been a moment when at least one person wasn’t watching. Now that her favorite, Meraine, was near they stared all the more as their hatred grew. Wferium could hear their thoughts. “What was the decade’s long loyalty of Berial to this new little gem?” and “Was she the only one who wasn’t expendable? Maybe we can use that against her.” were just a few of the disparaging remarks.

“You’ve run out of time. Their loathing has turned to plotting against the both of us. This much I knew would happen. They will not let you go willingly. And when you do escape, they will follow you. Take care, but go. NOW!”

<><><><>

Jason was awake now. His eyes were open, but he saw nothing for the blindfold. Thoughts ran rampant and the throbbing in his head was akin a rising chorus, nearing the high note. He’d been nudged awake, but didn’t know by whom. The words took a moment to decipher, but quickly became clear. They came from a woman, a young woman.

“The camp has gone to hell. I’m getting you out of here. I’ll untie your legs only. There’s no time for anything else.”

The unknown woman did just that. It seemed she expected a quick turnaround, but is body ached worse than before. It would’ve been simpler to narrow down the parts that didn’t. Nevertheless, he stood, but with considerable difficulty. He lost his balance, due to the growing migraine and the endless voices that swirled, as if his head were a hive, teeming with all manner of insects. The woman caught him. Then he spoke.

“F . . . Fuck, it hurts!”

In a sudden whisper, “Shut the fuck up. If they hear you they’ll kill you.”

A bit quieter, Jason said, “I . . . I can’t stand.”

“God damn, we don’t have time for this. I’m cutting your hands free. You’ll regain your equilibrium, now.”

“But . . . But I can’t see.”

“Fine. I’ll remove it. But if you get killed for the wasted time, don’t blame me.”

He could see now, but that wasn’t quite right. Everything was fuzzy, blurry. His eyes were readjusting. The woman was nothing more than an out of focus shape. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, but the sudden pressure stung and he jerked back as if his fingers were laced with cyanide. His arms had been tied behind his back for too long and the tightness of it left angry red welts across his wrists, which had already begun to bruise. Not to mention both his hands had fallen asleep for lack of proper blood flow. As a testament to the fact, he’d noticed them nearly pale as snow. His feet were a little better, but he was still wobbly for it all.

Instinctively he held his hands out for balance as if he were crossing a high wire. It wasn’t helping much and he fell forward into the shape in front of him. She stumbled, but held her ground. He hung on, afraid of the pain the dirt floor would bring, as the tent had been erected long before the first snowfall. Despite all of this, the adolescent male in him was able to take notice that he was crushed against a pair of large, shapely breasts.

Then he made out a thought from the jumble. It was hers, pronounced by her proximity. “Get the fuck off me! We’re both going to die here because of you!” He could feel her fear slowly escalating to terror. It smelled sickly sweet, but was mixed with barely simmered rage. This gave her the fortitude to persevere. Jason could tell she was a woman who’d purposely forgotten the definition of the word “defeat”, as she’d experienced it far too often. If asked how he knew that, as he was certain of it, Jason would’ve appeared an incredulous dumbfuck, with mouth agape, but hopefully minus the drool.

Unlike her thoughts, the words she spoke weren’t screamed. “Get a hold of yourself. Stand the fuck up and go out the back.”

The back of what, Jason wondered. His vision was slowly returning. All he saw was pale white and darkly shaded by night. No candle flickered. His head had nearly smashed into hers when he fell, but he swerved in time to land his chin on her shoulder. Now, he realized, his chin, one of the few parts of his body that wasn’t screaming, was also in pain.

“Where are we?”

“A damned tent. If you ask even one more question I’ll leave you here and you’ll die.”

Somehow Jason believed her, and shut up because of it. It didn’t matter anyway. Though they stung like a wasp, he caught every word she thought. They weren’t pretty and he tried to block them out, but it proved an impossible task.

She pushed him to his feet and physically turned him around. This gave him a rolling view of the tent, illuminated only by the growing morning light. From her thoughts, Jason knew this directly contributed to her urgency, as escape was a far more feasible task under cover of night, which was quickly fading. The tent was small and plain, bare of most basic amenities; probably from fear of a makeshift weapon should he somehow manage to wriggle his hands free. This also explained how tight the rope was around his wrists. The back of the tent, as usual had no opening. He opened his mouth to ask about it, but caught himself before any actual sound came out.

“You’ve got to stand. If you can’t stand, you can’t run, and you’ve got to run. I’m going to let go now and cut open the back.”

There was no one, two, three or ready, set, go. No. She just let him go. He wasn’t ready for it. He made a valiant effort at catching himself, but in the end laid both palms down flat on the bunk that had served as his bed. At least he hadn’t fallen completely or again in her direction, though his perverted mind would’ve been alright with that. Her breasts made for the softest landing he’d ever experienced in all his short years.

She gave a slight, dismissive, “Psht.” and thought, “My God! We are so dead!” Her attention passed to things not quite so hopeless, and clicked a knife open to cut through the old, dirty bed sheet that served as the makeshift tent. Jason knew from her thoughts that others were covered in furs for added warmth, but as yet another minor dose of retribution, he was left to freeze. The sheet gave little, to no resistance, as her blade was kept razor sharp for all potentially disastrous occasions. She took a hesitant peek through the slit she’d made and saw exactly what she’d hoped to see . . . more tents, but no movement.

“Only fools in old, cheesy westerns” she thought. “would place the tent with the captive at the edge of the forest.”

Jason heard this thought and suddenly worried. Stupidly, he now knew, he’d expected exactly that. Then came the next thought, “It’s clear though. Lady Luck may just be on our side . . . or at least mine.”

“Okay, we’ve got to run. Not stumble. Not fall. Run. You got it?”

With an audible grunt, Jason said, “Do my best.”

“Well, I’m not your fucking mom. You’re best isn’t good enough. Do better than your best. We go now.”

With that she was gone. It was sudden, but he moved to follow. His sudden and her sudden were not the same and he fell, suddenly, still well inside the tent. He fought through waves of pain and picked himself up, but nothing resembling quickly. He made it to the slit and peeked out. There was still no one in sight, but that was no longer a good thing. The girl was gone.

He did, however, hear her passing thoughts, “Fucking idiot! I am NOT dying for you!”

After that he knew she wouldn’t return. She didn’t. Still, the way was clear and though dark, his vision was recovering faster than anything else. He could see the tree line only two tents beyond. He hobbled toward it.

<><><><>

Meraine moved to leave, but as she did so Wferium grabbed her wrist and looked at her directly. “Things have changed. Carmen has already begun your rescue, but will not stay with him. Jason is free. Go around the long way and meet him by the bridge at the river’s edge. He is hurt, weary and slow, but he will be there by the time you are if you go now.”

Before Wferium let go, she added, “Do not let his father find him. I can’t clearly see his intentions, but they are not pure.”

With that new bit of important information, Meraine left in the exact opposite direction of the boy’s tent. She glanced back in time to see the camps mutual advance. They’d made some sort of decision and it didn’t look promising. It would be stupid to think she wasn’t part of it. Sure enough, when she turned back around she saw them trying to close her in as well.

However, Meraine had a purpose and youth granted her an energy she’d nearly forgotten. She set off at a sudden sprint, working her way through the growing crowd, tents and post-storm chaos as they tried to grab her. She was like a quarterback without a football, in a game last played centuries ago. She weaved to and fro and tried to remain unpredictable. They did grab her, but she wrestled free. They yelled at her, but she was in her zone and paid no attention.

It wasn’t all so easy though. A few of these enemies used to be her friends. It was difficult to see their angry, disappointed faces as she rushed past. She knew some of the yelling involved pleading to not do anything stupid. But then, she thought, she wasn’t. Stopping to let them capture and eventually kill her would’ve been stupid. No. She was running, escaping and doing a fine job of it. Why? Well, because they hadn’t planned on her running away from the boy. As they were deciding what to do, they were slowly amassing between Wferium and the boy. Meraine only had stragglers to contend with. It was a very doable thing.

Meraine didn’t break her stride as she crashed through the final person to get to the opposite tree line. She hadn’t felt this alive in nearly a century, but it was more than this. She knew they weren’t going to just let her go. Not a one of them had reason to fear anything inside the dense forest. It didn’t possess some fantastic evil. It was just a massive group of trees. To wanderers such as Wferium’s flock of seed hunters it was nothing more than a paper thin barrier.

No matter how good, strong and free she felt, she wasn’t safe. Even if she never found the boy she wouldn’t be safe. She had a feeling she wouldn’t for a very long time. Still, it wouldn’t be the first time. Once, from vague perception alone, Wferium had predicted Meraine’s freedom as an elusive thing, but she expected that. Meraine had always skirted the borders of what others deemed normal, which was a perfect recipe for “outcast”. Aside from that, Wferium was rarely ever wrong.