Enoa Cloud was doing pretty well for the end of the world.

She hadn’t been attacked by starving raiders, invading militias, or monsters from folklore. She didn’t think such things were as common as travelers’ stories once led her to believe.

Enoa never went hungry. She’d never gone to sleep with that dull, desperate ache in her belly. She slept in her warm bed, the one she’d had for almost her entire life. She lived in the home she’d grown up in. She was never trapped out in the elements, in fearful desperation.

Enoa’s life really hadn’t changed much since the end of the world, though now she lived alone. She worked alone too, managed the shop alone, her shop – Treasures from the Clouds to the Sea. It had been given that name exactly sixty years earlier. Now it was hers, and hers alone. Enoa didn’t want to think about that, but the crowds outside wouldn’t let her forget.

People, hundreds at least, gathered and walked down the High Street beside the shop. She couldn’t ignore the march of their feet or their restless talking. They were headed, one and all, to the Wintertide Festival.

The midwinter celebration used to draw people from all around the globe. Tens of thousands attended, spread across the ten-day celebration. Statewide vendors sold crafts and candy and whatever preserves remained from their autumn harvest. Merchants from six continents visited, offering jewelry, clothing, gifts, and toys. Artists and musicians of all kinds told the tales that inspired the festival.

As watered down tourist attractions go, the festival wasn’t bad, if only because Enoa and the few true Nimauk locals held a place of rare honor.

Because yes, tourists the world over arrived too, or at least they used to. They once filled all the hotels and inns and any free space the locals chose to rent. For 355 days a year, Nimauk was a sleepy village, a quiet, wholesome way station. But for those ten days, the town genuinely bustled.

Even now, five and a half years since the Federal Government had shut down, never to reopen, many hundreds poured into town. They braved the chaos out in the wide world, braved the cold and the snow, coming in carpools and caravans and packs. The Wintertide Festival had been held almost every year for three centuries. It hadn’t missed a year since the 1940s.

Treasures from the Clouds to the Sea had opened specifically to sell rare goods to travelers, arriving for the festival, and only later became a permanent business. Enoa was expected to commemorate the sixty-year anniversary.

She really didn’t want to commemorate anything. She wanted to climb into bed and sleep until some weird hour in the middle of the night, 2:00 or 3:00 A.M. Then she’d eat junk food until she passed out, before waking again and preparing for the festival to begin in earnest, the next morning.

She had no idea that this was the last Wintertide Fest she would attend. She had no idea that this was the last that would be held, ever.

Enoa lived pretty well after the end of the world. That’s because her own personal world still lived on, in part.

Enoa’s world would also end that night, very, very soon. Mercifully, she didn’t know it.

But she knew that she would regret skipping the opening, if she didn’t attend. She’d loved the fest as a child. Even after learning the festival had little to do with her own Nimauk culture, she continued to enjoy the annual celebrations, but not for the event’s backstory or the travelers or even the food.

No, the festival and its visitors hinted at the great gorgeous world outside Nimauk, the world she had yet to see.

Enoa had lived in Nimauk since birth. Everyone knew her, the local families, the other shopkeepers, many vendors, and even some annual travelers. She wasn’t ready to hear their condolences. She was sick of the sad words from distant acquaintances. People had been whispering at her for months.

Couldn’t she fall apart in peace? Her shop was open, Tuesday through Sunday. Her bills were paid. What more did they want from her?

Enoa selected a mask. She didn’t retrieve it from the three-dozen labeled boxes she planned to drive down to the town square the next morning. This wasn’t her merchandise, definitely not. She sold colorful costume masks, perfect for the festival masquerades or for hiding identity in a chaotic world. But she didn’t sell this mask.

The mask she pulled from her backpack had wide eyes and was decorated in bright purple and black war patterns. This was the face of a Sight-Stealer, the festival villain. The mask had just enough casual cultural insensitivity that no one would suspect it was Enoa wearing it. She’d bought it that afternoon.

Be careful how you present yourself, your family, your identity. She lived by that practice, but she desperately didn’t want to meet or talk to anyone. She only wanted to go out of habit, because she had always gone. Going meant normalcy.

Enoa slipped the mask onto her face. She could see clearly through the mask’s wide eyeholes. She saw her neat storefront, the shelves of assorted merchandise and genuine antiques, all items known by heart.

The store had been divided and organized long before her birth, into three sections: books of local stories and histories; touristy trinkets, clothing, art prints, paper weights, the items that sold the most, that made the most money; actual antiques, rare items, art, pottery, some reproductions. Many of the antique items had stood on the shelves, unsold, since Enoa had been a child.

She grew tired of standing in the silent shop, slowly darkening with the setting sun. She pulled on her gloves and her warmest coat. Then she closed and locked the store. Enoa joined the crowds meandering down the gently sloping hill toward town square.

She was almost caught up in the party atmosphere. She almost forgot everything that had happened in the last year, in the last years. It was like any other festival, at any other time in her life. Almost.

The tourists did not walk with the carefree naiveté they once did. Most did their best to keep their distance from their fellows. They held their children close and walked shoulder to shoulder with their friends and family members.

Costumes had always been encouraged at the Wintertide Festival. The few true locals frequently dressed traditionally, and most of the tourists were polite enough not to do so. The travelers clothed themselves wildly. Clowns and wizards, princesses and superheroes walked the streets. They treated the whole festival like a weeklong, snowy Halloween.

Now, almost everyone dressed up, somehow. Over half of the attendees had masks. Even more travelers used the frigid weather as an excuse to wear many layers, perfect for hiding money, or valuables, or weapons.

Even the excited atmosphere had changed. People still smiled – seen on those with uncovered faces – but their expressions had shifted, subtly, year-after-year. Fewer and fewer people wore carefree, easy, amusement-park grins. Now, they looked relieved, glad to have arrived at the festival safely, glad to be free of whatever hardships they’d left behind.

Enoa stopped people-watching. She’d reached a row of food vendors, business owners who were either opportunistic and wanted the first shot at the hungry tourists or had acted too late to get space in the festival itself. Enoa smelled the nostalgia-inducing mix of soup, funnel cake, and assorted sweets. She looked to Mr. Alberty’s mobile bakery cart, waiting in its usual spot, situated just outside his storefront, two blocks from town square. She read the tall blackboard beside his cart, listing dozens of treats. He’d made fruit pies, scones, tarts, and cookies. He’d already sold out of oatmeal raisin.

But no chocolate. Never chocolate anymore. There were almost no local imports from South America, not for two years, since the North Atlantic Piracy Taskforce had disbanded. Now, all the drink stalls only offered tea and various ciders, and even these often lacked cinnamon, nutmeg, and other tropical spices. Some vendors now served caramead, a rich sugary drink made in both alcoholic and non-alcoholic varieties. The thick, warm candy-shop aroma it gave off was inviting in the cold twilight, but it was also a wholly new smell. Even the smells of the festival had changed since shutdown.

Enoa wondered if the lone coffee brewer would return to the festival. He’d sold out within a half hour, the year earlier. He allegedly traveled all the way from Mexico and had his own hydroponic farming setup. She hoped she’d manage to buy a pound or two of dark roast. She’d missed her chance last time. Enoa had defeated her caffeine addiction, long ago, but she desperately missed the smell and the taste.

Eventually, she reached the foot of the hill where the great open park waited for all of them. The shaded area was filled with small carts and tents. The many colorful vendors, the shouting merchants and travelers, their breath visibly following their words into the air; some things had not changed. Many businesses were already in position.

There was still little room to move. Everyone was packed on top of each other. Many had masks pulled up onto their foreheads, food in hand. They were all clustered around the scattered collection of heated pavilions. Enoa wandered past more food carts and artist stalls and half a dozen ice carvings.

She looked toward the largest heated pavilion, one that had been set up at the far end of the park. A raised stage stood there. A band of folk musicians, a drummer and two guitarists, were getting into position and setting up microphones and amplifiers. They were unfamiliar people, a visiting act.

Beside the pavilion sat the little wooden train station, recently painted in a welcoming yellow, now almost one hundred and fifty years old. Beyond the station, a metal fence blocked a steep drop-off. The Nimauk river, water Enoa’s ancestors had known for many thousands of years, ran through the bottom of the valley, far below.

The crowd seemed about as large as those the opening ceremony drew in years gone by. The whole scene looked like no time had passed, except for the greater armed presence. Groups of security personnel patrolled the outer edges of the crowd. Enoa offered a wave to the County Sheriff, briefly forgetting her mask. Local police were present, as well, plus several groups of private security. One such group had turned up in huge numbers. They wore either red or blue armor with helmets of a strange and unfamiliar design. Most of these were clearly armed.

Two of Nimauk’s town council waited on stage, Councilwoman Amaren and Councilman Blue. Councilman Tucker, a fit, sandy-haired man, ran after them. As he hurried to catch up, Tucker adjusted a wireless microphone, clipped to his coat. All three officials were relatively young – younger than the town representatives had been in living memory. All three dressed casually.

They would talk briefly, saying a few cheerful words of welcome. Then the music would begin.

The train would also arrive, driving down through the hills, as it had when the town, as recognized by the U.S. government, was founded. The settler’s town had taken the name of Enoa’s people, much earlier than that, well before the growing country forced out most of the true natives. Enoa felt no bitterness toward the modern Nimauk town. Her own family had never left. They’d found ways to stay, no matter whose laws ruled the land.

And now, the government that had long ago sent the Nimauk people away was five years broken and five years gone. Enoa, on the other hand, she remained.

The festival officially began with the train’s arrival. Rumor had it that the fundraising committee had received private donations, amounting to well over thirty thousand dollars. The annual showing of Murder at Pinnacle Peak, a locally-filmed classic movie, would return, accompanied by a live performance of the film’s score and followed by a Q&A with surviving cast.

Enoa heard there would be fireworks too, the kind of colorful spectacular that hadn’t been seen in four years.

Enoa never liked the old movie, and it was impossible to get close enough to the water for a good view of the fireworks, but she hoped both rumors were true, all the same. The festival kept the town alive and relevant and safe.

Enoa arrived in the park in time. Just then, the three town officials approached the front of the stage.

“Welcome and Good Evening!” Councilwoman Amaren said. She couldn’t have been past forty, dark of hair and complexion. She had some original Nimauk ancestry. “It is such a pleasure to be here again. So many new faces! Our...”

A train whistle sounded down through the valley. It echoed strangely and the noise boomed out louder and longer than it usually did, a single blast. The whole crowd went silent.

The train was early.

The whistle called a second desperate time, now blasting out even longer. That sound was usually friendly. Since destabilization, train whistles meant supplies and food, for many in town. For the tourists, it meant the fun was about to start. It was long tradition for the special Nimauk Festival run to kick off the celebration. Many loved it, a happy call that bounced down from the hills.

The sound was different that night, shrill, and repeating in harsh echoes. Enoa had been hearing the Valley Engine 421 for nineteen years. Could this be that train? Everyone in the whole great crowd turned toward the thin mountain ledge where the train tracks wove down from high rocky places, far above them.

Light appeared, up on the tracks. The great steam locomotive rounded the shoulder of the hill and careened toward them. It roared down the pass, whistle still wailing. It was the Valley Engine, but it violently wobbled back and forth. How was it staying on the tracks?

It was moving fast, too fast.

Everyone ran, suddenly shoving each other. People shouted. People fell. The crowd raced back out of the park, toward the hills.

Enoa ran back too. She rushed across the street from the park. There she found a small bench. She stood on it. From that spot, she could see everything. She watched the mob of panicked guests, running. She saw the town council shouting to the crowd, trying to calm them, their voices drowned out by the locomotive. She could see the train flying down the hill, now only a few hundred feet distant.

Then she saw the train derail.

Four of the eight cars flew right off the side of the hill. She heard them crash down to the river. A terrible wave rose up, high enough to splash the train station.

The other cars and the locomotive rammed into the bottom of the hill’s rock wall, a hundred feet from the station. The loudest sound Enoa had ever heard ripped through the valley. She winced and briefly shut her eyes. She heard more yells, screaming, running feet.

Enoa opened her eyes and witnessed the carnage. The derailed locomotive’s engine burned, and towering yellow and red flame rose around one of the downed cars. The lapping fire licked at its metal skin. Smoke began to rise. The crowd cleared away from the wreck, while security forces advanced, especially the red and blue armored group.

“Leave or die!”

A deep voice, impossibly loud, called out from the train. Enoa watched the wreckage. A lone, tall figure stood on top of a sideways train car, surrounded by the yellow fire. The figure wore layers of black cloth and the purple face paint of a Sight-Stealer.

“We have come to claim our land.” The figure spoke English clearly, fluently. “The Nimauk stole our land, and you stole the land of the Nimauk. Two hundred and fifty years have since passed and, as promised, we have returned. You have until dawn tomorrow to leave this place. Leave or die.” The figure turned his back on the crowd. He began to walk along the surface of the train car, his footfalls ringing across the metal.

Gunfire sounded. A shot was fired from somewhere in the crowd, surely aimed toward the strange visitor.

The Sight-Stealer spun toward the noise, staring across the festival gathering. Nothing struck the figure. Enoa thought the bullet had simply missed its mark, but then she saw it.

She saw the bullet, no more than a shining speck from that distance. But some force, some energy must have acted on it and slowed it down.

The bullet hovered, barely moving. It crawled through the air, until the Sight-Stealer reached out and plucked it with his gloved hand. He turned around a second time, continuing his walk across the train.

The figure passed through the towering flames. The fire around the car died away, extinguished, and the phantom vanished with it, into darkness. The engine continued to burn.

Free from the Sight-Stealer’s gaze, the crowd yelled and ran. Some charged back up the roads along the hillside. Others ran down toward the expansive parking areas, just outside town. Most looked for shelter, either their sleeping accommodations or their vehicles. Any thought of partying died.

“There’s someone alive coming off the train!” Councilman Blue pointed to the wreckage, his microphone still active.

“It’s all right, everyone!” Councilman Tucker jumped from the stage and ran through the trees toward a sideways passenger car. “Everybody, stay calm!”

Enoa saw the other council members run, too, along with the Sheriff’s Department and some of the assorted security personnel.

The Council had been correct. Someone came stumbling out of the wreckage, an old man, white haired and bearded. There was blood at his side, a huge stain, visible even through his heavy jacket, visible even in the faint light from the park. The old man shook. He could barely walk and staggered with each step.

Councilman Tucker was the first to reach the passenger. The old man fell against him. He began to gasp out words, and he was close enough to the Councilman’s chest that his speech was projected across the crowd by the official’s microphone.

“I have to warn her.” The old man grabbed Councilman Tucker’s collar with his right hand. “She is the only one who can stop this now. She’s the only one. I have to warn her.”

“Who are you talking about?” Tucker supported the man with both hands.

“Enoa Cloud.”

After the name had passed his lips, the old man slipped from Tucker’s fingers and collapsed onto the ground.