It was possible to find places that were a lot safer outside of one's homeland, but many people didn't have the desire to do that since it meant leaving familiar things behind. Toronto was probably one of the few cities to actually be reclaimed from the dead. From what was last heard from radio broadcasts by other survivors, cities such as New York City, Houston, and Los Angeles were cities completely devoured by the dead. Of course, people were smart enough to evacuate and never looked back but that didn't guarantee longevity. You had to be smart enough to do more and adapt. There were some people who decided to travel out to the countryside for a number of reasons. Some even believed that maybe the dead problem was just a "city thing"— the rationale that the dead wasn't a global threat was commonplace and it helped people sleep better at night, because the one thing people were afraid to admit, was that no matter where you went and no matter where you looked, you could never escape them. They were everywhere.

Miles into the far east of Toronto was Maine. Elsewhere, in the small town of Limington was another group of survivors, a thriving group that was trying to make a revolutionary name for themselves and recruit as many members as possible. That sort of thing, however, wasn't easy to do in such a small town whose population only managed to grow by three-hundred in the last ten years. Now that the Fallen was around, the count only declined, but not by much.

This community stayed in an old chapel that was abandoned years ago even before the outbreak. Initially, it started off as a drug house for the town's mislead but was eventually cleansed out—something that the leader of this community thanked the apocalypse for. The chapel held probably about thirty-something members. Ages usually ranged from young adults to that of a particular age for both men and women. Unlike many other communities, this one appeared to be uniform in their daily routine and in a very literal sense: Their standard attire matched and was black button-up shirts of varying sleeve lengths and khaki slacks. What kind of community member allowed people to wear uniforms? Especially during a time like this? An organized, professional one is what the leader would say.

A young woman named Essa walked towards an older gentleman who was preparing the chapel with three others. He heard the young lady call out his name—"Gerrard". His name bounced off the walls and he turned away from his sweeping activity. He was somewhat of a plump man who turned bright red whenever he blushed or chuckled heavily. He stood a little over six feet and lacked hair at the crown of his head. And although he was in his early forties, he maintained somewhat of a baby-face with his straight edge. The only difference between him and a few others was that instead of a black button-up, he wore a white one.

"What is it, Essa?" Gerrard rested the broom on a nearby pew.

"Gael, Huxley, and Triston just left."

"Good. And this person that they're getting—you've spoken to them on your last recruit right?"

"Yes," she nodded, "He was a little...difficult, but once we got through to him, he seemed very interested in joining our movement."

"Good. I can't wait to meet them," Gerrard said.

The situation at hand was for some members of the community to meet with a stranger they had already met with before: A former businessman who struggled with finding his place within this post-society. From previous interactions, he expressed that he tried taking his own life before but was ultimately too much of a coward to act on it. Not to mention, he lost all of his family to this world—his father, mother, wife, and children. That was considered being dealt the worst card in existence. There were some people who already didn't have family to begin with, but it wasn't the same as getting them torn from you. He always prided himself on being a strong husband and father, but he felt that if he had taken his own life, his legacy would've been wiped clean, leaving no recollection of who they were to anyone.

This was why Gael and Huxley were brought along. Considering this businessman's struggle with depression and the loss of his family, Tristen felt like they could better get across to the businessman who seemed so reluctant to start anew. However, it was also a test to prove themselves vital to the Haven.

Tristen was part of Gerrard's committee, meaning he, along with three others, had the utmost important part to play in the community. People usually claimed that uniforms were a way to prevent separation between roles and class but Gael never bought into the bullshit. From what he last remembered on his own crash course, the white was supposed to symbolize 'purity' or some shit like that. Apart from that, it was obviously a way to separate status among his community.

Despite the weather dropping below the thirties, it was suggested to maintain warmth underneath your uniform to avoid too much coverage of it. Only on extremely cold days did they normally wear coats—and this was one of those days. Despite the ideology behind uniforms, the things the community did to uphold their "professional" appearance were downright materialistic, yet amazing. Surprisingly, it did the job at making them all appear primped and pampered—something that was intentionally meant to be desired.

Tristen wore his usual uniform underneath a long black trench coat with a black felt cowboy hat and very much resembled a sheriff from an old western tale. To look like he was ripped right from genre more, slung over his shoulder was an old model of a Winchester rifle. Gael wore a navy-colored wool jacket that was more on the formal side. Strapped around his right thigh was a holster and inside of it was a Super-Shorty shotgun. Other than being known for his silence, Gael didn't really have much of a role to play. Huxley wore a coat similar to Gael's, except it was black and came with a detachable hood. He too was armed with a Winchester rifle but didn't care to remember the model. As long as it shot bullets, it was a gun as good as any. Huxley, despite only being a recent member, was already making a good impression and was appointed second in command on this mission particularly. To him and Gael, they thought this meant being part of the committee and there was nothing more promising than that. Gael, however, felt indifferent about it.

The destination in which they were traveling was within walking distance. The home sat on a lifeless, flat plain of dead grass. Like multiple other homes in the town, there was the usual red, white, and blue flag that drifted lifelessly in the dead, winter winds. There were two cars in the driveway, both completely stripped of headlights, doors, wheels, and etc.

"That was quick…" Huxley examined the brick-red ranch.

"Told you it wasn't that bad," Tristen smirked.

"Then why do my feet hurt?" Gael remarked.

"You've been wearing those shoes out for almost two years now, haven't you?" the committee member pointed out, receiving a deadpan gazel from his thin companion.

They walked up to the porch's wooden steps, hearing creaks with any pressure that was applied to it. Being the last to walk up, the middle step snapped just as Gael nearly made it completely up to the porch. He yelped, feeling the sharp ends of the snapped wood scrape the side of his calf. Quickly, his comrades ran to his aid—Huxley being far more concerned than Tristen could even pretend to be. After Gael managed to unfix his foot from the hole, he was pulled up onto the same level as the others,

"You alright?" Huxley dusted off Gael.

"I'm fine," Gael repelled Huxley's hands.

He pulled up the hem of his pants, seeing a slightly torn sock and a minor scrape that slowly began turning red.

"Now isn't the time to whine. We have a job to do first, so if you wanna be a bitch about it, at least wait until we go back to the Haven."

Gael exchanged glares with Tristen, leaving Huxley speechless on the side. Tristen had a mouth on him, but there were some things he said that just needed to be filtered out of his vocabulary.

"I said I'm fine," Gael's nose flared.

In his defense, Tristen wasn't charmed by Gael's sharp tongue and pessimism. It was something he had to endure ever since the two first met and it was a behavior that was strictly forbidden against the committee. At first, people made excuses for Gael, saying that he'd eventually open up and stop, but there was a pure disdain that Gael had towards Tristen and Tristen never understood why nor did he want to. Always being the first to look away, Tristen returned to the door. Lifting his finger to ring the doorbell of the home, he realized that it was broken after he pressed the mashed-in button. Cautious with how that might have made him look, he lightly knocked on the door instead.

Even after knocking it a couple of times, there was still no answer. There had to be someone there. The last time Tristen met with this person, they said they had no way of traveling or plans of leaving their home since staying locked in was all they did. Recalling how fearful he was, it would be a miracle if this person even stepped out to empty a bucket of shit. Catching something at the corner of their eye, Huxley glanced then walked over to the nearest window seconds before the curtains and blinds stopped ruffling from the inside. It could have been a breeze but it didn't take long for Huxley to realize that there was no sign of the window being open.

He cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his face to the netless window, telling his party that there was definitely someone or something inside of the house,

"Maybe we should leave?" Gael nervously suggested.

"For what? Didn't you just hear Hux, there's someone in there."

"What if he turned or something?" Gael suggested, "Didn't you say he didn't have the necessities to live much longer?"

Ignoring his speculations, Tristen began pounding on the door,

"Mr. Albertson, we know you're in there. Open up, please!" He banged louder every three knocks, "The louder I bang the more those dead things will show up!"

He had spoken too soon. As Gael looked over his shoulder, he could see a couple of Reanimated wandering out from behind trees and neighboring fields. Just as planned, a short old man frantically opened the door in nothing but a bathrobe he had been wearing for the last few weeks,

"Okay! Stop! Stop!" he cried out from behind the screen door.

He rattled like a chihuahua and opened the screen door for everyone to step inside. Seeing that this man had been locked in his home for nearly two years, the state of his home was in absolute shambles and the smell inside of his home was worse than the inside of any Fallen they ever gutted. Tristen forgot to forewarn Gael and Huxley of this, so when he saw Gael bring his hand up to his nose, Tristen quickly smacked it down once Mr. Alberson turned away. Mr. Albertson looked like a character straight out of a nursery rhyme—or a civilian of Whoville from Dr. Suess' How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Although he didn't need to, he was apologetic for the mess, which definitely told Huxley that the funk Albertson was currently living in, had consumed him.

Minutes later and they were able to get through one of Albertson's many protective walls. He only recently felt comfortable making eye contact but he was still a skittish gentleman. In Tristen's hand was a collection of polaroids recently taken of the Haven—the home of the three fellows who were cooped up on his loveseat. Questioning why Gael and Huxley weren't in these photographs, they followed up, explaining their recent joining, which could possibly motivate Albertson to get on board with them.

"The water?" Mr. Albertson questioned.

"We have a well out in the back of the chapel. It's in the forest but we always send a party of people out to fetch it. We also collect rain inside of barrels in the shed." Tristen explained.

"And food?"

"We have experienced hunters. That or we either go out scavenging. Lots of wild boar where we live."

To Mr. Albertson, this sounded far too good to be true, but every time he looked up at three handsome faces, he could clearly tell they were well-spoiled. Tristen was a tall strapping young man that Albertson certainly would've married his daughter off to. Underneath his cowboy hat was short hair he took time to slick back with some effective hair grease. Huxley possessed a choppy buzzcut and some stumble surrounding an incredible jaw. Apparently, he taught French to some of the people in his community. Gael was tall and gracefully lean, having clear brown skin with a golden undertone. His head was shaved around the sides and back, leaving side-swept curls on top.

"Mr...Albertson," Huxley started. Judging by the mere tone, the other pair could tell he was going to walk on eggshells, "If you've never left this place...how did you manage to live this long?"

Albertson reverted back to his old state. There was obviously no good answer to this, but he figured that now would be the best time for him to open up and be truthful about his unpleasant experience. Huxley received menacing glares from Tristen, causing Huxley to stare into his lap,

"It's okay, you don't have to answer," Tristen forced a smile.

He reached forward and rested his palm on Albertson's hand. The smile was so fraudulent it nearly pained Gael just to see it. He rolled his eyes and, if anything, became extremely impatient with this older stranger's remoteness.

"I ate cat food…" Albertson's voice shook, "and animal carcasses of anything I could find. Rat, possums, raccoons..." He confessed further. Tristen, on the other hand, prayed his face remained the same color despite his urge to gag. Uncomfortable, he very slowly pulled his hand away from Albertson's, discreetly wiping it on Huxley's thigh. Huxley's mouth dropped, looking over at Gael in hopes that he witnessed whatever was occurring. Mr. Albertson removed his glasses and placed his fingers on his eyelids to prevent some tears, "I had enough water to last me months but then I ended up collecting the water from the toilets and…" he paused, beginning to sob even harder from what he felt was apparent humiliation.

"It's okay…" Gael attempted to comfort him. Ultimately, it was a feeling he resonated with—feeling hopeless and desperate. The only difference was that Mr. Albertson had no one left but himself. He told him a secret that not many people knew, "I once ate pig feed. Sometimes it takes you being in a really hopeless place to resort to that. So, it's okay, I understand. It's why we're offering you a chance to join us. So you won't ever have to resort to that again."

He would never admit it, but Tristen was impressed and figured that this was the important role that Gael and Huxley would play. They were survivors freshly picked from the world of suffering and this kind of community was something they'd always be grateful for. He watched as Mr. Albertson pulled himself together and put back on his glasses, bringing himself to flip through and reexamining the photographs. One that caught his attention most of all, was one that included the members of the group—most of them at least. He examined a lot of their faces. The age range was diverse and they all looked somewhat content.

"What exactly is this group?" Trist

"We call ourselves the Mortemists," Tristen answered, shifting himself forward to the edge of his seat.

"Mortemists?"

"Yes," Huxley interjected, "Derived from the word Mortem—meaning…"

"I know," Albertson cut him off while flipped through more photos, "Meaning death."

"I guess you could call us a growing movement," Tristen suggested, "The name sounds a little morbid and dark, but it's our philosophy that really explains what we want. Instead of fearing this world and the Fallen, we're trying to prove that we can embrace this world and thrive in it just as we did before. Not just get by and survive, but live to the fullest. Maybe even use the Fallen to our advantage. Coexist."

Mr. Albertson's face looked puzzled,

"The Fallen?"

"Yes. The Fallen is what we call the dead," Tristen explained even further, "Instead of dismissing all of the deceased as if they're just rotting corpses who deserve to be exterminated, we recognize them as people who used to live their lives just like we used to. And while trying to return to our old lifestyles, we just put them down respectfully and peacefully," As if he just remembered something, Tristen reached over into Gael's shoulder bag without solicitation and pulled out a photograph of graveyards with headstones, like sprung daisies, in front and in back of the church, "We bury them on the property."

"Sounds like a church," Albertson said.

Tristen gave a light chuckle—a smug one,

"Praying is probably the most religious we get but a lot of people do that nowadays. Our leader may preach here and there, but we like to look at them more like motivational speeches."

Suddenly, there were some noises coming from some rooms in the back. Soon after, there were moans. By that point, it was quite obvious that Mr. Albertson had something in his house and he lacked the balls to get rid of it. To demonstrate his learnings, Tristen offered him the chance to give his loved ones a proper goodbye and a proper burial. However, Mr. Albertson said he needed some time to think about it.

Eventually, it was time for the three young men to leave. Unexpectedly enjoying their company more than he expected, Albertson did whatever he could to have them stay a little longer, but they ran out the door quicker than they had run from anything in their life. However, just before they could say farewell, Tristen purposely asked Huxley if he could kindly shake Mr. Albertson's hand goodbye. Huxley thought of every excuse in the book to avoid physical contact with a hand that had a mysterious brown build-up underneath its fingernails, but Albertson kept insisting that he didn't mind. Huxley gave in and shook his hand, slipping out of the handshake than one would normally last.

Once they were off of his property they briskly strode until they were no longer in Mr. Albertson's sight. Tristen hawked up a loogie and violently spat at the ground nearly the same speed like a bullet. Gael's vision nearly became blurred as he took in a breath of fresh air, nearly passing out. He confessed that he was holding in his breath minutes at a time while sitting on Albertson's couch and momentarily rested onto Tristen's back, who was bent over, still spitting at the ground. Finally, Tristen stood erect and fixed his hair before returning his wide-brim hat to his head,

"That's our second recruit these past four weeks," Tristen announced.

"How do you know he'll even join," Gael looked up at him.

"What?" Tristen exclaimed in disbelief, "Did you not see his face? He will definitely join."

Tristen began walking in the direction of the Haven. Huxley took a step forward but was stopped once Gael rested his hand on his shoulder. Taking notice, Tristen questioned whether or not they were going to follow and Gael made it clear that they would catch up. Reluctant to turn away at first, he eventually carried on. Their eyes were pinned on him until he was finally out of earshot,

"God, I hate that guy…" Gael looked up at Huxley.

"Why? He's so good-looking."

Gael expressed his disgust by facial expression. Tristen was probably considered the best looking by others but it was obvious Gael felt indifferent about him. There was something demonic about Tristen's eyes: So dark brown that they appeared pitch black. Even when the sunlight hit it from every angle. They also resembled a pair of circle lens, having bigger iris' than what appeared to be normal. It was something that spooked Gael out the moment he met him.

His flirtatious comrade laughed and attempted to pull him closer by wrapping an arm around his friend's waist, but Gael resisted,

"Felix. I'm serious," Gael briefly uncovered, "Did you see the way he changed up in there? He put on a completely different facade like it was nothing. That's straight-up psychopathic."

Felix dismissed Jolyn's suspicions, assuming it was just him being paranoid after everything they'd been through before being found by the Mortemists. Other than living in literal rags, they managed to fight off every enemy they encountered pretty well, but Jolyn thought living "pretty well" had less of a cost than living lavishly.

After dinner, everyone had to meet inside of the chapel. The interior of the Haven's chapel was lit entirely by handmade white wax candles. It was so well lit, one wouldn't even think they were sitting in the middle of a chapel with no running electricity. One of the Mortemists, Apollo, was a professional candle maker his whole life in Limington. It was a career he dedicated his whole life to, but as soon as the dead began to walk, his career was inevitably doomed—so he thought. When the Mortemists showed up to tell him that he could still have a purpose and do what he loved most, he joined them in a heartbeat and had been happy ever since. Apollo was a seventy-year-old man who was raised in a time where he handcrafted candles the traditional way. As time went on, he had to get used to newer technology. It certainly made making candles quicker, but seeing that the world collapsed back to primitivity, he knew how to work around it. However, he recently became ill after a mysterious fever came over him. Being so close to Canada, the weather was pretty harsh on the Mortemists and despite their efforts to remain warm and healthy, one or two people slipped. In this case, Apollo was the unfortunate one. Residing in an incredibly small town, the number of resources sometimes ran thin. No one in their community had much knowledge in the medical field—hence why they had to keep recruiting. Thankfully, Apollo mentored two other members a thing or two about candle making, so hopefully, his legacy and knowledge could continue to be carried on for centuries to come.

Seated in the pews of the chapel, Felix and Jolyn sat afar from one another. Ever since they were welcomed at the Haven, the people of the Haven were a lot more welcoming than they expected. However, Jolyn's hesitance to become close to people began raising eyebrows and made people worry that his distrustful attitude could lead to some complications. So, as of recently, Jolyn made an effort to put on a fake smile to avoid dilemmas. In front of the podium was Gerrard, the one who pretty much ran things. He was the one who officially founded the Mortemists years ago, even way before the world ended. How? You ask? Gerrard was raised, from the time he was young, by a family of preppers and World War II survivors. No one ever wanted this, so Gerard was far from thankful that something like this could happen. He just felt, for the lack of a better word, glad that he was prepared. But this was the year he made things certified. Day in and out, he raved about the importance of the Mortemists in the community, telling each and every one of them how much they mattered and how they all played an important part in making this community grow. It was the perfect segue to Mr. Albertson and the possibility of him joining them. Seeing that Albertson was a former member of the State's government, this could really be the chance that the Haven got to make it a more organized, law-abiding community that it was always meant to be. People were either delusional or too afraid to say it—but Gerrard was preaching a pipe dream.

Upon request, Jolyn, who went as Gael, was requested to stand along with his partner "Huxley". Beside Gerrard's podium, was a pew separated from the others and faced in the opposite direction of the other Mortemists. Seated in it was Tristen, along with three others in white button-up tops. He too was told to stand and the entire chapel broke out in harmonious but tamed applause after they were congratulated for their effort to recruit a new member. Soon after the acclaim, Gerrard apologized for having to downgrade the mood by moving on to the topic of ill Apollo. Apollo was a sweet man known by everyone, and to know that he was at risk from a serious sickness, made people worry. Before the testimonial could be ended, someone was given a chance to speak seeing that the constant raising of her hand had been delayed for some time,

"What is it, Quest?" Gerrard inquired, giving her permission to talk.

She cleared her throat before speaking,

"It's about Apollo," She announced beforehand. All thirty-something heads turned to look at her, "I don't think he'll make it through another night."

"Well, that's why it's your job to watch over him, Quest. You volunteered to do this," Gerrard said, oddly misunderstanding her concern.

"I know but," her voice began shaking, "He's suffering and he could go any minute. I was thinking that instead of sleeping in his cabin, I could sleep with Aimee and Harrison tonight instead."

"We all share cabins here, Quest. All of us. I don't see the issue," Gerrard said with a relatively calm tone.

This tone was a power that Gerrard had. Ultimately, it was patronizing. Despite the potential threats at hand, his tone was enough to make others question whether or not situations really did seem dire. Quest looked around, hoping that someone would at least side with her. She looked over at Aimee, someone she considered a close friend. However, once Aimee noticed the desperation in her eyes, she faced forward and kept her eyes on Gerrard, who was looking right back at her.

After a moment's silence that everyone but Gerrard considered awkward, he concluded the gathering with no change of heart on Quest's situation. Everyone walked out the backdoor of the chapel and into the yard of the property—the official habitat of the Haven. The yard was about an acre, and built close together were cabins large enough to house three to four members each. Dispersed at the most inner part of the field were three bonfires, controlled in order to avoid the Fallen wandering around after dark. The Haven was completely open to the forest and woodlands that surrounded it, so it was possible for the Fallen to welcome themselves in at any given moment. Usually, they would just dim-witted walk into the crackling fires and threaten nothing but the air with the sickening scent of their burning flesh.

Jolyn and Felix shared a cabin with Tristen, who had yet to move in with the committee. He had it all to himself before they arrived, which was probably one of the reasons why he was so delightfully irritated by them. Since he was a higher-up, Tristen usually lagged behind and it gave the undercovered survivors to alleviate themselves of a few stresses. So, once both boys entered their cabin, Jolyn locked the door behind them and changed into their nightclothes. As a precaution, Felix would leave his boots on in case they had to go running out again. Looking over at Jolyn, he noticed a zoned-out look on his face. He was clearly deep in thought about something. Felix walked over and sat beside him on the bed. He reached over and pecked him twice on the cheek,

"We're alone," he said before giving him a kiss by the neck, "...Tristen isn't here yet."

When he wasn't given the reaction he expected, Felix grumbled off to his bed and kicked his shoes off, pulling the sheets over his head.

"Do you think she deserves to be put in that situation?"

"Who?" Felix said from underneath his sheets.

"Quest," Jolyn whispered even lower, "I understand where she's coming from. I wouldn't want to do it either."

Felix slightly uncovered his head,

"Well, she did volunteer to look over him...she could've said no from the beginning."

Jolyn paused,

"I guess so."

Suddenly, there was a loud pounding on the door. Tristen could be heard swearing after he wasn't let in during his first attempt at turning the doorknob. Wanting to avoid drama, Felix pulled the sheets back over his head and turned himself over. Although he wasn't willing to, Jolyn stood up to let him in, seeing Tristen glaring right at him. His lip snarled before speaking,

"How many times do I have to tell you not to lock my damn door?"

Going by Gael, Jolyn apologized. Felix was already burrowed in his bed and although he was awake literally seconds before Tristen walked in, he pretended to be asleep because it meant lighting the fireplace. Jolyn rolled his eyes after noticing Felix's boots sitting neatly beside his bedside. So Jolyn went to get his own pair. Grabbing a lit lantern, Jolyn and Tristen exited the cabin and walked back to the chapel where, along the side, there was a stack of chopped wood. Tristen brought back as many as he could, carrying about three underneath each arm. Seeing that he held the lantern in one hand, Jolyn could only carry three. Once they returned, Jolyn crawled into bed and let Tristen take care of lighting the fireplace. Once it was officially lit, he went to sleep as well.

About three to four hours later, the entire camp fell into their silent slumber. Every night, two members, usually the higher-ups, would put out the bonfires before declaring everyone safely inside and the Haven free of any of the Fallen. Everyone was wrapped in heavy blankets, maintaining warmth with the dying crackles from their respective fireplaces.

As time went on and on, it was around the early hours of the morning. Unfortunately for the Mortemists, Apollo passed in his sleep within the first two hours of the camp falling silent. Seeing that it had yet to cause any commotion or discourse, it was ultimately what people would consider a peaceful death. However, the question remained: Was any death peaceful any more? The problem with this issue was that no one knew about Apollo. As everyone was recently reminded, Quest was the one responsible for watching over him. Spending every waking moment with him, she could see him slipping day by day. The responsibility to care for a dying man was something Quest never imagined doing and it was beginning to take its toll on her by giving her extremely paranoid and worrisome nights. Quest sat in a chair wrapped in a blanket at a safe distance from the fireplace. Suddenly, she heard a loud shattering that startled her awake. She gave a sharp inhale and looked around for the source. Looking down at the floor, she saw the porcelain cup of tea she prepared for Apollo the night before. Tea which he never drank from. She blinked repeatedly, hoping her eyes got used to the dim light the fireplace gave of. As she focused even more, she saw a shadowy figure making its way into the far left corner of the room—a couple of feet away from both the fireplace and her. The flames died down from the time they were lit and all it was capable of doing was revealing the outlines of Apollo's figure. He was walking into the bookshelf, drawn by the loud tickings of a clock on one of the shelves. Listening closely, she could hear unintelligible snarls and groans that sounded all too familiar. As much as she tried to maintain some easy breaths, her heart pumped out of control. Slowly, sitting up, she reached over towards the toolset for the fireplace all while keeping her eyes on Apollo. Just then, the dismal flame went out. The young Mortemist panicked and accidentally knocked the tools down, causing a loud clatter. She picked up whichever tool and felt around the end of it, nearly pricking her fingers. Swiftly she stood up, hearing Apollo's footsteps shuffle towards her. He pinned her against the opposite side of the room, allowing her to knock her head against a lamp installed on the wall, prompting her to drop the poker. Quest shrieked as loudly as she could, calling for help. But with the roaring winds outside and the distance between the cabins, she knew it would be unlikely that someone would come to her rescue. At this point, Apollo had a mouthful of Quest's hair, attempting to take a huge chomp from her scalp. Soon he eventually grabbed a handful of her locks and no amount of fuss or fight could get him to release her. Without much ability to move, she kept one arm extended and pressed against Apollo's chest to keep him at a distance. His hunger for her was strenuous and he seemed to be getting stronger as time went on. With the poker too far out of reach, one of Quest's arms searched around for something—anything that could be of use. Finally, she felt a heavy hard covered book. So heavy that her wrist painfully cramped as she struck Apollo in the face with it. She struck him a few more times until he finally let go and pushed him back. Quickly bending down to retrieve the poker, she held it by the shaft with both hands. Once she stood erect, Apollo needed no more than a second to recover from his hit. With arms outstretched, he reached towards her again and rushed towards her. Holding it high up around his eye level she screamed while she chucked it forward into Apollo's eye socket. Blood squirted out of his face and Quest turned away seconds before any could get into her mouth, nose, or spaces of her eyes. Quest was stunned and stared at Apollo's body as it laid in front of her with the rod protruding from his face. She carefully stepped over its body and wiped away her bloody face, staining her white pajamas. Breathless and essentially hopeless, she walked over to Apollo's bed and sat at the edge. As she remained in silence, tears streamed down her cheeks.

In the very early hours of the next morning, Jolyn and Felix were both being shaken awake by Tristen. Being light sleepers, their attention was gathered in no time. Jolyn always felt comfortable facing the wall meanwhile Felix always wrapped his comforter over his head, even in the hottest of weathers. Ever since the farm, it was part of Felix's everyday lifestyle to wake up early hours of the morning but today felt too early to everyone's liking. Tristen had thin lines of blood on the lower parts of his pants. After Jolyn pointed it out, Tristen ignored them and just requested they follow.

"What time is it?" Jolyn asked after Felix inquired why today felt so irregular.

"Come. Quickly. Gerrard is waiting for us. This is important."

Tristen had a bad habit of leaving the door ajar whenever he made a brief stop to the cabin and the cold air was quick to cut into Jolyn's sleep time. Both he and Felix got themselves out of bed and put on their coats and boots over their sleepwear. Once they stepped out of the cabin, they realized one of the bonfires was lit, and standing around it were other Mortemists. The bonfires were never lit this early considering that sunup would peak soon. If they weren't lit after 6 PM, it was usually for burial ceremonies for "the Fallen". Once Tristen announced that everyone was here, the circle formed by the Mortemists broke apart upon his entry and allowed the remaining three to join—revealing Gerrard, Quest, and Apollo's dead body in the center near the bonfire. Quest stood vulnerably, keeping her head down, unable to look into the eyes of anyone surrounding her. They had participated in the burials before, but something about this was off. It was the first time they had seen anything like this. The passing of Apollo certainly had the entire camp shaken up but there seemed to be another feeling directed at Quest as if she were already as good as dead. Gerrard welcomed both of them by their aliases and turned his attention back to Quest. This is where it began,

"As all of you can see, Apollo has passed away and we have come to mourn him. Unfortunately, Apollo wasn't given any proper deliverance. He was defiled after he became one with the Fallen," Gerrard eerily turned his head to Quest, she had avoided looking up at anyone until she heard her name being spoken, "Quest. Tell us what happened," Gerrard stepped aside as if she was given the floor.

"I killed him."

"And you are fully aware of what happens to people who defile the Fallen? Especially those close to us who pass?"

Tears rolled down Quest's cheeks as she turned away, feeling his and everyone's cruel gaze watch over her—cruel in a sense that no one would probably step in to save her. Suddenly, someone else spoke without authorization. She was hesitant at first, struggling to get the words out, but seeing that all eyes were on her, she managed to say something,

"Gerrard. I-I don't think she meant it."

Gerrard kept his composure, having a faint smirk appear through his speaking,

"I found a poker in his head. What makes you think she didn't mean it? She intended to kill him."

"Yes, because he was going to kill me if I didn't!" Quest spoke up for herself through a shaky voice.

Jolyn carefully studied the disputes in silence, whereas Felix was so riled with panic, he hadn't figured out yet if this was a citizen's trial for a public execution. Gerrard went on to explain that this was the way things were done. But to his dismay, people were becoming unfavorable of it. From the first time it happened, people didn't know what to say. And the more it happened, it sure kept everyone in line. He requested that Quest kneel in the cold dirt and hold out both of her arms. Soon afterward, she was instructed to roll up her sleeves and expose her wrists upright. Gerrard turned and looked at Astrid, another one of his most trusted people on the committee, and requested her to get something from their adorned cabin. Both Jolyn and Felix were unsure what was about to occur, but from the looks on each other's faces, they were clearly sickened.

"Stop him," Jolyn muttered, nudging Tristen in the elbow.

"I can't!" he aggressively nudged back.

"What do you mean you can't? Aren't you like his apprentice or whatever?" Felix fumbled, "The hell is going on? Are they going to kill her?"

Feeling as if Jolyn's gaze were to set him ablaze, he glanced over him one last time before feeling guilty enough and stepping forward. He froze in place and watched as Astrid returned with a pair of thin, worn-out cables in hand. Tristen had seen them used on others before and witnessing the punishments alone was unsettling. Uncertain, Tristen took another step forward, taking off his cowboy hat, hoping it'd be seen as some sign of respect. Gerrard carefully looked at him as he broke the bounds of the circle,

"What is it, Tristen?" Gerrard questioned. Tristen looked at the multiple pairs of eyes that were counting on him to be the voice of reason—or the only voice that could likely get through to Gerrard without facing any scrutiny. Tristen buried his hands in his coat pockets, having his fingers tremble from the mere attempt to approach his leader. Gerrard smiled, having an itch scratched every time he had an epiphany about the intimidation he evoked among others, "I asked what is it, Tristen?"

"Maybe...we shouldn't do this tonight," Tristen broke eye contact.

He looked down at Quest, who was on her knees, tear-drenched skin reflecting vibrantly off the bonfires. Gerrard did nothing but give a scoff. A visible cloud of breath escaped his nostrils and vanished in the cold air within seconds,

"Get back in line," Gerrard dismissed as if he were a measly school child.

"I just think…"

"Get. Back. In. Line…" Gerrard sternly said, clenching his cord even tighter, "I didn't recently promote you to think. I promoted you to do what needs to be done. Wouldn't you agree?"

Tristen feebly nodded with a gulp and took a couple of steps backward until he was right between Jolyn and Felix again. Stunned by that alone, the entire group realized there was nothing left that could be done to save Quest the embarrassment, humiliation, and torture. Quest sat with one wrist out, had her sleeves rolled up while two of Gerrard's men held her shoulders. Gerrard prepped himself and swung the first lash, hearing it slice through the air with a low whistle. Once the blow landed, Quest let out a low grunt, having Gerrard follow up with a couple more.