Everywhere stood reminders of days past.
Twisted remnants and rotting frames stood free and high, holding a losing rearguard for civilization against the ever-encroaching forest already atop its walls. And away those walls would soon crumble—little by little—until only the forest remained.
It only took twenty years for all of New England to fall.
Shards of broken glass crunched beneath Lian's boot as he entered the next sagging, decrepit building, the voices of the others emanating from down the avenue as the foraging party went about its work.
Cupboards sat empty, shelves cleaned out, boxes ripped open, closets looted—not a scrap left untaken, not a stone unturned. Just as the last had been, just as the next would.
Lian sighed.
He remembered this town: rolling pastures, roaring highways, and summer days spent in the shade of the buildings. Now it was forest. Disused avenues and cracking stone foundations held the thickets at bay, though grassy tendrils already pierced the gaps in the town's asphalt shield; the rearguard wouldn't hold for long.
Footfalls came up the stone walkway.
"Find anything?"
Lian shook his head. "Just as empty as the last time we looted it."
A boy with dirty blonde hair peeked through the door frame, "So another fruitless foraging trip for HQ?"
"Sounds about right – whatever gets us out of here sooner," said Lian. "Go get the rest of the team and get them ready to leave, I want to be back at base as soon as possible."
Tristan nodded quickly as he left to go collect the rest of the detail.
Lian brought a hand to his scraggly gray beard. He remembered this building; a vague figure in a half-forgotten dream, its peeling white paint calling him back. He couldn't remember what it was.
Broken glass shimmered at the edges of the large window frame near the door. Tipped display racks littered the floor, and illegible advertisements hung over a shattered counter. He'd remember someday.
Lian left through the front door despite the shattered display windows around it.
The other four team members stood at the center of the road, bags on the ground, counting the day's loot. They measured a total of nothing. But it was enough to keep them from having to venture to the town center.
They set off on foot back to the small base, sticking to what few roads and open fields remained to avoid the woods.
Lian gently rested his hands above his pistol holster as they passed a giant armored skull on the roadside, nestled in the sprouting grass of early spring: a remnant of The Great Famine.
He shuttered, as he always did, as he pondered what had brought about the demise of such a mighty creature. Perhaps it had been one of the lucky ones: killed in a car accident or by the sheer shock of the transformation.
It was pleasant to imagine it had a swift end, even if he knew the much more likely lot this creature suffered: prolonged, slow starvation, as all the largest of the new elementals did then. At least some of them died principled, unwilling to become the predators they had to be to survive – most abandoned them and starved anyway.
In any case, its skull made a memorable waypoint for the living.
His team members filed behind him, the lieutenant at the rear of the open line as they took a wide arc around the colossal skull. Lian thought it prudent to let sleeping giants lie.
He looked at the young man behind him. Tristan's greasy, dirty-blonde hair spilled out of his helmet, shimmering almost supernaturally as he pushed it out of his eyes yet again. Lian had never gotten the boy's age, but he had that unburdened disposition that only those that couldn't remember the world before held. After all, what did the end of life as it was known mean to those who didn't know life yet?
"Do you think that new rifle of yours could kill it?" Lian nodded towards the skull.
Tristan grinned. "I don't think the word 'kill' would do it justice."
"And would it do the same to that Aagron herd?"
"I've been thinking about that, actually," he swung the rifle off his shoulder, aiming it at the skull, "I figure the armor on them can't be too thick, considering they can still move."
"But isn't their armor made of some ultra-light, science-defying nonsense?"
"Then it's probably not as strong." Tristan shrugged. "you're the one who went to college when everyone still did that, you should know."
"I majored in communications."
The boy furrowed his brow. "Doesn't that mean you should know how to fix our radio next time it breaks?"
"That's not what communications is," Lian said, "It's more like arguing and debate."
"Then tell me how you like this argument: big gun puts big holes in everything."
His chuckle broke the tense silence, though he couldn't disagree: the monstrous gun slung over the boy's shoulder reminded him more of the black-powder muskets of old than the newest firearm in the world — purpose-built to take down massive elementals. It was an ugly, industrial thing. The only thing greater than its firepower was its weight. Lian was glad he didn't have to carry the one assigned to his squad, and he suspected that he wasn't the only one.
Shade bled across the pavement of the wooded lane as afternoon drew on, the woods surrounding the faded asphalt darkening as the group approached the base. The first buds and blossoms were poking their heads from the soil, spring fast approaching. Fortunately, the foliage remained sparse enough to allow the squad to see into the woods beyond. It remained lifeless for now.
The sun was just beginning to fall out of sight when the last of the squad hurried into the base. Everyone who had lived this long knew night was no longer a time to be caught outside.
The fence gate slammed shut as the squad approached the large rusty warehouse at the heart of the base, guards from the other squad composing the fighting element of the platoon greeting them as they passed. 100 yards of cleared ground surrounded the warehouse, each side watched by two guards. The little fortress besieged by forest.
The rusty door hinges protested as he pushed the side door open. They walked across the mostly empty warehouse, with the sleeping quarters arranged haphazardly in the far corner and fuel tanks stored at the front of the room for refueling passing supply convoys—their gasoline and diesel fumes heavy in the air.
The squad dispersed, most heading towards the corner where the cots were laid out. Lian entered the break room—which they had converted to serve as the command post of the platoon—at the back corner of the warehouse. The room was cramped, even with the only furniture being the first lieutenant's wooden chair and a folding table with the platoon's radio and local maps on it. The radio rattled off continuously, chatter filling the usually quiet comms.
The outpost's commander, Alex, sat on his stool, observing the two as they entered. Alex was in his early thirties, eleven years Lian's junior. He was 11 when the transformation happened, and stress had permanently etched his face with graying beards and early wrinkles.
"Who the hell are you?" Alex said, nodding at Tristan.
He scowled for a moment before a look of realization came over him and he leaned back in his chair, sighing.
"Good one Tris. Good one."
Lian laughed as Tristan grinned ear-to-ear.
"Thank you, sir, Lian helped me out a little."
The boy's image shifted as though viewed through a distorted mirror for a moment, before he fizzled away entirely, a beaming Zoroark standing in his place – the only elemental on the post due to his species' ability to interpret between humans and elementals.
"I'm surprised he didn't notice the hair, it seemed a little shiny to me," Lian said.
"That's because you were looking so close—nobody else would've noticed unless they were specifically looking for signs I was using an illusion."
"Fooled me," Alex said, looking over to Lian, "Anyway, I assume your guys found nothing again?"
"Just as empty as the last time we looted it—again."
"And you kept them away from that Aagron herd passing through?"
"We didn't see them today."
"That's concerning," Alex said, bringing a hand to his unshaven beard as he trailed off.
"Would you like me to get the drone, sir?" Tristan asked.
Alex nodded. "I put it in the corner next to the ammo cases."
Tristan nodded and pumped his fist, bolting out of the room and leaving the two men watching as the door squeaked on its hinges.
Lian sighed. "I better get somebody to supervise him before he crashes it in the woods again."
"That won't be necessary," Alex said, an unusual coldness in his hushed voice, "I have something else for you."
He turned back to Alex, squaring up to him. His insides churned. His face showed nothing.
"And what would that be sir?"
"Do you know a Joseph Stal?"
"I've heard the name once or twice – who is he?"
"Some bigwig with the Fedaykin."
Fedaykin. The word rolled off the tongue like venom down the tooth of a snake. They would often come through the supply depots on the path to more active bases on the frontier, each one possessed with spreading the word of the New Prophet and the constantly-changing orthodoxy around him.
They also had the authority to execute anyone without trial.
"And what do those creeps have to do with me?" Lian asked in a similarly hushed tone.
"Do you know a Joseph Greenwood?"
Long nights spent at house parties or before the game-time screen; autumn afternoons in the back yard; summer days on the curb; winter evenings before the hearth— it all came back to him, and his blood ran cold.
A wave of sorrow followed, the dull, aching melancholy of old loss; a sharp edge of fresh fear twisted with anticipation and hope.
His demeanor showed none of it.
"What's my brother got to do with some Fedaykin goon?" he asked. The question scared him. It had to come out eventually.
"They're the same person, apparently."
"And where'd you learn that?"
"In the message he sent us, or more accurately," Alex said, "the message he has for you."
Long ago, when night came, the first primal ancestors of man hid in caves behind fires, telling stories of the monsters lurking in the dark — just at the edge of our perception. Now again had the time come for humanity to huddle in fear of the things that lay hidden in the night.
Lian and Tristan stood at their guard post, sitting on stools in the guard tower, dutifully looking over the empty field in front of them: the 100 yards that separated the fence from the terrors hidden in the shaded woods.
"So the Fedyakin want to meet you, of all people?," the zoroark asked.
"So I've been told," Lian said. "I'm afraid they might have a little more for us than just a chat, however."
"You think they're up to something?"
"I think they've already done it, did you hear the radio earlier?"
"Of course I did – I hear everything you loud fucks say." The Zoroark's ears twitched. "Didn't seem like anything big was going on."
"What were they on about then?"
"You know that's all confidential and I'm not allowed to tell you," Tristan said, "anyway, they were talking about a convoy of something moving south."
"South? Towards us?"
"From the sound of it." Tristan shrugged.
A distant branch cracked in the woods in front of them. The pair scanned the moonlit grass for signs of movement, forest beyond a wall of darkness. Fireflies flashed across the field in front of them; the grass waved lazily in the warm breeze. All else was silent.
"Must be something important if they're gonna escort it away from the frontier," Lian said after a moment.
"And put helicopters on the case," Tristan added.
Lian nodded, adjusting the heavy rifle sitting on his lap.
"Do you think they finally got that guy they were looking for up there? What's his name?" Tristan said.
"The guy that led the Archies during that raid on Boston a couple years ago?"
"Yeah, that guy."
He thought for a moment.
"I doubt it. If the Fedaykin caught him, or any psychic type for that matter, they would've killed them on the spot," Lian said. "Unless they're bringing back his head to stick it on a pike."
"What else do you think it could be then?"
"Either it's a nuke, or more likely, it's not a convoy at all– it's a hunting party."
"Hunting party?"
"Chasing a caravan of fleeing psychics or a group of Archies."
Another crack, louder, echoing out of the forest beyond. It faded into the ambiance of crickets. Lian reached down, pulling his rifle back up to his shoulder, slowly rising from his stool.
"Hear anything?" He asked Tristan, who was now standing as well, ears perked.
"It's big. Two legs. I'm only hearing one."
Lian started down the stairs winding around the short tower, quietly, his eyes and rifle fixed on the tree line - 100 yards ahead. The Zoroark stayed in the tower, eyes wide, rifle at his shoulder.
A moment came and went. A long, metallic shuttering howl filled the night: the distinct call of an Aagron.
"What's he doing out here at night?" The dark-type whispered.
"Might be rabid – I haven't seen an Aagron alone like this in a long time, much less at this hour."
"Can't smell him," Tristan said, his snout twitching. "He's downwind."
A shining head, armored in the faux-steel of the Aagron, emerged into the pale moon's gaze. Its movement was slow, methodical; it scanned the forest deliberately, like a soldier at war. It didn't take long to find the enemy.
Both trained their rifles on the armored steel-type, intently staring down the slowly approaching steel-type.
"Not rabid." Tristan noted.
The Steel-type took two steps into the cleared ground, its hulking seven-foot frame emerging from the shade, deep blue eyes locked on the guards aiming at him.
Lian rarely saw anything strange now – twenty years after the transformation, everything had fallen into a relatively sensible status quo – the herds and packs had formed, and the last of the rogue elementals had died off years ago. This wasn't right.
"Stay back motherfucker!" He shouted, projecting his voice across the cleared ground. He doubted the Aagron could hear his words, but the tone would be obvious at any range: he was making a threat. The Aagron moved another step in. Tristan growled a little, his hackles instinctively raised.
Lain shouted again, gun still trained on the elemental. "Don't make me do this!" He waved his gun a little, trying to illustrate his point.
Inside the warehouse, the platoon stirred, the noise outside prompting the soldiers in their assorted cots in the corner of the building to trickle out, disoriented and groggy as they took in the scene unfolding before them.
The Aagron kept walking, approaching the fenceline.
90 yards. 80. 70.
More of the platoon rallied behind the fence, a loose line of half-dressed militiamen forming as the offending elemental drew closer.
60 yards. 55.
"Felix already negotiated this with us!" Lian shouted. "There's no reason to die here, man!"
50.
Tristan fired.
The large bullet snapped over the Aagron's head, the percussion hitting everyone nearby like a punch, the gun cycling with a heavy, industrial clunking noise. The Aagron stopped, 45 yards away, intently staring at the line of soldiers in front of it with a detached curiosity. The echo of the gunshot faded into the night, the ambient sound of the forest scared into tense silence as the standoff rolled on. Fireflies blinked at the edges of the forest. The Aagron took a step forward.
It would never get the chance to take another.
The blast of a dozen rifles ripped through the night as the Aagron charged the fenceline. The platoon's armor-piercing rounds punched hole after hole in the steel, sprays of blood spilling out into the moonlight.
It got twenty yards before falling forward, its face completely detached and indifferent even as it bled to death on the grass. Tristan shot it's mangled form one more time for good measure.
"Well, fuck me."
Its body settled 20 yards from the fence. The grass shined in dark crimson as the echoes reverberated in the night.
The rest of the Platoon stood in the moonlight a few minutes more, before returning to the warehouse, in an attempt to sleep. Only the two guards, Alex, and a few stragglers smoking cigarettes at the door stayed outside.
Eventually, Lian and Alex opened the gate and approached the corpse, Tristan following a few paces behind, and the stragglers watching from behind the fence.
"What the fuck were you thinking?" Alex asked, looking at the elemental's shattered remains.
"I'm afraid he wasn't thinking at all. At least not for himself."
"You're not saying?" Tristan asked.
"I am."
"He was possessed by a psychic type. Rogue elementals are vicious animals, but they're not stupid or suicidal; they would've backed off after the warning shot."
The commander said, "Jesus, I haven't seen Arceists operating around here in years."
Tristan scanned the treeline again, stepping between the two humans and the shaded forest 80 yards away. He shouldered his rifle.
"And if they're sending possessed elementals at us," Alex, the commander, continued, "They're probing our defenses."
Lian shouldered his rifle, warily scanning the forest. He'd fought Arceists – or 'Archies' as they were known – before. They weren't an enemy to underestimate.
Alex stood, running a hand through his whitening hair. "Leave the body here for now, I need to report this to command. Lian, get another guard rotation going, I want 4 guards per direction for tonight."
Lian nodded. The trio backed away, watching the treeline intensely until they reached the fence again.
The rest of the night passed uneasily, 16 of the posts' 29 soldiers assigned to watching their own section of the fenceline – their own one hundred yards.
Only a few years had passed since the chaos of the initial transformation had finally settled into a new equilibrium in the great forests.
And already, New England was going back to war.