The Day the Lights Went Out [Langschwert x Cal]

[Cal]

The sigh that slipped from between her lips was one of frustration. Bright aquamarine eyes were staring outside of the window with feigned interest. Somewhere in the distance she heard her father mumble and on occasion shout to no one and nothing in particular.  He was doing that a lot these days. Catherine closed her eyes for a brief moment before dragging them into the direction her father was speaking from. An annoyed little sigh was brought forth from between her lips again as she saw her father pace around the kitchen, talking to himself. She caught broken sentences such as ‘Told them it would happen. Wouldn’t listen.’ With every passing day, there was less and less food. Less and less comfort. Less and less of the world she once knew.

Her father was old by any standard, but that shouldn’t have been an excuse for his bouts of sheer insanity. A few months ago (or had it been a year by now? She did not know) her father had told her and her sisters to keep an emergency bag at the ready. Just in case. She’d grown to hate that phrase. Just in case.. Nothing had prepared her for what came next, though. It was March the 14th, 2016. Her father shouted and screamed in the middle of the night, waking the young girls and their mother up from their comfortable, upscale city apartment. What happened next was a blur. She barely managed to grab her iPhone and iPad, those taking precedence over her bag, before they were all dragged out of their beds.

She remembered driving for hours upon hours. Skyscrapers and malls turned into suburbia, suburbia turned into smaller cities, smaller cities turned into towns and eventually, even the small towns dissolved completely, until there was nothing left but wasteland. The cabin they were brought to had once belonged to her great-great-grandfather, or something, and it looked at least twice as old. She’d screamed. Protested. Cried and shouted. Nothing helped. The power went shortly after. The car was dead. There was no escape from isolation. Her father’s supposed salvation had become Catherine’s worst nightmare.

All of a sudden, she had to grow up, something which she hadn’t been told would happen so soon. Catherine turned 17 on March the 15th, 2016. The day the world went back to the stone ages within a blink of an eye. Without TV, Cath instantly turned to her luxury items, her trusted iPhone and iPad. She thought back on that particular incident. She reached for her phone, and found it dead. Her tablet was, quite suddenly, without power too. They simply didn’t work, while they had been fully charged only seconds prior. The thought brought a crimson color of shame to her cheeks, as she remembered how she’d thrown a fit, screeching at the top of her lungs. The hard slap of her father’s hand descending upon her cheek was enough to silence her.

Her father had ventured out after the second month. He was gone for a fortnight, and came back with tales that made her blood run cold. The world had seemingly quickly descended into chaos. Every electronic device had stopped working in a blink of an eye, it wasn’t just their cursed cabin. Food was in extremely short supplies, the contact to the outside world absolutely broken. People had started, apparently, to feast on each other. Her dad had started shaking at this point, his eyes welling up with tears.

Catherine had not believed him, until that point. He described creatures that were once human, but had been taken over by demons. Diseased riddled, deformed, mutant-esque beings that feasted on human flesh. The country was apparently riddled with them, and her and her sisters were told that they should be happy that they lived in such a remote area. The Eaters, as they were called, would not get them there. Her father was so convincing, talked such a credible tale, that she was nearly inclined to believe him. Nearly.

Still, her family remained in the cabin. Over the past months, Catherine had mellowed, but not by much. She was still fiercely headstrong and undeniably stubborn, that part of her youth she was unwilling to let go. Still, the events of the past months seemed so very distant. Nothing had happened for at least half a year, except for her father having the occasional fit. So, she rolled her eyes at the raving man and turned back to look out the window.

What she saw made the scream die in her throat.

Eaters.

She knew it was them. She knew her father had been telling the truth the moment they saw them. It was a harrowing realisation.

For a moment it felt as if the world really didn’t spin anymore. The hideous creatures had managed to sneak up the land and into the garden. Finding nothing worthy of nutrition, they suddenly raised their heads to the cabin. They stared straight at Catherine. None of them moved. Her heart was frozen in her chest as the color drained from her face completely. Perhaps they couldn’t see her if she didn’t move? That’s a fucking Tyrannosaurus Rex, you idiot! She thought to herself. And yet she remained unmoving, as did they. Until her dad randomly threw a pot into a corner, the metal making a loud sound in protest.

She didn’t know who moved first, them or she. Her feet took her to the door instantly, bolting it shut with just a split second to spare. As the door was locked and bolted shut, they started pounding on it nearly straight away. Maniacal laughter sounded, horrible, haunting laughter that made the bile rise up her throat. Cath wasted no time in running towards her father, shouting for her mother and sisters at the same time. They were in the backroom sowing, sowing for god sakes. When they joined them in the kitchen they heard the noises of the Eaters, and they too froze.

Catherine ran straight into the backroom and grabbed the large shotgun that hang from the wall. She heard a crash, indicating that they had broken down the door, and bolted back into the kitchen. Instinct kicked in, and she stood before her parents and sister, holding the shotgun in front of her and cocking it back. Three.. four.. five of the monsters slithered in, rags hanging from their gaunt, weathered bodies. She’d almost feel sorry for them. Had it been that they were not trying to fucking eat her and her family alive.

The front Eater took a step forward, and she let out a shrill scream as she pulled the trigger. There was a puff of smoke and a sizzle, a small crack, and the pellets came rolling out of the casing and the barrel, trickling onto the floor. Somehow the gunpowder hadn’t ignited, somehow, something went horrible wrong.

Nothing happened.

Nothing fucking happened.

The Eater seemed to grin, a horrible hissing sound coming from him, although she could not really tell by the way his deformed face leered at her. She took a step back and pulled the trigger again, another, another, again, again, until she bumped into her parents. By then tears were streaming down her face. What use was a gun when it didn’t work?! What use was it all. She was going to die. Dear God she was going to die here! Her parents were going to die. Her sisters.

The Eaters came closer. Somewhere she heard a scream, not realizing it was hers.
 

 

[Langschwert]

"Sum Ferrum Dei!"

I am the sword of God.

There arose from the back of the house a cry, a roar like the roar of a thousand lions, just as the eaters started to advance on the small family. There came from the other room a cry from the eaters, a bestial snarl of hatred. A crimson ribbon of blood flew from the other room, spattering the face of the eater that confronted her, causing it to turn just as a line of brilliant silver flashed into view, hardly pausing as it passed through the side of the eater's throat. Not far enough to completely sever the head. No, that would be risky...the blade might well stick in the spine, and that would leave the cutter defenseless. The eater had enough to deal with, though, as it's lifeblood washed over the floor from a cut jugular, falling to the ground still struggling just as her family's savior came into view.

"Quod sordidum munda, O Dei!" Cleanse that which is unclean, O Lord, His voice cried, even as he charged into view. He was dressed in a modified Lorica Segmantata, the armor of the Roman Legions, with banded chest and high, banded shoulders. Those shoulders had been extended into arm guards of similar style, down past his elbows, where they were supplemented by greaves that protected his forearms and the back of his hand with only a single hinge at the wrist. Below, the chest guard was extended to form a skirt of metal plates, separated into four quadrants and joined by lengths of chain maille to allow him the requisite movement. Another length of metal protected his shins, with another hinged section falling down over the top of his stout leather boots. His helmet was reminisicent of a Samurai's helmet, with a solid top and falling, sliding metal plates that fell down to his shoulders to protect his neck from damage. All of the metal was enameled with a dark green spray paint, the exposed edges lined with black paint to display the individual plates of the armor. On the side of his helmet, there is a hand print surrounded by black spray paint, as if a man had laid his hand on the helmet and sprayed around it, which was exactly how it was made.

His sword was a meter long, with a curved blade that was flatter than a katana's might be, with a deep fuller along either side to further lighten it. Silver quillions extended ahead at a forty five degree angle, topped with three pierced circles atop each like some Irish blades once carried. The handle was long enough for two hands in thick gloves, with perhaps an inch of space between the hands to give him extra leverage. The blade was capped with a silver pommel, shaped like the cap of an expensive bottle, that balanced the blade, and provided a weapon in it's own right. That was demonstrated when a back swing took his weapon too far out of line for a blade strike, and he was forced to punch forward into the face of a cannibal, the silvery steel of the pommel striking teeth from the man's head. The blade had been made for a rich man's plaything before the change, but it was far superior to anything he had found before or since. Already, among the people who followed him, it had the reputation of a holy blade, and one of great power.

To the untrained, it seemed he danced amid the carnage, his blade cleaving left and right, yet to him he moved in an easy rhythm. He came out of pflug into langenort to pierce an eater's eye, then quickly retracted to nebenhut only to slash up into ochs to take off a hand reaching for him. The eaters were screaming as they attacked, wishing to be dead on some level in their madness caused by the strain of eating flesh, but they met the wall of steel that stood before them and were driven back. Another green-clad shape rushed into the light beside his leader, dressed in identical armor but carrying a large round shield and a short, thrusting sword clasped in his hand not holding the shield. Another joined on the other side of the first, armed identically to the second. Their fighting style was not so refined as the leader's, learned since the change instead of being practiced well before. A shrill edged cry came from the eaters as they flung themselves at the men, yet none slipped past. Indeed, an ululating wail came but a moment later as two more green-armored men burst in through the front door, the five men wading toward one another in the melee until at last they met, with close to fifteen eaters on the floor around them. They said nothing to the family, yet, as they began methodically going from eater to eater, silencing snarls with quick thrusts of their swords or the halberd one man carried, until at last a quiet fell over the house, the five men in green armor turning to face the back room where the family had taken refuge.

Their path here had not been so easy as her family's.

Michael, the leader, had been born the son of a farmer and a school teacher in a small town just outside of Athens, Georgia. The life he had lived before the change had been a harsh one...his mother was rarely at home, engaged in school work, but his father had filled in for his raising admirably when his mother hadn't been about. The time on the farm, with hard work and a tougher attitude, had strengthened his will and body admirably. He spent his summers camping and hunting, growing good with both a gun and a bow an arrow, taking his first deer by the time he was fifteen and doing it with primitive archery gear by the time he was sixteen. Indeed, save for one thing he was your average, american farm boy.

That one thing was his love of the old. His father had scoffed at him in his attempts to use an old scythe when he was little more than ten years old. Why bother, the old man asked, when there was the combine that could cut the grain, thresh it, and deposit it directly into the truck. When he had bought the two horses, massive Belgian-Percheron crosses and begun to teach them how to draw a plow, his father had scratched his head. They did nothing that a tractor could not do better, and required keeping even when there was no work for them to do. He crafted bows out of saplings, foregoing the advantage of modern gear for the quiet competence of older technology. Still, his father had been indulgent...so long as his chores were done, his father allowed him to work more, as he saw it.

It was, perhaps, inevitable that he picked up the sword soon after that. He trained with a group of fellow enthusiasts, men who studied the sword for fun and recreation, never guessing what a terrible purpose they might one day fulfill. He had even cleaned off the old forge deep in the woods, chasing off the squirrels that had made a nest in the rafters and pulling a hundred years of leaves out of the chimney. Days with a piece of sandpaper had saved the anvil, and several of the more useful hammers had been re-handled. In those days, the farm began to ring with a sound that had not been heard since the days of his great-grandfather, the sound of steel hammer hitting iron. He had made his first suit of armor out of automotive sheet steel, and had refined it over the years until he had it figured out to the best of his rather limited knowledge.

A sword, though, was beyond him. The self-taught blacksmith had tried and tried to make a proper one for himself to replace the wooden sword that he had first trained with, but every one came out unsuitable. It wasn't until his eighteenth birthday, little more than a year before the change, that his father finally gave him one. A short, thrusting blade with a diamond cross section, starting narrow and widening till it was perhaps six inches from the tip, before narrowing to a wicked point. In another age, it would have been called a Gladius, and was the most fearsome weapon for one man to kill another ever invented, until Hiram Maxim invented his water-cooled machine gun and made every other weapon insignificant.

It had been that day that he left for college in the big city of Atlanta, and left the quiet rural life behind.

When the change hit, he had never wished to be home more than he did then. Within a week, the thugs that already infested the city saw it as a change to riot en-masse, and the city had alighted in flame. The police were helpless to stop it, overwhelmed by sheer numbers, and without their normal firepower to help them. Women were raped in the streets, stores were looted, and as the food supply rapidly dwindled more horrible acts were taken. Indeed, no one was quite sure which gang took the first taste of human flesh...but before long, the gangs were conducting raids solely to capture fresh meat, with those who were not in the gangs the easiest meat of all. Michael was gone long before then.

He strapped his armor on his form two days after the change, slung his sword over his left hip, and gathered up what camping supplies he had in a backpack. What food he had in the house, not much, had went into the pack and a small set of saddlebags in a bike he stole, with his bow and a full quiver of arrows sticking up behind him in a makeshift holder against the seat of the bike.

He reached his one time home two months after the change hit, forced to hide from roving bands of outlaws and cannibals. When he had arrived, it had been to a scene of horror. The house was burnt to the ground, as was the blacksmith's shop that he had so lovingly restored. Indeed, when his mother had staggered from the barn he thought there was a ray of light in the darkness...until he had seen the bone clutched in her hand.

It was a femur.

A human femur.

A moment later a half dozen of his friends and neighbors had come, screaming from the barn

There was a moment of frantic fighting as he scrabbled for his sword, striking the snath from his scythe when he was still on the farm, he struck the head from the polearm and buried the wicked point of that sword into his neighbor's throat. He screamed, then, be it for the horror or to remind himself he was alive as his skills were put to use, dancing among the eaters that he had once known. His mother had been the last one he had killed, the blade slashing out frantically to strike her head off even as she came at him with a knife from his home kitchen, no glimmer of recognition in her eyes.

He could only guess his father was among the scattered bones within the barn, and so for his memory, and the memory of what his mother had been, he dragged the eaters inside and fired the barn, standing out well away, watching the last of his old life burn. When he moved away, at last, he fled north into the mountains. A half dozen men had joined him as he walked, men whose homes had met a fate similar to his. One was a computer engineer, another a former police officer, another was an architect, with experience in engineering, and there was even a martial arts instructor among them.. What they shared was a common desire to survive and thrive in this new world, in spite of their fates up till now. Their families accompanied them, brave explorers in this new old world.

He taught them what he knew. How to use the sword, how to make armor, how to make a bow and use them to harvest deer and squirrels and the lives of men. He taught them how to glean sustenance from the wilderness and from farmer's fields, how to harvest livestock and preserve their meat. He was taught other things in turn. The blacksmith of the group taught him how to forge hot metal, not just bang about like he had been. The wife of one of the men, a herbalist, had taught him how to heal with herbs after her husband took a rusty knife into his arm. He found his sword in an abandoned house, an elderly couple sitting at the table, long dead as their medicine gave out. Through a series of lucky turns and skill they stayed alive, and gradually began to increase in number.

Food was scarce as they went north, but people were even more so, and he used that to his advantage as they went, travelling the rough North Georgia Mountains, subsisting largely off of rabbit and deer and wild caught trout, until they came upon the little patch of green deep in the woods just in time to see the band of eaters disappear into the house. Memories of his mother's fate caused his blood to flash to steam, and without remembering aught else he had burst into the house, his sword cleaving a path before him. His men had been slower to catch up.

Yet in that silence after the attack was over, he only then turned and found the family. He had expected them dead, and it showed in a widening of his eyes when they fell upon her with the gun. Carefully, his hands came up to either side of the helmet, releasing the strap that held it on his head and removing the plain mask that covered his face to just below his eyes, before lifting the helmet up and off.

He was still a young man, only two years older than his full majority, still too young to buy alcohol in the pre-change world. His brown hair had been clipped short, close to his head, and he was clean shaven otherwise. Excessive hair bred lice, and few of his men had more than he. Most of them were older, she and her family would note as they removed their helmets, more than one showing touches of gray in their hair, but none were as old as her father. Little more could be told of them beneath the armor, but they all seemed to share a certain ruddiness that spoke of time out in the sun, no matter their former occupation, and broad shoulders that spoke of native strength, honed through a year of hard training. One of the ones that removed a helmet was different from the others, though...a woman, with blonde hair cut in a bob to her shoulders. He did not discriminate based on what was between a person's legs, but there was no secret that she had to work twice as hard as a man to keep up with them...without testerone, a natural steroid, a woman's upper body was just not as strong as a man's, and that was largely what was required for the current methods of fighting.

He was hesitant to break the silence that had descended, but eventually, he did. His voice raised as he flicked his sword to one side, shedding it of blood. "I suppose I ought to introduce myself. I am Michael Caudell, and I must say that it is a good thing we got here when we did." Carefully, he sheathed the sword, turning fully to face them as he spoke. "Are any of you injured? We have a doctor with us, and some medicine, if you are."

 

[Cal]

She didn’t understand.

Her mother was blubbering her hail Mary’s, her sisters were crying and her dad was shouting incoherently. Catherine felt the tears stream down her face, but when the Eater lurched, the scream died in her throat. She was absolutely petrified, her blue green eyes wide with shock, her body trembling. This is how I die. was her last thought, before that voice attacked her numbed mind. That foreign voice which shouted out and deafened her. It was enough to stop the lurching Eater in his tracks, and she could do nothing but stand there like some stupid doll, rooted to the floorboards.

The first thought that occurred to her that their blood was red, just like regular human beings. This seemed odd to her, as the Eaters had long passed the stage of resembling anything remotely human. And yet the red blood flowed, painting the floorboards and walls red, the thick, dark liquid seeping into the cabin just as easily. The second thought that occurred to her was that this all would be a bitch to clean up. The thought was so absurd that laughter threatened to bubble from her throat, even as the last of the creatures was slain and more and more saviors poured into the small cabin. Catherine was on the verge of being overcome with hysteria.

It was then when the sword-wielding maniac lifted that helmet off his head, and Catherine reacted instantly, her eyes narrowing to slits. She held the dysfunctional gun higher, although it shook uncontrollably in her hands. She was as white as a sheet, and it was a miracle that she hadn’t been doused in blood throughout the ruthless attack. Her body was covered in the type of sweat that only occurred when someone was afraid, the fear still gripping her throat painfully tight. Just because this man had slain the Eaters and saved them from a horrible death, didn’t mean that he came with good intentions.

And then Catherine laid eyes upon the man’s face, and found out that he wasn’t a man grown at all, but much, much younger than she had anticipated. The surprise and shock was plain to see upon her face, along with the growing sense of hysteria that threatened to blossom in her chest. Somehow the situation was far too hilarious. Her brain simply couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t register what was happening. She was, quite effectively, going into shock.

Her mother pushed past her instantly and Catherine lowered the gun as her mother practically flung herself at Michael. Cries of thanks and words of appreciation filled the cabin, and her father and sisters soon joined her mother. Her sisters, 9 and 12 respectively, seemed more than happy to be taken in by these strangers, but Catherine was much more suspicious. She stayed back, waiting until her parents had finished their praises of thank you and what not, before they swept through the rest of the band of people, proclaiming their eternal gratitude.

Catherine was left to stand alone in the kitchen, holding the gun awkwardly to the side, as she regarded Michael. Whereas his attire was grand and, to be fair, more than awe-inspiring, hers was as plain as day. Her blue jeans were faded and worn, torn at places here and there. Her upper body adorned a white cotton tank top. It was clear that Catherine had been in the prime of her youth a few months prior. Now, her face was slightly thinner than before, her whole body followed the example shortly after. She had narrow hips, marked by the physical labor she had attempted to save the garden with her mother and the lack of nutrition. Her stomach flat, her breasts neither small nor by any means big. Yes, Catherine was pretty plain.

The hours of spending her time outside had given her skin a deep bronze tan, and had dusted her nose and cheeks with tiny freckles. Her bright auburn hair tumbled down her shoulders freely, as she kept her eyes upon Michael. Suspicion and adoration were clearly trying to fight each other. Once upon a time, she would have tried and get Michael’s number. She’d flirt with him. Laugh at his jokes and talk about how good he looked with her girlfriends afterwards.

Once upon a time.

Now, her entire being was on the edge, hardened by what they had endured, which paled in comparison to Michael’s plight. Still, for the city-girl, it was harrowing.

“I’m Catherine..” Her parents had already introduced themselves as the McIntyre family, coming all the way from Chicago. The girl’s eyes flickered to the other people. They looked hungry, worn, tired, yet united. “We have little to no food left” she said, a slight hint of accusation creeping into her voice. She had to raise her chin slightly to look up at Michael, standing a head shorter than him. Then, her eyes flickered to the floor and to the pool of blood that crept from the dead body of the Eater between the Michael and Catherine. Then, the Eater’s body jerked, a freakish spasm.

Bile rose up in her throat instantly. Her face went white.

She had to go. She had to get out of here. Out of this godforsaken cabin, out of this diseased country. With no warning, Catherine ran past Michael, past the new faces, past her family and bolted outside. There, she ran around the cabin so that she would not be seen from the open broken doorway, leaned against the wall in the shade and, promptly, emptied her stomach contents into the dry grass below. She retched and hurled, keeping her hair back with one hand, using the other to support herself against the wall of the cabin.

Once she could do nothing more but dry heave, she straightened herself, and, with a frustrated little shout, punched a small fist into the wall of the cabin. She didn’t belong here. She wanted to go home.

But there was no home. Not anymore.

 

[Langschwert]

He took in the little family with a sweep of his eyes, his smile genuine. They, at least, looked like a slice of the pre-change world, a bit worse for wear perhaps, but still intact. They hadn't had to fight for food, hadn't had to fight to keep from becoming food like he and his little group of merry men had. They hadn't lost anyone to starvation or a rock thrown by an eater. Until this incursion onto their peaceful little lives, it seemed, they had not even seen violence. Of course, their daughter was another reason to smile, the eldest one. Her, he singled out for a moment, but her mother had other plans as she came forward to offer her thanks.

Within a few moments, the green-clad giants had become normal people, their helmets off and their guard down, swords sheathed and halberd used as a harmless walking staff. The only woman that had come inside the house with them was down on one knee, making candies appear in her hand to the screeching adoration of her youngest sister. Her middle sister was hanging on the arm of the halberd-wielder, who when his helmet came off was revealed to be an older man, around their father's age, who had a ready laugh.

Her father and mother, though, were speaking to him. He accepted their thanks graciously, nodded to her words, and spoke a moment later. "We need to bed down for the night....we speared a couple of wild pigs on our way in, and if we want them to be cooked right we need to get them cooking soon, which means coming to a stop anyway. How about we stop here for the night and let ya'll come to our table? We even have a spare tent and some cots, if ya'd rather stay outside the house." There was a general sound of agreement with that, and he was about to suggest all of them step outside when she suddenly became quite ill, and rushed past him. He didn't say anything...he had that reaction himself, the first time he saw something killed, and he could only guess by their lack of livestock or obvious weapons aside from the shotgun that had been useless for nearly a year now that they had not killed any animals in their entire time here.

And so, he left the matter in the hands of his second in command, a tall black man that he called Deuce, to settle the affairs and get the wagons onto the property. They were broad based, broad axeled wagons drawn by sturdy plow horses, modeled after the Conestoga wagons that had conquered the prairies in decades past, complete with hooped canvas tops that shed rain with repeated applications of water sealant. Within an hour, they would be drawn up in a rough circle with a central fire pit on a little used piece of land that her and her sisters used to play tag on in more innocent days.

His steps, however, were more purposeful. As her family was drawn out to help them set up the wagons, he moved around the house slowly, finding her behind it with the rather obvious signs of her recent retching. He waited until he was sure that it was passed, stepping around a corner to give her the privacy she clearly wanted, before coming up on her as she punched the side of the cabin. Gently, he laid a glove clad hand on her shoulder, speaking as he did so. "Your first time seeing death? It's never easy, or it shouldn't be, but the first time is especially horrible. I'm sorry that you had to see that, but don't let it eat you up inside....it will, if you let it." His tone was gentle, threaded with more than a touch of sympathy and shared emotions.

After a moment, his hand lifted, and he shot her a gentle smile. "If you need to talk, I'm here. We've all been there, all of us who have traveled. When you're ready, we can use a hand in getting set up." With that, assuming she did not flag him down immediately to speak, he turned, and started back toward the front of the cabin. He and three others stripped out of their armor, leaving him working in just a loose fitting, holey pair of jeans that have clearly seen better days. Above them, he wore only his skin, stretched taut over muscle built in the earliest days of his life and refined since the change, with relatively little food and a lot of physical labor.

While he helped set up the tents, another man expertly slaughtered the pigs, cutting them into primal cuts and throwing them into a large pan, where they were tossed with the preciously conserved spices and then laid out on grates near the fire to cook. Normally, they would never waste food doing an actual barbecue, but this day at least they had a surplus, and the McIntyres seemed to need the boost in their spirit. It would still take a while to cook, and while it was the people who had stayed with the wagons...another two in green armor, three more women and a half dozen children ranging in age from an infant in her mother's arms, to a fourteen year old boy who wanted so badly to be given his own armor it hurt, were entertaining her sisters and parents, as well as each other.

As the night wore on, more suits of armor came off as it became apparent that more eaters were not coming, but there was always at least one person in full armor, watching, and none of the warriors who she had first seen attacking ever let their weapons get more than a snatch away from their grasp. A pot of only slightly wrinkled potatoes was put in the coals next to the pork when it was time, and later a couple of precious cans of green peas and carrots were put in a second, smaller pot next to the first. Dinner was served shortly thereafter on wooden plates, less likely to be broken as they moved about, but with good silverware taken from abandoned houses. Water from the stream down the hill, purified through a filter her father had, was the drink of choice, and in spite of the relative plainness of the meal, it was a filling one, which was rare enough these days.

Only after dinner did the instruments come out. One of the women picked up a banjo, the man her middle sister was so taken with had taken up a fiddle, and even Michael joined in after a few minutes, drawing an acoustic guitar from it's case in one of the wagons, resting it across his knee. The music was simple, country tunes, and none of them were what might be called good singers by the basis of the pre-change world, though Michael had a strong baritone and the woman who was part of their A-list, Annabelle, had a surprisingly pleasant soprano. They had to. To get music in this world, one had to make it themselves, without an iPod to help. The fiddle player even drew his bow across the string for a dancing tune, and those people that might be interested in it drew one another out onto a clear patch of dirt near the fire to try their hand at dancing.

The night wore on, eventually drawing down for time to sleep. People wandered off in groups of one or two to speak, though Michael could be found most of the night on the rear tailgate of one of the wagons, tuning his guitar. Likely, he'd still be there when most of the others had gone to sleep, having resigned himself to taking first watch. It was a typical night with them...just a bit of happiness among the destruction, a ray of light in the darkness. Her father was already making plans that night, trying to see how best to take advantage of the man's coming.

 

[Cal]

When she felt the hand upon her shoulder, her reaction was instant and near primal, after having had such a close encounter with Eaters and death. Her emotions were on the edge, her nerves frazzled, so she jerked her shoulder away from his hand and took a few steps back, narrowingly avoiding her own pool of vomit. She would not have been pleased if her bare feet (her Converse had given up long ago, and she wanted to preserve the two other pairs she had), had stepped into that little pool.. Making sure to keep distance between the two, she listened to his words with growing suspicion.

The gentle smile he shot was slightly disarming, and before long he withdrew again, leaving Catherine feeling cold in the shade. When she stepped out into the sun, nothing really changed. She wrapped her arms around her body as she shivered in the sun, struggling to fight the tears. Michael certainly seemed to have the right intentions, but the months of isolation had given Catherine a near skittish characteristic. She was suspicious of everything. Yet he had smiled at her, and told her that if she needed to talk, she could come to him.. It would be nice to chat with someone of her own age, or seemingly close to. Once she’d calm her breathing, she’d wait a few minutes longer, letting the sun soak into her skin and warm her up. Soon she stopped shivering, and moved out to the front of the cabin.

The sight that met her made the blood rush to her cheeks.

It was true that the sun was nigh blistering and took a long time to set, so it was perfectly logical for the men to be in this state of undress. Even she often walked about in her little summer dresses and skirts, anything to combat the scorching heat. However, seeing her savior put the tents up in nothing but those jeans, rooted Catherine to the ground for different reasons entirely. She felt her heart pound in her throat for a brief moment, her eyes wide once more, but this time they roamed over Michael’s upper body, looking quite like a deer caught in the headlights. Until her youngest sister nigh but tackled her and snapped her out of her reverie. Adoration seemed to be gaining the upper hand from its fight with Distaste.

As the day wore on, Catherine was trying to avoid both Michael and the cabin like the plague, despite the fact that the Eaters had been carried out and burnt in the fields, far enough away that the putrid smell could not reach them. The blood would still be there though, but so were her clothes, her belongings.. the only things she had left to remind her of who she was before all this shit happened. At one point, her father called her to him, standing dangerously close to the front door of the cabin. It made her nervous, and she wrapped her arms around her once more.

He berated her for not mingling with the new saviors, for being a selfish little girl. Luckily, he spoke in hushed tones, so none of the newcomers could hear. She was to be nice to them and act her age. This infuriated her, but Catherine nodded her head slowly regardless and accepted her father’s command. The newcomers had, after all, brought so much food, more food than Catherine had seen in weeks. Baked beans and canned fruits were not a diet for a young teenager. The potatoes were a delight, but the pork stunned her into silence and for a moment, she was nothing but grateful for the people who had saved her and her family.

When the music started playing, she even found herself enjoying it, if only a tad. It was crude and unlike anything she’d listened to in her free time, and she it wasn’t likely that she would download this type of music had she still had her devices and internet, but it was.. enjoyable. Simple. It tugged a smile at the corner of her lips as she watched Michael play his guitar, and for a moment, it seemed that she was amongst friends at a bonfire. For a heartbeat, it seemed as if the world had not changed at all. Unfortunately that moment too, passed, as her mother interjected and ushered Catherine and her sisters to sleep. She shared a bed with her sisters inside the cabin, and more often than not she had chosen to sleep on the couch instead. But that bed was inside the cabin, and her parents didn’t seem too keen on stepping a foot into that cursed structure, either.

Her parents had opted to stay outside with the rest of them. For safety. For some strange sense of human belonging. Her father was talking in hushed tones to one of the men who had attacked the Eaters, and Catherine was laying next to her sisters in the tent that the newcomers had erected for them. Slowly. the music and sounds outside hushed to small conversations, which ebbed away into whispers and soon even those died. Sleep, however, did not come to her. Somewhere she heard someone snore. She heard a giggle. But apart from that, all was quiet. Minutes trickled by, she heard how her sisters’ had started falling asleep, and yet.. it did not come to her. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw the wheezing, deformed, harrowing face of the Eater staring her down.

It made her nauseous. It made her panic.

With a sigh, she crawled out of the tent and stretched her arms high above her head, breathing in the night’s air. There was something surreal about the sight that met her. Tents pitched everywhere, the warm night welcoming them. The first human beings she had encountered in six months. It was an odd feeling, and Catherine found herself struggling with the basic concept of human interaction. It frustrated her, being the little socialite that she was, but it seemed a lifetime ago. It had been a lifetime ago.

Suddenly she heard a soft noise of a guitar, sometimes a string was struck, ever so lightly. Her feet moved towards the sound instantly, the silence was making her panic, she had to interact with someone somehow. However, when she reached the rear of one of the wagons, she was slightly surprised to see Michael awake, and instantly embarrassed as she stood there, awkwardly. "Oh. It's you." Once upon a time she’d flip her hair and act flirtatious, but not today. Instead, she raised her right hand to rub her left arm. “Can’t sleep.” She said as an excuse. Almost instantly followed by “How many have you killed?”

It was obvious she was ready for some kind of human interaction, the trauma still fresh in her mind. Catherine leaned against the wagon, watching Michael expectantly, as if she was demanding him to talk to her.

 

[Langschwert]

Had he known the effect that he had on her, he would have worked shirtless the rest of the day, in spite of the chill that the late summer nights heralded. Alas, however, he knew not, and so after the tents were put up he was properly dressed once more. He did not seek her out throughout the day, trusting that she would come to him eventually, were she to feel the need. Indeed, by the time that the pigs they had speared on the way in were little more than bones that would be saved for the stew pot the next day, he thought she was doing pretty well.

He heard her coming long before she actually reached him, of course. The footsteps did not alarm him...having this many people together meant that there would always be someone up and moving, the difference being in if they were trying to move stealthily. These footsteps were not. All the same, it was a surprise to see her out and moving. He had expected her father with another plea to join them, a plea that he was inclined to grant. Not only were there already far more boys in his little band than girls, and his daughters would do well to balance that ratio in the long run, the eldest daughter...intrigued him. She was certainly pretty enough, though she seemed cold. He trusted he could win her over with time, though.

And so, with thoughts of her on his mind it still surprised him when she came around the corner of the wagon, causing him to glance sharply up from his guitar. He heard her first explanation and nodded, turning his head back down to his guitar, lightly strumming a chord to make sure all of the strings agreed to one another as he heard her second question. He didn't answer for a long moment, considering his reply. So long, in fact, that one standing to the side would wonder if he had heard her at all.

Just before said impartial observer would ask him to see if he heard their first question, he spoke, quite suddenly. "I don't count. Enough." He lifted the guitar lightly from his lap, sliding it into the cart behind him as he turned his attention to her. "It's hard to get a count. Some men that I cut, I'm sure, later died of sepsis, and some men that I thought were dead for sure likely lived. I can tell you that I've killed more than I care to, including a couple of friends, my mother, when they were insane, in the days just after the change."

His gray eyes met hers for several long moments. "Dwelling on things, however, won't change them, nor will it make them go away. You do what you must to defend what is yours to protect, and must be content with that." He sighed, leaning against the side of the bed a bit and patting beside him for her even as he drew the sword he had used earlier from where it rested against his hip, resting the slightly curved, silvery surface over his lap. A whetstone was taken from a small pouch in the scabbard, and spat upon, before he slowly started to use the whetstone in small, circular motions to work on the edge of the blade, speaking as he did so. "The sword is an oxymoron. It is the only weapon which was designed solely to kill a human being, and as such it seems that it would be a weapon universally condemned. Yet it is also the weapon of high nobility, as it is the one weapon that can both attack and defend at the same time. Yet it is neither good nor evil, inherently, neither benevolent nor malevolent by design, no matter what use people put it to."

The soft, ringing sound of the whetstone on the blade was the only sound in the night aside from his voice and the soft footfalls of the sentry walking around the camp. He would pause for a moment, looking off into the darkness, as he spoke. "What little peace you had here is about to leave, I think. Something got loose from the CDC down in Atlanta....some super bug that was designed as a weapon, we think. In a healthy human, it leaves you extremely weak, weak as a newborn, but it doesn't kill you." His eyes cut toward her. "For eaters, who are weakened by the diseases they catch from eating uncooked or under cooked meat, it's pretty well universally deadly. Between losing the world they're comfortable in, and being forced to dine on people they once knew, most of them are insane anyway, but they're still sane enough to move away from disease. One group bumps another group out of it's hunting grounds, which bumps another group out. It's like tossing a stone in the middle of a pond...the ripples can be felt far away from the place where the pond is actually hit by the stone."

He tested the edge of the sword for a heartbeat, shaving the back of his arm, before moving on to work on another spot. "I do think, though, that they're going to start dying out soon. They're going to be eating quite a bit of one another, for one thing...that ripple effect will not be bloodless...and it's going to force them out of their haunts. This will be the first winter they've had to face, too, and the cold will kill off a number if they're caught out in the open, I hope. Once that happens, though, you have to start worrying about other survivors. There's an unsavory group that's already forming down in the Hartwell, Lavonia, and Canon area, that are taking women as slaves and twisted parodies of adoption for younger kids. Even aside from them, warlords are popping up like mushrooms after a rain shower. They're more dangerous than the eaters...less numerous, perhaps, but they're all armed with modern weapons and armor, and are somewhat organized. We're going to have to join together with a larger band, or several smaller bands, if we hope to survive, ourselves."

Seemingly satisfied with the edge of his blade, he would replace the whet stone first, then re-sheath the blade before turning to her. "Sorry, I do ramble on. That's probably more than you wanted to know, but it is the truth. You and your family have led a sheltered life here, and I know you've not had cause to worry, but all of you had best start planning before long."

 

[Cal]

Catherine was a bit annoyed at the way Michael seemingly ignored her question. At first she waited, politely, for him to answer her question. He had acknowledged her presence, but had only shot her a brief glance before he turned his attention back to his guitar. The first thought was immediate. She was used to having the boys’ attention focused on her, used to having them fawn over her. Michael seemingly wasn’t giving her the light of day. Catherine knew she didn’t look the best as she could, but that still didn’t mean he could ignore her like this! She bit down onto her bottom lip briefly as she considered repeating herself, and as she parted her lips to speak, he quite suddenly interrupted her.

She looked just a tad disgruntled at the sound of his voice, but listened regardless. Half-hearted at first, but with a growing interest. She kept her eyes upon him, upon his actions as he moved the guitar behind him, upon his features when he turned his attention to her again. And then their eyes locked as he spoke about the kill count, a couple of friends, his own.. mother? Michael would be able to see Catherine’s eyes widen with pure shock, followed instantly by a sadness and a sorrow that was profound. His own mother? How could he have killed his own mother? Even if she was insane, they could have done something, he could have..

But what could he have done, really? What could he have done if she had changed into one of them.. into an Eater. It was clear that she was struggling to come to terms with this new information, and that’s why she hesitated before hopping onto the wagon. When she did, she kept her distance from Michael as far as she could, raising her knees up to her chest and resting her chin upon them. Her petite physique allowed her to wrap her arms around her knees, hugging them close in the growing colder air around them. She was still in her jeans and the tank top from their earlier encounter, clean clothes were a scarcity these days. The well was nearly completely dried up, so mundane things such as drinking water and washing oneself clean took precedence over the washing of clothes.

Fortunately for her, the smell of sweat and fear had long been cleaned and washed away from her body. She used no perfume, having run out of that after the third month, and instead just smelled clean. Catherine smelled of none other than Catherine. A smell so subtle Michael would not been able to pick up on unless he was extremely close to her.

She kept her eyes upon the movements of the whetstone, never having seen a sword up close before, she found herself being mildly fascinated by it. She remembered something from one of her history classes, and murmured absentmindedly when Michael paused and looked off into the darkness. “I heard that the blade was the preferred weapon of choice in Japan, by the samurai. And then the Westerners came and pretty much annihilated them by bringing guns to the table. I suppose that’s where the expression to ‘never bring a knife to a gun fight’ comes from, eh?” Catherine caught herself actually trying to sound interesting, for once. Michael seemed more than apt with the blade, remembering the way he moved effortlessly and killed those Eaters. Adoration seemed to bubble up to the surface again, but she kept her distance, especially when he spoke his next words.

Catherine listened with bated breath. Worry slowly started to creep into her eyes, watching Michael as if to catch him on a lie. They had lived here in peace before he showed up, but she knew that too was a lie. Without him, she would have been dead by now. But panic gripped her throat regardless, and she wrapped her arms around herself a bit tighter. Her eyes dragged away from Michael, her turn to look into the darkness, as she turned her head to rest her cheek into the little dip of her pulled up knees, sighing softly. She seemed to not have any words for the situation, and instead was dumbed into silence. Michael made it seem as if they weren’t safe, no one was safe, but how could he know? He was just a boy himself. A boy who killed his own mother. He’s seen more than you have. Her inner voice spoke out to her.

She fucking hated her inner voice.

After a long stretch of silence, she spoke again, her voice thick with emotion. “Planning, huh.” she found it hard to contain herself. If we go south we’re fucked. If we go north we’re fucked. Going east will probably fuck us sideways and going west will probably kill us all the same just because of the sheer magnitude of the journey. She bit down onto her bottom lip to keep her bitter thoughts from spilling out, and instead made a frustrated little noise and ran her hands through her hair. Catherine reached into the pocket of her jeans to pull out a small hairband. It soothed her, running her fingers through her hair, and she did just that before pulling the thick mane of auburn hair into a tight ponytail.

She raised her head again to look at Michael, clearly struggling with her words. A long time ago, she would have said whatever came to her mind. But now she knew better. Besides, her father had told her to act kindly. Repeatedly saying the f-word did not constitute as ‘kindly’ in his book, of that she was certain. So, Catherine seemingly ignored everything Michael had just said. “I wish the truth didn’t suck so much.” She had the decency to shoot him an apologetic smile. “My father has been talking about going north again. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know where this is going. Salvation lies in the cold. Alaska! Alaska!” she mimicked a typical little Hollywood starlet caught in a B-rated movie, before rolling her eyes. Truth be told, she thought it was a pretty logical assumption, but kept that opinion to herself.

Catherine ended up shrugging her shoulders lightly. They could always go with Michael, her and her family.. but somehow this idea made her hesitant. This would mean having to travel like a band of misfits. A ragged band of nomads. This conflicted with her years of having been overindulged by her parents. Of gadgets and devices and clothes and everything her little heart desired. Then again, the prospect of more Eaters sobered her up sufficiently to know that if Michael should be telling the truth.. they would have more and more of these attacks.

And thus Catherine was conflicted once more. The mental and physical exhaustion seemed to weigh heavily upon her then, and she was barely able to stifle a yawn.

 

[Langschwert]

He had to smile at her analogy of the Samurai, interjecting a comment in before continuing with his story. "They had guns at one point, you know." He murmured, turning to look toward her. "Portuguese and later Dutch traders brought them guns during their war of unification under the Emperor, commanded by Nobunaga. He was well known for his use of guns in war, and it was speculated that was a large part of his victory on the battlefield. They tossed them away after war was won, though, for honor. They invested a lot of importance with their blades, and could not stand to toss them aside as the west did. The end result is the same, of course. They were rolled under the steam roller of Western civilization until the rearming shortly after Admiral Perry's flagship sailed into the harbor and forced them into the modern world. That is part of the danger of hanging onto what was, because the world around you will intrude in it's own good time."

Her words brought him around, and he gave a brief nod as he considered. "North, further into the mountains could work, I suppose....but I don't think it will work long term. When civilized men outnumber eaters once more, the civilized men will wipe them out, and only the very remote places will be left for the eaters, places civilized men don't want...like the higher peaks of the mountains. I think the time for hiding is past."

He paused for a moment, as if considering his words, before finally speaking. "We're headed south and slightly east, to Winder. As I understand it a good portion of the University faculty and students have established a community there, and were able to harvest enough and protect it to start up their own little place. About five thousand, I've heard...enough that eaters won't bother them, but not like the free cities where Tyranny has already started. The only problem is we need to pass through Gainesville or some of it's suburbs to reach it." Gainesville was one of the larger cities in northeastern Georgia, and thus a major handicap. Lake Lanier, however, made the walk around the journey of a season and of the three bridges that traversed the lake, two were in the heart of the city and one was in the midst of the suburbs.

Cities of a certain size and larger ate out 'dead zones' around them in the months after the change, areas where everything that could be eaten, every edible plant, every animal, and sometimes every vulnerable human being, was gone. The larger the city, the larger the dead zone. Atlanta's dead zone was nearly fifty miles away from the city itself, and was only so contained thanks to the rumors that the government was going to be giving out food...food which had never come. Many people died waiting for it, and more little turf wars started when it became obvious that it was never going to come. Gainesville would be smaller...it was only about a quarter of the size of Atlanta, but he worried about what they would find there, if he could risk taking his people through.

He did not share those concerns with her, though, his eyes instead going to her. "I'm going to ask you and your family to travel with us. I think your father is inclined toward it already....there is strength in numbers, and thankfully we've been able to get enough food to live on. I intend to stop by every small hamlet I can find and try to find good people to join us, teach them what we know and see if we can't make it to where we need to go safely."

"Ah, I have something for you." He said, after a moment's pause. He turned behind him, reached into the wagon and withdrew a sheathed short sword from within. The sheath was plain...wooden cored dark leather with a thin loop baldric to sling the weapon over a shoulder, but the handle had, at one point, been fine...a lathe turned top and bottom of finely grained, pale wood with a ribbed handle beneath, currently covered in a dark brown leather that bore sweat marks that said it had been used in many hours of practice. The blade itself was twenty four inches long, with a relatively narrow base widening to a wide point roughly six inches away from the tip before narrowing to a wicked point. It was the sword of the legions of Rome in another age...and the one he had been given by his father, at one point, retired since he had picked up the curved blade.

They had their own blacksmith now, and regularly dismantled the useless cars and trucks they found for raw materials...leaf springs, for blades, axles for tougher tool steel, and sheet steel for new suits of armor. The blade he had offered to her was the template for the standard blade they made now, suitable for close in shield work or battlefield chopping, though it would never be as good of a duelists weapon as the long sword he used now. But they had plenty of templates. He paused for a moment, examining the blade, before offering it to her. "In the morning, I'll start teaching you how to use it, if you'd like. Much more effective these days than a gun. In another two or three generations the saying will be different than it was before the change...it will become 'Never bring a gun to a swordfight,' I think."

So saying, he shot her a grin and a wink. "Besides which, as much as I like to play the knight in shining armor, my armor is far more suited for a black knight than a silver, and I've not even gotten the kiss out of the knightly reward for saving a princess, much less your hand in marriage."

 

[Cal]

She was sufficiently embarrassed when he corrected her about the Japanese ways of warfare. It was clear she was not as educated as Michael, and her attempt at adding something intelligent to the conversation really seemed to backfire right into her face. Catherine was muted into silence, and would remain just that for most of the conversation. She’d listen quietly to Michael, even when he mentioned that she and her family would be asked to travel with the group. The only indication that she understood what he was talking about, was the way her brows raised slightly and her eyes widened a tad.

It wasn’t until he presented the short sword that Catherine reacted. Her eyes were drawn to it instantly, at first with suspicion, but with growing interest once more. She still believed that guns were a much preferred weapon, but after the debacle in the kitchen with her dad’s shotgun, she started to lose faith. Perhaps this wasn’t so bad after all. She did seemingly perk up when her eyes roamed over the blade and he presented it to her. Gingerly, she took it into her hands, before her eyes snapped back up to Michael, shooting him a look as if to say ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me’. Instead she went for a scoff “What, me? I don’t think so.” Yet she still held the blade in her hands, turning it with her slender fingers, examining it closely. Entranced. Her words not quite meeting her actions and words.

And then Michael shot her another one of those disarming grins, but this time she seemed a bit more prepared. This time, she wasn’t muted into silence completely, and much quicker to recover. A light blush hinted as her cheeks, even as she had her retort ready. “Pff. Keep dreaming.” Granted it wasn’t a very clever or witty retort, it was a retort none the less. The words lacked their usual venom and conviction, though. Her thoughts, in all honesty, were elsewhere. They strayed to Michael’s previous words, and he would be able to watch how her eyes focused upon the darkness once more. If what he said was true, they had no other option than to go with them. If what he said was true, the road would be perilous, and she wasn’t entirely sure if her father would survive the journey.

She bit down on her bottom lip briefly again, chewing on the fullness for a second before she darted her tongue out to wet her lips. It was once again made clear to her that the life she knew was over and for a second she felt overcome with an overwhelming sense of loneliness. Slowly she focused her eyes back upon the blade and unsheathed it halfway, pulling the sharp short sword from its sheath, but not in its entirety. She did not possess the proper knowledge to fully appreciate the craftsmanship, but it was a gift. A gift she didn’t deserve. “Thank you for this.. you’re better off giving it to someone else though.” It was blatantly clear she had grown up in the city. The way she carried herself. The way she pronounced certain words. The idea of Catherine with a blade was just silly. And dangerous for all the wrong reasons.

Still.. it wouldn’t hurt if she could protect her family. Her father was too old, her sisters too young. Somewhere, a voice in the back of her mind told her that she shouldn’t have to, that she was just a child herself. However, the more she held the blade, the more it felt comfortable in her hands, the more she enjoyed turning it around, her fingers brushing against the hilt, before she sheathed the blade again. Fascination shone brightly in her eyes, and for a moment, she seemed to lose the pretense of being a stuck up little brat. She raised her head again to watch Michael and, after a moment of keeping her eyes locked with his, she put the blade aside carefully.

Without a warning she inched closer to Michael, closing the short distance between the two. Catherine kept her eyes upon his carefully, tilting her head to the side. She was sure that he was young, even though he was a few years her superior. Still, his gray eyes drew her in, the way his lips curled into a grin made her weak kneed, and the image of Michael in nothing but those jeans was firmly imprinted on her mind. She felt her own lips tug into a grin then, and she inched closer still. Their faces suddenly close, she could feel the heat radiate from his body. There was but an inch or two between their noses, and Catherine was afraid he might be able to hear the way her heart beat in her chest. Then, she simply wrapped her arms around his neck to give him a simple hug. Her smaller body pressed against his briefly, before she pulled back after mere seconds. “Thank you, Michael” their faces close still, a small grin curled along her lips, a coy smile. “Thank you for saving us, truly.” And then she pulled away completely, her warmth disappearing with her.

“Keep that one safe for me until tomorrow, will you?” She motioned to the blade. Her blade, now. If Michael did not interrupt her, or say another thing, Catherine would go back to her tent and she would not emerge until dawn.

 

[Langschwert]

He missed his rifles. He could still feel, at the start of some battles, the feel of the stock pressed firmly against his shoulder, the concussion of the sonic boom. Sometimes, in his dreams, he could see the grass pressed into a V by the sonic boom and watch as the distortion of the air presaged the passage of the supersonic projectile. He could remember shooting at steel plates before the change, the *BANG*...beat...beat...*TING!* pause between the shot and the hit as the bullet flew through the air at four hundred yards or more. Now, now the furthest they could get a bow to shoot was just over a hundred and fifty yards with white woods, and that was fired upward at a forty five degree angle...useful by massed archers against massed opponents, but for small scale fighting like they've been having, the maximum range shrank further, down to fifty yards. But, he would not dwell upon the past. Now a gun was just an awkwardly shaped club, unless it had a bayonet attached, in which case it was just a heavy, light spear.

He watched her examine the blade, saying nothing. When she thanked him the first time, he would nod, and give a slight, distracted smile as he looked at her holding the weapon. "We have more than enough for everyone, now. That one is an older model, shorter than most that are carried these days, and should fit you well." The newer models that they had made were six inches longer in the blade, but following the same basic design. It made the weapon more effective at one on one fighting while not sacrificing much in terms of close in fighting, though fighting in formation would be killer.

His breathing caught as she leaned close, thinking she was leaning in for a kiss and nearly meeting her halfway. He was glad that he restrained himself, though, when she went in for a hug instead. He'd nod to her request, tucking the sword back into the cubby from whence it had come, and shooting her a smile as she sauntered away. Well well...this was going to be interesting.

He got relatively little sleep that night, engrossed in his thoughts, and rose early. Indeed, the morning arose gray and cold, with the sun not yet peeking over the horizon. Mist lay thick on the ground to a depth of nearly four feet, adding a clammy sensation to the skin that was not entirely unpleasant in the heat that regularly bathed the land in the late Georgia summer. As was his custom, he dressed himself in black basket ball shorts, chosen as they were chosen in the third world largely because of the durability of the all nylon weave, and plucked his sword from beside his cot, trotting out into the morning. He nodded to the sentry as he passed, making his way some distance away, yet still within sight of the camp, to a mist shrouded hillock. Here he would pause, sitting in the dew dampened grass to stretch his muscles.

When he rose again, he drew the sword, resting the dull spine against his right shoulder as he hung the scabbard and sword belt in a tree not far away. From a pocket of the shorts, he withdrew a wooden ball about the size of a billiards ball, with a hole drilled through the middle, into which was threaded a length of fine chain, which is then tied to a stout cord. This was tossed over a branch, the cord tied off till the ball was held at about head height. He started off his exercise here, striking the ball smartly with the side of his blade and stepping into the space which it had once entered. He struck and dodged, striking the small target and then dodging out of the way as it came back down. For perhaps half an hour he worked at this, adding more nicks and cuts to the wood of his target, before turning to his main exercise.

The sun was just starting to crest the horizon as he turned away from his target, the first rays of light piercing the clouds as he clutched the sword in his hands. He started out in Vom Tag, the sword raised high over his head, before cutting down into Alber and back up into Ochs, his body flowing in constant motion as he practiced with the sword as was his usual occupation every morning before they left. With the sword, at least, he had found something that he truly excelled in. He was far from the best with a bow, though he was a passable shot. He was not strong enough to wield the ax or the hammer quickly. His work with the spear left something to be desired, though he was better when mounted, but with a sword he truly shone.

He would not return to camp for another hour. Heat had started to seize the North Georgia landscape, and the clouds and the mist were rapidly burning off, leaving that magical time behind. Indeed, by the time he returned there most of the camp was awake, sausage and biscuits were cooking in several dutch ovens, and the few precious eggs that they had from their even more precious chickens, held in wicker cages, had been sacrificed to make a couple of spoon fulls of scrambled eggs for everyone. Her family would come to find out that they had a limited amount of livestock with them, hopefully the basis for a farming community, including a half dozen rabbits, a dozen chickens and even three dairy goats and a buck that followed along behind the carts. They had seeds, too, but they never stopped long enough in one place to plant them.

He did not bother to put a shirt back on as he took one of the wooden plates and settled again on the back of the wagon, speaking a few words to people in passing as he passed, though deferring most until he had a chance to wash the sweat from his body. He had not seen her yet, but his mind had been wandering so unless she called his name or walked up on him and clapped her hands he likely wouldn't have, anyway. What weighed heavily on his mind was the thought of where they were going, and how they were to get there...two things that haunted him.