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The Path of Ashes.

The ash fell constantly, blanketing the ground until it was almost ankle deep. A grey perversion of snow, something that was hardly ever seen these days. The sky was a dull grey, what most people from the Before would call overcast, but the colour was not due to rain, but rather to the black dust that filled the sky and clouds and blew across the wind. The sun was shining as ever, faithful in its light, the rays filtering through the clouds to provide a dark grey light. The land was barren for miles around, the grass long dead and turned to ash, leaving behind blackened soil, burned with the fires, that crunched when you stepped on it. The air was choking, full of ash and other particles that swirled about, the carbonized remains of grass and the leaves of trees, all burnt during that fateful day, four months after the Dawn.

The man that trudged along the path, barely visible, hoisted his backpack higher onto his shoulder, in an effort to prevent the straps from biting into his shoulders. The leather bag was heavy, chock full of essentials for his journey, or what he could scrape up while on the road. His dilapidated boots shuffled through the ash that covered the ground, plowing through it with a soft sigh, always testing his next step with the tip of a foot before leaning forward. One false move and you might end up in a rabbit hole, your ankle broken from the sudden fall, and out here that meant certain death, whether by starvation or exposure or the fangs of some of the mutant beasts that roamed these parts, if a Trembler didn't get you first. It was said that they could detect anyone incapable of escaping, regardless of distance. Then they would close in on you with their wicked makeshift knives, usually broken window glass with some cloth wrapped around the hilt, and they would carve you into pieces and roast you over a fire. Such a fine source of sustenance, the unwary traveller. They didn't care that they were eating their own kind. In such a time, all such compunctions had long been lost. And the more of the meat they ate, the more they shook and trembled.

He shivered at the thought, an odd coldness seeping into his veins. He wrapped his coat tighter around himself and bared his teeth to ward off the chill, brushing himself to get all the ash out of his fur, his wolfish pointed ears flicking incessantly, searching for threats, but all he could detect was the howl of the wind. In places like this, where almost no sun showed through the ash-choked clouds, the wind blew bitter cold, the freezing chill cutting through clothing and biting deep into flesh, into bone.

I need to find shelter. I won't last a night out here. Either ol' pointykins'll get me, or the cold will. And won't that be just grand.

That was his only purpose now. No sense looking out for tomorrow when there was a chance you might not survive today. Just a place for the night, with a wall against the wind and choking ash. But everywhere he looked he only saw the grey landscape and the jagged, broken remains of what were once trees, sticking out of the ground like hairs, the beard stubble of the earth. A wooden fence stuck oddly out of the ground beside the path where he walked, some of the stakes reaching out to him like a dying man. Barbed wire hung loosely from them, some wrapped around the lengths, others trailing on the ground. Their job was done. There was no one left to guard against.

One Step Two Step, do the hokey pokey, come on, again One Step Two Step

That was his mantra. One foot after the other, repeat as often as necessary. Forget the aching muscles and sore back, the bitter cold or choking ash. One Step Two Step. Cause' that's all that matters. Cause' that's gonna save your life. Keep going big boy, you're almost out of this.

The grey landscape offered no comfort, no reprieve. Just the dull colours of the ruined world and the sound of the wind and his own faltering footsteps. Those were his only companions.

He could barely make out the dying light of dusk. The orange glow penetrated through gaps in the black clouds, as though some god still existed somewhere. But in a world like this, not many people had time for such indulgences. Ain't nobody got time for God and all that jazz when a trembler could grab you at any second.

A jagged bolt shot down from the sky in a flash of light, followed by the customary Krack-Boom of thunder. The bolt illuminated the land for miles around like the flash of a camera for a second. But it was enough.

Hoo-boy, I think I saw a building. I could use one right now, sure could. No sarcasm this time.

That thought, that possibility, spurned him on, put energy into his beleaguered limbs, energy he didn't think he had. Perhaps he wouldn't die out in the open after all.

One Step Two Step, do the hokey pokey, come on, again One Step...

_ _

It was almost dark by the time he reached the building he had seen, a ruined, desecrated shell of a farmhouse barn. Most of the walls had long since collapsed, the only standing part a large brick wall, the red clay now stained a dark grey. The dead, dry husks of lichens and vines creeped over one side. Pieces of wood jutted out from the wall and all around him as though he was standing in the ribcage of some monstrous dead animal, long dead and buried in the ashy soil. Thankfully, one side of the wall stood against the wind, shielding him from the biting cold. The ground was soft and mushy, a portion directly beneath the wall uncovered by the layer of ash that covered almost everything else. He could make out soil, but only a little. It would have to do. There was no other choice.

Fire. Gotta make fire. Get my best buds flint and knife out and get this here party started. Don't give a fuck if it's a beacon for miles around. I need warmth now, keep the darkness off me.

His mind, like the mind of any mortal, has a need for light, and an instinct to seek it out. No one can live in the dark, only monsters and madmen. And he was not mad. Not yet.

He flopped down onto the ashless part, his back pack slipping off his shoulders. His breath came in short, ragged gasps as he shook himself, the ash falling off his exposed fur and jacket. Taking a deep breath, he pulled down the scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth, the fabric grey from the particles caught in it. He wasn't lucky enough to have a gas mask like some of the other folks. Such equipment was rare, hard to find out in the wastes, and overpriced at any of the barter shops in the towns. You could buy a fucking caravan and horse for one of those beauties. And not to mention fresh filters, those little shits were rarer than an honest bandit. His lack of such equipment made travel a severe hazard at the best of times. He had to stay on roads and plains, couldn't head anywhere with too many trees. More trees meant more material burnt during the Sky Event, the final nail in this world's coffin four months after the Dawn. And of course more material burnt meant more ash swirling through the air, some of it still burning so many years on. A swift, choking death, guaranteed for anyone foolish enough to enter without the proper equipment. Only twisted animals lived there anymore, hoping to find suitable prey amongst the burnt and dead trunks.

What's the SOP when setting up camp? Rule one: Cover your footsteps.

Standing up, he retraced the steps he had taken into the building, stepping in his footprints while walking backward and kicking ash over them. Such a precaution was probably useless in light of the fire he was going to make, but as they say, better safe than sorry. There were a lot of dead travellers out there who were very sorry indeed. Not that it made much of a difference.

At least the Tremblers would be forced to come through the dark, instead of following his footsteps in what they knew was a safe path through the ash. Against those things, it was probably better to be as careful as possible.

When he finished he crouched beside his backpack and dug a hole through the grey layer, exposing the dry soil. He had managed to pick up a bunch of twigs while on the road earlier that day, digging at the sidewalks of the path where the ash was thinnest. Piling them in, he retrieved a thicker branch he kept in his pack and flipped open his trusty hunting knife. Bringing the blade to the wood, smooth after weeks of shaving, he brought the edge up and down, scarping tinder off the surface until he had a small pile of the hair like shavings. Stuffing that in the midst of the twigs, he got out his flint and, careful to angle it away from his body, brought his knife down its length, striking sparks into the tinder and catching it alight. From then on it was a simple matter of blowing into it and he had a suitably warm, if small, fire going.

I heard people say the Old People had these little metal boxes for fire. You opened the top and pulled something with your thumb and you had a nice little flame. I've yet to see any of those though.

He huddled close to it, pulling his worn gloves off his hands and sticking them close to the flickering light. He could feel the warmth seeping through him, the light washing away all the darkness that had filled him since the day before.

This is all coming up just right here. He thought. Got good ol' fire goin', got a nice wall here to shield me. Big up to the chap who thought to build a barn here, thanks buddy. You might have just saved my life. He sighed, running his hand through his head fur. I wasn't sure I could go on any longer.

The thought of dying out in that cold, bleak landscape always haunted him, was always at the back of his mind. No worries now though. Fire, shelter, what else could go wrong?

Hopefully nothing.

He pulled his coat off himself. It had been a gift from a friend just before he had set up from home, now so very far away. Some kind of waxy fibre made it up. He had been told it was something called nylon, an invention of the Old People. Whatever it was called, he didn't care. It was thick, comfortable, and repelled water. He had occasion once in a while to repair the one or two rents and tears in the fabric that were expected to appear from hard use. Real sewing needles and thread were hard to find. Thread he got from old pieces of abandoned clothing, needle from the bones of a desiccated cat he had found hanging from a piece of wire on the ceiling of a house. He figured it wouldn't be needing it anymore, at any rate, so no guilt pangs there.

Feeling guilt pangs for a cat, pfftt. Absurd. Why would I think that? Maybe I'm just going

_ _

(insane)

_ _

off on a tangent. Back to the real world now, sonny Jim, you've got work to do.

The darkness pressed down around him, with only the wavering glow of the flame keeping it at bay. The light that entered his eyes prevented him from seeing further than several feet beyond the perimeter of the ruin. There could be one of those mutants lurking about, watching this wolf from the darkness, and he would be none the wiser. The fire was a beacon for miles around. He might as well have had a neon sign up stating YOO-HOO! Come and get me! Free meals ahoy, remember to queue up folks.

But he couldn't care less. Two days in this world of grey, and his mind was simply screaming for light.

Do not fear the darkness, for what hides the enemy may hide you also. Wise words from yours truly, he thought. Maybe now it'll actually mean something.

This line of thought made him realise that he was rather hungry. He hadn't the chance to pick up much in the way of supplies from the last town he had passed through, one of the dozens, if not hundreds, of minor towns that dotted the area, small, fleeting, there one day and gone the next. Into the belly of a Trembler.

That had been five days ago.

The people living in the town had been fearful, of bandits, Tremblers or one of the dozens of other reasons a town could be destroyed, all packaged nicely into the area, the last clear air before the ashen wastes of the Greylands. They hadn't much in the way of supplies to offer, even for bartering. They needed it all for themselves.

Rummaging through his pack, he searched through for something to eat. There was no chance of hunting anything here. He was in too much of a hurry to get out of the Greylands to bother setting up and checking back traps and anyway the animals here weren't fit to eat. His first priority wasn't food, but rather to get out of the Greylands before he ran out of water.

That clear liquid. The most important resource. People fought and died over that substance.

The world would be so much better if we didn't need that stuff

But we do.

I wish we didn't

But we do.

And because we do there is the chance that I'm not making it out of here

The area was lakeless, and the creeks and brooks that ran throughout the farms were grey and choked with ash, forming a veritable sludge like porridge. And that wasn't the worst of it. The water ran through most of the Greylands, and people said that there were others who just came near the water and had inexplicably sickened and died. God help you if you thought to drink any.

He finally retrieved the plastic wrapped pack of an MRE, at least half a year past it's expiry. The label had some strange words on it. Supposedly, some of these words were the names of something called 'countries', and the food you got within differed on which word it was. He didn't even know what a 'country' was. His whole life had been this land, mostly burned and blackened, the soil a sheet of glass, with broken forests and dry rivers, roads cluttered with rusted and burned out hulks that sometimes stretched for miles on the cracked tarmac, decaying and breaking down.

When he had been a baby still in his mother's arms, a time long past, his mother had whispered to him of the stories of the Old World, of the Before. It had interested him, and as he grew he asked her for all she knew. And she had told him of an Age passed.

The people of Before had been like them, similar in stature, size and look, people of many different species. They had had big machines that ran on a special liquid, and they had fought and died over it.

(Is it like water mama? People fight over water now)

(No, my sweet. It was a different liquid. But the people are the same, all still willing to kill each other to get their hands on it)

Then there was their power. They could communicate over thousands of miles by only using special machines the size of a hand, talking to the other as though they were in the same room. And they had the Burning Things.

(Burning Things?)

(Big pointed towers. Towers that could fly many miles and where they landed, the land burned)

The world was not like this once, his mother told him. Once, the people had green fields and lush trees and forests. Once, they had unity amongst the species. And they had destroyed it, along with themselves. We, his mother had said, are the only ones left of them. The people you see today are the descendants of those who had the sense to hide while the Dawn and Sky Events flashed on above.

The rusted hulks, the tilting towers, the ruined walls... These were all that remained of the machines of the once great people.

(So what happened Mama? What changed?)

She had looked down at him with her eyes, a watery sky blue.

(I don't know, little one. That's for you to find out)

But so far he hadn't.

He didn't know anyone from Before. No one did. The long years since the Events had seen to that. Hell, no one even new if it had been several decades since they had wiped themselves from the earth, or several thousand. Time passed differently when your world was in shambles.

What power did the Old People have, he thought as he slit the top of the ration pack, to be able to wreak destruction like this. The Reaper, come to earth, to dance on the bones of us all, good riddance to bad rubbish, so they say

Tipping the open ration on his pack revealed several bags of dried food in packets. Some sauces, thick and greasy. A sweet drink mix in the powder form (blackberry and orange). Plastic foldable utensils. A few of those white dry fuel cubes.

He carefully wrapped the cubes in the plastic outer wrapping before tucking it back into his pack. They were worth a ton; anyone who even had one of those had immense bargaining power. Almost as good as having a gun.

Perhaps I'll trade one for a warmer pair of gloves to keep my handies all nice and toasty. Or perhaps a new pair of boots. Maybe some sunglasses. Oh! I know! One of those metal fire-boxes. Sure could come in handy. One of those cubes could net him a bed for a night and a meal the morning after.

Savouring the thought of a bed, all soft and warm and hopefully lice-less after the thought of the long days on the road, he tore open the packets of dried food and pored the contents a tin; a remnant from one of his previous meals. He stirred it a bit with a spoon before retrieving his canteen from the side of his backpack.

Now here's the problem buddy. He didn't have much to spare. Shaking the canteen and listening to the sound gave him an estimate of about half full, and that's optimistic. Water was difficult to find; clean water even more so. The liquid inside had been secretly filled out of the water tank of the last town he had passed through. Inside that rusted blue barrel had been the last of the water available to the town, enough for several days at best. If they had caught him at it, well, there was no mention of what they would have done to him. Killed him, maybe. Slowly, of course.

The de-facto town leader had told him that once the water ran out they would haul ass and wander in a caravan until they came across another shattered ruin they could inhabit, hopefully one with a more equitable water supply. There had been talk with joining up with some of the larger towns, of course, but there was no telling what they would do to them. As likely kill or enslave them as give them a place to stay. After all, more people simply meant more mouths to feed.

When he had asked (Nicely. Politeness is everything) if he could fill his canteen the man had looked at him and told him frankly that he could if he could pay for it.

(So what do you want?)

(Oh, maybe half the stuff in your pack)

That had been the end of that.

The denim clad leader had simply shrugged and told him that he was as welcome not to fill up his canteen at the tank, more so in fact. He had walked off then, canteen stuck back into his pack, without so much as a backwards glance.

Looking back at the dented, silvery surface of the canteen, he could remember stealing into the town supply house and filling up his canteen at the little spigot attached to the barrel. That had been sickening, going against everything he knew, everything his mother had thought him, everything he thought of as right. Now he was just a common thief.

But I didn't have a choice Didn't have a choice It was that or thirst to death itwaswrongitwaswrongitwaswrong NO CHOICE man I feel like shit

He gripped his temple against the oncoming headache as he briefly debated on using his water to cook the meal. He was now restricted to several tiny sips a day, and if he splurged now he would have to cut his ration even further. He could already feel the effects of dehydration, the dry lips and lank fur as his body withdrew liquid from unimportant functions.

No food for just one more day, I can do it. No food for a week, still alive, no water for three days, dead as a doornail.

Resigned, he screwed the cap back on and stuffed it back into his backpack. Glancing distastefully at the dry mix coating the bottom of the tin, he covered the top with a piece of plastic. Perhaps he would find a use for it later when his situation wasn't so dire.

Beneath the howling of the wind, there was a rustle.

He sat up straight, frozen. His ears perked up, pointed tips scanning the surroundings.

Just the wind. It's just the wind, he thought, the wind blew something over and it made that sound, not a trembler not a mutant. Calm down, don't be stupid relaxmanrelaxrelax

There weren't any Trembler camps in the area, or so he hoped. Even they couldn't survive for long in a place like this with no water. If he met any, it was likely to be a scout or forager, not an entire party.

Then there's the mutants. Those things are everywhere. All the things mothers tell their children, well it ain't far from the truth. Better safe than sorry.

Carefully, trying not to make a sound, he reached towards his bag, fingers creeping over the ash towards the strap. Pulling open the flap, he reached inside, fumbling over all his junk, until his fingertips brushed a wooden stock.

There it is, my baby. Time to show me what you're made of.

The crossbow had been made at a workbench back when he had just started out. A wooden fence post made up the stock, which he had picked up from one of the many thousands that littered the roads, abandoned, leftovers from times long passed when there actually were animals to keep penned in. It had carved into a shape that the innovative part of his mind directed. The tensile part of the bow had been made from several steel rulers bolted together. He had painstakingly bored the holes through them with a small wood chisel (not its proper use, but you go to war with the army you have), diagonally for added strength and had bolted them together with the billions of screws and bolts that lay all around. The process of making that part had been the hardest. He could remember going to bed each night with his hands blistered, the tips bleeding, the claws cracked and twisted. Such fun.

The string was piano wire stolen from the carcass of one of those beautiful instruments, the trigger jury-rigged from a meccano set.

Light, accurate, relatively deadly. Exactly what he needed right now.

He had gotten rather good at the weapon, despite the fact that most of his ammunition was mostly sharpened sticks or pieces of rebar, sometimes with metal or stone shards to serve as points. Fletching was hard to do; birds were almost gone and with it, their feathers. The few bolts that did have fletching he kept back for dire situations that required pinpoint accuracy.

This fit the bill perfectly.

He retrieved a bolt from the quiver hanging on a carabiner on his pack. He stuck one in the ash, point first and loaded the other into the crossbow, pulling back the wire and sliding the length into the mechanism. Weapon in hand, he sat down and drew a breath.

Perhaps it was nothing. Mutants roamed these parts, sure, but there weren't as many as his paranoid mind liked to think. It was probably just the wind knocking something over or making the dead grass move, not a mutant. There it was. Just the wind. Not a mutant. That would just be boolsheet of the highest purity.

A pair of glowing eyes appeared in the dark, watching him.

Boolsheet

There was another rustle, too loud to be the wind. A low growl.

Boooolllllssheeeeettttt

Oh, but it wasn't a joke any longer. The rustles came again and again. Definitely not an effect of the wind, nosir. There's a mutant out there, watching him. Waiting. He could just imagine the bastard thing coming towards him, muscles pumping, twisted legs tearing up the ground.

"Come on, you punk ass bitch! Get over here, I got something waiting for you!" He snapped up the crossbow, scanning the darkness.

From over his left shoulder came a bestial roar, erasing all doubt in his mind and turning the blood in his veins to ice. You were looking the wrong way the whole time bastard tricked me it tricked me oh i'm so dead

Shooting up, he spun around, crossbow held up at the ready. His finger rested on the trigger, ready to pull in an instant. He could feel his heart beating faster than he ever thought possible, so much that he wouldn't have been half surprised if the damn thing had just burst out of his chest. Here we go, me and you. Battle of the ages right here.

The creature in front of him looked like it had just walked right out of a nightmare. It was twisted, and resembled a hairless version of a wild dog. Its muzzle had no lips, and the flesh hung off it in clumps. The man could see all of the exposed teeth and bone below, stark white in the light of the fire. Its eyes glowed a dark yellow colour, one of them sunken, perhaps in a fight. The skin covering it was so pale it was almost translucent, caustic black blood coursing through its veins in the form of black stripes criss-crossing it, pulsing. Slime dripped from its muzzle and body, and the stench it exuded was foul, the scent of death and things long buried in the earth, now come alive.

The creature opened its massive jaws, exposing dozens of sharp needle like teeth and its yawning gullet, large enough to probably fit a tire with space to spare. Slime and spittle flew at him and he involuntarily raised his hands to ward it off.

It took the opportunity to lunge forward. The claws dug for purchase in the loose ash and it lunged at him, teeth bared.

The man reacted swifter than he thought he could. Bringing the stock of the crossbow to his shoulder, he took aim with well practised precision and squeezed the trigger.

There was a sharp 'twang!' and the bolt shot out at high speed, burying itself deep into the flesh of the creature's hind leg. A painful wound, but not debilitating. Nowhere close. The creature howled in pain but kept on coming.

And here is made, in stark clarity, one of the downsides of the crossbow. You only had one shot and one chance. They just took too damn long to reload. If you only dealt a minor wound or worse, missed, well then you've got a useless lump of wood and metal and a majorly pissed mutant coming towards you, which usually didn't work out in anyone's favour.

The both of them connected with a loud slap of flesh. The impact threw him backwards, his vision spinning as they crashed against each other, ending fetched up beneath the ruined wall. His breath was knocked out of his chest and his fingers loosened on the crossbow, the weapon flying out of his hand.

The beast roared in triumph as he watched his opponent's best hope go flying off into the dark. Leaning down, it howled in his face, fetid breath assailing him, saliva matting his fur. He reached up and hooked both his hands on its jaw, pushing back with all his might, although his fingers kept slipping on its slimy skin. He glanced around looking for something, anything he could use as a weapon.

The creature sensed its advantage and relentlessly pushed it, claws digging in the ground in an effort to gain traction as the yawning maw crept ever closer. The man could feel the muscles in his chest and arm trembling from the strain of holding it at bay.

Here it comes. I'm dead, I'm done. Wish there was a better way for me to go out, but you take what comes to you. Wish I had another weapon or something. Unless...The bolt! I forgot the damn thing!

He stretched out his hand with all his might. The bolt that he had stuck head first into the ground as a backup brushed tantalisingly close to his fingers, just out of reach.

Oh come on I'll do anything for you If I ever find feathers you'll be the first one to get fletching I promise comeoncomeoncomeon

With one final effort he surged his body forward and his fingers closed around the shaft.

Using all the strength left in his body he twisted his wrist and swung the bolt into the creature's neck, point first. The tip entered with barely any resistance.

The mutant howled in pain, black blood spurting. He gave one final push and watched with some measure of satisfaction as the point burst from the other side with a terrible fleshy sound. He twisted, forcing the bolt deeper, before releasing it and pushing it off him, scrambling away as fast as he could before any of the blood could get on him.

The foul black liquid spurted out. On the spots where drops of the blood spattered the ground bubbled and spat, wisps of smoke trailing out from them. The bolt in its neck bubbled and sagged until finally both ends dropped off from either side, melted and twisted. A horrible smell filled the air, but was quickly washed away from the wind.

The creature gave a squeal and twisted around, droplets of blood flying. The man rushed behind one of the walls to take cover from the flying liquid, peeking through a gap in the walls at it.

Die please die. Its got to be dead, has to be. Don't get up please don't get up

The twisted thing finally gave a shuddering sigh and was still, its last glance right at the gap in the walls where his opponent peered at him, a reproachful look on its face as if to say that wasn't fair! You cheated...

All the breath went out of him, all the strength left in him. He slumped back against the wall, the wind howling around him, ash flying, and in that spot he rested.