Into the Dark of the Day (Action of Purpose, 2) by Jones Stu

Author:Jones, Stu [Jones, Stu]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2017-06-01T04:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN

The slender figure crouched low along the ridgeline as the dark of night consumed the fading evening light. A faint breeze slipped across the barren landscape, making its way inland toward the emptiness of the land and whatever lay beyond. The breeze ruffled the figure’s ragged clothing as it sank lower, sliding lizard-like across the ridge to meet with the others and wait for the rest to join them.

They had grown in number; the Father had seen to that. Many gathered on the hillside out of sight from the inhabitants of the radio station. Their ways were simple: feed, survive, adapt. Complicated reasoning or thought was not prevalent. They relied only on instinct—the instinct to survive, hunt, and kill. The Father was the only one with any complex cognitive abilities. The rest lived as animals of the forest and the fields, driven by singular and simple purposes.

Atop the ridgeline, the one who called himself the Father stood in the group’s center, his arms open in a welcoming gesture, summoning the many who were still on their journey to join the others on the hillside. This group had never come together before. Some came from the wastes, while others came from Columbia, Charleston, or Georgetown. As they gathered they looked to be one unit, familiar as brother and sister, all drawn to the song of the Father. How they had known to come remained a mystery. In the darkness they swayed lightly with the breeze as it cascaded over them, filling the air with a distinct and pungent stench. With their blood red eyes squinted, appearing to burn like a hundred tongues of fire in the silent night.

Though those who gathered did not possess the mental capacity for higher reasoning, but they did understand two things. First, they knew the Father was like them. By smell alone they identified him as one of their own, and they found themselves unable to resist his siren song. Second, they knew with a strange clarity that the smooth skins had to die—every last one of them. Some would be eaten. Others would be taken. The rest would be left with their guts strewn about to rot on the hot sand. One way or another, their deaths were as good as done. Though the smooth skins would fight, they were no match for the speed and ferocity of these creatures.

The painted boy and his monster were the only ones who had faced their ranks in open combat and prevailed. But even the boy had abandoned them now. It was a pity. The Father wanted so badly to fill his mouth with the boy’s tender flesh. It was but a small loss for the Father. Soon they would feast on the warm flesh of the smooth skins below, creatures that cowered inside their flimsy wire wall.

No more brokenness. No more segregation. Now they functioned as one, a family group living under the Father’s guidance. And as he welcomed them with open arms, he raised the bone flute with a clawed hand to his wet, gray lips.

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