Before the Winter Takes Us

The electric-blue radio clock crackled on with a cacophonous buzz. *Bzrt* This is 91.8, the Bends, coming to you live from the desolate waste hole we call ‘home.’ Today’s frontogenesis indicates peppered rain, sporadic tornadoes, and a surprise guest appearance from yours truly, the Great Sphere of Light! Stay tuned for-

Celeste’s unruly ginger waves swayed westward as she violently struck the alarm with her closest limb. That just so happened to be her left leg, the one she loathed so dutifully. Celeste had never figured out how to silence the radio’s incessant yammering; she swore that the day she finally managed to destroy that indestructible piece of garbage would be the day she would taste true victory. Until then, that radio was the most accessible punching bag for her deep resentment towards the start of a new dawn.

The screeching of the radio clock signaled Celeste’s body to jerk into survival mode, as it would be Flint’s turn to rest upon the loose pile of hay.

Celeste relieved herself in the red plastic bucket, noting that its replacement was becoming majorly overdue. Modern plumbing had been long destroyed, with the underground pipes being harvested for iron and clay. The residents of Controvilla were left with plastic, Styrofoam, and paper following The Reckoning, while iron, gold, and other precious metals were rapidly hunted by coalition survivors hoping cash flow could still save them.

It did not.

Celeste emerged from the makeshift blanket-constructed privacy divider clad in her army garb. The green camo uniform had the name “PETERS” and fit her robust frame like a glove. The garment remained crusted with dirt, representative of weeks without a laundry connect. Celeste was starting to wonder if Heartsong had forgotten about them. Celeste approached the young boy and relieved him from his reconnaissance shift.

“It’s time to sleep, Flint. Rest now... I’ll get you at 0800.”

Flint yawned gingerly and rubbed his eyes. Flint was still emerging into maturity; his immaturity dimmed by the diligence required to survive in a post-Reckoning landscape. He believed himself to be around eight but lacked the memories or family to truly know. His eye bags were chronically purple, akin to a bruise. Flint didn’t know rest. The dreams always remembered.

Flint grabbed the blanket from the privacy divider’s clothesline and tucked his feet under the wool. He pulled his right leg atop the hay bed, its weight permanently lame—another gift of the Reckoning. His little feet were always freezing, cold to the touch, so he wore multiple layers of socks under his boots. He was grateful for the afghan’s warmth but trembled at the idea of reintegrating into the torment that recurred nightly.

“Celeste, can you sing me that song again?” His feeble voice was soft, but raspy. This child had witnessed unspeakable horrors but longed deeply to retain his naivety despite it all.

Celeste looked into his seafoam green eyes briefly and released a low sigh.

“Of course I can.”

Celeste sat on the ground next to the hay pile. Flint had been requesting the song of legend more frequently lately. He didn’t speak much, so his words held great weight in Celeste’s eyes.

That simple day

As the farmers woke

The village’s townsfolk

Had turned to smoke

One child remained

The Prince, he cried

’Twas now the heathens

On which he relied

Celeste paused her song as Flint’s eyes fluttered shut. Heartsong’s finest musicians had composed the ballad to soothe the little ones at night. Hardened as he was, Flint seemed soothed by the number. His loyalty to Heartsong was steadfast, despite his young age.

Flint was barely able to speak when Heartsong had rescued him. Deep in the rubble of a town southeast of base, a contaminated Flint rolled in the shambled building’s remains, shrieking for aid. A nearby operative had heard his mewling from nearby on a resource collection mission and returned home with a limping five-year-old. His shaggy chestnut hair had been caked to his skin, while his tattered overalls reeked of smoke and blood. While he didn’t reveal much, it was clear that his caretakers had passed well after the Reckoning. What occurred on that fateful day, he would not say. Following over a year of training, Flint was ready to assist in missions at age seven. He was placed with Celeste, a dissident 19-year-old at the time, to encourage her to develop “responsibility” and “maturity.”

Celeste grabbed her Browning A5 shotgun and hoisted the barrel behind her back, the strap pressing firmly into her breastbone. 3 rounds remained, the fourth being indented in the skull of the latest Ravager that dared tread on Heartsong territory.

The church was small, desolate even. She had withstood worse conditions in previous operations, but the broken glass and lack of proper plumbing left much to be desired. It sat at the base of the mountains, the most well-preserved shelter among ruins of shops, homes, and stables. Being long abandoned following The Reckoning, it was often overlooked due to its improbability to contain valuable resources. Its chipped white paint and weed overgrowth unsettled Flint when they first entered. Celeste remembered him tugging at her top, narrowly avoiding the hazards within the haunted, open room. The damaged windows let the heat in throughout the sweltering days, as well as the bitter night air in the evenings. Though he always struggled to peacefully rest, he did not attempt to sleep until three days and three nights had passed without Ravager or Yuna interference. Both were their enemies, but at least the Yuna still retained some humanity.

On night four, Flint nuzzled his meager head into Celeste’s lap. As Celeste could still see the enemy base clearly, she allowed it. Whether or not she cherished their bond was a terror-inducing thought that Celeste refused to indulge. Yet begrudgingly, truthfully, Celeste cared for the boy.

Their purpose was simple: stake out the new Yuna base between the Farrant mountains and detail notes of travel, sound, and behavior. They had to stay out of sight and use the church’s remaining intact tinted windows to their advantage. While primarily uneventful, the Yuna occasionally sent thieves and spies to Southern towns more likely to contain illicit communities. They had sent one member toward the chapel on night seven, but Flint expertly suggested hiding in the ceiling’s rafters to avoid detection. He tied the blanket around his waist while Celeste put both canteens in the waistband of her pants. Thankfully, they had not looked inside thoroughly. Celeste’s camo suit blended perfectly with the vines.

Celeste propped herself and her gun near one of the broken windows. The Yuna base seemed quiet tonight. She looked back at the boy as he clutched the blanket tightly. Flint often thrashed his body as he slept, plagued deeply by his recurring night terrors. What the dreams depicted, he would not say.

Tonight, this being night seventeen, Celeste reflected on their orders. Heartsong would return within twelve hours and take them home with the data upon survival. Celeste felt confident in her mission; she was brutishly strong and could handle a firearm like nobody’s business. She looked back at Flint, nearing a readiness to consider him kin. “Comrade,” she would call him, and he would beam with pride at the increase in rank. She could see it now.

Whether or not she would ever get to truly accept the boy as one of her own would be difficult to assess, for as Celeste turned her neck back to the jagged windowpane, she found herself eye-to-eye with a Yuna operative staring alarmingly into the temple.

His tiny pupils and reddened corneas bled through his white plastic mask.“Why? Heart? Song? Member? Here?” His breathy voice sent her into a cold shiver. His neck jolted suddenly 90° to his right, making an ungodly crrkas it swung downward.

Celeste became paralyzed with fear. The wind was disquieting, and she could see in her peripheral vision that Flint was no longer atop the hay-bed. Despite his impairment, he was fast and could disguise his presence masterfully. She rushed to her right and ran back towards the church doors. If she could create enough space, she could land a shot or two before he got to Flint. The man punched through the remaining glass and crawled in, his movements akin to a black widow. His fist was dyed red with blood and prismatic glass. As he towered above her, his figure was analogous to a God. Inexplicable. Blood-curdling. A powerful kind of madness plagued him.

“Spy? On? Yuna? Base?”

Celeste’s lungs seized. She gazed into the black holes he called eyes and felt the frigid wind of death assault her waist, her hips. She knelt beneath him, frozen in terror. Before she could get her weapon to his eye level, he had appeared behind her. His lanky fingers had wrapped themselves around her jaw and neck suddenly as he whispered,

“Yuna… Give… Big… Reward… For… Heart…Song…Blood…”

Chilled vapor spilled dreadfully from his throat. Desperate, she drove her elbows into his left ribs, but the blow did nothing to alleviate his tightening grip. His long, cracked nails penetrated the flesh of her neck, drawing beads of dark blood. She let out a sharp gasp, utterly defenseless against his inhuman strength. From the shadow of her left flank, she registered Flint’s presence. The boy had dampened his aura, as he had been trained to do. Yes, Flint. Escape now. Find Heartsong and-

With a raucous thud, Flint’s limping leg inadvertently tripped over a loose plank from the ceiling’s rubble. Flint hit the ground with a muffled cry. Within a fraction of a second, the operative’s hands were released from Celeste’s neck, and he had materialized beside the fallen body of the boy. All sound, motion, and breath ceased.

“...Flint…?” Celeste trembled. The church was dead quiet. She half-expected to turn around and see Flint with his utility knife through the Yuna spy’s heart. As she pivoted, the empty chapel was now completely barren. The windows’ tattered curtains billowed lazily in the mountain wind, and the unlit gray walls closed in drastically on her as she processed one final vestige of the spy’s infiltration.

A single, negligible drop of fresh blood where Flint’s body had just fallen.