Blood Reaper: The Age of Survivors

Snow blanketed the desert.

Pure, untouched white stretched across the ground, thick flakes continuing to fall, piling higher with every silent minute. No footprints. No tire tracks. Not even the sound of wind. The air smelled clean—too clean—like the world had been wiped and reset overnight.

Nothing moved.

Trees stood frozen, branches locked in place. Water hung mid-drip, trapped in ice. The sky glowed bright white, the sun hidden but present enough to announce its rise. Animals slept. Even the breeze felt hesitant, carrying a sharp, unnatural cold.

A lone gas station sat in the middle of it all.

Two pumps stood half-buried in snow. Nearby water had frozen solid. The small building behind it was attached to a modest home—belonging to a man named Keen.

Keen rose from bed like he did every morning.

Forty-eight years old. Tall. African American. Short black hair. He pulled on a T-shirt, layered an unbuttoned shirt over it, and slid into faded black jeans. His wallet went into his back pocket out of habit.

Before leaving the room, he stopped.

On the wall hung a photo of his wife.

She had died two years ago during a robbery in the store.

Keen stared at the picture, letting the silence settle. He lifted his fingers to his lips, kissed them, then pressed them gently against the glass.

“I miss you,” he whispered.

He stepped into the narrow hallway, then opened the door to the gas station. It shut behind him with a heavy thud, sealing the quiet.

Inside, he placed his revolver beneath the register—same place as always—and began preparing coffee. One of his regulars would be by soon. They always were.

The cold crept in.

Frowning, Keen pulled on a hat and switched on a small heater. It never got cold inside the station. Not here. Not ever. Snow had never fallen in this desert.

Feeling uneasy, he unlocked the front door and stepped outside to smoke.

The cold slammed into him.

His cigarette slipped from his mouth and vanished into the snow as flakes struck his face. Keen stared out across the frozen land, breath hitching.

“No,” he muttered.

He rushed back inside, digging frantically through a storage trunk for a jacket. Nothing. His hands froze when he spotted it—his wife’s pink, fluffy coat.

He grimaced.

“Damn it.”

Minutes later, wrapped in pink, Keen checked the gas pumps. They weren’t frozen. The outdoor faucets were solid ice, but the water inside still worked—he’d just made coffee.

Something didn’t add up.

A hand tapped his shoulder.

“Boo! Beautiful!”

Keen yelped and slipped backward into the snow.

Vince laughed, offering a hand to pull him up. “Relax.”

“You got a winter coat?” Keen snapped, eyeing Vince’s thick jacket.

“Jane made it for me,” Vince said proudly, flashing it. “Nice, huh?”

“How’s the baby?”

“Three months. Growing fast. Fussy as hell.” Vince grinned. “Did you start my coffee, Mr. Behind-on-Everything?”

Keen smiled despite himself and nodded. Vince headed inside, rubbing his hands together.

A small voice shouted, “Bang!”

Keen turned just in time to see a little boy pointing a toy gun at him.

“Morning, Keen,” Sara said, smiling as she approached with her children bundled under blankets. Pale skin, green eyes, blonde hair blowing wildly in the wind. She wore a dress—far too thin for this weather.

Keen ushered her inside, accepting the burrito she handed him. She always brought him something.

They talked quietly about her children—especially Cam, her twelve-year-old, who had taken on the role of man of the house. Watching doors. Doing dishes. Sleeping near the entrance.

Outside, the sky darkened unnaturally fast.

Vince paid for his coffee and supplies, glancing out the window. “That’s my cue. Don’t wanna get stuck in that.”

He didn’t make it far.

A car barreled toward him. Vince dove aside as it flipped—once, twice, three times—before landing in a smoking heap.

Vince ran.

He dragged the man free, then the woman, pulling them to safety as smoke thickened. The man shook violently.

“What was that thing?” the man gasped. “Black. Green. Smiling. It said yummy.”

Vince frowned. “Sir, I haven’t seen any animals at all today.”

“That wasn’t an animal.”

Keen arrived, carrying the woman inside. Her name was Stacy. She didn’t wake.

Back inside, the phone rang.

Then it spoke.

“Hungry.”

Mike hung up, shaking. When the phone rang again, the voice changed.

“Step outside, dinner.”

Then laughter.

Keen listened next. His friend Joe heard it too.

“I’m going to eat your wife’s heart.”

The line went dead.

Keen switched on the hot-dog roller, exhaustion pulling him down into the chair. Heat hummed softly. Snow fell endlessly outside.

He fell asleep.

The bang that woke him shook the building.