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“One day, in one of those shelters, I spied a silhouette on a cot. A man curled in the fetal position facing the wall. He was agitated and mumbling in his sleep, seeming to call out. I only understood two words. The man was calling for Joseph and John.

If he hadn’t uttered those words, I would have passed right by Jacob without recognizing him. There was nothing left of the child I had known, nor of the soldier I had seen in the photo. In fact, there was nothing left of him at all.

I had found one brother full of rage, but I found the other completely hollow. The Jacob I stumbled upon that day had become little more than a shadow.”

- The Book of Joseph

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Jacob Seed, just a soldier, a loooong time ago, freshly enlisted to the military before war left its marks.

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Sweat darkens his bright hair, sticking strands to scarred temples. It’s unusually warm for this late in the fall, humid and heavy but for the distant taste of cold on the breeze. This won’t last long. It’s a lesson hard-learned those first winters: mercurial though the weather may be, the cold always comes. That scarlet rifle swaps to the other shoulder, briefly freeing a hand to shove though damp hair as the miles continue to be consumed beneath his treads. In the spirit of discretion, Jacob had walked. Given the apparent state of things, Boyd had to expect the wrath of the project to fall upon his head at any moment. Why let him know exactly what form that wrath took?

Of course... that wasn’t John’s style. Jacob knows as soon as he smells the acrid smoke upon the wind. Sharp, artificial. And a giant beacon. “You gonna put a giant sign that says ‘We’re coming for you’ next?” This is murmured while snatching the cigarette from his brother’s fingers. Filthy habit. Certainly not allowed within the confines of the compound. Not that this had ever dissuaded John from much. For Jacob, even less. He takes a long drag, holding the poison within his lungs before letting the smoke curl to join the mass rising from the fire. The still glowing ember directs his brother’s gaze. “Subtle. Boyd will never suspect a thing.”

For all the reprimand in his tone, pale eyes study John with intent. Spin it however he may, he knows the traitors got the drop on his little brother. At the very least, managed to wriggle just out of his grasp. It’s the only way he would have called Jacob in when all three preferred to keep regional matters within their own hands. “So what happened,” Jacob sighs, watching the heat split the plasticine skull of a model horse. He knows only that his brother needs help bringing back in the old veteran, sewing up all the loose ends. The cigarette flicks from his fingers, crumbling into ash amid Boyd’s memories. “What’s the plan?”

There’s a thin plume of white smoke curling upwards from the tip of the cigarette that dangles from inked fingers, it twitches and the ash falls onto the fire-blackened earth under it’s owner’s feet as he idly surveys the husk of what was Pastor Jerome’s Oldsmobile. Sharp blue eyes run the length of the burned out vehicle and follow the charred ground towards the treeline where it drifts upwards to the black skeletons of the trees that burned along with the car that night. Hand lifts, lips wrapping around the filter to take a long, slow draw and let the nicotine fill his lungs, the smoke held there before it’s let out in a pale cloud through pursed lips that’s followed with a sneer. It’s been a couple of days and the Oldsmobile still smoulders, deep in the heart of the wreck, and the acrid stench of the torched interior seems worse now with the heat of the fire gone. Fingers twitch again, knocking the ash into the shell as he made to move away from the husk and back towards the Cabin his men were ransacking, systematically pulling out all of the Boyd family belongings and piling them high onto the dirt driveway.

It’s the dried bloodstain that John stops at, just beside the passenger door of the white truck he’s commandeered for this little excursion. The spot where Drew had fallen after Mary May had pulled the trigger was now nearly black from where the blood’s soaked into the dusty soil and to the uninformed it could easily be mistaken for a leak from a vehicle. He stands in exactly the same spot he did that night, eyes running in a sweep around the treeline much like he had that night. How different things seem in the daylight, how obvious things could be missed in the dark. Cigarette back to his lips, John’s head cants slightly as the hill behind the house, at the covered spot just before the peak where it would be easy to hide in the long shadows the moon had cast that night. He’d known Will Boyd had been watching them from somewhere, he just wasn’t sure where. Had the conversation with Mary May been ten minutes longer, the group of three he’d sent to flank the property would have found the now wayward Boyd and – given the owner of the car – Jerome as well. 

Cigarette clamped between his lips, John turns his attention to the pile of personal belongings that Will had left behind when he’d joined Eden’s Gate nearly a decade ago. It was a sorry picture. Alongside the standard items like a mattress stained with mold and clothes that John could smell the stale on from where he stood there was things of greater poignancy – children’s toys, photographs in frames with shattered glass, a woman’s makeup kit. The remnants of the family that Will had blamed himself for the death of. John remembers that Confession. He drops what’s left of the cigarette onto the dirt beside a small, brightly painted horse made of cheap, brittle plastic, eyes left to wander impassively towards the swing that swayed slightly in the light breeze. They had given Will a new start, a purpose, a good life – and he’d thrown it all away for what was left of the Fairgraves. John wished he could say the man’s foolishness was unexpected, but Lonny had already given him enough evidence to shine a light on Will’s waning faith. 

“That’s everything, boss.” A voice snaps John out of his thoughts and his attention is pulled to the man stacking a pair of wooden chairs onto the pile. The smile that comes is easy, a hand gesturing towards the red container sat beside the steps up to the house in a wordless command which is acknowledged by a nod. The heady smell of gasoline fills the air as it’s poured over the pile and John heads back towards the dropped tail of the church truck and hauling himself up so he can sit on the edge. There’s a whoosh behind him as a match is tossed into the now highly flammable stack, fire catching instantly and going up as fast as the Oldsmobile did. John doesn’t bother looking back, instead he merely shakes another cigarette out from the packet he’d produced from the inside pocket of his coat and lights it with a match from the box sat in the truck bed next to the hunting rifle and ammo. All he has to do now, after all, is wait. 

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Wild Wolf

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I cull the herd.

It’s what I do.

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“The world is weak. Soft. We have forgotten what it is to be strong. You know our heroes used to be gods? And now our heroes are godless.”

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          Blood will stain the soil as the cries of the judged erupt in a chorus of anguish.                   The blade of righteousness shall cull the herd and smite the skeptic. 

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what needs to be done

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Crimson

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“Don’t worry, you’ll be out of here soon enough. Did you think you were free?”

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Whitetail Mountains • Henbane River • Holland Valley

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“And by the eight day, the wolves were closing in. And I looked at Miller and I could tell we’re as good as dead. And I accepted that. And in that acceptance came clarity.”