---

It is a cold Sunday morning in early November. It has been raining almost non-stop for the past two days, though it has finally subsided into a drizzle. A cold dampness clings to the air, and mist and fog linger noticeably. The farm smells strongly of wet grass and soil, and aside from the usual murmur of activity, the only noise that can be heard are the soft winds blowing in from the ocean, and the creaking wood of the forest on the farmstead's edge. Though most of the dirt has returned to its dry state, there are large banks of mud along the dirt paths in the farm, and once-fiery orange piles of leaves have been compressed into fetid brown clumps that collect in bale-sized clusters. Most of the trees are now grey and bare, and the silence of the forest is only ever broken by a twig or branch falling onto the forest floor.

With Sunday being the worker's one day off a week, most of the farmhands are escaping the chill inside of the barns, while the farmhouse workers are nestled comfortably in their attic bunkroom. A few of the men have assembled outside of the farmhouse for a baseball game, which has gathered the attention of a small audience -- Mainly, those too old to play, a few of the farmhouse workers taking in some fresh air, and those who wish to wager some of their stored-away goods in bets over the game.

---

---

Standing atop a small mound of dirt, Scarecrow raised one leg like a professional pitcher, as if he meant to strike out Babe Ruth. His caricature of a pitcher's stance drew a few laughs from the small audience, and he flashed a toothy grin. "It's the bottom of the fifth inning, and up to bat is Bill Pooley, the Pink Pennsylvanian. He's lookin' nervous ladies and gentlemen, and I'm willing to bet it's because he knows he's about to strike out." Scarecrow loudly spoke in the exaggerated, fast-talking nasally voice of a baseball commentator. He heard a few laughs, though none of them came from Bill who remained motionless, holding his bat like he meant to club Scarecrow to death with it.

Scarecrow pushed his straw hat further down on his head, tightening the brim around his forehead, pretending to shield himself from the nonexistent glare of the off-white sky above them. With a small grunt of exertion, he flung the ball towards Bill with a surprising amount of speed, sending the ball into the catcher's mitt with a satisfying thud.

"Stee-rike one!" Scarecrow announced, feeding off of Bill's frustration. Scarecrow raised his leg again, though rather than throw the ball, he pretended to throw it, cupping it in his hands the same way one would fool a dog into fetching a stick that hadn't been thrown. Bill swung heartily at the false pitch, inciting more laughter from the crowd. Scarecrow chuckled to himself as Bill gritted his teeth, turning more red than pink.

Scarecrow pitched the ball again, and Bill missed once more. "Strike two!" the lithe man shouted. In truth, Scarecrow was a very poor pitcher, lacking the proper depth perception to throw anything more complex than a quick underhand pitch, though Bill's frustration made up for Scarecrow's lack of skill. As Scarecrow raised his leg once more, a small murder of crows erupted from the forest, flying in a cluster away from the bare, skeletal trees. It was of little concern to the men, however. Birds were seldom more of a spectacle than sports.

Scarecrow pitched the ball again, sending it flying towards Pooley. His bat connected, and even from Scarecrow's pitcher's mound, the crack of the wood against the ball rang out like a gunshot. The ball soared through the air high and far enough that Bill knew he had no reason to run for the bases, as it reached the apex of its arc near the edge of the forest. Though nobody could see where it had landed, Bill's home-run ball had landed somewhere just beyond the farm's stone perimeter.

Bill laughed to himself as he returned to his team, tossing the bat at Scarecrow's feet triumphantly.

"Somebody go fetch that ball before it starts raining again."

---

Henry

---

Henry walked the animal barn. The dreary weather was doing wonders for his mood. Anything that was not conducive to a fire was fine by him. Plus all the cows were doing great, especially the new calf, Bruce. He wished they could let the cows out to graze, but the fog made it nigh impossible to keep track of them all, and he didn't want anything attacking the cows. They hadn't had wolves in ages, but you could never be too careful. He stopped by the horse stalls to check in.

Brownie was asleep, and he didn't want to bother the old boy. He was the older of the two horses, and soon he'd get too old to ride much. Blackie was vigorous young stallion, and he was tromping about his stall. Henry patted him on the nose. "I know boy, we can't take you out today. Too much fog, and the men playing baseball will only spook you," he said quietly to the horse. He did want to take the horse out. He hadn't ridden in weeks, and he missed it. Maybe tomorrow the weather would be better. He turned and walked to the door of the barn.

Henry leaned against the doorframe and watched the men play baseball. One of them called to him to join, but he shook his head. To give reason, he turned and walked towards the smaller pig barn. He went inside, nearly immune to the smell of rotting feces and unwashed pig. He checked all the food troughs, and then checked on Ol' Red, the pig they planned to eat for Christmas. He wanted to make sure the massive meat block was healthy and fat. The pig seemed fine, looking up at him as he squatted to pat it on the head. Finished, he turned and walked back out of the barn.

A flock of crows sprung up in the distance, and Henry frowned. Probably just a fox or something, maybe a deer. He walked towards the trees behind the baseball game, trying to go around instead of through. He figured he'd visit the farmhouse, check up on Ms. Yammard. Given he had the most medical training, he was often put in charge of those who fell ill, and Ms. Yammard had a nasty fever. He hoped it wasn't Spanish Flu, the epidemic had made a mess a while back. He figured he could probably call into town for medicine if it came to it.

Suddenly, there was a crack and a ball flew off into the woods. Henry watched as Bill ran the bases, Scarecrow looking steamed that Bill had hit it. Bill said something about finding the ball. Henry called out "I'll find it, though I'd appreciate some company if anybody wants to come along." He turned and started to walk, figuring somebody would catch up to him if they wanted to help. Ms. Yammard wasn't urgent, and he felt like walking through the woods.

---

---

"Somebody go fetch that ball before it starts raining again."

Yulian, despite the other farmhands' complaints of the cold, was not bothered. Wearing a loose, white button-down shirt and blue jeans, he stood in the outfield, leaning back, relaxed. While Scarecrow wasn't the best pitcher, his japes certainly seemed to had unnerved Bill, and caused him to strike twice, before landing a solid hit, one that, with a crack, launched the ball over Yulian's head and into the forest. Whistling, Yulian thought that if Scarecrow had been a slightly better pitcher, the ball would be... What did they call it? Ah, yes, Outta there! Even though he had lived on the North American continent for years, he had not mastered all of the local colloquialisms. Still, the English language was intriguing to Yulian, and he had learned to speak it almost as soon as he had arrived in America with his family.

"I'll find it, though I'd appreciate some company if anybody wants to come along." Yulian turned in surprise as Henry came out of the barn and offered to find the ball.

Smiling, and walking over to where the man was standing, the big Russian patted the smaller man, (well, everyone was generally smaller than him,) on the back, and said, while his breath caused fog to appear in the chill air, "No worries, Henry! I'd be glad to accompany you on your expidition!"

As they approached the forest, dead branches and fallen leaves creating an ominous scene, (one that didn't bother Yulian in the least,) Yulian stretched out his arms behind his back, and asked Henry, "So, my friend, where would you say we look first?"

---

---

Abigail busily washed the dishes from the earlier meal as she watched out the open window towards the boys playing ball. She gave a warm smile while she worked, thinking back to her brothers back home.

She was far from home, but she wrote often enough. Her oldest brother, Charles, got married recently and they are trying for a baby. She would be a proud aunt, holding that little boy or girl in her arms. Her other brothers were out doing various things. Thomas was at college, he was always the smartest one and destined for great things besides farm work. Nathaniel was at home helping with the farm, and having a not-so-secret romance with the next door neighbor Charlotte. The youngest brother, James, was itching to do some traveling, and he set westward to see if he could find his calling. She hadn't heard from him in a while.

Abbey's eyes trailed on Henry as he exited the barn. She was a little jealous. While she appreciated the work and was grateful for the family giving her the job, she was hoping she could do more than a housewife's work. She wanted to help the animals and play, and every so often she got to nestle up to them, but with more cold weather coming, she had to do her part.

She heard the crack of the bat and looked up to see the ball go flying. "Somebody go fetch that ball before it starts raining again." At that shout, Henry offered his help and took Yulian with him. She sighed and finished her dish work. Boys will be boys, she figured. She may end up having to do some patchwork on them in case they got hurt.

---

Ellie

---

Ellie took a little peek out the window to catch a but of the game, distracting her from her dusting. She would snap her head back every once in a while to make sure the boss wasn't coming, and she would convince herself she would go back to work, but this game reminded her so much of the little boys back home, she couldn't resist it.

She could barely hear their muffled English through the glass, Scarescrows calls sounding more like birds hawking at one another than a real human being. She could barely distinguish his voice between the crows that suddenly erupted from the forest, making her jump slightly. Not but a few seconds after the birds fled the forest, the ball was hit all the way out into the mists, the fog engulfing the ball. She cringed at the site. Baseball's were a precious commodity, and she was sure the boys would do much of anything to try to get it back. Nobody around here for spare a few cents to buy another ball. She watched as Henry and Yulian set off to forge for it before another house maid, Abbey, came out as well, though she did not pursue them into the forest.

---

Though the rain had long since subsided into a mist, the leaves shook off their collected rainwater with every branch pushed aside or root kicked by the men stomping through the forest, and quickly became a much more irritating presence than before. The crows circled overhead and intermittently squawked in disapproval, settling on a treetop for a few moments to caw and cackle at the two, before taking off in flurries of sporadic energy, shaking the branches and showering the two with icy droplets.

In the distance there is a low gurgling, only occasionally rising above the rain and wind. About sixty yards away from the men, hidden by the thick brush of the forest and camouflaged by a fairly autumnal outfit stands a man, supporting himself with one hand on a tree. His hair is short and brown, but matted and oily. His skin is an unhealthy pale, the same shade as the underside of a mushroom or a tree stripped of bark. He wears a dark red and gold plaid shirt, a rawhide vest, and a dark khaki pair of pants. His shoes are indiscernible, as his lower body up to his knees is caked in mud and dirt that have dried into a layer of thick black clay. His arms up to his elbows, are the same.

---

Peter didn't remember how he found himself in the forest. It didn't matter. He smelled something in the forest. Food. He was always hungry, though he hadn't remembered how long always was. He didn't remember anything, in fact. He held no memories of his former life, and made no new memories. His thoughts, if they could even be called thoughts, were sporadic and short-lived, and mostly focused on one subject alone. Hunger. His hunger was maddening. All he could focus on was hunting and food. Warm, life-giving, flesh and blood. He drooled at the thought, continuing his aimless shuffle. He had lost the scent he had picked up earlier, but was now tracking a noise. It sounded living. If Peter could have formed words, "prey" would have come to mind.

Something was moving up ahead.

Peter's head turned ninety degrees, snapping in place almost instantly. Two targets. Instinctively, the smell of blood filled his nostrils, as if he had bashed the back of his head. His vision began to turn red. His hands sprung open, cracking his joints with tension. He lowered his posture, growling all the while, advancing towards them. They hadn't seen him and they hadn't heard him, though unbeknownst to Peter, they had began to smell him -- the stench of stale urea and rotting meat clung to him as readily as the clay covering his limbs. Though Peter didn't possess the intelligence to consider if his prey could smell him, he knew that he could not afford to lose the two. He was too hungry to lose them. He slowly crept closer, shambling quickly from one patch of bushes to the next.

There was little he understood outside of the hunt, though he understood the importance of surprise, as primitive of an understanding as it was.

His red eyes blinked with an emotionless intensity, scanning the two men. He was so hungry. So hungry. He grinded his teeth together, now only about sixty yards away. The closer he got, he could feel his adrenaline rising higher and higher, filling his nostrils with the scent of their ambrosial blood and warm, marbled layers of meat. He grinded his teeth more.

He stood up, supporting himself on a tree, staring at the two men with a wolfish gaze. His stomach rumbled softly as he growled, clenching his hands into fists. Images of violence and nourishment flashed through his mind, instinctively urging him to infect the men. He was too hungry for that. He would eat them, he planned to himself in silence.

Eat them.

---

---

Clay had been too late to enter the baseball game, though he hoped that being the one to find the ball would grant him access into the next inning. While Henry and a large farmhand Clay hadn't met scanned the forest's edge, Clay took it upon himself to search further. After all, the two were taking a while.

Clay began to look through the forest floor. It was covered in the dead leaves of an early winter to come, painting the ground in shades of black and brown. "Should be easy, finding a white ball in all this muck." the wiry man groaned to himself, lifting the branches of a small shrub with a stick, hoping the small white shape he had seen through the foliage was the ball.

Luck was not on his side today. It was a small white toadstool, covered on the underside with a thick blanket of cobwebs. Clay sighed and sat on a small stump, taking a rest from his search as he continued to scan the area, pulling a long piece of grass out of the dirt to chew on.

There was a groaning in the distance, quiet at first, but picking up steadily. Clay looked over his shoulder nervously, darting his eyes around the landscape. He chuckled to himself. There was nothing to worry about. Even if there was, what man would shake in his boots in the light of day? Surely not Clay.

He stood up and began his search once more, drawing closer to the two men still searching, though still about twenty yards away. He raked through the ground with his stick steadily, hoping he would recognize the ball's distinct shape in the dirt. The groaning grew louder, and was now joined by unsteady breathing. Clay looked around once more, now worried. What if it was one of the deer he had heard about?

"You fellas find anything?" He called out, turning to face Henry and Julian. In that moment, he felt a great weight slam into his side, a tearing pain in his neck, and then nothing.

Clay's neck had been grotesquely snapped, wrenched to an impossible angle. His attacker wasted no time in beginning his feast.

---

Henry

---

Henry and Yulian talked as they searched, mostly about general farm stuff. How were the animals, were the crops doing well, who wasn't pulling their weight (though they all were). They kicked around the leaves and mud, looking for the ball. They couldn't see anything in particular, no spots of white nor the distinct round shape. Once, Yulian had almost found something, but it had just been tree sap that was lit in such a way that it looked like the red bindings on a baseball.

They pair noticed Clay over to their right, shuffling through the dirt. A low, faint groan seemed to filled the air. Yulian stuck his hand out, stopping Henry. "Wait, do you hear that? What is it?" Henry listened to the strange groaning sound. He shrugged.

"Could be anything, probably one of those cars the rich folk have, like the Farmer's." Henry said, waving it off.

Clay suddenly called, distracting them both from the sound. "You fellas find anything?" he shouted. The man turned to face them. Suddenly, a flash of plaid darted out of the trees and tackled Clay. A man was on top of him. Suddenly, the man bit Clay's throat out. Clay screamed, but then the man snapped his neck and Clay was still. The man in plaid began tearing at Clay, shoving pieces of the dead man's flesh into his mouth.

Henry reacted completely out of character. He swore his vision turned red. He picked up a massive stick, with a sharp broken end, and marched towards the monstrous scene. Yulian shouted something, trying to stop him. The vile man didn't even look up at Henry as he approached, too concerned with his feasting. Henry noticed now the man was covered and caked in mud, and that he was deathly pale. Henry was slightly disturbed by this, but he was still furious. Clay had been a good man, and this beast of a human had just killed him.

Henry roared and swung the stick, hitting the man upside the head. He swung again, and with a crack, the man's arm broke. The man snarled and leapt up. Henry's blood ran cold. The man had been almost entirely unaffected by the pain. The man charged, but Henry swung again, knocking them both over from the awkward weight of the swing. A horrible squelching sounded, and Henry got up to see Yulian had pushed the monster onto a tree branch, impaling it in place. It snarled and snapped, but it couldn't move off.

Henry stared at it for a long minute. Finally, he couldn't stand the sound of teeth snapping together anymore. He hefted the stick and smashed at its head, until it was just a bloody mess. Henry stood panting. He dropped the stick. Yulian, being the strong fellow that he was, picked up Clay's wrecked body. The two started the walk back to the farm, the ball forgotten. They had bigger problems now.

---

---

He sat on the roof of the barn, a stack of shingles next to him, some shingle nails and a hammer in his hand. He set another shingle in place, positioned a nail and tapped it down, before hammering it the rest of the way. For some reason the air was especially nippy this morning. He pulled his jacket closer, and continued down the line. He'd pull a shingle then replace it with a new one. It was boring and tedious work. It seemed a lot of the others were playing baseball, but he no longer held interest in team sports. He hammered another nail, the sound sent him into an episode.

He was sprawled out on the ground, enemy artillery coming down on top of them. The trench was too far behind him, and yet the enemy position was the only thing for cover in front of him. The sound of the German death guns roaring all around him. His rifle clutched firmly in his hands, his heart was thumping and pumping so loudly that he could hardly think. To his right his best friend was in a similar position, he gave him a small nod and they both got to their feet. Their boots carrying them over the muddy terrain. And then he was back.

He sucked in the cold air, he was sweating profusely. His hammer was held with both hands and he was sprawled out on the roof. His heart was racing, he felt the shame creep up afterwards. He sat up, and looked around. He ended up knocking off a few of the shingles and a good handful of the nails. He stood up. maintaining his balance he moved towards the the ladder which gain him access to the roof. He shimmied down and began to look for the nails. He picked up a few off the bat, but ended up squatting in place searching for more of them. He pulled out a flask from the inner jacket pocket and snuck a sip then returned it to its hiding spot. He finished looking, collecting all but one or two. He grabbed the shingles and headed upwards.

He nailed down a few more before stopping to watch the others. At this moment Bill had knocked one out of the park. He chuckled to himself. Jack ran out of nails and climbed back down. He hooked the hammer into the carpenters belt he wore as he headed back to the main house. A majority of the roof had been finished, between yesterday afternoon and this morning.

After about five minutes, Henry and Yulian appeared from the mists of the forest. Henry was several paces ahead, looking rather shaken, whereas Yulian stayed behind him, carrying something over his shoulder. Though the fog obfuscated whatever Yulian was carrying, Henry's solemn expression meant that something was afoot.

Henry made his way over the stone fence, knocking one of the rocks off in haste. He looked green, as if he were about to double over at any moment. Yulian stepped over the fence with a heave, and what he carried became clear. It was Clay.

"Some madman killed Clay."

There was an eruption of gasps and profanity, before the towering Cossack silenced them. "We killed him before he could get to us."

A handful of men sprang up to investigate the scene, but stopped as they heard the farmhouse doors open. Farmer Tackett walked out, cane in tow. He was a large man, almost impossibly so, with buttons that threatened to pop at any moment. Short and squat, the boards of the porch creaked with each of his steps. He scowled at Henry and Yulian, scanning them up and down with his beady eyes. Finally, he spoke up.

"You girls get back to your bunks. Same goes for the men. Henry, take Clay to the shed for now, we'll bury him tonight." He took a few steps off the porch carefully, holding on to the peeling wooden rail. "Stay inside until dinner tonight. I catch one of you outside, you're packing your bags in the morning."

Now on the damp ground, he slowly lumbered towards Yulian, eyeing him suspiciously. His lips were wide and fat, and with his absence of any neck, made him look more like a bullfrog than a man. He was bald, with a head covered in liver spots and veins, and had a long and gnarled nose.

He was the least jolly fat man Yulian had ever seen.

"On second thought, you're a strapping young man, Julian. Take Clay's body to the shed." He growled, turning around to face the farmhouse. "Henry, bring me his killer's body. Billy will come along with you." He said, pointing his cane at Pooley. He began to slowly make his way back to the porch's steps, moving with the speed of a dying tortoise.

As the men made their way to their respective barns and the women went into the farmhouse, thunder boomed in the distance. It would rain soon.

---

---

Of all the places on the farm, Scarecrow liked the barn the least. It smelled -- reeked, really -- of piss and cigarettes. Instead of walking to the outhouse, there were endless empty beer bottles the men would pee in, and most smokers would usually put out their cigarette butts by dropping them into the rancid bottles. The barns would greet workers with an overpowering aroma of piss, cigarettes, stale beer, and sweat. Not to mention, the scraps and bones the men left on the floor, and the bodies of mice they would attract. One of the men even had a pet dog, and though he defended its cleanliness daily, most of the other farmhands suspected that it brought fleas into the barn. Scarecrow turned over in his bunk, staring at the rosary that he had hanging over his bed.

There was a small crowd gathered at the radio, the barn's sole access to the outside world. The report was masked with static, though some phrases were still audible.








The men chattered to themselves about the end of days, some others laughed at recalled flu scares of their youth. Scarecrow turned over again, facing the wall. He was a one-eyed carnie, and matters that concerned global health were none of his business. He would have to figure out some way to distract the men from the chaos later, as he always did in times of crisis. As he began to shuffle through his memories for an act he hadn't yet shown the other farmhands, he began to drift off and nap. Thunder boomed once more in the distance as the rain started to pelt the roof, cutting off all radio feed.

---

---

The brisk early November air nipped at Joseph's nose as he walked the perimeter of the farm. With his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets and his weathered boots shuffling along the muddy ground, his mind was lost in the clouds. Grey weather like this always made Joseph miss his family terribly. With it being Sunday, the farmhand's day off, Joseph thought it best to isolate himself for a little bit. A nice slow walk ought to do it. The men had a game of baseball going and Joseph was usually one to participate but his mood didn't match the occasion and he had let the men know that he'd be around after his walk. The light drizzle collected on Joseph's chestnut hair, eventually causing the hair to stick together in small clumps on his head. He didn't mind, his hair was dirty anyway. He planned to take a bath that night.

Joseph's walk around the perimeter of the farm was coming to an end as the sound of the men chattering came into earshot. As he neared closer, he caught bits and pieces of the conversation. As it appeared, Bill had hit the ball out in the wooded area and Henry and Yulian had gone to fetch it. Joseph decided that he had had enough time to himself for the day. At times, usually due to the weather or a remark made by another farmhand, Joseph would find himself stuck reminiscing about his family, unable to pull himself from the miserable slump. Having both his wife and son taken from him only 7 years prior, the wounds had yet to heal. Seven years sounded like a proficient time to get over a loss but it seemed to Joseph that the wrenching feeling of being without his wife and son only worsened with each year. Each month that went by only seemed to deepen his feelings of grief and lonesome. He had never longed for anything as desperately as he longed for the touch of his wife or the laugher of his son. On most days, he would do his best to push those feelings of longing and ever occurring memories away and focus on the work he was tasked with that day. However, every now and again, he had to give into them. He had to feel sorry for himself sometimes. Today was one of those times.

Waiting around with the other men while the two men fetched the ball, Joseph surveyed his clothing and tried to decide if anything needed patching yet. It had been a while since he mended any of his clothes. His thoughts were interrupted when a commotion arose with the arrival of the men who had gone to look for the baseball. He looked up to see Henry and Yulian pace toward the group of men, a bloodied Clay on Yulian's shoulder. The two men appeared greatly disturbed and the sight of Clay bloodied and seemingly unconscious was alarming. It wasn't until the men reached the rest of the farmhands that they learned that some crazy madman had killed Clay in cold blood. The prospect that there were people like that made Joseph's stomach spin. The Tuckett Farm had always been a safe place. It was hard to believe that cold blooded murder took place just outside the boundaries of the farm.

Now in a worried state, Joseph followed the farmer's orders and returned to the barn. He was among the men who had gathered around the radio in attempt to learn anything about what sounded like "The Red Plague". At least that's what it sounded like the voice on the radio said. While he was growing more concerned with every moment, his face remained stoic as he took all this new information in. Once he had heard enough from the radio, he took a step back from it to allow other farmhands to hear it better. Wringing his hands, he collapsed onto his bunk and let it all sink in. "Jesus," the man muttered to himself.

---

---

“Ey’, Lenny!” A voice shouted from across the ways, beckoning to him for attention. Private Leonard Russell quickly tugged at his rifle sling and padded through the crowded trench towards the voice that called his name, yet every step seemed to place it even further away. He walked on and on, then he walked some more - feeling where the damp had begun to seep into his boots. Eventually he saw his old pal Petey stood at the precipice, rifle in hand, offering him a hand up to the ladder, into the breach.

The battlefield was clear, it seemed. Other men advanced around them, seeming in good spirits, yet something seemed amiss. Just as he stepped over a roll of barbed wire- “Fritz!” He heard someone else shout aloud, and he frantically scrabbled for his rifle as he saw a faint glow in the distance, growing ever closer.

Fire. A literal wave of fire, embodied by the glowing specters of the enemy, pronged helmets and all. Men all around him - his brothers in arms - they raised their rifles and fired in unison to no avail. Machine gun fire drummed in the distance, as did the shells of their artillery. Their enemy would not yield. Leonard froze in place, unable to move, until he heard a voice. ”Shit, Lenny - snap out of it, we gotta move!” Petey socked him across the jaw and tugged at his sleeve and finally his legs started working again.

They made a beeline for the trenches, paying no attention to the spectral screams of their advancing foes and the men who were scorched and crushed underfoot. Leonard dove into the trench and fell flat on his face in the mud, only to feel Petey yanking him back to his feet and throwing him deeper into the trench as the flaming soldiers approached. He stopped and turned back, only to see his old pal scorched to ashes by the vengeful specters. As they turned their crimson bayonets on him, he felt the flesh along his arm begin to blacken and crackle...

---

Leonard shuddered as he felt the droplets on his forehead, waking him prematurely from his morning nap. Blinking a couple times, he glanced up to see where earlier’s raindrops had seeped through the branches and their leaves, before hoarsely clearing his throat and looking around for that mongrel of his when he saw him padding around in the direction of the farmstead.

“Petey… psst, Petey!” Leonard whispered, snapping his fingers and whistling to catch the dog’s attention. Finally he listened, snapping his head towards his owner with pricked ears and eventually padding over, tongue lolling out. Leonard smiled faintly and gave him a scratch behind the ears with his scarred palm, before driving the other into his knee to stand up. He wondered how long he'd dozed off and gave his jacket a firm brush for good measure, before heading back towards the others, wondering if they'd finished their little baseball game.

He made it back just in time to see the eastern boy, Julian carrying Clay’s lifeless body towards them and hear about how some crazed madman had killed him, before they did the same in self-defence. Leonard felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle as he saw how badly the poor bastard had been torn into, noticing that the wound on his neck looked even worse than those caused by barbed wire or artillery shells he’d seen during the war. It was enough to make him instinctively feel for his holstered pistol, yet before he could say anything he caught earshot of the boss, Farmer Tackett, hollering at them to get inside.

Like a couple of the other farmhands, the sound of the radio blaring in the barn quickly caught Leonard’s attention and he did as best he could to listen in. Red Plague.. it made his neck bristle yet again - and so did his scarred arm, which was never a good sign. If the years on the road had taught him anything, it was that his gut was the only thing worth a damn trusting - and his gut told him that he’d be glad he slept with a gun close at hand tonight.

---

---

The men arrived for dinner at the same time they always had, though most were still a bit sheepish from the fright they had received that morning. A line formed out the farmhouse's front door, with men receiving their plates and heading out the back door to their respective barns. Normally there would be a small crowd outside of the farmhouse's rear as the men ate, smoke, or drank, though the men were now eager to head back to their safe bunks. Farmer Tackett had said he would speak on that morning's incident, and a small group of farmhands sat by the door from the kitchen to the rest of the farmhouse, waiting for his arrival.

As rows of men took their plates -- sweet potatoes, corn fritters, and sliced ham -- the floorboards began to creak near the kitchen's exit, signalling The Farmer's return.

Farmer Tackett swung the door open, squeezing through the doorframe tightly. He looked pale, and there was a smell of sweat that clung to him.

"I've inspected the body." He announced, clearing his throat. "I've heard some of the fearmongering about some new plague, and I'll have none of it. Work starts tomorrow morning, same time as ever. Whatever drove that man to madness wasn't rabies, I'm certain of it." He took a plate from one of the women serving, as well as a small stein. There was no protest from the men, as they were wary enough to want to keep their jobs, though an uneasiness passed over the men.

The Farmer shifted his weight back towards the door, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. He gave the men a quick nod, and slunk back into the hallway, closing and locking the door behind him.

---

---

"Nobody said kill." Pooley grunted, leaning back on the post. Him and another farmhand sat on a fence by the farmhouse, watching the men go back and forth between the farmhouse and the barns, returning their plates and silverware. The farmhand Bill sat with ran a hand through his oily brown hair, chuckling to himself.

"That fat fuck knows he's safe behind his doors, while he's leavin' us to go work for him in the middle of the goddamn apocalypse. I say we take his pickup and make for Portland." Bill whispered, cracking his thick knuckles against the fence. His conspirator shrugged.

"You don't think he'll shootcha if he sees you pulling out the driveway with it?" He asked Bill, taking a sip from a small flask. Bill shrugged and scrunched up his face, as if the man sitting next to him had grown a second head. "We can take it while he's sleeping. He sleeps like a rock, we'll be halfway to Florida by the time he wakes up." The brown-haired man shrugged again, sipping patiently from his flask. "Maybe we don't have to kill him. He looked sick today. Maybe he's got it."

Bill laughed, hopping off the fence. "Don't even joke. I'll see you in the morning."

---

---

John sat on his bunk in the musty cool of the barn, frowning. He had been taking a quite refreshing nap, if he did say so himself, only to be awoken by some shouting about a maniac in the woods who had killed Clay. And as though that wasn't enough, only minutes later the radio had begun to sputter about a plague and fits of madness -- and it hadn't taken long for even the dimmest of farmhands to make the connection.

If only John hadn't been sleeping, he might have been able to take a look for himself, but by the time that he had truly been awake and alert the command had already gone out to stay shut in the bunks. John was no stranger to rabies, though in truth the disease was hardly well-known to him -- nine times out of ten, some mongrel dog would be found wandering the roads and be put out of its misery before any poor soul was bitten. Nonetheless, John had seen the disease for himself several times, and if there was anything that could inspire madness he had no doubt that rabies was a likely candidate. He'd heard stories of men killing themselves upon being bitten by a suspicious stray rather than fall prey to the disease.

Nonetheless, John had not joined the more social men in chattering about the apocalypse. He had seen worse deaths in the trenches than anything that half of the farmhands could envision, and saved men from even worse.

John considered the possibility of asking Tackett to take a look at the body of the attacker come morning, assuming that he'd not yet been buried. And with any luck, the storm would let up and the radio would begin to function again.

Shrugging, he laid down in the bunk and dozed.