Han and Greta

 

 

After the fireballs from the skies abated, fierce warring erupted amongst the people packs. Each vied for the most defensible buildings still standing to serve as fortresses of their own.

To the north of the impact wastelands in the great Melted City, there lived a humble scavenger with his wife and children. The scavenger was a kind man but weak, in all ways ill-suited to the fight for survival. The wife was cruel but a coward, and so their ranking in the home pack remained stagnant. Without higher status, feeding their family was a constant struggle.

They lived on the third floor of a crumbling building, rusted black stairs leading to the entry. Leaning against the wall in Father and Mother’s bedroom was a hammer, the head twisted in a slag-like molten lump; what had in another life been a tire iron, now filed to a lethal point; and the pride of the family, an ax that Father sharpened and polished until silver reflections flashed off its gleaming edge.

Even though the home pack patrolled their territory, still it was every man for himself. Best to be prepared.

One night, Father lay upon the stained mattress in the darkness with only the sidewalk fires from outside offering flickering illumination. His back ached beneath the lumpy mattress. He listened to the drum-beat in his head, as constant and familiar as his family: feed my children, feed my children.

Ratt-a-tatt-tatt.

Cold tonight. Very little direct sunlight got through to the ground anymore, but the atmosphere held enough heat to keep them alive.

“Something must be done, you know,” came his wife’s voice next to him. The rhythm in his head stuttered to a halt.

“About what?” he answered, voice low and uninflected. Outside, there was a distant blast. Packs warring again. Neither paid attention to it.

We’re dying. Don’t you feel it?” said Mother, rubbing her stomach in the orange darkness with ghostly fingers. Her ribs protruded sharply. “We’re all dying.”

“Don’t give up hope,” said Father, but his voice was tired. He clinched his wife’s restless fingers in his hand.

“The children must go.”

“Go.” Father stared in Mother’s direction, straining to see.

“Away,” came the answer, soft and whispering. His skin crawled. “The food will be gone tomorrow. All Feast won’t be for another three weeks. We must take them with us to scavenge in unfamiliar territory. And leave them.” Mother’s voice was not her own. It came from another place, some place she’d never been before. Far away.

“I won’t abandon my children!” Father ended in a shout, but both heard the dreadful hesitation in his voice. The weakness. He stood and walked to the dirty window, looking out. The top pane was missing and the acrid scent of the city was strong. The inside of his nose tingled.

A one-legged Norm dragged himself down the walk below and sensed Father’s gaze. Father didn’t recognize him. The Norm hissed in a powerful exhalation, eyes glittering in the reflected firelight.

“Then you’ll die. You need me to help you scavenge,” came his wife’s voice. “Together, the two of us might survive. Four won’t.”

Father turned at the strangled sound behind him and moved to touch his wife’s face. Wet. She was crying, but her face was smooth. There was no expression, as if she were unaware of her tears. Only her chest heaved. “I don’t trust myself around them,” she said.

His insides twisted helplessly. He tried to speak, but his voice would not come.

The children heard everything, just down the hall and unable to sleep for the hunger gnawing at their bellies. Han sat at the edge of his bed in stunned surprise, while Greta, prone, stared up in the flickering dark. “Mother….” she said, voice as soft as a sigh. Tears ran down her face and mingled in her hair, clinging damply to her neck.

Mother had always taken care of her children, kept them clean as she was able and fed them even as her own stomach roiled and contracted in painful spasms. But Han watched her watching them whenever they ate and saw the wildness just behind her eyes. He clung closely to her then, denying instinct.

Sometimes the boy thought she was becoming a Shambleoid. The city was full of them - nightmare brain disease having taken over so many after the rain of the fireballs, hunger and madness clawing from stumbling insides. But Mother remained a freak, unscarred and with four intact limbs, she and the rest of her family having been miles away from the city at the time of the fireballs.

If they’d known what was left of it they wouldn’t have bothered coming back.

 “Don’t worry,” whispered Han, after a moments silence. He came to sit upon Greta’s matt in the darkness and stroked her cheek, wiping away her tears. “I’ll figure something out.” She reached up for the necklace swaying above her from Han’s neck. It gave pale flashes of green in the inconstant light glowing from the high window of their room. “You want it?” he asked her, tenderly. She nodded. He placed the chained emerald around her throat, locking the clasp. Jewels had no value, and their beauty was undesirable, so there were plenty to be found in the city. Han kissed his sister’s smooth forehead, comforting her.          

Later that night Han arose from his bed. He crept to the window and surveyed the night. The fires burned and smoldered, flickering. Dawn waited below the horizon. Carefully he opened the door and crept down the rusty black stairs.

No more than a few steps away from his building and Han froze at the sight of a passing hell dog down the block. Harsh shadows pooled between the skeletal ribs, rough brown fur standing in stiff tufts from its hide. The huge beast sniffed at a pile of rubble and then at the air, testing, eyes catching the light of the dying fires and reflecting their orange glow as Han melted into the shadows. The boy’s heart banged in his chest.

The dog’s head dropped and he moved off.

Quietly, Han made his way down the street to a small lot the next block over. There the stony remains of a building competed for space with weeds and grass. Small rocks shone like dull gold coins here and there, once embedded in the walls of the formerly elegant jewelry store. The firelight caught winks of light scattered from the facets of jewels strewn over the lot or sunk into the weeds. Han scooped up all the bright white stones, gleaming necklaces, rings and bracelets he could carry. He grabbed for a blinking jewel and instead cut his fingers on a jagged slice of glass, bright point jutting from the crumbled concrete. Quickly the boy stuffed his fingers in his mouth, sucking off the blood. If a hell dog or a cricker caught the scent of blood he’d never make it back home.

A hand grasped Han’s shoulder and a soundless scream escaped him. Eyes wide, the boy looked up into the face of the Norm Father had earlier spotted from the window.

The Norm looked him over carefully. The pupil of one eye was twice the size of the other. “I smelled you,” he whispered, “even before you bled. If the dogs had gotten here first… how foolish you are!” His breath was rancid, fanning from behind discolored teeth.

“I only came out to gather these for games. For my sister and I,” said Han, somewhat feebly, for the Norm held him so that that the neck of his own shirt cut into his oxygen supply. He sucked rapidly at the air, trying to fill his lungs.

“Go home, then,” said the Norm abruptly, with a shake. “And remember, another on patrol may not be so generous as I!” He flung the boy to the pavement. Han’s forehead struck the concrete and blood welled. He got up and stumbled home, swiping at the blood, knowing he was a prime target. Behind him the rising sun seeped through the atmosphere in a dull red glow.

----------

“Han.” It was a soft voice. The boy opened his eyes to see his mother sitting on the side of his matt. She stroked his forehead, watching his face. “Time to get up.” His cheekbones were stark beneath haunted eyes.

Both children had light hair the color of honey and butter mixed, beauty made ethereal by fragile delicacy. Han’s eyes were a pale blue. Little Greta’s eyes were darker, hiding her thoughts as if secrets.

Mother moved to the girl’s side, touching her hand. The child looked up, reaching out for the small packet her mother offered. Inside the packet was a piece of flat bread and a swollen can for later. If Greta squinted, she could just make out the faded imprint. A photograph of carrots and peas. Her mouth watered.

“Don’t eat the food before dinner. There’s nothing else,” said Mother. Suddenly, she dropped a swift kiss on Greta’s bowed head. She stood and left the room.

Minutes later the family trooped down the stairs, Father clenching the finely honed tire iron swinging from his waist. They stayed in a tight group, stepping around obstacles where the blacktop and sidewalks were severely blasted or obliterated. Norms shuffled, limped, or drug themselves around the quickly moving group in the street. Occasionally one lurched directly through the midst of the family, and Han wondered if they’d even been noticed. Still others, not recognizing the family as part of their pack, stared curiously, noting them for the Freaks they were. The last watcher before they left pack territory was a hulking thing, skin a hairless ruin of pink, crevassed scar tissue, eyes faded almost white, trailing up and down Greta’s small body until Father hefted the tire iron in the Norm’s direction.

The family walked past the many buildings that survived the devastation of the fireballs in some shape or form: as melted glassine profiles stretching upwards, or skeletal profiles, or blackened remains, mostly intact, slumping against the dull haze of the atmosphere. On and on the foursome traveled, braving more and more suspicious glares as they ventured into strange territory. Han lagged behind, dropping stones or jewels, whichever his fingers grasped first from within his pockets.

“Hurry up!” Mother snapped. Once she turned swiftly and cuffed him about the ears.

Greta tugged at Mother’s sleeve. “Why are we going so far?” she asked, midnight eyes piercing. Mother stared at her little girl. The child’s expression was oddly challenging. Mother opened her own eyes wide and thrust her face closer to her daughter’s.

“Why do you ask?” Mother asked, oh so quietly. The two remained still, eyes locked, and Mother’s hand raised slowly. Clinched in her fist was jagged rock. Heart racing, Han moved in quietly behind his mother.

Father began to cough. Repeatedly he spat, trying to clear his throat, but it only got worse, great wet barks racking his body. Mother had told the children that Father’s sickness came from the distended cans they ate from almost daily. Not many years ago, people died by the thousands as food grew old or contaminated. The survivors of the Second Scourge were mostly immune to those same illnesses. Mostly.

Distracted from her mother’s glare, Greta moved away and laid a hesitant hand on Father’s arm. Father’s breath slowed and he straightened, patting Greta’s hand. Watching her, his face crumpled. Her hand tightened on his and he looked away.

The family moved forward again, doing their best to ignore the strangers all around. It was a fine line they trod, trying to appear submissive enough not to threaten, yet strong enough to make the strangers think twice about confrontation.

At last, Father stopped before an old covered sewage hole in the remains of a narrow and crooked street. When the road was empty of anyone else he bent to pry at the cover and opened it, leading them down a rusted, dirty ladder built into the wall disappearing into the dark. Mother gestured at the children to follow.

“Why can’t we go with you?” Greta asked as she stepped down from the ladder to her father’s side. “Don’t you need Han and I to help?” Father turned away.

“Don’t leave me here, Father,” Greta pleaded. His dirty fingers reached for the rung above his head and clung there, unmoving.

“Come out of there. We’ve work to do,” came Mother’s brusque voice from the surface. Father began the climb upwards.

“What are you doing to us, Mother?” Han said in a low voice, looking up at the circle of light above. The blackened profile of his mother thrust suddenly into view.

“It’s too dangerous to take you with us. We’re unknown here. Lie down and rest. We’ll be back,” Mother said in a reasonable tone. Father clambered from the hole.

“Will you?” Han whispered. He strained to see some measure of love, or sorrow, or compassion in his mother’s face. The light streamed in from behind her and then narrowed as she drew back. The lid grated over the opening.

The children held hands in the darkness.

----------

“...a frozen milk, cold as winter, sweet as candy. They scooped it out in a round ball and put it on top of a sugar cone. The sweetness melted on your tongue, down the back of your throat. If it was hot outside and you didn’t eat it fast enough, it would run right down your hand.”

“The ice-cream legend,” said Greta, dreamily.

“It’s true. Father ate it as a child. Lots of it,” Han stoutly maintained. Greta snuggled closer into her brother’s arm wrapped around her. After a moment’s silence, he added thoughtfully, “I think they thought they’d always have it.”

The children had found once their eyesight adjusted there was enough light streaming in from the holes in the covering above to see each other quite well. They leaned against a stained concrete wall in a narrow tunnel. After a time, the siblings lay down and dozed on the floor of the long-dry sewer. Sometimes a mysterious wind blew through, ruffling the children’s hair. Once, a rat the size of a small dog settled itself beside Han. It lifted on hind feet and sniffed, regarding the boy a long time before moving off down the dark tunnel.

When the children woke, the light was almost entirely gone. Nightfall. They were hungry. The two divided their bread and ate it quickly. Han plunged a hole in the can of vegetables with a small knife he carried, liquid sloshing down his arm. A ripened smell filled the air that made their mouths water. They ate the peas and carrots and drank the thickened metallic soup. And then all was silent again.

“They’re not coming back,” said Han, a feather-whisper in the echoing silence. Neither of them moved. Greta said nothing, and at last her brother stirred. “With the fires we’ll be able to see the jewels and stones I scattered. We’ll follow them home,” he said, and reached for Greta’s hand. The siblings climbed the ladder steps built into the wall, feeling their way. Straining, Han pushed the cover aside and climbed out, Greta following.

The air was chilled and clearer than the normal thick atmosphere. The children heard the crackling sounds of the fire on the nearest corner. The flames threw moving shadows everywhere.

Han looked for the stones and jewels he’d scattered, finding the first without much trouble –

a jewel-encrusted watch, winking gold in the light. A short distance away he found the next, a ring, lying to the side of the empty street. There were very few citizens about after nightfall, and whenever the siblings spotted a moving figure they retreated. They went along this way for what seemed a long time, Han pleasantly surprised by the ease of their passage. They might actually make it home.

C-r-r-i-ck. Crrick.

A noisome rustling came from up ahead, dry and papery. Greta’s eyes rounded, growing huge, a small, terrified noise coming from her throat. The rubble from two buildings away began to shift, chunks of concrete grating against one another as something beneath stirred. A pair of wavering antennae poked above the ruins, dark claws pushing rocks aside.

“Run,” Han breathed, “like never before.” Greta’s face broke, and Han gripped her arm savagely. “Now,” he ordered, pulling her down the street. His little sister could not keep up. Frantically Han yanked her onwards, the bones in her wrist tiny beneath his hand. Risking a look back, he stared at the black form scuttling behind. The shell of the insect was hard and shiny, though coated in dust from the rubble. It was over two feet tall and twice as long. The thing made a chittering noise as it sped after them, low to the ground.

Greta tugged at his hand, tears running down her dirty cheeks, hair floating around her head in golden waves. Han realized he’d stopped. With a muttered curse, he willed himself to look away from the nightmare bearing down upon them and found himself able to move again. He ran until his legs trembled and his lungs burned, pulling his sister onwards block after struggling block.

From a ground-floor doorway, a Norm peered with avid curiosity at the approaching children. His nostrils and mouth had melted towards one another, separated only by a obscenely thin strip of skin. The children ran towards him, and the startled Norm blinked and slammed the door shut in their face. After all, they were Freaks and strangers at that.

Han yanked at his flagging sister’s arm. “Do you want that to get you?” he hissed, looking back. The cricker was almost upon them, black legs blurred as it ran.

Greta collapsed.

“No, Greta, move!” Han screamed and bent to his sister.

The insect advanced, a curious, questioning chirp issuing from its throat, segmented legs making small clicking noises against the ruined pavement. It reached for them. Han kicked wildly at it, a piece of the foremost leg flying off with a crack. The remaining portion waved back and forth in the air as if still moving the cricker forward. Its antennae wavered, tasting the air as it loomed over Greta, tiny black head lowering. The proboscis of the creature descended to the girl’s white throat.

From the corner of his eye, Han caught a descending blur. A slim metal pole, wickedly sharp, smashed through the insect’s back. The exoskeleton shattered, creamy yellow fluid welling thickly down the slick shell of the cricker. Antennae waving, slowing, the insect uttered a surprised chitter. Its legs crumbled and the body fell with a thud. A loud noise strangely like a purr came from somewhere inside it, then began to fade. The antennae stilled.

Han’s eyes followed the metallic spike of the pole up to a clawed hand. The hand was attached to a tall woman dressed in tattered rags, ancient and ageless, her face as hard and without lines as the shell of the insect she killed. Her irises were gray and emotionless, ringing dark red pupils, and her skin was papery white and thin. She seemed somehow ancient, yet her hair was a luxurious if tangled black mane.

The hand lowered to the boy and he scrambled backwards, to no avail. Lowering to his forehead, the pointed dark nails scraped the skin gently. He flinched.

A dark shadow slunk beside Greta. A hell dog, long and thin, with matted brindle-gray fur spiking from the body. Han moved towards his sister, but the old woman gripped and held him. He couldn’t escape.

The hell dog towered over his sister. Lowering its muzzle, the animal sniffed delicately. Its tail wagged. Eyes still closed, Greta turned her head away. The long pink tongue of the dog slipped over the girl’s cheek. Greta’s uncomprehending eyes opened, and she shrieked.

“Zoë, leave the girl alone,” directed the crone and laughed, a rusty sound. “Come with me,” she said to the children. They didn’t move, and her eyes began to burn like twin flames, ashen face turning darker with impatience. “Food,” she said, looking at Han and then Greta as if they were slow. “You’re hungry, aren’t you? Or would you rather nourish the crickers?” Greta looked at the hell dog doubtfully.

“She’s tame. Coming or not?” Han and his sister exchanged a glance. The red eyes marked the old woman as a Shambleoid, yet she’d saved their lives. She appeared sane. And both felt hunger raking their stomachs. At last, unable to turn down the promise of food, Han stood and gripped Greta’s hand tightly in his own, following in the steps of the Shambleoid.

-------

Up, up they climbed, through the entrails of the mostly intact ‘scraper. Every fifteen stairs the monotony was broken with a small landing. The dog led the way, lean and furry hind-quarters vanishing around each turn before them. The old woman followed, never pausing for breath, and the children straggled behind.

Exiting the stairwell, they approached a pocked and beaten door. The woman pushed her fingers into a hole worn in the hallway’s faded blue carpet, pulling out a slim piece of metal. “A key…” breathed Han. The woman’s face reflected a faint but instant humor, quickly fading. The fact of a door that remained completely intact with a working lock was unusual; the fact that the woman held the correct key to use with it, amazing.

The door opened with a protesting groan and the children peered into the dark opening as the woman pulled matches from her pocket, lighting candles all around the room. The children huddled at the doorway.

“Come in, ” she rasped. The candlelight revealed a large room, high-ceilinged, with walls once white darkened with layer upon layer of grime. A threadbare couch patterned with faded roses dominated the area. The glowing candle light flickered around boxes tossed carelessly around the room.

“May we have something to eat?” asked Greta, unable to help herself. The Shambleoid grinned, exposing crooked teeth. The candlelight pricked the dark red centers of her eyes and traced her sharp cheekbones. The children shrank back.

“Of course, little ones. Don’t be afraid. No harm will come to you,” she crooned, moving to one of the boxes. Kneeling, she rummaged inside, pulling out dusty, faded cans of food – beets and potatoes, corn and carrots. The children’s eyes grew wider as each can was exposed. With a delicate flourish, the old woman pulled out one last can.

Meat,” whispered Han through a mouth flooded with saliva. The faint picture on the front of the can featured a pink-gray chunk of pork.

       “Can you read, dear children?” asked the old woman, smiling an unholy smile. Her voice lowered. “S-P-A-M.” She pulled the key from the side of the tin and carefully inserted the starter metal edge, curling it over in a neat line. A fleshy, sweet stench bloomed throughout the room. Greta put a hand to her stomach, cramping with hunger.

“A feast, yes…” said the old woman in a sing-song voice. “A feast is what we’ll have!” She set the opened meat aside and pulled a long knife from somewhere in her ragged clothes, slamming the point down into the can of beets. Red fluid spattered over her hand and flew through the air in glittering drops. The children’s eyes shone as they watched. Gouging off the top of the can, the old woman continued to the others until all were opened and handed them to Han and Greta. Plunging their hands into the cans, both began to feed.

Next the old woman placed the pale meat onto a small wooden table, candle flames quivering over the gelatinous coating. With great care, she sliced the chunk into marbled thirds. Stabbing a section of the dripping Spam up, she stuffed it intact in her mouth and sucked as if it were a lollipop, then chewed slowly with closed eyes.

“Don’t be shy,” invited the old woman, wiping her mouth with her hand after finishing. She waved at the remaining two slices. The children moved over to the small table and began to eat. The old Shambleoid ran her clawed fingers delicately down Han’s buttery curls, glowing in the dim light. The boy never noticed.

After they finished, the old lady stood and led the children into a dark hall. From there, she turned into a small room and lit a single candle. The children saw two mattresses covered in lovely white sheets, their clean brightness stark in the dim room. Sinking down into their beds, the children luxuriated in softness. They were as full and comfortable as they ever remembered. Quickly they fell asleep.

The old Shambleoid was a witch who made a habit of luring strange children into her abode. Strangers because there were strict pack rules to adhere to, and children because they were weak, gullible and particularly palatable. Sometimes as opportunity availed she took a weakened adult, but she preferred the little ones with their tender, sweet flesh.

Later that night, she crept into the room where the children lay and stood over them. Touching her fingers to the girl’s arm, she ran them over the flesh, testing. “Good mouthfuls, they’ll be,” she muttered and left the children sleeping peacefully with full bellies.

The next morning Greta was awakened by the old woman shaking her shoulder. “Get up, lazybones! Go feed your brother.”

“Han?” the girl called out, climbing to her feet. The witch slammed her hand across the child’s face and dragged her into the hall to another doorway. Inside the room was a small cage with black metal bars, behind which crouched Han.

“We’ll fatten him up in time for All Feast,” said the Shambleoid. She grinned at the children and both stared up, up at the old woman, black hair flaring in unkempt knots around her head. Greta’s eyes watered, and she reached out to brush fingers with her brother in the dog cage.

Day in and day out, Greta tended Han, feeding him all he could stomach— vegetables, noodles with sauce, fruit, soup, and twice, canned chicken and corned beef. Greta lived on the rankest, bloated cans the witch deigned to give her. She ate these a little at a time, fearing to throw up the precious nutrition by gorging herself. She shared with Zoë, feeling pity for the dog’s thinness and the abuse the old woman heaped upon the animal’s head.

And Greta was made to help the old woman scavenge, finding it far easier than she’d ever experienced with her parents. The Shambleoid’s pack feared her and often stepped aside rather than fight when she approached. Only once did Greta see someone refuse. Minutes later he lay bloody and beaten in the street, alive only because of the edict that no pack member might kill another. For although the old woman’s thoughts grew darkly insane and ever more blood-tainted as the days passed, she retained enough self-control to remain within pack protection.

At last the day of All Feast arrived. The witch was well pleased. “I dare say he’s fat enough to make a fine meal,” she said gleefully to Greta, and all of the girl’s crying and pleading fell upon deaf ears. The day flew past for the terrified children.

As the daylight waned, the sidewalk fires flared huge and bright, streets filling with hunters moving in twos and threes. The hungriest and most desperate among them invaded the territory of foreign packs in brief forays, hoping for plunder, though the odds were against them. It was much more likely that the hunters became the hunted, for there was no law except for that within each pack.

And of course, the holy sanctity of All Feast.

The Shambleoid led Han from his cage. Around his neck she fastened a choke-chain with a black leather handle, studded in silver. The boy took some minutes to gain his equilibrium after having been confined in the cage for so long. Impatient, the witch jerked the leash, and he gagged as the metal bit into his throat.

“Come, let’s see how the feast progresses, “ the witch said. Greta shook her head, turning frantically away from the old woman’s grasp. In the end, the Shambleoid was obliged to drag her kicking and screaming from behind a dilapidated chair. Zoë approached and surprised the old woman by growling at her.

“Keep it up, damned hell dog, and you’ll be the first course,” cursed the witch, pulling Han and Greta out the door and down the stairs. Zoë followed, softly growling, lips trembling over yellowed teeth. The old woman kicked at her but the dog remained just out of reach.

Outside the sky was orange-gray, growing ever more dark. Burning embers danced lightly on the heat waves from the flames, belying the heavy, smoke-filled atmosphere.

The street fire to the left of their building claimed the pack’s first victim, and Han, Greta and the witch watched as a Norm with three long arm appendages was thrown head first into the blaze. High-pitched, keening wails spilled from the flames, one piling atop the next. Excited by the smell of roasting flesh drifting through the night air, the crowd pressed closer. They roared in time with the dying Norm’s shrieks, falling one by one to their knees, praying out loud or giving thanks.

The screams quieted and the meat dragged from the fire with long poles. The skin had blackened and split, oozing clear pink juices. The dead Norm’s teeth were bared to the crowd, his lips burnt away. The crowd fell upon the body and tore it apart, heedless of the smoking, blistering heat.

“Are you hungry, dear?” asked the witch, so softly, close to Greta’s ear. She tugged viciously at Han’s chain, and the boy moaned, a thin thread of blood running down his throat. Zoë sniffed inquisitively, nose high in the air.

Greta stared at the witch with round eyes, tears tracking down her cheeks. “Shall we partake?” persisted the old woman and licked her pale lips. She kissed the girl’s cheek. Greta didn’t move. The old woman grinned and seized her shoulder. Herding the captives before her, she strode into the pack which parted seamlessly before her.

They stopped close to the flames. Heat roared up from the fire, making it difficult to breathe. Lightning-fast, Greta wrenched her shoulder from the Shambleoid’s grip, and grabbed the old woman’s hand, biting it with all her strength. Her mouth flooded with sharp coppery blood. The witch screeched as Greta’s teeth dug deeply, scraping bone. The girl dared to look up and the Shambleoid lips peeled back from her teeth, flames bathing her face in lurid red and yellow. She flicked the child backwards as one would a gnat, and Greta fell into the edge of the crowd drawing away from the melee. Greta sprang up and ran straight for the old woman, slamming hard into her back.

She pushed the Shambleoid into the fire, barely escaping the flames herself. Screaming agony floated upon the air.

Impossibly, the witch still held onto the Han’s collar. He stumbled towards the flames, straining to pull away. The crowd pressed closer. Zoë moved in protectively, fangs bared in ragged black gums.

“I haven’t broken the law,” shouted Greta, tears and sweat rolling down her face. “She wasn’t my pack.” She tugged at Han’s chain, pulling it back from the fire. Her fingers erupted in blisters.

       “Help me!” yelled Han, appealing to the surrounding strangers. His face was red as if sunburned. “Let my sister and I join you. It’s within your rights to take the meat as a gift.”

Greta hung onto the chain pulling her brother inexorably towards the flames. She leaned back, trying to brace herself, ignoring her burning, swelling fingers. Han scrabbled backwards. A sob broke from his chest, then another.

His hair caught fire. He beat at it frantically. His sister looked to the crowd, silently imploring.

The figures quadrupled in her vision and then darkness overwhelmed her.

---------

She awoke with her head in someone’s lap, fingers caressing her blonde curls. Greta looked up to see her brother’s familiar features. “They saved us?” she whispered, and Han nodded. Sitting up, she hugged him fiercely and he laughed, surprised at the strength in her small arms.

The crowds surrounding the fires were thinning. Zoë sat next to the siblings, gnawing on a red bone. Greta reached out and hugged the hell dog, and the animal licked her arm before turning attention back to the delicacy.

“Time to go upstairs. Hunters are still about,” said Han, standing and helping Greta to her feet. His hair smelled of fire.

“Zoë will protect us,” said Greta. She and her brother moved towards their building, Han fussing over his sister’s injured fingers.

“Next All Feast, we go home,” said the boy, changing the subject.

“I don’t want to leave here. The food is ours. They’ve accepted us,” said his sister, puzzled.

“I want to say good-bye to Mother and Father,” answered Han. Greta watched him thoughtfully as he bent to scratch behind the hell dog’s ears. Zoë closed brown eyes in bliss. “We’ll take Zoë with us. ‘Kay?”

“Okay,” agreed Greta. She knelt on the other side of the animal, rubbing the dog with the uninjured back of her small hand. She watched her brother.

“Maybe we could bring our new pack a present,” said Han. He brought cold eyes up to his sister’s face and waited.

Greta studied him soberly. “Sure,” she said at last. She smiled, dimples filled with shadow in the dying fires.

 

 

~END~