Two days after the Takheeta Incident
Calling it a town was being generous. It had people who lived there, a Post Office, and not much else. Meager crops were grown on the outskirts, and a shack barely standing served liquid that could be mistaken for hooch. Even its name, Temp, was a joke. But the visitor who came that night wasn’t laughing.
His appearance was confusing for those who lived in the backwater settlement. They knew who and what he was, and what his arrival usually meant. But it was no longer Collection Day. The people of Temp had paid all their Taxes. So when the Reckoner walked through the middle of town that night, the citizens hid inside. Bullets were loaded into rifles, but no one dared fire a shot lest he take it personally.
Lanterns flickered, their dim light reflecting off of the scattergun on the Reckoner’s back. A dark hood covered his head, but those who stared long enough could catch glimpse of bleached bone and sunken eyes. His name was Solomon, and he had been walking for two days straight. His path led him directly through Temp, past the sleeping and peering citizens, to what he sought.
Temp’s Morgue was a sad affair. An Oldcestor building, with a heavy metal door that raised and lowered as the fallen returned. Up until two days ago, no living thing would approach without a very real and urgent cause. Those who gathered outside the Morgue to wait on their family made sure to stay far away. But no longer. Now, it was too quiet. There was nothing here at all.
Solomon strode up to the heavy metal door and stopped, standing still. The voices, the feel of the Morgue, were both gone. They were replaced, not by nothing, but by their absence. Solomon lowered his hood and rested his boney skull against the cold metal, silently begging to feel something. But he was met with only silence. It was maddening. But more than that.
He was alone.
“Fuck.”
Four Days After The Takheeta Incident
Solomon knew what he should have done. He should have reported to Rampart, currently on his way to Essex to “assess the situation.” He should find the Groundskeepers and assist in their efforts. He should contact those contracted to the Council, research the problem and find a solution. He knew he should do all these things.
Instead, Solomon had started to dig.
When the sun went down, Solomon had started to dig in the hard ground outside of Bravado. He was seen, and whispered about, and reported on, but no one approached or questioned him. The Reckoner had fought with the people of Bravado on that fateful night, but that didn’t mean he was trusted. At best, he was tolerated. At worst, he was watched.
But those watching just saw the Full Dead dig.
Slowly, some of the townsfolk began to follow Solomon into the soggy mud of the Morgue’s interior. A shock of braided white hair. Muted red glowing. Tired faces and leather vests. Fangs and small bats, slung rifles and newly grown ears. Tunnel dwellers and hearty drinkers. No one questioned Solomon, and after observing, they began to help too. They dug through the night, taking breaks and talking amongst each other quietly. Through the muck and the blood they dug, trying to exhume the dead from their graves, and failing each time.
Finally, as the horizon began to brighten, a Graverobber approached the Reckoner as they gazed out at the sky.
“I don’t think we’re getting anywhere, Solomon.”
A quiet moment passed, as a tall Hellhound approached on the other side.
“We’ve got a real big fucking problem, Brother.”
Solomon remained quiet, his shoulders rising and falling. With a grunt, he thrust his shovel into the dirt.
“Fuck.”
“What are we going to do?”
Solomon had no answer. But worse than that, he feared there wasn’t one.
FIN