Once they finally got to town, Peter barely registered the rows of cars forming a makeshift barricade. His legs moved on memory, his mind thick with static. Everything inside him still echoed with the sound of his mother's blood hitting the earth. The bear. The scream. The way it all just… happened.
Nicki walked beside him, crying softly. Not sobbing—those had already passed—but her breath kept hitching in short, sharp gulps. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face pale. She held herself tightly, like if she didn't, something inside would break loose and never go back.
Gerald limped forward a few steps ahead of them, his hand clutched to his side, moving like he'd forgotten how to walk without pain. His face was blank, drained. He hadn't said a word since whispering Let's go.
Behind the line of cars, a group of townspeople waited. Nothing about them looked official—but every single one held something in their hands like they meant to use it. A pitchfork. A compound bow. A baseball bat wrapped in tape and tension. These weren't weapons made for battle. They were tools held by people who refused to be helpless.
As Peter's family neared, a man near the middle raised his arm and motioned frantically.
"Over the cars, now! Hurry!" he barked, his voice thin with adrenaline. The others looked jumpy, eyes cutting through the treeline as if something might come crashing out at any moment.
Peter kept moving, but a strange detail snagged in the back of his mind—the cars. How were they here? Pushed? Towed? They shouldn't have worked. Not after the light. Not after everything.
Then a man stepped forward from the line.
He looked young—late twenties, maybe—but there was a calm steadiness in the way he moved. His frame was lean but solid, the kind of build shaped by discipline rather than vanity. Shoulders squared beneath a worn brown sheriff's jacket, creases at the elbows and fraying threads along the cuffs spoke of long use, not ceremony. The jacket's badge had dulled with wear, but it still caught light at the edge of his movements.
His black hair was trimmed close to the scalp, neat and purposeful, like someone who didn't waste time on appearances but also didn't cut corners. A clean-shaven jaw framed his face, the tension there subtle—like someone trying to hold in too much, for too long. His cheekbones were pronounced, sharp but balanced, and his skin bore the faint tan of someone who spent their days outside. His eyes, dark and clear, gave nothing away easily—but there was a kind of quiet intensity behind them, focused and aware.
Asian descent was obvious in the shape of his features—the slight downward turn of the outer eyes, the smooth slope of his nose—and in the quiet grace with which he stood, alert without looking aggressive.
"I'm John Wang," he said as he stepped forward, boots crunching lightly on gravel. "One of the sheriff's deputies. If I remember right… Gerald? I think you and Nicki stopped in and spoke with the sheriff and mayor the other day."
Gerald managed a nod. His response was delayed, like the word had to travel from somewhere far off. The man looked weathered in a way Peter had never seen before. His shoulders, usually so squared and firm, seemed to droop under invisible weight. His face was pale, drawn—not sickly, but hollowed out by something deeper than fatigue. The lines around his mouth had deepened, his jaw clenched just enough to suggest restraint, and his eyes… his eyes held a dullness that hadn't been there before.
"Yes," Gerald said quietly. His voice was low, a little hoarse. Not uncertain—just worn.
John continued, voice steady but tight. "The animals have been more aggressive. If they see a small group—two, three people—they take the chance. We thought the first attacks were random, but now… it's different."
He glanced down the road, eyes lingering on the treeline, like something might move there at any moment. "After a few people died, the wildlife started getting bolder. It's like they're testing us."
He let out a sharp exhale and rubbed the side of his head with his palm, fingers pressing into his temple. Peter noticed the way his jaw clenched and unclenched—like he was frustrated not just by what was happening, but by his own inability to explain it.
"I don't know why," John muttered. "It's like nothing makes sense anymore since the heavens spoke and the light came." Sighing as he rubbed his brow of sweat.
Peter thought that was an interesting way of putting as he listened to the man.
John turned back toward Peter's family. His eyes settled on Gerald, who stood hunched slightly, one arm pressed to his side. Peter stood beside him, still pale, eyes hollow. Nicki's face was streaked from crying—her breath shallow, her gaze downcast.
John's expression softened. He studied them a moment, as if trying to put the pieces together from the way they carried themselves—the slump in Gerald's shoulders, the bruising at his ribs, the way Nicki's arms wrapped tight around herself like she might come undone.
"I'm guessing," John said gently, "you ran into the same problem on the road?"
Gerald nodded stiffly, his expression locked somewhere between shock and barely contained pain. "A bear… attacked us," he managed. "My wife—she saved our daughter. But it…" He couldn't say the rest. The words caught like glass in his throat. His lips pressed shut.
John gave a short, solemn nod. "I'm sorry. Let's get you somewhere safe. The town's been through a lot… we've got some empty homes available. I'll have someone show you to one."
Gerald dipped his head, silent. Peter glanced at Nicki. She wasn't crying anymore, but her face was drawn, her eyes empty like she'd spent everything she had just trying to hold it together.
A little while later a there were following Tom- a man in his fifties, heavy boots crunching on gravel. He walked with a stiff-legged limp, the kind you get from a fall off a ladder or too many years working concrete. His shoulders were broad, posture a little hunched from time or labor, and the bill of his faded baseball cap cast a narrow strip of shadow over a face worn dry by sun and wind.
He led them through the center of town without a word. On either side of the road, storefronts stood boarded and sun-bleached, their signs cracked and flaking, windows dark behind plywood and dust. The pavement was cracked in long jagged seams, weeds pushing through like nature reclaiming the map inch by inch. An old laundromat with broken glass glinted behind a warped security gate. Farther down, a shuttered diner leaned slightly toward the street, its hand-painted menu faded to ghost text.
They stopped in front of a faded blue one-story house. Its paint was worn to the grain in places, trim peeling back like curled bark. A crooked mailbox sat at the end of a leaning post, its red flag half-snapped and dangling. A dusty "For Sale" sign stood canted in the dry yard, tilted so far it looked one hard wind from falling.
"This was old Miss Loraine's place," the man said, pressing the rusted gate open with a grunt. It shrieked against its hinges, then caught before swinging all the way. "She passed last spring. Her kids never came back for it. Town's small—three hundred, give or take—and shrinking ever since the plant closed."
The house had clearly seen better days. The front porch sagged slightly in the middle, its floorboards weathered gray, nails pushing up at the seams. One shutter on the left side of the house hung loose, held on by a single rusted hinge that let it sway with the breeze. Ivy had started its crawl up one side of the siding, weaving its way through flaked paint and cracked seams.
Still, the structure stood. There was a roof, four walls, and behind the dim windows, a set of thin curtains still hung in place—dusty, but there.
Tom reached into the crooked mailbox, brushing aside a few cobwebs, and pulled out a slightly rusted key. He gave it a quick wipe on his jeans before unlocking the door.
The house was a single-story structure, its blue paint faded to a dusty gray, the trim peeling in long curls. The porch steps creaked under their weight, one of them visibly bowed in the middle, and the screen door hung askew on one hinge. A soft groan echoed as Tom pushed it open.
Inside, the air was still—dry and musty, with a faint trace of old wood and dust. The entryway opened into a narrow living room. Yellowed curtains filtered the gray daylight, casting uneven shadows across a sagging couch and a coffee table with one leg propped up by a book. The carpet was worn thin, its pattern faded and threadbare in places.
Tom gave a small nod as he stepped aside to let them in. "Place has been sitting a while," he said, scratching his chin. "Miss Loraine's. Passed last spring. Her kids never came for it."
Peter followed his father through the doorway, the floor giving slightly under their weight. Cracks lined the ceiling corners, and the wall near the kitchen doorway had shifted just enough to leave a hairline split along the molding. Still, compared to the cabin—nearly torn in two by the quake—this house had held together well.
"It leaks some in the back," Tom added, glancing down the hall, "but better than sleeping outside."
Peter didn't say anything. His eyes tracked along the baseboards where fine seams of fresh dirt had settled. The earth scars, as he called them—those strange, glowing cracks that had split open during the quake—were present here too. But they were faint. Narrow. Already filled in by soil and time. Nothing like the yawning breaks they'd seen near the highway and the cabin.
It was late afternoon when Tom tipped his head, squinting into the sun. "Well," he said, brushing his hands off on his jeans, "you folks take care now."
Peter nodded. His father mumbled a thank-you. Tom gave a small wave—more habit than warmth—and walked back down the gravel road, the sound of his boots fading with each step until they were left in the hush of dry wind and long shadows.
Nicki didn't say a word. She walked straight inside, moving fast, like if she stopped she might shatter. In the back room, she dropped onto the mattress face-down, still wrapped in her jacket, hood pulled tight like armor. She didn't kick off her shoes. She didn't move.
Their father followed after, slow and stiff. The limp looked worse now—deeper, heavier. He sat beside her and pulled her into his arms without a word.
She began crying again. Quiet this time, muffled into his chest. No fight, no sound beyond breath hitching in and out like something broken. He held her as if she were made of paper. As if she might slip away if he let go.
Peter stayed outside.
He paced for a while before spotting a rocking chair tucked up against the porch wall. It leaned at a slight angle, sun-faded and stiff with old dust. He lowered himself into it. The wood creaked sharply, then settled. He rocked. Slowly. Back and forth. His eyes on nothing.
The images wouldn't stop replaying.
He had frozen. Done nothing. Just stood there while—
Even if he'd acted… it wouldn't have mattered.
The thought landed heavy. He felt it sink into him.
He had nothing.
The voice—whatever it had been—had said cultivating was coming to Earth.
He didn't understand it all…
But a seed had taken root in his chest.
And it wanted strength.
He wondered if cultivating was the answer…