It all started nineteen years before the arrival of Clark Estman, the air was warm with hope, as the first child was born in Deepgrove since the world collapsed. The son of Georgia Laughlin and Eric Mansard, Eric Mansard Jr. One man did not rejoice at the news, Donald MacKinney stood disappointed on the brink of town, knowing his son would be safe in the powerful hands of Eric.

  From his porch, Donald muttered, “I am so sorry, Eric.”

  During the second month of the child’s life, Eric Jr. grew increasingly ill. Peter Ferguson, who was once a biologist before things went south, showed up, being the most qualified in town to provide medical advice. Peter after long hours trying to decipher the symptoms concluded something impossible.

  “Ms. Mansard,” He began, “Your boy has Avian Tuberculosis.”

  “He— wait, avian?”

  “Yes, and so do the wheat fields. My best guess is the wheat was afflicted with mutations associated with bird genetics. You ate the bread while pregnant with your son.”

  “I— Tell me you can fix him. Tell me Petey, tell me there's a chance to save my son,” Georgia fell to her knees cradling the infant.

  “Not me. Not here. But I know a doctor who specializes in this kind of thing.”

  Peter Ferguson rode on horseback for days, on Marin he arrived in the distant city of Walzenhaim with the child in his arms. The city was gilded with guilt, punctuated by white columns of lies. Peter placed his horse in a stable with money given to the stable hand, no sense in tipping the young clerk, it would just reach the wolves at top’s hungry eyes either way. Peter Ferguson carried Eric Mansard Jr. down the high street lined with fountains and endless splendor. He turned and entered a lab, pointing a pistol into the midway atoll of James Walz, “You have to cure my son.” He spat, not over-complicating with whose son it really was.

  “He is three months old and was infected with some form of bird mutations from bread made with infected wheat during his mother’s pregnancy. He has Avian Tuberculosis now.”

  The infant sputtered as it lay before James Walz.

  “Take away your pistol,” James smiled, “I have been seeking for a way to atone for my father for a long time. I think I, as the prince of Arizona, can save your son.”

  Petey returned the pistol to its holster with a brief movement.

  “His name?” Asked James, “I wouldn’t want to meet him again someday and not understand, and where’s he from too?”

  “Eric. Deepgrove.”

  “Eric Ferguson of Deepgrove?” Asked James, inspecting the child and taking notes on his plans to cure it.

  “Peter, stay with me, your horse is being moved to my private stables as we speak. If he is as interested in wheat as your wife, then he may be assumed to be infected as well.”

  “Marin?” Asked James, he wavered, the horse had been raised in Deepgrove since a colt, a beloved horse by all residents.

  “Peter, stay a while. Your son will be safe. I will send letters to Deepgrove describing the details of your wellbeing.”

  “Just, don’t fail.” Peter says, staring into James’ eyes.

  “I never intend to.”

  “He is all my town has.” Responds Peter turning to leave up the wood staircase at the back of the room.

  James looks into the eyes of the child and sees something he has read about many times, but never witnessed or fully understood, this boy, Eric Jr. had wolf eyes. From then on Dr. James Walz ignored all other patients, they were worthy sacrifices for the survival of this precious boy. Eric, this child, was to be the utmost important to the survival of humanity itself. Doc Walz outsourced his other doctoral duties to clerks and insubordinates as he believed them moderate in capabilities. Of course it was that he couldn’t be their actual cause of death. After two months the child was cured of the Avian Influenza but James Walz kept the child with him at the office at all times and lied to Peter that he was still ill.

  “Walz. You are a sick bastard like your father.”

  “This child is not yours.” Says Dr. Walz.

  “What?” Asks James, “He’s— it was a lie, he is the child of Eric Mansard.”

  “No that is not true either, in my career of maintaining all vital information of people in the general area, I have learned very much of them from their mandated genetic tests. This child is not your own or that of the older Eric with whom he shares a name. He is the child of a certain Miss Laughlin and a certain Mister Donald MacKinney.”

  “MacKinney,” Asks Peter, “The bartender?”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “All evidence points to this statement’s truth. I do ask, why lie about the boy’s origin to a geneticist of global renown?”

  “Simplicity. And— I want to wish that someday I’ll have a kid. I was playing the father because it seemed right to me, I don’t know.”

  “You raised him well. I have done all my curing, he is healthy, worst case scenario, the monsters ignore him, with those brave eyes of his, yes?” James turned the child back over to Peter.

  “And if they don’t?” Petey asked, “It was dangerous enough for me to ride here alone with him. I don’t know if I’ll be so lucky heading back.”

  “My bodyguard, Eugene Mulligan shall acquaint you on your return.”

  “Thanks.” Peter held the nine month old child in his arms as he went back to the private stables. He climbed onto the back and set his horse into the streets, and soon a large man wearing leather which was layered and studded with steel bolts rode a horse which wore similar protections to him.

  “Hi, Mr. Mulligan, I’m Peter.”

  “Yes you are. I feel no need to introduce myself, far my reputation has preceded me.”

  Peter winced, never hearing of the pompous man until last night.

  “Anyway, to Deepgrove?” Asked Eugene Mulligan.

  “Yes, we ride for a few days, are you armed?” Asked Peter.

  “Well, can you believe me I remembered the silver bullets but no rifle to send them to my enemy? Hah!”

  Peter watched the man dismount and return to the small armory to return holding an automatic rifle which he proceeded to load with ammunition.

  “Ready?” Asks Peter.

  Eugene cracked his neck, “Ready? I’m sir Eugene, captain of the West Regiment, Son of Hanley, Lord of Dormand, Rider of the North War, Angel of Grace, Wise Lord, and Man of the Wind, of course I’m ready, I’m always ready.”

  Peter was already halfway down the street, Marin trotted slowly away from the knight who spurred his horse to catch up, holding his large brown hat on as he did so.

  After the first day of travel, Eugene had sputtered otherworldly stories of his service all of which had reeked of falsehood until they reached a first camp. Eric cried a lot and Peter made sure of his safety but Eric may also have been crying for the sake of crying. Then late at night, wind which had hummed the entire ride north quelled, the birds stopped whistling and Eric stopped crying. Peter drew his revolver and slowly walked toward the tent which Eric was to be asleep in, he pulled the tent curtain open ever so slightly. There, in the tent, perched over Eric was a large emancipated form, like a bird without feathers, the face was that of an owl but the shriveled pink animal was the size of a bear. Peter etched ever so closer, the animal stood idle, watching the face of Eric Jr., all without expression. Eric looked up with shock and joy in his face. Eric pointed his gun into the back of the bird’s head and shot three times, parts of its face exploded outward, blood streaming down its chest. The bird collapsed, dead. Eugene entered the tent and choked in disgust, stumbling outside, “I’ve never seen a dead animal before.” A giant featherless owl landed from the sky, crushing Eugene, his horse ran into the forest. Marin stood and watched, Peter grabbed Eric and wiped the blood off his face and hid him in his coat. Peter ran to Marin and kicked for him to run. More of the winged creatures varying in size flew after Peter, he drove the horse to run past its limits and all it took was one poorly placed step for Marin to roll down the hill. Peter protected the infant in his arms, Marin landed on Peter’s left leg, breaking it almost immediately. A long low whooping echoed from a six foot tall owl’s beaks as it landed on the heavily breathing chest of Marin. It stepped forwards, claws outstretched. Peter cried as he held the child ever closer. The owl bent down and with the care never seen before in a monster plucked the boy from Peter’s hands. With a turn of its head, the owl flew away with the boy, Marin struggled to his feet, the horse tired and hurt from the fall. Peter grimaced in pain and soon all the other massive owls, and those of normal size flew away alongside one another to wherever they were going. Peter struggled for half an hour to get back onto Marin as his leg ached and held no weight. Peter made it back to the town and collapsed off of Marin. Georgia hurried to him and brought him inside. In unending pain, Peter was forced to roughly fix his broken femur, performing the surgery on himself, sitting on Georgia’s bed. The man came out of the room with Eric after hours of poorly performed bone realignment surgery, he was placed on the couch to sleep at home. By morning there was a conversation.

  “Where the fuck is my son?” Asked Eric Sr.

  “He—” Peter tried, “Doctor James Walz was successful in saving his life and curing the infections in him.”

  “And so why is he not with you? Is he still in the capital?” Eric clinged to what hope he had.

  “No,” Peter looked into Eric’s eyes, “Monsters took him. Flying ones, they didn’t kill him, they were tender, almost like they thought he was one of their young.”

  “One of their young? And you didn’t save him?” Eric was fuming, “I will prove you wrong, be a monster hunter and I, myself were outdo your lackluster rescue efforts.”

  “I was willing to give my life for your son,” Peter begged.

  “And yet you made it back okay but seven of the nine months my son got of life, he was with you and the son of the fucking idiot that ruined the goddamn world in the first place instead of with me. Get the fuck out of my house. Now.”

  Peter Ferguson limped back to his home and collapsed into Louisa’s arms, “Mom. The baby didn’t make it.”

  “What?”

  “They got the Mansard baby, the monsters took him. I couldn’t save him mom.”

  “You did all you could, we are just humans after all, and you may not be a hero but you definitely aren’t a monster.”

  Peter cried holding his mother tightly. She helped him reach his bed where he lay with his broken leg perched on a white pillow which did little to ease the pain and swelling.

  Two weeks later on the day of the funeral, James Walz arrived to watch the grave be placed and a sermon given by the Pastor Benito, many graves in Deepgrove had no person under them, most bodies couldn’t be confirmed dead, many were eaten by monstrous creatures.

  Eric looked at the empty grave which read, “Eric Mansard” and a tear rolled down his cheek, he clenched his fists, rejecting any feeling, he was not rational now and so he swore the oath of the hunters a week from that day. In the tavern after a grueling mission, MacKinney told Eric the truth of his affair with Georgia and the illegitimacy of the child, Eric Jr.

  “I thought now was fine. Enough time has separated us from grief, but your son, Eric, was born of my blood. An affair with your wife, Georgia.”

  Eric stood up, towering over Donald MacKinney and threw him against the bar, beating him for hours until James Walz convinced him to stop. Eric was arrested and expelled from the guild and placed in prison. After his behavioral release after two years he began dating Anise, whom he married and had Susan with, four years later.

  In fact, Eric Mansard had truly died when Peter returned that night, but Eric MacKinney’s story had only just begun.