Mazer crouched again, listening. He stayed that way for a full minute. Then two. He counted the seconds in his head. He heard nothing.
Then he was up, sprinting for the farmhouse. Danwen’s body was folded there in the doorway, half inside, half outside. Mazer grabbed the old man by the wrists and dragged him out into the yard, away from where the mist had been sprayed. Danwen was limp. Mazer already knew he was dead. Bingwen appeared near the doorway.
“Don’t go through the door,” said Mazer. “That’s where it was sprayed. Grab my boots and climb out the side window.”
Bingwen disappeared again inside.
Mazer knelt by Danwen. The creature had sprayed the old man in the face, and there was moisture on his forehead and cheeks. Mazer wanted to check Danwen’s pulse, but he dare not touch the man’s neck. He picked up his wrist instead.
No pulse.
He tried the other wrist as well.
Nothing.
He put a hand to Danwen’s chest. No heartbeat. Mazer looked up. Bingwen was standing there holding Mazer’s boots in his hands, staring down at his grandfather. He had thought to put on his own shoes. Mazer went to him and turned Bingwen’s face to his own. “Bingwen, look at me.”
The boy blinked. He was in shock.
“Your grandfather is gone. We can’t stay here. We need to move now. Do you understand?”
Bingwen nodded. Mazer sat down in the dirt and threw on his boots, tightening the straps as fast as he could.
Bingwen stood over his grandfather’s body. “We can’t leave him here like this. They will come and take him and put him with the dead things. They will dishonor him.”
Mazer took Bingwen’s hand. “There’s no time to bury him, Bingwen. We have to move now.”
Bingwen jerked his hand free. “No. We can’t let them take him.”
Mazer reached for Bingwen, but the boy was quick and dodged his grasp. Bingwen ran to the fire pit they used for cooking. He grabbed one of the pots and scooped around in the coals. A few of the coals at the bottom were still red hot and smoldering. Bingwen used a stick to scoop them into the pot.
“What are you doing?” Mazer asked.
Bingwen didn’t respond. He ran to the barn and dumped the coals in a corner where an old bundle of hay lay rotting. The hay caught fire immediately, igniting like a match. The flames spread quickly, licking at the old, dry wooden wall of the barn. Bingwen dropped the pot and ran back across the yard to where Danwen lay in the dirt. He grabbed the old man by the ankles and pulled with all his strength. Danwen didn’t budge, light as he was.
Mazer came over, bent down, and scooped the old man up into his arms, being careful not to touch Danwen’s face. Smoke was pouring out of the barn now. Flames crawled up the interior wall like it was kindling. There was a square wooden box on the ground near the back wall where more tools were kept. Mazer laid Danwen atop it and kicked some of the untouched hay around it. The fire was close now. Mazer kicked at a burning plank to knock it free of the wall. It splintered and broke away, burning at the edges. Mazer grabbed a corner that wasn’t on fire and placed it at the base of the box Danwen lay on. The smoke was thick and burned Mazer’s eyes. The heat was intense. Mazer retreated out of the barn coughing and brushing burning ashes from his clothes.
Bingwen stood outside in the yard, staring at the flames, the sword loose in his hand, blood glistening on the blade in the firelight.
Mazer knelt beside him. “We can’t stay, Bingwen. Can you run?”
They needed to move. The troop transports were silent and light as leaves. They could be here at any moment. Bingwen turned to Mazer, his movements slow, as if in a trance. He didn’t respond. He wouldn’t be able to run, Mazer realized. Not quickly. Mazer took the sword and gently picked up Bingwen in his arms. Then he ran, heading down the mountain, the flames and the farmhouse at their backs—moving north, into the darkness.
*
They ran for fifteen minutes, cutting through fields that had been stripped of all life. Mazer’s boots were soon heavy with mud and ashes. They crossed rice fields, sticking to the thin bridges of earth between the paddies and steering clear of the standing water. The rice shoots had long since wilted and died, and now a thin chemical residue floated atop the water at the paddies’ edges, glistening in the moonlight like oil. A kilometer beyond the base of the mountain they found a stretch of jungle untouched by the mist and pushed their way through it, preferring to be in the cover of the thick foliage than out in the open where they could be easily spotted. It was harder to see in the jungle, however. Branches snagged at their clothes and slapped at their faces. Twice Mazer stumbled, nearly dropping Bingwen both times.