By: Louis Wang

It was, by all definitions, a really shitty day. Rain poured outside, drowning the forest in ever-lasting water that destroyed the dirt foundations the forest lived on.

The phantoms awake.

Thunder roared in the distance, and white jets of lightning struck the tallest of trees, toppling them with an ear-splitting shriek. Logs fell, wreathed in flame, and were just as quickly doused by the torrent above.

The phantoms move.

Mud swirled on the forest floor, dragging and trapping the critters unfortunate enough to step in it.

The phantoms spot their target.

The Call begins.

-o-

Mark woke up to the sound of rain. It pattered against the roof of his room, drumming out a steady rhythm that he followed.

Tap, Tap, Tap, Tap.

It was comforting, to a degree, to just lie in bed, drumming out a rhythm with the rain, feeling out its melodies and listening to the forest.

Finally, with much resistance, Mark got up. As he did, the blanket slipped off his shoulders and he shivered from the cold. Even out in the middle of nowhere, the Blizzard never ceased.

The coffeemaker whirred as he turned it on, and a steady stream of brown liquid spilled from its nozzle into the waiting mug below.

On mornings like these, it was dark. The rain had probably cut out the power for a moment, as it always did. He’d get the generator out back running later. For now, he was content to sit at the coffee table and drink from his mug.

The curtains were pulled shut. It was better that way, to stay isolated from the rest of the world. It was why he had chosen this solitude, after all. He’d rather stay alone than risk hurting anyone.

Outside, the rainstorm continued on.

It had been twenty years since the Blizzard. Humanity was on the brink of extinction. The world was on fire. Buildings set ablaze, forests gone, most wildlife dead.

“No cost too great,” The king had said.

They had saved the world. But at what cost? Instead of a charred, smoking wasteland, the world had become a frozen, smoking wasteland. What had remained after the ice had thawed was just a few survivors, Mark among them.

He finished his coffee and set down the mug. It had stopped raining.

Mark put on a coat, and braced himself. The iron door ahead of him betrayed nothing, but he knew what waited for him beyond it.

As the door opened, a burst of snow and wind instantly gushed into the room, coating him and his few pieces of furniture. Dishes, still in the sink (Damn, he hadn’t washed them yet) rattled, and a coat rack by the door fell over.

Breathing a sigh, Mark stepped through the door. Instantly, the freezing cold snapped him awake, forcing his eyes open. He breathed in, and savored the feeling of the sharp, cold wind. It had been a while since he had left the house.

He stood like that, just breathing for a while, until he noticed that his toes had gone numb, and that he’d better start moving if he didn’t want to freeze to death.

The trek to the generator wasn’t a long one. His home was relatively small, and the generator was only a few yards away, in its own shed. A few button presses and a little elbow grease, and the old machine was grunting back to life. Red-hot coils glowed red in the morning dark, and steam puffed from small vents in the side. Behind him, the house’s windows came to life, illuminating the inside quite nicely.

Mark returned to his house, delighting in how his feet crunched in the fresh snow. He might’ve been in his thirties, but he never forgot the childhood delight in playing in the snow. As he rounded the house, a shrill whistle came from his left, from the direction of the forest. He turned toward it and saw a black shape dash out of view. He considered chasing it, but decided against it.

The door shut behind him, and warm air instantly hit him. As fun as playing outside was, being unprepared was not fun at all. He stripped off his heavy garments, just leaving him in shorts and a T-shirt.

As he sat down with a sigh, he heard the whistle again. A high-pitched warble that came from the trees across from his home.

Mark had always been one for adventure, and it was this drive that told him to get out his coat, his rifle, and his pack, and advance out into the snow, where the whistle was.

After all, he had been Called.

He had to answer.