Sanctuary: A Remaining Universe

Novel D.J. Molles

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Copyright © 2024 by D.J. Molles Books LLC

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First edition 2024

 Contents

The Remaining Universe

1. Prologue
2. Chapter 1
3. Chapter 2
4. Chapter 3
5. Chapter 4
6. Chapter 5
7. Chapter 6
8. Chapter 7
9. Chapter 8
10. Chapter 9
11. Chapter 10
12. Chapter 11
13. Chapter 12
14. Chapter 13
15. Chapter 14
16. Chapter 15
17. Chapter 16
18. Chapter 17
19. Chapter 18
20. Chapter 19
21. Chapter 20
22. Epilogue
A NOTE FROM D.J. MOLLES
About The Author
ALSO BY D.J. MOLLES
 The Remaining Universe

It began with a bacteria called Febrile Urocanic Reactive Yersinia.

When exposed to a host’s blood or mucous membrane, the bacteria
would burrow holes through the frontal lobe, destroying the host’s
ability to reason and speak.
The FURY bacteria spread so rapidly that it burned itself out in a
matter of months. But by then, the damage had been done. 9 out of
10 people had been infected by it. Many of those infected
experienced a massive spike in their metabolic rates, causing them
to feel insatiably hungry. Due to their damaged frontal lobes, these
infected turned hyper-aggressive, and preyed on anything they could
get their hands on--including other humans.
 After a year, most of the infected died out due to starvation and
exposure. But of those billions, a few were gifted–or cursed–with
genetics that favored extreme adaptability. These individuals not
only survived, but began to thrive. Their bodies underwent a period
of macroevolution, resulting in morphological changes that made
them better suited to be an apex predator: elongated forelimbs,
hardening of the fingernails, widening of the mandible, and
lengthening of the canine teeth. These came to be known as
primals.
Three years after the plague first swept the globe, it was
discovered that the primals were not only breeding, but doing so at
an alarming rate. A female primal’s gestation was estimated to be 3-
4 months, and their offspring were able to move independently
within a day. After a single year, they were large enough to be
dangerous, and mature enough to reproduce on their own.
The primals began to form large colonies capable of overrunning
human settlements that were previously considered secure. Reports
began to surface, claiming that the primals were being led by
females whose physical mutations were not as extreme. As human
settlements began to fall to these massive primal colonies, another
trend was discovered: All the men were killed and eaten. But the
women were taken alive.
The pieces began to fall into place: the primals were taking human
women and forcing them to breed, creating half-human and half-
primal hybrids. These were the matriarchs whose physical mutations
were not as extreme. It was a survival strategy, designed to
establish a leader over the colony with all the strengths of a primal,
but with increased cognitive abilities.
Over the following years, more hybridization between the primals
and humans occurred–most often forced, but in some cases,
willingly. This continued hybridization has resulted in individuals who
look mostly human, except for their larger-than-normal teeth and
jaws, claw-like fingernails, and propensity for extreme violence. With
one-quarter or less of primal genetics in them, this new breed of
hybrids are able to reason, and even speak.
 This new off-shoot of homo sapiens is viewed by most to be a
threat to human existence.
But to a few…well, they’ve kind of become friends.
 Prologue

SHAY DID NOT WANT the thing that came out of her.
It did not summon within her even the tiniest breath of maternal
instinct. Not like she’d felt in all those years working as a midwife. All
those times when newborns would cry and tremble and nestle into
their mothers, and make Shay’s ovaries feel like they were tying
themselves in knots.
But this was not a baby.
This was a…thing.
An it.
She hated it. And had begun to hate it the second she’d felt it
moving in her violated womb. And perhaps even before that.
Perhaps she’d even begun to hate it when she’d missed her period,
only four months ago.
Four months?
How was that even possible? How was this thing even possible?
None of her experience in midwifery had prepared her for this. Not
the strange, abbreviated, and agonizing pregnancy. And not the
abomination that it had brought out of her.
She had always wanted to have a baby of her own. She’d just
never found the right guy to settle down with. As her thirties had
crept towards her forties, she’d considered artificial insemination.
But she’d kept holding out for that right guy to come along. Kept
putting it off, and putting it off. And then it was too late.
The plague came, and society and all of its medical marvels went
away. Nine out of ten people were infected by it and turned into
animals. Or at least that’s how they acted.
It burrows through the frontal lobe, they’d said—those few
newscasters that’d been holding out for some real scientific
information on the plague, instead of the rampant speculation they’d
been vomiting for two months straight. And then there was no more
news.
The plague burned itself out within a year. But by then, the
damage had already been done. There was no going back. And Shay
had to concern herself with survival, and let the long-held dream of
being a mother die, stillborn in her chest.
Stillborn. Which is what this thing should have been.
Four months, she thought again, bewildered, sweating, and in
shock—a shock both physical and mental. Deliriously, she
remembered her own cutesy, sing-song voice, telling expectant
mothers that, at four months, their little darling was about the size
of an avocado.
But the thing that had grown inside of her had done so with
alarming speed. And painfully. Stretching her insides in ways that the
human body was not evolved to handle. She’d bled almost
constantly as a result. At two months, her distended belly looked like
that of a woman six-months pregnant. At three months, she looked
full term.
Which was impossible. And yet, it had happened.
Impossible that the thing that came out of her should be alive. But
it was. And more than that, it was developed far beyond what a
newborn human should be. It did not cry—it yipped like a small dog.
It did not squirm helplessly about—it was already crawling, the
umbilical cord still tethered to Shay. The thing opened fully
functioning eyes and took in its environment with a dazed sort of
curiosity.
A mutant, Shay thought, gasping with revulsion and jerking her
leg violently away from the creature as it laid one of its grossly long-
fingered hands on her skin.
A mutant, just like all the mutants currently huddled around her,
barking and growling and muttering. Because the plague had not
just burrowed through the frontal lobe. It’d also done something to
their genetics. Lengthened their arms. Hardened their flimsy human
nails into dog-like claws. Widened their jaws. Extended their teeth.
A flash of lightning lit the rain-swept night outside. It strobed
across the bestial faces of the mutants huddled around her,
illuminating their eyes like spotlighted animals.
And she saw him coming through their midst. The King Mutant
himself.
Khan. She thought of him as that, because he reminded her of
Shere Khan, the bad-tempered tiger from the Jungle Book. Massive,
and cruelly muscled. Skin far blacker than Shay’s own brown
complexion, so that he was just a huge shadow that loomed large,
frightening the other mutants out of his way with little more than a
deep growl and a rumbling chuff.
He wanted to see what Shay had produced. Wanted to see the
thing that had come out of her. Because he’d been the one that’d
forced it into her. And for that, she hated him more than all of the
others that had kept her captive these long, nightmarish months.
And it made her hate the thing she’d birthed even more.
The body that Shay had been leaning against shifted as Khan
moved through the darkness towards her. She tried to brace herself
to keep her head from hitting the stone floor, but pain lanced
through her abdomen when she activated the stretched and ruined
muscles of her core. She cried out and collapsed backward, the
impact to the back of her skull setting her ears to ringing.
It was the Queen B that she’d been leaning against. And no, not
Bee, as in honeybee. B as in Bitch, for that is what Shay called the
creature in her mind: the Queen Bitch. Sometimes even said it to her
face, though she didn’t know how much language the Queen Bitch
understood. Sometimes she seemed to understand a lot. Other
times, not so much.
Queen inserted herself between Khan and the thing still
scrambling unsteadily about between Shay’s legs. Khan halted with a
throaty grunt.
Queen scooped up the newly-birthed creature, pulling it away from
Khan and forcing it into Shay’s unwilling arms. Then she turned and
planted herself in front of Khan, sitting on her haunches, as though
to block his path.
Shay drew her head back, horrified as the thing that had come out
of her thrust its malformed face into hers, it’s oddly adult-like hands
pawing at her. She did not want this thing. Would sooner abandon it
than nurse it—not that she could, as her confused body had
produced no milk. Then she thought about killing it with her own
hands. Felt revolted by her own desire to do so, but couldn’t deny
the relief she would feel if it was no longer alive.
A deep, threatening growl snapped Shay’s attention back to Khan.
Seemed it had the same effect on Queen, because she wilted a bit
as Khan stood up to his full, towering height, his long, thick arms
swaying back and forth, the tips of his clawed fingers raking the
stone-tiled floor.
No! Go away! Shay wanted to scream. Don’t let him get close to
me!
But she knew better than to get loud when Khan was there. The
fact that he hadn’t ripped her apart already was, Shay knew, a
miracle. She was nothing to him. Nothing but a womb that had
fulfilled its usefulness to him. And now, perhaps, she was just
something to eat. She knew that he had only kept her alive this long
because he wanted the thing she’d just given birth to.
Or, at least, wanted to see what it was.
Male or female?
Shay hadn’t even noticed. Had no desire to check. For four
months, her presence had only barely been tolerated by him, though
Queen seemed to have developed a sort of affection for Shay, and
would often lay with her and groom her, and mutter soft syllables
that had no meaning to Shay’s ears.
But Queen’s apparent affection for her did not mean she would
risk Khan’s rage. Khan—and all the other males in the troop—obeyed
their matriarch, seemingly out of instinct. But Khan was still the
alpha, and the balance of power between him and Queen B was
complex to the point of often feeling fragile.
And at this moment, Khan’s curiosity was insistent. It held the
threat of violence.
Perhaps it was Shay’s own birthing screams that had gotten the
troop so riled. Perhaps it was the scent of blood and afterbirth in the
air. But the tensions were high, and the natural order of the
matriarchy seemed a flimsy thing now. If Queen didn’t get out of
Khan’s way, he was going to hurt her.
And apparently Queen knew that too. Because she snarled at him,
but shuffled to the side.
On he came, lowering back down to all fours. Shay didn’t dare to
move. Didn’t even dare to look him in the eye. She had learned a lot
over the four months of being held captive by these beasts. Learned
a lot about how not to piss them off.
Khan snatched the thing out of Shay’s arms, causing it to squeal
like a pig as he held it upside down from its legs. Then he sniffed it.
And looked at what was between its legs.
A male, Shay noted, distantly.
Then Khan roared and flung the thing back at Shay. It yelped as it
hit her in the chest, legs and arms scrambling, but seeming unhurt.
Only frightened.
The huddled mass of mutants erupted into snarls and barks,
jumping about and jostling violently into each other. Khan stormed
away on all fours, thrashing through their midst, snapping at any
other creature that got too close, though they all gave him a wide
berth. He shot across the room to where there was something
breakable—an old wooden chair—and smashed it to splinters in
seconds.
And then he was roaring and charging back at Shay, and she knew
this was it, knew this was when Khan was finally going to tear her
apart, just like she’d seen him do to the other people she’d been
with when they’d made the mistake of coming to this place.
She cried out, shoving the newborn creature away from her,
feeling the umbilical cord pull taut, pain lancing through her belly.
She didn’t care. She kicked with her legs, trying to get her shocked
and exhausted body moving again.
But then Queen was there again. She stood right in Khan’s path
and roared back at him, her teeth bared.
Khan was not impressed. Only more enraged. He slammed into
Queen. Smashed her to the ground. Bit her savagely in the shoulder.
And Shay knew that she was next. But she couldn’t get her body
moving again. Could only kick her legs and flail her arms, but the
rest of her felt numb. Paralyzed.
Except her heart. That was thrashing violently. Like another
mutant thing that was trying to get out of her.
But the second that Khan bit the troop’s matriarch, something
happened.
Every female in the troop came hurtling in, jaws open wide, baring
their teeth, snarling and barking. They surrounded Queen, and
though they did not attack Khan, he drew back from their sudden
ferocity, and their sheer numbers.
Yes, Khan could rage all he wanted. But the troop was still a
matriarchy, and the females stuck together.
Queen staggered to her feet, holding her injured shoulder, letting
out a nasty hissing noise as she drew herself up. She and the dozen
females stood their ground between Khan and Shay, and the thing
she had birthed.
Khan’s shock at being challenged dissipated in an instant, and he
flew into another rage, but this one was impotent. He roared and
thundered and pummeled his fists against his chest, and then
against the ground. Caught some unlucky male that had not
retreated fast enough and hammered both massive fists down on
the thing’s back until it scrambled out of Khan’s reach, yelping
plaintively.
Shay didn’t know how it had happened, but she suddenly realized
that the thing she’d birthed was cowering in her arms, mewling
softly. And she was holding it. Cradling it. Shielding it from Khan’s
violence.
She realized this. And she didn’t let it go. Even when its worrying
hands dug their little claws into the flesh of her breasts—even then,
she didn’t let it go.
Khan’s fury eventually petered out, and he stood there on the
other side of the protective wall of females, huffing and glaring at
them.
Gradually the anxious hooting of the others tapered off, and all
was silent, save for the distant grumble of thunder, and the sound of
the wind and the rain outside.
Queen stood there for a moment longer, staring down the beast
across from her. Then, very slowly, and very deliberately, Queen
raised her head and issued a long, eerie howl.
Shay was no expert on all their strange vocalizations, even after
being trapped with them for four months. But she’d heard this howl
before. It meant that they were going places.
The response was immediate from all save Khan and Queen
herself. Every other creature that belonged to that troop went to all
fours and began loping away, draining through the door on the other
side of the room, and out into the stormy night.
Khan and Queen remained there for a moment longer, staring
each other down.
Breathlessly, Shay waited to see what Khan would do now that
Queen was not protected by her retinue of females.
But the howl had been made, and there was some instinct in all of
them that moved them to obey—even Khan.
With one last snort and a giant huff, he spun and dashed after the
others and out of the room.
Then it was just Queen, and Shay, and the thing in her arms,
which had fallen silent, save for its soft breathing, warm and moist
in the crook of Shay’s neck.
The Queen Bitch turned and looked at Shay for a long moment,
and Shay did not know how to interpret that look. It was too dark to
see much besides the whites of Queen’s eyes, but another pale flash
of lightning lit her face, and in that tiny little glimpse, Shay could
have sworn she saw something like sadness.
Queen offered one, low hoot. Almost mournful. Almost as though
to say, Goodbye, friend.
And then she was gone with the others.
 And it was just Shay, and the thing that had come out of her. The
thing she didn’t want. The thing now nestled in her arms.
The thing which Shay still had not let go of.
 Chapter 1

“OH, MOTHERFUCKER,” BRAN WHEEZED, jerking to a stop, one arm

around Kat, leaning on her.
Well, let’s just be honest: She was holding up most of his weight.
Kat tried to pull him back into motion, but he hissed and planted
his feet.
“Wait-wait-wait,” he begged, the hand not slung over Kat’s
shoulders cupping the wound in his side, wincing against the
constant ache that had, over the course of the last few miles, begun
to stab viciously. “I gotta take a break,” he ground out.
Kat huffed. “Big. Man. Baby,” she growled in that low, raspy voice
of hers.
“I liked you better when you weren’t such a chatterbox,” he
groaned.
Kat stopped trying to pull him along. Issued a soft grunt, instead
of halting words.
Bran, wincing so hard his eyes were squinched shut, now peeled
them open to give her a sidelong look. He was worried that he’d hurt
her feelings with that comment. Which was a very strange thing to
be worrying about at that particular moment, because he was also
very much worried that he was on the cusp of passing out and never
waking back up.
 For all the fact that she was pretty much effortlessly supporting a
grown man, Kat was not large. About average for a young woman.
She had an athletic build, but that wasn’t enough to explain her
preternatural strength and endurance.
But one look at her face and anyone could connect the dots.
Pretty auburn hair, now lank with sweat and speckled with bits of
leaves and sticks from sleeping in the Oregon woods the last few
nights. Or were they still in Northern California? Bran was pretty sure
they’d made it into Oregon by now, but that was beside the point.
Kat’s eyes were pretty too. Large, and nicely shaped, and amber
colored.
And that’s where things became…unfortunate. The lower half of
her face protruded slightly into something akin to a muzzle, her nose
flat, and her mouth wide and thin-lipped, the corners of it reaching
too far back to be normal—practically to her jaws.
Breathing a bit heavily through her mouth at the moment, Bran
could see her teeth. Spread a little further, and grown a whole lot
longer than what would be considered normal—particularly the
upper and lower canines.
Kat was a hybrid. Part human, and part mutated apex predator.
Some people called those predators infected. Other people called
them crazies. Recently, Bran had heard the term primals applied to
them, to distinguish them from the other people that had been
infected and gone crazy, but hadn’t gone through the strange
macroevolution that had changed their appearance into something
apelike and vicious.
As a mix—three quarters human, and one quarter primal—Kat was
not as malformed as a full-blooded primal would be. For a time,
she’d worn a bandana around her nose and mouth to hide the
deformity, and, save for her pointed fingertips and hardened, claw-
like nails, it was easy enough to pass her off as a regular human.
But she wasn’t a regular human, and that was why she’d been
able to pretty much carry Bran’s ass for the last two days, as they’d
struggled their way north through a seemingly-endless forest.
She waited patiently for Bran to catch his breath.
 He peeled his hand away from the wound in his torso and looked
down at it, cringing. The bullet had entered at the back of his hip,
and gone out the front. No organ damage, thank God. And Bran had
a bottle of amoxycillin tablets that had staved off infection.
But infection wasn’t the only thing that could kill you. Bran hadn’t
realized until recently how much he used his torso simply in the act
of walking—which they’d been doing a lot of. And with all of that
walking and unconscious torso-twisting in the process, the wound
had never had a chance to really close, and it wouldn’t stop
bleeding.
Just a slow, dark, veinous ooze, which had soaked his left pant leg
down to the knee.
He’d pretty much been slowly bleeding to death for five days. Add
to that the fact that he hadn’t eaten, and was severely dehydrated,
and you can understand why Bran felt his empty grave yawning
behind him, seeking to reclaim its escapee.
And he supposed he had Kat to thank for helping him escape the
grave. But, much like prison, just because you escaped it, that didn’t
mean it wasn’t still looking for you.
Plus, it was fucking hot. And damn humid. And there was
something grossly unjust about that—how the air could be so moist,
and yet his mouth feel so damn dry.
Bran took a few more breaths, in through the nose, out through
the mouth, trying to quell the prickly, hot-cold feeling of looming
unconsciousness. He cracked a single whincing eyelid and peered
ahead of them into the dappled shade of the muggy, afternoon
woods.
“You’re positive?” he sighed.
“Positive,” Kat husked.
“Well, how much fucking farther?”
“Not far.”
She’d been saying “not far” for the past three miles, and still no
sign of the white building she’d claimed to have spotted on a distant
hillside. They just needed a place to hole up for a while so Bran
could stop moving, and hopefully let the wound in his side seal up.
 Oh, and he also had another bullet hole that had gone in the back
of his shoulder, and out right where his pectoral muscle connected to
his armpit. But that one had been easy enough to immobilize with a
sling made out of Bran’s shirt.
Unfortunately, his unclothed upper body was now riddled with a
bajillion mosquito bites.
“You sure there’s people there?” Bran asked, wondering, even as
he said it, if people being there was a good thing or not. Most folks
were not okay with Kat, once they realized what she was, and that
happened pretty quick if she wasn’t wearing the bandanna over her
nose and mouth. And she’d apparently decided she didn’t care to
wear it anymore.
Kat sighed gruffly and gave him a little tug, trying to spur him into
motion. “Yes. People.” With the arm she wasn’t using to hold Bran
up, she pointed to her nose. “Smell them. Close.”
Well, there was only one way to know if they’d be welcomed or
kicked to the curb, and that was to get their asses moving and find
out.
So on they went.
And lo and behold and thank the heavens, another half-mile of
agonized hiking brought them to the edge of a massive clearing in
the middle of the woods, beyond which Bran could see exactly what
Kat had said. Except, Kat had said she’d seen “a building.” And this…
What the fuck was this, anyways?
Standing cautiously a handful of yards from the edge of the
woods, Bran squinted at what lay before him. Adobe walls. Clay tile
rooves. Arched windows. And a prevalence of crosses.
“Is that a…monastery?” Bran wondered.
Kat didn’t respond, and he wondered if she even knew the word.
A monastery? With people in it?
Bran thought the chances of a bunch of monks surviving this long
was almost laughable.
But then again, if there were some brown-robed monks, surely
they wouldn’t turn him away?
Who knew? Shit had gotten really weird over the past six years
since the plague had toppled society.
 “Walk?” Kat questioned him.
Bran grimaced, but there wasn’t much of a choice in the matter.
He’d have to walk out there himself and meet whoever there was to
meet. If he could make contact, he could ease them into the idea of
accepting Kat—a hybrid that wasn’t feral. But if they saw Kat right at
the outset, one of two things was going to happen: Either they
wouldn’t come out to talk at all, or they’d let guns do the talking.
Monks with guns, Bran thought, tiredly amused. Sounds like a bad
movie.
Well. Nothing to it but to do it.
“Alright,” he grumbled, and unlimbered himself from Kat’s support.
Not having eaten, and being dehydrated, Bran was pretty sure he’d
lost at least ten pounds of body weight over the last five days.
Weight he couldn’t afford to lose in the first place. But when he
stood on his own two feet, he still felt grossly heavy.
He wobbled a bit, and his calves and quads immediately started
cramping.
He forced himself onward before his abused muscles decided on
complete mutiny. With his left arm in the sling, he could only raise
his right, but that would have to be good enough. He wasn’t armed.
Hopefully they’d be able to see that.
He stilted on unwieldy legs, hissing and groaning all the way until
he was clear of the woods and back into bright, uncomfortably-hot
sunshine. His pace was slow and cautious.
“Hello!” he called out at the silent buildings, eyes flicking from
window to window, waiting to see movement. Kat claimed to be able
to smell human habitation, but this place sure looked abandoned. No
sentries posted, and that was odd as hell.
Pretty much everyone nowadays lived in some sort of settlement,
and there were two options for keeping the primals off your backs.
The first, and most reliable option, was to splice into some pre-
existing, sustainable power grid, such as a nearby solar or wind
farm, and run high-voltage fencing around the entire perimeter of
the settlement.
The second, and much less reliable option, was to have a whole
lot of guards with guns keep watch, 24/7.
 Bran saw neither.
So how in the hell were there even humans existing in this place?
Maybe there weren’t. Maybe Kat was mistaken. Or perhaps she
really had smelled humans, but it had been residual scents from the
road they’d crossed a few miles back, which had looked well-traveled
—a notable oddity for this rural area.
“Hello?” Bran called again, his voice hoarse. “Anybody home? I’m
not a threat to anyone. I’m badly injured and I need a place to rest.”
He didn’t resent the lack of response this garnered. Even if there
were people there, he could appreciate their lack of compassion. If
the shoe was on the other foot, and he was the one hunkered in a
defenseless monastery, watching some stranger emerge out of the
woods claiming to be wounded, he’d assume it was some sort of
trick.
“If there’s anyone here,” Bran continued, loudly. “Come out and
talk to me. Otherwise, I’m gonna assume this place is abandoned
and—”
Then a few things happened, all in the same instant.
He heard Kat shout from behind him: “Bran!”
And when he spun—electric-hot pain shooting through his twisted
torso—he saw a massive, dark-skinned shape coming at him fast.
On all fours.
“Oh shit!” he managed to squeak, and then was hit by the thing.
Primal! His mind screamed at him, panic blanking out the pain as
his body flew end over end. When he stopped rolling, he
immediately tried to start crawling away, as fast as he could, which
wasn’t very fast at all. And he didn’t get far.
Something hit him in the side, right on his wound, forcing him over
onto his back.
He grunted, unable to even cry out in pain as the breath left his
body.
On his back, he saw the thing towering over him. The first thing
he noticed was the teeth. Lips pulled back, exposing every single
one of them. Savage eyes glaring down at him. Deeply brown-
skinned, and heavily muscled. And…
Pants?
 Odd how, even when you’re pretty sure you’re about to have your
throat ripped out, you can take in a detail like that and be genuinely
curious about it. Because primals did not wear clothes. They
preferred to run about as nature intended.
Then Kat came flying out of nowhere. The creature standing over
Bran barely had time to see her coming before she hit it hard in the
chest, and, despite the size difference, sent it sprawling backwards.
That was right about the time that Bran realized the kick to his
wounded side was more than his brain could really handle at that
moment, and he saw darkness closing in from the edges of his
vision, his skin and scalp getting that feeling like he was about to
pass out.
The creature that had tackled Bran skidded through the dirt and
came up on all fours, as lithe as a panther, but didn’t lunge back at
Kat. Instead, it seemed perplexed, as Kat planted her feet
defensively over Bran’s fallen form and roared at his attacker.
And looking at the two of them, facing each other down, Bran
realized something else.
Their faces. They were the same.
Not completely human, but not completely primal either.
He’s a hybrid too? Bran wondered, hazily, and then promptly
passed out.
 Chapter 2

DAYLIGHT.
Diffused, coming in through a window.
Illuminating a…room. Bran was in a room. He was indoors. And it
was surprisingly cool. Not air-conditioned cool, but much better than
outside. And he was lying on a bed. An actual, real bed. With a
frame and a mattress and everything. He craned his head up to look
down at himself. He could feel that he was naked, but had a thin,
white sheet covering him.
The room was neither spacious nor cramped. Enough space for
the bed in which Bran lay, a simple wooden chest of drawers, and a
simple wooden chair. A square, maybe fifteen feet on a side. The
walls were adobe.
The monastery.
He was inside the monastery?
That was both highly alarming, and somewhat hopeful.
He briefly wondered if it was the same day that he and Kat had
happened upon the monastery, but he had a dim sense of time
having passed. Cloudy memories came back to him. Waking to find
someone working on him. A human—full human. A woman with
brown skin and black hair pulled out of her face. She spoke soft
words that Bran could barely hear as she labored over his wounds.
Then waking to find himself alone, in the dark. Nighttime.
 Waking again sometime later to that same lady putting a cup of
water to his lips, which he drank greedily and then fell asleep again.
Daytime again. Alone.
Nighttime again. Kat standing in the shadows, saying “Bran?
Awake?”
And him saying, “Yeah, I’m awake,” just before passing out again.
And now…daytime again.
So, unless he’d hallucinated those memories, or dreamed them up,
then at least a couple of days had passed.
He leaned up, expecting horrendous pain. And it did hurt, but not
near as bad as he’d expected. Pleasantly surprised, and now even
more convinced that some time must have passed, Bran pulled the
white sheet up and inspected the wound in his side.
It was covered by a clean, white bandage. No blood seeping
through. He pulled the bandage up with a finger and found that the
wound—or at least the exit wound on the side of his stomach—had
been stitched shut. Safe to assume the entry wound had received
the same treatment.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Bran murmured.
Gingerly he sat up. Saw that the wound through his shoulder had
been treated much the same. And he didn’t feel that cloying
heaviness of dehydration. Though, now that he was taking stock of
himself…
Oh, God, I’m fucking starving.
The need for food hit him hard. Almost made him start sweating,
hunger and nausea coiling around each other in his guts. But, as
much as he wanted to find some food, there were more important
things that needed to be handled first.
Namely, where was Kat? Was she okay?
And also, who the fuck were these people, and why had there
been a hybrid here?
Something about it bothered the hell out of him, and for a
moment, he couldn’t put his finger on it. But as he swung his legs
carefully out of the bed and touched the cool stone floor with his
bare feet, the realization dawned on him.
Not just a hybrid. A hybrid male.
 Admittedly, the hybridization between humans and primals was
something of a new and unexplored concept for Bran. His
experience with hybrids was only with Kat herself, and, briefly, a
sister of hers.
But where Bran had come from, it was generally accepted as fact
that hybrids were always born female. Some trick of genetics and
chromosomes that Bran had never really put much thought into. If
someone had told him six years ago that a plague would cause
ninety percent of the human population to go apeshit, he wouldn’t
have believed it.
Would have believed it even less if you tried to tell him that the
plague was going to fuck around with people’s genetics, and that
some of them were going to go through some pretty sudden and
drastic morphological changes, evolving into some hellacious off-
branch of homo sapiens.
So Bran had long ago accepted that the Universe didn’t really give
a shit about what he considered possible. Having accepted that,
Bran was much less disbelieving of seemingly-impossible things. And
much more curious how the Universe was going to kick him in the
balls again.
Sitting now, with his upper half exposed, Bran realized he was
shivering a bit. He’d become so used to being hot all the time, that
even the simple insulation of the adobe walls had him feeling cold.
He pulled the sheet up over his shoulders, huddling beneath it as he
slowly stood.
And froze, frowning.
Something like voices hit his ears. But…
No, they were definitely voices. Children’s voices, it almost
sounded like. Except there was something off about them. The usual
rhythm of the English language was absent. But was that really that
weird for kids? They were constantly running around, making weird
noises and shit. At least, that’s the impression that Bran got from his
few dealings with them.
He padded quietly to the door of the room. Hesitated there, his
hand reached out for the brass doorknob, but not touching it yet.
Maybe it would be best if he stayed put. Whoever lived in this
monastery, they seemed friendly enough, right? They’d stitched his
wounds closed and given him water. More importantly, they hadn’t
killed him. And if his feverish dreams were to be believed, they
hadn’t killed Kat either.
Also, he hadn’t been restrained.
So…friendly?
Maybe. Probably.
But, as has already been mentioned, the Universe really seemed to
enjoy kicking Bran in the balls for his misconceptions. So, perhaps
supreme caution was called for. Bran found it best not to trust
anyone.
He eased the door open, aware of creaking hinges. But it didn’t
creak. He gave himself a gap just big enough to stick his head
through and peered out.
A long, straight hallway that disappeared out of sight to the left.
Along the hall, there were tall, arched openings at even intervals,
beyond which Bran could see a courtyard of sorts. No glass in those
openings. You could step right through them and be outside. An
open-air corridor, then.
The voices were clearer now, but he couldn’t tell where they were
coming from.
He eased the door open a bit more. Leaned out so he could peer
down the hall, first to the right—no one there—and then down to
the left, where he could see…
An open door.
And a figure standing in it.
That’s where the voices were coming from, Bran was pretty sure.
And now, with his head in the hall, they’d become clearer and he
realized that they were actually speaking. It was just that they were
speaking over one another, so no single word could be clearly heard.
Bran eased himself out of the room, trying to get a better angle on
the figure in the doorway down the hall. He couldn’t see much, since
the figure had its back to Bran, and was partially obscured by the
door. A red and white plaid shirt. Dirty, khaki pants. Whoever it was,
they looked pretty big.
 Bran took one step further into the hall. And planted his foot on a
sharp stone.
He only let out the tiniest hiss as he retracted his foot, but
whoever was down that hall must’ve had ears like a bat, because
they immediately whirled to look right at Bran.
“Oh, fuck,” Bran gasped, realizing he was staring right at the
impossible male hybrid that had attacked him when he’d approached
the monastery.
The second they locked eyes, the creature snarled and exploded
out of the doorframe.
Bran had a brief fantasy of trying to run back into his room, but
there was only about thirty feet between them, and the thing was
hauling at him on all fours, inhumanly fast. Bran didn’t have a
prayer, and knew that a door wasn’t going to help him anyways if
the thing really wanted him.
So, he did the only thing he could think of in the moment, which
was incredibly dumb. He knew that. But it was all he had.
He put up his fists.
You’re an idiot, he decided, as the being that clearly desired to
separate his head from his shoulders closed within ten feet.
“Elijah!” The voice sharp and commanding and…feminine.
The hybrid male stopped like an onrushing dog reaching the end
of its chain.
One pace away from Bran, whose upheld fists were now trembling
in the air. His heart—briefly shocked into a pause—now started
slamming with such force, Bran was pretty sure his wounds were
going to start bleeding again just from the spike in blood pressure.
The hybrid rose from all fours. A big boy. Bran himself was about
six feet, and he was looking up at this bastard. Fists still held out in
front of him like an old-timey boxer. As though that would do him
one damn bit of good.
Movement from down the hall.
A figure erupted out of the room.
A woman. The same woman he remembered nursing his wounds
and giving him water.
 Bran slowly unclenched his fists. His voice came out a little shaky.
“Uh…ma’am? Help?”
The hybrid male’s eyes twitched to Bran’s now-open hands.
Craned his neck forward just a bit, nostrils flaring as he scented
them.
“Elijah,” the woman’s voice came again, not quite as sharp as
before, but still very stern. “Don’t hurt him. I just spent the last
three days trying to patch him up, and you’re not going to ruin all
my hard work, are you?”
Bran sucked a breath in. Let it out. “Please don’t ruin all her hard
work.”
The hybrid—Elijah, apparently—pulled his head back, his lips
closing to hide his teeth, but his eyes still narrowed and glaring. He
took a miniscule step back from Bran.
Another figure came bursting out of the room down the hall.
“Bran?” Throaty, and rough.
“Kat!” Bran said, feeling relief nearly double him over. “You
alright?”
Kat bounded down the hall, then slowed drastically as she neared
Elijah. He heard her coming, gave more space between him and
Bran, then turned, his back to one wall, while Kat turned her back to
the other wall, and the two slowly eased around each other like a
pair of gunslingers.
“Elijah,” the woman snapped, now stalking down the hall towards
them. “You knock it off right now. This is not how we behave.”
Kat, now having circled around to Bran’s side, put her hands on his
shoulders and looked him up and down with a worried expression.
“You. Okay?”
Actually, that sudden jolt of adrenaline had him feeling pretty
shitty. He found himself blinking rapidly to fight a growing sense of
faintness. Guess he wasn’t quite as hale and hearty as he’d thought
he was.
“Fine,” he managed, still keeping an eye on Elijah. “You? You
okay? Are you hurt?”
“No.”
 The woman stopped at Elijah’s side, hands on her hips, looking
every bit the pissed-off mom. She was black, as was Elijah, though
not nearly as dark skinned. She wore what looked like a man’s
clothing—a pair of jeans far too large for her, the cuffs rolled up and
the waist folded and cinched with a braided belt. An oversized white
t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and bottom cropped up.
She glared at Elijah, and he seemed to wilt to half-size under that
look. Then the woman’s face softened and looked sorrowful. “You
know better than that,” she practically whispered. “What are we
supposed to do when we see red?”
Elijah managed to look a little sullen. “Count,” he said, the word
awkward and unwieldy in his misshapen mouth.
The woman’s eyebrows arched. “Well? Do you need to count? Or
are you calm now?”
Elijah cast a baleful look at Bran, then lowered his eyes to his own
feet. “Calm.”
Bran swayed in place. Kat’s hands took him firmly, steadying him.
The woman looked at him, concerned. “You’re Bran, right?”
“Uh…” Blinking, blinking, blinking. “Yeah. But…”
Down the hall, more figures trickled out of the room. Children. Of
varying sizes. All of them with very human eyes. And very inhuman
jaws.
“Oh, Christ,” Bran murmured, suddenly feeling sick. “Are they…?”
The woman bustled forward. “I think you need to lie down again.”
 Chapter 3

BRAN DIDN’T EXACTLY LIE down again. He’d slept off his
exhaustion, and was a bit too keyed up, his mind running in ten
different directions, trying to extrapolate what the hell he’d gotten
himself into.
So, instead of lying down, he sat at the edge of the bed and
squinted as though staring into a bright light while he took long,
slow breaths until he felt more normal. You know, he’d chalked
breathing exercises up to some hippy, yoga bullshit. But he’d sure
become an expert in them over the last few days, and, hippy-dippy
bullshit or no, they worked.
He eyed the woman as she pulled the wooden chair out from
where it sat in the corner of the room and posted it by Bran’s beside.
Kat stood in front of the closed door, as though guarding it. It was
just them in the room.
The woman sat down, moving with just hint of tired age. She
wasn’t old—looked to be of an age with Bran—late thirties or early
forties. But, as a forty-year-old himself, Bran had decided that once
you hit thirty, you were basically starting to die. The way she eased
herself into the chair with a disgruntled sigh made him feel a bit of
camaraderie with her.
As much as he loved Kat, her tireless strength made him feel
decrepit. So it was nice to see some evidence that he wasn’t such a
“big man baby” after all.
“Alright,” Bran said, once he felt a little more like himself. Still had
the sheet wrapped around him, hiding his nakedness. He wondered
what she’d done with his clothes. But he’d get to trivial shit once he
had a better idea of what the fuck was happening around here, and
where here might actually be. “First thing’s first—where are we?”
She gave him an arched look. “Hang on there, Mister Man. We
both got questions.” She crossed one knee over the other and
leaned back, the chair creaking as she did. “But the real first thing is
that you’re welcome for saving your life and patching you up.”
Bran felt a little embarrassed about skipping over that. He nodded,
his cheeks flushing a bit. “Right. Yeah. Thank you for that.”
“I’m Shay,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest, and saying it
like he was a primitive that was being taught manners.
Bran hesitated for a moment, eyeing her. “Okay. Good to meet
you, Shay. That short for something? Or is it just Shay?”
She smiled, cautiously. “It’s Shayonna. But everyone calls me
Shay. It’s easier for them to say.”
Bran glanced at the door. “I’m assuming by ‘everyone’ you mean
all the hybrids running around? Or are there other…uh…” How to say
this without sounding offensive? “Normal folk?”
Shit. That was still kind of offensive.
Luckily, neither Kat nor Shay reacted to it.
Shay shook her head slowly. “No, it’s just me and them here.”
“And here is…?”
“A monastery.”
“I gathered that. I mean, are we still in California or is this
Oregon?”
“This is Oregon. Is California where you came from?”
Bran briefly considered lying, but couldn’t see the benefit in it.
“Yeah. We left there five…” he stopped himself. It’d been five days
when they’d come to the monastery. Now it was… “How long have
we been here? Earlier you said three days?”
Shay nodded.
“Well, then, we left California eight days ago.”
 Shay gave a significant look in the direction of his abdominal
wound. “That where you got shot?”
Again, the instinct to lie. Experience had taught Bran to trust no
one. Even when they were seemingly-friendly. Because everyone
had ulterior motives, and they’d only help you if your interests
merged. Playing your cards close to the vest gave you a better
chance at not getting stabbed in the back when your interests
diverged.
But Bran was curious as hell to find out about Shay and what
exactly she was doing out here in the middle of nowhere with a pack
of young hybrids. One thing he’d noticed about those hybrids was
that they were all dark-skinned, like Elijah. And that gave him an
uncomfortable notion—were they her kids? And if they were, that
meant this lady had a pretty weird fetish with some male primal out
there. Which made Bran think she might just be flat-out insane.
But he didn’t know any of that for sure, which meant there was
going to have to be an exchange of information between them if
Bran wanted to find out who he was actually dealing with here. And
if he wanted the truth out of Shay, he couldn’t very well tell her a
bunch of lies.
Well. He could. But then he’d feel like a bastard. And he was
pretty tired of feeling like a bastard. He’d done a lot of dirty shit, and
was really trying to turn over a new leaf. No better time than a brush
with death to try and become a new man.
Besides, he didn’t know how much Kat might’ve already told this
lady. Sure, Kat could only manage a handful of words at a time, but
she’d had three days, so…
“Yeah,” he eventually admitted. “California’s where I got shot.”
She waited for him to expound.
“It’s a long story,” he tried.
“You got someplace to be?” Shay asked, pointedly. “Because I
don’t.”
Bran sighed heavily and looked down at his bare feet. Maybe this
was an opportunity. A chance to prove to himself he wasn’t the
shitheel he thought he was. Maybe if he started his new life with a
bit of honesty, it would actually help, instead of hurt.
 “Me and Kat worked for a guy. He got into some bad shit. Some
people took exception to it and there was a lot of shooting. I stuck
around when things went down because I felt I owed the guy some
loyalty for getting me out of a tough situation once. But when he
went down, I didn’t really have a reason to keep fighting, so I got
the hell out of there.” He nodded towards his wounds. “But not
before getting tagged in the back.”
Shay pursed her lips and considered him for a few beats. “There’s
a lot to unpack there, Bran. Let me start at the top, because it’s
related to whether or not I’m comfortable with you staying here.”
Bran sighed, and slumped a bit. Well, if you were going to be
honest, you might as well be honest all the way. Dirt and all. “Fine,”
he grunted. “Hit me.”
Shay leaned forward, her palms gliding slowly over each other.
“You said the guy you worked for was into some bad shit. Does that
mean you did some bad shit for him? And what kind of bad shit are
we talking about?”
Well, that pretty much did it. Bran was going to tell her, and then
she was going to kick him the fuck out of there, and he couldn’t
even resent her for it. “I’ll tell you. But once I do, you’re not going to
want me around. And that’s fine. But can I ask that you let me rest
here for another few days? Heal up a bit more?”
Shay raised her eyebrows. “Wow. That bad, huh?”
She let the question hang in the air, and it became apparent to
Bran that she wasn’t going to make any promises to him.
He should’ve just lied.
“Well, to start from the top,” Bran finally said. “I’m a violent felon.
The guy I worked for—his name was Colin—hired me out of work-
release from prison. That’s why I felt I owed him some loyalty. Colin
had a ranch with a shit ton of land. Once the plague went down, a
bunch of folks started squatting on his land. He tolerated it for a
while. And then he didn’t. And it was my job to get them gone. I’d
try to do it peacefully, but mostly it got violent. I hurt people.” He
swallowed. “Killed them.”
From her position near the door, Kat fidgeted, guiltily. “Me too,”
she husked.
 Shay eyed them both, clearly disconcerted.
“But we’re trying not to be those people anymore,” Bran said.
“We’re trying to change.”
Shay didn’t look terribly convinced. “Lot of people say that a zebra
don’t change its stripes.”
Bran looked at her sharply. “Yeah, they do. But I ain’t a fuckin’
zebra.”
Shay leaned back again, rubbing the tops of her thighs. “Alright,”
she said, uncertainly. “One more question, and then I’ll return the
favor. You’ve at least been honest with me, I guess. Don’t know if
there’s more shady shit you’re not telling me…”
“Aside from gory details, no.”
Shay gave him a flat smile. “Okay. You had a bottle of amoxycillin.
I’m guessing that’s the only reason your wounds weren’t infected.”
Bran allowed it with a nod.
Some intense interest: “Where’d you get it?”
Medicine in general, and antibiotics in particular, were nearly
impossible to find nowadays, and had become so valuable that
people didn’t even trade them. If you had them, you were either one
lucky sonofabitch that hit the jackpot while scavenging…or you’d
killed someone to get them.
In this particular instance, though, neither explanation was true.
“You remember the people I said took some exception to what my
boss was doing?”
Shay nodded.
“They were military types. Very well equipped. I don’t know where
they got all their stuff from, but that’s where I got the antibiotics.”
“So you stole them from these military types?”
Bran shook his head. “No, they gave them to me.”
Shay frowned. “But they were the ones that shot you in the back,
weren’t they?”
“They were. But then Kat made a deal with them. Save my life in
exchange for her help getting a friend of theirs back.” He scowled at
the ground, remembering. “They didn’t have to give me the pills.
Coulda just sent me on my way. But they did anyways. Despite the
fact that I’d been their enemy.”
 “You realize that’s pretty hard to believe, right?”
“Yeah. But it’s the truth. Come on, Shay. You really think I’m
gonna admit to being a violent felon and a…” whoo-boy, it was hard
to even say the word. To admit it, even to himself. “And a murderer?
You think I’d admit to that, but lie about something as stupid as
stealing medicine to survive?”
Shay was silent for a long, thoughtful moment. Then: “I don’t
know how to take you, Bran.”
He smiled forlornly. “Just another sad sap that waited too long to
try to be a better person.”
“And are you a better person?”
“Hell if I know. It’s only been eight days. But I’m trying.”
Another long silence, which Bran was fairly certain would be
broken by Shay telling them to beat feet. And she’d be entirely
justified in doing so. One lady, living alone with a pack of hybrid
kids? If Bran were in her position, there was no way in hell he’d let
two killers stay with him.
Because that’s what they were—he and Kat both. Killers.
No, that’s what you were.
And now what was he?
Just a guy, trying to find a place to live where he’d never have to
do things he was ashamed of, ever again.
Shay gazed thoughtfully out the window over Bran’s bed. “I’m
guessing you’re pretty curious how I wound up running Miss Shay’s
Home for Wayward Hybrids.”
“Is that what you call this place?” Bran asked, trying to be
diplomatic about it, despite the fact that it made him think maybe
Shay wasn’t entirely mentally stable. But hell, who was he to judge?
But Shay just smirked. “No, that’s just an inside joke. Between me
and myself.”
“You’re right. I’m pretty curious.” Now to the really prickly issue.
But Bran just had to know. And he was pretty sure he’d already
destroyed his chances of staying there, so it was no big loss if he
ruffled Shay’s feathers a bit. “Are they…yours?”
He’d expected a sharp reaction to that, but Shay just kept staring
out the window. And Bran realized there was some pain showing in
her eyes. Something down deep that she was barely keeping a lid
on.
“Elijah is. The others aren’t.”
Bran unearthed a hand from the sheet and rubbed his neck,
peering hesitantly at her. “But they’re all…uh…they’re all…”
“Black?” she shot him a look.
He didn’t have the balls to confirm that’s what he meant, so he
just stayed silent.
She took a great, bolstering breath. “About four years ago, I was
in with a group of survivors. We’d started a small settlement, but it…
wasn’t secure. We heard about safer settlements—ones with guard
towers and high-voltage fencing to keep the mutants out. We lost
several folks before we finally packed up and tried to head for
greener pastures.
“One day, we happened on this place. Weren’t planning to do
much but stay for a night before continuing on.” She regarded her
hands, picking at callused cuticles. “It was already occupied. A troop
of mutants hit us hard and fast. Killed everyone in…God, it seemed
like just a few seconds. Everyone except for me, and one other
woman. They broke her arms and legs. I don’t know why. It was like
they didn’t want to kill her, but they didn’t want her getting away
either. Didn’t matter—she ended up dying anyways. And they were
about to do the same to me, when the…” A strange expression came
over her. A grim, bitter smirk. “The Queen Bitch. That’s what I called
her. She came out and kept them from breaking my arms and legs.”
She met Bran’s gaze, a feverish sort of interest burning in her
eyes. “They’re matriarchal, you know? The females, they still have to
be careful with the males, but they stick together, and they support
the matriarch—the Queen Bitch. Who wasn’t a full mutant. I think
she was a hybrid. Half-and-half. The other females—the full mutant
ones—they protected her. And she protected me.”
Full bitterness now, with no humor. “From getting my arms and
legs broken, anyways. I think…” she winced, uncertain. “I think she
was lonely. She kind of took me in and tried to be friends with me, I
guess. Was always petting my hair and…cuddling up with me.” She
shook her head. “But she didn’t protect me from the alpha male.
And that’s where Elijah came from. That’s where they all came from
—the hybrids here now. From him. From Khan.”
“Khan?” Bran asked, a bit taken aback. “Like from the old Star
Trek movie?”
She stared at him blankly for a moment. “No. I just…I thought of
him as Khan. It’s silly, but he reminded me of the tiger from the
Jungle Book.”
Bran only distantly recalled watching the animated version as a
kid. Couldn’t remember the names of the characters. “Oh. Okay.”
“Anyways,” Shay breathed out. “Something I learned is that these
mutant troops—they breed amongst themselves. Mutant to mutant,
making more mutants. And it don’t matter if they come out male or
female. But they also breed hybrids. And those…I think they only
want those to be female. To make more queens. More matriarchs.
Because when Elijah came out a boy, Khan was going to kill him.”
Silence for a long moment. Haunted eyes staring at nothing in
particular. Not seeing Bran, or Kat, or adobe walls, but memories
from four years ago.
After a moment, Shay looked at Kat. “Is that true? I don’t even
know. Is that how the troops work?”
Kat hesitated, then offered a minimal shrug. Pointed to her chest.
“Raised. By humans.”
Raised was a generous term for how Bran’s former boss had kept
Kat. He’d pretty much treated her like a fighting dog. Zero affection,
and a whole lot of cruelty.
Bran leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I can’t pretend to
know a whole lot about what happens inside these packs. But I think
you might be right. Up until I was…uh…greeted by Elijah, I didn’t
even think the hybrids could be male. I thought they all came out
female. But maybe that’s just because they kill male hybrids as soon
as they're born, and only keep the females.”
Shay nodded slowly. “He was going to kill Elijah. But Queen B
stopped him. And the rest of the females backed her up. And then
they all just…left. They left me here. With Elijah.”
“Shit,” Bran murmured, not knowing what else to say.
 So, she’d been held prisoner, more or less, and impregnated by
the pack’s alpha male—Khan, according to Shay. That was…
disturbing in the extreme. But it still left Bran wondering…
“So, uh, how’d you wind up with so many hybrids living here?”
Shay nodded and straightened. “The troop—Queen B’s troop—I
don’t think they went far. Because for the first year, I’d find food left
for me. Parts of animals they’d killed. Sometimes fruits. I couldn’t
nurse Elijah, but he was…not a normal baby anyways. So I’d just
chew the food and…” she cringed a bit. “Kind of feed him like a baby
bird, you know?”
Bran just waited for her to continue, an awkward smile on his lips,
trying to look like he appreciated her maternal care of Elijah, though
he was really kind of grossed out.
“That’s why I named him Elijah, you know? Reminded me of the
story in the Bible where Elijah is kept alive because God would send
birds to feed him. Anyways, after a year, Elijah—my Elijah, not the
Bible one—was able to hunt for himself. For both of us, actually. And
I learned how to make snares and stuff. Live off the land. Started a
garden here. Always with the intention of getting up and moving,
but never quite getting around to it. And then, one day, there was
another male hybrid. An infant. Left out at the edge of the woods.”
She sighed and rolled her hands over each other. “Long story
short, best I can figure, Queen B’s been saving her troop’s male
hybrids from Khan, and leaving them here for me to take care of.”
“How many are living here with you?”
“Five, including Elijah.”
“Is she still bringing them around?”
Shay looked uncertain. “Last one she brought was Jacob, the
youngest. That was about eight or nine months ago. So…I guess…
probably she’ll keep bringing them.”
Bran whistled softly. “Damn. So Elijah’s only four? He’s big for
four.”
A shadow crossed over Shay’s face. “They grow fast.”
Bran nodded. “Oh, I’m aware.” He gestured to Kat, who looked like
a young woman in her late teens or early twenties. “She’s only
three.”
 A faint smile. “Yeah, she told me.”
It wasn’t just that Elijah had grown fast. Because that kid was
fucking enormous. Had to be well over two hundred pounds, and all
of it muscle. But then Bran thought of that look that had crossed
over Shay’s face when he’d mentioned Elijah’s size.
He’s big, Bran realized. Because his father’s big.
Bran swallowed. “This alpha male—Khan—does he ever come
around?”
“If he does, he doesn’t show himself,” Shay said, her tone flat. “I
think…in a way…he’s scared of Elijah. Maybe that’s why they want to
kill the male hybrids when they come along. Because they’re a
threat.” A shrug. “That’s my theory, anyways. This is Elijah’s territory
now.”
They lapsed into an awkward silence. Bran tried to think of
something else to say, but really, he had quite enough to digest as it
was. And he knew how this was going to wind up anyways. No point
in asking a bunch more questions when it ultimately wouldn’t matter.
Maybe Shay would let Bran stay until he healed up a bit more. Or
maybe he and Kat would be hitting the road that very day.
He just hoped he could convince her to give him something to eat
before they left. Because if she didn’t, Bran thought he’d start eating
the bark off the trees.
Seeing that their information swap had come to an end, Shay
stood. Put her hands on her hips. Looked out the window. Looked at
Bran. Looked at Kat. Then back to Bran. Her expression became very
stern.
“If you’re gonna stay with us, then there’s one rule that is
absolutely non-negotiable. If you can’t promise me that you’ll follow
that rule, then you can just get gone.”
Bran’s eyes widened. Then he frowned. “You’re gonna let us stay?”
She ignored that question. “My one rule is this, Bran: No violence.
These boys—my boys—they’ve got a hard enough time keeping their
instincts in check. I’m trying to teach them how to function like
normal people, but it is…” She grimaced. “An uphill battle. And the
last thing I need is you two—and particularly you, Bran, because
you’re a man—setting a bad example.”
 Bran blinked a few times. “So…we can stay?”
“Promise me. No violence.”
“Ma’am, I hope to never have to be violent again.”
“Hoping’s not good enough,” she said. “Just don’t do it. Ever.
Promise or leave.”
Bran raised his hand, as though he were swearing an oath. “I
promise.”
She pointed a finger at him. “And I’m not saying you can stay
forever.”
“Okayyyyyy…”
She flicked that finger up and down. “Just…until your stitches
come out. Then we’ll, uh…well, we’ll see how things work out
between now and then.”
 Chapter 4

PATRICK BECKLEY SAT IN his trailer, sweating despite the fact that
he had every window open. About half of those windows didn’t have
screens, and the flies were bad this summer. But it was either deal
with his unwelcome house guests’ constant irritable buzzing, and the
annoying tickle as they alighted on him and then swiftly flew away
again, or let his trailer become a sauna.
At least he was in shade. God, but this summer had been hot, and
he was tired of the sun.
Besides, even if he was of a mind to step outside and deal with
the sun, he had no desire to mingle with the people of Winchuck.
They’d only badger him with a bunch of questions about Big Black—
did Patrick see him? How far was Patrick able to track him? Was he
any closer to putting a bullet in the nasty beast’s head?
To which he would be forced to answer, in order: No; not far; and
any day now.
Which was true, true, and wishful thinking.
Winchuck wasn’t even his settlement, really. He was from O’Brien,
another settlement twenty miles away. And he highly preferred it.
Because the people of Winchuck had it in their heads that they were
soooooo much better than folk from O’Brien for reasons that
remained a mystery to Patrick.
 They were just…uppity. And all of those questions that they would
ask him if he showed his face would be posed with a tone of entitled
derision, like he should’ve caught and killed Big Black a long time
ago. They’d say those questions with the subtext of You have one
job.
In O’Brien, where Patrick actually called home, they’d ask the
same questions, but they’d do it with hope, and plenty of sympathy
for the difficulty of the task. Because they knew that trying to hunt
one specific animal in a wilderness of several hundred square miles
was no easy task. And because they knew that this was not just a
job to Patrick. It was personal. And if there was any way on God’s
green earth that Patrick could have put a bullet in Big Black already,
he’d’ve done it.
Would do it. He absolutely would.
All he needed was two seconds of visual contact, and a rifle in his
hands, and he’d have it done, once and for all.
He sat at the dinette table in the kitchen of the single-wide,
slumped back in a crappy old camping chair, his legs sprawled
beneath the chipped Formica table. Spinning that old Coke bottle
cap between his fingers. Spin, spin, spin. The red and white lettering
blurring into pink.
He was one of those guys that just had a thing for Coke. Pepsi
simply would not do. It just wasn’t the same. Some people said you
couldn’t taste the difference, but Patrick could, and Pepsi—or any
other knock off bullshit—lacked a certain something that he couldn’t
pin down, but he knew it when he drank it, because it reminded him
of sweating paper cups filled with pebble ice as he sat in the stands
and watched minor league baseball.
Good memories from his childhood. Never failed to relax him.
He’d drink a beer at a barbecue or whatever, but, honestly, Coke
was better. At the end of a hard day, he wouldn’t reach for a beer.
He’d drink a Coke. And then everything would feel like it would be
okay.
Of course, there’d been a lot of hard days in the past six years,
and not a whole lot of Coke. Morgan and Sierra had known about
what they jokingly referred to as his “Coke habit,” even though only
Morgan was old enough to actually remember it. Sierra had only
been two when everything went down the drain. But Morgan had
been eight, and she’d told Sierra about it.
He still didn’t know where they found the Coke bottles, or the
bottle tops. But one day, for his birthday three years ago, he’d come
home from a two-day hunt to find a six pack of Coke bottles, each
filled with that dark brown liquid, and capped with actual Coke bottle
caps, although those had been a mite rusty.
Didn’t matter. Wasn’t a dose of rust particles that would have kept
Patrick from drinking that shit with a smile on his face, while his girls
beamed, proud of their meaningful gift.
He had no idea what the brown liquid was, but it tasted godawful.
Something like fake maple syrup and licorice, with an unidentified
astringency, and mysterious, chewy chunks floating in it. And
obviously, not carbonated. But he drank the whole bottle right in
front of them, and never once let the disgust wrinkle his nose.
Smacked his lips and sighed with a beatific look to the heavens.
“Taste’s just like the real thing,” he’d told them. “I don’t know how
you girls did it.”
They’d been so happy.
Morgan and Sierra. All he’d had left in the world.
And now this stupid bottle cap was all he had left of them.
That’s what the folks from Winchuck didn’t understand. Maybe
they knew. Maybe they didn’t. Trade was brisk between O’Brien and
Winchuck, and Patrick kind of assumed that there was plenty of
scuttlebutt exchanged along with all the other goods. But if they did
know, they didn’t care.
They thought of him simply as The guy who’s supposed to keep
the route between settlements safe. Like it was just a job, and he
was some bored civil worker who’d drag his feet and half-ass shit.
But the people of O’Brien knew better. Because they’d known
Morgan and Sierra. Known how much Patrick loved his girls. And
they knew that this “job” was not a job at all. It was a personal
obsession.
Of course, he’d kill any infected he came across—humanity and
whatever this new species was that had evolved from those infected
by the plague could not coexist. Patrick knew this intimately. Soul-
achingly. There was no other option for the survival of humanity
outside of total eradication of the infected. And until that happened,
humanity would not thrive again, and would continue its slow
decline into extinction. Because you could not thrive behind high-
voltage wires, having to set up an entire tactical operation just to
rush out a few mechanics to tinker with the wind turbines every time
there was a power outage. You could only survive.
No, until every infected was dead, humanity was only living on
borrowed time.
Patrick took his job seriously—respond to reports of sightings,
track the infected, and eliminate them. Keep the road between
O’Brien and Winchuck safe, so that the trading caravans could
continue to flow back and forth.
But Big Black was his obsession. And not just because Big Black
was the alpha male in a pack of infected that had been terrorizing
this region of Oregon wilderness since the day that Patrick and his
daughters had settled in O’Brien. Not just because it would be a
feather in his cap to finally bag the elusive creature.
No. Killing Big Black would be revenge.
“Warren to Pat, how copy?” the radio on the kitchen counter
crackled, the transmission coming in fuzzy.
Patrick launched himself out of his chair and was at the radio
before the transmission even clicked out. The radio in the kitchen
was a base station. HAM frequency. The big ass antenna outside
cobbled together from various parts Patrick himself had scavenged.
It could reach out for a good ways, but Warren was on a handheld
set, and clearly at the edge of his range.
Patrick swiped up the corded mic and pressed the PTT. “Pat here. I
got you, but you’re a little fuzzy. Go ahead.”
Warren was a member of Patrick’s team of trackers. They’d
received two reports that morning. One from a farming plot just
south of Winchuck’s high-voltage perimeter: One of the guys
harvesting the wheat field there said he found some fresh scat that
looked like it came from infected.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
Brown, D.C.M., was appointed Actg. R.S.M. vice Harrington, who
went to a cadet school.[20] On the 12th February the battalion was
inspected by Sir Douglas Haig. On the 15th it retired into billets at
Robecq, some seven miles further back than Bethune. The fortnight
spent there was passed in strict professional training for four hours
from 8.30 a.m., and equally strict recreation in the form of cross-
country running, boxing and football in the afternoon.
March brought no relief from the almost daily tale of casualties.
On the 1st of the month headquarters were in the village of Loos,
with the men in the trenches; and by the 17th 2nd Lieut. S. Major
and 10 others had been killed and 35 wounded. On the 18th the
enemy carried out a raid on our trenches and succeeded in getting a
footing in them, but after a short time was ejected leaving 7 dead;
but we lost 2nd Lieut. H. M. Norsworthy and 10 men killed, 2nd Lieut.
Hughes and 24 wounded, besides 8 missing. This raid seemed to
have had the effect of raising and fostering a very firm determination
on the part of the Buffs to get “a bit of their own back,” and on the
last day but one of March a party consisting of Captain Strauss, 2nd
Lieuts. Brown, Davis and Griffiths and a hundred rank and file
carried out a successful raid on the German front and support works,
blowing up several dug-outs and bringing back a prisoner and many
trophies. Four of our fellows, however, were killed and four more
died of wounds. 2nd Lieut. Griffith and 29 men were wounded, and
2nd Lieut. P. W. T. Davis and 7 others originally reported missing,
were afterwards found to have been killed in the action. It was
estimated that about 200 of the enemy were slain during this little
expedition.
On the 1st April the battalion was in support in Loos village,
remaining there seven days, when a return to the trenches was
made, and here the 1st Battalion was still serving when the Battle of
Arras opened on the 9th.

V. 8th Battalion

For the most of this period our 8th Battalion were near neighbours
of the 1st, and indeed there were at times meetings between them.
On the 18th November it was at Mazingarbe, only three miles west
of Loos, taking its usual trench tours in the “Bis” section. On the 21st
Captain Vaughan was evacuated sick after serving continuously
since the unit arrived in France, and leaving only Lieut. Herapath
with this record.
It is interesting to note that, on the 24th and again on the 20th
December, the 1st and 8th Battalions met in combat on the football
ground, the former proving on each occasion too strong. As they
were due in the trenches again on the 22nd December the men kept
Christmas at Mazingarbe on the 20th of the month with great
festivity, some of the 1st Battalion officers dining with those of the
8th. The trenches were much knocked about by the enemy during
the Christmas tour of work, so much so that the front line almost
ceased to exist.
The new year found the 8th in what was called the Village Line,
and the German started the New Year with a heavy dose of gas and
lachrimatory shells, and on the 5th January an extensive raid. Fine
work was done by 2nd Lieut. Darling, who organized and led
bombing squads with great success; by Captain Morley, who, with
three men, held a bombing post although completely surrounded and
cut off; and by Pte. Setterfield, who, being company runner, killed
three of the enemy and rescued one of our own people, while
carrying messages. Two days after this fight the unit moved back to
billets in Mazingarbe for training work, the monotony of which was
lightened by regular football.
After another turn at trench warfare a raiding party of 4 officers
and 120 other ranks on the 26th January, all clad in white smocks on
account of the snow, and acting in conjunction with the 12th Battalion
Royal Fusiliers, started at 6.30 a.m. for the German trenches. The
result of this expedition was very satisfactory and was the cause of
great elation to the men. Heavy casualties were inflicted and several
dug-outs were blown in. The wire had been well cut by the gunners
and the enemy’s resistance did not prove very considerable, but 2nd
Lieut. R. G. Phillips was killed and fourteen men were wounded.
Unfortunately most of the Germans were in dug-outs and could not
be extracted.
 The battalion was in the front-line trenches from the 30th till the
6th February. It was what might be termed a normal tour, but very
cold. In fact, the winter of 1916–1917 was almost a record for bitter
and continuous frosts. The next turn in the rest areas was from the
7th February to the 2nd March, first at Mazingarbe and then at Nœux
les Mines, a little further west. The time was, of course, devoted to
training, and in addition to that work, done under divisional auspices,
special practice was given to 125 picked men as a preliminary to
another raiding expedition. On the 14th February 2nd Lieuts. Sankey
and Darling were awarded M.C.’s for the recent successful little
operation.
The battalion came up to the strength of 1056 about this time
owing to the arrival of a draft on the 21st and the fact that a number
of instructors who had been lent to a training battalion, recently
organized, returned now to their own unit. By the end of the month
everybody was well prepared and equipped and very ready for
whatever might befall.
The 2nd March saw the brigade in a new trench line called
“Angres,” taken over from Canadian troops; and a week later it was
at Bully Grenay, three miles west of Loos; but the inhabitants were
still in the place—children and all. It was wonderful how bravely the
French peasants throughout the war stuck to their homes near the
firing line, regardless of roofs broken by shells and the constant
danger of being blown to atoms.
Bully Grenay was, on the 5th April, so heavily shelled that three
companies had to leave the place and the fourth go into the cellars.
2nd Lieut. W. L. Donelan was killed in his billet. Gas shells also
came over and one or two N.C.O.’s were badly gassed. Concerts,
however, which had been arranged for certain dates early in the
month, were not interfered with or postponed. The alternating
process of trench work and so-called rest in billets, roughly week and
week about, had been going on for a considerable time and, in fact,
described the life of the unit during the early part of 1917.
On the 27th March a special party of 125 men of A Company got
into position at 3.30 a.m. Captain Morrell took post in the front line,
and 2nd Lieut. Young and party moved across No Man’s Land
opposite the place known as “The Pope’s Nose.” The men moved
forward under a perfect barrage, just as dawn was breaking; but
owing to the imperfect light the two parties converged on entering
the enemy’s lines and a certain amount of confusion ensued.
However, no enemy was encountered, though the left party
proceeded some way down the communication trench. A dug-out
was blown in. The Germans retaliated in a half-hearted sort of way
and we had a man killed and two wounded.
On the 8th April our artillery bombardment on Vimy Ridge was
very active and continuous, and reached its maximum about 5.30
a.m. the following day, which was to the battalion a more exciting
one than can well be imagined by those who have never seen the
like; for it falls to the lot of few soldiers to observe any fighting—that
is to say, fighting not in their very immediate vicinity: the Canadians
were attacking, and our men could tell by the way our barrage was
creeping steadily forward that they were gaining their objective. The
Battle of Vimy Ridge was in progress and the Buffs were watching,
as if at a theatre, while the men of Canada gave a display.

VI. 6th Battalion—Arras and the Scarpe

On the date chosen by Haig to define the end of the Battle of the
Somme the 6th Battalion of the Buffs were at Beaumetz in the Arras
district, and the rest of 1916 was spent in that vicinity and passed
without incident. Roughly speaking, one week the battalion was in
trenches and the next week out; but on the 17th December a move
was made to Sombrin, a few miles west of Beaumetz, for a quiet
period of rest, if arduous work at parades for a new method of attack,
bombing, the use of rifle grenades, musketry, bayonet fighting and
physical training can be called quiet rest. These military exercises
were, however, interspersed with the usual football and other manly
relaxations, and, as usual, Christmas occurred on the 25th
December.
On the 9th January, 1917, the battalion being still at Sombrin, the
New Year honours list was read, and the following found themselves
mentioned in despatches: Captains Hunter, Page, M.C., and Ward
and Sgt. Brown. Lieut. and Qr.-Master Linwood was granted the
higher rate of pay. Two days afterwards came a most gratifying
inspection by the G.O.C. 12th Division, who highly complimented the
battalion on its smart and soldierly appearance. This was the
occasion of the presentation of the following awards: bar to Military
Medal, Sgt. Setterfield; Military Crosses to C.S.M.’s Harrison and
Maxted; Military Medals to Sgts. Callaghan, Knight and Ross,
Corpls. Alexander and Richards, L.-Corpls. Ielden and Millington and
Pte. Miller. On the 13th January the battalion left for Arras in buses
and went into the trenches in the bitter cold weather which prevailed
at this time in France.

Imperial War Museum Crown Copyright

WINTER ON THE WESTERN FRONT

Up till the end of March the normal routine obtained. The billets
were at different times in Montenescourt, Noyellette, Givenchy le
Noble, Agnez Duisans and Lattre St. Quentin, all of which places are
close to the westward of Arras except Givency le Noble, which is
about fifteen miles away and where some special instruction in
practice trenches was given.
On the 10th March 20 officers and 650 men, under Lt.-Colonel
Cope, left Agnez Duisans for Arras for work under the orders of the
35th Brigade, the remainder of the battalion remaining at Agnez
Duisans under Major Smeltzer. Arras was very considerably shelled
at this time and a great deal of work was being done in the town
constructing new caves and greatly enlarging existing ones. These
were to be the assembly places for thousands of troops prior to the
great contemplated attack, as well as a refuge for those inhabitants
who had not left the city. Electric light was installed in these caves
and cellars, which were linked together by tunnels and the whole
connected by long subways with our trench system east of the town.
On the 5th April, our 6th Battalion being then in Arras, a heavy
bombardment of the German trenches commenced, as well as other
preparations for Sir Douglas Haig’s spring offensive. This was the
most prolonged and most furious artillery that had as yet been
possible during the war.
On the 9th of the month the Battle of Arras commenced. The
brigade was all formed up in the reserve trenches by 3.30 a.m. The
6th Queen’s were in first line on the right and the 7th East Surrey on
the left. The 13th Liverpool Regiment of the division was on the right
of the Queen’s, who had the Buffs in support; while the 6th Royal
West Kent supported the East Surreys. At 5.30, the zero hour, the
guns opened an intensive fire on the German lines and at the same
time the whole moved forward to the attack in artillery formation. The
Buffs had C Company on the right and D on the left, with A, plus one
and a half platoons of B, as right support, and the remainder of B left
support. After passing through the Queen’s the first objective (Black
Line) was reached and quickly captured by the Buffs, without much
loss. A two hours’ bombardment of the enemy’s second system of
trenches (Blue Line) followed, and then the barrage lifted and the
advance was resumed. More opposition was now encountered,
snipers and machine guns being active on both flanks. After some
stiff hand-to-hand fighting D Company was able to get round to the
flank and, by overcoming concealed machine guns, which the enemy
had pushed forward into shell holes, reached and captured the point
on the Blue Line which was its objective. C Company on the right
was troubled by enfilade machine-gun fire operating on its right flank
from the ruins of Estaminet Corner. By means of Lewis-gun fire and
rifle grenading, however, these were eventually silenced and the
company enabled to proceed. Then the Blue Line was consolidated,
Lewis guns pushed forward and strong points dug. At 2.18 p.m. the
35th Brigade came up, passed through the 37th and pushed on to
the final objective. The whole attack made on this day was entirely
successful, even more so than was expected. Great numbers of
prisoners, machine guns, field guns and material fell to the Buffs. All
objectives were seized and consolidated and advance parties sent
forward. By the afternoon no enemy was to be found except dead or
prisoners in the “cages” or wired-in enclosures erected for the
captured. On the 10th the cavalry went through and reached Monchy
le Preux, where the battalion followed that night, having lost during
the whole first Battle of the Scarpe 2nd Lieuts. R. G. K. Money and T.
W. Buss and 23 men killed; Captain Gordon, 2nd Lieuts. Wilks,
Good, Figgis, Thornley, Squire and Baldwin, and 149 men wounded,
with 18 missing.
The Buffs were relieved on the 11th and went back into the old
German lines, spending the day in clearing up the battlefield, burying
the dead, forming dumps of tools and wire; after moving forward to
the Brown Line they were informed that the brigade would have to
relieve the 37th Division and part of the cavalry brigade before
Monchy. Owing to perfectly blinding snow and as no guides were
available for the Buffs or East Surrey, these two battalions had,
however, to remain where they were while the Queen’s and West
Kent, who got guides given them, went up into the new line. The next
day the Buffs were standing by in readiness to proceed to Monchy, a
German counter-attack being expected, but they were relieved at
nightfall by the 29th Division and marched back by the Cambrai road
to the caves in Arras. On the 14th they left that ruined city and
marched for billets at Montenescourt with the band playing the
regimental march, which is an exhilarating piece of music, especially
on triumphant occasions.
The battalion was out of the line only a fortnight at Noyellette,
Duisan and so on, and was on the last day of April in the front at
Monchy once again, all four companies being under the command of
subalterns, though one of them held the acting rank of captain. The
village of Fresnoy is roughly eight miles north-east of Arras, and
Bullecourt, on the Hindenburg Line, is about the same distance
south-east of the city. Between these two villages, on a fairly straight
line and commencing from the north, are Rœux, Monchy le Preux,
Cherisy and Fontaine lez Croisilles. Monchy and Cherisy are a little
over three miles apart.
On the 3rd May, 1917, Haig attacked the enemy with the Third
and First Armies from Fresnoy to Fontaine lez Croisilles, while the
Fifth Army assaulted the Hindenburg Line about Bullecourt, and
together these forces fought what is known as the Third Battle of the
Scarpe. To quote the Commander-in-Chief’s despatches: “Along
practically the whole of this front our troops broke into the enemy’s
position. Australian troops carried the Hindenburg Line east of
Bullecourt. Eastern County battalions took Cherisy. Other English
troops entered Rœux and captured the German trenches south of
Fresnoy. Canadian battalions found Fresnoy full of German troops
assembled for a hostile attack, which was to have been delivered at
a later hour. After hard fighting, in which the enemy lost heavily, the
Canadians carried the village, thereby completing an unbroken
series of successes.” It is necessary to remember that the 6th
Battalion the Buffs was on this date at Monchy, and the 7th opposite
Cherisy.
In this battle our 6th Battalion was very far from being fortunate,
and it is not easy to obtain a correct description of its doings, owing
to abnormal casualties and great difficulty, if not impossibility, of
those in the foremost fighting line communicating with their
commanding officer in the rear. The chief cause of this difficulty was
the darkness, for the zero hour was fixed at 3.45 a.m. The battalion
was, during the preceding night, in shell holes, A being on the right,
B on the left, C supporting A, and D being behind B. Punctually on
time our guns opened, and an intense barrage was timed to lift and
advance one hundred yards every three minutes, and as the guns
fired our men went off into the darkness, too many of them never to
see the sun rise again. Every effort was made to keep
communication with them, and 2nd Lieut. McAuley, the Signalling
Officer, with two signallers and two orderlies, went forward to
establish an advanced headquarters in what was known as Devil’s
Trench, but returned at 4.30, no communication being possible. Two
prisoners were sent down and apparently the battalion was
advancing satisfactorily, but nothing definite could be ascertained.
Even later on, when daylight came, gunfire and snipers made it hard
to get any news of how matters were proceeding; but at dusk it was
discovered that the Buffs had suffered much and that the line in their
front was practically as before. It would seem a pity that the ground
was quite unknown to the battalion which had not held the same
position previously and that the orders to attack came so late that
there was no time available for systematic reconnaissance.
The continuous loss of officers at this time was so serious that
2nd Lieuts. Seago and Sowter were sent for from the detail camp
and, arriving about 10 p.m., were sent forward to reorganize what
was left of the battalion. A bright episode occurred to lighten what
must otherwise be considered as a gloomy day for the regiment,
although it was a costly act of gallantry. Part of the objective allotted
to the Buffs in the morning had been a spot called Keeling Copse,
and it was found, after the battalion had taken stock of its losses,
that 2nd Lieuts. Cockeram and Gunther with about forty men and a
Lewis gun had actually got there, only to discover that they were
completely isolated, the enemy having re-formed his line behind
them, and both sides being in their original trenches. Thus three
lines of Germans intervened between this handful of men and their
comrades. Nothing daunted, however, they held their own all day,
accounted for many of the enemy and then, when night fell and they
had expended every cartridge and bomb they possessed, they
gallantly fought their way back again, breaking through one line after
another, until at last the two subalterns and thirteen of their stout lads
were enabled to report themselves to battalion headquarters.
Cockeram and Gunther both received the M.C. for their gallant
conduct on this occasion. It is sad to have to add that Gunther was
killed shortly afterwards within half a mile of Keeling Copse gallantly
defending a trench the German was attacking. Cockeram lived to do
good and gallant work later on in the Flying Corps. The casualties in
this terrible action were 2nd Lieuts. J. H. Dinsmore and H. V. Hardey-
Mason killed, and Captain J. B. Kitchin died of wounds; Captain
McDermott and 2nd Lieuts. Williams and Nesbitt wounded; 2nd
Lieuts. C. Warnington, A. Kirkpatrick, H. W. Evans and R. L. F.
Forster, Lieuts. K. L. James, Grant, King and Willis missing, of whom
the first five were found to have been killed; 25 other ranks killed,
128 wounded and 207 missing.
About 2 a.m. on the 4th the remnant was relieved and got back
and, next day, was reorganized into two companies each of only two
platoons, No. 1 Company, 2nd Lieut. Stevens in command, with
Sowter, Seago and Sankey under him; and No. 2 Company, under
Captain Carter, with 2nd Lieuts. Gunther and Cockeram. It was only
rested in Arras for forty-eight hours and then underwent another ten
days in the trenches before being relieved on the 17th, on which day
it went to Duisans.

VII. 7th Battalion

While the 6th Battalion of the Buffs was suffering as briefly

described above, their brethren of the 7th, on the night of the 2nd/3rd
May, were opposite the village of Cherisy preparing for the attack: A
and B were the assaulting companies, C the supporting company,
and D was in reserve, in shell holes, in rear of the support trench.
The Buffs were on the right of their brigade with the 54th Infantry
Brigade on their right and the 8th East Surrey on the left. The Royal
West Kent supported both Buffs and East Surreys, and the 7th
Queen’s were brigade reserve. The orders given to our battalion
were to advance in conjunction with the 54th Brigade and to capture
Keeling Copse.
It must be admitted at once that the attack was a failure, due, in
the opinion of all, to the intense darkness at 3.45. The attack of the
Buffs and East Surreys was successful in itself, however, and both
units showed great dash, but failure on the flanks led to a
subsequent retirement, and it is sad to think that, taking part in what
Sir Douglas Haig describes as a successful battle, both the brigades
in which battalions of the Buffs were serving failed in the part allotted
to them. There seems to be no doubt that the front waves reached
their objectives, but the 12th Middlesex and 11th Royal Fusiliers,
both of the 54th Brigade, failed to get past the wire covering the
German front line. Little opposition was experienced at first, but the
second and subsequent waves came under very heavy fire, causing
their progress to be slow, so that the men who started first were
more or less cut off for a time. The Germans, being unable to
reinforce in masses owing to our guns, dribbled up men from their
rear in very small parties. As regards details of the Buffs’ advance:
all companies of the battalion got clear of the front trench before the
enemy’s barrage commenced, but, owing to the darkness, sections,
platoons and companies soon got mingled up together and at one
time part of the Middlesex belonging to the 54th Brigade came
across the Buffs’ front in the dark, but the error was skilfully rectified.
At the first glimpse of dawn the village of Cherisy was reached
and passed through. As it was entered the right company had touch
with the Middlesex, but on reaching the bed of the Sensée river,
which is just beyond, its officer, Captain Black, discovered that this
touch was lost and that the flank was in the air, though the other was
in proper prolongation of its left-hand neighbouring company. He
therefore determined to halt and form a defensive flank along the
road which runs south-east from the village across the stream.
Before this could be done he was heavily attacked, and the message
he sent back to that effect failed to get through.
Meanwhile the left assaulting company, reinforced by portions of
C and in touch with the East Surreys, gained the first objective, or
Blue Line. D Company had halted, according to order, in what was
called the “Cable” trench, which was perfectly straight and which was
found to be occupied at its right extremity by a considerable number
of the enemy, some of whom the company destroyed or captured,
together with a machine gun. However, the Germans still held one
end and a bomb-stop had to be constructed and an attempt made to
progress down the trench; but it was not until a Stokes gun was
brought up that any progress was made, the work being deep,
narrow and difficult to bomb. Thus the situation at 9 a.m. was that
Captain Black’s company (A) on the right was still open to assault
and unable to move, thus causing the left, which had gained certain
advantages, to lose ground for want of the support expected from
the Middlesex battalion, while the reserve company was still
struggling for possession of “Cable” trench, and B and C Companies
had both fought their way to the Sensée river.
A little afterwards came an order that the Buffs and East Surreys
were to advance to the Red Line, the West Kents to consolidate the
Blue Line. About 11 o’clock reports came that a general retirement
was taking place, and the enemy established an intense
bombardment of our front line and back area. “Cable” trench was
now full of men in addition to D Company, who had not yet been able
to emerge from the trench; but our own rescuing people were
hopelessly intermingled with the enemy, so that it was impossible to
open fire. The Englishmen, however, who passed over and beyond
the trench in their retirement, were soon rallied and brought back to
the original lines, so that in half an hour or so the situation was well
in hand, though “Cable” trench had been evacuated. An attempt was
made at 7.15 p.m. to retake this, the assaulting battalion being the
Queen’s supported by the Buffs, but the hostile machine-gun and
rifle fire was too much and the attack failed. The Queen’s fell back
and the Buffs occupied the original front-line trenches for the night,
having suffered a casualty list of 2 officers killed, 6 wounded and 4
missing; 25 other ranks killed, 169 wounded and 174 missing.

VIII. 1st Battalion

As this chapter is intended to record the doings of the four

battalions on the Western front for the first half of the year 1917, the
record will now take each in turn from the Battle of Arras up till the
30th June or thereabouts.
The great war storm that was raging south of that place caused
ripples and splashes to be noticed about Loos and its
neighbourhood, and the 1st Battalion was in that village at the
opening of the great spring offensive, having taken its place in the
front-line trenches on the 7th April. On the 9th the battalion on the
left attempted a raid which brought on a fierce hostile barrage on all
trenches and back areas, causing the death of four men of the
regiment and the wounding of 2nd Lieut. Harman and six others, and
casualties continued at odd times for several days, the enemy
appearing very alert and naturally nervous owing to the progress of
our people to the southward. At 4 p.m. on the 13th the 2nd York and
Lancaster Regiment, on the Buffs’ right, advanced and found that the
Germans had abandoned their front-line system. B Company joined
in this movement and occupied German trenches south of the Loos
Crassier, and although the enemy’s rear guard offered good
resistance the British advance was persisted in, and during the night
a new line running south from Harts Craters was established, though
it came under very considerable fire on the 14th. During the following
night strong patrols found no resistance west of the Loos Crassier
railway, and in the morning the York and Lancaster, aided by our B
Company, attacking again, gained the railway and, being then
reinforced by A Company, consolidated the new ground which had
been gained and which included Fosse 12. This was done in spite of
two vigorous counter-attacks.
On the 16th, commencing at noon, the right group artillery
bombarded the area in front, and at 2 o’clock the 8th Bedfords on the
right and the Buffs on the left commenced an advance and gained a
sunken road which was resolutely held by two companies which
became involved in very heavy fighting, so much so, indeed, that at
last a short retirement to the Double Crassier railway line had to be
made, a redistribution of the brigade being arranged after dark; by
this arrangement A and B Companies, which had held the sunken
road, went back into support at the enclosure and at B Keep, at the
head of the Loos Crassier, where they were later on joined by C
Company, D remaining in the front line. On the morning of the 17th,
therefore, the front line was held by the Bedfords on the right,
Shropshires on the left, York and Lancasters right support, Buffs left
support. It became evident now that the Germans had managed to
get up more guns, and the shelling became very severe. A strong
reconnaissance towards the sunken road, made by the Shropshire
Light Infantry, met with powerful resistance, and it was not until the
18th that that regiment, aided by the Bedfords, were able to make
that objective good. The following casualties were suffered during
this combat: Captains A. K. Harvey James and T. A. Brown, 2nd
Lieut. G. B. Saunder and 10 men killed; 2nd Lieuts. Griffiths, Groom,
Walters, Witty and 65 other ranks wounded, one of whom died of his
injuries.
On the 20th the Buffs retired to billets at Les Brebis for a couple of
days and when there received a complimentary letter from the
Commander-in-Chief which was addressed particularly to the 6th
and 24th Divisions, the latter having joined in the advance on the
right of the 6th Division. Many honours came to the battalion during
this month, the list being: the Military Cross to 2nd Lieuts. Brown,
Griffiths and Hughes; the Distinguished Conduct Medal to C.S.M.
Field; and Military Medals to Sgts. Edwards, France and MacWalter,
Corpls. Brownrigg, Port, Richards and Stuart, L.-Corpls. Admans and
Platts, and Ptes. Carey, Downes, Eldridge, Martin and Moss.
On the 22nd April the Buffs went back into the front line of the
Loos trenches and there, in three days, lost 2nd Lieuts. L. E. A. S.
Bilton and T. E. G. Bullock and 3 men killed and 28 other ranks
wounded.
The month of May was spent partly in huts at Mazingarbe, partly
at La Bourse and partly in the trenches, a toll of casualties being still
exacted by the fate of war. This month brought the M.C. to 2nd
Lieuts. Waters and Worster; the D.C.M. to C.S.M. Vincer; and a
mention in despatches for the Quartermaster, Lieut. Corney, as well
as to Sgt. Chatfield and L.-Corpl. Ayres.
The first eight days of June passed in the trenches at Hulluch and
brought casualties as usual, 2 being killed, 4 died of wounds and 22
getting wounded in that short period. On the 11th a turn came for the
comparative quiet of a week on divisional reserve at Fouguieres, but
C and D Companies went off to Allouagne to train for a raid; so that
when A and B returned to trench work on the 20th these two only
followed three days later. On the 24th a party composed of Captain
Jacob, Lieuts. Buss, Chester, Dyer, Harrington, Marshall, Moss, and
Wyatt, with C and D Companies, made a raid on the German
trenches in the Hulluch sector to obtain identification and inflict
casualties, to capture prisoners, to destroy dug-outs and
emplacements, and to draw the enemy’s attention from other parts of
the divisional front. The companies attacked in three waves. The first
wave, under Lieut. Marshall, crossed over and went straight for its
objective, the enemy’s third line. The second, under Lieut. Moss,
followed twenty-five paces behind the first; and then came the third,
under Lieut. Buss, thirty paces in rear again, accompanied by the
Lewis guns. This party remained in the enemy’s trenches for three
and a half hours, doing very considerable damage and collecting
fifteen prisoners and two trench mortars. Some trouble was
experienced in getting the German out of his dug-outs, but this was
effected by means of tear-bombs and mobile charges. The enemy
during this raid was very unsettled. His barrage was weak and quite
general. In fact, he did not seem to know from what point he was
being attacked. Our barrage was excellent. Lieuts. P. C. Buss and
Harrington behaved with the greatest gallantry; the former was most
unfortunately killed and Harrington was wounded twice, but still
continued to lead his men. Besides Lieut. Buss, 8 men were killed;
Lieut. Harrington and 1 man were wounded and missing; Lieuts.
Chester and Wyatt and 62 other ranks wounded; Lieut. Moss and 2
men wounded, but remained at duty; 17 other ranks missing, and 2
more missing, believed killed.
The battalion as a whole remained in the trenches till the 29th,
suffering occasional casualties. After that date it returned to
Mazingarbe, but left A Company with the K.S.L.I. and B with the York
and Lancasters.

IX. 6th Battalion

After its terrible experiences up to the first week in May there is

but little to relate regarding the 6th Battalion for the remainder of the
first half of 1917. It remained in the trenches for ten days, during
which time careful reconnaissance work was carried out; and it was
relieved on the 17th/18th, withdrawing to Duisans for baths, refitting
and reorganization into four companies again. On the 19th it went
further back to Montenescourt, from which place, on the 24th, it was
removed by bus to Ivergny, twelve miles to the south-west, for a term
of drill, exercises and musketry training. On the 27th 2nd Lieut.
Morley and C.S.M. Pritchard got the M.C., and Sgt. Real, Corpl.
Scott, L.-Corpl. Cooling, Ptes. Middleton and Skinner were
mentioned in despatches. On the 8th June Lt.-Colonel Cope,[21] who
had been so long in command of the battalion, was promoted to
command the 115th Brigade, and a day or two later was awarded the
Legion of Honour. On the 16th June there was a parade to receive
medals, when the Military Medal was handed to Ptes. Atkinson,
Brooks, Hardie, Mack, McDonald and Philpott; to Sgts. Brunger and
Wood and to L.-Corpl. Hook. The 19th of the month found the
battalion back in Arras, where it remained for the rest of the time now
under consideration.

X. 7th Battalion

The day after its great fight at Cherisy the 7th Buffs, or what was
left of it, was relieved from its place in the trenches and moved to
Beaurains, close to Arras; it remained there and at Boisleux, to the
south of it, for sixteen days, reorganizing and training; it was in the
trenches again on the 21st May and in such close proximity to the
enemy that the Germans could be heard talking. There was a good
deal of patrolling work to do and this was most successfully
accomplished, the line being considerably advanced; but on the 27th
2nd Lieut. S. B. Johnston and one man went forward from their post
to reconnoitre and were not heard of again.
Up till the 15th June the routine was much as usual; a turn in the
trenches and a turn in reserve; but on this day the brigade retired
some miles into the back area and took up its headquarters at Couin,
the Buffs being at Coigneux.
On the 20th Captain Black was awarded the M.C. for Cherisy, and
the Corps Commander handed M.M. ribbands to C.S.M. Nevard;
Sgt. Nash; Corpl. Hyde; L.-Corpls. Berry and Castleton; Ptes. Davis,
Purkiss, Reynolds, Thirkettle, White and Wise.
 The only other point of interest worth mentioning in the history of
the 7th up to the end of June is that it won the ten-mile cross-country
relay race for the 26th Division and that its old friends, the Queen’s,
were second.

XI. 8th Battalion—Battle of Messines

As the 8th Battalion of the Buffs was not in action on the 3rd May
its story must now be taken up from the 9th April, on which date the
men were spectators, from the trenches at Angres, of the victorious
advance of the Canadians, punctuated, as it was, by the steady
lifting of the barrage.
There was much aerial activity at this time on both sides and
some ground fighting in the vicinity, and, on the 14th April, it was
found that the enemy had left his trenches, so at 4 p.m. the brigade
moved forward unopposed and a new position was taken up and
patrols pushed forward. On the following day, the Rifle Brigade
pushing through, the Buffs followed and bivouacked that night at
Lievin, which is on the road to Lens.
The Germans, however, had not retired very far and an attack on
their position was arranged for the 17th. It appears to have been a
poor business, but this was not the fault of the 17th Brigade. The
artillery preparation was a feeble one, because sufficient guns could
not be brought up in time. The enemy at once opened heavy
machine-gun fire from strong points in his line and from Hill 65
outside Lens. He also shelled the advancing troops heavily, with the
result that both the brigades on the right and on the left were stayed
by 10.30, and, this being the case, it was obvious that the 17th would
only be courting disaster if it advanced alone exposing both its
flanks, so there was nothing to do but to hold the position in which
our troops stood and consolidate as far as possible during the night.
The Buffs had one officer and thirty other ranks put out of action. The
relief came during the night, and the battalion marched away to the
westward into a quieter area. Indeed, this marching, being a more or
less new experience, caused a good deal of inconvenience in the
way of sore feet and fatigue. However, the 21st of the month found
the brigade at Bourecq and a few days later at Erny St. Julien, and at
both these places serious training was undertaken; but the stern
business of war gave place each evening to football, very much to
the astonishment of the Portuguese troops in the district.
On the 28th the men were back in La Bourse and from there to
Robecq, Hazebrouck and Steenvoorde, all in turn. Steenvoorde was
a special training area and most corps took a turn of work there
when they could be spared. This visit of the Buffs lasted a fortnight,
and on the 26th May they were close to Poperinghe. On this day 2nd
Lieut. Lilley was awarded the Military Cross. On the 4th June the
wandering troops were at Heksken, south of Poperinghe, and at
midnight on the 5th/6th they moved from there to a camp situated in
a wood where special stores and ammunition were issued.
The Battle of Messines commenced on the morning of the 7th
June and was fought by General Plumer’s army to capture a ridge
from which the Germans overlooked our lines and much of the area
behind them. The preparations for this offensive action on Plumer’s
part had been going on for a very long time and were thought out
with the greatest care and trouble. The most remarkable point in
connection with the battle was the fact that it opened by a
tremendous explosion of nineteen deep mines, the noise of which
was distinctly heard in parts of England. As far as the Buffs were
concerned, the 8th Battalion paraded in fighting kit at 11.30 p.m. on
the 6th June, proceeded to assembly positions via Dickebusch and
spent the middle portion of the night in two great dug-outs, one of
which held four hundred men. At 3.10 a.m. the soldiers were
awakened by the most tremendous explosion they had ever heard in
their lives, and this was immediately followed by the opening of the
barrage. The 17th Brigade was in support near St. Eloi, and at 11.30
a.m. it moved forward to occupy the line already taken up by the 41st
Division, from whence, at 3 p.m., a further attack was launched,
during which the battalion reached its objective, known as the Green
Line, with but few casualties.
The whole of the two following days were spent in the newly taken
positions, being shelled and suffering a few casualties: mostly men
of A Company, which with C was in the front line; Lieut. Sherwill was
hit on the 8th. On the 10th the Buffs were relieved by the 9th
Warwicks with great difficulty: the hostile gunfire being very heavy
and causing several casualties, including Captain A. F. Gulland and
Lieut. H. C. Arnold, who both died of their injuries, and also Lieuts.
Curtis and Hilary, who were wounded but not quite so severely. After
a day’s much needed rest, which was mostly spent in sleep, the
battalion at nightfall relieved the 18th London Regiment at the
“triangular dump” and the 3rd Rifle Brigade in Battle Wood.
An attack on the enemy’s position was arranged for and carried
out on the 14th. The Buffs were told off to take one side of the
railway while the Royal Fusiliers took the other. Battalion
Headquarters were in Larch Wood. 7.30 p.m. was chosen as the
zero hour; before this hour a certain amount of sniping was
experienced in getting to the assembly position, but luckily the
enemy’s artillery did not discover our moving companies. A and C
Companies led the advance, each having two platoons in front line.
Our barrage was good though perhaps a little short at first, and our
men kept well up under it, casualties being small; the guns lifted their
range a hundred yards every four minutes. Six minutes after our
opening shot the enemy began his heavy fire on our assembly
positions, but by then our men were clear, or indeed they would have
suffered severely. A Company had for its objective Spoil Bank, which
was about thirty feet high and three hundred yards long and running
parallel to the Ypres-Comines Canal. The bank had been the object
of an attack by some of the 47th Division a week earlier, but was still
in German hands. There was a fine view of the country beyond the
canal from its summit. It was afterwards officially known as The
Buffs’ Bank, out of compliment to the 6th Battalion. A good deal of
savage hand-to-hand fighting took place here, and the success of
the company was very largely due to the extraordinary courage and
initiative of two private soldiers, Dunning and Cornell, who together
rushed a German machine gun in a concrete emplacement, killed
the team, captured the gun, and thus saved the lives and limbs of
many of their comrades of A Company; they were both awarded the
M.M. for this exploit. The other leading company, C, was directed on
the tramline and suffered considerably on the way. The company
commander (Captain E. F. Hall) and all the rest of the officers were
hit before the objective was reached, but 2nd Lieut. Wilkinson was
able to remain with his men until it was taken and consolidated; and
it was not till all work was done and midnight had come that this
gallant officer withdrew to have his wounds dressed, when he had to
leave his company under the command of Sgt. Pells. As soon as C
Company had reached its objective, Sgt. Shute took his platoon
about sixty yards ahead of the newly won line and there cleared a
system of dug-outs, killed a great number of the enemy and brought
back four prisoners. Touch was soon obtained with the battalion on
the Buffs’ left, but the other flank was not so easy, and it was not
until morning that the troops on the right were discovered. While the
two leading companies had thus been busy their comrades had not
been idle. D Company had come up behind the Spoil Bank and at
the zero hour two platoons, less one bombing section, had advanced
towards its western edge and cleared up the southern side in
conjunction with A Company, while the bombing squad attended to
the dug-outs on top of the bank, most of which were occupied, there
being ten to twelve men in each. Several of the enemy attempted to
escape across the canal at Lock 6, but these were dealt with by men
of C Company and no one escaped that way. Further down Spoil
Bank the enemy made a more considerable resistance, and 2nd
Lieut. Paige was killed leading an attack at this point—in fact he was
chasing a platoon of Germans across the canal all by himself. Many
of the enemy then tried to get away round the eastern edge of Spoil
Bank, but these were also shot and a German feldwebel[22] captured
after a really heroic resistance. D Company then dug itself in on the
southern slope of the Spoil Bank, with A Company in support on the
northern slope. Digging in was no very easy matter on account of the
continuous shelling, which the enemy kept up all night; however,
morning found the job satisfactorily completed and the work cleverly
camouflaged from aerial observation, which was a very necessary
precaution, for the hostile aeroplanes showed in the morning very
considerable interest in the exact position of our people. Many times
they swooped right down and fired their machine guns into our
trenches.