The air was pollen heavy. Dragonflies swam on the thick, honeyed breeze. Hard stalks poked Amy's back. The thick summer grass grew out all around her making her feel like a giant asleep in new growth forest. The blue sky was deepening into an indigo and light from millions of miles away was beginning to pierce it, although it would be hours before the others saw the stars.

"Ylva, you should be getting back." Alicia said to her from the edge of the woods.

Amy wondered if Alicia could tell where she was or just knew she was somewhere in the field staring up at the sky, as she so often did.

Alicia had proved herself to be more of a mother than a friend, keeping her on time for school buses and soccer practice. Although it wasn't really those things she reminded Amy about. The only school bus in the compound was a rusty heap with half the seats removed to make room for crates of ammunition and whenever games were played, Amy never took part.

She sighed as she got up and swept the leaves and grass from her long white dress. It was a cotton shift like the Daughters of Elijah wore, simple and pure. It seemed fitting for her. Far more so than the other uniforms worn around the compound. Being a werewolf was in itself a form of purity— this was a concept she was finally beginning to accept.

In July, she had demanded they tattoo her like the others in the Immortal Blood. She wanted a snake like Alicia had. Like the one that had led her to this salvation. Amy sat hours cringing through the pain of the needle as it pumped black ink into her skin tracing out the serpent of rebirth. She wore the new mark on her skin proudly.

But when she woke after her next transformation it was gone. Her pale forearm was wiped clean. It was then she realized the snake wasn't a symbol she had to mark herself with. There was no need for an indelible reminder. She was the snake, shedding her skin and renewing herself each month.

Like a faithful watchdog, Alicia followed her back to camp. Even without seeing Alicia, Amy knew her eyes were darting around, seeking out dangers lurking in the branches, her hand never traveling far from her holstered pistol. She was so alert, so ready, as though she might actually detect something with her feeble senses that Amy wouldn't hear or smell first.

Over at the east gate, some beer gutted members of the Seventh Seal Riders were talking nasty talk and waving their rifles around, threatening to blow all of nature away in between sharp words about women's body parts and what they'd like to do with them. They shut up when they spotted Amy and stayed quiet with their eyes fixed firmly on the ground the entire time she was in their presence. She smiled to herself at the way they tried to keep from trembling as she passed.

The youngest of the three, a baboon armed man with stringy, sweat soaked hair, made a gesture. Amy didn't see it but felt his movements disturb the air, heard the grating of muscle and sinew, sensed Alicia tense up.

Amy could imagine it was something lewd meant for her bodyguard—a most unwelcome invitation of some kind. A fever tingle ran across Amy's skin. How dare he upset Alicia? How dare he show so little respect for Ylva and what was hers?

It was just a short growl, little more than a brief clearing of her throat but his reaction was satisfying. The fence boards creaked as he pressed himself up against them in recoil and his body temperature plummeted.

She was learning. That had been the perfect rolled up newspaper against the snout. A month ago she would have filled all three with fear. Two months ago the air would have been rank from emptied bladders. She was honing how to target and adjust the strength of this skill. All it took was practice.

What a difference it made being above ground with supportive people. At the Trail's End Camp, they not only accepted her for who she was, they encouraged her to explore it.

If she could learn so much since March, what would she be capable of today had she never gone to that prison?

Alicia saw her to the door of her cabin, where two of her handmaidens met her. They had been picked from the Daughters of Elijah. Amy had hoped that they could be friends because of their closeness in age, but they were even more sheltered from the world than Amy had been and acted like ten year olds. They bowed and scraped in awe of her and if forced to talk, could do little more than discuss Bible verses.

The cabin itself was one of the original dorms of the summer camp. There was a stink of sweat, sand, and urine burned into the wood that was impossible to get used to, so the Daughters burned incense all day long. The plumes of blue smoke formed arabesques against the white curtains around her palatial bed and brought fantasies of Far East palaces.

Amy bid her servants to bring her tea and to leave her in peace.

Now that evening was drawing and darkness was coating the Earth, she needed to try again to look into her visions. Saint Strafer had been pushing her for more information.

Of everyone here, the head of The Society of Immortal Blood was the only one who didn't defer to her. He might bow his head when she entered a room but it was only for show. He was always perfectly polite and never mean, but there was something bullying about the way he spoke to her. Every question seemed like a test. Every request, a demand. Lately, he'd been weedling her about how she would bring them to their destined glory. And if she could see the future, how did she not know?

Tonight at dinner, Amy didn't want to be at a loss for answers.

When the tea was served and she was alone, she sat in her throne, the wooden chair they had given her. Its ornately carved arms and legs were painted gold and the cushions were embroidered with a scene of trees and a full moon. They said it had come all the way from Bavaria and depicted the Black Forest. She lit a candle and stared into the flame, letting her mind drift upward on the currents of the universe. She allowed herself to fly as far as she could even though going beyond a day or two brought uncertain results and false visions. Ylva had once told Amy—Ylva had once told herself—that the future was ever changing and hard to predict and she had not been wrong. But Amy ignored the faults of casting out too far and pushed through until she was years in the future.

It was easier with a link, some anchor that she could tie the vision to. She tried to find Emily. What had happened with her and her boy, Aaron. Amy still felt badly how she had snuck away without a word. But Emily was not there. Amy found only empty rooms.

She wandered through them vainly seeking her one time friend. Aaron, she thought. Can I find him?

The world melted around her but there was no boy when it reformed. Instead, she was in a long windowless hallway with beige concrete walls. Panic tightened around her spine and she was certain she had somehow transported herself to The Music Box. But no. This was some other underground facility. Maxwell Wiley was walking just ahead of her. He rushed down the corridor with haggard steps. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and the fabric had been sweated through leaving dark patches in the pits and between his shoulder blades. A bald man with just a fringe of gray hair above his ears was walking next to him, arguing.

Why did she end up here? Why was she drawn to this man from her prison? She had barely known him back then. He was already becoming a vague memory to her.

"A total debacle," the bald man said. His flabby accent turned it into, "Da-back-el."

"Believe me, Donnelly, I understand. I just don't know what more he expects we can do, when half the Air Force and the Sixth Fleet failed."

"He's the president. He can expect anything he damn well pleases."

"He was the Speaker of the House last week. If he didn't hold up the vote on emergency measures with his grandstanding, we wouldn't be in this shit storm now."

The other man let out a humorless chuckle. "You tell him that when you see him. I'm sure your replacement will have some solutions to offer."

They walked past two marines standing at full attention and pushed through a heavy set of double doors, which opened up onto a gymnasium sized room. Wylie and his friend were standing on a gallery looking down on a series of tables laid out in an oval. Old men in suits and uniforms sat around it. A giant map covered the wall across from the door. Large you'reswaths of the globe had been highlighted with red circles.

Maxwell began to climb down the metal stairs to the meeting.

Amy had no interest in these people and sought out R.J. instead of following Maxwell Wylie any longer.

The moment she thought of R.J., a loud crackling split her ears.

It erupted like a hammer tap-tap-tapping in her head and was followed by a burst of thunder and a blinding light. Dust was settling in the ruins of a building. Men were pressed up against a brick wall, although much of the wall was scattered in pieces around them. A man with a beard and a leather jacket leaned out of a gap that at one time was a window and fired off a string of shots with his rifle. Like an echo, gun fire came back from various directions and distances.

R.J. was kneeling in the rubble tending to a young man. He was trying to bandage a wound in the boy's belly. It heaved and rocked as R.J. tried to wrap it. The hole gushed a hideous mixture of blood and bile. The boy's face was white and soaked in sweat, plastering down his red hair.

"It's going to be okay, Matt," R.J. told him. "You're going to be okay."

But the wound wouldn't stop bleeding.

A woman screamed in a commanding voice, "We've got to move. We're going to be over run."

They began to retreat. One soldier laid cover fire while so the others could dart back to a safer position. It looked like the drills they ran in the big field at the compound. Amy would sometimes sit on the bleachers and watch. But on the field, there was no live fire, no grim masks of fear, no skin being shredded by lead bullets.

"Come on Reg." A man put his hand on R.J.'s shoulder. Everything about this person sagged. His shoulders, the skin under his eyes, a belly that hadn't seen a real meal in weeks. It made him look older than he really was. "There's nothing you can do for him. Not here. Da?"

R.J. gave glanced up. His eyes were full of hopelessness. He knew he couldn't help the boy but it killed him to leave.

A low whistle filled the air. Then another bomb blast shook the ground. Bullets from a rooftop cut down one of the soldiers, blowing him backward with ragdoll-like jerks.

R.J. ran his hand across Matt's brow and slowly raised himself to a low crouch and dashed for better cover.

And Amy was drifting again.

She was sorry to be pulled from R.J. so soon. Would he be okay? Would the group he was with get him out alive? But at least she was moving away from the war zone.

She found Barbara in an elegant bedroom, getting ready at a dressing table. Once her long blonde hair was pinned up she ran a pale red gloss over lips and touched up her eye shadow.

After the hectic pace of the last two visions, Amy savored the cool calm that Barbara emanated. Every movement was precise and unhurried. The room was silent and she didn't disturb it by humming nervously. She was as always a model of self-control. When she was done, she surveyed herself in the mirror one last time before rising.

Out in the living room,a man stood by the windows. Beyond the silhouette of his head were the windows of office towers reflecting the morning sun. Barbara went to him and laid a hand on his shoulder next to his long, flowing white hair.

"You're tense." It sounded like an accusation but a tender one filled with concern.

"They keep coming," he said not turning from the view.

"They're flocking to you."

"I don't know if I can lead them, mom."

Mom? How far into the future had Amy gone?

At first, she had thought the man was elderly because of the white hair. But know she saw how he stood tall and straight. The skin on his hands were smooth and pale. He was young but an adult not a little boy.

"Of course you can." Barbara stroked his hair, pulling it back over the delicate shell of his ear. "This was what you were born for. Come. You should speak to them. I'll come with you if you like."

They stepped over to a balcony door and exited onto a wide terrace with marble balustrades. An oceanic roar of voices came up from four storeys below. Down in the streets was a roiling mass of people. Their features were hard to make out but they appeared wild and dirty. More bare flesh could be glimpsed in the crowd than clothes.

The white haired man leaned over the railing and the undulating mob grew quieter and more still by degrees. He turned back to look at Barbara and his translucent blue eye met Amy's. He spoke in her head, you, and she had a moment of vertigo as though she was tumbling and falling back over the side of the balcony.

Amy stilled herself but the scene before her was so disorienting that she might well still be falling.

She was on a roof top with another woman and another young man. They were strangers to her. To Amy's eyes these two were like a negative image of Barbara and her son. The woman's hair would have been described as black except that the boy's next to her was so dark that it absorbed the light. Bombs were going off around them and bullets created a castanet rhythm in the background. They were speaking in a language she didn't understand, faces animated. Was it a discussion or an argument?

Few men could be described as pretty but the word suited him. His face was a perfect porcelain carving of a Greek god. His broad, strong brow cast a shadow across his eyes and made them into endlessly deep pools that a person could fall into and lose herself.

He moved briskly to the edge. Down on the street foot soldiers in fatigues were moving in great number. Many of them fired at the boy on the roof but he didn't seem to care. His lips formed a sensuous pout just before they parted and he cried out. The noise he made, Amy understood unlike his earlier words. She heard his beastial command for the advancing army to slaughter one another.

It was still ringing in her ears, when she found herself in a small tent with older versions of Blythe and Leah of the Daughters. Leah was singing one of her hymnals while Blythe brushed out Amy's hair.

A pen almost slipped from Amy's hand but her fingers caught it before it fell. She had been writing something in a notebook. The words were hard to make out. They kept shifting and changing. It was nauseating to look at. A single phrase stood out to her before she slammed the book shut and set it aside.

Alicia entered the tent. She had a bandage on her left hand and a scar on her cheek. Her chestnut hair was beginning to streak with white—no, gray. "Are you almost ready?" she asked. "They're getting restless out here."

Amy dismissed Blythe. She straightened her dress, no longer the simple shift but a white gown with clear white gems sewn into the fabric. Taking on last glance in the mirror, she composed herself much like she had just seen Barbara do. She allowed the enigmatic words from the notebook to play through her mind one last time before leaving.

Meaning is diluted over the radio waves but even if not all are affected the response has been...

When she stepped outside, the light was dazzling and it was easy to be fooled into thinking she was still in the compound with the grass under her feet and trees all around. But beyond the trees were buildings, tall skyscrapers ringed in a massive park. The skyline was obscured by plumes of black smoke. And on closer inspection, many of the buildings were damaged. Some were nothing more than burned out shells. They formed a sense of desolation and ruin.

In the field in front of the tent were throngs of people. They were all chanting, "Ylva! Ylva! Ylva!"

Amy's eyes snapped open or at least it seemed so. They had never left the wavering light of the candle. Her lungs gasped in air and she sat back.

"Ma'am," Leah mumbled from the doorway. "The bell for dinner has rang. Will you be going? Or should I tell them to wait?"

The feeling was of being divided between two world and it blurred her vision. Amy pulled her long white hair back, the tug on the scalp providing just enough pain to anchor her head to the present. Was that her future? It did not look like the paradise she was destined for. But both Alicia and Saint Straffer had said it could only be achieved by turmoil and cleansing.

A voice within her told her that what she saw wasn't how it had to be. Even the smallest decision could change everything.

She would inform them tonight she had seen the purification period. It would please them.

"Leah, go ahead and tell them I'm coming. Tell them Ylva is ready."

***

Author's Note:

Thank you all for taking this journey with me. Two years ago when I started Things it was supposed to be a small project to keep me writing after having just completed Mr. 8. The "small project" took on a life of its own and it's far from over yet. This really is a story that you readers are creating. I would have given up on it if it wasn't for the support, encouragement, and occasional smack upside my head from the fans who somehow keep reading this peculiar series. So thank you all for sticking with me and for telling me that you want more of Amy, R.J., Barbara, and the rest of the Island of Misfit Toys occupying this world!

I hope you don't mind my little cheat with this epilogue. For cheat it is, Amy's vision is not much more than a what-if glimpse at the future. There's been a lot of talk about apocalypse in this last book but very little indication of what that would look like, so I want to give a worst case view at the not so distant future of the characters. I feel it captures the stakes without giving away much about Book Three. And it holds with my philosophy (I know that others have different takes, and each writer to their own) that prologues and epilogues should add to the experience but not the story.

Anyway...Book Two is over but the series still has its final installment to come. I know some of you are anxious for it to start up but I'll need some time to plan it a bit better than the vague ideas in my head. I also need a small mental break, so I'll be switching gears and will be posting a short novella in the intervening time. But The Things We Bury will be back in 2017.

David J Thirteen (September 29, 2016)