The Weight of What Has Gone Before

The chains had gotten a lot thicker since the birth, both of them shuffling with links thick as baseball bats around their ankles.  Suze, in particular, had a nasty iron padlock hanging from her neck that left her forever leaning forward.

“We knew going in it was going to be hard,” said Reg.  He rattled the chains on his wrist.  “I wouldn’t undo these even if I could.”

In the bassinet, the infant slumbered.  He’d opened his eyes, at least, and decided to stay in the world; I could see the first hair-fine chain dangling from around his tender neck.

The Beast

With a flapping of leathery wings, the beast dropped to the ground in front of me, black and jagged. It reeked of burned flash and moldy bread. It turned a long, sinuous neck toward me, its eyes mere red slits in the nest of twisted horns and spikes that adorned its misshapen head. I didn't even notice the rider until he slumped from the thing's back to the ground at my feet. He was pale; aged and fleshless; clearly dead. From exposure? I couldn't say.

The beast knelt before me, offering the saddle to mount. Its eyes bored into mine.

The Law of Contagion

There are two ways to avoid contamination. You see the bubbles around those men and women hovering over the fields? Yes, like this bubble of yours. That is one way. Not one speck, not one wisp can penetrate, and thus purity is maintained. It takes all of their time, checking and rechecking their bubbles.

The other way?

Those figures there, in the muck. No, I don't know their sex. Who could tell? They are so filthy, so engrimed that they are part of the pollution surrounding them.

Your bubble will disappear in a few moments.

Unless you stop it.

Choose.