Rain pelted against Matthew’s skin as he pushed himself up from the mud and filth he had been thrown into. The wind whipped against his face. Droplets drove into his skin, the cold sinking deep into his bones. His entire front was coated with brown muck. It dripped off his body and fell to the ground, where it joined the rest of the rainwater and dirt.

Matthew turned back to look at the door – the door Mary had slammed behind him just moments ago. He wanted to storm in, to bring his foot up and break down the wood, to explain himself. She hated him, but that was nothing new. She wouldn’t listen to him, or understand why he had to do what he did, but a part of his mind still wanted to explain himself.

Looking at his surroundings proved to be near impossible. The skies were pitch-black, and the rain slashed sideways, driving into his eyes and face with incessant force. In the distance, he thought he could hear a scream – the shadow’s? The sound he had been listening to all night? The screech that brought with it destruction and chaos and death?

Perhaps his mind was just playing tricks on him.

His feet were submerged in the muddy water, his skin numb. When he tried to take a step forward his foot made a sickening shlpppp sound as he pulled it from the mud. To his frustration, he saw that his foot was bare when he lifted it out of the water. The muck had taken his sock. The same sound, and same result, followed with the movement of his other foot.

Just my luck, he thought.

The sound came again. Was it a howl? A call? Were there multiple shadows, all waiting to surround him? What would they do if they caught him? Matthew didn’t want to be around to find out.

He pushed his frozen legs forward despite their resistance. He had only made it a few strides forward when he saw the main road: it was a river of filth. Rainwater coursed down it, curling and folding over itself as it pulled dirt and grass with it. The wind had ripped down branches, which were floating down the newly formed river, following a rapid current toward the homes that had been built down at the bottom of the incline. Through the darkness and destruction, Matthew could see that the ankle-deep water he was standing in was not an aberration, or strictly unique to his house – to their house. In fact, in some places on the main road the water looked deeper, where the ferocious liquid and constant precipitation had eroded holes in the ground, creating deep puddles that appeared capable of devouring a person if they stepped in the wrong place.

A part of Matthew wanted to be angry, wanted to be vengeful. He wished he could march right back to the house and shoot the rest of them down (except for Arthur, of course). Then they could wait out the storm without having to worry about betrayals and backstabbers. What was so special about Luis and his daughter anyway? What, they had to flee their own home? The storm was too powerful for them, so they had to seek shelter? So fucking what, he thought. Why did that mean the occupants of the house had to accept them with open arms and wide smiles? Why did that mean their food, which they grew had to then be shoveled onto plates for people who had never worked for that food? The rage boiled in his stomach and he wanted to release it to the world, wanted to yell, wanted to be louder than the rain and more terrifying than the storm itself. He wanted power god damn it! He wanted people to recognize him and to see him, not just to wave their hands at him with a condescending smirk.

Matthew stopped his trek toward the main road suddenly, whipping his head to look up the road. An outcrop of woods bordered both sides of the road, though he could see little more than deep shadows and slashing rain.

Amidst the chaos, Matthew swore he saw a shadow move further up the road. The shadow? Perhaps. It was too dark to distinguish shadows from each other. What could have been a common squirrel might appear to be an alarming threat.

His skin had started to burn – a stinging sensation. Sometimes, when he held snow for too long, or when he decided to wash his hands in a river that was surprisingly frigid, he would experience a similar sensation. He tried to wipe his hands on his trousers out of instinct, but only succeeded in dirtying them further.

Another yell came rushing through the darkness – a response to the previous one? Or something new? Again, it was too difficult to tell.

I have to move.

Pushing deep into his gut for the remaining remnants of his courage, Matthew pushed forward, his bare feet sloshing through the mud, frozen and stiff, as dirty water rushed over them in quick torrents while folding over itself, seeming to bubble with fury.

Was this God’s way of telling him something? Maybe. Killing his brother in cold blood had to be a sin. But where was the context? Where was the gray area? God must have realized what was going on, that killing Jackson was not just a cold, gruesome murder but a necessary change, predicated on years of immobility. He must have understood.

As Matthew began to cross the road, his eyes focused on the trees across it. In the darkness, he heard a different noise: a sloshing of feet, quite like his own, but more ferocious and fast. Blindingly fast – so fast he couldn’t locate its source before the noise dissipated.

Matthew spun around, his eyes searching through the sideways rain, and the pitch-black sky, and the small droplets of chaos the rain rendered on the dirty water rolling over itself as it followed the current downward.

He rushed to the other side of the road, a feeling overcoming him that he couldn’t explain: that trees were safe, that the forest was haven. Maybe he just wanted to hide somewhere. Yeah. That was it. To stay hidden until the mess was over and he could explain himself properly.

Guilt washed over him as he realized that Arthur would probably not pay him. He had been thrown out – he had failed to protect the man he swore to help.

He had failed Pa.

Pa had warned him after all. Jackson would bring the Devil into their home without so much as questioning them. And that was exactly what he had done: opened his door to the rain, and the wind, and the wails and welcomed in the people outside of it without so much as questioning them.

Maybe Arthur would understand. He was an intelligent man, and he knew how difficult Jackson was being. He had defended Matthew at the table when he had needed him most. That was brotherhood. Yes, it was possible Arthur would still honor their agreement. After all, Matthew had defended him to the point of murder.

The sound came again. Swifter, more precise. Footsteps in the mud. Thick, sucking sounds as feet pulled free and deep sloshing as the holes were filled with rainwater.

Something was coming.

Matthew pushed himself to run, pushed himself to bring his frozen, bare feet down on cold, water soaked dirt. Leaves seemed to whip by him, but he couldn’t tell whether that was the ferocity of the wind or his own sprint.

He made it deep into the woods, until trees lined the small path that travelers sometimes took as a shortcut between the main road and town. The further he progressed, the more damage he noticed: some trees had been stripped entirely of their bark, while others had thick claw marks dug into the wood, pulp bursting out from the gaping wounds.

Then he saw it again: the shadow.

He stopped in his tracks. A yelp burst from his throat as his sudden halt caused him to step on a fallen tree branch, the sharp edge of the wood piercing the sole of his foot. While he didn’t feel the initial puncture, the sudden change in pressure surprised him. Then the pain came in hot waves, mimicking the flow of his steaming blood as it joined the muddy water and grimy, earthy forest floor.

The shadow was standing in the distance, no more than one hundred paces away.

How did it get in front of me?

Panic began to replace the freezing feeling in his body. Blood pounded in his ears as he watched the shadow slink lower to the ground, emaciated limbs sticking up into the air.

Matthew looked around. On a tree to his left hung a dead branch, the end stripping bark from the trunk. It twisted and danced limply as the wind roared through the forest. The trees offered no safety; even the ones that had not been decimated by the storm were too small to hide behind. He had no weapons.

He stared at the shadow, waiting to see what it would do next. As he did, an odd calm overcame his raw panic.

He was going to die. He could feel it in his bones.

The shadow lifted its head slightly, and through the darkness Matthew could see its red eyes glinting. Rain slashed sideways, hitting his body with icy force. He waited for the shadow to move, his body remaining as still as it had ever been.

To his surprise, it moved away, retreating into the trees on his left. Its thin body blended in with the dark forest, leaving Matthew to breathe a sigh of relief.

Maybe he wasn’t going to die after all.

He waited for what felt like hours, though it was likely no more than thirty minutes at most. Once he was confident that the shadow had moved on, he pressed forward, moving deeper into the forest.

Before long, he came upon a small hunting cabin. He had been walking uphill, and the flooding was almost nonexistent around the building. Matthew smiled.

Maybe God is on my side after all.

He forced his stiff limbs to move forward, toward the front door of the cabin. Even the wind seemed to die down as he approached it. The lights were on inside, and he could see an old man reading a book in a chair through the glass window.

Matthew knocked on the front door with his right hand. It, too, was numb from his journey and so he didn’t feel the pain of his action until many minutes later. It didn’t matter to him, though; he didn’t feel any pain for a while because the old man answered the door.

“Kind sir,” Matthew said. “I had to leave m’ home ‘cause o’ the storm. I was wonderin’ if you could offer me some shelter ‘till it passes. I don’t got no shoes, nor weapons. Just m’ cold body and some hope that you’ll do the good Christian thing.”

The old man nodded and smiled. “Of course, son. Come in. Get warm. I’ve got a nice fire going right here.”

Matthew walked across the threshold. Warmth washed over him as he escaped the rain. He thanked the old man profusely, to which his new host shook his head.

“It’s no problem at all,” he said. “I’m sure you would have done the same if it was me out there.”

“Of course,” Matthew said. “Absolutely.”

Next Chapter: Emma