June, week 3; 6 months after The Start of The End

Silence engulfed The Golden Stag as he moved deeper into The Dead Woods. The trail had become wild and untamed, and was covered in grasses as high as his waist. For anyone else the path would have been impossible to follow, but The Stag knew these woods. He had been walking them since before the end; its trails were burned in his memory.

As he made his way through the overgrowth he could feel the gaze of the unseen upon him. The rumors of spirits echoed in his mind, and he shivered slightly. He had never been a superstitious being, but these woods challenged his every preconception. They were becoming foreign to him, with the thick canopy overhead coating everything in a dense shroud of darkness. The old hiking trails felt dangerous in the night, and the shadows played tricks with his mind.

The Stag heard a rustle behind him and froze in place. He slowly turned his head towards the sound, catching something large in his peripheral vision. His hand moved towards the dagger on his waist, and he saw the blurry shape shift behind him. Drawing his blade he whirled around rapidly, only to find an empty trail. The stag glanced about frantically, but the shape he had seen had vanished. The Woods were quiet behind him, and he hesitantly sheathed his dagger. He turned back towards the path he had been traveling, and began walking once more.

The Stag’s footfalls were soft upon the trail, muffled by the dense grasses below his boots. Moving slower The Stag focused on the sound of his footsteps, listening closely to each muffled crunch. Once, before the fall, this path had been filled with the songs of birds and life. It had been one of his favorite hikes through the forest, obscure and unknown to most visitors. Now it was eerily quiet; neither wind nor animals disturbed it. Somewhere deep in his mind The Stag felt that vengeance was brewing in his woods; as if the trees were plotting their revenge.

A twig snapped behind him and the silence was shattered. The Stag whipped around once more, drawing his dagger into his right hand. Behind him the trail was still empty, devoid of any source of the sound he had heard. The sound of his heartbeat was like thunder in his ears, creating a unique symphony with his ragged breaths. He traced the dark trail behind him with his eyes, combing for any danger hiding in the growth. Something in his own tracks caught his attention, and he stepped forward silently. Stopping besides one of his own footprints, The Stag slowly crouched down until his face was level with the top of the grasses. On the ground beside his tracks he spotted a broken twig, alongside a bent stalk of grass perpendicular to his footfalls. His eyes moved in a straight line towards the treeline, noticing several inconsistencies in the grasses. Something had followed him to this point, then bolted away rapidly.

Apparently the woods weren’t as dead as he had thought.

Scanning the area around him for danger The Stag rose slowly to his feet. As he stood he looked deeply into the woods, seeking that which had followed him. The Stag shivered slightly as Goosebumps spread along his body, then froze in terror. A warm breath had fallen on the nape of his neck, and the air had grown still behind him.

Pain shot through his side as The Stag was flung to his left, landing several feet away on the ground. His body screamed in pain, and he spotted several long gashes along his waist. He raised his dagger as he rose to his feet, frantically turning towards the trail. His left side suddenly flared up in pain as he felt claws rip through him, and he collapsed to one knee. He gripped his sides with his left arm and looked up, finally spotting the beast that had attacked him.

The figure was slender and tall, with its features hidden behind a thick layer of long black fur. In its shape The Stag could tell the creature was incredibly strong, with especially thick muscles along its forearms. Each of its hands ended in sharp talons, which dripped with The Stag’s own blood. It had a thin curved tail behind it, and looked almost like a French Sheepdog rising on its hind legs. It stood silently 15 feet further down the trail, remaining completely still as it observed him. The Stag returned to his feet, nearly slipping on the pool of blood growing below him. He stared straight at the beast before him and snarled, holding his dagger with a white knuckled grip.

Suddenly the creature was upon him, crossing the gap in less than a second. Its arms were a flurry of motion as it hacked at The Stag, and he slashed his dagger desperately in front of him. Twice he felt the dagger slip along the beast’s fur, dodged each time before it could break the skin. The monster in front of him was impossibly fast; appearing blurred even when it was inches from his face. The Stag felt multiple wounds open as Talons met flesh, cutting through the fabric on his arms and upper body. In desperation the Stag kicked out in front of him, somehow making contact and flinging the creature back several feet.

Not waiting for the creature to attack again The Stag rushed forward, yelling ferociously as he tackled it. The two fell in a tangled mess on the grass, with The Stag slashing at the blur like a frenzied madman. Struggling with the creature he felt his hand grip fur, and he slashed without looking. He felt his blade cut through flesh, then was flung backwards as an inhuman strength shoved him. He flew back 10 feet through the air, and the wind in his lungs left his body as he landed on his stomach. Ahead of him a massive sound of rustling grasses and snapped branches was heard, and The Stag looked up towards it. A path of darkened blood and broken sticks parted the grasses, leading deep into the treeline. The Stag struggled to his feet, his body screaming as he did, and watched the dark line as it vanished into the woods. He listened closely for the sound of another attack, but all that could be heard was his hoarse breathing. He looked down at the soft, wet mass he was holding, to see the remains of a furry black tail in his left hand. 

AUTHORS NOTE:

For as long as they have been inhabited, the Americas have been filled with stories of the dark. Lumberjacks would speak of Fearsome Critters hiding just outside their camps, city folks would talk of urban legends surrounding them, and the highways were filled with spirits. These were the myths told to children around campfires; the legends we spoke to build our own fear. Since the end these stories have grown, as strange things have been spotted in the trees. Disappearances have become commonplace, with insanity gripping those who stray too far from the path. Entire armies have vanished in the woods, with no god or government being able to protect them. Something is out there, moving in the trees.

Episode 7 takes place six months after the end.