While I am generally not comfortable with intrusion into the narrative as a rule, this spot seems like the best moment, given what lies ahead. I want to divert from the tale of the Wolf, Barber, and Girl and explore a minor player in the events who might not otherwise get his due for his small but essential role in these events.

Donnel Gaerig was a third or fourth cousin to most of the residents of New Gordhurst. It’s in the name; Fang and Erryl were quite astute on the names bearing some derivation on Gor, and the Gaerigs being a further derivation – one that inherently connected them to the larger brood, but also separated them at once.

While somewhat unassuming and generally cowardly, Donnel was a likeable enough young man. This was good because he was the last of his family, and to survive, he had to be pitiable to survive himself, alone in the diasporic and shambolic town of New Gordhurst. The fall of Old Gordhurst resulted in the culling of his family, who had been on the quite literal outskirts of the town as the dead rose to claim residents – they, along with the Garlings, were the first to be lost in the community. 

Donnel was just a child then, around 14 or so, but managed to escape. In the time since, he had worked many jobs, but not particularly well. Eventually, he fell in with the town’s civil defense under the control of Eghart, who was particularly abusive to the young man.

So it would not come as a surprise that Donnel, as much of a coward as he was, was constantly thrust into patrols into the woods outside the town, where the ghouls wandered and pockets of bandits would pick off travelers. After all, he was a coward and would not have the wherewithal to stand up to Eghart.

And one of these patrols, a very important patrol that involved young Garen Gorse, brother of Corea Gorse,  is where Donnel’s story begins. Or, I guess if I wanted to be more precise, where it ended.

– EC

…

Donnel Gaerig had not been so close to brutal, bloody death for a decade as he watched Herman get pulled to the ground by a pair of ghouls. Donnel saw greasy, wrinkled fingertips pry at the soft meat beneath the jaw and the top of the neck of the leather jerkin that served as the “uniform” of the civil patrol.

As the fingers plunged into Herman’s neck, arterial spray shot out as the man’s cries became a gurgle as he began to drown in his own blood. He began high-pitched, an almost pig squeal, and then began gasping and choking as the two ghouls pulled him into the mud and rotting plants. Donnel saw convulsing legs as the undead swarmed him, with a third stumbling over and falling into the grotesque tussle.

The sputtering cry ended, and so did the thrashing in one violent, final jolt. A horrific sound of tearing arose from the tangle of bodies. Donnel sank further against the tree, sliding down the trunk. He collapsed onto his rear and felt the wet mud soak into the breeches.

He thought of his Ma and Pa, and his baby sister. He thought of a ghoul tearing a chunk of her skin from her forehead as she screamed, and he ran. It was too late for Sylvy, and it was too late for Herman.

Donnel had an inkling that it was too late for Donnel.

He began to cry as he let his spear fall slack to his side. But a hoarse whisper from the tree line drew his attention.

“Donnel, get over here! Hey, get away from them!”

He glanced into the trees, recognizing the whisper as Garen, the youngest member of the patrol. The newest, too. What a godsdamned clusterfuck this all was.

“Donnel,” Garen whispered, “get your arse out of there.”

Donnel clutched his spear and fell belly-first into the mud, keeping his body low as he crawled over; he would glance back, seeing the ghouls still prying at Herman, dismembering him in a strange bit of strength not common to ghouls. They had yet to notice him worming his way from them. The two minutes of crawling to the tree line left him covered in mud, where he found Garen crouched low, his hand extended outward.

“Was it Herman?” Garen asked.

Donnel just nodded. Garen helped Donnel to his knees and guided him to a spot behind a tree.

“Gods. I lost track of everyone. Saw Spencer get pulled down by a group of three emerging from some hole in the ground.” Garen’s voice quivered. “One minute we were walking, and the next I saw a bunch of hands pull him into the undergrowth.”

Garen wiped at some of the mud that coated Donnel, continuing, “I – I stopped long enough to jam my spear into Spencer’s neck. I think I was able to kill him before they could. I think.”

Garen flicked watery mud away from Donnel as best he could.

“Glad I’m not alone here. Glad you made it.”

Donnel swallowed for a moment, then nodded. “I’m glad you’re safe, too.”

The two young men were crouched in silence, wary of any sound of motion. Any sudden snap of a twig, crow caw, or rustle of leaves or grass kept them on edge and their leg muscles taut, ready to explode into a run at a moment’s notice. After a couple of minutes, and some scouting by Garen, they moved further into the woods, still crouched, still silent.

“What happened with you and Herman?” Garen asked as he crept into the husk of an outlying shack. They were close to the old town now.

Donnel stepped in and sat on the stone mount of a crumbling hearth. He could have sworn he recognized the place, despite years of rot and overgrowth.

“I’d stepped into a trap. One of those fucking bandits had rigged one up.”

“What kind of trap? I don’t see any blood.”

Donnel shook his head.

“Alarm. Loud, jangly bits strung up. Dinner bell – draw the rotters and then loot the remains after.”

“Gods.”

“Before we knew it, we was being chased by a group of four, maybe five, but only two of them was in any shape to follow. Then that was when we hit the other trap.”

“Another alarm?”

Donnel shook his head again, this time slower, more hesitant.

“I got a light step. Herman not so much. Iron jaw snare.”

“Fuck.”

“Shattered his ankle, and they was on us. I couldn’t pull him away – I couldn’t…”

Donnel began to sob and folded over himself, his head between his knees. He couldn’t help it. Surely there was nothing to do, was there? The rotters were on them both, and Herman had no chance. Absolutely not. And yet…

Donnel continued to cry, but the feeling of Garen’s hand patting his back gave him pause.

“It’s not your fault, Donnel.”

Donnel looked up at the young man, who was leaning over him. He smiled a smile that appeared to take effort, more for Donnel’s benefit than his own. Donnel hadn’t really known much about Garen Gorse, but he seemed like a good kid. Much too young to be here in this shit.

Donnel wiped his nose with a muddy bracer and had to wipe away the mud from his face with the palm of his hand.

“I don’t even know why you’re out here, Garen. Ain’t you the Mayor’s nephew?”

Garen stepped back a bit, shook his head, and then spat at the ground. “Not by choice.”

The kid’s sour expression said a lot. There was no love lost between Garen and his uncle, it seemed.

“I’m not sure what we’re doing out here. The fucking Egg just sent us into a trap. Has it even been this bad out here for you, Donnel?”

Donnel stood up from the ruined hearth and propped himself against his spear, thinking back.

“I’ve been doin’ this for a few seasons and ain’t seen it this bad, kid. The things never get that close to town, and if we see them, it’s maybe one or two. The fact we’ve been chased this far toward the old town is pretty scary.”

“Maybe we can slip past them and get back home? We can tell the Egg we’ll need a cleanup patrol. More than four of us this time.”

Donnel nodded. The kid was a natural at this – this decisiveness – so unlike himself. He’d take Garen’s lead.

“I think you’re right. I just worry, it was five I saw, and you saw three, that was…”

“Seven.”

“Yeah, nearly ten, yeah? That’s the most I’ve seen out here since, well…”

Donnel thought back to the night the ghouls swarmed Old Gordhurst. He shuddered and rubbed the heel of his palm hard against his forehead. His skull was pounding.

“How old were you when it happened?” Garen asked.

“About 13 or 14, I think? I don’t really know how old I am.”

“Younger than me,” Garen added. His gaze was empty. He looked between the gaps of the ruined shack.

“Right now, my sister is about the age you were then.”

“Ah, yeah, the one who works at Nathan’s old place, yeah? She’s always kind to me. Certainly works harder than I did when I was working for him.”

“She works hard. Too hard. It’s why I am out here. Extra shares from the pantry. Also, maybe to see if I can scrounge up something while out here. Look at these.”

Garen’s child-like excitement as he opened a small bag to reveal a handful of mushrooms struck Donnel. Moments ago, Garen had the bearing of a leader, someone Donnel would follow. Now he was a child again, excitedly showing off the meager bounty he’d gathered in the surrounding woods.

Donnel chuckled.

Garen glanced up, meeting Donnel’s eyes.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothin’. Those are some good mushrooms.”