September 2023.
Hanging low over Luzino, the heat was trapped between crooked roofs and the tall stands of pine. Dust lifted from the road where crews dug, shovels biting into soil that smelled of iron and rot. When the first skull rolled loose, its jaw clattered open to reveal a coin. The men laughed nervously. The laughter broke when the foreman swore he saw the jaw tighten shut.
By dusk, word had spread to the square. Villagers gathered under the chapel ruins, clutching torches, pitchforks, and sacks of salt ripped from the mill. Their breath came hard in the thick summer air. Standing on the chapel steps, Schoolmaster Patryk Badura’s collar was damp with sweat, eyes searching for authority he wasn’t sure he had.
“They’re not demons,” he said, voice cutting through the murmur. “They’re bodies disturbed from rest. Disease can live in soil. Fungi. Spores. We mustn’t give in to superstition.”
An old farmer spat into the dirt. “Disease doesn’t gnaw through wood and shriek.”
A scream rose from the barn across the square. The crowd surged, torches flaring. A young man stumbled out, blood across his shirt, eyes glassy, jaw grinding. Behind him lurched two figures, limbs bound with crumbling bricks, skulls partly caved but jaws snapping.
“Hold the line!” someone cried, though no line held long.
Men threw salt, women swung axes meant for kindling. The creatures pressed forward, mouths working. Patryk froze, notebook in hand, until one of his pupils—Marta, hair braided, face pale—shouted at him.
“Master Badura! Do something!”
He swallowed, nodding too quickly. “Yes. I’ll find the answer.”
#
That night he tore through the chapel’s wreckage, charred beams, plaster, and mildew. Pulling stone, his hands bled until he found them: scraps of parchment, half-burned, ink still legible. Latin prayers for banishment. He gathered survivors—Marta among them—and set candles in a circle.
“This will bind them,” he insisted, though his voice cracked. “Words have power. We’ll turn superstition into structure.”
They began the chant, voices uneven, words unfamiliar on their tongues. The night was still, insects buzzing in the heat. Then came the thudding—feet dragging across pavement. Eyes glinted in the dark.
Giving way, timbers of the roof splintered as creatures crashed down through dust and flame. Candles scattered, screams filled the chapel’s hollow bones. Marta’s voice cut off as teeth found her throat. Patryk stumbled backward, pressed flat against stone, tasting ash and blood.
#
By morning, half the town was gone. Patryk’s hands shook as he wired the quarry charges, dynamite sticks cradled like relics. A handful of survivors stood nearby, hollow-eyed, trusting him because nothing else remained.
“They come from the earth,” he told them. “We bury them deeper. We burn the shafts and seal the ground.”
A miner muttered, “And if they don’t burn?”
“They will.” Patryk’s voice was flat, unconvincing even to himself.
When the creatures surged again, he waited until they spilled into the quarry, until the smell of damp stone and rot filled his lungs. He struck the match, lit the fuse. Flames raced into the dark.
“Run!” he shouted.
But they didn’t all run. Some were dragged screaming into the shafts, torches falling from their hands. Rolling through the valley, the blast thundered, throwing dirt and smoke into the air.
When the dust cleared, silence lay heavy. The wind carried pine resin and scorched stone. Patryk leaned against the ridge, chest heaving.
Then he heard it—the faint pounding beneath the earth. Not one voice, but many, muffled yet insistent. He closed his eyes, forehead pressed to the rock, knowing he had not ended anything. He had only taught the hunger to wait.
#
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