Ethan’s mind drifted. Reliving the best and worst moments of his life – and others that never happened. They came in flashes too fast to process.

  Samantha beating him at video games and rubbing it in his face. Mom laughing at his attempt to bleach his hair. Ethan standing on a mountain peak, admiring a beautiful sunrise. His mom and Samantha whispering conspiratorially while giving him knowing glances. Flashes. Single instants shown to him like a dream.

  Part of him knew this last one wasn’t real. His mom and Samantha had never met, but it filled his heart with a bittersweet joy anyway.

  Then came the worst moments. Samantha packing her bags, tears in her eyes as he mutely stood by. Mom’s dead, staring eyes piercing his soul on her deathbed. His parents screaming at each other followed by a loud slap while he played in the other room. In this floating, incorporeal existence, he couldn’t feel his body, but he screamed.

  Then the monsters came. Wolves. Spiders. Giant moles. Their teeth snapped and tore at him in an endless agony. One had Samantha’s face, another his mother’s. They cackled maniacally as they ripped him apart.

  “Please stop! Please let me go!” he screamed. The monsters paid no heed to his pleas. He was shredded limb from limb until there was only a scrap of him left. The tiny sliver of his existence slowly fluttered to the cold ground.

  It was so cold. So very cold. He shivered all over, but sweat poured from him, leaving him drenched and shivering uncontrollably. A shadow passed over his vision, and he squinted up at the towering, amorphous form above him. It bent down to inspect him.

  To Ethan’s horror, the monster wore his father’s face. The face split in an impossibly wide, maniacal grin that revealed rows and rows of glistening teeth. A rancid wet tongue flicked out to caress his forehead and face, leaving a trail of acid in its wake. He weakly swatted it away, begging for the monster to leave him alone.

  “Just calm down, son,” the monster thundered. “We need to get your fever under control, goddammit.”

  Ethan weakly shook his head, desperate to be free of the monster. He groaned in incoherent protest but was powerless before the onslaught to his senses.

  “Just let me die… please,” Ethan begged. The agony consumed everything, and he drifted deeper into the blackness. It terrified him, but it was better than the pain. He was no longer Ethan. He was a tattered husk that felt only cold and pain.

  Please, God, he prayed silently. Just let this be over.

  The pain persisted, unrelenting. It didn’t lessen, but it began to change over an interminable stretch of time. Ethan finally stopped feeling a constant cold and slowly began to identify the sources of his agony.

  His skull pounded with each beat of his heart, and a gash on his head throbbed sharply. His arm throbbed dully, and his fingers tingled painfully, as if he had fallen asleep on his arm. Lacerations and bruises riddled his torso and legs.

  Pain consumed his world, leaving no room for anything else. On some level, he was aware of powerful hands cradling his head up to sip something, pressing something cold against his head, or rubbing something on his wounds, but he could not process what it meant.

  His sole relief was when he could finally drift into unconsciousness.

  ***

  The passage of time was undefined in this nightmare-like state. Moments of lucidity periodically pierced the fog of his consciousness. Tidbits of the world around him began to coalesce slowly, giving him a point of reference to anchor to.

  The first thing he felt beyond a general pain was his arm in a sling. Stitches along the right side of his scalp pulled uncomfortably at his skin. He was lying in a bed — a realization that startled him since he’d been sure his final resting place would be in the dirt next to the boulder the hellhound had thrown him against.

  Gingerly, he opened his eyes to narrow slits and took in the simple room. Light filtered in through old floral print curtains drawn across the single window. Even that small amount of light penetrated straight into his brain painfully, and he quickly shut his eyes against the glare.

  Taking deep breaths, he cracked open his eyes again, determined to figure out the situation he was in — pain be damned. Antique furniture and an ancient-looking wood floor gave the place an aroma Ethan associated with thrift stores and old people’s homes.

  There was a shelf with old baseball trophies and wrestling medals along with a sun-faded photo of a young man holding a model volcano. A couple, whom Ethan assumed were the boy’s parents stood on either side. The mother had kind, half-moon eyes and smiled proudly as she grasped the boy's shoulders while the father stood apart, unsmiling, with his hands clasped behind his back.

  Trevor Thompson was engraved on one of the trophies in a font large enough for Ethan to read across the room.

  Ethan winced as he looked down at his splinted arm in the sling and noticed his clothes had been changed. Someone had obviously taken care of him. Not only that, they had saved him. The last coherent memory he had was of the massive hellhound standing over him before the world had devolved into chaos.

  Before he had time to consider this, he heard the thud of steady steps climbing stairs. Ethan’s heart raced, worsening his pounding headache. He realized this was almost certainly the person who had saved him and cared for him, but he couldn’t stop the cold grip of fear that clenched his heart as he warily watched the door to the bedroom slowly swing open.

  A tall man in his seventies pushed into the room, a tray with bread and soup in hand. He was an older version of the stern man from the photo, but it was unmistakably him. He froze when he saw Ethan was awake, bushy gray eyebrows raised in surprise. His light blue eyes twinkled, and his mouth quirked into something that might be a grin.

  He had a mostly bald head, and his face was peppered with gray stubble. His faded blue jeans, cream-colored button-down work shirt, and scuffed cowboy boots had the look of being well worn yet well-cared for.

  “Well now,” he said in a deep, rumbling baritone. “If it ain’t the Comeback Kid.” The man entered the room, coming to stand next to the bed as he placed the tray of food on the nightstand. Ethan sat speechless, unsure of what to say.

  The old man wiped his large hands on his pants before taking a seat in the chair next to the bed. Despite his age, Ethan could sense his strength built from years of hard labor as evidenced by the man’s weathered face and hands. Old-man strength, he had heard it called. This man had it in spades.

  “Never was a good nursemaid,” the man said. “God knows I have practice, though…” He studied Ethan, a quiet moment extending longer than was comfortable. Ethan flushed slightly at his comment as he thought about what the old man must have had to do in caring for him.

  “Name’s Henry,” he said, extending a weathered hand. Ethan took it and felt what he had suspected — there was a deep strength to this man. Henry’s hand, rough and calloused, felt like it could crush his, yet his grip was unexpectedly gentle. He pulled his hand back, still unsure what to say as he struggled to orient himself.

  The emotion that built within him was indescribable. He owed this man his life, and the gratitude and relief he felt at no longer being alone in the world threatened to overwhelm him. Henry had taken care of him as if he were family. He clenched his jaw, pushing back the tears that were blurring his vision and threatening to spill over.

  Ethan locked eyes with the old man. “Thank you, Henry,” he rasped in a hoarse whisper. He began to cough, the strain sending spikes of pain through him. Henry grabbed the glass of water from the tray, which Ethan gratefully accepted, gulping down the cool water and relieving his dry throat.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Take this,” Henry said, offering a pill to Ethan. “It’ll help with the pain, and you’ll be able to rest easy.” Ethan did so with no hesitation, the pain overriding any apprehension he might have about accepting drugs from a stranger.

  Ethan leaned back against the pillow, breathing deeply. His wounds were still overwhelmingly painful.

  “Think you can manage the soup on your own, son?” Henry asked, gesturing to the food on the tray. “It’ll do ya good to get somethin’ warm in ya.”

  Nodding, Ethan eagerly reached out for the offered bowl — his stomach rumbling at the appetizing smell. The taste matched the smell, and Ethan let out a soft moan of pleasure at the first spoonful of the delicious pho. Not what he was expecting from the grizzled old man, but he wasn’t complaining.

  Henry grunted amiably. “Glad you like it,” he said with a slap on his thighs as he rose. “It’s my wife’s recipe.” As he turned to leave, Ethan noticed an Asian-looking conical bamboo hat hanging down his back, held in place by a leather cord. Curiosity nagged at him, but he figured it was best not to pry — at least, not yet.

  Ethan set down the bowl. “Henry,” he called. Henry turned back halfway out the door, eyes questioning.

  “I’m Ethan,” he said, feeling dumb. He owed so much to this man and didn’t know how to express it. A million thoughts went through his mind, but one took the forefront. “I… I’m glad I’m not alone.”

  With a grunt and a nod, Henry acknowledged him, then moved to close the door. “Henry! One more thing,” Ethan called out. The old man turned back, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

  “Did you happen to see a small eucalyptus plant where you found me?” Ethan asked apprehensively. “It would have been in my bike trailer. The pot had a label that said Joel on it.” He used his hands to show the approximate size of the plant.

  Henry eyed him for a moment, seeming to consider before responding. “Sorry, son,” he said apologetically. “I didn’t see it in the dark and didn’t have a chance to get out yonder again.”

  Ethan flopped back against the pillow, wincing as a spike of pain shot through his head. “I… I’d like to gather up what’s left of my supplies. I fought harder than you know for them.”

  Henry stared at him for a moment, expression unreadable. “Just do the job in front of ya, Ethan,” he said. The phrase rolled off his tongue like something rote he said frequently. “For you, that means gettin’ your strength back up.”

  Ethan nodded, to which Henry gave an affirmative grunt before shutting the door.

  It was two more days before Ethan felt strong enough to get out of bed on his own. Henry’s serene ministrations during that time were humbling to Ethan. The old man never showed signs of impatience, frustration, or any emotion really. Just small grunts that Ethan was learning to interpret, along with what appeared to be his favorite phrase: “Do the job that's in front of ya.”

  It turned out that Henry had also gotten a system message on the day the apocalypse started. His message also contained the garbled errors that Ethan’s had, but neither of them were sure what to make of it.

  “I’m just an old farmer, but it looked like something my son would type on his computer…” he’d said before trailing off. Ethan sensed a long story and deep emotion there, but didn’t want to press the old man.

  Henry also had his fair share of run-ins with the scuttler-type monsters and also deduced that the red orbs they shot out gave a temporary burst of strength and healing. To Ethan’s surprise, he had not seen the white, translucent experience that Ethan had seen when tending to Joel, or any other color.

  On the third day, Ethan gingerly made his way down the stairs of the two-story farmhouse under Henry’s watchful eye. He grinned stupidly up at Henry as he made it to the bottom stair on wobbly legs. Ethan was tall, but Henry stood two or three inches taller. He only nodded and uttered a soft grunt before turning to the kitchen.

  The rest of the farmhouse was much like the upstairs, with antique furniture and the air of having been lived in for many years. Pictures of Henry’s wife and son were featured predominantly, although none of them appeared to be from recent years. Ethan still hadn’t worked up the courage to ask about his family, but it appeared they had been out of the picture for some time.

  Tucked in a corner, Ethan noticed what appeared to be several war medals along with a photo of a group of young soldiers. Vietnam? he thought. He didn’t want to pry as the old man seemed to be a very private person, but he thought it might explain how he came to have an Asian wife.

  Ethan entered the kitchen, breathing in the smell of bacon and pancakes. He had to come to learn what a superb cook Henry was, and his mouth was already watering in anticipation.

  “Anything I can help with?” Ethan offered.

  “Naw, you just -”

  “Do the job that’s in front of me?” Ethan interrupted with a smile.

  “Hmph. Smart-ass,” Henry muttered under his breath.

  Ethan took a seat at the kitchen table, where Henry served him a plate of pancakes and bacon that was still crackling from being fried. He eagerly dug in without ceremony. He had yet to eat anything prepared by the old farmer that wasn’t delicious. The rich flavor of the food resulted from the ingredients, which seemed to have come directly from the farm.

  “At least let me do the dishes,” Ethan said between bites as Henry took the seat across from him. “I want to start pulling my weight around here.”

  Henry treated him to one of his piercing gazes as he started in on his own plate. After several bites and silent consideration, he nodded and gave an affirmative grunt.

  “I need to get a start on the south field fence those critters knocked down,” Henry said after a time. “Thompson Farm has been an alfalfa farm for decades, but… something tells me demand for hay just bit the dust.”

  “So, this is… was a hay farm?” Ethan asked.

  “Yessir. Biggest in the valley. But I’ll be planting corn, beans… and as much as it pains me, potatoes,” Henry said with a resigned sigh and disgusted shake of his head.

  Ethan grinned. Henry’s distress at having to plant potatoes was the most emotion he’d ever seen the old man express. Planting potatoes bothered this man more than changing a bedpan or spoon-feeding an invalid.

  “Well, I’ll be on my feet soon,” Ethan said eagerly. “I don’t know much about farming, but I’m a hard worker.”

  Henry grunted as he stood and placed his plate in the sink. “You’ll get your chance, son.” He turned slowly to face Ethan. “I reckon there’s enough to do around the farm for you to stick around a bit longer.”

  Ethan froze. Henry had said nothing about long-term plans, but his words sent a spike of worry through Ethan that he might want him gone eventually. Where would he go if not here? That’s when Ethan noticed the twinkle in Henry’s eye. The old man’s sense of humor was infrequent and hard to pick up on.

  Ethan let out a startled laugh, and Henry just grunted humorously. He placed a hand on Ethan’s shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze as he walked past. Rising to make good on his promise to wash the dishes, Ethan hobbled over to the sink.

  “When you’re done washing up, there’s something out front for ya,” Henry said as he walked out of the room. Curious, Ethan quickly set to the task of doing the dishes.

  Ethan blinked his eyes against the sunlight as he stepped out onto the wooden porch that ran the length of the farmhouse for the first time. The smell of fresh-tilled earth and spring rain filled his nostrils as he looked around the farm.

  Idyllic was the word that came to mind as he looked out at the farm. To the right, there was a large barn with adjoining pastures for cows, goats, and pigs.

  Henry insisted Thompson Farm, which he had started from the ground up, wasn’t a livestock farm, but it had more animals than Ethan had ever seen in one place besides a zoo. Chickens meandered around their large coop, pecking at the ground as a massive multi-colored rooster watched from above.

  Stretching south, and to his left towards the east, the fields rolled onward, their rich soil promising a bountiful harvest. The wide river he’d seen from high above the valley cut a sinuous path across the valley, dividing it down the middle. Towering mountains lined the valley, creating a bowl-like basin that the farm was nestled into. The early spring air still had a bit of chill, but Ethan felt invigorated as he took a deep breath and sighed.

  Henry was in one of the fields, making preparations to plant the crops he mentioned earlier. He was easy to pick out with his bamboo hat and bright blue work shirt. Notably, he also had what appeared to be an M16 assault rifle on his back as he went about his chores. Jeez, Rambo, Ethan thought with a grin. Henry was full of surprises.

  It was then that something caught Ethan’s attention. Just to the left of the porch was Ethan’s e-bike and trailer. Many of his supplies were arrayed on the porch, including his rifle, and to his surprise, his pistol — now very much scratched up from when he’d dropped it while fleeing the monsters.

  Ethan cried out in surprise and relief as he spotted Joel in a new pot on the porch railing. He knelt to check on the plant and noticed a new label on the side of the pot with Joel scrawled on the side in what must be Henry’s handwriting. Ethan smiled and looked out at the old man toiling in the fields. Gratitude swelled within him, and he mentally reaffirmed his promise to work as hard as possible to repay him.

  “Welcome to your new home, Joel,” Ethan said as he stood and rested a hand on the railing while he looked out at the farm. “Our new home.”