The Cellar: A Post-Apocalyptic Novella by Richard Dela Cruz

D AREN WIPED THE BLOOD OFF his knife and looked down at the twelve bodies at his feet. They were scrawny, their ribs showed, and they would’ve died on their own if he hadn’t killed them. He grabbed their tails—four at a time—with one fist and stuffed the rodents into his backpack, making sure the flap was buttoned before slinging it over his shoulder. Two days of tracking and all he could show for it were twelve puny rats.
    Lara’s absence only made him feel worse. Something must have happened to her. She had a sick mother and three siblings to feed, yet she hadn’t shown up to hunt in over a week. He considered looking for her village to check up on her, maybe even bring her a couple of rats. But bursting in unannounced with a gift would be taking their relationship a step too far. They had never been more than friendly competitors, and he certainly couldn’t afford to part with any of his kill—not with his village always on the brink of starvation. Yet as he recalled her red hair and green eyes and the deft, graceful way she held her club before the kill, he couldn’t help but wish they could be something more.
    In the fading light, the perennially gray landscape turned a shade darker, and Daren pushed away all thoughts of Lara. He needed to focus on getting home. With game now scarce in the usual places, he had gone farther than he had previously dared. To make it home in time for supper, he’d have to take a shortcut. And that was exactly what he was afraid of.
    He walked briskly under a blanket of ash clouds. Most of the vegetation had receded, and the topsoil had been carried off by dust storms. None of this disturbed him. In all his seventeen years, the skies have always reflected the starkness of the earth.
    Taking a sharp right, he passed through a wasteland of dry hills and stunted shrubs and kept on until he stood at the edge of the Dead Fields. There wasn’t much to see: an expanse of wilted crops, a roofless shack, and a line of trees in the distance that marked the entrance to the forest. He’d recently heard about strange happenings in that vicinity. Traders who had gone there had warned the villagers about getting too close to the area. “The spirits have awakened from their slumber,” they had said in hushed tones.
    Daren took a few tentative steps and checked around. The shack, with its rotted wood and boarded up windows, remained still and empty. A light breeze played over the cracked earth, ferrying dust around dried stalks of wheat. With a deep breath, he marched forward, the stalks crackling under his feet as he stomped on them. His village lay somewhere beyond the trees. He just had to keep one foot in front of the other, and he’d be at the gates in less than an hour.
    He stopped when a ripple appeared in the air right above him. It looked like a thin film had momentarily swept over his field of vision. He rubbed his eyes, blinked, and saw nothing. Three more steps forward and another ripple appeared. In that instant, the fields and the shack seemed like a reflection distorted by a hurled pebble. He waited, his neck hairs tingling, afraid that he had disturbed something. Nothing else happened, but a sudden urge to get away overwhelmed him and he sprinted toward the forest.
    When he got to the forest entrance, he paused and took a few breaths to calm himself. He hoped the mysterious force haunting the fields would allow him to pass unharmed. Daylight was dimming, and since he had run out of torches, he’d be groping his waythrough if he delayed any longer.
    The strangeness he witnessed in the fields might extend into the woods—and he shuddered at the thought of having something dart out at him in the dark—but he steeled himself and entered it. Naked branches stretched forth like crooked fingers seeking to pierce the cloud cover, hoping to reach the sun, but failing in the attempt. Each trunk now stood in silent vigil to its own death.
    As Daren made his way through the forest,