Farmer's Burden
Six months after the world collapsed into teeth and rot, the silence felt heavier than the stench of decay. Brother Thomas and his small flock of surviving clergy had spent half a year wandering through ash and ruin before stumbling upon a genuine miracle: a sprawling, untouched farmstead as green and vibrant as Eden. The farmer, a tall, quiet man with eyes like polished obsidian, greeted them at the edge of the timber. His terms were simple enough. They could shelter in the dry comfort of his barn for as long as they wished, provided they respected his boundary and never crossed his threshold uninvited.
For three weeks, the farm was a holy sanctuary. The dead roamed the distant valleys, but not a single rotting husk ever stepped foot on the lush pasture.
On a cold, howling evening, the farmer finally broke his own solitude, inviting the men into his cabin for a hot meal. Over fresh bread and thick stew, the conversation inevitably drifted to the nightmare outside.
“It is the ultimate malice of Satan,” Brother Thomas declared, his voice trembling with solemn conviction as he crossed himself. “A sickness born of hell itself. The Adversary has finally unleashed his grand design, warping the sacred vessel of human flesh into pure, mindless evil.”
The farmer set his spoon down with a quiet, deliberate clink. A faint, knowing smile touched his lips, though his eyes remained unnervingly cold.
“Satan?” the farmer mused softly, leaning back in his chair. “You give the fallen one far too much credit, Father. Look at the world before the outbreak. It wasn’t brimstone that cracked the earth—it was corporate greed, bio-labs playing god, microplastics, and a climate scorched by human vanity. Humanity forged every link of this chain with its own proud hands.”
Thomas frowned, preparing a theological defense, but the farmer pressed on, his voice dropping into a low, resonant tone that vibrated through the floorboards. “Why else would your Creator give you free will, if not to let you bear the weight of your own choices? You built the fire, poured the gasoline, and lit the match. Yet the moment the bill comes due, you look for a monster in the dark to blame. The Devil is nothing more than an easy fall guy for a species too cowardly to own its own ruin.”
A suffocating quiet fell over the room. The men stared at their host, an instinctive, primal terror creeping up their spines. Though they couldn’t fathom the ancient entity sitting across from them, the air in the cabin had turned thick and heavy, smelling faintly of old ozone and ash.
By first light, the survivors had packed their meager belongings, too shaken to spend another night on the farm. They turned their faces toward the horizon, heading toward rumors of a massive settlement high in the frozen reaches of Wyoming—a place where the brutal winter cold would freeze the dead in their tracks. As they marched into the icy wind, none of them looked back at the untouched farm, or the lone figure watching them leave with a dark, patient smile.
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