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mickilennial
Kuro
Dark Cloud
MaeAfter about five minutes, Henry and Yulian appeared from the mists of the forest. Henry was several paces ahead, looking rather shaken, whereas Yulian stayed behind him, carrying something over his shoulder. Though the fog obfuscated whatever Yulian was carrying, Henry's solemn expression meant that something was afoot.
Henry made his way over the stone fence, knocking one of the rocks off in haste. He looked green, as if he were about to double over at any moment. Yulian stepped over the fence with a heave, and what he carried became clear. It was Clay.
"Some madman killed Clay."
There was an eruption of gasps and profanity, before the towering Cossack silenced them. "We killed him before he could get to us."
A handful of men sprang up to investigate the scene, but stopped as they heard the farmhouse doors open. Farmer Tackett walked out, cane in tow. He was a large man, almost impossibly so, with buttons that threatened to pop at any moment. Short and squat, the boards of the porch creaked with each of his steps. He scowled at Henry and Yulian, scanning them up and down with his beady eyes. Finally, he spoke up.
"You girls get back to your bunks. Same goes for the men. Henry, take Clay to the shed for now, we'll bury him tonight." He took a few steps off the porch carefully, holding on to the peeling wooden rail. "Stay inside until dinner tonight. I catch one of you outside, you're packing your bags in the morning."
Now on the damp ground, he slowly lumbered towards Yulian, eyeing him suspiciously. His lips were wide and fat, and with his absence of any neck, made him look more like a bullfrog than a man. He was bald, with a head covered in liver spots and veins, and had a long and gnarled nose.
He was the least jolly fat man Yulian had ever seen.
"On second thought, you're a strapping young man, Julian. Take Clay's body to the shed." He growled, turning around to face the farmhouse. "Henry, bring me his killer's body. Billy will come along with you." He said, pointing his cane at Pooley. He began to slowly make his way back to the porch's steps, moving with the speed of a dying tortoise.
As the men made their way to their respective barns and the women went into the farmhouse, thunder boomed in the distance. It would rain soon.
Scarecrow
Of all the places on the farm, Scarecrow liked the barn the least. It smelled -- reeked, really -- of piss and cigarettes. Instead of walking to the outhouse, there were endless empty beer bottles the men would pee in, and most smokers would usually put out their cigarette butts by dropping them into the rancid bottles. The barns would greet workers with an overpowering aroma of piss, cigarettes, stale beer, and sweat. Not to mention, the scraps and bones the men left on the floor, and the bodies of mice they would attract. One of the men even had a pet dog, and though he defended its cleanliness daily, most of the other farmhands suspected that it brought fleas into the barn. Scarecrow turned over in his bunk, staring at the rosary that he had hanging over his bed.
There was a small crowd gathered at the radio, the barn's sole access to the outside world. The report was masked with static, though some phrases were still audible.
Ṯ̞̗̮͈̤̥̔ͯ̓̊ͦ̚h͂͑͌̓̌́ẹ͉̼̭̦͎̮̓͋ͣ͒̀͠r̦̯̥͙̍̊ͣ̄̆͠e̷̳̫̩͎̜̬̯ ̞̩̖̗̄h̶͕̥̮̏͒̋̎ͯ͗ͩa̝͌ͬ͋ͤͪ͆͢ve̗̤͖̼͕͖͓̊̈́̈́ͬ̈ͪ̿ ̻͉̩ͤ̉͂̂̈́̐͟b̼̩̣̓̆ͪ̂͗̄ë̴̙̫̖͕̉ͅeͣ͋̈́n͎͖ͧ̀ ̭̪r̮̹͓͖̞̲͈e̺̯̝̙ͦͮ̽̐ͣp̢̘̯̩̜̒ͣͥ͂o͉͓̼̖̞̱̱ͩ͋r͖͢ť̼̈́ͥ̅̿͌ś̗̟̝̞̩̥̿ͥ̌͛̓́ ̝͈̲̅a͓͢c̖̣͉̀r̰̻̘͚ͥ̌ͤ̌ͅö̸̝͉̳̠̙͔̽̆ͦ̍̌s͉͎͓̙̠s̫̳ͭ͐͑̌͊́ͣ ̡̝͔̗̳̣͎͚̊ͬͩ̉ͫ͐ͣ ̙ͫ̒͆̊ͪ̕ ̢̹̣̱̲̓̓̏ͪ ͤ͋͝ ̠͈͖̟̩͎ͩ̃ ̸̙ ̮̭͑ͯ̅ͦ ̡͖̤̺̭̣̟́͑͆̔͐ͅ ̡͇̗̙̘̝ͯͦͯ̊ͣc̴̼̯̥̤͇ͩŏ̥͓̺̜͈̞̪̌͟a̼s̲̭̜͈̩̎́̊̌̿̀͆̀t̷͇͉̪̏ͫͫal͚̣͕͍̲̭͗ͯͭͧ̅ͅ ̛͓͔̼̜͍͎M͕͑̅͐͂ȃ̺̩̻̳͋̑̾̅ͦ̚i̷̮͂͒̆n͍ͥḙ̵͊̉̎
̶̖͍̹̯̻̩͚̉͋̎
͓̞̪̤͉͂́͠c̹̈́ͮ̍ͦ͊a̋ͭ҉̳͈̲̼l̳̳̝̓͛l̝̻̗̘͖̳͉̎̑ͯ̈́ͩ̚e̬̤dͪ͏ ̰̞͍̄̓"̗̬̩͓ͅT̢̪̮͒ͫͪͤḧ̹̝͚̘̺̙͍́ͫ̉̓ͬḛ̮̪̙̹͕̰̌̔ ̮͔͒̉ͨ͗ͯ̽R̸͚̥͓̐̃ḛ͚̞̘̦͊̑͒d̺̹̭͔̝̂͑͐ͣͬ͂ ̵̬̩̔̽͒ͪ̊̉̚P͛lͨͦ͏a̫̖͕͕͈̯ͨg̦͎̬͑̿̊ͫͬŭ̈͗̎ẹ̰̠̓͐̐͐͋͆͐"̸͙͈̥͙̲͖̞̈́͛͆ ͧ͌̅͗ ̟̱̫͈̬ͥͩ͌ ̢ͬͧ̽̀̔ ͛ͬ̒̑͏̩̮͎̦͖̪ ͈ͩ̄͛ ̡̟̺͎͓̞͊̉̽̾̒̇̅i̳̦͈̞̼̜͐n͙͕̑͒s̼̘͇̬̼͉̊ͭ̉ͫ̆̏̏t͈̯̼͖́a̢̅ͭn̤̖͎͒͐̈̎̚c͚̦̍̓e̠̜͊́s̪̣̣̪͓̼̟ͭ ̯̖̻ͦo̲̹͇͈͢f̹͙ͮ̅͒ ͙̞̖͈̅̌̔͒̄̐͢ͅv̴̝̼̥̠̹̪̟ͬ͆͌̍͒i̭̳͊̓̃ͭ͆͞o̡̯̺̣ͧͨ̐l͔̫͚͘e̷͓̖̓ͦͨ̓n̊̇ͩͮ̆͊͏͚̥̭͚̹t͚͙͓̱̲̻ͣ͋ͤ͐̆ ̻͉͉̎͂ͬ̌ͯͥm̸͍͇̬͙͈͂̿͗̌̾̄̒a̱̹͍̪̲̮̐͑͆̐ͮ̈͂ḑ̝̯̱ͪ̄̃ͥ̌̉n̜̫͓̫͉͉̪͊͛̈́ͫͣͤ͛́e͎̰̝̭̲ͥͥ̀͝s̶̝͕̫̱͎̥̭̎ͧs̱̝͖͂̽͛̑͋͊͟
͙̞͈͙̣̹ͥ͐͆̔́ͅ
̾ͪ̊ͪ͢R̞ͭͤͩ̂̃̂̀ȩs̞̘̤͚̠̺̭i̗̥̯͓͈̯͎ͮ͠ḋ̶̋ͤͪė̂̂̀n͚̘͔̩̜̺̐̒t̊̃̇ͬ͆̚s̩̅ͪ̌̑ͪ ̯̩͇̈͛ȧ̖̙͓̿ŗ̬̣̖̱ͭ̄͌ͥ̉͂͆e̢͍̱̗͕ͨ̌ͧͨͅ ̙͚͔͔͖̞̹͑̓̓̅u̫̙̔͂ͪ͐r̖̦̬̪̩͒̀̽́ͥ̀g͚̭̞̰ͯ̊͂̾ë̷̲͔͂͋ͥͅd̗̦͎̪̺́ ̼͍̖̹̠̀ͩ͛ ̣̟̃́ͩͅ ͓͂̆̽͂ ͚̦̗̮̣ͥ͂̇ͭ́̒ͯ ̢̠̼͙̠͎̬͈̍ͫͥ͂ͧ̔̂ ̡̲̹̣͍͂̆̈̉̈ ̨̝͍͎̲͇͚ ̺̖̫̪̹ͥ͊͠i̩͎̭̘͎̜̦̍ͧͫn̷͋̒̌̎s̓̂҉̤̤i̲͞ͅd̗̹̹̗̜ͬͬ̎͗͒e̅
̹͎̘͇̮͕̿
̝͎͍͙̯̫͓̓ͧ̃ͮN̔͗̉ͥͮo͍͙ͩͮ̐ ̽̽̂̒̓̇̓҉͙͎̫c̠̹̖̗̯̏ͅu̗̞̠ͅr͎̪̾̐̃̚͘ĕ̬̜̝͝ ̢͍̠͋͛ͥh̖̫͕̠͚̱a̡͓̰̘ͣ̈́̒ͩͅs͟ ͚̱͔̌ ̶͙͈͚̗̞͛̓̿ͮͩ͊̉ ̵̮̝ͥ̒͛̒̈́̑̽ ̼̬̳̆̈̀ ̱̺̖͚ͮͬ̉ͩͮ ͤͪ̚҉̼͖y͕͖͙͎̼̗͟e̲͉̬̜̯͙t͙̼̩̯̣̄͌̾ ̴̙ͮ̉ͅb̠̝̭͉e̖̫ͬȇ̶͕͚̻̜͎͖ͩͮ̾n̶̳̦ ̝̼̤̦̍f̱̺͓̳̊ͬͣͩͮ͠o̵̥u̙͚̹̼͙͑ͧn͒̆̉̓͐҉̝̠̻̥d̙̟̓͒̈́̏͞
̳̻͇̊̊ͩ͆ͯ̾
͍͚̻͈̝̊͆͐̈̑͛R̳̮̲̤̆̍̉̐̔͟eͤ̀̽̿̀m̤͇̥̯̔̕o̼̲̍͋̓̃̂ͭ͒̀v͙͚̙̫̭͕̓ͧͩ͐i̛͙͚̰̭͉̗̎ͅn͍̈́̏ͯ͐̊͌̀̚g͂̇̈ ̿̏̈ͩ̓͆tͨ̊̇̃ͮ̚҉͚͚̜̭h̨̰̼̣̙̝̞̣̓̃̀̋̐e̤̰̖ͧ̊ͅ ̯͉h͔̦̩̮͕̝͐̃͌̅ę̪̲͋ͬ̉̂̂̑̒ad͔̹̦ͩ͗ͦ͗͊ ͤ̄̀ ̘͟ ̐́̔̍ͪ́ ͖̟͕͔͔̣ͣ͟ ̧͚̬͎̻̹̯ͨͩ ͕̇ͯͣ͑ͫ̀ȯ̪͙̪̙̙ͪ̋̓̉̚r̸͉̗̜̎̓̒̈́̇ ̿ͯ͛̈̎ͤͫ́d̜͙̩̙͈̬̐̅ͦ͐ͭ̍e͏̻̼̘̘̟̺ͅs̢̳͍̳̙͔͖̜̆͌ͫ̊ͨͦ͂t̞͙̤̝̰͑r͓͓̮̩͈̋͒̔ͭ̆ͦ̀ͅo̴̜̔̂̾̓ͭy̡̖̞͙̎̈́i̢͕͇̩̰͖̞̇n̯̙͕̩͇̟̐̑̈͜ͅg̼͕̺̣ ̓̾ͮ̇̚t͉̹̙̱̋͊ͦͣ͑h̼̼͖̬e̜̦ͯͮ̈́ ̡̫̳̝̘̋̿̋̀́b̟̰̺͚̲̞̙̓ͣr̢͚̜̩̥͔͕̣ͤ̾͛a̢̯͇̅͗̓̉̚i͉ͥ̑ͥͭ͞n̴̦̞̓̄ͩ
̡͖̰̭̲͉̩̭
̺͓̔̀͒͒ͣṲ͚͚̣̠̦͊̋ͩ͊̉͜r͇̜͉͙̄̓̋͆ͮ̎̓͜g̳͐e̢̞͇̱̮̅͆̑̃̄ͩ͛d̫̦̂͊̅̂͒ͯ̅ ͋̌͝t̹͉ͥͤ̆ͯo͚̼̥̦ͪ̔̀ ͙̝̫͚̫͚s̹̤̯͉͓̟ͥ͋ͭ̑́ͅt͎͚̞̬̞͐̎ͯ̊̓̃a̹ͤ͜y̻̪͎͉͍̭̍ ͖͇͉̼̘̽̍͑̋i̹̠̩͎̩̰̗ͯṅ̨̦͔̞̐ͧ͂̏̅̈́s̮͆͐ȉ̧̪̹̰̳̦̬̳̅ͫ̽ͨd̷̻͎̼͖̾̓ͧͥ͑͑ͥȩ̬̃̌ͫ̚
̶̖͍̹̯̻̩͚̉͋̎
͓̞̪̤͉͂́͠c̹̈́ͮ̍ͦ͊a̋ͭ҉̳͈̲̼l̳̳̝̓͛l̝̻̗̘͖̳͉̎̑ͯ̈́ͩ̚e̬̤dͪ͏ ̰̞͍̄̓"̗̬̩͓ͅT̢̪̮͒ͫͪͤḧ̹̝͚̘̺̙͍́ͫ̉̓ͬḛ̮̪̙̹͕̰̌̔ ̮͔͒̉ͨ͗ͯ̽R̸͚̥͓̐̃ḛ͚̞̘̦͊̑͒d̺̹̭͔̝̂͑͐ͣͬ͂ ̵̬̩̔̽͒ͪ̊̉̚P͛lͨͦ͏a̫̖͕͕͈̯ͨg̦͎̬͑̿̊ͫͬŭ̈͗̎ẹ̰̠̓͐̐͐͋͆͐"̸͙͈̥͙̲͖̞̈́͛͆ ͧ͌̅͗ ̟̱̫͈̬ͥͩ͌ ̢ͬͧ̽̀̔ ͛ͬ̒̑͏̩̮͎̦͖̪ ͈ͩ̄͛ ̡̟̺͎͓̞͊̉̽̾̒̇̅i̳̦͈̞̼̜͐n͙͕̑͒s̼̘͇̬̼͉̊ͭ̉ͫ̆̏̏t͈̯̼͖́a̢̅ͭn̤̖͎͒͐̈̎̚c͚̦̍̓e̠̜͊́s̪̣̣̪͓̼̟ͭ ̯̖̻ͦo̲̹͇͈͢f̹͙ͮ̅͒ ͙̞̖͈̅̌̔͒̄̐͢ͅv̴̝̼̥̠̹̪̟ͬ͆͌̍͒i̭̳͊̓̃ͭ͆͞o̡̯̺̣ͧͨ̐l͔̫͚͘e̷͓̖̓ͦͨ̓n̊̇ͩͮ̆͊͏͚̥̭͚̹t͚͙͓̱̲̻ͣ͋ͤ͐̆ ̻͉͉̎͂ͬ̌ͯͥm̸͍͇̬͙͈͂̿͗̌̾̄̒a̱̹͍̪̲̮̐͑͆̐ͮ̈͂ḑ̝̯̱ͪ̄̃ͥ̌̉n̜̫͓̫͉͉̪͊͛̈́ͫͣͤ͛́e͎̰̝̭̲ͥͥ̀͝s̶̝͕̫̱͎̥̭̎ͧs̱̝͖͂̽͛̑͋͊͟
͙̞͈͙̣̹ͥ͐͆̔́ͅ
̾ͪ̊ͪ͢R̞ͭͤͩ̂̃̂̀ȩs̞̘̤͚̠̺̭i̗̥̯͓͈̯͎ͮ͠ḋ̶̋ͤͪė̂̂̀n͚̘͔̩̜̺̐̒t̊̃̇ͬ͆̚s̩̅ͪ̌̑ͪ ̯̩͇̈͛ȧ̖̙͓̿ŗ̬̣̖̱ͭ̄͌ͥ̉͂͆e̢͍̱̗͕ͨ̌ͧͨͅ ̙͚͔͔͖̞̹͑̓̓̅u̫̙̔͂ͪ͐r̖̦̬̪̩͒̀̽́ͥ̀g͚̭̞̰ͯ̊͂̾ë̷̲͔͂͋ͥͅd̗̦͎̪̺́ ̼͍̖̹̠̀ͩ͛ ̣̟̃́ͩͅ ͓͂̆̽͂ ͚̦̗̮̣ͥ͂̇ͭ́̒ͯ ̢̠̼͙̠͎̬͈̍ͫͥ͂ͧ̔̂ ̡̲̹̣͍͂̆̈̉̈ ̨̝͍͎̲͇͚ ̺̖̫̪̹ͥ͊͠i̩͎̭̘͎̜̦̍ͧͫn̷͋̒̌̎s̓̂҉̤̤i̲͞ͅd̗̹̹̗̜ͬͬ̎͗͒e̅
̹͎̘͇̮͕̿
̝͎͍͙̯̫͓̓ͧ̃ͮN̔͗̉ͥͮo͍͙ͩͮ̐ ̽̽̂̒̓̇̓҉͙͎̫c̠̹̖̗̯̏ͅu̗̞̠ͅr͎̪̾̐̃̚͘ĕ̬̜̝͝ ̢͍̠͋͛ͥh̖̫͕̠͚̱a̡͓̰̘ͣ̈́̒ͩͅs͟ ͚̱͔̌ ̶͙͈͚̗̞͛̓̿ͮͩ͊̉ ̵̮̝ͥ̒͛̒̈́̑̽ ̼̬̳̆̈̀ ̱̺̖͚ͮͬ̉ͩͮ ͤͪ̚҉̼͖y͕͖͙͎̼̗͟e̲͉̬̜̯͙t͙̼̩̯̣̄͌̾ ̴̙ͮ̉ͅb̠̝̭͉e̖̫ͬȇ̶͕͚̻̜͎͖ͩͮ̾n̶̳̦ ̝̼̤̦̍f̱̺͓̳̊ͬͣͩͮ͠o̵̥u̙͚̹̼͙͑ͧn͒̆̉̓͐҉̝̠̻̥d̙̟̓͒̈́̏͞
̳̻͇̊̊ͩ͆ͯ̾
͍͚̻͈̝̊͆͐̈̑͛R̳̮̲̤̆̍̉̐̔͟eͤ̀̽̿̀m̤͇̥̯̔̕o̼̲̍͋̓̃̂ͭ͒̀v͙͚̙̫̭͕̓ͧͩ͐i̛͙͚̰̭͉̗̎ͅn͍̈́̏ͯ͐̊͌̀̚g͂̇̈ ̿̏̈ͩ̓͆tͨ̊̇̃ͮ̚҉͚͚̜̭h̨̰̼̣̙̝̞̣̓̃̀̋̐e̤̰̖ͧ̊ͅ ̯͉h͔̦̩̮͕̝͐̃͌̅ę̪̲͋ͬ̉̂̂̑̒ad͔̹̦ͩ͗ͦ͗͊ ͤ̄̀ ̘͟ ̐́̔̍ͪ́ ͖̟͕͔͔̣ͣ͟ ̧͚̬͎̻̹̯ͨͩ ͕̇ͯͣ͑ͫ̀ȯ̪͙̪̙̙ͪ̋̓̉̚r̸͉̗̜̎̓̒̈́̇ ̿ͯ͛̈̎ͤͫ́d̜͙̩̙͈̬̐̅ͦ͐ͭ̍e͏̻̼̘̘̟̺ͅs̢̳͍̳̙͔͖̜̆͌ͫ̊ͨͦ͂t̞͙̤̝̰͑r͓͓̮̩͈̋͒̔ͭ̆ͦ̀ͅo̴̜̔̂̾̓ͭy̡̖̞͙̎̈́i̢͕͇̩̰͖̞̇n̯̙͕̩͇̟̐̑̈͜ͅg̼͕̺̣ ̓̾ͮ̇̚t͉̹̙̱̋͊ͦͣ͑h̼̼͖̬e̜̦ͯͮ̈́ ̡̫̳̝̘̋̿̋̀́b̟̰̺͚̲̞̙̓ͣr̢͚̜̩̥͔͕̣ͤ̾͛a̢̯͇̅͗̓̉̚i͉ͥ̑ͥͭ͞n̴̦̞̓̄ͩ
̡͖̰̭̲͉̩̭
̺͓̔̀͒͒ͣṲ͚͚̣̠̦͊̋ͩ͊̉͜r͇̜͉͙̄̓̋͆ͮ̎̓͜g̳͐e̢̞͇̱̮̅͆̑̃̄ͩ͛d̫̦̂͊̅̂͒ͯ̅ ͋̌͝t̹͉ͥͤ̆ͯo͚̼̥̦ͪ̔̀ ͙̝̫͚̫͚s̹̤̯͉͓̟ͥ͋ͭ̑́ͅt͎͚̞̬̞͐̎ͯ̊̓̃a̹ͤ͜y̻̪͎͉͍̭̍ ͖͇͉̼̘̽̍͑̋i̹̠̩͎̩̰̗ͯṅ̨̦͔̞̐ͧ͂̏̅̈́s̮͆͐ȉ̧̪̹̰̳̦̬̳̅ͫ̽ͨd̷̻͎̼͖̾̓ͧͥ͑͑ͥȩ̬̃̌ͫ̚
The men chattered to themselves about the end of days, some others laughed at recalled flu scares of their youth. Scarecrow turned over again, facing the wall. He was a one-eyed carnie, and matters that concerned global health were none of his business. He would have to figure out some way to distract the men from the chaos later, as he always did in times of crisis. As he began to shuffle through his memories for an act he hadn't yet shown the other farmhands, he began to drift off and nap. Thunder boomed once more in the distance as the rain started to pelt the roof, cutting off all radio feed.
