The photo--once such a commonplace as to be shot without a thought, but ever rarer now--was captioned “Year 0, Day 34”. Below, in much smaller print, it named the subjects: “Aksel Eide & Berit Eide (on the right)”
They had put the first fence up against the monsters on Day 13, also establishing a small quarantine facility nearby. Now, exactly three weeks later, there had been an incident at that facility.
Henrik Hansen was, perhaps, the archetype of what Sigrun Larsen meant when she said, “We have enough crazy old people as it is”. He was convinced, for example, that the world was ruled by a mysterious cabal operating from a secret moon base, and the whole Rash thing was their way of harvesting humanity so the Martians would spare them. This was one of his more rational beliefs.
Now, Henrik’s odd beliefs and odder practices (he copied Benjamin Franklin’s habit of early morning air baths regardless of the season, among other things) would ordinarily have been disregarded by the average denizen of Dalsnes, but when he had returned from his latest excursion into the mountains, the town leaders had made him go into quarantine. “No exceptions, Henrik,” they’d told him, and he’d reluctantly obliged.
Henrik--or what used to be Henrik--was out of the quarantine facility now, and making for the mountains again, followed by a goodly portion of the able-bodied of Dalsnes.
Aksel held his rifle with the barrel pointed to the ground, the stock resting atop his shoulder rather than against it. He had already halfheartedly fired a few times at Henrik, and was loathe to try again. His father had warned Aksel when he got his first gun, “Never aim that at something you don’t wish to destroy”, and Aksel was far from wanting Henrik destroyed. Perhaps, an insidious voice whispered in his ear, if we keep him alive long enough, they’ll find a cure. It was a lie, and Aksel knew it, but he just couldn’t bring his rifle to bear again.
A hand grabbed Aksel’s trigger arm, gloved as his own were, and when he looked for the owner, his grandmother Berit looked back at him. The moment stretched into eternity, neither noticing that a picture had just been taken, or who had taken it.
“I don’t want to do this,” Aksel’s face told his grandmother, as plainly as if he’d said it aloud. There had never been any malice in old Henrik, and it was hard to believe that that had changed.
“I know, and I understand, but you must,” Berit’s face replied equally plainly. Whatever the thing was that currently had control of Henrik’s body, it was most definitely not Henrik. As long as it lived, everyone the two Eides cared for was in danger.
A moment later, the rifle, firmly and correctly in place, barked again, and Henrik, the first troll in Dalsnes, was dead.
