After the war

Snow was falling in spring, the winters were growing longer every year for the past decade. The sun itself seemed to be losing its brilliance year after year. In the midst of a half frozen field, John was urging his horse to pull the plow through the cold ground. He gave the reigns a yank and called the horse to a stop. He'd been at this for several hours and was beginning to think that it might be time to stop for the day. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he stepped back and looked around. Only half done, he thought. The field would need another two or three days to make ready, even though it was already a week into the planting season. He bit his lip and cursed the cold.

His daughter Elia called from the small thatched roof house adjacent to the field. They had lived there together since her mother died five years past. It was one of the better constructed buildings in the valley, they had used the foundations of one of the old structures that had been left behind from before the war. The house was on the outskirts of the village that occupied the small valley, it was a good location, wide open with a nearby stream. It would have been a great place for his grandchildren to expand the farm, had not the winters threatened to force everyone to leave the valley.

Reports were bleak from the scouts they had sent out. After weeks in the wilds, most returned with surveys of endless tundra to the east and west, impassible seas and ruins to the south and a great frozen mountain range to the north. The valley was beginning to look like the only habitable area within their ability to move. It was not a good time to be in charge, John contemplated.

He crossed the field to the house to find out what Elia was shouting about. As he approached the stacked rock and mortar structure Elia called out, "The council wants to speak with you dad!"
"What's it about?" asked John.
"They didn't say, it sounded urgent from the messenger's tone." Elia replied.
John walked back into the field and patted the plow horse on the shoulder, "I wanted to give you a good rest tonight Drumheller, but it looks like we're headed into the village."
The horse snorted in seeming disapproval. He took the horse back to the stable and tossed a blanket and saddle on his back, strapped everything down and mounted the bulky horse. When he was younger and the nomadic raiders still hounded the valley, Drumheller had been his father's war horse. His days of riding into combat were long over, but he could still pull a plow as well as any of the village's oxen.

John rode out, down the trail leading across the stream to the main road which lead into town. He continued along, past several of the other outlying farms beyond the meager walls, which encircled the commercial and governmental sections of the village. Despite being early in the afternoon, he didn't see many people out and about. He assumed the lingering cold had kept most people indoors. A thought which had him questioning himself being on the road.

As he approached the old main gate, Edgar, one of the towns remaining guards, recognized him and stood at attention as he approached. "Afternoon, Edgar." Called John.
"Bloody cold sir!" Replied the old guard.
As he passed, Edgar swung the gate back to allow him to pass and closed it again behind him. John proceeded through the market and saw that most of the shops were closed up already. He continued up to Geldhall, the village's seat of government and community activity. He pushed the heavy wooden doors aside and a rush of warmth forced its way past him. He could smell an indistinguishable meal cooking in the kitchens below. There was a long table extending nearly the length of the structure, along each side, the other members of the village council sat arguing about something he couldn't pick out.

Michael was the first to pull himself away from the bickering and rose to greet John as he strode up to the long table. "I wish I could greet you with good tidings today John." Said Michael.
"What's going on?" Asked John.
Michael quieted down the others and began to explain what all the commotion was about. "We lost one of our scouting parties." Said Michael.
"Raiders?" Asked John.
"Unfortunately, no." Said Michael quietly. "Two of the party returned, Rigel and Mills. If it were not them, I would have called them mad."

"They gave a detailed account of their experience." Michael continued, "they were five weeks out to the north-west when they came across a group of what appeared to be a convoy of nomads. When they approached the group, they saw that their wagons had no horses pulling them."
"Vehicles? From the war?" Asked John.
"It would seem so," Said Michael, "before they could back off, they were spotted and attacked. For a time they thought they might be able to put enough distance between them and find cover, but one of those flying machines arrived and chased them down. Rigel and Mills did find some cover, but the rest were cut down in minutes."

John thought about this for a moment. "My father told me that during the war, the enemy would often leave a few survivors and follow them back to their camps. I sincerely hope that is not the case here." The doors to the hall flew open and old Edgar was half choking as he called out a warning, but it was too late. They heard the muffled roar of the flying machine approaching outside.