1. Eve

1

EVE

T he sunlight filters through the leaves, casting a dappled pattern on the rich soil beneath my feet. I take a moment to appreciate the sensation of the cool, damp earth against my skin before turning my attention to the garden and lose myself in the familiar routines of tending to the plants, finding comfort in the repetitive tasks.

Each healthy leaf and orderly row of seedlings brings a sense of satisfaction, a small victory in a world turned upside down. As I work, Vincent weaves between the plants, his soft gray fur a stark contrast to the vibrant greens. His presence is a constant comfort, and I pause to give him an affectionate scratch behind his ear.

The garden is my anchor, a tangible connection to the present moment.

The gentle rustling of leaves; the babbling of the nearby creek, the musk of the soil.

After tending to the garden, I gather my meager clothing and head to the creek to wash them, finding solace in the methodical scrubbing and the cool rush of water over my hands. I hang the clean clothes to dry on the makeshift clothesline strung between two trees.

Next, I check on the strips of meat I've been drying in the sun. I give Vincent a choice fatty piece. "Such a good boy," I coo as he takes it.

The process of preserving food has become a crucial skill in Protheka, and I take pride in the neat rows of jerky that will help sustain me in the coming weeks. I carefully turn each piece, ensuring that they dry evenly, the rich, savory scent making my mouth water and try not to think about my dwindling supplies.

With the meat taken care of, I move on to checking the traps I've set around the perimeter of my sanctuary. I walk the years-worn path, my feet moving automatically as my mind wanders. I find myself hoping, as I do every day, that I'll find something in the traps - a small furry creature, hopefully, with enough meat for a meal. But as I approach each trap, my heart sinks. They're all empty, just as they have been for the three days.

The animals are becoming scarcer, and I know that means.

I push those thoughts aside and focus on the present moment. I return to the garden, grabbing my makeshift pitchfork and turning my attention to the compost pile. I sink the tines into the rich, dark soil, relishing the earthy scent that fills my nostrils. I turn the compost, watching as the luscious black soil is revealed on the underside, teeming with beneficial insects. This is the lifeblood of my garden, the key to growing healthy, nutrient-rich plants in a world where the very ground has been poisoned by demonic influence.

As I work, I find myself humming softly, the same tune my mother used to sing to me when I was a child. The melody is soothing, a reminder of a time when the world was a kinder, gentler place. Vincent weaves between my legs, his tail held high, and I can't help but smile.

I lose myself in the work, my mind focused entirely on the present moment. The sun beats down on my back, the sweat trickling between my shoulder blades, but I welcome the sensation. It's a reminder that I'm alive, that I'm still here, still fighting.

As I work, the sound of my noisemaker traps going off in the distance snaps me out of my reverie. The tin cans and bits of scrap metal clatter and clang, a discordant symphony that sends a chill down my spine. "What was that?" I whisper.

I freeze, my heart pounding in my chest as I strain to listen. The traps are meant to alert me to any intruders, whether human or animal, and the fact that they've been triggered can only mean one thing: someone or something is approaching my sanctuary.

Vincent senses my unease and lets out a low growl, his fur standing on end. "Shh. It's okay."

I reach for him instinctively, scooping him up and holding him close to my chest as I scan the treeline for any sign of movement. The noisemakers continue to rattle and clang, the sound growing louder and more urgent with each passing second.

I feel a rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins, my senses heightened as I try to determine the source of the disturbance. My mind races with possibilities - is it a group of survivors, desperate and hungry, seeking shelter and supplies? Or could it be something worse - a demon scout, sent to infiltrate my sanctuary and destroy everything I've worked so hard to build?

I set Vincent down gently and grab my makeshift spear, the weight of the weapon comforting in my hands – I've never had to use it before, but I know that I won't hesitate to defend myself and my home if necessary. I creep towards the edge of the clearing, my footsteps silent on the soft soil as I peer into the shadows beyond.

At first, I see nothing - just the familiar tangle of vines and underbrush that surrounds my sanctuary. But then, a flicker of movement catches my eye, and I see a figure emerging from the trees. My grip tightens on the spear as I brace myself for whatever comes next, my heart pounding so loudly I'm sure it must be audible from across the clearing.

As the figure steps into the light, I feel a shock of recognition. It's a man, tall and muscular, with long dark hair and piercing red eyes. But it's not just any man - it's a demon, one of the creatures that has been ravaging villages and leaving nothing but destruction in their wake.