Sort of a post-apocalyptic story ...

I think I might try to work this concept into a novel ... eventually.

I wrote it for ENG 318. It's not my best writing. What say you all?

The night sky glittered above Allie, the stars winking at her from their perches beneath the watchful moons. From where she hid in the rock holes, so far from the lights of the village, the three moons were beautiful and frightening, huge in the sky, in odd, twisted shapes. They looked like they would fit if they were pieced together just right. Pa always said they used to be one moon, before the devil cracked it into three and threw down the world that used to be. The stories of the Old World frightened her when she was a child, but it was a sort of happy fright, cuddled with Pa and Ma by the glowing hearth of their old stone homestead. Ma would tell the stories as her Grandpa had told her, while Pa would hold her close at the scary parts. He would stroke her hair and call her his little angel, and she relaxed under the warmth of his touch and the rich smell of the burning logs in the fireplace. That was a cozy, happy kind of fright.

This was a terrible kind of fright. Bishop Collins had come by with his wife, both very afraid, and had warned them the men were coming. They went running themselves. Ma went with the Bishop, and Pa was out there somewhere, to the place he’d hidden his year’s provisions. Pa told her to hide herself somewhere she wouldn’t get found, and hide she did. There were lots of fields of rock around here, filled with holes and tunnels like wood overrun with termites. Hers was the one most filled with holes, like a giant piece of dry honeycomb made of stone. Hardly anyone came to these fields, but they were close enough to the homestead that she could see everything that happened. She wished she'd gone further.

Up the road, torches glowed in many patches, bobbing along like swarms of fireflies. Men were coming to the homestead, their angry voices echoing over the rocks. They were calling Pa's name. Behind the torches came a big carriage, electric lights making it glow like a Christmas tree in the blackness. It was made of good, thick wood, and there were bars on the windows.

The men beat on the door of the homestead. They yelled, and they beat again. Here and there popped up voices she knew: Magistrate Hanson, Phil Crowsley, John Meeds, and others of their ilk from town. After a few minutes, there came a sound like a very loud fire crackling, and then they were inside the homestead. The windows filled with the light of the torches, bustling every which way, and then they swarmed out of the house.

“They have fled very recently!” the Magistrate’s voice echoed over the rocks, “Search everywhere in the vicinity, and we shall find them!” The host spread out in every direction, chattering in high, clipped voices. Several headed towards Allie.

She gasped and ducked into the hole. It sank a ways, and then bent sideways into a tunnel that she could easily crawl through. Her heart was beating so loud that she was afraid the sound of it would give her away. The buzz of the men’s voices drew nearer, and Allie caught snatches of big words she didn’t understand. Their footsteps on the rock surface were muffled, but each one sounded clearly. Three or four pairs of feet were pattering above her, slowly and deliberately, like timid deer venturing somewhere they did not belong. The steps grew louder. The sickly sweet fumes of the townsmen’s perfume curled into the tunnel where Allie lay still as a stone. It was a heavy kind of a smell that sank rather than rose. She prayed silently to God that the men would not find her.

The steps paused above her head, and she heard the voices of men speaking in the strange manner of the townsfolk.

“They could be hidden away in any one of these holes,” said the first, “and this mineral field is riddled with them!”

“To desist is to fail,” said the second.

“Resume your search. I shall return to the Magistrate and recommend the release of the hounds to aid in our task.”

The hounds. Pa told her about the hounds—wicked creatures with long noses and sharp claws, creatures that hunted by the smell of blood alone. The hounds had been sent after old Kenneth McGallaster after he killed the Magistrate’s brother, and when the Magistrate’s men had caught up with them, there didn’t bother to bury what was left of him.

The pattering of feet retreated, most of the steps pattering off ahead and one pair of feet pattering off the other way. The light vanished, and the moonlight settled in the stone hollow once more; the stench of the perfume lingered, and the cold, clear air of the night filtered in to diffuse it.

Allie edged her way to the bend, where she stood and peered over the top of the rock surface. Four townsmen wandered a short ways ahead of her, stopping here and there to pop their torches into a hole look inside it. Suddenly one turned around to speak to the man who had gone back to fetch the hounds.

Their eyes met. He saw her. His big voice boomed,

“I’ve found one! I’ve found one of the Whiteacre kin!”

Numb dread stabbed at her heart. The pure terror that coursed through her veins silenced the scream that wanted to escape her lips, and gave her the strength to climb out of her hole and run. She leaped over and around the holes in the rockface and bolted toward the forest west of the homestead. She could hear the men running behind her, faster than she was, the light of their torches casting her writhing shadow in front of her. The smell of their perfume choked her, slowed her, and suddenly their arms seized her shoulders and her arms. She was trapped. No matter how she screamed, or kicked, or fussed, the men coldly dragged her back toward the homestead. Over and over again, in between sobs and shrieks, the question assaulted her head: why were they doing this?

The men paraded their catch into the electric light of the carriage, where the Magistrate was waiting. When she was him, something about him caused her to fall silent. The only noise was the distant chattering of the other search parties.

He was a wiry man who wore a trim purple suit on his trim person, and a great shiny moustache on his otherwise hairless head. There was a haze of tobacco smoke around his head, and the pipe in his lips was of a shiny metal Pa once told her was called gold. His eyes regarded her from under shaven eyebrows, and he stood silent for a moment. At length, he removed the pipe from his mouth and said to the men who held her,

“Two of you hold her still. The rest of you, persevero vestri quaero.” Those that did not hold her took their torches and headed back out into the darkness. The Magistrate took a graceful step towards her.

“Allie Whiteacre,” he said in his rich, buttery voice, “where is your father?”

“What’re you doing?” She burst, her voice hoarse. “What do you want with me and Ma and Pa?” Magistrate Hanson gave a light chuckle.

“Paw?” He laughed, “As a dog’s foot? Or maw, as in a hound’s mouth?”

“As in my Ma and Pa, who you won’t never find!”

“So we will find them! That is, if we ‘won’t never’ find them, as you put it, then we are sure to.”

“Forgive me, Magistrate,” Allie said, “My speech doesn’t sparkle so well as yours, but that doesn’t mean you can come here in the dead of night and hunt me and my kin like creatures in the woods!”

“I was quite unaware of the luminescent qualities of speech, let me assure you, Miss Whiteacre,” droned the Magistrate, “but war has broken out all over Deseret. We are here to put an end to it. We need you and your family to do this.”

“We’re no soldiers!” Allie cried, “We don’t fight in anyone’s wars!”

“You cause wars and yet you will not fight in them? That hardly seems fair. But no, you misunderstand me; we are here to make certain the fact that you will not participate in this one. Now, you will tell me where your family is, or the hounds will be released, and you will have your own kin’s blood on your hands.”

“I’m not killing anyone!”

“Your silence just might.” He removed a small knife from somewhere in his suit jacket and pricked Allie’s cheek. As she screeched with pain, he drew a few drops of blood from the wound. He brought the knife to the barred window of the carriage, and flicked the drops of blood inside.

The night was split with a shrill howling that sounded more like steel rending steel than the baying of any natural creature. The sound pierced Allie’s head and earned her shriek in response.

“Libera vadit,” He said, and the men released her. “She can’t get away now.”

“Miss Whiteacre, those hounds will follow the scent of your blood. They will find your kin, and if they arrive before my men do, I give you my word they will not survive the night. We must find your kin, and my men are as yet unable to do so. You must either reveal them unto us or we will resort to the hounds.”

“You can’t do this, Magistrate! Please!” wept Allie. “You keep the peace of the town! You can’t kill my family! What wrong have we done?”

“‘It is better for one man to perish than for a nation to dwindle and perish,’ Miss Whiteacre. If I can end this war by destroying your family, I will.” The shock of this brought Allie to look the Magistrate in the eye.

“You know the scriptures, Magistrate Hanson?” she asked in awe.

“But of course,” he answered, “How else would I have known to come here and stop your madness while I still can?”

“What madness?”

“The madness that drives men to war, Miss Whiteacre. Now, if you believe your God can justify killing people to save many others, than you can understand with absolute certainty: I will release the hounds if I must. Must I, Miss Whiteacre?”

“There’ll be no need for that, Magistrate,” came a voice from beyond the light of the carriage. To Allie’s amazement and horror, Pa stepped into the circle of light.

“Homo repertus!” Cried the Magistrate. The men holding Allie repeated the phrase, and it went up among all of the men who were searching. One by one, the returned to the carriage and surrounded it, faces gleaming in the torchlight.

“Mr. Whiteacre,” the Magistrate said, “you and your family are under my arrest. Now, where is your wife, that the hounds need not be released?”

“She’s far from here by now,” said Pa, “Gone through secret paths into the hills.”

“The hounds can track the scent of your blood for many miles,” sighed the Magistrate, “Hills notwithstanding.”

“You’d do well to check your records better, Hanson. You’d know my wife is barren.”

“Your wife? Barren? But how could that be?”

Allie could not take another shock like this. She steeled herself for what she knew was to come next, tried to stop her ears, but knew it was in vain.

“We adopted Allie, you half-wit!” The Magistrate drew himself to his full height, towering over Pa, and rounded on him.

“You dare insult my intelligence? You who can’t tell the difference between ethos and pathos?” The men laughed in high, silky voices.

“But Pa!” Allie shrieked.

“Allie, you’ve always been me little angel,” said Pa, “We found you after years of praying and fasting for a child. Ma could never have a child, and you were a Godsend. And now you’ve saved her life. Your blood can’t lead the hounds to her.”

“So we may add kidnappery to your charges!” Came the voice of one of the men in the crowd, which chortled heartily in response.

“And what are my charges?” Pa demanded.

“Your people began this war,” The Magistrate boomed. The crowed cheered. “Through your blindness and madness, you have repeated history and brought us war. The same people that brought the Old World to ruin, beginning at the legend of the Twin Towers, to the Third World War, and finally to the Cracking of the Moon and the Great Nuclear Winter! Christian against Muslim, Gentile against Jew, Protestant against Catholic, Mormon against Evangelical!” cried the Magistrate, “So began all the wars of the Old World, and so it is again! The call to arms was heard and the states of Deseret are answering—because of your people! What have you to answer to this?”

“Only this: I don’t know about any war except the one you’re making against me and my family.” Pa said, calm and terrible as the three shattered moons above him.

“It grows late, Mr. Whiteacre,” The Magistrate said, taking another graceful step and returning to perfect stillness, “And everywhere in the state, Magistrates are searching your people out. We will nip this war in the bud and we will do anything we must to do so. If your wife has crossed the border into another state, we can find her and promise no harm to her. I do not know that the Magistrates in other states will be so kind to your ilk.”

“Pa, please!” Allie cried.

“Allie,” Pa said, and he took a step closer. The crowd closed in.

“Keep your distance from me, Mr. Whiteacre,” the Magistrate bade. He took a step back, within an arm’s reach of Allie.

“I will never betray my wife. You will never find her.”

“Then I am forced to kill you.”

“Wait!” Both the Magistrate and Pa turned to look at Allie. She continued, “Ma is with Bishop Collins. They fled together northward.”

“Allie, no!” Pa yelled, but the Magistrate was already booming new orders. Men approached the door of the carriage, and unlocked it with a great key.

Out leapt two massive beasts, like enormous wolves with thick, rusty manes and legs far too longer than any creature Allie had ever seen. Their enormous jaws gaped, two rows of teeth gleaming from within wide mouths. Their heads bore no eyes, only one long snout, sucking in air with a windy snuffling sound. Both bore thick metal collars around their necks, their chains held by rings on hooks within the carriage door, the wood etched with the carvings of countless claw-marks.

“No!” cried Pa, “They have Allie’s scent in their noses!”

Two of the men drew nearer, the and the hounds cowered at their approach. Their faces were scarred, and they wore pristine blue uniforms with white collars and buttons. Though the stench of perfume was already in the air, Allie could smell nothing else as these men approached.

Allie realized of a sudden that this must be the function of their awful perfume. It was not to smell lovely, but to frighten off the hounds! The men removed the rings from the hooks and held the chains tightly. The hounds instantly let out terrible cries, unnatural and metallic, and bounded toward Allie, jaws snapping. And yet, as she watched them and heard them, she found she was not afraid. They were now familiar to her. She saw that the Magistrate still held the bloody knife in his hand.

“How like they are to your people,” the Magistrate said, watching them, “Sightless, full of only instinct.” His grip on the knife was limp. He was standing within range of the hounds’ chains.

“Bloodthirsty, and never knowing what is is they do.” She would only have to snatch the knife and cut him deeply, and throw the knife to the hounds. The blood would drive them more powerfully than their fear of the perfume.

“Fitting, then, that you’ll be working together to find more of your own.”

She made to take the knife, but then paused. She looked at Pa, the desperate look in his eyes. She knew she wouldn’t do it. It would even prove him right.

“Magistrate,” Allie said, “You bred the hounds. You make things like these, and you come here for to tell us that the evil you breed is our fault.”

The Magistrate smiled.

“So you can utilize critical thinking, young Allie Whiteacre,” he said. “Refreshing. But unhelpful. Your blood shan’t lead us to your mother, but you shall. So she has gone with the venerable Bishop, has she? We passed the Bishop’s house before coming here, and his family was likewise gone. We haven’t found them just yet. To where were they going?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t tell me nothing about where they were going.”

But Allie was already in mid-air leaping toward the Magistrate’s knife. She snatched it from his hand and gouged a cut just on the other side of his knee, earning a high scream from him. He crumpled next to her, clutching his leg, his blood seeping through his fingers. He threw her a maddened look, a look she returned eye for eye. With his good leg he aimed one square kick to her head. She reeled and saw tiny explosions of light dance before her eyes. The world was spinning and absolutely still. Yet she kept the presence of mind just enough to throw the knife at the feet of the hounds.

The hounds stopped quivering and tentatively investigated the bloody knife, sniffing it with their horrid wheezy noses, licking it with their tubular tongues. The Magistrate turned his head in horror to see the two hounds growing excited, baying in their unearthly voices and pawing at the knife as if trying to bury it. They danced about madly, stamping with such force that their keepers could not bring them back to the carriage to lock them away. Finally one of them gave a shrieking howl and pounced with such power that its keeper was knocked off his feet, the chain slipping between his hands. The hound broke free, and bounded for the Magistrate. Its jaws opened to a right angle, revealing two rows of impossibly long teeth lining a black mouth with a winding, worm-like tongue. Magistrate Hansen attempted pathetically to crawl away, but in an instant the hound was on him, and the iron jaw clamped down.

Pandemonium was unleashed. Shrieks went up all around in a chorus and the trampling of feet scattered all around in a murmuring rhythm. The circle was broken, and everywhere went townsmen, pouring their perfume everywhere and making to wrestle the hound off of the Magistrate, who kicked and struggled against the beast’s frenzy.

Hands wrapped around Allie and lifted her off the ground. She was being carried away from the crowd which paid her little heed, and soon she and her rescuer were in the sweet cover of night. The moons and the stars shimmering and winking coyly from afar.

“Allie!” came Pa’s voice, “How could you’ve done that? You killed the Magistrate! You killed a man, Allie!”

“Pa,” said Allie, “I’m your little angel, like it says in the scriptures, Pa.”

“Allie, would Jesus have killed him?”

“Like the angel God sent to the Egyptians, Pa.”

“We en’t like them that started all those wars, Allie! Pride starts wars and kills and destroys, not us! We en’t God to say who lives and who dies!”

But Allie didn’t understand a word he said. She just smiled and said again,

“I’m you little angel, Pa. I’m your destroying angel.”