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In the distance Miguel could see a herd of them, moving quietly against the dark landscape, keeping low, hunting like they always did. Blunt objects in hand they used to bludgeon their prey, be it man or beast. Baseball bats, dented axes, a metal pipe. They wore long, filthy coats, patch worked with whatever material was at hand. Their faces were wrapped in garments under long brimmed hats their clan were known for.

He stayed down, behind a rusted truck, afraid to breath, afraid to move, but not so afraid to pull out the Colt pistol in his belt that only held five bullets, enough, he thought, to finish at least three of them off, and save one for himself when they caught up to him.

One of the metal bats they carried bounced of a rock, sending a metallic twang through the dusty air, causing him to dig deeper into the ground, wishing he could be swallowed up by it. As he pushed his head into the ground, he met eyes with a rodent on the other side of the long dead vehicle, pushing itself into the ground as its human counterpart did. The man and the rat stared at each other, two survivors holding their breath, waiting for the danger to pass.

As it did, the two seemingly gave a small nod to each other and went their separate ways. Any other day the rodent could have been dinner but Miguel, having shared a commonality of fear with the creature, decided to let him go.

Miguel moved on, one foot after the other, as he had for days, for months, for decades? He couldn’t remember. Couldn’t recall how long it had been since the water and the trees and the soil dried up. He could only remember when his phone had come alive again, for a minute, maybe two, but it had come alive, and he had received the picture.

He came across a highway, deserted and dead, like everything around him. Rusted cars with shattered filthy windows lay along it, like a broken spine. Highways were always a good source of materials, but there were always dangers, raiders, booby traps, Skinwalkers lying in wait in trunks and backseats.

Miguel crouched behind a center divider, looking up and down the highway trying to see any trip wires or spotters or movement besides the occasional open door caught in the breeze. He picked up a rock and chucked it across the road, shattering a back windshield. Colt in hand he lay flat, waiting. Nothing. No movement, no flashing of a blade or snap of a shotgun or Skinwalker cry.

He stood and moved down the highway cautiously, still keeping as low and as flat as he could against the vehicles whose exterior was now more dust then paint. He moved past the fuel saving cars, knowing their drivers weren’t the ones who would ordinarily stack survival supplies. His eyes were on a large SUV with faded stickers of an American flag, an assault rifle and a presidential candidate’s slogan in large, ridiculous letters on the back windshield.

The wind kicked up again, sending plumes of orange dust through the highway. Miguel adjusted his goggles, tightened the wrap around his face and head and popped the magazine out of his .45 handgun. He tapped the back of the magazine against his knee, making sure the bullets were properly seated and slapped the magazine back into the weapon. Taking his backpack off his shoulders, Miguel moved toward the rear passenger door of the SUV in a crouch, moving when the wind blew so as to drown out the creaking of his knees and the shuffling of his clothing.

He reached the door, leaning softly against the rear of the vehicle, waiting to hear if anything was moving around inside of it, his heart pumped fast, beating out of his chest, so much so he moved away from the car thinking it would give away him away, picturing his rapid heartbeat punching dents into the SUV’s body.

He gripped the pistol tight, clenching the handle so much he thought he would compound and explode the bullets within the magazine. Miguel’s breathing came in slow, heavy swallows as struggled to keep it under control. He tried to keep his hand from shaking loose from the glove it was ensconced in as it reached out to the handle. He willed it to close and pull, screaming at it internally to obey his commands.

The door snapped open. Miguel pulled, hard.

The Colt snapped forward, like a rocket out of a silo. And like a rocket, scanning for its target.

Nothing. No Booby traps. No trip wired explosives. No Skinwalkers or Headmen.

He stood up, sweeping the front seats and storage area for anyone, finding nothing.

Miguel relaxed, dropping his shoulders, let out a breath, allowing himself a small laugh. In the back of the SUV were duffle bags, always a good sign. He stuck the pistol in his belt and began rummaging through them.

He felt when something grabbed his ankle but didn’t have the time to go for his gun. The Skinwalker pulled him out throwing him against a small coupe. Miguel lost the wind in him, his vision became clouded with sparkles, he made out the Skinwalker as it approached him. It was a man, once, a bald man, wearing the tattered remains of a mechanics jumpsuit. Its eyes were like the others, dead and yellow and some other poor bastard somewhere had at least gotten in a good shot, obvious in the large festering gash on the side of its head.

It roared at Miguel as it bared down on him. It’s reeking stench of death reaching Miguel’s nostrils before anything else. Miguel pulled the Colt and aimed, the Skinwalker was faster, grabbing his wrist. The gun went off anyway, blowing a part of it’s left cheek away. The Skinwalker grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the pavement and a part of Miguel was thankful because his sense of smell was drowned out.

What had once been the bald mechanic tilted his head back and opened his mouth and from the throat the Skinwalker began to emerge, ready to jump into the next human host. Miguel reached into his belt, pulling out the knife he kept and stuck it into the side of the Skinwalker, the creature, or what was left of its human host, felt it, staggering back enough that Miguel was able to pick his legs up to the creatures chest and push himself away. He landed on his back, again gasping for the rancid air around him. The Skinwalker stumbled forward, Miguel shot it, through the forehead, dropping it to its knees. Miguel propelled himself forward, pulling his knife from the side of the creature’s body and scooping up his backpack.

He ran, hard, stumbling over empty luggage, dry gas cans and the remnants of a civilization long dead, taken over by the being behind him who stood and lurched after him despite a hole leaking its host brains over its shoulders. Miguel knew it didn’t need the hosts body to be alive, but it made things easier. So, he made his legs move, so that he wouldn’t become the next creatures unwilling host.

He came up onto an overpass, the Skinwalker howled again, except this time the howls were returned. Howls that pierced ones very ears as if they were hot needles, howls that were the sinew of the nightmares that Miguel feared when he slept. The howling came in from the other side of the highway, from other Skinwalkers lying in wait. Windshields busted out, doors flew open, debris flew through the air as they came alive. Within minutes, the howling was coming from all directions giving the road some semblance of the noise it carried in its former life.

Miguel knew they hadn’t seen him yet, and he was thankful of that, because the Skinwalkers didn’t have a good sense of direction. He stopped and fired at the shambling Skinwalker behind him, dropping him, then he jumped over the overpass onto the dirt berms underneath it. Miguel rolled, catching himself before he could tumble down to the road below. He threw himself under the overpass and lay motionless, struggling to keep his lungs from filling with the air it begged him for.

Above, he could hear the Skinwalker smashing into cars, breaking windows, howling, it’s host body so damaged he wouldn’t be able to use it properly again. Others joined it soon, healthier ones, the heavy thump of their feet shaking the overpass. They jumped onto hoods, onto roofs, threw things over the side of the overpass. They howled in unison, a sound so terrible and so loud Miguel could still hear it despite pressing his hands into his ears. A car went over the side, smashing into the pavement below. Something caught their attention in the distance and the Skinwalkers reared and howled and ran off to find it.

Miguel lay prone long after the noises above abated, too afraid to do anything, too afraid to even move the rock he lay on that dug into his side. Before the sun set, before the Skinwalkers above would grow even stronger, he crawled out of his hiding spot.

As the sun set, Miguel hunkered down in an old strip mall in what was a fast food restaurant. In the kitchen area he made a bed in the storage cabinets, making sure to close the cabinet doors. Outside of the building, something moved around and the familiar howls of the Skinwalkers rang out in the distance. Miguel dug into his backpack, pulling out a battery charger and his phone, once the pinnacle of everyday use technology. He plugged in the battery charger giving the phone some power and turned it on.

The text messages were from years ago, most to and from family members concerned about the sudden change in the climate and the appearance of the Skinwalkers. He chose not to read those, not for years, as they were reminders of people who were now ghosts and were better off because of it. Instead, he opened the text message that had just, somehow, come in a few days ago. From his wife, Sarah, who he believed had died years ago.

He had received the message, in a place similar to the one he was in now, some derelict of a building as he swiped through pictures of a world and a time now alien to him. Pictures of grass, of food, of dancing, smiles and of love. The message was a simple one, a picture of a heart shaped locket, one he had given to Sarah on their wedding anniversary, with a picture of their son inside.

The world had spun around him as he saw the NO SIGNAL atop his phone, suddenly sprang into life with bars, as the picture formed on the screen, as he had sent a message back, one simple word message: Sarah?

For the first time since he could remember Miguel had felt hope as his simple message had been returned with another simple word: READ.