After Jon took his seat on the train beside the knitting old woman, he raised his hands and showed her his long black claws with a fang-filled grin.
The old woman put down her knitting, opened her mouth and pointed at the blood-covered train conductor who lay screaming between her massively wide jaws and she laughed with a girlish titter when Jon got up.
The uncountable dead lay strewn about the Killing Fields, bearing oblivious witness to the dawn.
A lone figure surveyed his artwork in anguish, “What have I done?”
He rode off into the night, mittens of soft fog closed around them, momentarily brushing across his face and touching the flanks of the horse as if protecting hands were reaching down from above, pushing them safely along on their journey.
It was fitting somehow that the fierce battle earlier in the night between brave William and faithless Lord Drak, had ended with Drak bleeding on the ground, slain under the bright moon with a sword, which had been guided by an unseen but ever present hand, and the conquering champion William now riding off into a mist enshrouded night, traveling by faith alone through the darkness, unscathed.
The storm had been going on for days destroying everything in its path, but in the midst of all the commotion and struggle the remaining two strangers fighting for their lives looked into each other’s eyes’ and the winds ceased and the clouds parted. They knew that from this day on, their lives would never be the same because they had come this far together in the battle against nature and now they were the only hope for keeping man kind alive.