Today, I walked alone in fields of brittle barley. The wind caught the stalks in long rippling waves. I might have found it tranquil once, but now, all I see is a million little shivers. That is what the Harvesters left behind—an imprint of fear in the beauty of life.

Byron told me that life would endure. He wiped the tears from my cheeks with blood-varnished thumbs and made all sorts of promises like that. I wanted to believe him. And when I closed my eyes and blinded myself to the fear in his, I almost did. Humanity had weathered the indifferent touch of famine and cold and disease. We were hearty. We persevered. It was a comforting thought, since redacted from our collective eulogy.

Byron’s humanity cost him his life. He had gone outside to save a pregnant woman who dragged herself across our flower beds. Byron was a good man. A good husband. And I watched him die screaming as I cowered in helpless terror.

Now all I have of him is a gift that reminds me of the good man he was. He knew I loved chocolate truffles. He brought them back from Paris. He said they were ugly, dusty little things—a deceitful façade for a taste of bliss. He said I could try one then, but I wanted to wait. The gift hadn’t matured. It was preemptive.

Now, I clutch the little brown box to my chest. I used the ribbon as a tourniquet a few weeks ago. I couldn’t save her life—the girl that begged me to let her bleed. Perhaps she knew better than me. Perhaps I endure because my survival instinct is more powerful than my grief or fear. Or maybe I’m just stubborn.

It’s getting warm. I’m trudging toward a farm that Byron said was safe. I think he actually believed in a world that would forget all of the pain and death. I was never so certain.

By mid-afternoon, I see the farm’s silo cresting a low hill. As I near the hilltop, I stop. My legs shake. Upon them I have carried Byron’s hope, but in the field below, I only see death—rows upon rows of dismembered naked torsos.

The Harvesters mutilated millions, but pregnant women, they took. I never knew why. And now, as I look upon the bodies below, all I can think is how much the bloated, dusty bellies look like truffles. I drop my box. The melted chocolate doesn’t scatter, but there is a note written on the lid in Byron’s hand.

As I stoop to read it, I hear the keening screech of a Harvester. The sound brings tears to my eyes, but I read Byron’s words.

Katie,

I know you’ll have to wait to enjoy these, but I know you’ll earn every bite. You’ll love and be loved and I can’t wait to be there with you. Happy (Early) Mother’s Day!

I feel a kick inside my belly. I hear a screech.

They’re coming