May 27, 1764 - Chanac

- I'm fucking sick, Fantin. For real. I'm sick of this shitty life. I've been resting my ass on this damn wagon for what, thirty years? -

- Twenty-eight, I think. -

- I am fed up. My sacrum has become a heretical disc by now. -

Fantin looked up at the gloomy sky, pulling aside the hood of the felted cloak.

A drop of water wet his hooked nose.

- Cover up. It's starting to rain. -

Traveling through France from extreme to extreme, constantly, in every season, and facing every adversity was an overwhelming task. The wagon was rotting, held together by innumerable patches and a few iron plates where the wood gave way. Even Esperance, the trusty mare who pulled them, had a crusted coat, sparse and faded.

They looked exactly what they were: the end of an era.

Of the two hunters, Renè was the commander, the highest in rank, tutor of what twenty years earlier had been only a young man with a fervent Catholic belief. Now they were both in their forties, their beards unkempt and streaked, their faces hollow and tired. They had pounded the ideologies under their boots, in dung and blood.

Living in the footsteps of the devil's progeny had consumed them inside. Never knowing enough was like a worm. It had eroded their minds, weakened their hearts, to the point of reducing them to mere executors of an unknown game.

They had crossed the mountains to get to Chanac, on the road that led to the major town of Mende. For several days the sky had alternated between bright light and heavy rain, so much so that the provisions in the wagon began to perish.

The soaked bread made Rene's stomach turn. The cheese was thrown to Esperance.

The mare's hooves thumped on the pavement, sounding dry once they entered the village. The sun had already set over the treetops, never really showed from behind the pregnant clouds, and the peasants had gone home.

As the storm began its concert, the lights of the oil lamps were lit in the windows.

They were both weary from the journey and complaining was useless, even if René did not give up muttering all the time. Fantin kept his head down, shielding himself with his hood, in search of a tavern capable at least of keeping them away from tuberculosis.

Like cockroaches, latecomers in the streets scampered to hide behind massive doors and women shut the shutters on the windows.

- The whole world pisses on us. Even the sky. -

They found shelter under a slanted roof on the side of a ruined-looking farmhouse. Inside there were shouts and laughter.

They had probably found their inn.

While Fantin tied Esperance to the outside fence, Renè pulled the rifle out from under the mats.

The black powder tied at the waist, the weapon under the arm.

Every time he poked his head into a different country, he had to face people's disgusted eyes. Good people who led useless lives. He hated them, he hated them all.

Vomiting beggars that he had protected his entire life.

With the companion, shoulder to shoulder, soaked as a rat in the sewer, he finally pushed into the lighted room.

Many of those present stopped talking to look at the strangers from head to toe, showing hard faces behind beards and bristly mustaches.

Fantin followed the boss to the far side of the table, avoiding staring at anyone or anything. It was survival, mere urban survival.

The smell of wandering and misery followed them like a perennial stench. Yet within seconds, as if nothing had happened, the environment was healed.

The chatter began again.

- Did you get the reagents? - Renè asked, baring his head. The hairline receded from year to year, relentless as old age.

- Everyone. Even if we don't know what we ended up on, it won't help much. -

- I trust my instincts. - He sniffed the snot from his nose with a hoarse breath and spat on the ground. - Go get dinner. -

Fantin gave the innkeeper incredulous happiness when he paid with hard cash. He had been greeted like a beggar, but in the face of money even the grimmest look had given way to a hint of kindness.

Roasted meat, like on holidays.

Then bread and wine.

- The report says he's a fugitive. - Fantin bit the fat roast with the voracity of an animal.

- I don't believe it. We haven't seen members of non-human races here in the south for ten years. -

- If they sent us, they must have seen something. -

- In my opinion, they're enjoying banging my ass to and fro. - Raising the pitcher, he drank directly. - We have already exterminated them, I tell you. -

- We will never get rid of the proteans. -

Another greedy sip.

René, banging the pitcher on the table, spat angrily in the face of his companion. - How many have we met in recent years? -

- Come on, don't ... -

- How many? -

Fantin thought for a moment. - Since I've been with you, about thirty. -

- And how many of them were saved? How many protean beasts, thinking or not, have survived among natives, various hominarii, and all the fucking abominations out there? -

- No one. -

René threw himself back on the seat, satisfied. He gestured for the second jug of wine, which the host's son ran to bring him to the table, after receiving a pep kick.

- Exactly. Nobody. It means that they are finished. -

- What's the point of the Brotherhood, then? - Fantin asked, genuinely worried. He had dedicated his life to the cause, he could not bear that his task was about to end. Or maybe he could hardly remember why he had made his choice.

- Fuck them. We remained in a few. And there is no need for replacements. As far as I'm concerned, this is the last hunt. -

He poured his companion a glass, then drank yet more red.

- Then what are you going to do, the farmer? -

- I've saved up enough to pay for bread, wine, and whores until the end of my days. I think I'm going to die drunk between the huge boobs of some Paris slut. I'll close with a flourish, my boy. -

- The days when I was a boy are a bit passed, - muttered Fantin, letting go.

He still had much to do and to give to the Brotherhood of Hunters. He had spread death among non-humans like a faithful and insane infector. He no longer needed to wonder what other races were doing in the world, what they had done in the Lord's last thousand and seven hundred years, or why God had put them there.

They claimed the right to live.

At the thought, he caress the dagger in the leather sheath.

He would need it soon.

- Hey. - René slapped him on the elbow, making him stop wandering. He took a sip and pointed: "-Have you seen that? -

A lonely girl with loose hair stood at a table with a pitcher of water. She seemed wary, completely isolated from the other patrons.

- Too late for one young lady? -

- I'd say we can start with her. -

- Sounds like bullshit to me. -

- I'm going to find out if she can speak. -

René stood up, stopping to exchange a few words with the host. He seemed not to know the young woman, an extremely suspicious element for the tipsy hunter.

He staggered to sit beside the girl.

- Excuse me, - he said.

She was about seventeen.

Light eyes.

Mute lips.

- Can I get you a drink? -

Silence.

René, two glasses of wine earlier, would have insisted on seeking information. At that moment, he decided to be satisfied.

He got up, went back to Fantin and finished dinner. They understood each other on the fly and it was not necessary to talk about anything else. After years of working side by side, the approaches were similar, tested, secrets of which there was nothing more to be explored. Bases beyond which they no longer had remorse to venture.

They hurried out of the inn, finding a dry, sheltered spot under which to wait on the humid night.

Not a passer-by, not a guard in the streets of Chanac.

- A dead country. -

At first, the men came out and the two let them pass, careful not to be noticed.

From the shadows, lurking like sordid predators, they saw the girl emerge.

With determined steps, they went after her, heads covered and rifles in their arms. Pouring rain drowned out the sound of their boots, until they were close enough to attack her.

They were experts, immediately covering her mouth with their hands as they dragged her down a sheltered alley.

Before even intimating a slimy - Don't try to scream, - Fantin pointed the knife to her throat, so sure that he had the right attention.

They both smelled of wine, tired and covered with their own filth after weeks of traveling.

- Now, calmly: talk, bitch. -

She tried to grumble something incomprehensible, scared.

A tug in the hair paid off with a little scream.

- It has nothing to do with her, René. She's just a scared girl. -

- The dilemma is simple, boy. - Reaching out his hands, old René began to forcefully undress the young prey.

She tried to scream, but Fantin covered her mouth again.

- If you don't speak, there are two possibilities, - René continued, taking off her skirt. He didn't even stop to look at her white legs and generous hips. - Either you're a fucking disabled person, or you're just not capable of talking. What we are looking for is certainly not from these parts. Let's find out together what it is. -

René took off his rifle, passing it to his companion.

- Keep her at gunpoint. -

While holding the half-naked girl by the neck, he unbuckled the belt of his trousers.

She spat on the ground, feeling numb.

- I've never fucked a protean. Who knows if it shapeshifts even while you shove it up her ass? -

Completely oblivious to any research, he poked the rod until he felt ready.

In that nocturnal alley, Fantin guarded his master until the prey stopped resisting.

As she wriggled, René violated all her dignity at will, against the rotten wall of a dry cleaner.

Then Fantin handed back the rifle, aimed quickly at her frightened white face, in tears.

And it was his turn.