Foreverland Is Dead

porch. Cyn gingerly slides her foot into the altered boot. It hurts going in, but the opening along the back keeps the pressure off. She pushes up on the crutches.
    “Keep an eye on us,” Cyn says. “Just in case.”
    Mad watches from the front door. Cyn hobbles out with the old man to the meadow.

    The sky is a thin slate of gray, bleaching the sun like tissue paper. The wind harvesters barely turn.
    Cyn rests on the crutches, pointing out the houses, the barn, the garden, and everything they’ve done since waking up. She leaves out the hike, something he doesn’t need to know.
    “The girl you have tied in the bunkhouse,” Mr. Williams says. “She was assaulted?”
    “She’s trouble.”
    “I see.”
    “You don’t belong here.” Cyn looks at his summer loafers. “Where’d you come from?”
    “Hmm.” He locks his hands behind his back, lips mincing on thoughts. “Did you realize those wind turbines and solar panels generate enough power to run ten or twenty houses?”
    “Not ours.” Cyn points a crutch at the bunkhouse. “No heat, no lights. Just the kitchen.”
    “And the brick house?” he asks.
    “I don’t know what’s in there.”
    “You don’t know?” He lifts his eyebrows. Inquisitive, but not really.
    “There’s an invisible line around it, something we can’t go past.”
    “What happens if you do?”
    “A thing in our neck.” She bends her head, exposes the lump. “It knocks us out.”
    “You mean like this?”
    He has one, too.
    “Yeah. Like that. Why do you have one?”
    All he says is, “Hmm. Is there anyone inside the brick house?”
    “Miranda’s in there.”
    “I see.”
    “Do you know something?” Cyn turns to face him. He’s far too calm for someone that was nearly an icicle a few days earlier.
    “I suppose,” he says, turning with his hands still behind his back, surveying the grounds like a land developer, an eye for value. “But is that all? Is that everything around here, or is there more?”
    She wants to poke him with the crutch, double him over so he gets to the point. A few days ago they could’ve left him for dead, now he’s looking left and right with his bottom lip plumped out like he owns the place.
    “There’s a dead body,” she blurts.
    The eyebrows rise. “Sounds interesting.”
    “You see it, you answer my questions. All of them.”
    “I’ll answer all your questions, Ms. Cyn. Undoubtedly. But I am very intrigued by a dead body. If you’re up for it, perhaps we could see it now?”
    “In the woods.”
    “Very well.”

    Mr. Williams isn’t shocked. And it’s beyond gross. The stink has waned, but the sight of the deflated clothes and discolored flesh is almost too much for Cyn.
    She stops halfway down the path, lets him go the rest alone. He shuffles along like he’s out for a Sunday stroll, a speed bump up ahead.
    At first, he bends over with his hands on his waist, studies the lower torso. He crosses over and does the same with the upper. Then he takes a knee and pokes the skull with a stick.
    She almost vomits.
    “The only older woman, you say?” he asks.
    Cyn moans.
    “Do you know her?”
    She shakes her head. “You?”
    He drops the stick and stands. “The wolves have eaten well.”
    Cyn turns around, leaning heavily on the crutches. A knot the size of a softball has formed in her stomach.
    “Have you gone beyond?” he asks.
    She takes a moment before looking. He’s pointing over his shoulder. She shakes her head.
    “Down the path?” he asks. “You’ve been here all this time and haven’t ventured beyond the body?”
    “We’re a little freaked out.”
    He waves his arm. “She was going somewhere; let’s take a look. Come on, she hasn’t moved in weeks. You’ll be all right.”
    Cyn pivots. She holds her breath, slides her crutches along the wet snow until she reaches the body. She tries not to look but notices the flesh is mostly bone. The fingers, like leathery sticks, are clenched around a clear plastic bag.
    Like the bags in the cabinet.
    She follows Mr. Williams.
    His hands are in his pockets; she swears he’s humming. The path bends left and then right, weaving deeper into the forest. She’s not sure how far he wants to go, but her arms are aching. This path could go on forever. She’s about to turn around, to call ahead, when he stops.
    And she sees it.
    A dark alcove in the trees. And a small cabin covered in leafless vines and silver lichen. It’s not much bigger than a closet, ten feet by