Arthur stood mesmerized before the steaming mud pit, hands resting on his hips. Although he had created teeth before, he always felt compelled to watch the alien process.

  The mud pit bubbled and churned, thick and scalding as though it were boiling. Arthur had burned his hand once when he touched it. This bio-geological incubation process would have made a chicken soup jealous.

  Heavy feet fell behind him, and he waited until he felt hot breath on his neck before he turned to find himself eye-to-eye with one of his teeth.

  It sat hunched on its haunches, its glassy black eyes dark as obsidian. Its bare hide lacked fur, scales, or feathers, making it look almost like human skin stretched over an alien killing machine. Fangs lined its twisted snout, and dark, curved claws tipped its fingers. The broad-shouldered beast lacked reproductive genitalia. Teeth didn’t breed, but Ash spawned them, as it did in the pit now. The tooth squatted on thick legs, but its long arms supported itself on its fore knuckles like an ape.

  "You saw them?" Arthur asked the grotesque figure as casually as he would talk to someone at the supermarket.

  The tooth snorted in response.

  "Let's see your report, then," Arthur extended his hand and rested his palm on its lowered head.

  "Show me."

  Arthur lost awareness of his surroundings. Looking into a tooth's memory was risky, leaving him vulnerable, but with the other teeth patrolling the area, he doubted even Vlad could sneak up on him.

  Arthur’s consciousness plunged into the tooth's memories, seeing the world through the tooth's eyes as their minds intertwined. He clung to his self-awareness even as the tooth's desperate bloodlust seeped through him, tinting his vision yellow. Arthur’s echoic perspective dropped out of the trees, reliving the tooth’s assault. The tooth howled, charging at a group of survivors to divert their attention while another tooth stalked toward them—a tactic Arthur had programmed into them. The pack of survivors scattered in chaos, and Arthur’s perspective shifted as the tooth sprinted past his sons. The tooth-programmed logic dictated its next move: leave the sons for the other tooth and hunt fleeing survivors.

  Arthur willed the image to stop, and he got his first glance at Flint in over a year and Jason in much longer.

  There they were—his sons. Flint had grown at least three inches. The boy wore a black cap that nearly covered his eyes, and his mouth twisted into a scowl.

  Jason's frozen face contorted in alarm, but Flint—Flint looked focused and cold.

  Arthur smirked and cocked his head with a touch of pride. Jason was a failed experiment—probably Arthur's greatest mistake. Arthur had successfully trained his eldest, Brigham, who went into the family business independently. But Jason cracked under the strain, fleeing at the first chance he got. After that betrayal and disappointment, he hadn’t tried to train Steve or Flint. However, Flint had been persistent, pestering Arthur for guidance. And now, as Arthur caught a familiar glint in Flint’s eyes, he began to regret that decision.

  Arthur laughed. Maybe Flint did fall close to the tree.

  Arthur glanced at the pen clutched in Flint's hand. One of Janis' for sure. How was she? He drove the thought out of his mind. He had a directive, and nothing else mattered.

  Arthur severed the link, returning to his own mind just as a sucking sound from behind drew his attention. He turned to see a newly born tooth crawling out of the mud pit.

  Hand over hand, it croaked as it pulled itself free from a biological sack in the mud.

  It was born of Ash, a tooth of Ash. Its black, soulless eyes blinked for the first time in the morning light. Newly born, it was an adult. It didn't need to be nurtured to mature. Teeth were born with one purpose: to feed Ash.

  Arthur pushed himself into the new tooth's mind, establishing a splice link. From watching the other acolytes, he knew his eyes glowed yellow every time he made the connection. Their minds synced, and the tooth became an extension of him.

  "We have a new hunt," he announced as he spliced into all nine of his teeth's minds simultaneously. He pushed the image of his sons into their minds. "Find them," he ordered. "Take me to them."

  Flint liked to consider himself proficient at sleeping under less ideal circumstances. Back home, he rarely slept in a bed, even though he had one. He had slept in public restrooms, forest floors, and abandoned vehicles, and though it wasn't pleasant, it always worked for him.

  But that night. Flint spent what felt like the coldest and longest night of his life huddled on the hard dirt, constantly pulling his jacket tighter around himself. He would steal minutes of sleep, but visions of teeth , wild men, and his mom would jerk him awake. At one point, he dreamt he could hear gunshots, but opening his eyes, he realized that his nightmare was, in fact, his reality. Somewhere far away, gunfire popped, echoing over the forest cover.

  Flint's discomfort worsened. His throat grew sore, his nose congested, and he shivered in the cold. Unable to sleep, Flint gathered several armfuls of the trees’ strange, feathery needle leaves and built a nest. The insulation didn't bring him much warmth but separated him from the cold dirt and softened the ground, even if it was just slightly.

  Finally, after wiping his nose for what felt like the ten thousandth time, he drifted back to sleep.

  The sound of something thumping woke him. At first, pounding sounded distant, somewhere in the back of his mind, but with each thump, it brought him closer and closer to consciousness, to the point that he realized he was still asleep. On the line between sleep and consciousness, waking up was only a matter of choice.

  Flint groaned as he sat up, his throat raw and his nose stuffed. The thumping came from right behind him. He rolled over to see Jason and Nana huddled over a flat stone. Nana repeatedly pounded some pasty substance with his big stick. Flint's small pot from his mess kit was also out, lying next to a small smoldering fire.

  "What's going on?" Flint grunted as he rubbed his crusty eyes.

  "Ash food," Jason said. "Hungry?"

  Food? Suddenly, Flint was wholly awake. The last time he ate was a partial breakfast at Jason's two days ago, and he felt like he was housing an angry titan in his stomach. His cut abdomen probably didn't help with that.

  Flint got up but instantly cried out in pain and dropped back down the second he put pressure on his foot. It felt like a red-hot spike had been shoved up his foot and exuded venom up his leg.

  "Flint, what's wrong?" Jason asked, his brow furrowing with concern.

  The air grew heavy as he cradled his foot. The pain persisted, like a knife twisting back and forth. "Jason, it hurts." He gasped as his eyes welled up with tears. Flint didn't want anyone to see him cry; he usually didn't, but this pain was an entirely new experience.

  "Flint!" Jason exclaimed and squatted by his brother. "Nana, help."

  Their new companion dropped his big stick and ran over to Flint. "Is it your foot? What is wrong?" he asked.

  Flint shook his head in frustrated confusion. He had walked on it the previous night with only a subtle limp.

  "Infection." Flint gasped, taking deep pained breaths.

  "Let me see," the large man said, gently grabbing Flint's foot.

  Flint squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Ow, ow, ow, ow, stop!”

  "Listen to me," Nana cautioned. If we can't look at it, we can't see what is wrong. The shoe is dirty inside; we cannot clean it unless we take it out."

  Flint shoved his fist into his mouth and gnawed his knuckle. "Just cut it off," he strained to say, fighting back tears.

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  "Cut off your foot?" Nana recoiled in surprise.

  "What? No! Cut off the shoe," Flint corrected himself.

  "Let us try to get it off," Nana said. "There are no shoe markets for you to find a new one."

  Flint hesitantly nodded in agreement, and Nana carefully unlaced his shoe.

  "What can I do?" Jason asked.

  "Turn around," Nana said. "Keep watch. No sense in getting attacked while we are vulnerable."

  Jason hesitated, his lips drawn tight as he watched his suffering brother, but he managed to pull himself away.

  Nana gripped the shoe firmly with both hands, and Flint inhaled sharply. "Careful," he chided.

  "Do you want me to tell you on the count of three only to pull it off early?" Nana asked.

  "What would be the point of that?" Flint demanded. "How do you plan on surprising me if I know you're going to pull—" Flint screamed as Nana firmly but smoothly drew the shoe off his swollen foot.

  As the shoe slid off, the smell of rot followed shortly. Nana looked into the shoe; brown blood stained the inside.

  Flint glanced down at his sock. Crusted blood caked the sole, and grime stained the once-white fabric grey.

  "You were running on that rotten foot?" Nana said in disbelief.

  "Help me get it off," Flint grunted. "I can't …"

  Nana nodded and turned to collect some water he used to wash his hands.

  "Where did you get the water?" Flint asked.

  "There is a stream not far from here."

  "And it has good water?" Flint asked in surprise. "We passed one earlier, and it was rotten."

  Nana chuckled. "It was the same. There is only one good stream nearby. It rots for several hours daily but then becomes pure again." Nana started working the sock off Flint's foot, tugging it, pushing the scab, and slowly peeling it away.

  "Curious," Flint said, mostly trying to distract himself from the painful peeling sensation. "Why is that?"

  "I don't know," Nana said. "I have only been here for less than a month. I still lack answers." Nana pulled off the sock, and Flint got his first good look.

  His severely inflamed foot was taut and pale around the wound. Green pus oozed out of his newly irritated scab. The cool air felt oddly sharp on the exposed puncture, free of the sweaty shoe and crusty sock.

  "I should have some first-aid stuff in my backpack," Flint said. "But I'm running low."

  "Will you be able to walk?" Nana asked in a hushed tone so Jason couldn't hear.

  Flint prodded his foot, earning another wave of pain. "No," he said, shaking his head.

  "Here in Ash, if you can not move, you die," he said somberly.

  Unsure how to respond, Flint nodded. "I'll figure something out."

  "We must kill the infection," Nana said as he drew his big knife.

  "Wait, hold on!" Flint threw up his hands defensively." What are you doing with that?"

  "I will heat the blade and drain the wound," Nana said matter-of-factly.

  "Have you done this before?" Flint panicked.

  Nana chuckled nervously. "How hard could it be? I have always wanted to try."

  "Not today." Flint insisted. "I'm doing it."

  Nana turned around, disappointed, but stopped short. "Hey!" he shouted.

  Flint looked to see the F'faron's hairy figure sniffing the small camp pot by the fire.

  "Get away from there!" Nana snapped as he rushed to defend his cooking.

  "F'faron!" Jason cried gleefully, and F'faron, faithful as ever, rushed over to hide in Jason's Shadow.

  "You know this bushmeat?" Nana asked in surprise.

  "It's F'faron, he found us some water," Jason explained. "He's a friend."

  "You are friends with a critter?" Nana asked in disbelief.

  "Huh?"

  "We call his kind critters," Nana explained as he eyed F'faron suspiciously. "They live some distance across the stream, and usually, they are not friendly to man."

  "Are they dangerous?" Flint asked, trying to take his mind off the pain.

  "Critters are smart, like us," Nana explained as he placed his knife in the fire. They use weapons. But I do not know too much. They usually do not cross the river; those who do usually die quickly, killed by other survivors."

  "Why?" Jason asked.

  "Food for Ash, to keep the teeth away. It is easier to kill someone different than one of your own."

  "This place is horrible," Jason grimaced as he placed a hand on F'faron's head between the critter's ears.

  F'faron turned on Jason, hissing in protest.

  "Woah!" Jason recoiled. "I'm sorry, but you were all up in my space, too."

  "This one looks young," Nana said. "Not an adult."

  "He just wants our food," Flint said. "He'll turn and run the first chance that he gets."

  "He’s been useful in the past," Jason tried.

  "We should get rid of him."

  Nana pulled his blade from the fire, the tip blackened by smoke. "Are you ready?"

  "Give it to me."

  Nana brought his bottle of water and Flint's first-aid kit.

  "Keep it away from our food," he cautioned Jason. “It would be unfortunate if breakfast was gone by the time I finished helping your brother."

  Jason nodded.

  Flint accepted Nana's knife, but it took everything to hold it steady. He propped his ankle on his knee and got to work.

  Gently pressing the irritated area, he squeezed out a decent amount of pus; despite the pain, he found it oddly satisfying to watch. Once it no longer flowed freely, he slit the wound, and it continued to drain with blood as well.

  Once Flint worked the inflammation down, he accepted the water from Nana and washed it thoroughly.

  Finished, he turned to Nana. "Food?" he asked hopefully.

  "Bind your wound," Nana said.

  "I think I'll let it air out." Still aching, he flexed his foot free from the shoe's pressure.

  The four of them gathered for what Ash offered for breakfast. Nana had boiled some root and pounded it to a paste, which sat in a soup made from tangy leaves and something that looked like oysters. It was a relatively colorless meal, but it didn't lack flavor. But that was probably because of how hungry they were.

  The soup was sour but not altogether unpleasant, and Flint choked on the paste the first time he tried it.

  "Don't chew," Nana cautioned. "Wet it in the soup and swallow."

  The thick, blobby paste sank right to the bottom of their stomachs.

  Flint sat back, satisfied, but he screamed as dirt started to creep up his exposed foot.

  "What?" Jason asked.

  "Look," Flint said as he put his foot down. Surely, dirt coagulated began to trickle up his foot.

  "Flint!" Jason cried. "Is Ash trying to eat you?"

  The wound on the sole of his foot tickled as dirt encased it up to his ankle.

  "Flint!" Jason cried. "Move."

  Cautiously, Flint picked up his foot, and the dirt settled, becoming dormant. Flint’s eyes popped at the reaction. He didn’t want his foot to get dirty. He stared at the indent his foot made. Would it happen again? What if it tried to bite him?

  Curious, Flint gently put his foot down, and the dirt came alive like metal dust taking a magnetic charge. Flint snickered as the cool dirt slid along the bottom of his foot. “This tickles.”

  "You're letting it eat you?" Jason asked, bemused. “Dude, do you have a death wish or something?”.

  "Relax. If it starts to hurt, I'll pull it out."

  "That's dumb; what if it numbs you like a mosquito bite?"

  Flint didn't answer but watched, intrigued, as the dirt boot hardened and turned into more of a shell.

  "You are a curious person, Mr. Flint Vance." Nana chuckled as F'faron stared at the cocoon boot, his eyes wide. Flint's foot was wedged in tight, but he had enough room to scrunch his toes back and forth.

  "I thought that it only goes after dead things?" Flint said, confused.

  "I couldn’t say," Nana said. "I know very little about Ash."

  "It must be triggered by blood, or maybe the dead skin?" Flint pondered. "Do you think it will try to eat all of me? Or just the wound?"

  The others stared at him blankly.

  "What?" Flint asked. "We are here. It wouldn't hurt to know how it works."

  "That's so gross," Jason said. "You're sticking your foot in Ash's mouth."

  "I'll bet I taste good!" Flint chuckled.

  Jason asked Nana a question, but Flint filtered their conversation out as he looked down at his foot. Encased in a clay shell at the ankle, it looked like his foot was more extensive and made of clay, like some dirt-based superhero! That was dumb. Clay Footman would hardly be a good hero.

  Something warm and wet began to seep in from the boot's bottom. The new juices were oddly comfortable, but the infection point stung.

  The prickle didn't hurt badly enough to cause him concern but was more like irritation in a sensitive area. In fact, it felt better than worse.

  Flint needed a plan. He hadn't seen his dad yet; he didn't even know where to start looking, but he felt slightly hopeful with Nana's assistance. There was even something comforting about F'faron, even if he had yet to prove his reliability.

  In general, their situation seemed dire, but things weren't so bad at the moment. Even now, surrounding the campfire, he felt almost like they were just friends camping.

  Casual camping wasn't something that Flint had actually done in the past, seeing as he didn't have many friends and Mom never took him out. He had spent many months in the wild alone but couldn't exactly count that. However, this is precisely what Flint would have imagined recreational camping to be like. It was peaceful, quaint, and relaxing. All things that didn't strictly conform to Ash. Something was off.

  "We always have heated water in America, even in public restrooms," Jason explained to Nana, who looked intrigued by the concept.

  "There haven't been any gunshots all morning." Flint noticed. "Must be a good morning on Ash."

  Nana sat up, scanning the horizon for signs of life. "We should move. I take comfort in hearing gunshots because I know they are far away, but silence concerns me."

  Flint nodded in agreement. "My thoughts, too."

  "Can you walk, Flint Vance?"

  Flint worked his foot back and forth, cracking the clay encasing his foot. The familiar scent of Ash's digestive juices escaped through the cracks, though it wasn't nearly as bad as they had been in times past.

  Flint washed his wet foot and looked at his wound, intrigued. The inflammation had gone down drastically. Not only that, but the blood and pus that had dried to his foot were gone as though they had been licked off.

  "Well, I'll be…" Flint marveled.

  "What is it?" Jason asked.

  "It's like Ash ate the infection and dead stuff," Flint said, "and cleaned the wound. Maybe it's like maggot therapy and only eats dead flesh."

  "What? A psycho-carnivorous planet did something helpful?" Jason asked in surprise.

  "Ash isn't bad," Flint decided. “It's just like you or me. It has its own needs. We are just not at the top of the food chain for once."

  Nana stood and grabbed his large paste-pounding stick.

  "We must go now!" he said, his eyes narrowing. "Someone is here."

  Flint got to his feet, not bothering to bandage or wrap it, and scooped up his backpack.

  "Well, well," A balding man with a pot belly sneered with a heavy drawl as he stepped out from behind a tree. He held a broadhead arrow and knocked on a hunting compound bow.

  “I reckon they’ve spotted us, boys."

  F'faron turned and bolted away, but a greasy, longhaired young man with a bandana headband jumped out of the bush, tackled the critter, and placed a revolver to his temple. "Hey, Beau, I caught that meat you like!"

  Four more men stepped out, one with a pump-action shotgun and the two others with hunting rifles. They wore a patchwork wardrobe of dirty camo, oil-stained overalls, and animal hides that looked like they could have once been F'faron's parents.

  "Now hold still, y'all, or we'll have to get messy."

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