Chapter 33 Echoes Of Old Blood

• The day broke in shades of pallid gray. Outside Lucy’s house, the snow hung heavy and undisturbed. The frost on the windowpanes had thickened overnight, leaving delicate veins of ice like ghostly tree branches splayed across glass. It was colder than the day before — so cold, in fact, Lucy had discovered that the cup of boiling water she’d left outside to test the air had turned solid within minutes. The Freeze was deepening.
• The radio crackled faintly on the kitchen counter. She kept it tuned to a few independent frequencies — those private-owned stations that hadn’t yet fallen silent or been commandeered by government broadcasts. It was there, amidst static-laced voices, that rumors continued to spread.
• Another livestock pen emptied. Another set of unexplainable, enormous tracks left in virgin snow. No one ever saw what made them. Just the aftermath. Torn wire, fur-stained snow, pools of dark, half-frozen blood. The government remained tight-lipped. No official sightings. No statements. Only the occasional, overly polished reassurance of “investigations underway” or “isolated incidents.”