As he watched the blood of his nephew’s body slide through the dust on the floor and seep into the cracks, he said a quick good-bye. “Eliam vin mortast.”

Shem’s heart beat hard in his chest. He understood the phrase he spoke as “Return to the Originator,” but the sounds that came from his mouth were strange. He had spoken in a new tongue, one he had never heard before. He tried to remember the sounds of his native language, but only pieces remained. Most of the words, and the power they held, had been erased from his mind.

When Shem met his men outside, he found them confused and agitated. Like him, they were all speaking a new language, but they weren’t all the same. The men spoke at least ten different dialects. Using hand gestures to communicate, he separated the men into groups by the sounds of their words. Out of several hundred men, Shem found only thirty-three that could understand and speak his new language.

He looked over his army, once united to protect the sanctity of their language, now separated. Could they ever work together again? This is Nimrod’s fault, Shem thought. He defiled the Originator’s words and now the tongues of men have been confused.

His men looked to him for guidance, but he knew only thirty-three could understand his words. Instead of speaking, he raised his hands toward the sky in a sign of supplication they all understood. As one, the men fell to their knees and, in twenty-three different languages, prayed.

LOST

ONE

2009

AS HE RAN the blood covering the man’s body stiffened with coagulation. The smell of it, like dirty pennies, overpowered the pine scent of the forest around him. He staggered forward, thankful to still be alive but in tremendous pain from his still healing injuries, which burned as though held to a flame.

He clambered up a rise, slipping on the thick mat of pine needles and moist leaf litter. He had survived the impossible already, but if he were caught by his pursuers, life would not be worth living. Not for a very long time.

So he ran on despite the pain.

After topping the crest, he slid down the other side, searching for some means of escape, but saw only tree trunks, rising up to the clear blue sky above.

Suddenly, his breath returned in full. He paused, feeling better in the brief reprieve, but still unable to turn his head or inspect the wounds he’d received. The burning had faded, but was quickly being replaced by an intense itch.

A distant explosion urged him back to his feet. The battle continued without him, but it would end soon, and they would come for him.

Running down the hill, he wove through the trees until coming to a path worn into the forest floor. He followed it, pushing his way through the overgrowth.

Minutes later, a wall of white in the distance gave him hope. Upon reaching the white fence, he smiled. Beyond the fence lay a lawn of bright green grass in need of a cut and a large house with a garage nearly as big. He waited for as long as he dared, watching and listening. Detecting no life, he moved around the fence and approached the side of the house.