Disclaimer: this is a mature story wih violence, moderately gory details, and adult themes and language interspersed throughout the story. Read at your own discretion.
Recap
"It was smart, using gunpowder to cauterize the wound. If you hadn't done that, I don't think she would still be with us. I've stitched her up as best as I can, and given her Morphine for the pain, the rest is in God's hands now."
"Okay, thanks, Doc."
You shake his hand firmly before he excuses himself, gently closing the door behind him. You turn your attention back to the woman on the bed, who now seems to be resting more peacefully, face no longer contorted by pain. Taking a seat in the armchair once more, you settle into the rhythm and cadence of the saloon atmosphere. Music and raucous laughter drift up softly through the floorboards and the doorway from down below, light bumps and moans of pleasure come through the walls in the room adjacent to the one you now occupy. I wonder if that is Turner enjoying himself, that cocksure whelp...
It doesn't take long in this cadence of night life for you to find your eyes growing heavy, weary and fatigued from the events of the day. Before you drift off into sleep, you have the presence of mind to consider this thought: where should I position the chair before I fall asleep?
(A.) Closer to the side of the bed
(B.) In front of the door
(C.) Leave it where it is
You set yourself down in the armchair across the room from the bed, and settle into a shallow, vigilant slumber - one hand on your chest, the other on the pistol at your hip...
(Ya'll really were divided on this one, this should be fun!)
Chapter 6: The Night of the Hunter
Image Artist: @anikekirsten
You wake with a start, whipping your gun out of its holster and cocking the hammer back in one swift motion. The figure which has just now burst into the room unceremoniously takes a few stumbling steps before noticing you in the chair with the revolver leveled at their chest.
"Whoa, WHOA, mishter! * hic * Itsh jusht meaeeaieee!"
"Chris'sakes, boy, you know it wouldn't hurt to knock, right? Coulda killed you just then!"
"Shhhshhshhshhhhhhh, ish okay, I forgivshya. I jusht thought aaaiiiii would come'n check in on tha li'l lady... howshe doin'?"
Standing up to holster your weapon, you usher your young companion towards the chair. "Seems to me someone should be checkin' in on you, not the other way 'round! Doc said she'd be okay, though, just needs rest." You check your watch, a slightly tarnished silver pocket watch that has faithfully kept time for your family for three generations. Half past two. "Why don't you get some shut-eye, kid, sleep off that booze you nearly drowned yourself in? We'll see what the 'morrow brings, but I think it best you be sober whatever the case may be." Your words fall upon deaf ears, however, as Turner has already slumped over in the armchair - lightly snoring in a booze-addled slumber.
Your gaze travels across the room once more, noticing some details for the first time since arriving there now that the more urgent matter of seeking medical attention for the mysterious woman was seen to. It is no more impressive than your first impressions: A simple polished silver mirror hanging above a simple dresser of drawers on the wall to your left, a window comprised of four panes of dirty glass not far from the dresser, a nightstand next to the clawfoot bed with an oil lamp on it - still burning a low, comforting flame to cast light about the room - a chamber pot near the other side of the bed, and a coat hanger standing watch next to the door leading back out into the hallway. Simple, but sufficient.
As you take stock of your surroundings, you notice the woman stir a little in the bed. Though she doesn't appear to wake, her stirring did shift the covers, causing her to shiver from exposure. You gently pull the covers back over her shoulder, which seems to calm her unconscious mind. She tried to kill us, it makes no sense to be here now, but here we are... carin' for her as best we can.
You step over to the window to glimpse outside. It is dark out, most of the windows of the buildings lining the main road have long gone dark since night fell. Though the man-made lights have mostly died out, the eerie light cast by the moon in all her splendor lights the street with a dim glow. Nothing stirs, though, lest they be caught unawares by God only knows what at this witching hour. You stand there for a few moments with an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, waiting for something... anything... to happen. It's too goddamn quiet, quiet is never a good thing. As time passes, however, the unease slowly gives way to tentative relief at the lack of the typical signs of imminent danger.
No dogs barking, carrion or fowl spooking and flying off into the distance in a flurry of squawks and feathers, no screams or gunshots... just a quiet peacefulness that seems to have blessed this small town with a moment of true respite. You check your watch again. A quarter past four. Trusting now that the peace is more or less here to stay, you hang your hat on the coat hanger and lock the door. Should've done this before, foolish to leave it unlocked, even with my partner being outside... Making your way over to a spot on the wall near to the armchair, you ease yourself down onto the floor and prop your back against the wall with one leg pulled in closer to your chest and one leg extended out in front of you. You've already hidden the rifle behind the armchair, so you withdraw your pistol from its holster once more and lay it across your lap clutched in your hand - ready to squeeze the trigger in a moment's notice. Satisfied that all is in order, you allow yourself to fall back into a vigilant slumber.
Deep in the recesses of the swamplands, the light of a bonfire shines out from inside a once-abandoned parish - now rebuilt and fortified with wooden stakes and makeshift palisades. Around this fire are gathered shadowy figures, dressed in long coats adorned in occult symbols drawn in blood. Tied to two sturdy beams forming an "X" nearby the fire is a squirming, growling thing that - though human in appearance - has relinquished every last vestige of humanity to the base instinct that now dominates its fevered, decaying mind: kill... eat... kill... eat...
One of the shadowy figures steps out of the group and turns to face the rest, taking its place next to the "X". The thing tied to it strains against its bonds, gasping and growling as it tries in vain to reach for the figure. Faced towards the group, the firelight casts dancing rays of light and shadow across the figure's ebony-colored skin and occult symbols drawn across the breast and arms of his coat. Breathing deep, he opens his mouth to speak.
"Brothers and sisters, it is good you are here on this night at this hour! Tonight, we bring on a new era for all humankind! Our salvation is here!" With this, he raises his arms and gestures to the "X", eliciting a cheer from the group surrounding the fire. "Our work has been long and difficult, but I have seen the fruits of our labor. I have seen the deliverance of mankind, and we... we are the messengers of this great gift! It is our divine purpose and duty to spread this deliverance ACROSS THE WORLD!" Another cheer erupts from the group.
"Now, my friends, my family, let us begin the cleansing of this world. My visions have foretold everything, AND IT HAS COME TO PASS! I saw the earth open up and bring life everlasting to those passed on. I saw the evil growing in Jackson, sent to exterminate our salvation... and behold! The A.H.A. sends its dogs to kill and exterminate that which would promise eternity!" This last point elicits hisses and boos from the group. "But tonight, on this night of the Full Moon... they cannot escape Fate. They will not evade deliverance! I have seen it. Tonight, WE CREATE A NEW WORLD!"
With this, the figure produces a knife from inside his coat and whipping around to the thing tied to the "x" slashes a deep cut into its stomach, spilling congealed blood and guts on the ground. Unphased, the thing continues to struggle against its restraints, desperate for a taste of the warm flesh standing before it.
"Come my friends, we have work to do. By blood, we are delivered. By the Night, we are cleansed."
"By the Sight of Samuels, we see." echoes the response from the group, now milling about and moving past the leader to dip their fingers in the blood and guts - some of them shoving their hands into the empty cavity left in the stomach of the thing on the "X". One by one, they take the black ichor and draw symbols on their cheeks and foreheads.
"By the sight of Samuels, we see..." whispers the leader to himself. If only the boys in the old militia could see old Isaac Samuels now... who could've known that I would be the one to lead humanity into eternal life? With this thought, he turns to the wagons - each of them repurposed into a paddy wagon of sorts, with sturdy cages fashioned onto the back behind the seat - full to the brim with growling, wheezing figures, reaching through the bars and grasping at thin air towards the group of warm bodies. It is time for The Night's Watch to make themselves known, and to carry out our divine mission...
With this thought, he climbs up into the seat of the nearest carriage, raises a fist towards the night sky, and screams "On to our glorious purpose!" The group leaps into action, splitting evenly amongst the wagons before riding out in a flurry of hoofbeats and creaking wagon axles.
The sound of snapping twigs and branches paired with growls and wheezes interrupts the otherwise peaceful slumber of Sheriff Billings. Leaping up off his cot and quickly strapping his gun belt on around his waist, he closes the distance between himself and the door to the jail in a few quick strides to see what the commotion is all about. He is greeted by the stench of decay and rot as a crowd of shambling figures stumble into the empty street. He stands, frozen at the threshold, not daring to move lest he draw their attention.
What the hell are they doing here?! They've never wandered this far out of the swamps!
Just as the good Sheriff ponders this thought, he notices that one of the figures has turned its lifeless gaze in his direction. For a moment, the two stand transfixed as if frozen in time, eyes locked in an ageless exchange between the sanctified and profane. Then, almost as if in a dance of perfect synchronicity, realization strikes both figures. The cold, lifeless eyes turn to what Wyatt Billings can only comprehend as a "furious hunger", fueled by hellfire, and the shambling figure begins to stumble forwards towards him in a headlong sprint.
"Oh, shit!" exclaims the Sheriff, whipping his pistol out of its holster. With one fluid motion, he cocks the firing hammer with the heel of his left hand and pulls the trigger. The figure stumbles as it catches hot lead in the chest, near its heart. After a moment's pause to pick itself back up, it continues to rush with an unsteady gait right towards him... along with the rest of the group, whose attention was now secured by the report of the pistol. In this moment of imminent danger, Sheriff Billings's legs become unfrozen - fire and electricity rushing through them - and he takes to the street in a full sprint. I sure as hell hope that the gunshot woke up the townspeople, we're in the shit now! God help us all...
A gunshot resounding off the walls of your small room revives you from your watchful sleep. You press yourself against the wall next to the window and peer cautiously out through the dirty glass to see a man sprinting at a breakneck pace down the street, pursued by what appears to be a sizeable crowd of grunts. Oh, shit, what are they doing here? Hunting and food in the swamps can't be scarce enough to cause them to wander out this far! In hushed but urgent tones you rouse Turner from his stupor.
"Ey! What the fuck, mister, I'm tryna sleep here!"
Good, some of the booze-addling seems to have worn off. "Wake up, kid, we've got a problem. There's a large group of grunts outside chasing someone, whole town's in danger."
"Fuckin' shit..." Turner exclaims, checking to ensure he didn't leave his pistols while swept up in the arms and legs of the working gal he'd so thoroughly enjoyed earlier. Withdrawing them from their holsters, he checks them to ensure both cylinders are fully loaded and gives them a reassuring spin until the familiar click click click of the rotating cylinders come to rest in alignment with the firing pins. "Okay, what's the plan?"
You pause to quickly form a plan of action. There's someone in the street who is in dire need of assistance, but the woman can't be left unattended - neither because of her vulnerability nor her unknown intentions. You're left with a choice:
(A.) Leave Turner in the room with the woman to guard her and shoot into the crowd of grunts from the bedroom window while you meet the man in the street to help him fight off the undead.
(B.) Have Turner meet the man in the street to help him fight off the undead while you maintain position in the bedroom to guard the woman and shoot at the grunts in the street yourself.
As with previous chapters, please leave your votes in the comments below. Those who vote will immediately be added to the watchlist and can choose to opt out of it by indicating this preference with their vote. I look forward to seeing what y'all choose! Thank you for your time and attention.
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As always, take care of yourselves and each other, and stay thoughtful!
Your friendly neighborhood dork,
~Thinkr
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