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.
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Recap
"Me neither. They've always stuck to the swamps for some reason... either the food is too good to leave, or the terrain too rough for them to navigate. Was thinking about catching a trail at first light and findin' out where the sonsabitches came from, wouldn't mind if y'all tagged along. Already proved yourselves useful with firearms, and by the looks of ya, seems like you're pretty familiar with these things too." He pauses to assess the two of you for a moment. "Yeah, I've seen your type roll through before. You folks are Hunters with the HC, I presume. I know you boys probably have contracts that need fillin', but your help would sure be appreciated 'round here if you're up to it."
You glance at Turner, who has just left your side and is crossing the street. What the hell is he up to? Observing him for a moment reveals that he has made his way over to a group of corpses next to the stoop of a house across the street. Pausing for a moment over the heap, he kicks away some of the corpses to reveal one with pale white skin - body ravaged and insides strewn about - its perfectly shaped breasts still intact and exposed for the world to see. He throws the poncho from his shoulders and covers the corpse over as if tucking it in with a blanket, restoring her modesty once more. Then he unsheathes the knife from its sheath on his waist, and shoves it through the temple of the her head. Dunno what's gotten into him, but he's a smart boy - gotta kill the brain to keep 'em dead. He's consistently full of surprises... He begins making his way back across the street towards you.
Turning your attention back to the Sheriff, you respond, "We'll give it some thought. Check in with us in the morning and we'll let you know."
[...]
"Well, well... a Lockheed, huh? Shit... welp, it's a good thing I agreed to work with ya instead of tryin' to shoot ya out there, then, ain't it?! Haha!" The wonder gave way to that devil-may-care grin once more. "Shiiiit... Gunnar, huh? Well, Gunnar, I'd like to get a little shut-eye, if'n you don't mind. You make up yer mind about tomorrow, I'm along fer the ride now! Heh, heh..." And with that, he tips his hat over his eyes and quickly drifts off into a sleep littered with light snores.
You sit yourself down on the floor with your back propped against the door, just in case, and ponder the decision that you've been presented...
(A.) Join the Sheriff tomorrow morning to investigate the origin of the horde.
(B.) Return to the swamp with Turner to complete your contracts.
Chapter 8: The Excursion
Image Artist: @anikekirsten
A knock at the door you're propped against rouses you from a shallow sleep with a jolt, and a muffled voice speaks through the crack in the door. "Thought you boys might like to know I took the liberty of buying you breakfast this mornin', figured it's the least I could do in return for you savin' my hide last night... It'll be hot 'n' ready in a few minutes if you wanna fresh up. I'll be at a table downstairs when you're ready."
"Alright, thanks, Sheriff." You reply, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and stretching the stiffness out of your limbs. "We'll be down in a moment." You're struck by the realization as you rise from your reclined position that your joints are more apt to voice their displeasure at your rise and fall than they once were. Pops always said that my body would let me know when I was getting old... these are either the first telltale signs, or my body telling me that the floor isn't as agreeable as a mattress... Another stretch dispels the last vestiges of the stiffness and aches and a glance around the room - now better-lit by the early morning sunshine pouring in through the window - reveals a washbasin on top of the dresser underneath the polished mirror, a pitcher of water sitting next to it.
On your way to the dresser, you lightly kick Turner's boot to rouse him from his sprawling sleeping position. With a sharp snort, he sits up straight in the armchair. After rubbing his bleary eyes, he blinks stupidly for a moment, his waking mind seemingly refusing to fully function just yet. You measure out water from the pitcher into the washbasin and splash it into your face and beard a few times. The cool liquid running down your face and neck is refreshing, invigorating and clarifying your mind. You stand there, hunched over the washbasin, tiny droplets periodically dripping from your beard and making subtle plops as they hit the water down below. Your reflection is dim and somewhat blurry in the polished silver mirror, but just clear enough to reveal small streaks of white in your beard and temples.
Damn... when did those get there? They aren't joking when they say "time and tide wait for no man"...
You stand there for an instant, transfixed by the sudden realization that Time truly has begun catching up with you, mildly reeling in this sudden existential crisis. Then, as quickly as it arrived, the feeling departed at the sound of Turner hocking a loogie behind you.
"You ready, boy? Sheriff's bought us breakfast, 'pparently."
Stretching his arms out wide and letting out a mouth-gaping yawn, Turner responds "Hell yeah, I'm starvin'!"
"Why don't you go on and get some vittles in ya, then, I'm gonna check on missy here."
Not requiring any further convincing, Turner eagerly bolts out the door. Stepping over to the side of the bed, you rouse the recumbent woman with a soft touch on her wrist. She wakes up gently, not even seeming startled when she sees you standing over her. Interesting.
"Just wanted to let you know that we're going out. Sheriff needs some help investigating what the hell happened last night. I'll see to it that the Doc checks in on ya every once in a while. The boy and I will be back before nightfall to check in on ya."
The fleeting look of fear that crossed her face subsides at the last statement. She slowly nods her head in agreement, takes your hand in hers. Her soft skin feels foreign against yours, like velvet greeting rough-hewn wood, but you don't fight it nor the momentary comfort it brings. "Thank you" she gasps painfully, exerting the effort to speak in spite of her injury.
"Think nothing of it. Get some more rest, you'll need your strength as you heal."
At that, she releases your hand and settles her head back into the pillow, and you pivot on your heel to exit the room yourself.
Before you even reach the ground floor, you're greeted by Turner's boisterous voice. "Gunnar! Biscuits and gravy, BACON! Get yer ass over here, before I eat yer helpin'!" He kicks a chair your way as you approach, which you deftly catch and spin around on one leg before settling it on all four and taking a seat yourself. Across the table sits the Sheriff, who extends a hand to you - which you grasp in a firm handshake.
"Thank you for joining us, Gunnar. Your friend here has already filled me in on some of the details of the last day. Seems like you boys have had a hell of a time! As I said las night, I'm Wyatt Billings, Sheriff of the town. Again, I sure appreciate you boys helpin' me out of that bind!"
Smiling through a bite of a buttery, fluffy biscuit, smothered in gravy. "The breakfast is more than payment enough. Compliments to the cook!"
"Glad you're enjoying it. Listen, I know you boys have already helped our town enough, but have you given any more thought to my proposition?"
You nod, savoring the salted bacon. "Our contracts aren't going anywhere... yet... we'll help ya poke around. Besides, I'm as eager as you are to figure out what the hell caused them to wander out this far. Never seen anything like it before, and that's sayin' somethin'..." Seen a lot of shit, but it's always been limited to the swamps. Gotta figure out what changed the game so I know how to play by the new rules...
"I'm pleased to hear that. Meet me at the jail after you boys are done here. We'll pick up the trail from there."
He pushes his chair back with a groaning scrape across the floor and brushes his pants as he straightens up. Loosely brushing his neat-cut hair over with one hand and with the other, he dons his dark brown leather hat. With a tip of his hat, he saunters out the front doors and begins to make his way down the street to the jail.
"Guess that makes us deputies, huh?" Turner says with a smirk.
"Not quite that official, but yeah, we're helpin' the lawman."
"Never thought I'd be doin' that in this life... heh, strange times!" He exclaims, eagerly stabbing his fork back into his second helping of biscuits and gravy. You finish the rest of breakfast in silence.
After checking in with the town's physician about the woman in the upstairs room, you and Turner trudge through the muddy street towards the jail. The Sheriff greets you in the street and invites you to come inside and stock up ammunition for your weapons in preparation for the excursion into the woods. Gunbelts and bandoliers fully stocked, your party picks up the trail of crowded, muddy footprints heading into town. The trail leads into the woods further off to the South, further evidenced by trampled vegetation and disturbed foliage.
"Alright boys... let's go." Says Sheriff Billings, advancing along the trail into the woods beyond, followed closely by you and your young partner.
The tracks are relatively easy to follow. When foot impressions aren't obviously left in the muddy ground, the bruised vegetation, broken branches, or flattened bushes are plenty to indicate the passage of a large group of shambling beings. For approximately 30 minutes, you follow the telltale signs, throwing scrutinizing glances to and fro to investigate the forest surrounding you for evidence of further dangers lurking nearby. The typical markers of hellthing activity are absent, however. The birds are singing, the air is clean and fresh - the stench of decay nowhere to be found except for the faint remnants of the decaying bodies that passed through the area last night - leaving a few bits and pieces of rotting flesh or clothing here and there along the path.
Birds are the first sign that hell has arrived... they don't share joyful songs when pain suffering are near. The words of your father once again echo from the archives of your memory, the wise instruction and vast knowledge of the Hunt passed onto you to equip you in facing this dangerous new world. Life was more simple when the only danger you had to worry about was a man with a gun trying to dodge the righteous fist of the law, wasn't it, Pops?
"Oh my God..."
The trailing remark from the Sheriff draws your attention to the patch of ground at his feet upon which his eyes are fixed. The trail of footprints ends at several shallow, continuous indentations - each pair approximately four feet apart from one another - with hoofprints punctuating the space in between.
"Holy shit..." Turner murmurs beneath his breath, "they were brung here by someone? Fuckin' hell, who... why?..." The three of you stand, casting about in stunned silence. Shit... the game's rules didn't change... we're playing an entirely different goddamn sport!
"Sheriff, I hate to say it but--"
"I know, we're thinking the same thing... this wasn't an accident. It was an attack." The word "attack" hangs in the air forebodingly, the weight of realization sinking in and pervading every feature of the small meadow - making it seemingly darker, more sinister. "We need to get back to town to warn folks. Maybe... I don't know, fortify the town or something?"
"Might not be a bad idea. Those who did this are definitely still out there; might be regrouping for another attack, might even be watching us right now - tryin' to figure out if their plan worked or not. May be best to prepare the townsfolk for another attack, just in case. However, we still don't know what we're dealing with here. We don't know their numbers, how well armed they are, where they came from... nothin'."
"What do you suggest?"
"I'm thinkin' if we give 'em too much time to regroup, we'll lose our window of opportunity. They might be coverin' their tracks as we speak. I suggest that one of us return to town to prepare, the other two follow these here wagon tracks to investigate where these bastards came from."
Turner speaks up at this point. "Who's goin' where? Seems like no matter what, we're all up shit creek here."
You take a moment to consider his query. Your brain is reeling with all the variables it's suddenly been presented with: the attack, this unknown group of what you can only assume to be fanatics, what it'll take to protect the town, protect the woman, and attempt to keep yourself alive and breathing - all swirling together in your mind like a noxious soup.
"Gunnar?"
You snap out of your thoughts and look up at Wyatt, the tall man's countenance is stony and resolute.
"I trust your judgment in the matter, I have my own thoughts, but I'd like to hear yours."
You breathe out a sigh with a low whistle. Looking back to the wagon wheel furrows in the ground, you weigh your choices:
(A) Send Wyatt back to town
(B) Send Turner back to town
(C) Return to town yourself
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Your friendly neighborhood dork,
~Thinkr
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