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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In our last chapter, Wyatt and Gunnar part ways. Wyatt returns to town to rally the troops and check in on Turner, who's just recently dodged death by lynching with the help of a kind old gunslinger named Earl Whitmore - the father of Daisy, the young woman who we saw meet an untimely death earlier in the story. Meanwhile, Gunnar stays with the troupe of strange individuals as they prepare for a "cleansing riual" of sorts. As they prepare, Gunnar experiences a growing sense of unease. In town, Turner learned more about his host, who was accosted by Lester and his goons in their efforts to continue going after Turner. Thankfully, the Sheriff arrived in time to interrupt Turner in nearly murdering all three men to save Earl, allowing Turner and Earl to return to a quiet evening meal. Finally, we ended with Doctor Jean reaching out to Gunnar as if to say "now you", and you had a choice of whether you'd take his hand or not, or to turn tail and eventually run. By majority vote, y'all chose to take Doctor Jean's hand. How will this play out? Keep reading to find out!
Oh, and... Merry Christmas to all of you!
Image Artist: 
You stand transfixed, eyeing Doctor Jean’s outstretched hand with both a fascinated interest and near-crippling fear. The latter of these two emotions piques your curiosity, as it is an emotion you haven’t felt in many years. The numerous days and nights spent in the swamps with danger of all kinds lurking around every corner have taken some of the edge from the feeling of “fear” - to the point of your feeling numb to it. In this moment, though, faced with the still inexplicably phantom-like presence of this man and his group, their strange behaviors, and this “cleansing ritual” - or whatever this is - you feel the deep, sickening well of fear gripping your gut. It chills your spine and steals your breath away as your gaze meets the hollow darkness behind the skull-mask’s eye sockets - now more ominous and other-wordly than ever before. Every fiber of your being screams “get out, this is no longer safe, flee for your life!”. Still, you are shocked to find that your hand begins to rise from its place at your hip - seemingly with a mind of its own - to grasp what now feels like the hand of Fate incarnate.
Two rows of gleaming white teeth once again shine out from underneath the half-skull mask as his hand gently, but firmly wraps itself around yours. That’s when, out of the corner of your eye, you catch the glint of the knife still brandished in his other hand; however, you maintain your composure and resist yanking your hand from his… or are you simply unable to move according to your own will now? He chants a few more words in his strange language before transitioning back into his thickly accented English.
“Spirits, to make owah way cleah, we offah da life fohce of a land-grazing beast. May her knowing of da land light da path to safety.” With this, Mwonaji pours the bowl of blood into the fire in a soft, steady stream. The fire crackles and flares up with this addition, throwing a few sparks to and fro. Is it just a trick of the mind, or does the fire seem…. hungrier, now?
Producing the chicken’s feet from the pouch at his belt, Doctor Jean continues, “We offah da feet of a sure-footed ground hen, to speed us on owah way and firm up da ground undah owah feet.” He tosses the feet into the fire, which again sparks as it devours the offering - more wildly this time. The hue of the center of the fire appears to be deepening in its shades of blue and green, growing in its intensity and voracious hunger. Jean turns his gaze back to you, but the visage which now greets you is not his own… not even the half-skull mask which you have grown somewhat accustomed to. No, in the deepening light of the fire, you now witness a somewhat transluscent face that shifts and morphs as the light dances across its face - neither man nor woman, not beautiful nor grotesque. Surprisingly - in spite of the inconceivable vision which now greets you - the fear seems to have melted from your gut and limbs, giving way to a curious sense of peacefulness. It is almost as if the spiritual likeness you now witness is a long-forgotten acquaintance, now reintroducing itself in your later years. It smiles… or at least it seems that way… then speaks with a voice which is simultaneously Doctor Jean’s and a myriad of other voices.
“The blood of an enemy, now made a friend. An offering made willingly to bind souls together, and bend the will of man and beast.”
The firelight reflects brightly off the blade of the knife as it dances through the air… and then bites your flesh.
Turner hesitates for a brief moment before lightly rapping his knuckes on the door post of the Sheriff’s Office. The events of the last 48 hours - though ultimately working out in his favor - have given more than enough cause for caution, even with trustworthy folks like the Sheriff. Before he has a chance to poke his head in the door, Turner is greeted by Wyatt’s tall frame and mustachioed face.
“Turner! Please, come in, son. I have some things I’m sure you are here to retrieve.” He says, gesturing to the dual pistol belts hanging on the wall off to the side of his simple desk.
“Ha! Ya read my mind, mister Billings!” Turner exclaims, rushing across the room to return the belts to their rightful place on his hips. He has felt so naked without them, but their familiar weight brings a comfort that even the soft body of a beautiful woman couldn’t hope to accomplish. He deftly whips both pistols out of their holsters, spinning them around by the trigger guard. In one fluid motion, he cocks both hamers, levels the pistol barrels at some imaginary enemy on the wall, uncocks the hammers, and rams back home in their holsters. All is made right again. I swear, the next person to try’n separate yous ‘n’ me catches a bullet with their teeth!
“Thank ye’kindly, mister Billings.” Turner says with a tip of his hat.
“No, thank you. I appreciate the restraint you showed with Lester earlier. I don’t know much of the story, since he’s done little more than sulk in the corner of his cell since I put him there, but something tells me you had every right to want to put him down then and there. Had you done that, we’d be having a very different conversation right now.”
“Bah, he weren’t worth wastin’ the bullets on. ‘sides, didn’t wanna git blood all over mister Whitman. Bad manners to git blood on yer supper host!”
The combination of Turner’s humor and the mere mention of manners in relation to their source causes Wyatt to chuckle jovially. “No, I suppose not! Earl is a fine man and a pillar of this community. It is beyond me what Lester and his boys thought they were doing, assaulting him like that…”
Before Wyatt has much time to finish musing over that last thought, Turner impatiently chimes in. “Where’s Gunnar? Weren’t he supposed to be with ya?”
“Oh, yes! Of course, where is my head? All this business with you, Lester, and Earl must have me a bit out of sorts.” He exclaims, embarrassed. He then fills Turner in on all the events which transpired since Turner departed: the dead wagon trail, the strange troupe led by Doctor Jean, and the impending threat of the doomsday cult for which he has returned to gather up fighting men to reinforce Gunnar and the Doctor’s people.
Letting out a low whistle, Turner replies, “Shit, Sheriff, are you sure that leaving Gunnar with them was a good idea?”
“Gunnar seemed to trust them, and I trust his instincts. Though, I have to admit, I am anxious to get back to him, as I am sure you are as well.”
“Well, yeah!” Turner exclaims. Then, almost as if to avoid appearing soft, he quips, “A hunting partner’s no good to me dead, how else’ll I git paid my part of his contract?”
Seeing through the thinly veiled concern for Turner’s newfound friend, Wyatt responds, “I’m concerned for him too, but there is nothing we can do tonight. Best get some rest and be ready to wake up bright and early tomorrow to help me rally our men and leave early.”
“Okay… if’n you say so. Guess I’ll go check on the li’l miss we left with the innkeep.”
Turning to leave, Turner catches a glimpse of Lester in his cell, sulking in the back corner of his cot. When Lester meets his glance, he gives Turner a toothy sneer - to which Turner responds with little more than a scoff before pushing his way out the door and making a straight line for the local tavern and inn. Rot in there, ya piece of shit. Ain’t worth my time.
Pain shoots through your limbs like icy fire. The flames beneath your bleeding arm now burn with a deep emerald green, and have grown high enough to lick your hand and Doctor Jean’s, still clasped together. It laps up each drop of blood voraciously, creeping higher and higher until it enters the open gash. The pain is excruciating, but you remain frozen in place - completely unable to move. As the fire enters your veins, an involuntary scream escapes from your lips, joined by ever-rising howls from Mwonaji - who is now heavily twitching and convulsing a few feet above the ground. Your vision begins to swim. Just before the world turns to black, you notice a thick, heavy fog settle around you, slowly spreading like tendrils from the ground on which you stand.
Turner knocks gently at the door to the woman’s room. “Miss? Are ya decent?” After waiting for a moment for a reply, he begins to enter the room with his eyes to the floor. “I dunno if ya r’member me, me ‘n Gunnar is the ones what brung ya here. I just wanted ta check on ya, make sure yer comfertable and such.”
A quiet, slightly raspy voice strains from the direction of the bed. “Thank you, young man. I’m decent, you may come in.” Allowing his gaze to climb upwards, Turner sees the woman sitting propped up in the bed. Her hair appears to have been recently cleaned and brushed, and the color of her skin has returned to a level of healthy pink hue that it was lacking when they first brought her to the tavern.
“How’re ya feelin’, miss? Yer wound need tending to, er… medicine er sumthin’?” Turner asks shyly, approaching the bed with his hat clasped in his hands.
“I’m okay, thank you. Y’all did all the hard work with stopping the bleeding, so it’s nothing to change the bandaging for it.”
“Sorry fer us shootin’ ya—”
“No, I’m sorry for shooting at y’all… it was my first time out there, and I heard tell of how many Hunters would sooner shoot you and be done with it than negotiate. I acted out of fear…”
“Well, fer what it’s worth, ye’re a helluva shot. Came pretty damn close to hitting me’n Gunnar a buncha times!” At this statement she blushes a bit and averts her gaze.
“Thanks, I guess. Though your kindness now makes me feel even more ashamed for trying to kill you. Thank you for saving me in spite of that, I’m very grateful to y’all.”
Turner lightly thumbs the brim of his hat, fidgeting a little next to the bed. “It weren’t nuthin’, miss.” He clears his throat and shakes his head a little as if to clear his thoughts. “Is there anythin’ I can git fer ya? Medicine? Blankets? I dunno, what do hurt folks need to feel better?”
This elicits a light laugh from her, a sound as sweet as honey to Turner’s ears - bringing a flood of memories about his mother’s laughter when he and his siblings would play around her while she hung the laundry out to dry. The rush of nostalgia threatens to overwhelm him as she replies, “Something to eat and drink would be welcome, would you accompany me to the bar room for dinner?”
Taking but a moment to ponder what the next 24 hours may hold, Turner gladly accepts the invitation. Offering his elbow to stabilize her and assist her in walking, they make their way to the dining area to find a suitable meal for a gunslinger and an injured woman. With the impending war between factions, Turner savors his meal and pleasant company - knowing that it could very well be his last.
You wake up with a gasp, sitting up straight with a start - and immediately regretting it due to the throbbing headache you experience shortly after. After rubbing your temples and eyes with one hand to clear away the pain a bit, you peer through your fingers at your surroundings. All around you is darkness, with hovering green lights interspersed throughout the pitch black. Distance is difficult to determine, but some of the lights seem to be flickering closer where others are further out in the “field” of blackness. A glance at the ground nearby you reveals more of this pitch black. No grass, no dirt. Just… blackness. It has substance to it, almost thick and sticky, but firm enough to walk upon. You also notice that blobs of this blackness seem to form in droplets, but they seem to “fall” upwards.
What the hell?
That’s when you see a figure standing ominously in the periphery of your vision. It speaks with a familiar voice.
“Hello, son. It’s been a while. What the hell are you doing here?”
Contrary to previous chapters, y'all won't be getting a multiple choice input here. The rolls of Fate (and my admittedly demented imagination) have led us to a place where there is very little choice right now, but don't worry, we'll be back with more choose your own adventure action next time! I hope to be more regular with releasing chapters to this story moving forward, since I have found a decent rhythm now. See y'all in the next one!
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Your friendly neighborhood dork,
~Thinkr
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