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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I need to preface this chapter with the realization that I was unintentionally violating copyright by using the names and locations directly featured in the videogame, Hunt: Showdown. This story is inspired by the world and lore of that game, but is separate and apart from it and all intellectual property of Crytek. Therefore, I have gone through and changed the names of characters under intellectual copyright to reflect that reality. Thank you for continuing to tune in and read my story!
Recap
"Okay, so it's possible they ditched the wagons somewhere along the way to make gettin' in and out easier..."
"I was thinking the same thing."
"Okay, so we investigate these prints come first light." You peer back at the horizon to watch the Sun bid farewell and sink into his slumber; already being replaced by the Moon, eager to shed her pale light upon the mortal realm. "It's already late, too late and too dark to find our way back to town. I suggest we strike camp somewhere off the path."
Wyatt nods his head in assent, and falls in behind you as you delve deeper into the cypress woods, relying on the failing light of the Sun and the growing shimmer of the Moon to guide your footfalls. When you've ventured far enough in that you deem it safe to strike camp without being easily noticed, you gesture about you as if to say "pick a spot."
"Should we light a fire?" he asks. "I've heard that fire serves to drive away wild animals."
You consider his query for a moment. On the one hand, it would serve as a deterrent for wild animals and it would provide a source of warmth in the cool of the night. On the other hand, it would only attract the attention of those with whom they wanted to remain anonymous. The cypress forest is thick, but is it thick enough to hide the flickering light of a fire? What peril are you likely to face without a fire? You ponder these questions as you consider your options:
A. Light the fire.
B. Stick to the dark.
Chapter 10: Of Specters and Hangings
Image Artist: @anikekirsten
The woods have grown steadily darker, the dusklight casting a weird combination of warm and cold light across intertwining branches branches and leaves. As the warmth of sunlight departs, the trees take on an entirely different life. No longer do they provide respite and shade from the Sun in his full glory; now they cast shadows long and deep, harboring secrets within both beautiful and terrible.
Though frogs and crickets now deem it appropriate to raise up their songs to the Moon - praising her glory and thanking her for resting her countenance upon them - the more deadly creatures and spectres of the night have also come to life. Owls with their soundless flight hunt wildlife unfortunate enough to remain stuck outside their burrows, happily hooting after devouring their bountious prey. The moaning howl of a pack of wolves swells as they petition the Moon to bless their prowl with a feast for their young and old. The blood-curdling scream of two cougars battling for dominance in a dispute over territory eventually cuts across the night ambience.
The forest has come alive. Untouched by the spiritual darkness that plagues the swamps. This is good… it is right…
A snapping twig interrupts this thought, ushering in immediate vigilance and caution. A stealthy peep around trunk of the tree reveals two figures stalking through the darkened woods. Best to stay still, maybe they won't notice our presence… The quiet footsteps begin to recede and the ambient sounds of night life return to their normal cadence. Let us see what our new "friends" are up to. Rising from a crouched stance, eyes fixed on the direction in which the footsteps retreated, the decision to follow them becomes resolute, as if etched in stone.
Turner slowly comes to, vision foggy and unfocused, his head throbbing from the blow it had received earlier. Gah, my head… what the fuck happened? He cradles is forehead in his hand as he props himself up with an elbow, allowing his vision to gradually clear up. A quick glance around him reveals a small room made up of a wooden floor, a small cot, a chamber pot, and four walls spaced approximately six to seven feet apart on all sides… walls made of iron bars. Aw, shit… that really did happen. FUCK! I was hopin' that was just a bad dream er sumthin'…
"I was wonderin' when you'd wake up, you sumbitch…"
Turner squints to force his eyes to focus beyond the bars. A man sat in the chair next to a desk on the opposite wall from the cells. Though mostly shrouded by shadows, the figure's frame is unmistakable even in the dark: scrawny, lanky limbs attached to a beer-bellied torso. That's the motherfucker that went 'n' riled erryone up!
"I'm only gonna ask ya this one more time: what didja do with the Sheriff?"
With a groan, Turner hoists himself up into a standing posture using the bars as support. Gesturing as if to say "come here", he waits patiently as the imbecile in the chair rises from his seated position and approaches the cell. The second he comes close enough, Turner's hands shoot out from the gaps int he cell and grasp fistfuls of the man's grimy shirt. Before he has a chance to recover from the surprise, Turner yanks him forcefully into the iron bars, causing the man's head to collide with a resounding clang. A small rivulet of blood springs forth from a fresh cut, giving Turner an almost overwhelming feeling of satisfaction.
"I won't say it again, ya stupid fuckin' cuntbag, so listen close: I was sent back by 'em to help yous ungrateful shits get ready fer if sumthin' like last night happens again!"
The man manages to wrest his clothing free with a rip, spluttering and grasping at his injured head. He takes a moment to assess his blood-smeared hand and furiously spits out, "Yer gonna regret that, ya piece of shit! Yer gonna hang tamorrow fer killin' the Sheriff."
"I didn't kill him!" Turner retorts, but the man has already stormed out of the jailhouse. Daft idjit… The harrowing realization that the "daft idjit" will likely be his demise wastes no time in setting in, however, causing Turner to plop down on the small cot in calm resignation.
Fuck…
"So you think we should go without a fire tonight?"
"Yes. The risk of shedding too much light and drawing unwanted attention is too great. We'll just have to take turns keeping watch in case of wild animals, you up for it?"
"This ain't my first rodeo, Gunnar, I've done my fair share of stakeouts back when I first did a stint with the Texas Rangers."
"You worked with the Rangers?"
"Briefly, they had tracked a notorious horse thief into Louisiana Jurisdiction, and I was part of the posse that our State Marshall organized to assist in the search. Finally ran him down into a small cabin that he damn-near made a into small fortress… spent many long hours awake to make sure he didn't slip out unnoticed."
"What happened with him?"
"Shot himself. I guess when he realized he couldn't get out and was likely going to hang for his crimes, he decided to take the easier way out."
"Damn. Well, even though I'm sure you're more than capable of keepin' an eye out, why don't you get some shut-eye while I keep watch? I'll rouse you in a few hours."
"Fair enough, thank you, Gunnar."
As Wyatt settles himself into the crook of a cypress tree, you turn your attention to your surroundings - closely scrutinizing the shadows and trees for anything out of place. The woods have a haunting beauty at night, the moonlight dancing between the leaves and branches as the gentle breeze caresses them. The Spanish moss lights up every once in a while in the pale light, giving the illusion of an ethereal being appearing and disappearing at a whim. These are all sights and sounds that are familiar to you, though, and hold no fear or anxiety in them. You're looking for the "out of place"; so with a watchful eye and discerning ear, you keep your vigil over your dozing companion.
The conversation between the two men fascinates him. They have not been difficult to follow while avoiding detection because of it, and he had trained his followers to be like wraiths in the night: present, but unknown and undetected, betrayed only by the faint sound of rattling bones. As the conversation reaches a lull, he motions to his followers to halt and lay low in the darkness. He is still trying to figure out how much of a threat these two men pose to his operations; so for now, they wait and watch.
You and Wyatt take turns keeping watch a few hours at a time, each. The night is surprisingly quiet apart from the usual sounds of animal life occurring all around you. A few times, a rustle in the brush causes the individual on watch duty to snap to attention, but it is little more than a wandering deer or jackrabbit. The predators must be enjoying their hunt elsewhere tonight, as the yelps, howls, and growls in the distance seem to indicate. Before long, the humble Moon begins to retreat and defer to the growing presence of the Sun, his pride and power changing the night sky from deep blacks and blues to and orangish-yellow. Dawn has come.
As Wyatt rouses you for the last time and you share some hard tack together as a meager breakfast of sorts, the poorly defined depths of the woods become more and more brightly light. The sunlight filters through the leaves once more, throwing intricate patterns of light and shadow on the forest floor. Rays of light catch the particles of dust floating about in the air as it passes through, creating a natural painting towards which even Rembrandt himself would be green with envy. Sometimes, taking even just a brief moment to appreciate the little beauties in this world can give a small respite from the harsher realities it holds, you think to yourself, picking masticated cracker out of your teeth with your tongue.
The two of you set about to packing up what little provisions and equipment you brought out to set up camp. It isn't until you straighten up fully and look about to regain your bearings that you notice the chilling presence of a tall man just at the edge of your periphery. You jerk your head around to make out the figure in greater detail, but upon arrival of your full gaze he vanishes like a fleeting thought. You shake your head to clear your mind and return your scrutiny to the area you believed him to be. Still not there… but I KNOW you were there…
"What is it, Gunnar?" Wyatt inquires, noticing your demeanor.
"I'm not sure…" you trail off. It's true, you can't be sure of what you saw. However, you are certain that what you think you saw was a tall figure - about the Sheriff's height, if not taller - a bear skin draped over his shoulders. It had to have been a figment of your imagination, though, because you could swear the figure was a skeleton… the ribcage exposed and the deep eye sockets in the skull peering at you. Even though experienced indirectly, you would still describe it as staring into the abyss.
"Let's go, I don't want to waste anymore daylight, and I'm itching to get back to town." The Sheriff interjects assertively.
His angst is understandable, so you oblige. As you move to regain the trail with him, though, you can't shake the feeling that you're not alone out here. The wildlife don't seem to be reacting to anything more than your presence, however, so you write it off as a waking dream of the unsavory type. Besides, you have a pressing task to see to, and you are also feeling anxious to return to town for some inexplicable reason.
As the two men begin to trek back in the direction from which they came, he observes stoically from his crouched posture behind the brush thicket. A soft voice, smooth and silky, speaks up at his right shoulder.
"A lawman and a Hunter, from the looks of it. What should we do?"
He remains motionless and silent, pondering this revelation himself. Killing them would only bring more of their kind in droves, searching for retribution. Engaging them is risky, as their purpose is still uncertain and their response to him and his people even moreso. But leaving them to their own devices could potentially interfere with their way of life, their purpose. What to do?
"Sir?"
"Follow dem, do not let dem out ah ya sight. I tink we may yet see who dey ah, and what dey about befoe we tink about killing dem."
"As you wish, master." she croons, slinking away soundlessly in pursuit of the two men.
Two burly men stomp through the threshold of the town jail, followed closely by the impish mob leader. Turner glances up at them with a sneer. "Brung backup this time, I see. How's yer head?" The man scowls back at Turner, opting to remain silent since evidence of the scuffle is still plain as day underneath a hastily wrapped white cloth bandage. One of the bigger men steps forward, a length of corded rope in his hands.
"Put your hands on the back wall where we can see 'em..." he commands with a deep, gruff voice.
Knowing that doing anything else would likely result in getting the shit kicked out of him, Turner complies and plants both palms firmly on the wall behind the bars opposite the three men. With surprising swiftness, both of his arms are grasped and restrained behind his back, a knot being expertly tied around his wrists. Fuckin' hell, Turner, how are you gonna make it out of this one? With the two bigger men leading him by the elbows, Turner exits his cell. Before they have a chance to leave the building, the voice of the mob lunges forward and throws a sucker punch right into Turner's diaphragm, forcing all the air out of his lungs. He leers as the boy falls on the support of the men at his elbows, gasping for breath.
"That's for crackin' mah head open is'mornin'!" he crows.
"Bad form, Lester. Sheriff Billings never would've stood for that kinda treatment - even for a man headed to the noose." the big man at Turner's left states.
"Well Sheriff Billings ain't here, now, is'ee? All b'cause o' this yere rat!" he spits back, clearly displeased with being chided.
"I told yous once, I'll tell yous twice: I didn't kill 'em!" Turner explained in vain. This Lester character had already spread vitriol around about him, and the townsfolk were set on his hanging.
"Shut it, you." The man on his right ordered. They proceeded to half-push, half-drag him out of the jailhouse into the street where a crowd had gathered to witness the event. Fuckin' vultures, the lot of 'em... gettin' their jimmies off, watchin' a young'un die. Ne'ermind that it was the same young'un what helped 'em beat back the dead the night 'fore last! Ungrateful sonsabitches... His thoughts trail off as he notes the tree they're heading towards.
A noose already hangs from its branches.
As you trudge through the cypress forest to recover the trail left behind by your mysterious foes, you can't seem to shake the feeling of a presence observing you. Call it intuition or premonition, it matters not. Every time you throw a surreptitious glance over your shoulder, though, you are met with nothing but empty woodland - except for the occasional squirrel or woodland bird. In a short time, you reach the clearing with the bridge beyond. Your guns at the ready, you and your companion slow your approach and drop your stance to a crouch to avoid detection. Creeping carefully along the edge of the clearing, you navigate around to the point at which the tracks were discovered last night. A twig snaps behind you. Whirling around, you snap the muzzle of your rifle up to the point from which the sound came.
No one is there... what the devil is going on here?
"What the hell?" exclaims the Sheriff.
"What?"
"The tracks are gone."
"They're what?!"
"I don't know what else to say, they were here last night, and now they're not!"
You step around him to take a look for yourself. The two of you stand there, nonplussed, so wholly fixated on the patch of ground where hoofprints should be that you don't even notice the catlike presence stalk around you before retreating into the woods.
"I don't understand, tracks don't just disappear!" cries Wyatt in frustration.
"No, they sure don't... unless someone came back and covered their tracks. Must've done it last night while we rested."
"GODDAMMIT!" shouts the Sheriff, kicking a fallen branch out of the way. "... Sorry, Gunnar, that was petulant of me. I was just hoping to catch the bastards that did this so I could keep my town safe..."
"I understand, Sheriff, all is forgiven. Though, we ought to get the hell outta here now. I've had the feelin' that we're not alone for a while, and I ain't too keen on stickin' around and findin' out why."
"Agreed, let's just head back to town and reconv-" Wyatt stops mid-sentence, his face goes white as the blood drains from it. You follow his petrified stare until your eyes lock with the abysmal gaze of a skeletal specter. You blink a few times to clear your vision of imaginings or hallucinations, but each time you open your eyes, the specter remains - standing tall in his dark majesty. Instinctively, you raise your gun with killing intent.
"Deyah is no need for dat." The specter says in a deep, resonating voice. "Come wit me. We 'ave been watching you, it is cleeyah you ah not wit dem. I tink we have some tings to talk about..." He gestures welcomingly towards the forest behind him.
Now that the shock of the original impression has worn off, you are able to distinguish physical features that once were tarnished by the more fantastic details your mind filled in at the campsite earlier. Though the eye sockets of the skull were, in fact, dark and hollow, the effect was due to the black paint on the face it masked; two dark brown eyes peer out from behind the empty sockets of the skull. The skull itself was missing the lower jawbone. Underneath its gaping maw were two full lips and a square jawline. Behind a bone necklace that you thought to be an exposed ribcage earlier is a muscular chest, bared to the sun. The skin of this "specter" is dark brown - nearly pitch black, even in the full sunlight; it bears flowing markings of white chalk, tracing intricate patterns all over its neck, torso, and arms. It's a black man, not a phantom!
"Gunnar, what do we do?" whispers the Sheriff, clearly still trying to shake the horrific imaginings of his mind.
What to do indeed?
A. Go with the mysterious, bone-clad man.
B. Try to negotiate a way out and return to town.
C. Throw out diplomacy, we're shooting our way out of here!
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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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