by Greg Dragon
Doc Whitman gripped her shoulders gently and pulled her away. “Eva, I need you to focus. We need light, and you need to bring me some boiling water and my tools.”
Eva stood staring at Wyatt for several seconds before she shook her head and ran off to follow the doctor’s orders. She put a kettle over the fire to boil and laid out his tools, then she scurried around the house lighting candles and lanterns.
“He was bitten,” the sheriff said as Doc Whitman pulled the small tool tray over.
Doc Whitman grabbed a pair of shears and cut away Wyatt’s pant leg. The smell began to permeate the room as he pulled the bandage off. He pressed the back of his hand to his nose and made the same noise the sheriff had. The wound was dripping with blood and pus.
“Bitten? By what? It almost...” He paused and grabbed a magnifying glass from the table.
Abby watched him as he inspected her brother’s leg. The confusion and doubt on his face mingled with her own tiredness. She felt like she was going crazy. She felt like she was dreaming, lost in a strange world. She began to question everything she had seen, all that had happened.
“It looks... But it can’t be. Not like this.” Disbelief flooded the doctor’s voice as he blinked twice at Wyatt’s leg, then raised his eyes to stare at Abby.
She nodded slowly as Hannah slid behind her to hide from the doctor’s appalled expression.
Connor’s narrowed eyes darted between Abby and the doctor. “What is it, doc?”
Doc Whitman shook his head. “Well,” he said as he bent over to examine the wound again. “It looks like he was bitten by a man, but it’s too dark around the bite. And the skin is starting to rot. It’s impossible. I would believe that of a snake bite, sure, but this is clearly not. There are no animals that I know of that can do this. It’s already infected and just by the look of him... Well, it doesn’t look good. How long ago was he attacked? If you’d brought him in right when it happened—“
Abby glanced at Eva. The girl’s hands shook as she placed a bowl of steaming water on the table. Droplets splashed onto her fair skin, but she didn’t even flinch. Her attention was completely on Wyatt. “We were eating dinner,” Abby said.
The doctor’s hand dropped to the table. “Dinner... just a few hours ago?”
Abby nodded as she fought against another bout of tears.
“No, that’s completely impossible. This type of infection would take days to set in, at least, if a man could even do that to another man. It just makes no sense.” He mumbled to himself for a few moments as he poked at the wound. “Give me some time to look him over and see what I can do. Eva, take care of the girls, please.”
The terrified young nurse led Abby, Hannah, and Sheriff McClane from the room and shut the door behind her. Her voice was soft and monotone when she spoke, mere habit rather than true hospitality. “Would you like some tea? I’ll refill the kettle.” Without waiting for an answer, she wandered into the kitchen.
The others followed her. As the girls sank into chairs around the table, Connor leaned against the doorway. “Abby, what happened?”
He had his hat in one hand and his arms were crossed. His eyes bore into her. She shook her head. It was all too strange. How could she explain it? The face of the man who killed her father swam in front of her. Her heart pounded in her chest so hard it hurt. “I don’t... It doesn’t make sense. They were dead.”
The sheriff straightened and raised an eyebrow. He hung his hat on a peg by the door and pulled the chair out from the end of the table. He swung it around in front of Abby and straddled it backward. “What do you mean ‘they were dead’?”
Abby raised her eyes, but she didn’t look at the sheriff. She looked at Hannah. Her younger sister’s eyes were wide. Even though Hannah was nearly seventeen, she looked about five in the light from the flickering candles.
The sheriff caught her stare. “Eva, why don’t you take Hannah upstairs and get her cleaned up and into a bed?”
The nurse hesitated for the briefest of moments before she scuttled over to the girl and gently took her by the arm. Hannah resisted until Abigail nodded. “It’s all right. I’ll be right here. Go get some sleep.”
Hannah allowed herself to be led out of the room. Abby was silent until she heard their steps disappear up the stairs.
“We were eating supper,” she began, not looking at the sheriff. She stared into the murky grayness outside the window. “The sun was nearly set. Maddy was there. She always comes home on Saturday.” Her voice broke as she thought about her older sister, her best friend, dead eyes staring up at her from a slack face.
“It’s all right. Take your time.” It was clear that the sheriff had dealt with tragedy before. He was calm and patient, giving Abby time to compose herself. He didn’t push for details, but let them flow.
“We were almost done when we heard a scream, an animal. It came from the barn. Pa said it was the cattle. I thought maybe some coyotes had broke into the barn or something. They’ve taken the calves before. We grabbed the shotguns and ran out there. Ma took the others into the bedroom just in case in was bandits.”
She stopped as the scene at the barn played out in her mind. Connor prodded her to continue, so she did. “Pa opened the door... It wasn’t a coyote. It was a man, a couple men. They were... they weren’t...” She took a deep breath and described the men to the sheriff. When she finished, tears rolled down her face.
He sat there, silent and brooding for a very long time. She was fine with that. She didn’t want to talk anymore anyway.
“Connor.” Doc Whitman’s voice came softly from the doorway.
Abby looked up. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. Connor rose to follow the doctor from the room, but Abby was up and through the doorway before they could stop her. She ran into the operating room.
“Wyatt,” she whispered frantically. She grabbed his hand. It was cold. Too cold. “Wyatt, wake up.” She shook his shoulder gently. His body jiggled with the movement and his arm flopped limply off the table. She longed to scream at him, to beg him to wake up, but she didn’t want to wake Hannah. She wasn’t ready to put her littlest sister through that kind of pain.
A pair of hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her away. She swung around and buried her face in the doctor’s chest. “I’m sorry, Abigail,” he said as he stroked her hair, but she couldn’t hear him over the sound of her own grief.
Chapter 16
Charity stared at the stars overhead. The men Little Bear tasked as scouts had been gone for three days. That meant that the farm they found was at least a day’s walk away. She pondered for a moment. Dixonville was in the other direction. She knew Lonesome Ridge was a few days’ ride that way.
David had taken her there once. There were lots of townsfolk there, more than double the number at Dixonville. The railroad ran right through it, making it the most important town in the area. And she couldn’t deny that the sheriff was pretty cute. It would make a good place for the start of her new empire.
Charity tapped her chin. “I like that idea,” she mused aloud.
She turned and looked at the men and women milling around outside in the dark. They weren’t a real army. Not yet. But they were a start.
“A start,” she muttered before walking back up the stairs.
Walton had consigned himself to his fate and sat with his legs draped over the edge of the far end of the porch. She pulled the door open as quietly as she could and locked it tight behind her. Then she went into the kitchen and found the big butcher’s knife sitting on the table where Isabelle had left it. She tested its weight in her hand and ran a finger across the blade. It cut a fine slit in her thumb, parting the gray skin like it was butter.
Charity’s lips pulled into a tight smile. “Perfect,” she whispered.
With the knife firmly in hand, she tiptoed across the hallway into the sitting room. The top of Little Bear’s head was visible above the chair in front of the fire. With Walton was outside with the other mindless drones,
the young man was alone.
Indecision tore at her. She could take him now, slam the knife into his head and end it all. Or she could give him a chance to change, to bow to her rule. The small shred of loyalty she felt to him won out. She walked around the chair and stood in front of him with the knife dangling in her hand.
She waited for him to look up. He wouldn’t. He knew she was there, of that she had no doubt. His non-reaction made her second guess herself, but she was committed to her course of action.
“Things need to change around here,” she said. “We’re not scavengers. We shouldn’t have to hide anymore. It’s time we take control and make ourselves known.” She raised her voice as loud as it would go without yelling. She could already hear the shuffling noises outside the window before she finished speaking.
“No.” Little Bear shook his head. “No.” His voice was soft. It did not carry like hers, and his hands gripped the arms of the chair so hard the wood creaked.
“Your time is done,” she said. “You are ineffective.”
“No,” he said again. His tone was pleading, sad. He already sounded defeated. It threw her off, shook her nerves. It poked at her confidence and made her second guess herself even more.
They stared at each other for a full minute, her with her gray-blue eyes and him with his red pits. Then he was in the air, flying toward her with incredible speed. An animalistic snarl erupted in his throat as his hands reached for her.
Charity brought the knife up and slashed at his wrist as a scream burst forth from her lungs. He growled and yanked his injured arm away, spitting words she didn’t understand at her. As he bumped into the chair, she spun aside and put as much distance between them as she could. With a howl, he grabbed the chair and tossed it in her direction. It flew past her and smashed into the wall with such force that it shattered into pieces. A broken leg rolled to a stop by Little Bear’s feet and he snatched it up as he lunged toward her again. He swung the leg at her like a club and it shattered across her shoulder. She bit down on a cry and stumbled to the other side of the fireplace.
Little Bear smelled her pain and leapt across the space between them. As he did, she slashed upward and drew a long, bloodless gash across his neck and face. He crashed into her and they toppled to the ground. The butcher’s knife tumbled from her hands and spun away, out of reach. He tore at her with teeth and nails, aiming for her throat and face. She held him at bay with one hand as the other scrabbled for the knife. Her fingernails dug deep grooves in the ground even as they peeled away from her skin. She fought for every inch as Little Bear ripped chunks of skin from her neck and back.
Finally her fingers touched the wooden handle of the knife. She screamed as she threw herself forward with every bit of strength she had. Her hand slipped around the handle as her body twisted sideways. Pulling herself onto her back, she kicked out with both feet. They planted squarely into his stomach and he stumbled back, slamming into the fireplace with an audible crack.
Charity didn’t hesitate. She launched herself to her feet and threw herself at Little Bear. He brought his hands up to protect his head, but the blade, combined with the force of her attack, sliced through his arm, separating hand from wrist. The knife bounced off his skull, but dazed him just long enough. She pulled it back and smashed it back down. It buried deep into his skull.
He stumbled back a step. He held up his hands as she followed. “Charity,” he whispered. His voice held such deep betrayal and sadness, she almost stopped, but she pushed aside any feelings of fear and guilt.
She grabbed the knife’s handle again and yanked as hard as she could. The blade came free with a loud slurp. She raised it high and smashed into the wound that was already there. Little Bear’s head split wide open. Gray, squishy matter dripped from the hole. Her opponent grunted, but Charity didn’t stop. She let go of the knife, leaving it in his brain. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled until she heard the telltale pop and he sagged into her. Only then did she release him and step back.
He dropped to the ground like a sack of flour. His body twitched twice and then lay still. She stared at him for several moments before she leaned over and ripped the knife from his skull with a slurp.
“Gross,” she mumbled as she wiped it off on his shirt.
Charity walked to the window. Several of the others, including Walton, stood there staring through the glass with gaping mouths. She set the knife on the window sill and returned their stares. The moon was bright and it lit the area well. She smirked. They were hers, all hers. She left the knife where it was and went out onto the porch.
“Listen to me.” She yelled just loud enough for her voice to echo out across the area between the house and the barn. Those who were not at the window stopped milling about and turned toward her. Slowly, they gathered at the base of the stairs. David stood in front, staring up at her like a lost puppy. When they were all there, she raised her hands. “Listen. Little Bear is dead. He is no longer your leader. I am.”
She paused, giving them time to react. They didn’t even flinch.
Her smirk grew into a full fledged smile. “That’s right. You know who your true ruler is. And you know what we need to do. We are not meant to hide away in the darkness, afraid of mere humans. We are better than them, stronger. They are our cattle, we are the masters. It is time for us to go out and take what we deserve.” She paused again. And still she received no reaction. This time she was a little annoyed. “I am your queen. You will do whatever I say, do you understand?”
A few people nodded.
She growled. “Say ‘yes, my queen’.”
“Yes, my queen.”
“Louder!”
The roar echoed across the plains. “Yes, my queen!”
Charity grinned and pointed toward Dixonville. “Go that way. Tomorrow, we show the world who we are.”
The horde began walking down the road. She called Walton and David over to her. “You are now my lieutenants. I will tell you what to do and you tell the others, got it?”
The men nodded.
She was about to dismiss them when a thought occurred to her. “Walton, is it true that no one has ever escaped?”
The soldier hesitated, clearly still unsure about the sudden change in leadership. “Little Bear said we weren’t to talk about it.”
Charity snarled as her hand shot out and smacked him across the ear. “Little Bear is dead. I am in charge now. Tell me.”
The soldier cowered before her and cupped his ear, even though it didn’t hurt. “There was one,” Walton mumbled. “Her name was Summer Rain. She was with him when they turned me. She did not like the way he ran things. They fought. She left in the middle of the night one night. We were not allowed to stop her.”
“Who was she? Was she important to him?”
He hesitated again, until she raised her hand. “They were to be married,” he stammered quickly.
Charity’s eyebrow shot up. “Married? How interesting. So there’s another group of us out there.” Ignoring the others, she stood on the porch and watched as her new army filed out of ranch, heading toward the first town she intended to conquer.
Chapter 17
Abby’s shoulders shook as she sobbed into Doc Whitman’s chest. “Shh,” he whispered as he stroked her hair. He shot a look at Connor and shook his head.
Eva tapped him on the shoulder. “Let me help.”
The doctor stepped away from Abby and let his nurse take over. She cooed softly as she settled Abby into a chair beside her dead brother. Tears spilled down Eva’s cheeks as she watched her former future sister-in-law slip her fingers into Wyatt’s hand. The nurse placed her hand over Abby’s and squeezed them both tight.
Connor walked over to stand beside the doctor in the doorway. “It makes no sense,” Doc Whitman whispered to the sheriff. “That wound should not have been putrefied that fast. Not in the few hours since he was attacked. And he didn’t bleed out enough to kill him, either. It’s all very perplexing.�
� He stroked the stubble that was growing on his chin “It had to be that bite. It was poison of some sort. It had to be. What did she say? Was it really a human?”
The sheriff nodded. “If the story hadn’t come from Abigail Crawford, I never would have believed it. She swears they were dead, walking dead.”
The doctor laughed, a disbelieving snort. He stared at Connor with humor in his eyes. “Dead? Abigail said that?”
Connor didn’t share in his mirth. “Yep. She said their skin was gray. She and her pa went to the barn when they heard the animals screaming. They attacked Abraham, tore him apart. With their teeth. Same with her ma and Madeleine.”
Doc Whitman shook his head. His forehead was knit with refusal to believe an impossible story. He waved a hand at Wyatt. “And they bit the boy? Causing that? Not possible. Not just impossible. Completely ridiculous. I can’t believe a story like that would come from Abigail Crawford.”
Connor crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame as he stared at the pale figure on the table. “I want to agree with you, but I can’t. I’ve got a terrible feeling. Like I’ve never had. We’re in something here, doc. I don’t know what yet, but it ain’t good.”
The doctor pressed his lips together as he watched the trio at the table. He didn’t want to admit it to anyone, much less himself, but was afraid that Connor might be right.
Abby’s fingers gripped Wyatt’s tightly, clinging to what little hope she had left, praying to anyone who would listen that he would wake up. She squeezed his fingers so hard it made her hand hurt. “Please, Wyatt,” she begged as tears rolled down her face in heavy streams. “Please.”
His fingers moved and he squeezed back.
Abby jerked away and gasped. Her eyes were wide as she stared at her hand. The tears stopped as her brain tried to process the impossible. Wyatt’s fingers had moved. She was sure of it.
“What is it?” Eva arm was around Abby’s shoulders and she eyed her with concern.