Previous chapters of BADLANDS can be found here

CHAPTER 10

The pain was excruciating as the hillbilly ran the bayonet through Galen’s chest. As Galen looked up he could see right into his killer’s dull eyes, the hillbilly’s teeth bared in a feral grin as the muscles of his neck strained against his skin, pulling it taut. Galen’s killer let out a whooping scream spraying spittle into his face. As he fell to his right, onto his side, the hillbilly used the leverage of the gun to lead his victim’s body to the ground until he lay on his back.

Quickly, Galen’s vision began to grow dark as his killer hovered above him appearing only as a silhouette against the dim tree canopy overhead. Suddenly Galen felt his body rising up from the ground, but only a couple of inches as the hillbilly withdrew the bayonet from his chest. Even so, there was no sensation of feeling as his body began quickly shutting down. No sense of pain until the hillbilly ran him through with the bayonet again, this time through Galen’s midsection. The cold, sharp steel penetrating his gut felt like stabbing sheaths of ice. Every nerve ending in his body felt as if it had been struck by lightning. Galen lay there, unable to summon his brain to will his arms to fight back, his legs to get up and run away. He was powerless to do anything as the hillbilly twisted the blade inside his guts.

And then as the light closed in his eyes, Galen Altos tumbled headfirst into the infinite night and left this world behind.

Dunburton had gone to relieve himself, leaving Cyril alone in the study. As he waited for the Major’s return, Cyril’s feet grew antsy and he found himself wandering around the room examining books on Dunburton’s shelves. He stopped at the glass case holding the shrunken head and gazed upon the peculiar specimen from South America. And suddenly he was overcome with a bizarre sensation, first in his chest and then in his entire body, a sensation that felt as if something inside his very soul was being ripped away. The feeling was strange, as if someone were pulling his insides out of his body. Cyril stood there for a moment clutching his stomach, before finally succumbing to the feeling that grew more painful with each passing second until he found himself doubled over in complete agony. Finally he could take it no more. As quick as his feet could carry him, Cyril made his way down the hall, through the great foyer and then outside. His hand covered his mouth, but as soon as he could smell the fresh air, his stomach roiled and he barely made it off the front stoop before vomiting onto the ground. The purge came in several waves until Cyril felt there was nothing more possibly left inside him. But then the nauseated feeling struck again, but this time he felt that not only would he throw up the bile in his gut but quite possibly his internal organs as well. His body heaved violently as he resigned himself to what was about to happen. Doubled over in immense pain, he closed his eyes and let the sick come from his gut and out of his mouth. Afterwards he wiped the ropey strands of mucous from his lips and waited for the world around him to stop spinning.

Cyril’s eyes caught sight of the puddle he’d left on the ground. In it were tinges of crimson. He checked the back of his hand where he had wiped his mouth. On it were obvious streaks of blood as well. He touched his fingers to his lips to find the same.

What is happening to me? Cyril wondered to himself. It felt like he was dying.

His body suffered from tireless pursuit. It had been a chore he’d been tasked with during a seemingly forgotten period of his existence, a part of his world he had long reckoned over and done—his life relegated to the same grim duty faced by every simple man, that of filling whatever indeterminate time was left before the sunset with just enough to keep him from going insane. Cyril had managed that quite well since the end of the war. The infantry had, at least until recently, treated him well. And it was there that he had planned to spend the rest of his days until he was ultimately called to his final reward. One that he figured he had truly earned.

But now to hear Altos was still alive meant the pursuit would begin again. The counter of his service, the coin which he had thought would buy his way to his final peace, had just been reset to zero.

His mind rocked with a sudden burst of anger and, as if struck, Cyril felt a jolt of electricity shoot through his body. The pain behind his eyes felt like fire raging between his temples. Cyril brought his fists up to his face and clenched his jaw but the intense sensation would not pass and as he let out a scream the world of Kansas City around him outside of Dunburton’s house disappeared in a flash of light.

As Cyril looked up from his pile of sick he realized with a shock that he was now in a dense forest bracing himself from falling down with a stiff right arm against a tree. He could feel the rough bark against his hand and it was this, sensing the tree underneath his hand, that made Cyril suddenly realize he had faded back in his memory more than 150 years to the moment that changed everything.

There on the ground, not far from him, as it had first been all that time ago, was the lump of black fur, its paws splayed to the side, its shattered and blown away skull turned at a grotesque angle.

“Don’t touch it!” William Lawton shouted as he poked the now dead beast with the barrel of his musket.

“Nice shot, William,” Lucius said to him, still looking quite stunned, much like the others.

The fourth man in the party examined the dead beast. “What is it?” he inquired.

“Wolf,” William said. “We must have surprised it.”

And as the words left William’s mouth, Cyril noticed the severed human leg on the ground much as he had the first time.

Back at the camp, Cyril could not help but notice the unease from the other travelers. The journey across the ocean to the new world, to say the least, had indeed not been easy and William Lawton had instructed the members of that afternoon’s search party to keep quiet about what they had found in the woods. The body of the creature stuck in his mind, a stinking beast with matted fur and a shattered mouth full of teeth. It looked like nothing Cyril had ever seen before, living or dead, and William’s explanation that it was the kind of wolf to be found in these woods seemed, at the same time, impossible and utterly terrifying.

With shaking hands, he was attempting to pour water from a cask into a tin cup when a voice came from behind him.

“Take a walk with me.”

Cyril turned to find the young man, Lucius, holding a rifle and looking quite uneasy. “There’s something I’d like to have a word about,” Lucius said quietly.

Beneath their heels, the crunching of twigs and dirt filled the silence between the two men. Together they quietly ventured toward the forest surrounding their camp, out of both eye and earshot of the others.

“William asked that nobody else leave,” Cyril said.

“We’re not leaving,” Lucius responded, still appearing nervous. “We’re just checking the perimeter.”

Cyril acknowledged Lucius’ tone as that of a little white lie. They continued into the woods in silence for another few minutes. Cyril strode next to Lucius, both men cradling their muskets under the crooks of their arms.

“Did you hear that?” inquired Lucius, whipping his head around. “Do you think someone is following us?”

Cyril shook his head. “Perhaps its a roughed grouse.”

Lucius laughed nervously and ran a hand from his forehead to his chin and then through his sandy brown hair. “That really would be something.”

“So, Lucius, tell me what is of such importance to get me all the way into the woods?”

“I have a grave worry about William Lawton,” Lucius spoke in a hushed voice.

“Lucius, what in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

“Today, when he fired his gun at that thing, it was as if he knew there was something lurking there. It was as if he was… prepared.”

“We found a man ripped apart,” Cyril said. “I for one am grateful that William Lawton was vigilant.”

“Do you remember young Anne Walsh?” asked Lucius.

“The woman who vanished aboard the Majestyk? It was presumed she must have fallen overboard.”

“Aye, Anne confided in me that she believed William Lawton was up to no good. And two morrows later she goes missing? Is that not suspicious to you?”

Cyril considered his friend’s words before answering. “Anne Walsh could have been struck by madness from the long journey. Perhaps she leapt overboard, or was washed over the rail by a wave.”

“Pffft,” Lucius sounded. “She told me that she overheard Lawton silently praying in a language she described as being something other than human.”

“Lucius, if William Lawton was praying silently, then how did she overhear him?” Cyril said with a smile.

“Then what do you make of this?” From Lucius’ pocket he withdrew a small swatch of black leather. Cyril took it and inspected the triangular piece.

“’Tis the patch belonging to that one-eyed guide Lawton chased away,” Lucius said. “You telling me that man left without it?”

Cyril looked up at Lucius, then back at the patch, which appeared to be stained with blood. “Where did you find this?”

“When we were packing up to leave that morning. After Lawton told us the guide had left us, I went into the fringe of the woods to relieve myself. And there, next to a tree, I spotted it. Those bloodstains were fresh and tacky when I picked it up.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” asked Cyril.

“There are those among us in the party who believe the guide was telling the truth about this land, these woods being filled with evil. Cyril, I have seen things here, in the dark, that I cannot explain. Eyes. Movement. And Lawton’s insistence that we enter into this valley against the strict warning of the man who was hired to bring us here causes me great concern.”

“We don’t have the luxury of time to waste getting to our new land. Winter is upon us.”

“I believe not a single one of us will survive until winter if we stay in these woods. A number of the men have asked me to talk to you.”

“What is it you want from me, my support? Because I…”

“No. Cyril we wish for you to lead.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Cyril, you have a quality about you.”

“Lucius, I am far from being a leader.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Why me? Why not you?”

“I am the son of a simple carpenter. None respected me at home. Who do you imagine will respect me here? Cyril, you run from responsibility, but if you chose to, you could lead this flock. You have a quality about you that I am not quite able to put a finger on—”

And before he could finish, Lucius stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes fixed twenty yards away just past Cyril’s left shoulder.

“Do not make a sound,” Lucius whispered.

“What is it?”

“They’re here,” Lucius’ voice chattered, for in the woods, coming toward them were dozens of black forms on four legs, their yellow eyes staring down at him.