Chapter Text
He didn’t go to Canada. Oh, he’d meant to, fully intended to even. He had a few contacts there, and friends amongst the Wapiti. He would contact them, settle down somewhere, start over. Again.
But he was tired. Tired of drifting. Tired of latching on to someone else’s life until no one could deny the fact that he was an outsider, until the pull to leave them in peace before he brought more hardship was unavoidable. But he knew no other way to live.
But isn’t this a good life?
It’s a great life, John. But it’s yours.
On long nights he was frustrated with himself, lonely fool that he was. Why did he leave Beecher’s Hope, when he knew he had a place there? Friends, family even. Why did he leave the Wapiti, when they promised he was one of them now, equal to any born into the tribe? Why did he leave Arthur, standing there alone even though Charles knew, he knew Arthur didn’t have much time left. Hell, he’d left his own father; passed out drunk on the floor. Why did he always leave?
Maybe that’s why he found himself here, alone. Again. Maybe it was better this way. If he had no one, he had no one he could bring suffering to.
He’d gotten off at Bacchus Station having no idea why, except that he needed to see an old friend. Just to check in, to say goodbye before he left; before he put this chapter of his life behind him, moved on for good.
Had he ever really intended to do that though? Charles didn’t remember now.
He’d stood at that grave all afternoon, lovely orange flowers all down the hillside; Falmouth eventually got bored, wandering off to graze in the nearby meadows. Charles didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.
Hello, old friend. I hope you like the spot I picked out.
When his back ached from standing there, he sat down next to it. The setting sun shone at the foot of the grave, the valley below turned golden as they watched the sunset together in silence.
Don’t worry, you weren’t heavy.
He laid back when the stars came out, spilling across the sky like so many grains of sand spilling from an hourglass. Maybe that shooting star was a sign, a good omen? Probably not. He never got good omens.
Sorry I had no suit for you. But I buried you with my mother’s medicine bag. It was all I had.
Falmouth had found him again that morning, sometime in the pale gloom before the sun rose behind them. He was hungry, irritated at being left still tacked up and to his own devices. Charles guiltily led him down into the valley; knowing Arthur would be so disappointed in him. Always take care of your animal first, Charles!
There was a little hut dug into the side of a steep hill not too far into the valley. Charles knew it well. He’d stayed there when… when…
He untacked Falmouth and brushed him down, checking that the cistern was fresh and letting him settle down nearby. He’d stay here a day or two, get his head straight. Say goodbye proper. Move on.
He didn’t.
There was good game in this area, and pelts always brought in enough money for supplies in town. Occasionally someone would hire out for workers, and Charles had plenty of experience in building and hauling. But he kept to himself. Maybe it was better that way.
Four years passed and he never did go to Canada.
****
Charles sighed, brushing Falmouth’s sleek grey coat. It was full of burs, but the ornery little shit wouldn’t stay still. They’d gone to town to sell a bundle of pelts today, and the Nokota was unaccustomed now to being ridden so long. Folks in town had seemed uneasy. There were stirrings of some sort of sickness spreading from the south, and the Overnight from Valentine had evidently never arrived. No news from that city at all. But Charles paid the commotion no mind. His life had improved as soon as he stopped meddling in the affairs of others.
Not that he wouldn’t move to help a fellow man in need, which is what usually got him into trouble.
“Help! You gotta– No, don’t!” A gunshot rang out, startling birds from their roosts in the close, dark trees.
“Ah, what the hell?” Charles muttered, pulling Falmouth to a stop. They were headed home now, but he didn’t like the sounds of a struggle coming from beyond the bend in the road. Carefully dismounting, he pulled out his shotgun from its place on Falmouth’s saddle.
A strange and brutal sight met his eyes. A gig was on its side in the middle of the road, its horse lay dead in a pool of blood and viscera. It looked like it’d been torn into by some sort of animal. A man was sprawled next to the cart; he looked to have been shot in the face. As Charles stared in horror, he heard more desperate sounds coming from out of view beyond the gig. Slowly, cautiously, he rounded the overturned cart.
A pale woman was straddling another man, fighting with everything she had to get at him with her teeth. Her hair had come out of its bun and was streaked across her face, plastered to her pale skin with blood and… something else. She fought the man desperately, growling like a wild animal. The man was panicked, crying and cursing; holding her off with one hand, while the other was clamped to the side of his neck, blood oozing between his trembling fingers.
Charles didn’t think. He took aim and shot the woman off of the feller. She flew back with a wet gurgle and didn’t get back up. The man went limp in the dirt, moaning.
“...Olivia…”
Charles knelt next to the man, gently pulling his hand away from his neck. Looked like she’d bit him pretty hard, but it’d missed his jugular, thank god. “You’re okay, it’s gonna be okay,” Charles rambled, digging in his satchel for a roll of bandages. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“We were… she… Oh, god,” the man was shaking hard, Charles worried he was going into shock.
“Hey! Stay with me, what’s your name?”
The poor man’s eyes went wide and he made a terrible choking sound, arching off the ground. What could Charles do? There was nothing he could do! The man went limp again, and Charles was sure he’d just up and died right there. He must’ve just fainted though, because the next thing Charles knew the man was up again and lunging at him.
“What the– Get off!”
The man snarled, snapping his teeth; but he was much smaller than Charles, who easily pushed him away. His stance was awkward, like he’d forgotten how to stand but was trying anyway. More unnerving still were his eyes. They were cloudy, vacant eyes, like the newly deceased. But behind that glassy stare Charles almost fancied a pale light glowed.
The man lurched towards him and Charles took a nervous step back, leveling the shotgun. “Stay back, now… I don’t know what this is, but we can talk about it, okay?”
The man wasn’t listening, he gnashed his teeth, staring at Charles with those ghastly pale eyes.
“You just need a doctor or… uh…”
He lunged again, and Charles brought the gun up, trying to block his advance. The man didn’t stop coming, scrabbling at the shotgun, trying to get at Charles now just like the woman had tried to get at him a moment ago. Fear and confusion burst in the back of his throat. What was going on??
They struggled a moment; Charles pulling back while the man fought as if he’d lost all inhibition. Slipping in blood, Charles went down hard and the gun went off.
“No!”
The blast took off most of the man’s head and part of his shoulder, splattering the ground behind him and peppering the body of the woman. Charles stood slowly, shaken; in the middle of the road, in the middle of the carnage. All was dead silent.
The little town that’d sprung up around Bacchus Station in the last few years was in complete chaos. He’d turned around and ran Falmouth back as fast as he could, hoping to report the terrible accident; but when he got there, the madness had already spread. The train from Valentine had come in. No one on or near it was alive.
Horses ran free, their eyes rolling in terror as men and women on foot chased them down. These people were… dead. They must be. Some of them had injuries no man could possibly survive. Limbs burnt and missing, innards hanging from deep slashes in flesh. He gagged, horrified.
Somewhere further into the little town gunshots sounded. Lots of them. He tried to follow, to help, but Falmouth spooked as four men came running at them, pale glowing eyes full of nothing but hunger. He hadn’t brought much ammo, he hadn’t planned on a fight. With no better options, he turned and fled.
He could hear the sounds of distant screams and gunshots echoing through the woods as he rode fast for home, for the little hill hut in the meadow. What was this?? Some outbreak of water sickness? He’d never seen water sickness act like this. He’d never seen anything act like this. He’d restock and head to Fort Wallace. Someone there had to know something.
It was as he turned off the main road near Donner Falls that his plans changed. Late afternoon clouds rolled in deep and green, promising a summer storm. As he looked back along the road his eye caught on an old landmark. Just along the road, right before the falls, was a little roadside grave. No one had maintained this one, and its marker had near fallen. It tilted at an odd angle, moss and weather stains long since obscuring the name.
Charles had often wondered whose grave it was. If they were lonely. If anyone was left who’d known them. He wasn’t thinking about any of that now, because the grave was open and empty. A hard, desperate hole spilled dirt and scattered grasses, smears of mud making a trail down to the falls.
The dead. These people were dead. Somehow, the dead were moving, crawling, biting. Something heavy and cold dropped into his stomach, and he turned up that too familiar path into the hills. He had to check on an old friend.
****
He found what he’d expected to find at the gravesite. Rocks and stones pushed aside, rearranging from one pile to another as the earth below them was pushed up. The cross he’d carved was tilted at an angle, as if someone had grabbed the arm from below, using it to pull themselves upwards. Broken orange flowers littered the ground.
Stay calm.
“Arthur?” he called softly.
Stupid! Don’t draw attention! These things aren’t… they aren’t alive. If this plague, or whatever it was, had brought back his friend’s bones, that didn’t mean it was… Arthur.
He heard no response either way, and after searching the immediate area, Charles looked for a trail to follow.
The dark sky opened, rain obscuring the trail and washing the path in mud. But still it was an easy follow. Grasses were broken, foliage disturbed in a way that said someone, or something, had dragged itself awkwardly down the hill and into the meadow. Falmouth was uneasy, but followed readily enough.
Night was upon them by the time they’d reached the meadow. Darkness shattered by the occasional flash of white hot lightning. He stepped over the cooling carcass of a deer, throat torn out and entrails scattered in a watery circle in front of it. It looked fairly fresh, and there was a very clear trail of blood and mud and… other things… leading from the kill; still visible through the rain. Charles swallowed nervously.
He knew where this was headed.
What did he expect to find? He’d dismounted, leading Falmouth by the halter. He hadn’t prepared for something like this, not even in his darkest dreams. The trail led down the familiar path, worn easy by years of Charles’ passing back and forth along it.
The bloody trail led home; right into his little hut, door standing open and interior a dark maw.
Instead of rushing inside the darkened hut, instead of going in guns-a-blazing, he untacked Falmouth. He brushed him down, made sure he had food and water in the little lean-to Charles had built for him. Take care of your animal first, Charles!
The hut was dark, silent. But someone had been in here since Charles had left this morning. Crates were knocked over, drawers left open. Blood and muddy rainwater arced across the slate floor, leading to the little corner where the dresser met the bed. Charles leveled his gun, nervously striking a match as he entered the little hovel.
“Holy shit.”
The thing in the corner cringed back from the light of the match. Charles knew it was him only from his worn blue shirt; the shirt he’d been buried in. Otherwise it was just an unfamiliar shape tucked into a familiar corner.
He lit the lantern that hung from the wall, filling the room with warm, soft light. There was a ragged intake of breath, but Charles couldn’t say if it’d come from him or the creature on the floor.
“H-hello, old friend,” Charles whispered, leveling the shotgun.
It was tucked into the furthest corner from the door, worn clothes covered in blood and grave dirt. The blood must’ve come from the deer he’d passed earlier, ‘cause there was no way it came from this corpse.
Thunder clapped and they both flinched.
It was more bones than anything, flesh desiccated and clinging to its frame like so much dried venison on a stake. One of the legs was broken, hanging at a sharp angle like it’d been dragging it a while.
One gloved hand had shot out as if to ward Charles off, wavering in the air as if it had any power to stop him advancing. The other was doing its damndest to cover its own face. That struck Charles as weirdly out of place, because the thing didn’t appear to have a face. It really was mostly just skull, jaw held together with brittle ligaments. Paper thin and pale, skin stretched across the sharp angle of bone. But its eyes.
Its eyes were gone. Replaced only by the same eerie glow Charles’d seen reflected in the eyes of the other corpses. But… the color. The color was different. The others he’d seen today had eyes that glowed a dim, pale green; sickly, powdery, almost white. These were like sunlight through sea-glass. They glowed unnaturally, but they were clear.
It was difficult to read expressions in the dark, especially with nothing to work with but leathered skin and eerie light, but something about the literal pile of bones seemed to exude… Fear. Confusion. Pain.
His gun had dipped towards the floor and he brought it up again, wary.
“Arthur?”
It was impossible. It was horrible. But the thing responded.
It collapsed in on itself as if it’d slipped on ice, sliding down the wall with an odd ‘whuff’ of air before catching itself on a sharp elbow. In order to pull itself back upright it needed both hands, revealing the briefest flash of a harsh, ruthless, helpless grin.
It might’ve looked towards Charles, clicking its teeth and making an odd, horrible rasping sound; shaking its skull side to side before tucking it into the corner of the wall and dresser. Dull, sandy hair covered its dry scalp in an unruly mess.
Charles wasn’t sure what to do, what to think. This was a moving corpse, just like the others he’d seen today; the ones he’d… dealt with. But it… wasn’t acting the same. Was there something conveniently different here? Or was Charles just seeing what he wanted to see?
Slowly, cautiously, he knelt down; keeping his gun at the ready. The thing’s glowing orbs eyed him warily, gloved hand back up over most of its face. It was breathing raggedly; or, air was moving in and out of its ribcage.
“Arthur…” began Charles uncertainly, “Can you… understand me?”
This was just wishful thinking, it was his mind playing tricks on him… the skull surely wasn’t nodding! It made a rough whistling sound through its teeth and Charles shuddered. This couldn’t be real.
“Knock… Uh, knock twice on the dresser if you understand me.”
The thing… Arthur… had settled against the dresser; like a ragdoll that’d been thrown against the wall by a neglectful child. The hand that had been covering his face balled into a weak fist.
Knock. Knock.
Holy shit.
“O-okay. Okay… That’s… that’s good,” Charles lowered the shotgun, setting it on the floor next to him. “I won’t uh… won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt me, Okay?”
Knock. Knock.
This was a dream. This had to be a dream. But, dream or not, Charles had to do something. He’d often thought of the moment he and Arthur had parted; wondered what more he’d have said, had he known he would never see the man alive again.
“You uh… you look like hell.”
This wasn’t how he imagined this conversation going.
Arthur made another odd whistling sound, and Charles couldn’t tell if he were hissing at him or laughing. He inched closer, hands out like he were calming a skittish horse, and Arthur, having nowhere further to retreat, let him.
“Not that I’m not happy to see you, but ah… the circumstances could be a little better, I gotta admit.”
Arthur didn’t say anything, just watched warily as Charles settled himself against the little bed across from the dresser. Not quite facing each other, but not quite side by side.
“Why are you… different? Than the others…” asked Charles, voice low.
Arthur’s skull snapped up, almost startled. He nearly slipped again trying to get up, to look out the window into the storm outside. Halfway through the effort his broken leg folded inwards at the shin, dropping him back to the ground. He gave up, clacking his teeth together in what may have been frustration before looking back at Charles.
Through all this, he had yet to speak. Had he… not known about the others? Surely he knew by now he was dead. He must, what with… the general state of him, and how he kept trying to hide his face. And why wouldn’t he say something?
Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the room, and Arthur squirmed; hands covered his face again, worn gloved fingers feeling at the pale skin stretched taught over bone.
It occurred to Charles just as the thunder crashed that Arthur probably couldn’t speak. One needed things like lips, tongue, vocal chords to speak, and Arthur didn’t seem to have his anymore. Charles grimaced.
“Don’t worry about it. I guess you must be… pretty confused. So uh… so am I.”
Arthur let his head fall sideways against the dresser; it made a hollow ‘thunk’. And Charles just started talking. He never talked much in town, wasn’t much of a talker; never had anyone who wanted to listen these days anyways.
But the dead were crawling up out of the ground and his friend was leaning there, hiding his face, and he was scared and so was Charles so…
He talked about what he’d been doing for the past decade. The good, the not so good. He talked about fighting for Martelli and the stupid mess in Saint Denis. He talked about Sadie. He talked about Uncle. He talked about John, and Jack and Abigail. Arthur perked up as he described Beecher’s Hope and a life full of more joy than either of them had ever dreamed of.
He’d told all of this to Arthur before, of course, many a time; over a sunset and a half poured out bottle of whiskey.
He didn’t talk about Micah, or Bill or Javier. He didn’t talk about Susan, or Dutch.
He didn’t talk of finding Arthur’s lifeless body on that mountainside; about settling him where he could see the setting sun, like he’d wanted.
Maybe this was a dream, but he kept talking, filling the silence so Arthur didn’t have to. Telling him of everything he’d missed, how much he’d been missed. He may have drifted off to sleep at some point, lost track of what he was saying. The lantern ran down till the room was illuminated only by the ocean-glass light of Arthur’s eyes.