Longhunter

They finally located the source of the stench, a dark shape rising from the ferns ahead of them. It was indeed a carcass, lying on its side, putrefaction making its slender legs stick out from its bloated body in a way that seemed wholly unnatural.

"It's a hottah," Doyle confirmed, stepping closer to give the body a tap with the toe of his boot. "Looks like it's been dead a couple of days."

As George approached, he recognized the telltale set of antlers that were partially covered over by the undergrowth, maybe eight or nine feet wide, along with the tusks that protruded from its dark muzzle.

"It's remarkably intact," he mused, examining the matted coat of fur. The creature's eyes were milky, staring up at the sky blankly, its mouth open in a silent cry. There was more of the tar-like substance spattering the ferns and trees nearby. "Look at the lacerations on the neck and torso. What do you suppose killed it?"

"Wayas," Baker replied solemnly. "I've seen animals killed this way before. They use their saber teeth to slash and stab. See where the throat was torn open?"

"If wayas killed it," Sam began, his brow furrowing. "Why the hell didn't they eat it?"

There was silence as the group considered, but nobody had an answer for him.

"Animals don't kill for sport," George added. "Could we have scared them away?"

"We didn't arrive until today," Baker replied, leaning on his gun as he planted the stock in the ferns. With his free hand, he reached into a pouch on his hip, producing his pipe. He let his gun balance against his shoulder as he used two hands to light it, taking a long drag to calm his nerves. "Besides, we're downwind. That's why we smelled it from all the way down the hill. Ain't no way a waya could smell us coming from that direction."

"I think this is proof enough that there's a pack in the area," Doyle said, keeping the group's mind focused on the task at hand. "Let's head back and report what we saw to Dawes. Wayas won't be scared of people if they've never encountered them before, so watch your step."

George took one last glance at the dead creature, then pulled out his compass, pointing them back down the incline.

"This way," he said, the group setting off at a brisk pace. It was growing darker now, the sun sinking below the horizon, casting long shadows between the trees. The fog gave everything a claustrophobic feel, like opaque walls that were slowly pressing in on them.

"What's wrong with these trees?" George wondered, stopping to glance up at the canopy.

"Come on, George," Sam protested as he turned to jog back towards him. He reached out to take him by the arm, trying to guide him along. "We don't wanna waste any more time than we have to."

"Wait, look at this..."

There was a patch of maybe a dozen dead trees, their naked branches devoid of any leaves, jutting into the sky like skeletal fingers. Even the moss on their trunks and the mushrooms that had been growing between their roots were decaying, the ferns nearby turned a sickly shade of black, almost like they had been singed by a forest fire. Everywhere George looked, there was more of that black tar, seeping out of breaks in the rough bark like sap.

"We gotta go," Sam reiterated, a touch of panic creeping into his voice. He froze suddenly, the color draining from his face as a low, resonating growl echoed through the forest. When George turned to follow his gaze, he saw a creature maybe a hundred feet away from them, peering at them through the trees. It was a waya, its canine snout furrowed, its hackles raised. Its dark lips pulled back to expose its fangs, incisors as long as butcher's knives glinting through the mist. It was large, stocky, far more imposing than the wolves that George was accustomed to. It was maybe three feet tall at the shoulder, at least two or three hundred pounds, its pointed ears pricked up as it watched them.

The mere sight of it wasn't what had Sam so transfixed, however. Just like the tatanka, its fur was matted and filthy, as though it had been covered in mud. Its beady eyes were glassy, sunken, strands of slaver hanging from its jaws. Even at a glance, it was obvious that something was gravely wrong with it, its bones shifting beneath loose skin as it started to stalk towards them.

"W-we have to get outta here!" Baker stammered, his courage finally running dry. He turned to flee in a blind panic, stumbling through the ferns as he raced down the incline, quickly vanishing into the fog.

"Get back here, Baker!" Doyle called after him, but he was already out of sight. "Damn it!"

Sam maintained his composure, dropping to a knee, bringing up the long barrel of his rifle to aim it at the creature. If it were to break into a sprint, it would cross the distance in moments. They only had one chance to bring it down before it was upon them.

The other men took up position nearby, knowing what to do intuitively. Doyle moved up to George's right, leaning his rifle on the trunk of a nearby tree for stability.

"Wait until it gets closer," he hissed. "Don't miss. We won't get a follow-up shot."

George still had to load his rifle, taking a knee beside Sam as he fumbled with the pouch on his hip. He fished for a paper cartridge, biting off one end and upending some of the powder into the open pan of his rifle. He dumped the rest into the narrow aperture of the barrel, cursing as he spilled a little of it.

"Take your time," Sam said sarcastically, George inserting the lead ball. Rather than force it deeper with the ramrod, he instead tapped the butt of the gun against the ground a couple of times, then brought it up to his shoulder.

"Ready," he huffed, sighting the creature. It was drawing closer, maybe fifty feet away, its dead eyes fixed on them. It rose from a crouch, breaking into a run with a blood-curdling snarl.

Doyle was the first to fire, the loud crack of his rifle enough to make George's ears ring. A plume of smoke and sparks reached out, quickly carried off by the wind, the creature lurching under the impact as it was struck in the shoulder. Seeing that it didn't even slow the thing down, two more shots rang out, one of them kicking up a plume of dirt as it went wide. George pulled his own trigger, the spring-loaded hammer driving the flint into the frizzen, creating a spark that ignited the powder in the pan. There was a flash, his weapon rocking back against his shoulder as the lead ball tore out of the barrel, creating a puff of black mist as it struck his target dead-center. The fifth and final shot joined it, the beast losing its footing, skidding a few more feet down the hill before coming to a stop.

A successful kill would usually be followed by celebration, but there was no hooting or hollering as the men made their way towards the felled beast, reloading their rifles as they went. Sam dared get close enough to the thing to give it a tap with the butt of his rifle, but it lay there motionless, a mass of matted fur and dark blood.

"Just like the tatanka," he muttered.

"Something is very wrong here," George added, noting the stench that was emanating from the thing. "What if this is some kind of contagion, a plague?"

"The black death," Doyle whispered.

"Not literally, but it's an apt name."

"If all the animals are infected, what the hell are we gonna eat?" Sam asked as he turned to glance back at them. They exchanged worried looks, but nobody had an answer.

"Fuck, I almost forgot about Baker," Meyer grumbled. "That fool took off like the devil was on his heels. Who knows where the hell he is now."

"He went back in the direction of the camp," Doyle replied, gesturing down the hill into the obscuring mist. "He ain't got no compass, though."

"We can't search for him on our own," George added. "Better to get back to camp and organize the search effort from there."

Doyle nodded in agreement, and there were no protests from the rest of the men, the group setting off back down the slope.

***

Dawes walked up to meet the party as they made their way past the ring of tents, the flickering light of the campfire bathing the surrounding area in its glow. Night had fallen, and the forest that encircled them was wreathed in shadow, the fog only making it harder to see.

"What the hell happened out there?" Dawes demanded. "We heard the gunshots from all the way back here, a whole volley of fire."

The men hesitated, as though none of them really wanted to be the one to relay the bizarre story. George eventually stepped forward, hoping that his academic background might give his words a little more credibility. He told Dawes everything that happened -- the carcass of the hottah, their encounter with the waya, how Baker had fled into the night. Rather than being incredulous, Dawes took his account very seriously, scratching his bushy beard as he often did when he was deep in thought.

"You said that black tar was comin' out of the trees?" he asked, his brow furrowed. "How can a sickness that infects animals also infect trees?"

"That's just what I saw," George replied with a shrug. "I can't explain it."

"Baker never made it back here," Dawes continued, glancing past the tents at the gloom beyond. "He must have gotten himself lost, that idiot. I won't risk sending more men out in the dark. We'll have to organize a search party at first light."

"What if there are more wayas?" Smith asked.

"He's armed, and he's an experienced longhunter. He'll have to deal with them himself. Our priority right now is protectin' the camp."

"Did everyone else make it back alright?" George asked.

Dawes shook his head solemnly.

"We heard more gunshots from the North maybe an hour ago," he replied as he nodded in that direction. "The second party came back, but the third hasn't turned up yet. I don't like this one bit. We'll have men guardin' the camp in shifts tonight, I want eyes on every inch of the forest from dusk 'till dawn. Until then, get some hot food in you. I have a feelin' we'll need every man fed and rested for tomorrow."

George and Sam made their way over to the fire, glad of its warmth as they helped themselves to the pot of stew that was hanging over the flames. George filled his tin cup with a ladleful, then took a seat on a nearby log, Sam sitting down beside him. They ate in silence for a few minutes, not sure what to say, appreciating the hot food while they had the opportunity.

"You think Baker is gonna make it back alright?" Sam asked, finally breaking the silence.

"In this?" George asked, glancing out at the dark forest. "He's a good hunter, but I don't think anyone could find their way through this without a lantern and a compass. I just hope there aren't more wayas out there. The one we took down ate four or five shots before it was stopped."

"I've hunted wayas before," Sam muttered, pausing to fish out a piece of meat from his bowl of stew. "Never seen one just brush off gunfire like that. They hunt in packs, too. They're wily creatures. They'll try to surround you, close in on you from different directions. They never run at you like that. It was like it...wasn't thinkin' straight."

"Okay," George sighed, trying to collect his thoughts. "Let's think about this in terms of an illness. What are the symptoms?"

"Black tar for blood," Sam suggested, counting on his fingers. "Matted fur, they stink real bad. I guess whatever they've got makes 'em meaner than usual. I want to say they look...dead, but that's not possible, right?"

"No, that's one thing we can be sure of," George replied. He was trying to be reassuring, but he had to admit, the observation wasn't entirely incorrect. They smelled like carrion, and they looked like they had just clawed their way out of a grave. The sight of the glassy, cloudy eyes of the tatanka flashed in his mind again, but he did his best to bury his more speculative impulses. "It has to be some kind of transmissible disease, that's it. Something that causes symptoms not dissimilar from gangrene. Perhaps the rot reaches their brain and makes them violent, insensible."

"What about the trees?" Sam asked. "Maybe it's comin' out of the ground. Maybe the water's foul."

"I don't think we should eat anything that the hunters catch," George added, lowering his voice a little. "We have rations enough to see us through."

"You might be right," Sam replied.

There was a sudden commotion, George looking towards the edge of the camp, seeing that the missing scout party had returned. As they made their way between the tents, he noted that all six men had returned, but one of them was being helped along by two of his companions. He was slung between them, dragging one of his legs, obviously in some measure of pain. George and Sam joined the crowd that was forming nearby, Dawes pushing his way through to the front.

"What the hell happened?" he demanded as they lowered their injured friend to the grass. George could see a nasty gash in his leg that had stained his trousers with blood, a belt strapped tightly around his thigh probably the only thing keeping him breathing.

Daugherty, the resident doctor, made his way to the injured man's side. He knelt, producing a leather pouch full of bandages and surgical tools, starting to cut away the leather around the wound as his patient writhed on the ground.

"It was a goddamned waya," one of the men explained. "It rushed us, managed to gore Adley's leg before any of us could get a shot off. Fucking thing took a whole volley to bring down."

"The same thing happened to us," Doyle said, a worried murmur spreading through the ranks.

"So, what? The whole damned forest is full of feral wayas?" another of the men asked.

Sensing that a panic was brewing, Dawes clearing his throat loudly, raising his voice over the chatter.

"I want a perimeter set up around the camp, and I don't want anyone leavin' it on their own. Even if you have to take a shit, I want a man to accompany you with a rifle that's cocked and ready to fire. We have one man missin' right now, Mister Baker, and we'll be organizin' search parties to look for him in the mornin'. Until then, stay put."

He began to pick people out of the crowd, ordering them to start securing the camp, Adley still rolling around on the grass.

"Keep still, Sir!" the doctor complained. "You're damned lucky it didn't nick the femoral artery, or you'd be stone-cold by now."

George and Sam returned to their seat on the log, George crossing his arms against the cold as a chill wind made the campfire flicker.

"I get the feelin' we aren't meant to be here," Sam said, taking a swig from his canteen.

CHAPTER 2: SHADOWS

George's troubled sleep was interrupted by someone kicking his boot. He sat up, rubbing his eyes groggily, looking up to see a man holding a lantern peering through the flap of his tent. He squinted against the light, his vision slowly adjusting.

"It's your turn on watch," the man said, setting the lantern down. He was terse, irritable, but George could understand that. He would probably be in a similar state of mind when it came time to wake his replacement.

As the man wandered off to his own tent, George collected his rifle, then shuffled out into the camp. They had kept the fire stoked, its golden glow illuminating the surrounding area just enough to put George more at ease. He loaded his weapon, then picked up the lantern, making his way over to the edge of the clearing. Dawes had explained their duties and where they were to stand earlier that evening, so he knew more or less what he was supposed to be doing. A few other men were stumbling their way through the camp behind him, like a very sleep-deprived changing of the guard.

The perimeter was large enough that he couldn't see any of his fellow sentries directly, just the faint glow from the lanterns of the men to his left and right. His own lantern wasn't doing much to penetrate the darkness and fog. George couldn't see more than fifty feet ahead of him, which didn't give him much time to get off a shot if some grotesque creature should come wandering into the light. The forest ahead was just as dark and as deathly silent as ever. He could have sworn that birds had been chirping when they had first arrived, but now there was nothing but the unnerving creaking of the branches as they swayed in the breeze. The fog was pervasive, rolling between the tall, stout trunks like a thick smoke.

He set the stock of his rifle on the ground, leaning the barrel against his shoulder as he gazed out into the woods, his eyelids still heavy. For what must have been an hour or two, he stood there, his mind playing tricks on him as it conjured moving shapes in the smoke and shadow.

After a while, something more tangible caught his attention. George was suddenly wide awake, bringing his rifle to bear as he saw something through the mist. It was stumbling between the trees, making its way closer, but he couldn't make out its features. He considered raising the alarm, but if it was another infected animal, a gunshot would rouse the men far faster than a yell.

As the dark shape came into view, he realized that it was a person. It was Baker. George recognized the distinctive beard.

"Damn it, Baker," he sighed as he lowered his weapon. "You scared me half to death. Where the hell have you been? We were going to organize a search party to go out and look for you."

Baker didn't reply, continuing on his way, his gait oddly uneven. George began to get a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he called out to him again, louder this time.

"Baker!"

The man's head snapped in his direction, and he paused, staying at still as a statue as the fog swirled around his boots. With an unnatural, jerky motion, he set off again. He wasn't quite running -- he seemed unable -- shuffling like someone who had a lame leg.

As Baker drew closer, George's blood ran cold. His wide-brimmed hat was missing, and his beard and his long hair were matted with what looked like dark mud, his clothes in tatters. He looked like he had rolled through a muddy bramble patch.

His mind racing, George raised his rifle and pulled the trigger. A loud crack echoed through the forest, a cloud of smoke and sparks erupting from the barrel. He wasn't aiming at Baker, however. He had fired into the air to raise the alarm.

George heard shouting behind him, and he began to retreat away from the approaching figure, waiting for backup to arrive. He was soon supported by a dozen men with loaded rifles, others holding their lanterns aloft in an attempt to illuminate the scene. Dawes was among them, his commanding voice ringing out.

"What the hell is going on? Is that...Baker?"

One of the men began to step forward, intending to help the shuffling figure, but George put a hand on his chest to stop him.

"Wait," he hissed. "Look at him. There's something wrong."

"Mister Baker!" Dawes yelled. "Are you alright?"

There was no reply, and Baker was only twenty feet away now, stumbling through the ferns like a drunk after a night of heavy drinking. In the light of the lanterns, George could see his pallid complexion, the way that he peered back at the crowd of hunters with vacant eyes.

"I think he's sick," George added, Dawes turning to glance at him. "He must be restrained, Mister Dawes."

Baker suddenly broke into an unsteady run, loosing a sound that George had never heard before. It wasn't quite a scream, not quite a growl, but some mournful blend of the two that struck fear into his heart like an icy dagger. It wasn't a noise that a person should be able to make.

Not knowing what to do, the men scattered, unwilling to turn their guns on their companion. Baker lunged at the nearest man, who dodged out of his way, the rest forming a loose circle around him. He was feral, insensible, just like the diseased animals that they had come across. That same rank smell was present, George covering his nose.