Many days followed the assault on the Army base, in which Guy Dawkins’ dreams were filled with horror. He’d wake up with a scream and find himself alone, often deep within the wilderness where none could find him. Sometimes there would be a presence...a soldier with a young, mutilated face would part some hanging branches and look at him, into him, and then wisp away into nothing.
It was on one such night that he awoke with a start to see a bear sniffing his pack. He frowned at his ill fortune and took out his brass pistol, praying to the Heavens that he could succeed in killing the thing and not attract unwanted attention.
Guy had traveled in a rough easterly direction, intent on finding and dogging the trail of Julius Edward Luther—or ex-Marshal, for the man now fancied himself something of a Moses figure, leading congregants in a holy war against Mutations. Against Guy’s people.
Guy lost his trail some weeks back, because he had to stay off the main roads. Bounties had been taken out on him by all the best hunters—The Worm, the one that looked like a dog, and that one whose name sounded like a locality...but none had found him. Oh, there had been close calls, and God only knew what would happen if they knew that he was responsible for the assault on the Fort. He’d be drowned in Pinkertons until there was nothing left of him.
So it was with a twinge of trepidation that he softly laid aside his pistol and drew his saber. The bear snorted and looked up at the faintest whisper of scabbard caressing steel, and he lay still, lulling it into a false sense of security. In the next instant he got to his feet in a swift and fluid motion and plunged the blade deep into the bear’s throat. It roared and gurgled, and reared up to take a swipe at him.
He had already been scarred many times in his life. He was not afraid. He danced out of the way with expert footwork and slashed at the side of the bear’s stomach. It dropped its forepaws with a thump and lurched around to face him. He swung powerfully enough to lop off its nose, and still the bear came at him. The night was alive with the thunder-rush of his blood and the threat of death not two feet from him. He pointed the tip of the sword at the bear’s face, took a daring step and plunged it deep into the creature’s cranium, then used both hands to drive it in as deep as it would go.
He pushed against the fallen thing with his foot to brace himself so he could get it back out.
Once again, he’d proven his superiority. In combat, he lost all sense of remorse and gave himself freely to the need to slaughter a lesser creature. And yet, still he had not found honor.
He rested, caught his breath and then tossed aside the bloodied blade.
When? When would he make peace with his actions?
But he knew the answer. When he found Luther, when he made an example of him and his followers...then he would be ready for God.
It was on one such night that he awoke with a start to see a bear sniffing his pack. He frowned at his ill fortune and took out his brass pistol, praying to the Heavens that he could succeed in killing the thing and not attract unwanted attention.
Guy had traveled in a rough easterly direction, intent on finding and dogging the trail of Julius Edward Luther—or ex-Marshal, for the man now fancied himself something of a Moses figure, leading congregants in a holy war against Mutations. Against Guy’s people.
Guy lost his trail some weeks back, because he had to stay off the main roads. Bounties had been taken out on him by all the best hunters—The Worm, the one that looked like a dog, and that one whose name sounded like a locality...but none had found him. Oh, there had been close calls, and God only knew what would happen if they knew that he was responsible for the assault on the Fort. He’d be drowned in Pinkertons until there was nothing left of him.
So it was with a twinge of trepidation that he softly laid aside his pistol and drew his saber. The bear snorted and looked up at the faintest whisper of scabbard caressing steel, and he lay still, lulling it into a false sense of security. In the next instant he got to his feet in a swift and fluid motion and plunged the blade deep into the bear’s throat. It roared and gurgled, and reared up to take a swipe at him.
He had already been scarred many times in his life. He was not afraid. He danced out of the way with expert footwork and slashed at the side of the bear’s stomach. It dropped its forepaws with a thump and lurched around to face him. He swung powerfully enough to lop off its nose, and still the bear came at him. The night was alive with the thunder-rush of his blood and the threat of death not two feet from him. He pointed the tip of the sword at the bear’s face, took a daring step and plunged it deep into the creature’s cranium, then used both hands to drive it in as deep as it would go.
He pushed against the fallen thing with his foot to brace himself so he could get it back out.
Once again, he’d proven his superiority. In combat, he lost all sense of remorse and gave himself freely to the need to slaughter a lesser creature. And yet, still he had not found honor.
He rested, caught his breath and then tossed aside the bloodied blade.
When? When would he make peace with his actions?
But he knew the answer. When he found Luther, when he made an example of him and his followers...then he would be ready for God.
