Disclaimer: this is a mature story wih violence, moderately gory details, and adult themes and language interspersed throughout the story. Read at your own discretion.
Preface: My apologies for this chapter being so delayed, I've had a LOT going on IRL lately, and haven't had the time or energy to devote to writing that I would've liked. I appreciate y'all's patience in the matter, and hope that my AI art series over on D.Buzz has proven to be entertaining in the meanwhile!
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Recap
Doing something a little different this week! Instead of just copy-pasting excerpts of the previous chapter, I'll give a brief synopsis of the chapter with the choices listed like normal!
Last week, we saw a few more developments in the situation our MCs have found themselves in. Turner woke up in one of the cells in the town jail and had a very "Turner-esque" altercation with the man who riled up the mob in the first place (A VERY satisfying scene to write, I might add...). This, however, only fueled the anger the man felt against him, which caused the timeline for his hanging to speed up to the next morning, with no trial. We left off with the ringleader (named Lester) and two men escorting Turner to the hanging tree.
Meanwhile, Gunnar and Wyatt wandered a ways into the woods to find a suitable place to camp. On the way, they were followed by shadowy figures in the night that watched them as they took turns keeping watch and conversing lightly. In the morning, they struck camp, and returned to the site where the picked up the trail once more only to find that the tracks had been obliterated intentionally by individuals apparently sent back to cover them over. It was then that the individuals who had been following them all night revealed themselves with an offer to come talk about some information about what they believed was a common enemy. Our MCs were left with a choice:
A. Go with the mysterious, bone-clad man.
B. Try to negotiate a way out and return to town.
C. Throw out diplomacy, we're shooting our way out of here!
Y'all were almost evenly divided on this one, but a last-minute vote tipped the scales in favor of A. What will you learn from the Bone-Specter? Will Turner make it? Read on to find out!
Chapter 11: Rope and Bone
Image Artist: @anikekirsten
You look at Wyatt, then back to the imposing man clad in bone and bearskin, pondering for a moment. Though I would really like to get back to town and check on the kid and the little Miss, this man seems to know something… perhaps it would be wiser to follow and find out just what that is. With resolve you speak up, "Lead the way, then, let's hear what you have to say." Two rows of gleaming white teeth reveal themselves in a broad smile, breaking the darkness that lurks underneath the half-skull mask.
"Excellent. Right dis way." He gestures with a nonchalant wave and turns his back to you as he begins to wade back through the undergrowth of the forest. The boldness of this sudden vulnerability assures you that there are several sets eyes currently on you… likely accompanied by gun barrels or the like.
As you and Wyatt take formation behind the man, you notice that his figure seems to fade in and out as he moves silently through the shadowed parts of the woods - sometimes appearing almost as a mirage rather than an actual form. Unnerving as that may be, you press on in your pursuit of the man, determined to learn what he has to share. A glance over your shoulder shows an unsettled Sheriff stiffly walking behind you, his eyes darting back and forth to his surroundings but his head refusing to betray any motion. "It's okay, Sheriff. I gotta good feelin' 'bout these folks. They're strange, but haven't killed us yet. Gotta count for somethin'."
He seems to relax a little at this remark, walking a little less rigidly, but still apparently vigilant. "This is way out of my bailiwick, Gunnar… I sure hope you know what you're doing."
Yeah, me too… you think to yourself as you continue to delve further into the increasingly caliginous depths of the cypress forest with the phantom-like mystery man as your guide.
After some time has passed, you notice that you are far from the beaten path you and Wyatt came in on, and you aren't altogether sure in which direction it may lay. A quick glance at Wyatt shows that he is thinking the same thing, and is growing more and more unsettled as the forest grows thicker and darker - almost as if an unnatural fog has settled on the area, blocking out the Sun. Thankfully, he seems to have his wits firmly about him, as his hand continues to keep from straying to the pistol at his hip or the rifle slung across his back by its leather strap.
Abruptly, the big man halts and let's out a series of whistles and chirps that bear an uncanny resemblance to the wildlife in the surrounding environment. You are struck by the sudden realization that this could have all been a trap from the beginning and that these wildlife calls may have been this group of shadowy figures all along. You keep your composure, however, certain that any aggressive action at this point would ultimately usher in your swift and imminent demise.
"We ah heeyah." The bone-clad man's deep voice resonates from behind the mask once more with its thick, foreign accent. "You 'ave shown us dat we can trust you. Now, let us return da favoe and shayah wit you what we know about yoe enamies."
As he speaks, two other figures, equally strange in appearance seem to materialize out of the gloom of the thicket around you. Both are women, by their looks, but appearing equally as otherworldly as their leader. One seems to quiver and shake even when standing still, twitching and squirming in the most unnatural way. Her hair is braided and matted in thick ropes that give it the appearance of writhing snakes with the right movement. The other appears more human-like, apart from the big cat's skull that adorns her head - likely a cougar's skull - and the feral look in her eyes. Though her movements are more terrestrial than her counterpart's, they have a grace and litheness to them which you can only identify as feline. Both women are clothed in mute colors like their leader, and similarly bear black and white markings on their arms and faces, giving them an almost tribal appearance.
"My lieutenants," the man explains, gesturing to a ring of stumps and rocks off to his left, "come, let us sit. We 'ave much to talk about."
The rope swings ominously in the breeze, almost as if taunting Turner. The inevitability of what is about to happen sets in, and dread spreads throughout Turner's body like a flash frost - biting ravenously at his joints and nerves. The surroundings of the makeshift gallows seem to blur in detail, but every strand and fiber of the rope stands out with incredible definition. It is thick, triple-corded for strength, but still flexible enough to tie into a hangman's knot. Tightly wrapped around itself seven times, the rope ends in a loop… a loop from which he would soon be dangling, the life-breath choked from his body.
Well, shit… always knew I'd be dyin', just never thought it'd be like this…
A shove from behind him prompts Turner to take a stumbling step forward towards the tree and the small crowd gathered around it. He gulps hard, but in vain since all the saliva has dried up in his mouth and his throat is parched from the crippling reality that his end is near. Forcing his legs to move, Turner painstakingly trudges through the muddy street with every fiber in his body telling him STOP!
It's either I walk to my death, or they shoot me in the back as I run. Not much of a choice, but hell, I s'pose it's better to die with a little pride.
With this thought, he shakes off some of the nerves that paralyze his legs and body; standing up a little straighter, he lifts his chin high as if to say 'you can't touch me because I'm better than you.' He shakes the grip of the men at his elbows, straightens his shirt, and strides forward more confidently as he breathes out a cleansing sigh.
As he approaches the crowd, he glances around at their faces. He's met with a stony, emotionless countenance on almost every face his gaze meets; a few avert their eyes as his light upon them. Resolute, he continues to scrutinize the crowd. If I'm gonna die, then I'll die knowin' the faces of those who stood by… and they'll bloody know mine as well. That's right, look away you guilty whoresons… That's when he notices the chaplain waiting, dressed in his black shirt with its white collar, a Bible clutched in his hand.
"Aw, hell. Ya know, 'Father', you're wastin' yer time here."
"Well, child, I think it is the best use of my time to save your soul before your body perishes. Would you like me to give you last rites?"
"Ha! Piss off with that bullshit, if there's anyone here who needs 'last rites' or redemption, it's the sonsabitches standin' 'round us tryna hang an innocent man!"
At this, the crowd rumbles with disapproval. They have heard this story hundreds of times before from so many other "innocent men," and are deaf to Turner's pleas.
"Git up on that there horse, yeh piece of shit!" Lester cries from behind the two bigger men. "We'll not hear 'nother word 'bout this!"
Turner steps to the old mare, whose silky chestnut coat has become grizzled and grey with age. It's likely that this is her only job now: assisting in the hastened expiration of the lives of guilty men. With the assistance of the two men at his elbows, he mounts the horse with moderate difficulty. The noose slips over his head, and he closes his eyes as he prepares himself for the end.
A slap on the mare's rump prompts her to break into a sprint.
The rope goes taut.
The big man sits himself down on one of the logs and motions to everyone standing to take a seat as well. Wyatt throws you a questioning glance which you meet with a pert nod, and you both take in the small circle of stumps and logs across from the mysterious stranger. His lieutenants both assume their seats at their leader's left and right, completing the circle.
"Tank you for agreeing to meet wit us. My name is Jean-Baptiste Mbaye, but my followahs call me Doctah Jean." He goes on to introduce the big cat skull-clad woman as Josephine Walters, and the weird woman as Hana Durant - known as "Paka" and "Mwonaji", respectively. "We 'ave done all dat we can to keep da dead undah control, but deyah ah foeces beyond owah control now. 'Ave you 'eard of de Night's Watch?"
"Hold on, 'keep the dead under control'? What does that mean?" Sheriff Billings blurts out, clearly on edge.
"Sometime, da best way to fight fiyah… is wit moe fiyah." Doctor Jean responds cryptically. "Deyah ah foeces at wark dat ah beyond yah undastanding. It is best sometime, not in knowing about dat which 'appen in da shadow."
"You mentioned the Night's Watch. What do you speak of?" You cut in, eager to learn what the strange "doctor" has to share.
"We 'ave only leahned about dem recently. My followahs wah out sheparding lost souls to da aftahlife and setting spiritual wards on da land to corral da dead when dey 'appened upon a group of men and women 'erding da dead into cages on wagons. Dey decided to follow da group, and found dem gadering wit moe carts deep in da swamp at some abandoned ruins of an old town."
"You know where the sons of bitches are?" exclaims the Sheriff.
"Yes, but we lack da numbahs to attack dem. My followahs ah skilled in da ways of going unseen, yes, but dey would still ovahrun in an 'ead-on fight. Dey passed trough owah land a few nights ago wit deyah carts filled to da brim wit da dead, and came back wit empty carts. When we saw you wandahring in da woods, we detahmined dat you wah not wit dem, but from da place dey must 'ave dumped da dead."
"Yeah, sure are… suffered a few casualties from the horde. Would've been much worse if Gunnar and his friend weren't there to help fight them back until the townsfolk woke up…" Wyatt shudders again at the thought of the young woman being torn apart, realizing that could have easily been his own fate.
"So we 'ave a shared enahmy. My people know wheyah da Night's Watch ohganize. I propose a partnahship between my people and yoes. Go to yoe town and gathah yoe best fightahs and join us in da forest, and we will lead dem to eliminate dese evil people dat would use da dead against dey own."
The group goes silent, the weight of this suggestion hanging on the air like a heavy blanket. The strange trio looks expectantly to you and the Sheriff for a response.
Well this certainly just got more interesting…
The rough fibers of the corded rope dig into Turner's skin as the rope tightens tighter and tighter around his neck. His legs flail about, trying in vain to find a surface to steady himself upon to relieve the pressure his body puts on the rope. In a flash, the events of his life race across his mind's eye. He remembers playing with his kid brothers, using sticks as swords in a game of knights and dragons; the balmy days out in the sun that they would spend pointing out animals and objects in the clouds.
He recollects the house fire that started with his siblings and family still inside, how quickly the fiery inferno blazed with uncontrollable fury, fueled by whale oil thrown upon it by the henchmen sent to punish them for being late on their payments. Shortly after that, he had meeting with a strange man where two roads met where he made a deal that would make vengeance possible. Even in this mortal moment of finality - every breath being choked out of his body - he smiles at the thought of the jeers the henchmen gave him turning into surprise and then fear as he whipped out his dual pistols and began pulling the triggers with cold, merciless precision. Weren't so tough with yer brains all over the wall now, were ya?
With this last thought, his vision begins to swim and grow dark. His legs cease to kick and jerk, going slack as the weight of his body continues to bear down on the taut rope. A ringing in his ears grows into a roar like a mighty wind ripping through a mountain pass. His lungs are burning, unable to breathe in the air for which they are desperate. His eyes grow heavy, ready to enter into an everlasting sleep.
Then, right as his world goes dark, a loud blast rings out over the heads people in the crowd around him. Shocked, they whirl around to see where the gunshot came from and are greeted by the presence of a man brandishing a six-shooter, inlaid with gold along the barrel and pearl on the handle peeking out from underneath the gnarled fingers which grasp it. He raises the gun and fires once more in the air to ensure that he has everyone's attention. Behind the crowd, a body thuds to the ground, followed momentarily by coughing, spluttering, and gasping. They glance up at the hanging tree only to see that the rope has been severed, its victim now laying on the ground gulping in air as the rope loosens around his neck.
"Anyone who wants to touch the boy now answers to me." the man states. His voice is low and husky, but strong and firm. Though his form was slightly hunched and the frailty of age was evident on his face and hands, the respect he commands is evident on the faces of the people in the crowd.
"This sonuvabitch done killed the Sheriff, Earl! He's gettin' what he damn well deserves!" Lester objects in his high, nasally voice.
"Lester Scoggins, you arse-wart, shut your mouth before I shut it for you. You've done enough here. Go home before my next bullet finds your ugly mug." the old man cocks the hammer of his pistol and points the barrel right at Lester, prompting the dumpy man to take off down the street towards his abode. Earl raises the gun to his shoulder. "Anyone else object?" He's met with emphatically shaking heads. "Very good. Go back to your homes, I'll take care of this." Without missing a beat, the crowd disperses, leaving the boy on the ground - his chest still heaving.
The old man approaches with a slight limp, uncocking the firing hammer and ramming his pistol home in its holster. Producing a buck knife, he bends down to sever Turner's bonds and remove the noose, quietly grunting with his effort. Free from his bindings, the Jenkins boy slowly props himself up on his elbow, coughing a little and rubbing his neck where the ligature marks still remain.
"Thank yeh, mister. Coulda come a little sooner, but thank yeh anyhow… they was out fer blood, why didn't ya let em hang me?" Turner inquires cautiously.
"After what I saw you do for my sweet girl, Daisy, I couldn't let them snuff your light. Not without a fair trial, at least."
"Daisy?"
"The woman in the street who you covered over with your poncho. She was my daughter."
The bone-clad "doctor" and his lieutenants continue to sit in silence while you ponder their proposal. Though their appearance is unsettling, you've grown more comfortable in their presence through the conversation and continued exposure to the reality of their humanity.
"May I have a moment with my friend?" you ask politely. The skull mask dips down in a nod of agreement. You and Wyatt rise to your feet and walk a short distance away while keeping the strange troupe in your line of sight. "What do you think, Sheriff?"
"They are certainly an odd bunch, and their "methods" are something I'm not sure I want to know or understand. However, it seems that they may be our best shot at nabbing the sons of bitches that did this to my town… the Night's Watch? I've never even heard of em!"
"Neither have I, though I had heard of fanatics being drawn to the swamps, never to be seen again. I always assumed it was because they died out there, but now I'm not so sure."
"I, for one, hesitantly agree with them. And by the looks of them, it would be better to have them as allies than enemies. I just hope we're not making a deal with the devil here…"
"I agree. Like you said, they're likely our best bet at nabbin' the sonsabitches. They intrigue me as well, the way they move and seem to disappear in the shadows…. I'd like to study them a bit. However, I understand if my presence is needed in town to rally our troops."
"I won't deny that your presence and assistance would be coveted, of course. However, I'll leave the choice to you; I trust your judgement on these matters. Where do you think your efforts are best spent?"
A. Return to town with the Sheriff to prepare for the assault.
B. Stay with the group of mysterious figures.
As with previous chapters, please leave your votes in the comments below. Those who vote will immediately be added to the watchlist and can choose to opt out of it by indicating this preference with their vote. I look forward to seeing what y'all choose! Thank you for your time and attention.
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As always, take care of yourselves and each other, and stay thoughtful!
Your friendly neighborhood dork,
~Thinkr
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