Callum stood shivering on the outskirts of camp Maxwell, yet sweat covered every inch of his body. As he stared at the assortment of tents and huts, he struggled to remember the trek down to the camp. Somehow, he had managed to drive his faltering body in the right direction. He did remember the continual feelings of one moment being too hot, and then the next too cold. The fever that now gripped him felt like nothing he had ever endured before. His vision was becoming more and more blurred. Not only that, but he was beginning to hallucinate. He had seen his dead father twice on the trek down to the camp, and the encounter—all be it imaginary—had left him shaken. He had to bring things to an end soon, otherwise he would simply be too sick to do anything.
His teeth chattered slightly as he scanned the hodgepodge of tents, shacks and Lingerer pens. Apart from the undead milling about inside the pens, the place seemed deserted. Maybe he had misunderstood the men from back up the mountain. Maybe they never existed. What if they had simply been a figment of his fever stricken brain, but one sniff of his piss drenched clothes told him they had been real. As the dusk deepened, a light appeared in one of the larger shacks. To his relief, he had found Jacob Maxwell.
Callum moved as quietly as he could, but he knew his abilities for stealth and guile were greatly diminished by his less than responsive body. To him, it felt as if his every foot fall crashed to the ground with the same noise of a falling tree. In reality, he still moved with less noise than the average man was capable of. But he certainly did not move with his normal animal like grace. After what felt to him like forever, he found himself crouched beneath the window through which light now streamed. He looked up at the sky and guessed it would only be a matter of minutes before darkness took hold. With a shaky hand, he pulled his revolver and readied himself for his next move.
* * *
Jacob massaged his chest as he poured himself another coffee. Since leaving his men, he had had another two bouts of searing pain rip through his chest, the last of which had brought him to his knees. He had pushed himself too hard was all, and he needed to take things a little easier. After all, he was no longer a young man, and The Lord still had much for him to do.
Jacob headed to his rocking chair, and lowered his overweight frame into it. Both the chair and Jacob let out a low groan. His was one of pleasure, but the chair’s was one of being pushed ever closer to collapse. With his coffee resting on his rotund stomach, Jacob closed his eyes and began to rock. After a few seconds, he began to quietly sing his favorite hymn.
“When we think of chill starvation,
When we think sighs and tears,
When we think of pale privations,
When we think of doubts and fears.”
Jacob began to rock a little faster as the lyrics of the hymn began to take hold of him.
“When we think of raging madness,
When we think of reckless beings,
When we think of death-like sadness,
Nature’s most distressing….”
Jacob abruptly stopped both his singing, and his rocking. Had something just banged against the outside of his home? He placed his coffee on the floor beside his chair, and slowly got to his feet. His hand moved to his revolver, and he edged toward the window. Maybe the men were back, or one of his undead had broken free. For some reason, he began to feel as if he was in imminent danger of dying. He had no idea why he felt that way, but the feeling was palpable and growing. He knew The Lord protected him from all the evils of mortal man, but still the feeling grew inside him. Something out there wanted him dead, and he would have to fight to stay alive.
* * *
Callum felt more exhausted than he ever had in his life. His limbs and eyelids felt as if they were made of lead. All he wanted to do was sleep. Sleep and forget. He listened to the fat monster inside the shack as he began to sing. How could someone so evil have such a clear and soothing voice? Callum listened, and his eyes betrayed him.
As if his eyelids had minds of their own, they began to close against his will. Within a second, Callum had gone from a fragile state of wakefulness, to deep sleep. His head lulled forward, and with a lurch that was beyond the control of his slumbering mind, he threw it back. His skull slammed against the side of the shack, and the impact woke him instantly. His eyes went wide as he realized two things: he had given away his position, and the fat monster inside had stopped his crooning. It was time for the killing to start.
Callum crawled quickly away from the window and rounded the corner of the shack. Without hesitation, he leaped to his feet and kicked open the door to the hovel. He raised his gun and peered into the dimly lit hut, but the lack of light and his failing vision caused him a moment of confusion. His instincts were off, and it took him several moments to spot the man he wanted to kill.
Jacob stood peering out of the window into the darkness, and he held a large revolver in his right hand. The tub of lard moved faster than Callum could ever have imagined, and wheeled in the Ranger’s direction. Callum told his finger to pull the trigger, but the fever slowed his command. Ordinarily, Callum was as quick as a rattler, but on this occasion, Jacob was quicker.
Jacob fired twice, but his aim was poor and the bullets found the door frame just to Callum’s left. The Ranger flinched as splinters of wood embedded themselves in his sweat drenched face. It was the wakeup call his body needed, and Callum returned fire. He pulled the trigger only once; it was all he needed. His bullet tore into Jacob’s gun toting shoulder, and sent him spinning and screaming to the floor. Callum holstered his gun, and moved shakily toward the writhing pile of shit now cowering in front of him.
“You can’t kill me,” Jacob wailed as he tried to drag himself away from the pale, sweat drenched specter looming over him. “I’m The Lord’s….”
Jacob’s sentence was cut short by Callum’s boot. The Ranger drove his foot into the old man’s mouth with all the strength he could muster. Jacob’s head snapped to one side, and he sprayed a mouthful of rotten teeth all over the floor.
“You do not represent any god; least of all the one true God. You are a vile excuse of a man,” Callum replied as he swayed above him. “Yer going to die, and then you will meet God, and you’ll feel the full force of his wrath.”
Jacob grabbed at his chest and his face distorted into one of extreme pain. Callum laughed and pulled his tomahawk. “Who do ya think yer dealing with? That’s the oldest one in the book, and it doesn’t fool me.”
Jacob grabbed the Ranger’s leg and the lunatic’s eyes went wide. Callum suddenly realized the fat bastard was not fooling. He did not want to be cheated from his final act of retribution by a heart attack, so he swung his tomahawk at the old man’s throat. However, thanks to the fever now eating him alive, his vision and depth perception was way off, and the blade flew past his targets neck with more than an inch to spare. The sudden motion of swinging his weapon sent Callum careering backward, and he slammed down into the rocking chair from which Jacob had only just departed. The Ranger sat slumped in the old chair—and as the fever finally took full hold of him—his eyes rolled up in his head and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
Sensing he was near death, but also sensing he had an opportunity, Jacob reached for his gun and then leveled it at the unconscious man now sitting in his favorite chair. He realized God had forsaken him. Maybe he had displeased The Lord in some way, but he knew it was too late to make amends. If he had to die, then he would take this fool with him and they could both burn in hell together.
La Roux and Izzy made it back to the cave without incident, and for more than two hours, the big Cajun led the women down the mountain toward safety. However, the longer they walked, the more uneasy he felt. On their parting, he had thought Callum looked far from well. In fact he looked like death warmed up. He knew the young Ranger was one of the most capable men going, but everyone had their limits. He stopped and dropped his pack to the ground. Izzy and her cousin, Mary, drew to his side and looked at him with some concern.
“What is it?” Izzy asked as she scanned her surroundings.
“I’m worried about Callum,” La Roux said as he pulled dynamite from his pack and stowed it in his massive leather coat. “I think you and the others are out of harm’s way, so I’m going back for him.” He finished by checking his revolvers and ammunition.
Izzy nodded. “Alright. What do ya want me to do?”
“Keep heading down this track. Stay alert, and keep moving for as long as daylight holds. There’s an old hunter’s cabin about ten miles from here. With luck, ya should reach it before dark. Hold up there ‘til morning, and then carry on down the mountain. You and Mary take my pack, it’s full of gear that you’ll find useful. I need to travel fast and light, so I won’t be needing it.”
“Will ya be coming back?”
He nodded. “If I don’t find Callum by morning, then I’ll hightail it back to you. Just keep moving ‘til I get back. Understood?”
Izzy nodded, and went to tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Be careful.”
The big Cajun’s hand went to where her lips had just been, and he felt his face reddening. He said nothing, but just nodded and headed back the way they had just come.
Izzy watched him for a while, and then she and Mary picked up his pack between them, and then they silently started on their way once more.
* * *
Moving quickly, La Roux headed back toward where he had seen Callum last. As he went, he made sure not to leave any evidence of where he had just come from. The last thing he wanted was any of the Maxwell’s stumbling across his back trail, so he remained extremely vigilant about covering all his tracks.
He arrived back at the hollow some five hours after he and Izzy had left it. The gore of the battle lay all around, but he wasted no time taking the scene in. Instead, he started the process of hunting down his friend. He bolted off in the direction of Callum’s obviously laid trail and began tracking not only his friend, but the men who had pursued him from the hollow.
For more than half an hour, he worked his way along the path the young Ranger had laid for those chasing him. The trail was easy to follow, and he could hardly believe that the Maxwells had fallen for such an obvious ruse. As he marveled at the stupidity of those hunting his friend, he heard movement from in front of him. La Roux somehow managed to make his massive frame disappear into the undergrowth, and he waited with knife drawn for the noise makers to draw near. A few moments later, three of the Maxwell men came walking in his direction. La Roux weighed up the pros and cons of letting them pass unhindered. He knew it could take three or four hours to track his friend down, by which time it would be well and truly dark. If the men knew anything of Callum’s location, then it would be wise to intercept them.
Without another moment of consideration, La Roux leaped into the men’s path and sprang into action. It took less than five seconds to kill two of them, and another heartbeat to bring the other to the dirt. The big Ranger knelt to one side of the man that he now held to the ground by the neck. The man whimpered and sniveled pitifully, which only went to anger La Roux further. The Cajun spat at the dirt beside the man’s head, and then lowered his lips to his ear.
“Now listen, and listen good,” La Roux growled. “Have any of your people found anyone?”
The whimpering man shook his head as best he could. “No, sir, no one at all.”
La Roux surveyed the woods around him and pondered on where Callum might be. Again, he spoke into the man’s ear. “Where are all the others?”
“Pa Maxwell went back to camp, he seemed poorly. Everyone else is hunting our women and the heathen men who took them.”
La Roux looked in the direction of the Maxwell camp, which was only five miles away. “Is old man Maxwell guarded?”
“Yes, by The Lord.”
La Roux squeezed the man’s neck, and he heard something pop. The sniveling scum let out a yelp of pain and the Cajun smiled. “Don’t be smart with me. Is he guarded?”
“No, no he’s alone.”
La Roux looked toward the camp once more. If he were in Callum’s shoes—and he discovered Jacob Maxwell was alone—what would he do. The answer was clear. He would head to the camp and kill the old sonofabitch. He knew he was gambling on whether Callum knew of Jacob’s location, but he felt sure his friend was at the camp. Without another word, La Roux pushed his knife through the man’s ear, and then dashed off toward the Maxwell camp.
La Roux reached the camp a little after dark, and he quickly noticed a dim light coming from one of the shacks. He took a broad, sweeping look around, but saw no obvious signs of his friend. He looked back at the shack some three hundred yards from where he stood, and decided it would be as good a place as any to start his search. Just then, gunfire erupted in the dimly lit shanty. La Roux drew his gun and ran toward the melee as fast as he could. It took the big man under forty seconds to cover the distance between him and the shack, a pace anyone would have found difficult to match.
The Cajun powered in through the open door and took in the scene as quickly as he could. Callum sat unconscious in a chair, and Jacob Maxwell lay on the floor with a gun leveled in Callum’s direction. However, with La Roux’s sudden appearance, Maxwell was trying to bring his gun to bear on the hut’s new arrival. La Roux wasted no time in putting a bullet between old man Maxwell’s eyes, and then he quickly moved to his friend’s aid. His hand went to Callum’s forehead, and he instantly felt how hot his he was. Callum was burning up with a fever that went well beyond the realms of being life threatening.
“Wake up,” La Roux said as he slapped Callum’s face. “Come on now, wake up, buddy.”
Callum’s eyes drifted slowly open and La Roux let out a sigh of relief. “Thank God,” La Roux exclaimed as he dropped to his knees.
“Is that fat old bastard dead?” Callum asked groggily.
La Roux looked at the man with half his head missing and nodded. “Yep, he’s deader than a door nail. Anyway, no need to worry about him, instead we need to worry about you. I think it’s time we get ya some real help.”
“Not before you kill all the Lingerers and then burn this place to the ground.”
La Roux shook his head. “No, from here on in, every minute counts.”
The Cajun moved to pick his friend up, but Callum grabbed his arm weakly. “Pierre.”
La Roux suddenly felt scared. Callum never called him by his Christian name. “What?”
“We can’t leave the undead for the other men to release. You have to kill them, otherwise others may die. Also, this place needs to be destroyed. The things that happened here … we can’t just let ‘em go unpunished. I’d rather die than leave this camp in one piece.”
“Listen, yer going to die unless I get you out of here now.”
Callum smiled weakly, and then shrugged. “If I die, then put a bullet in my head too.”
La Roux felt Callum’s forehead again, and then he looked out at the camp. The place had been host to so many nightmares. Callum was right, it had to be destroyed. He patted his friends shoulder, and then said, “I’ll do this as quick as I can. You just hold on.”
The camp contained two full pens of Lingerers, the third had been partially destroyed in their first attack on the camp, and as a consequence, was empty. The other two held around forty-five tightly packed undead, which made it like shooting fish in a barrel. As easy as the shooting was, it still took La Roux ten minutes—and almost every round he carried—to dispatch all the revenants.
With the undead dealt with, La Roux turned his attention to destroying the camp. While he wanted the place leveled just as much as Callum did, he knew fire would be an extremely dangerous way of achieving their goal. The camp was set in the middle of woodlands that ran for hundreds of miles in every direction. Starting a major fire in such a place ran the risk of burning vast quantities of forest as well. He felt a better solution would be to burn the large storehouse down, as well as Jacob Maxwell’s home. Both buildings were situated in the middle of the camp, and well away from both the tree line and other buildings. It was still risky, but La Roux felt confident the fire would remain contained to the two buildings.
The Cajun first moved to the stores and emptied it of all the drums of lamp oil. This he poured down the well, thus contaminating the camps water supply. Once the oil was removed from the building, he set it ablaze. He then moved to the stables, and saddled three horses, all of which he lashed together to form a line. The rest of the livestock—horses, cows, pigs, goats and poultry—he freed and sent them scattering into the trees. He finally returned to Jacob Maxwell’s house; and to Callum.
It had taken close to an hour to achieve all his mayhem, and in that time Callum’s precarious condition had worsened. La Roux was no longer able to wake him from his fever fueled stupor. He lifted him into his arms with the ease of a father lifting his sleeping child, and he quickly moved to the horses he had tethered outside. La Roux lay his friend across the saddle of the second horse. The last thing he wanted was Callum falling off as they made good their escape, so he lashed Callum securely to the saddle.
In the distance, La Roux heard the combined yells of many men heading in his direction. Clearly, the combination of gunfire and flames had alerted the Maxwell men to what was happening back at their camp. La Roux reached into his coat, and pulled out the five sticks of dynamite he had stashed there before leaving Izzy and the other women. He had enough fuse to burn for ten minutes, which was just about how far away he judged the men to be. With luck, they would turn up just in time to get themselves blown to pieces. He grinned, lit the fuse, then with an effort, he crawled under Jacob Maxwell’s house and planted the dynamite well out of view. After scrambling back out from under the hut, he jumped up on the lead horse, turned, and left camp Maxwell behind him.