《No Bullets for the Beast》 Peruvian Business The snowstorm blitzed past the outsider, wind whistling and deafening everything else. His feet buried into the crunching snow, one at a time, one foot over the other, as he tried to find the building. But he could not see an inch further in the hailing blizzard, let alone a bustling saloon. It was like an endless abyss of storming white and grey. He was about ready to drop dead before spending another hour in the hellish snowstorm, among countless others spent getting here. Gradually, the clouds of snow and winter parted. Warm, but faint, yellow lights emerged ahead, resembling an oasis in the cold desert, desolate of everything. As he walked, the outsider locked on the glow, drawn like a moth to a flame. The saloon doors swung open with a loud shake and a tall, imposing figure stormed in. Dressed in a dark linen coat over layers, he was topped with a similarly black hat that rested lazily on his chestnut hair. What struck the outsider first wasn''t the blaring sound of piano keys being smashed or the bright hanging lights nearly blinding him the moment he stepped in...no, it was instead the several drunkards crashing into him. It was akin to having walked into a stampede of horses. One couple bashed into the outsider right in front of the entrance, dancing and shoving him aside as if he weren''t ever there. Then another; a large man stumbled back into him, and like avoiding a crushing wall, it prompted the outsider to step to the side, avoiding the crossfire of these rabid folk. He peered at the rest of the saloon and realised how packed it was for being small, with an elaborate second floor and mezzanines. People danced and danced and danced, like ants in a crazed death spiral, most of them on tables and the centre, wooden floor. Some climbed atop furniture, bar counters, and stair railings. Others even fornicated on the couches, bare for all to see. They all seemed to be in a euphoric trance, flailing wildly to what could barely be described as music, a cacophony of shaky violin strings and the distorted smacking of piano keys. But the outsider smelt something else; a toxic and spicy scent that invaded his nostrils. He coughed slightly, realising the air was thick with grey murkiness, thick tendrils of smoke rising from all corners of the incessantly loud saloon. He followed the coils of smoke to a group of people slumped in and around a sofa, their bodies limp and unmoving like cooked pasta. Their eyes were shrank and vacant, gazing at nothing in particular. Weakly grasped in their hands were long ceramic pipes of opium. The outsider scoffed. He had found the place; a saloon that was no more genuine than a rich man¡¯s wife. Now aware he was in hostile company, the outsider scanned the hall more intently. He noticed several men standing stoically around the corners, not interacting with the crowd. At least a dozen were scattered about on the ground floor alone. One man, in particular, stood atop the stairs leading to the left-hand side of the saloon''s mezzanine. Burly like Frankenstein, he was white and his gaze pierced into the outsider''s heart as if from the moment he stepped foot in the saloon. At least, it looked as if it was, or perhaps the man was merely looking at something else nearby. Nevertheless, the outsider wasn''t going to take the chance of appearing more suspicious. He didn''t even talk with the scoundrels surrounding him, nor would he want to, anyway. No time for degenerates, so he pressed ahead. As the outsider ascended the wooden stairs to the second floor, he observed more sober guards stationed at this level. Suddenly, a man stepped in front of him: the same suited white man who had been staring at him earlier. His blue eyes concentrated on the outsider''s amber gaze; his pupils weren¡¯t dilated or bloodshot, an oddity compared to everyone else in the saloon. ¡°What¡¯s your business here?¡± The guard asked lowly. Sensing a bit of hostility, the outsider dug his hands deep inside his coat, gripping both pockets. ¡°Picking up ¡®Columbian¡¯.¡± the outsider replied plainly. The guard stared at him for a moment, but only for a moment, as he nodded. ¡°Alright, drop your weapons.¡± ¡°Excuse me?¡± ¡°House policy, friend. No weapons before picking up our product.¡± ¡°Aren¡¯t there around twenty of you in this saloon alone?¡± The outsider retorted, ¡°A single shot would be suicide for me.¡± ¡°Yet you still counted.¡± The guard then shifted his hand towards his right hip, and the slight buckle of steel could be heard. ¡°House policy, and also a body search.¡± The outsider sighed. Giving up, he raised his hands to the air, and the coat dragged along. The guard proceeded to pat down the man¡¯s hips, firm fingers searching for anything. On the outsider¡¯s side, a pair of odd-looking revolvers and blades were found. Several clicks clattered as the guard disarmed him. ¡°So I take it you mercs don¡¯t smoke?¡± the outsider dryly asks in an attempt at small talk, tilting his head. ¡°Lungs okay?¡± ¡°The boss says we don¡¯t consume our product,¡± the guard replied matter-of-factly as he dropped the weapons in a box on a table behind him. He then turned back to the outsider. ¡°Up, take your hands out of your pockets,¡± the guard demanded. ¡°...Fine,¡± the outsider complied, raising his hands. The guard thoroughly checked the pockets of his dark coat, not finding anything. His pockets were clear for now. Reaching for his hips, the guard padded further, not expecting much else. But hidden on the side of the outsider¡¯s belt, the guard felt a metallic, rectangular object with sharp ridges on its side. Curious, he opened the coat further to get a better look at it; to his surprise, a silver instrument was nestled inside. ¡°A harmonica? Wait¡­¡± The guard looked up at the outsider¡¯s face as if taking a second look. His eyes widened, and he straightened up, taking a step back. His face grew pale, like he had just seen a ghost. ¡°You¡¯re Killjoy!¡± The guard then reached to take Killjoy¡¯s harmonica, pulling it out of the strap. Killjoy was quick to react, however, darting his hand forward and grabbing the guard¡¯s wrist under an iron grip. ¡°I¡¯m keeping my harmonica,¡± snarled Killjoy. The guard spat back with gritting teeth. ¡°For all I know, you could use it to murder the boss¡­I should gun you down right now, you federal shit!¡± ¡°I¡¯m not here on bounty, pal. I just want some opium.¡± Killjoy said. He then stared the guard down, his face morphing into a deep frown. ¡°Now let me go, or we can scramble. And I don¡¯t need my guns.¡± ¡°...Fine,¡± the guard finally heeded the threat. Killjoy scoffed before reaching forward, nimbly taking his harmonica out of the guard¡¯s palm. He kept a severe stare on the guard as if daring him to try something while digging the instrument back into his coat pockets. As he intimidated him, Killjoy held the back of the guard for a moment longer, sneaking back the two firearms the guard had taken. He moved out of the way slowly, still facing Killjoy. The guard nodded to the left, ¡°Walk down the mezzanine, take a right, and down the middle hall at the end is his office.¡± Killjoy nodded at the response, satisfied. He tipped his hat at the guard before slowly turning, at a mockingly slow pace while eyeing the man, before walking off. The cigar hissed as its smoke curled and burned against the glass ashtray. The old man had offered it to the newcomer in his saloon, expecting him to partake, but it appeared he was not one to smoke¡ªa fact that surprised the old man. ¡°Not fond of tobacco?¡± The stout, suited businessman asked from the comfort of his chair behind the desk. His voice carried a slight Italian accent, though it was hard to notice amidst the roughness and cragginess of his tone¡ªa voice that seemed to sap the moisture from one''s throat. And he gave a wide, gleaming smile, yet his gaze remained dead-straight, fixed on Killjoy¡¯s. ¡°It relaxes me, dulls me out,¡± Killjoy replied, but really to nothing as he was not looking at the suited man across from him, but what was behind the suited man. ¡°Is that not why people smoke?¡± The man begged the question, twirling his cigar with his fingers, the smoke dancing off the tip in spirals. ¡°I smoke because it keeps me off the edge; boring, direct, I know, but it is a simple remedy when certain stresses get to me.¡± ¡°Say,¡± the man gestured his cigar to Killjoy, his smile widening even further so the gold in his teeth glistened in the light. ¡°What keeps you off your edge?¡± Killjoy never took his eyes off the space behind the old man as he rambled. ¡°What keeps me on edge is your thugs pointing their guns at me,¡± he finally replied, his face scowled. The man leaned back in his comfy padded chair with widened eyes, as if surprised. Then he glanced at his side and dramatically turned his whole body in his chair to look behind himself. He looked up. And there were two men, so tall they nearly stood to the ceiling, and they were holding Winchester rifles, the wooden stocks hugging their shoulders, aimed squarely at Killjoy. Their fingers were slimy with sweat against the trigger as if the slightest disturbance would make them drop Killjoy right then and there. And they locked their sight onto the outsider, while their bodies tensed up as if a bomb were about to go off. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Killjoy gripped the hidden items in his coat pockets tightly, just in case he needed to bring them out. The old man scoffed and quickly turned to look back at Killjoy. He began to laugh, cackling and puffing. Drool dropped from his wet mouth, drooping to his velvet suit which seemed to be barely held together against the folds of his blubbery fat and excess stature. ¡°Well, what do you know?¡± The man remarked with a grin, ¡°If you hadn¡¯t pointed that out, I wouldn¡¯t have noticed.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not someone you should threaten,¡± Killjoy stoically reminded him. ¡°And I¡¯m not a fucking idiota,¡± the plump owner replied, dropping his smile. The man took on a stone demeanour, his brows low and his stare sharp. ¡°One of the most overpaid lapdogs of the federale has come walking into my fine establishment. I know you, Killjoy, so you should know I think having you lynched would be the most appropriate measure and not just some two guns, hm?¡± Killjoy did not react but for a little grumble under his breath. He then dug for something deeper inside the pockets of his coat. Killjoy pulled out a small leather sack with his left hand and plopped it on the table, the sound of metallic clinking ringing out. He dug his hand back into his pocket. ¡°Cos¡¯¨¨ questo?¡± The old man glanced at the bag suspiciously and then back at Killjoy, his lips still parted but teeth clenched. ¡°...125 double eagle coins, about $2,500,¡± Killjoy calmly explained. The man still looked at him with a severe stare, his bodyguards behind him becoming more fidgety in their stance. ¡°I am not here on any ¡®official¡¯ business or anything like that, I assure you mister,¡± Killjoy attempted to defuse, ¡°If I was, I wouldn¡¯t have come here without my guns and shown you my money. You can just kill me and take it, easy as that. But I did anyway; I just want some opium.¡± ¡°...But you said you didn¡¯t like smoking,¡± the man almost whispered in his accusation, leaning forward on the desk with his fingers crossed under his chin. ¡°Relaxes you, dulls you out, remember?¡± His eyebrows rose, his slow pronunciation dancing on each syllable. ¡°...What about cocaine?¡± Killjoy then cracked the faintest of a smirk; of course, he may not have meant it, but the way he smiled when everything else in his face stayed still was almost ridiculous. The man froze as if processing what Killjoy had just said. He looked at the outsider closely, his brown eyes squinting before widening. His crossed fingers across his chin also concealed his mouth, so Killjoy had no clue about how the old man felt. A frown, clenched teeth? Could have been anything. A cough. That cough was all that broke from the old man¡¯s mouth after his momentary silence. It got rougher and dryer the more he coughed as if thirsting for water. But then, the cackled coughing morphed into more airy bursts of breaths, and Killjoy soon realised the old man was not asphyxiating¡­he was laughing. ¡°I¡­like you!¡± The old man spat out in the middle of his laugh. ¡°Okay, we can do business. A hundred and a quarter of those gold birds? That can get you a lot of Peruvian, my little Killjoy. Colombian, whatever, it¡¯s all cocoa at the end of the day!¡± He said as he flew his hands into the air, a wide smile stitched across his round face. ¡°Whatever,¡± Killjoy said. The old man glanced to his side and nodded, which prompted the bodyguards behind him to walk to the back end of the room. One knelt next to a wardrobe dresser, the other standing to the side. They pushed it over, and underneath the furniture was an opening on the floor, and they began searching for something inside it meticulously. Killjoy paid attention to the way the hired guns were positioned. They were prone, sprawling on the floor, busy trying to pry free the floorboard. Their rifles that were oh so aimed at Killjoy rested against the wall, and the bodyguards¡¯ pistols hung loosely in their holsters. Bingo. ¡°While they fetch the good shit,¡± the old man looked back at Killjoy, ¡°Why don¡¯t you answer my question, Amico?¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± Killjoy replied as he leaned back. ¡°What keeps you off your edge? Y¡¯know, what relaxes you? Everyone has that one thing that they do, or take, to¡­unwind. A working man needs his opium, a tycoon, his whores, a psycho¡­toys to play with,¡± The man cracked a devious smirk on that comment, ¡°And that¡¯s what I provide, it is my speciality.¡± ¡°And you want to know mine?¡± ¡°Exactly, my little Killjoy! You are my client, I must know. And I see it in your eyes; they¡¯re rather strange. I can¡¯t make out what kind of desire you have.¡± The old man took a swig of his cigar, inhaling momentarily before letting the smoke out in long ropes. ¡°You don¡¯t really want drugs,¡± He explained as he inspected his cigar. ¡° No, you don¡¯t need it. Or rather, it¡¯s not what you¡¯re looking for. Women, men, younger? Condemned prisoners to toy with, perhaps? That harmonica? I wouldn¡¯t have guessed a man of your¡­repertoire¡­to have such a sweet hobby.¡± Killjoy looked down at his harmonica strapped in his belt. ¡°It¡¯s a gift from my wife. I don¡¯t play much.¡± ¡°Well, whatever keeps your edge off, I will provide. And I assure you, when I do, you won¡¯t want anything else.¡± The outsider remained silent for a bit. He then opened his mouth. ¡°...I used to have something that relaxed me,¡± Killjoy said, ¡°For years, and it was the one thing I did best, or worst, depending on how you look at it..¡± ¡°Go on¡­¡± the old man said with a wide grin, intently listening. ¡°...Being close to death,¡± Killjoy confessed, almost exasperated, ¡°Ah, you¡¯re that type of man, aren¡¯t you, my little Killjoy?¡± The old man teased. ¡°Why else would I continue doing this line of work for so long, other than the money?¡± ¡°We have¡­rooms to accommodate that taste. Certain employees of ours take joy in wringing pain from others¡­¡± ¡°Oh, but that¡¯s where you¡¯re wrong,¡± Killjoy corrected him. ¡°Hm?¡± The old man raised a brow. ¡°And what¡¯s that?¡± ¡°I used to enjoy it. But, when you¡¯ve killed so many, put hundreds in duffel bags for pay, and survived the most gruesome injuries that would leave any other man crippled for life¡­you¡¯re bound to learn and get more effective at your job.¡± Killjoy shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s not that death doesn¡¯t just do it for me anymore¡­ it¡¯s that now, I never get close to seeing it.¡± A whistle. Then another. Something fell to the floor, followed by another thud behind the old man. His eyes screamed in shock at the sudden noise, and at the revolver which Killjoy drew out without even as much as a second to do so. The man glanced elsewhere to his side, almost hesitant to see the scene that was probably unfolding behind him. But he still turned, and where the end of the room was, where the wardrobe sat, the bodies of his hired guns laid on the floor next to it. Puddles of thick, regurgitating crimson spilled from their heads, or more exactly the perfectly centred bullet holes created from the gunfire. The old man darted back at Killjoy, as tears of sweat began to ride across the folds of his chin. Like prey cornered by its predator, he then tried to unholster his gun to defend himself. But the outsider was quick to lock his aim on the scared old man. ¡°Ah, ah, ah. I wouldn¡¯t do that if I were you, mister,¡± Killjoy reminded, almost playfully, but he had no crease in his mouth nor a smile to imply he was. The old man burrowed his brows, but let up and let go of his hip. He slowly raised his hands in the air to appease the outsider. ¡°...I would say I¡¯m a fool for trusting you so easily, but there¡¯s something else I can¡¯t quite comprehend right now, Amico.¡± ¡°And what¡¯s that?¡± ¡°Your revolver¡­it didn¡¯t make a lick of a noise. The guards would be scrambling here and have your head with a hundred holes in it otherwise.¡± Killjoy glanced at his revolver and turned it with his left hand, the barrel still aimed at the old man square in the face. His right hand was still dug in the right pocket. ¡°Russian. New Nagant model; there¡¯s no gap between the cylinder and the barrel. So I fixed a metal tube around it, and it blocks the sound and smoke.¡± ¡°I thought the great Killjoy did not even use revolvers; I heard he preferred the German variety.¡± Killjoy nods. ¡°Mauser.¡± ¡°Ja,¡± the old man replied in accented German with his jaw widening dramatically. But through all of his charade, his breath was short and exasperated. ¡°I¡¯ll cut to the chase: you have a warrant out for your arrest,¡± the gunslinger explained. ¡°You are already out on bond and ready to be tried; one of your ¡®associates¡¯ signed to it. I¡¯m here to collect it.¡± A cackling erupted from the old man¡¯s mouth. ¡°Ha, bullshit. Do you¡¯ve any idea how many warrants I had, and how often I got tried, only for me to walk away?¡± He then slumped back on his chair, as if suddenly relaxed. The old man swiped his cigar from the ashtray and smoked it. ¡°The lady justice is blind to money, but not the men who run her courts,¡± the Italian said, ¡°If it¡¯s just any small bond, I¡¯ll just pay it. I¡¯ll just move back to Little Italy too; I always knew expanding business in the south was cattiva.¡± ¡°That¡¯s where you¡¯re wrong again.¡± ¡°...What do you mean?¡± ¡°The crime doesn¡¯t have anything to do with lining your pockets or anything fiscal like that; it¡¯s attempted murder. The name ¡®Joaquin Killian¡¯ rings a bell for ya¡¯?¡± The old man paused. He looked at a wall, for no reason in particular, took the cigar out between his lips and placed it back inside the ashtray. The subtle but forceful press of the old man¡¯s fingers crushed into the plate of the cigar¡¯s head, spreading the dust. ¡°So you do know him,¡± Killjoy noticed the man¡¯s growing frustration, ¡°Well, according to the Sheriffs, he survived a lynching of yours. I got the other perps who did it, and they all pointed to you. No parole, no early release, and no judge will risk money when it¡¯s a violent felony.¡± ¡°...Name your price.¡± ¡°Excuse me?¡± ¡°Your price,¡± The old man turned at Killjoy, so fast it might have almost broken his neck. ¡°You¡¯re being paid for this, right? I¡¯ll double it. Triple it, if you want.¡± ¡°Not interested,¡± Killjoy denied as he straightened his gun hand. ¡°You¡¯re coming with me, quietly. We¡¯re going to exit the window behind you, and you¡¯ll stay still until we head back to Ikanomi City.¡± ¡°You can fuck off back there yourself, bastardo!¡± The old man lashed out from his chair as he stood up. ¡°I¡¯ve been doing this for years, and I know enough that no man isn¡¯t buyable. If it¡¯s not the money you want, I can give you something better. Better exotic guns! Perhaps a business of your own; you can reap the rewards for years,¡± He tried to wager. ¡°...You want to be close to death, yes?¡± He remembered. ¡°We have people of those peculiarities who can gladly indulge in your fetishes. Any and whoever you want, for however long!¡± ¡°It¡¯s not like that, I assure you,¡± Killjoy said, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the suggestion. ¡°...I¡¯ll kill you like the dog you are,¡± the old man threatened. ¡°I have many friends across the states. You know the name ¡®Black Hand¡¯? The ¡®Five Points¡¯? They''ll hunt you down.¡± ¡°Send my thanks, if you can. I¡¯ve gotten bored for the last couple of months.¡± The old man looked at Killjoy with a sneering glare, but that was all he could do. His stare waned and eventually dropped to the desk. ¡°If you try screaming for your men outside, you could get me injured. But that¡¯s it.¡± The Italian ignored his threat. ¡°...How long have you been at this for?¡± He asked. ¡°Close to two decades now,¡± Killjoy nonchalantly replied. ¡°A man of your calibre, you must¡¯ve been paid handsomely during those years for your services¡­What more can you gain from completing one more job, if not just for a couple hundred more dollars?¡± Killjoy¡¯s eyes widened slightly at the peculiar question. He barely lowered his gun, only a bit, as if to ponder. But all he could come up with was a simple shake of his head. ¡°Huh¡­¡± The old man then held his holster, which caused Killjoy to lock his aim again. But he instead slowly withdrew his revolver from the handle with his fingers and placed the gun on his desk. ¡°Si capisco¡­¡± the old man said as he sat back down, no longer armed, leading Killjoy to then lower his revolver and holster it. ¡°Your eyes, I couldn¡¯t figure out what you wanted, not because I didn¡¯t know what your desire was, but because you didn¡¯t have any in the first place¡­at least not anymore,¡± He rambled. ¡°...It¡¯s time to go, mister,¡± Killjoy reminded. The old man stared at him severely. He did it for so long, without speaking a word, which in itself was unsettling because Killjoy thought he knew how to do anything but be quiet. The old man then suddenly scrambled to his desk and picked up his revolver. He yelled as he tried to shoot at Killjoy while his guard was down. A muffled bang rang through the room. Then something heavy plopped on a surface. Killjoy looked at the old man as he collapsed on his desk. The unique spirals of the polished, exotic wood began to be painted not with a coat, but instead with blood. It crept from the old man¡¯s skull, eventually tensing at the edge before popping and climbing down the table legs. Thin strands of smoke rose from the right pocket of the gunslinger¡¯s coat, where his right hand was still dug in snuggly. His left hand was still empty, his revolver holstered and not drawn. Killjoy then pulled his pocketed right hand out, and as he did, he inspected the second Russian revolver gripped in his palm. ¡°Maybe I shouldn¡¯t shoot from inside the pocket,¡± Killjoy murmured to himself. ¡°This coat was expensive.¡± Eyes Stared Back Jeremiah took a swig of his glass¡ªstashed bourbon he kept hidden¡ªas he scribbled away at his papers, consumed in his work. Typically, on a weekday evening in the winter, he would be spending this time patrolling Ikanomi City¡¯s streets on horseback, but they had promoted him to Captain Sheriff only recently. It was a sharp change of pace, a change of environment; he would still be handling crooks and outlaws, but only in the reports now. The pencil snapped from the pressure. The broken piece rolled against the wooden desk before lightly clunking on the floor. Jeremiah let out a groan, looking up at the ceiling. Leaving his quaint office room, which was way more comfortable than his desk in the open area¡ªone of the few perks he liked about being in charge of the precinct¡ªthe tall, brunet walked to the nearby sharpening machines. He passed by his subordinates, some of whom greeted their Captain, the respect still new, like trying a new dish. It felt good. But after years of working as a sheriff, he knew how things worked around these parts: you were either useful or they¡¯d kick you out. He shouldn¡¯t let the title get to him, and just be happy with the pay increase. It will all be worth it, all for her. ¡°Uhm, Captain?¡± A subordinate asked nervously, approaching the back area. ¡°What is it?¡± Jeremiah asked, while focused on sharpening his pencil. ¡°There¡¯s some¡­¡± he gulped. ¡°Commotion going at the front.¡± The Captain sighed as he spun the hand crank on the wooden sharpening machine, faster and faster before he let go at the last moment. The box-like object made repetitive thuds as the hand crank spun on itself, and Jeremiah pulled out his pencil, freshly sharpened. ¡°Let me see¡­¡± Casually stated Jeremiah as he walked ahead of his worker. The loud clamour of people arguing rang through the large building. Jeremiah approached the foyer of the county office to investigate what was going on, putting on his coat as he did. Some of his men closest to the entrance were standing from their desks, all agitated and holding onto their holsters. They collectively stared down at a man who stood next to the entrance. The door behind him was open, letting in the cold breeze of the wintery dusk light. The warm glow of the county office¡¯s ceiling is the only thing to illuminate the outside. ¡°What in the hell is going on!¡± Jeremiah asked loudly as he paced to the front to get a better look at the unknown intruder. The hat on the man¡¯s head shrouded his face, and he wore dark clothing¡ªa long coat, gloves, and a scarf¡ªso it was difficult to tell who he was. And he was carrying something over his shoulder, a long cotton bag with something so heavy inside it sagged over his shoulder on both ends. ¡°You better drop that bag and whatever¡¯s inside it before someone else gets dropped,¡± The Captain threatened, motioning his palm close to his holster, parting his jacket out of the way to show it. The unknown man raised his free hand into the air, making himself vulnerable. He ambled towards the centre front desk, a long marble piece of furniture that was the biggest in the room. The receptionist behind the desk, another officer, sat back in his chair, shrinking as the man came closer. But all the unknown man did was drop the bag on the desk, as requested. Stepping back, he glanced at Jeremiah and parted his hat to reveal his face: amber eyes, chestnut hair, and a face utterly void of expression. And part of what seemed to be a silver metal instrument in his belt shined in the light. ¡°Oh¡­it¡¯s just you,¡± Jeremiah expressed, sighing. ¡°Everyone, get back to work! It¡¯s just a B.H.¡± It was as if the pressure in the building was suddenly lifted as the officers let go of their holsters and went about their business. The receptionist was still wary, staring at the cotton bag with a morbid curiosity. ¡°How have you been, Jeremiah?¡± Killjoy asked, quite loudly since the Captain was still near the back. ¡°...Not too much. The usual since you last came in, Joy, which was not too long ago,¡± Jeremiah replied casually, his tone free and relaxed as he walked next to Killjoy in front of the desk. ¡°And your kid?¡± ¡°Kiera? Still studying up in Minneapolis,¡± Jeremiah smirked, ¡°Still hard to think about, since all I cared for was keeping her fed and happy since her mother passed. But she¡¯s her own woman now, she can take of herself.¡± The Captain then leaned against the desk, rubbing his forehead. ¡°How many more bodies will you keep bringing me, Joy?¡± He asked. ¡°More bodies?¡± Killjoy said, confused. ¡°Until hell freezes over and the Indians let us live in their land, you always bring in more ruffians. Does not help with the desk work,¡± Jeremiah shook his head. ¡°Isn¡¯t that your job?¡± ¡°Well, it is,¡± Jeremiah ceded with a smile, ¡°But sometimes if you were to be slower, I think I just might not mind it.¡± ¡°But it¡¯s also my job,¡± Killjoy nodded. ¡°And you¡¯re too damn good at it,¡± The Sheriff then craned his neck to look at the massive bag on the desk. ¡°Let¡¯s see what we got¡­¡± Jeremiah leaned forward and grabbed the end of the bag, the top where it was tied and unravelled it. He then pulled it back to reveal what was inside. Eyes. Cold eyes. Cold eyes that he thought were staring at him, but were rather staring through him, towards nothing. It was dead. ¡°Well, at least we know whether he¡¯s dead or alive¡­¡± Jeremiah dryly joked. ¡°Rather he was alive, but it is what it is. At least he¡¯s not a problem anymore.¡± ¡°Will it affect my pay?¡± Killjoy asked. He nodded. ¡°You¡¯ll be docked since the fugitive is dead, but it¡¯ll still be a large sum; not that it¡¯s anything substantial to what you already have.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not that rich,¡± the bounty hunter replied as he turned to walk out. Jeremiah looked at Killjoy. ¡°You could still retire after this, and the money from this job alone will be enough to support your wife and kid for a couple of years, at least.¡± Killjoy stopped in his tracks just as he opened the door and was about to leave, as he did every time. But not now. ¡°I might,¡± He stated. ¡°What?¡± Jeremiah asked, taken aback. ¡°Why, after so long, Joy?¡± The bounty hunter kept quiet for a bit as if trying to think of what to say. ¡°Just don¡¯t feel like it anymore¡­my time ran its course.¡± The Captain nodded, not knowing what else to say. ¡°Good luck then, partner. It¡¯s been good working with ¡®ya.¡± Killjoy slightly turned his head to glance at Jeremiah, giving him his tip of the hat. He then opened the door and went back out into the evening town. ¡°Welcome to Ikanomi City Hall,¡± Jane greeted the next visitor with the same monotony she had with all the rest. Not even bothering to look at them, she read through her papers, one page after the next; the footsteps were simply enough. ¡°This reception is for the Civilian Service Wing of the Military Division of Missouri. Any jobs you want to take or any enquiries you may have, you may bring it with me¡­¡± A shadow loomed over her. Which was odd, because as long as she could remember, at least today, the vast building was lit inch-to-inch with hanging gaslights lining the glass ceiling. The only darkness here would be under a chair or beneath her feet¡­not cast from above. Jane looked up and saw a man, much taller, dressed heavily in practical, dark clothes. He was right up against the desk, even nudging the dozens of picture frames sprawled on the desk, the pictures depicting various young men in black and grey. His frame was all the lady could see if she only saw straight ahead of herself. ¡°My goodness, Killjoy!¡± Jane exclaimed, pulling back in her seat. ¡°Three steps back. At least announce yourself,¡± scolded the lady. ¡°Oh, sorry,¡± Killjoy apologised with a less-than-convincing tone, ¡°I¡¯m just here to get my cheque, Jane.¡± ¡°The Bonucci job? You really got him?¡± The receptionist asked, her brown eyes opened. ¡°As far as I know, those Italians ought to stay in Yankee territory for now.¡± ¡°Well, that¡¯s good¡­extortion and drugs are running rampant in those parts; imagine if they got their hands on Opium from the West coast¡­but is he dead or alive?¡± ¡°...Cold,¡± Killjoy replied simply, with no grin in his mouth or a glint in his eyes to compliment the would-be joke. Jane looked elsewhere for a second, scratching her long, black hair, letting out a soft, but strained chuckle. ¡°...Right¡ªanyway, I¡¯ll just have you fill out some forms and I¡¯ll get your cheque.¡± She gave a smile, feigned or not, she wasn¡¯t sure. As Killjoy grabbed a pencil and leaned down to fill out his papers, the lady could not help but wonder about his behaviour. Jane could barely recall when the bounty hunter started taking jobs from the army¡ªit was years ago¡ªbut she did remember him at least being more¡­hungry. It was an odd word to use, but it perfectly described the young Killjoy. The first time he arrived, he looked to be a young man, no older than twenty but had malnourished bones and a set of eyes that looked at nowhere, screaming that it had seen the worst. Killjoy had come from out further south in the new settlements in Texas and had fought in the Comanche campaign when trying to settle the land from Indians. Jane knew that look on his face back then, a face that all men know too well: it was a face that wanted to escape the battlefield. She started him out with simple jobs, like collecting stolen cattle or bringing drunk escapees back to the county jail. But the jobs never ran out, and he grew with it, and the lady knew he started to like this work. The more missions he took, the more men he killed, and the more money he got. His dark brown hair turned brighter and his bleak eyes began to reveal their true, burning amber. But now, Jane couldn¡¯t see a lick of that fire anywhere. ¡°D¡¯ya mind if a¡¯ ask something, Killjoy?¡± Jane asked out of the blue, her normally muted southern accent coming through. Killjoy looked up. ¡°What is it?¡± He replied, still simple and efficient as always. ¡°Are y¡¯okay?¡± ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± replied the bounty hunter, immediately getting back into filling out his report. ¡°Are you sure?¡± She persisted. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. ¡°What else is there to say, Jane?¡± ¡°Y¡¯know, what a¡¯ mean. A¡¯ don¡¯t know if it¡¯s just me, but it seems like each time y¡¯walk into this building to collect yer¡¯ reward, the more distant y¡¯are. Or am a¡¯ just that much of a nuisance to see every day?¡± Killjoy looked elsewhere for a moment.. ¡°...It¡¯s just been a tough week,¡± He answered dismissively, continuing to scribble his pencil. ¡°Tough? For you?¡± With a raised brow, Jane tilted her head to the side, ¡°I would believe it if you said this ten years¡­no¡­fifteen years ago. But since then, you rarely come back with even a scratch.¡± ¡°More than meets the eye, I guess,¡± Killjoy seemingly let in. ¡°Doing this for almost two decades can do a number on a man.¡± The lady smiled. It slightly satisfied her now that Killjoy was being more truthful. ¡°Maybe that¡¯s what getting richer happens to you, as well as the word of your name and the enemies you make. But I¡¯m sure you can manage that.¡± Jane then turned her chair to the side and leaned over, grabbing something from her side of the desk. She rose and placed some pamphlets on the counter. ¡°Anyway, I was already thinking of a few jobs that might interest you¡ª¡± ¡°I¡¯m going to quit.¡± ¡°¡ªThere¡¯s this one in South Dakota, I think it has a pretty good reward for such little needed to be done, and I know you¡¯re all about¡­¡± Jane slowly stopped talking, as if she missed something. Was it maybe that she forgot another set of papers to look over for Killjoy? Perhaps she dropped something and was simply too enthused to notice? Or, maybe, it was the bounty hunter in front of her whom she worked with for years, never failing to show up, even once, saying he was about to retire. ¡°You¡¯re what!¡± Jane shouted, then immediately covering her mouth as she realised she had just screamed in the middle of a busy city hall. Some people stopped and turned to look at the little commotion, but others lost interest and walked away. Jane let go of her mouth. ¡°You¡¯re¡­quitting?¡± Killjoy nodded. ¡°...Why now?¡± ¡°You know better than anyone else, Jane,¡° Killjoy said with a sigh, ¡°Young men who work this life either retire when they¡¯re thirty, or they die. And I¡¯m not young anymore.¡± ¡°I know; who do you think those men are in the frames?¡± Jane nodded to the pictures on her desk, her initial shock fading. ¡°But¡­y¡¯know¡­you¡¯re different. You¡¯re the only one out of the thousands of people who walked out of those doors, with a job that I didn¡¯t worry about coming back. I mean, it¡¯s no office job, but I always thought you didn¡¯t mind it because the pay was always good. Why else would you have done this far longer than anyone else?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t need to anymore,¡° Killjoy said, ¡°I don¡¯t¡­have the spark for it..¡± ¡°And also your family, right?¡± Jane added quickly as if expecting him to agree. Killjoy¡¯s eyes popped wider. ¡°¡ªYes.¡± She sighed. ¡°There¡¯s a difference between wanting to go back to your family and needing to; you hardly visit them, Killjoy.¡± ¡°I won¡¯t have anything else to do, anyway.¡± ¡°So your wife and daughter are just things you push back until you can¡¯t?¡± ¡°You know, I never intended for a family¡ª¡± ¡°Oh, so everything you had with Adeline is a mistake now, huh?¡± The man grimaced lowly, slightly glancing elsewhere in the large building. ¡°I¡¯m not being serious,¡± she let up, ¡°At least partly. But I do have this from her,¡± Jane said as she then dug a parcel from her desk. ¡°You¡¯d ask me to receive them for you while you were out and about, so I kept my word.¡± ¡°Thank you,¡± Killjoy replied as he took it and stuffed it into his pockets. ¡°I¡¯ll guess I¡¯ll be out of your hair now, for good. I also want to thank you for¡ª¡± ¡°Save that thought, Killjoy, because I got one last job.¡± ¡°I told you, I¡¯m quitting.¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t no ordinary job, hun.¡± Killjoy squinted. ¡°Not ordinary?¡± ¡°Take a look,¡± Jane said as she pushed one of the pamphlets on the desk she took out earlier. Killjoy let in and grabbed the pamphlet gently, reading its surface. Taking most of the space at the top was a drawn portion of the mapped state of South Dakota, in the bottom left corner being scribbled forests and mountains. To its side, it was labelled as ¡®Black Hills¡¯. And at the bottom, the job was titled ¡®Search and Rescue¡¯. ¡°A scouting job?¡± Killjoy asked, unconvinced. ¡°Well, yeah, but it¡¯s not just that. Look at the rewards,¡± Jane nodded. The bounty hunter lowered his gaze and even further bottom under the rewards section, in bold, black, inked letters: ¡®DEED TO HOMESTAKE MINING COMPANY¡¯. It stood out like a sore thumb; clearly, they wanted to entice more than just a few people. ¡°The Homestake Mining Company?¡± ¡°One of, or was the largest gold mining estates in the Midwest, particularly in that area, where the job is,¡± Jane promptly answered with the astute tone she had earlier, ¡°The deed will hand over the ownership of the company to you, along with all of their operations, equipment, and over 800 hectares of land around the mountains.¡± ¡°Why is the reward so large?¡± the bounty hunter asked, still not getting it. ¡°On the back.¡± He turned it over, and there was a whole page of more scribbled-down lines, the letters italicised and perfectly precise in their strokes. It was a printed paper, no doubt about it, which was out of the ordinary, as most jobs were usually written on hand and posted on the day. ¡°On the border between Chwewamink and South Dakota, there was a recent scuffle between policemen and a Lakota tribe in a town around there,¡± Jane explained. ¡°The Chief died, alongside a few other policemen, and now there are reports that the Indians are moving north from the Cheyenne River to the Grand.¡± ¡°Isn¡¯t that where the Sioux reservation is?¡± Killjoy asked, as his eyes slowly began to lay agape. ¡°Yes,¡± The lady nodded as she confirmed his suspicion, ¡°The whole reason why the recent problems began was this ¡®Messiah craze¡¯; people all over the West were complaining about rumours among the Indians that Jesus reincarnated as one of them, and there were many sightings of the Indians doing these weird dances¡­¡± ¡°The ghost dance,¡± The bounty hunter interjected, seemingly understanding the situation now. ¡°Yes, the Chief who died in the altercation was one of the other leaders, a guy named Sitting Bull, or something. Now the Indians moving towards the Sioux Reservation are supposed to be in the several hundred.¡± ¡°What does that have to do with the mission?¡± Killjoy pried, smacking the pamphlet against the counter, ¡°It¡¯s in an isolated mountain range surrounded by forests.¡± ¡°Mhm, but the Black Hills is also right by the path of where the Lakota would be moving,¡± Jane said. ¡°There¡¯s been dozens of reported missing people over there within the past week.¡± She then grabbed a separate book to her side and opened it, revealing dozens of stuck pictures on the pages with handwritten notes. ¡°Some peculiar facts are that as many of those missing persons were settlers and miners around the gold mines, a lot of them were also Indians and people of other races,¡± explained the woman as she pointed to the pictures of different people in her book, ¡°So if the circumstances are¡­deliberate¡­then they don¡¯t seem to discriminate.¡± ¡°You seem to be invested in this case,¡± Killjoy asked, crossing his arms as he leaned back on the desk. ¡°Because it¡¯s odd,¡± Jane breathly replied, ¡°The army said they suspect it to be the work of the Lakota because of the altercation a few weeks ago, but then why would there be so many missing Indians as well?¡± ¡°Tribes still fight each other. That should explain it. It wasn¡¯t just the army fighting the Sioux Indians some of those years ago, for one.¡± ¡°But then they should¡¯ve made themselves known by now. But no one still has a clue as to who or what is behind the missing cases, hence why the job is out there to investigate it. Y¡¯know what I think?¡± ¡°What?¡± Jane then leaned in across the counter, letting out a grin she couldn¡¯t keep behind her excited curiosity. ¡°I think it¡¯s supernatural.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you believe in those things,¡± Killjoy said, shaking his head. ¡°Think about it! It¡¯s believed that those forests are haunted by the Indians, and now some of the settlers are beginning to believe it too. Cryptids could be the culprit.¡± ¡°Or other Indians, or a sudden influx of predators like Bears or Wolves¡­you also still haven¡¯t answered my question,¡± Killjoy nodded his head to the side, ¡°If the job is just to scout, why are they willing to give out a mining company in the area for it? Shouldn¡¯t it have been completed by other hunters anyway, if the reward was so good?¡± ¡°Because they died,¡± she bluntly said. The bounty hunter perked his eyebrows. ¡°You may have realised by now,¡± Jane sighed, ¡°But this job wasn¡¯t originally posted here; we¡¯re down south, obviously. It was initially distributed in the Dakota territories, but the more people took it, the fewer people came back.¡± Jane gave Killjoy a long stare. ¡°While you were out taking down Bonucci, already half a hundred went to the Black Hills, but¡­they joined the long list of missing persons; haven¡¯t heard back from them since.¡± She gripped the pamphlet, staring down at the boldened letters of the Homestake Mining Company. ¡°The business went into bankruptcy because of not only much of their staff in those mountains going missing but also because their mining rigs and tunnels collapsed for unknown reasons. Of course, if you do the job, the army will help finance the operations to get the mines running again, but that is if you can do the job.¡± Killjoy remained silent, more deep in thought than anything else. It wasn¡¯t that the job seemed challenging or scary to him, any of the sort really, but because he wanted to be out as soon as possible. But now Jane was pinning this big of a mission on him, and why wouldn¡¯t she? The situation was still a big problem that not even other hunters could handle, not that he cared much, but the potential reward also seemed enticing. He closed his eyes, thinking as the dilemma tugged him from both ends like tearing fabric. ¡°Killjoy, I know you want to quit,¡± Jane said,¡± But I¡¯ve been holding back this job waiting for you because I don¡¯t want to send anyone else to their doom. Again, you are the only one I can count on to complete their missions and come back in one piece.¡± She let out a slow breath of her own. ¡°And the reward is perfect. If you complete the job, you¡¯ll have an entire mining company to yourself that you won¡¯t need to manage. You¡¯ll be able to sustain yourself and your family the rest of your life and then some, without worrying about going back to this line of work.¡± Killjoy murmured. ¡°Are you in or not?¡± ¡°...Fine.¡± Never Again Killjoy trailed on the wooden platform, walking through the hordes of people passing by, cramping the narrow space of the train station. Not only did his thicker layers of cotton do little to keep the bitter cold from piercing his skin, but wafting steam coursed through the crowds and himself, like in an oven with the door open. It was suffocating, and humid, yet chilling at the same time. This would be a particularly frosty winter. ¡°This way, this way! The MKT line is departing on this train!¡± A conductor yelled out from one of the doors, waving his hands in the air to direct the waves of pedestrians. Bingo. Killjoy walked ahead, carrying his luggage and guns strapped to his back as he went. He got through to a clearing amidst the crowded space in front of the swing doors. Some people naturally formed a front line to board the steel cabin, but the bounty hunter had little in the way of time. He marched forward once more, nudging aside a man as he did. The well-dressed folk were surprised, and one man was about to say something until his gaze landed on the many-inches-long bag on Killjoy¡¯s back. It concealed a cylindrical object that stretched from neck to hip, and various other apparatuses stuck to the bounty hunter¡¯s otherwise formal clothes¡­The passenger kept quiet, to say the least. ¡°Oy, partner, you¡¯d best wait your turn first; common courtesy,¡± scolded the aged conductor, whose attitude was quite spry for his age. ¡°Sorry, I just want to offload my luggage as soon as possible,¡± Killjoy simply replied. ¡°We only allow pre-planned luggage in this station,¡± the conductor refuted, ¡°You should¡¯ve asked for a ¡®luggage in advance¡¯ form from the porters to have your things stored ahead of time.¡± ¡°My¡­¡± Killjoy nodded to the concealed equipment he carried that, while covered, were clearly weapons, ¡°...cargo isn¡¯t fit to be handled by civilian personnel¡­¡± He answered more modestly. ¡°I still have to check it.¡± Killjoy sighed and swiped his hand into his pockets with haste as the train¡¯s steam blared out, eventually pulling out an object. He raised it into the air and the conductor saw a small, thin, leather case, the front bearing the emblem of a pair of wings. The conductor snatched it and opened the content. ¡°Civilian Service Wing, the M.D¡­¡± He read aloud. Killjoy nodded. ¡°So you¡¯re part of the Wing, huh?¡± The conductor asked with a scoff as he tossed it back, Killjoy catching the case with ease. ¡°Most of the time they¡¯re dressed like ruffians and working stiffs.¡± He nodded, his grey eyes on Killjoy¡¯s three-piece ditto suit. ¡°Well, as you can see, sometimes it pays well.¡± ¡°You can enter; the first-class carriages will be to my right. Just ask a steward to guide you. Be sure to not let those guns go loose¡­¡± ¡°Thank you,¡± the Bounty Hunter promptly said as he walked up the short stairs into the steam locomotive. The sound of the steam whistled loudly, faint through the window as the cabin began to move. Killjoy slightly rocked in his seat as the train jolted forward. He glanced to his side through the glass pane as the locomotive sped past the station, then the countless number of buildings, and eventually rolling through the meadows of prairies and patches of dense forests, painted under the snowfall of the dusk sky. He looked away and leaned back against his padded sofa, which wrapped around the corner of his room inside the cabin. It was quite a small space since the first-class cabin was divided into these smaller units, but they furnished it well and he could keep his luggage in the ceiling compartments, so there was little need to complain. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. Killjoy sunk against the cotton padding, holding him tight like a cub with their mother, and let out a sigh as he squeezed his eyes shut. There were rarely any opportunities to rest like this in his years, so each time he often forgot how simple, yet sweet, being able to simply sit back was. If this was what retirement was like, then perhaps he wouldn¡¯t mind it much; why did he put it off for so long? He could¡¯ve done it long ago. Must have been for the money¡­had to have been about it. He still had a week or two or so to kill, to do something, anything. The bounty hunter leaned forward and grabbed his various cases and folded leather bags, pulling apart the seams to unpack his items, one by one. First, his wood-framed rifle, a Mauser 1895, shortened rifle, the 21-inch weapon being his preferred gun. Setting the thick gun next to his thigh, it was then Killjoy¡¯s second, a small black pistol with a box-like magazine; the gunsmith called it a ¡®broom handle¡¯ or whatever, but it was still of German variety. Killjoy held the bolt-action rifle close to his body, the barrel facing away from him as he tested the bolt lever. Pulling it up and pushing it back several times, the metal made a consistent clashing noise with each rotation¡ªthe sounds more than satisfying than the last¡ªuntil the hunter found no faults. And with his pistol, he twisted it to the side with his left hand and pushed the little switch tab on the flat side forward. Pressing the cock back and letting it spring forward, a little rattle sounded out from inside the oaken handle, like a snake; music to his ears. With many more tools and babies to check, Killjoy wasted no time bending over to his bag to check more of his weapons; you could never be too safe, after all. Perhaps he¡¯d inspect his beautiful blades next. His fingers scoured inside the dark pit of his bag and felt something chilling and hard to kiss his fingerprints. The hunter grabbed it, raised it outside the bag, and noticed it was her harmonica. Not his; Killjoy always made sure to make that distinction. He never was one for music, that¡¯s for sure, but Adeline still gave it to him as a present on one of his many¡ªyet still few¡ª trips back home. Before that, she would only give treats to eat on the way, some photo journals, and the like. But this was different¡­it was a ¡®forever gift¡¯, as she said. The hunter stared down at the side of the harmonica, reading the engraved letters of her name and his together. The shine of the sapphic gem in between was bright, like the sun underneath the cabin¡¯s chandelier. Killjoy thought Adeline was merely joking when she called it that, like all the times before. But her warm eyes were a kind of comfort that he only last remembered from that of his mother before she passed, like the mellowness of wearing fur amid the snow. Adeline always showed him this affection, this love. Killjoy gripped the silver harmonica, his fingers covering only his engraved name on the instrument, knowing he didn¡¯t deserve it. If the hunter were to be honest, truly honest, his work always came first; Adeline merely barged herself into his life, and he didn¡¯t know why. Killjoy continued with his work, leaving for almost months at a time, figuring out that sooner or later the lass would let go, but she didn¡¯t, she never did. ¡°Fuck,¡± Killjoy muttered, slightly biting his teeth. Whether it was when she asked him out, or when they got married, or they had their first child: he never directly wanted it, but he still accepted it, something to retreat to on the occasions he does return to town¡­not good enough. Never again, Killjoy made that promise to himself as he stuffed the instrument back inside his bag, not wanting to look at it any longer. When this mission was all done and over, he would go back and never leave again. This much, at least, he owed. Cries of the Wood The train roared as its massive wheels whirred to life, clanging steel against steel with each turn, riding away from the station. Killjoy stood still at the foot of the platform. He let the pumped steam of the train wash over him to get away from the stark cold, if at least for a moment. Killjoy looked ahead at the town before him, and it was nothing special. Custer was a town that sat at the mouth of the southern Black Hills, the oldest settlement in the area where gold was dug, but its age didn¡¯t fool anybody. It was small, but humble, like most mining towns. Though the sparse buildings looked of nothing more than timber and coarse aggregate, only a few people ambling about in the streets, some of the buildings in front of him stood tall in the amber dawn, the bright lights peering from within the windows, almost melting the stacks of snow dragging itself off the roofs. He had somewhere to sleep tonight, at least. The bounty hunter took a step forward, making haste to find some lodging. But a gross scoff caught his attention. He wouldn¡¯t normally pay attention to the bickering of others, but it was directed at him. Killjoy turned his head and saw a paunchy bearded man looking back. His brows were low and his nose scrunched quite in suspicion. He had simple pants with suspenders, barely holding his shirt in from the round mound that was his stomach. ¡°Got a problem?¡± Killjoy asked out loud. ¡°Naw¡± the man replied with a strong accent, ¡°But you do, partner,¡± He then glanced to the long-sided object Killjoy was carrying on his back, held inside a leather bag, ¡°Bad business up in those hills. No gun oughta¡¯ stop it.¡± The bounty hunter merely rolled his eyes. ¡°Focus on getting back to the mines when I clear whatever¡¯s in there.¡± He then strolled forward. ¡°But you won¡¯t.¡± Killjoy stopped in his tracks again. ¡°And why¡¯s that, fat guy?¡± He asked as he turned back, wanting to entertain the idea. ¡°Because that¡¯s what all those folk from out-state said as well,¡± the fat man dismissed. ¡°They ain¡¯t never been back, since.¡± He then took a step towards Killjoy, his expression souring. ¡°I¡¯m telling ya¡¯, there¡¯s trouble in those woods; must be the Indians¡ªtheir magic, or something else¡ªbut it¡¯s dark.¡± ¡°Like what?¡± His eyes darted side to side as if making sure no one else was listening. He then leaned closer, whispering. ¡°...Wendigoes¡­¡± the man said, dramatically hanging on the last vowel. Killjoy shook his head and sighed. He felt stupid having wasted his time on yet another clear num-nut. ¡°Mmm, believe it or not, there¡¯s something that happened to all of those hunters, and you won¡¯t be special. Whatever you think is nonsense, it may turn out to be real¡­¡± the miner almost taunted, and then something caught his eye. He bellowed out a choked laugh, ¡°If that harmonica is silver, you¡¯d best use that, or fire if you come across one of them.¡± The bounty hunter noticed his harmonica hanging about from his belt and adjusted his coat to hide it. Not wanting to spend more valuable minutes, he then walked ahead and climbed down the flight of stairs of the station. Killjoy figured he¡¯d set out at night when it was dark and frothy, so there was nothing else to do but find somewhere to hit the hay for now. As he walked, something persisted in the back of his mind. Jane first talked about it, and now the fat man from earlier reminded him of it; how could so many hunters gone missing? It wasn¡¯t unheard of to him, because most who take up the trade come in young, and die young, unprepared, unready for the real horrors. But they were experienced, and though Indians could be violent, no amount of brutality can stop a good round to the head. Perhaps these Sioux got themselves a hold of more guns and knew well how to use them¡­Killjoy had to be a bit more careful this time around. The soft, earthen snow swallowed Killjoy¡¯s feet with each step, like walking through muddy quicksand. It was at least as deep as a man¡¯s stature, caving with each turn around the flat snowshoes. His bones quivered from the countless hiking through the rocky trek. The labyrinth of soaked, dead trees soon became one with the murky darkness as the sun began to set, and it was barely evening. Dirty water from trapped snow sogged the hunter¡¯s boots, ankle-deep in the sleet, and his lips cracked from the dry, crisp winter air. Visibility was low, and his limbs croaked. But he paid it no mind; Killjoy persisted. Biting back the discomfort, he marched on, regardless of whether the snow stretched to that of the mountains or as thin as the cold dirt underneath. He had a job to do. If his body couldn¡¯t keep up, he¡¯d make it. Killjoy continued climbing and paving his way through the dense, spruce forest, always snapping a glance above and behind him every second moment. It was harder to navigate, the little moonlight dripping through the canopies being all the illumination he could get. He knew his kerosene lamp would make him stand out too; it wasn¡¯t a gamble worth taking. The sight of Indians was as sharp as the eagles they worshipped. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. The occasional squeak of birds reminded him that there was some life in the seemingly empty woods, even if it wasn¡¯t human. And around these parts, things that weren¡¯t human could easily kill you as any other man with a gun; they said cougars have been migrating here with the growing deer herds. He squeezed the handle of his rifle. There. Up ahead, there was a clear break to the endless rows of trees; a clearing in the middle of the vast forest, right up next to a rocky cliffside. Killjoy crouched closer to the ground than he already was, like a cat hiding from its owner. As he escaped the wilting woods behind him, the space opened to a large mining site. It had all the makings of one: wooden structures at the mouths of caves, lined with makeshift rails, carts, and crates of supplies. Various camps set up with tables and benches dotted the snow, and several dug-out pits with boxes, tools, and all piled on them. The only thing missing¡­were people. Must be the Homestake mine, Killjoy figured. It was as Jane said, completely abandoned and rotting. By the smell of sulphur, dirty rock, and the fumes of mined ores akin to rotting eggs: this was a coal mine. His daddy was a coal miner himself and would bring the young Killjoy to the mines once a week. Daddy said he could load sixteen tons a day, but what did he get? Every day older and deeper in debt, no proper life for a father and his family. When that man died before Killjoy was barely a man himself, he admonished the idea of living day to day, and thankfully, this work let him live year to year. But other than the smell of coal, there was no burnt aroma or the intense oiliness of kerosene lighting that would¡¯ve been up had the mine been active¡­had it been a week or two since anyone was last here? It was odd that the local army decided not to investigate themselves, since surely this would¡¯ve been a blow to their pockets. But then again, when did the people round¡¯ these parts ever rely on the feds to fix their problems? If all the activity happened around the mines, Killjoy figured this spot would¡¯ve been as good as any to camp out. As he took another step to scout the area further, he felt his feet become uncomfortably cold and brittle inside the damp boots; the bitterness crawled up his legs. The hunter had to get to high ground¡ªfast¡ª if he wanted to weather the frost. A tall tree caught his attention, with its thick base and strong web of protruding branches. Killjoy pulled himself towards it through the deep snow, each step making a heavy crunch. He latched onto the wooden bark. Promptly scaling the tower of the tree, his stiff, frozen gloves clutching the smallest bits of wood that he could hold on to, the hunter climbed up to a branch that was a long drop from the ground. If he had to judge, around ten metres? Killjoy waved away the thought as he then sat on it, his back against the tree. The wood was spiky against his rear, but it was better than the cold ground. And at this height, Killjoy could see the vast forests, the rocky hills that crept to the low mountains, everything as far as the eye could see. And at this hour, in these conditions, anyone there would certainly have to be holding a fire or a light of some kind to navigate¡­a perfect breeding ground for him to find anyone. Killjoy wasn¡¯t sure how long the mission would last, nor what he needed to find out. That uncertainty was always there in his past scouting jobs. What he did know was that the only thing the Wing wanted was that the job was done before the situation got worse. He smirked. Since when has that vague guideline ever made the job easier? From here, it looked like he could be stuck in Custer for at least a month. A finger laid on his chin, rubbing his skin like that of a furball. Killjoy found himself ruminating on what that fat man said before: that hunters and scouts like him often went into these woods in the day and came back knowing nothing more than when they came. But those who went at night¡­never came back. A sharp pang ran down his stomach; not a feeling, but from hunger. Odd. Killjoy was sure he had already eaten before setting out. Digging into a satchel, he took out a hard piece of pemmican. Nothing was fancy, just a dried tallow, beef, and berry brick. He bit a chunk out of the tacky bar. He expected the hunger to subside a little since the pemmican was very fatty. Yet, a spike of further pain made him let out a short grunt like the hunger grew deeper. Killjoy kept eating away at the pemmican until, within a blink of an eye, there was nothing but crumbs on his fingers. But he still starved. The man squinted in confusion. Maybe it was just some stomach issues; he did have to hunt some of his food along his way to Bonucci¡¯s saloon, most being wild cardinal birds. Whatever, however, it had to wait. He dealt with much worse things while on the job before, anyway. Then a scream. A bloodcurdling scream. I Wont Hurt You A pained screech rang out far in the distance. It was a shrieky screech that almost sounded human-like, but the way it lingered before dissipating into the cold wind reminded him of a fox more than anything else. Killjoy turned his gaze to his left; northwards, it seemed. Pulling out his pair of binoculars, he squeezed them against his eyes. He zoned in on the dense canopies of trees around the noise, barely discernible from the shrouding blue moonlight. He saw only a flock of birds and heard their screeches as they flew off into the air, the treetops moving like the waves of an ocean tide, and then silence again. It confused him: was he simply imagining it? No, he never does. If he had in the past he would¡¯ve been at the warm embrace of hell¡¯s gates a long time ago. This line of work left little room for error, and that little line was always lethal. It could have been a fox, but none of those critters screamed that loud unless they were being hunted¡­so it had to be a person. But why alone, why there, and why now? A victim. Maybe he never was alone from the start. Killjoy hummed to himself, not expecting the job to end so soon. But an opportunity beckoned in his head. If he played his cards right, he could figure out how many of them there were and where they were headed and tip it to the army. All within tonight. The hunter humphed; he could practically feel the dividends of tight, free money coming in, without having to lift a single finger ever again. It felt a little too good, too easy for the experienced Killjoy. Killjoy leaned on the edge of the branch and clutched the wood with his gloved palms, lowering himself into the air, hanging, and then dropping himself to the ground. He killed the momentum with the bend of his knees, the snow making a crisp crunch as he landed. He raced through the mining site and back into the woods where the sound came from, each step landing on his toes and every swing of his leg being precise and soft to make as little noise as possible. Killjoy approached as seamlessly as the patter of snow around him. He was not certain of the number of Lakota probably roaming the area, where they were, nor what kind of weapons they had; he was marching into no man¡¯s land. The hunter reached behind his back as he lurked, swiping the rifle from its strap and carrying it forward. He used his thumb to swipe the safety off. Killjoy held it forward, the barrel pointed away from him, his fingers close on the trigger. He used to practice trigger discipline, but where he was right now, with who knows out there, there might¡¯ve been no luxury to do it. His stomach growled, growing emptier and the pain sharper. Now was not the time, dammit. Ever since he went into these damned woods, it was like Killjoy hadn¡¯t eaten in days; it was getting worse. Was it illness, or was there just something to these particular woods that left him¡­famined¡­? That wasn¡¯t the word. Famished, not famined. No, why was Killjoy trailing off in his thoughts? Killjoy forced a shake of his head and quickly glanced at his surroundings. The woods still extended over miles around him, and the leaves and canopies above left little moonlight to be desired, barely illuminating the dark forest. He checked his six for a split second. He could no longer see the mining site, whatever was left of the sight blending in with the distance. The hunter slightly murmured: he was truly in the deep of it now. ¡°Help¡­Help!¡± A faint voice yelled in the distance. Killjoy paused in his tracks immediately and jutted his head to the right. It was such a light tone, despite being a shout, that Killjoy wondered if he would have missed it had he not been paying close attention already. It was closer, much closer, perhaps within walking distance. ¡°Help me¡­¡± It spoke again, and he paid attention to it this time. It was high-pitched, quivering, like that of a little girl. It sounded human, at least. Wait, a girl? It could be the same person who made that terrible scream earlier. The Indians could be nearby, but if she¡¯s alone, then that means she could be escaping. He picked up the pace again, treading faster and faster as he chased the noise. If Killjoy was going to rescue her, he had to do it right away. If she screamed anymore, they would catch her, and he would much rather avoid a gunfight. Get to the child, shut her up, and bring her out: a sufficient plan. It was a plan, indeed. The snow crunched, deeper than usual. Killjoy still tried to walk ahead, ignoring the uneven grounding. But then, his boot rolled off something under the dirt. He tripped ahead but caught himself before he could fall. Killjoy glanced back to see what it was that tripped him. A face. Peering from the cold, white sand was the partially covered face of someone, a man. His eye, peaking out of the expanse of snow, stared at Killjoy, or rather through him like he was never even there. A fog of confusion set in his mind: was that a face he was seeing, or was he just hallucinating? Killjoy stumbled back and kneeled close to the thing, holding the face with the palm of his glove and pulling it up into the air. He pulled it up faster than he expected, thinking that there would be a body connected to the head¡­but the head was all he picked up. The grey skin was taught and sunk tightly into the flesh, devoid of any colour, and across its face were wounds, deep gouges, mutilated beyond recognition. What little discernible features remained of the frozen head was that the man¡¯s face was round. Killjoy studied it, and the cheekbones seemed to sit high, and the remaining eye, which continued to stare at the hunter, was sharp like an almond; it seemed to be a native. All of this looked like the work of some animal or psychopath, he thought¡­but no bear or wolf would do something so¡­beyond. Whatever did this was human. ¡°What the fuck,¡± Killjoy mutters to himself. He sets the head back down on the ground, unsure of what else to do with it: the main priority was the girl. It made the situation even worse since whoever did this was probably behind the other disappearances as well, and could be here at this very moment. Maybe it wasn¡¯t Indians, but rather just a deranged cult of some kind. Killjoy began to rush toward the screams, forgetting about being quiet. If he was too slow, whoever was out there could catch the girl at any moment, and it would all be for nothing. The further he went, the more he began to spot long masses sticking out of the snow around him. At first, it was only one or two small mounds, but it continued growing, and the snow grew shallow, and whatever was under began poking out, until they looked to be bodies; corpses. One to his left seemed to be missing an arm, and Killjoy passed another with nothing beneath its waist. From the different heads that he could see, he made out some to be native, like the first one he had found, but others were white when they still had colour on their skin, some brown and olive. All of them were torn in some way or the other. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. For all his years, he had never seen anything like this. He saw people being lynched, others putting bullets behind people¡¯s skulls, and other acts of murder; hell, he carried out some of them himself. But never something as depraved as this. Killjoy figured whoever was behind this was truly savage. The hunter opened the latched iron sight of his rifle to aim better, something he had never really done since forever. But he felt something unfamiliar coursing in his hands, his bones, something that shook them. It felt familiar but distant enough for him to have forgotten it, probably. He ground to a halt at the foot of a clearing amidst the woods, catching his breath. There in the middle, sitting on top of the snow, looked to be the silhouette of a small, crunched-up. She was in a little gown hugging their knees, vaguely discernible as they hid in the shadows. Their back turned away from Killjoy, and he could hear faint whimpering from the child. Killjoy eyed the girl, his posture low, the barrel still raised. There didn¡¯t seem to be anyone else in the vicinity, and that was more than just a good sign for him. But still, he had to practice caution, and if he just announced himself right then and there, a child screaming in fear was not ideal. ¡°Help me¡­¡± The girl softly said amid her crying, as if answering his uncertainty for him. Killjoy did not know how she knew he was there or if she was simply asking out for help from the empty air again, but he heeded her words. He began to slowly approach, walking with care towards the girl. ¡°Help me, help me, help me¡­¡± She began to repeat her words, sobbing as she did. The girl said it faster and faster, over and over, until it was barely intelligible from the muttering and rambling, making Killjoy uneasy. ¡°I¡¯m here¡ªit¡¯s alright,¡± Killjoy finally answered with haste, not sure how to calm down a child; he seldom talked to his daughter, let alone a stressed little girl in the middle of the woods. ¡°...What happened?¡± The girl grew silent but continued sobbing. For a few moments, the wet cries were all that echoed through the dark forests. He grimaced a little at the lack of progress. Well, it was understandable: she was just a girl. ¡°You¡¯re gonna have to help me here, kid¡­¡± Killjoy tried again, more softly and his words quieter this time. The hunter took another step, lowering his rifle and offering a hand. ¡°Look, y¡¯don¡¯t have to say anything, just come with me. I won¡¯t hurt ya¡¯, I promise.¡± Killjoy tried to be as gentle, as slow as he could. He never often saw children out on the job, but obviously, he knew they weren¡¯t as tough as adults. Maybe as cunning or smart, sure, but never so strong, or insincere, cruel. He would make sure the grip of death would feel slow once he caught whoever would dare do this to a little girl. Almost in the blink of an eye, the girl stopped crying with a little gasp at the end, like a release. The halt was so abrupt Killjoy raised a brow, but at least she did stop; less trouble on that end. She then began to get up, pushing herself off the knee-deep snow, her face still eternally turned away from him. The girl made no noise as she did, not a single crunch, and the snow barely turned in her feet, while Killjoy¡¯s steps made the ground crunch like fresh walnuts. He didn¡¯t know if it was just him, but things were getting weirder by the second. But still, he had things to do, and the man did not want to waste any more time. Killjoy stomped ahead confidently now that the girl was cooperating. Her back then rose. Not the girl, but only her back; with a snap, her spine seemed to elongate and almost try to pry itself out of her shoulders, the ribs and edges pushing against her skin, even showing through the fabrics. Killjoy jolted back immediately, not knowing what the hell was going on. Was her bones¡­growing? It grew again, with a gross crack from the bones. It rose like a tent with how high the gown stretched itself with the distending spine. The rest of the girl¡¯s limbs began to similarly morph, the skin on her hands stretching and ripping like a cocoon as the bones underneath split through and expanded. The girl, or whatever she was, fell over as the legs beneath her knee rapidly grew, breaking itself to form what was akin to hindlegs on a deer. But the enlarged, bony feet were still humanlike. If he wasn¡¯t convinced before, he was certain now. Killjoy had to be imagining it, because what else could explain why the girl¡¯s bones, her entire body, were shapeshifting? He stepped even further back, still not understanding what was going on. His breaths grew shallow, and he gripped his gun so tightly he could¡¯ve crumpled the steel had he gone further. The girl¡ªno, it¡ªcontinued to grow, its body taller and just bigger, much bigger, much taller than even Killjoy; the creature that stood before him towered like a statue of flesh, as tall as the branches it brushed off. It just stood there, back still turned away like how the girl was, but hunched over, so hunched the hunter could not see its head at all from behind. The gown it wore was ripped long ago, and all that remained was a bony mass of grey, almost rotten skin that did not speak. Killjoy craned his neck to look up at the thing while stepping back with long, steady strides. He wanted to move his barrel too, but something kept him from even moving a muscle, like a shuddering shackle that forced him to choose between fight or flight. With how his body let him walk back but not even raise his only resort of defence, it was clear what it wanted him to do. Within an instant, the monster turned and snapped its head around, the neck wrapped around the shoulder to an impossible degree, and stared down the small man before it. Its head was like that of a human, but closer to a corpse instead, with its eyesockets sunken and dry with only shadows filling in the void. Its rotten mouth unnaturally widened at the prey before it, and like some sort of insect or spider, the rest of its body rotated with squishing and snapping between its ligaments, turning in tandem. The thing merely smiled at Killjoy. A rancid, fruity smell passed from itself, and it stunk in Killjoy¡¯s nostrils. It was a familiar scent, the smell of death, but it was worse. Even a mere whiff of the stench, which he could almost even see with how pungent it was, not only revolted him but almost told the hunter how hungry the monster was¡­if the hunger Killjoy felt earlier was bad, this was like that of a starving orphan. ¡°What in god¡¯s name are you¡­?¡± Killjoy muttered out at the beast before him. It was all he could say. The monster then snapped its head to the side. The sudden move made Killjoy instinctively take another step back when he tried to hold his ground. And as if on cue, the monster¡¯s stretched grin opened agape towards the retreating hunter, its massive mouth curled into a wide smile. It screeched as it lurched for him. Some Nonsense Was Real ¡°Fuck!¡± Killjoy screamed as he fired a round at the beast. The bullet hit the grotesque monster square in the face, causing it to stop for a small moment. But its head only jolted to the side, more akin to being jabbed in the chin than anything else. The beast¡¯s empty eyesockets widened, stretching its black voids for eyes. It turned back and curiously looked at Killjoy and his gun. He could not believe it. The bullet just flew off its face, like it was nothing! The monster then screeched as it continued to pounce towards Killjoy. Killjoy pushed the bolt forward, down, back up and reeled it back to reload the rifle and shot another bullet. Again, and again, Killjoy emptied his magazine one by one, frantically reloading the bolt. But the monster still inched closer and closer. It shrugged off each bullet, not even giving the courtesy to slow down. Killjoy stepped back and tried to fire one more round, but the only thing he heard was just a mere click; the rifle was empty. He reached for his sidearm, taking his eyes off the monster for just a split moment. But in that split moment of weakness, something emerged from the peripheral of his vision: it was right next to him. The monster reeled its left arm like a wild monkey and smashed it into the small human with a petrifying scream. Killjoy could do nothing as he was tossed into the air, at the mercy of its strike, the oxygen whipped out of his lungs. He landed on a patch of dirt, his back breaking what could have been a lethal fall. The rifle fell to the side, and Killjoy groaned as his chest burned from the strike, barely allowing him to breathe. Not even a bear could have flung someone into the air with just sheer force: that damned thing was stronger. It took the wind out of him. Killjoty mustered up some strength to sit up, though barely, and squint at the monster. The skeletal-looking zombie was squatting down on the snow, like some sort of dog, as if it was waiting for something. It then snapped its gaze back at the downed hunter. As it noticed the human was finally up, the monster rose itself and began pacing toward him. It was as if it was playing with him. The hunter struggled to unholster his gun, his right arm buzzing from the fall. He swung the pistol haphazardly in front of him, and fired at the beast, even if it was in vain. If a rifle cartridge did screw all against its skin, the broom handle would do absolutely nothing, but it was something. The bullets merely flung off the monster¡¯s head like darts, but with each step it took, the more it got irritated, snarling like an annoyed dog. Shooting it wouldn¡¯t stall things forever, though. Killjoy pushed himself off the ground and reached for the woods, grabbing his rifle by the barrel as he did. He stumbled into the maze of trees, stumbled because he did not know where he needed to go, he just had to go, to get away. And when half his attention was on firing his pistol at the pursuing monster behind him, it made it difficult to find even footing. His shoulder hit a tree, and then his other bumped into another, but he kept running. The giant corpse of a thing lurched against a tree, then shoved it aside to continue chasing Killjoy. The wood snapped to the side from the monster¡¯s weight, pieces of bark flying off the crack. The beast mounted the ground and hopped like a gorilla, chasing him like a sweet snack. What would happen if the tree was Killjoy instead? He did not want to wait to find out. Pulling his firing arm back, Killjoy tried to fire, but there came the empty click again. Killjoy slowed down, craning his eyes at the pistol as he squeezed it again and again, trying to fire, but it just wouldn¡¯t shoot. ¡°Fuck!¡± He exclaimed, trying to find extra clips around himself. He couldn¡¯t run out of bullets now, it was the only thing slowing down that zombie of a thing! Wait, the zombie? He had kept his eyes off it again. Killjoy snapped back and saw the same husk of a face mere inches off. It groaned loudly as it jerked its right hand towards him¡ªno, his head¡ªso fast it was like a blitzing train. Killjoy tried to duck to the side, leaping off the thin snow that almost pulled him in. The monster¡¯s claw managed to gash through Killjoy¡¯s right shoulder, the force making him spin in the air. He yelled; it burned as he felt it tore through his shoulder and neck, the blood spewing over his coat. Killjoy landed on his other shoulder, hissing in pain and grabbing his injured side. He barely managed to breathe. It hurt like hell, but it was that or his head. He immediately got up with his rifle and stumbled back, intending to keep running the opposite way, but as he glanced back at the monster, he noticed it was still. It had landed on itself, but it froze on its hinds, inspecting something on its hand. It was covered in blood, bits of the fluid dripping off its palm and staining the cold snow below. It was his blood. And the monster was smelling it. A million thoughts ran through Killjoy¡¯s head, but none was more rampant than one uncertainty: what if it got a taste for his blood? Did that mean the monster was only chasing him up to now purely for sport? Did it consider Killjoy, one of the most infamous in the West, a plaything? This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Not even bears so much as agitated Killjoy. But that thing was no bear. Killjoy gritted his teeth as he looked on at the monster, scrunched up against its overgrown knees with its bony body, licking up the crimson blood drenching its hand. And then it smiled. It craned its head to the hunter with such glee it was like a dog greeting its owner. That thing was no bear, nor no animal. It was sadistic, oddly human in that way. It was a demon. Killjoy chuckled nervously, returning a grin of his own, a smile that never reached his eyes. The monster let out a roar that deafened Killjoy¡¯s ears, a screech that was much wilder, more desperate than the first time. If it roared to simply scare Killjoy before, it was howling to satiate its hunger now. Not feeling very welcome, he finally found a clip in one of his pockets and pushed it inside the empty pistol. Killjoy summoned the courage to stand his ground and aim his lead-laced bullet centre-mass at the ghoulish beast of a corpse. The man squeezed the trigger, shaking like it was his first time shooting a gun, yelling as he did. The gun blasted, the recoil jerking Killjoy¡¯s grip into the air. The bullet flew straight at the monster, though he doubted it would do much if it couldn¡¯t even scratch its skin. But then, a loud squelch rang from the beast. Its head yanked back, the monster¡¯s empty eyesockets almost bursting in shock. The gaunt mass collapsed on the ground, letting out a disgusting moan in unfamiliar pain. The monster raised its long skeletal arms around its throat and jaw as if trying to massage an injury. Killjoy was stunned, not knowing what to make of it. All of his other shots did not even penetrate its skin, so what changed now? Every instinct in his body was yelling at the man to get out of there when he still had the chance, but his mind was telling him that there was a secret to be found. A secret to kill this monster that he could not let go. He scanned the monster as it groaned hoarsely in pain, still holding its throat. Come to think of it, Killjoy could not see any visible bullet wound anywhere, was it an internal injury? Did that mean it was vulnerable from the inside? So his bullet hit the insides of its mouth when it was open. The beast was bleeding from the inside. That¡¯s it: it was like one, big mollusc or turtle, with a durable shell but a weak interior.. Killjoy raised his pistol once again, levelling his sight at the beast¡¯s void, empty eye sockets. Now that he thought about it, it was just one large target, and if he shot at it, perhaps he could get to the brain; would it even die from brain damage? Only one way to find out. Killjoy shot at the monster, with renewed vigour. If there was anything he was ever confident in, it was his aim and how he was true to it. And if that was all the veteran hunter needed to take down this beast, then was there anything to have worried about? It seems he overreacted for nothing. He would have smiled had that bullet been all he needed. But that would-be grin soured to a gritted frown. Killjoy¡¯s sudden hope collapsed once more into a reality he wouldn¡¯t have ever thought he¡¯d find himself in. It was the hunter becoming the hunted. Like a blur, the monster flicked its bony hand in front of its eyesocket, catching the bullet, like instinct. As if it knew the danger it posed, the consequence of letting its insides be damaged¡­ as if it learned. Killjoy trembled, stumbling back, unwilling to comprehend what happened. The monster learned, it learned to protect itself. Throwing away the shell of the bullet, it covered its eyesockets with the palm of its hand, the fingers latching onto its skin. A rip and the monster tore its hand off, the limb still attached to its face and sealing its eyes, like a makeshift blindfold. Its other hand fell to its side, the gaunt ghoul moaning under its breath, its usually agape jaw now closed to a frown. The monster¡¯s head shook, and so did its left arm, and from the point where its hand was torn off, masses of flesh began to spurt out from it. The icky thing formed a slimy appendage, a veil of substance coating it. It then broke out of the cocoon, revealing a new hand. Killjoy began to steady back further, still trying to make sense of it all. No, none of it made sense: not only did the monster seal its own eyes by using its ripped hand as a blindfold and keep its mouth shut, but it somehow regenerated its lost hand. And if it regrew a fresh limb in a matter of seconds, then what about the internal injury the hunter inflicted? It defied everything he knew. And Killjoy thought he knew everything, that anything that existed outside of his knowledge was knowledge not worth having. Myths, legends, primitive beliefs among them: he thought it was all the work of humans. But the thing frowning in front of him now was a work of the devil. What animal could learn as fast as it did? What human could do the feats it had done? It was neither. Perhaps the miner was right: some ¡®nonsense¡¯ could be real. Too Little Too Late It burned, everything burned. Killjoy¡¯s lungs, his throat; he barely managed to breathe. Even the soaking snow that crunched under his pacing feet, and the blitzing air that slashed his skin could do little to cool him down, if at all. The hunter held his right shoulder tightly, hurting as it still bled; everything hurt, his legs as well. But he couldn¡¯t stop running, because if Killjoy did, he would surely die. With each step Killjoy took, he heard two more thumps behind him, followed by the sound of trees being trampled with gross moans. The only thing that kept it from catching up was the sheer woods. The hunter weaved past them with ease, but the monster steamrolled and crashed with each stump and oak it faced. Like every fibre of its being was only set out for the delicious treat running away from it. Think, think, he had to think. All problems had a solution, this was no different! Killjoy had to use this time to come up with something, anything; what could he do to survive? He thought hard. But in his attempt to come up with even a single ounce of a plan, all Killjoy could hear was the rapid beat of his own heart. The choked exhale of his short breath, the pitter and the patter of his desperate feet trying to keep him running as far as he can, and the thumping and the drumming of the thing behind him. Empty. There was nothing he could try to do in the next few minutes that¡¯d keep him alive. Bullets did nothing to its skin, it kept its orifices shut, and Killjoy could feel the strain on his lungs. Soon, even if he wanted to, he wouldn¡¯t be able to move his legs one more step. And even if he were to run, where to? The nearest town was miles away. Was he trapped? ¡°Damn it¡­¡± Killjoy muttered hoarsely as he ran, ¡°Damn it¡­damn it!¡± he finally yelled, losing all control of his inhibition. With a rumbling screech, the monster tore through one thinner tree right behind the scampering Killjoy, using nothing but its hands and pure bloodlust to drive the force. The hunter tried to turn, but all he could see in the next second was the spinning of the trees around him. Killjoy was struck from behind with a massive might sending him flying through the air once more. His body rag-dolled through as it landed on the lap of a distant tree. He shouted in pain as his stomach took the brunt of the damage head-on, and he could have almost heard the sound of his ribs cracking. Through it all, he still held onto his rifle, like it was a part of him. Stumbling through, he tried to open his eyes, but after so many concussions, and so much running, it felt like the ground was shackled to him like his body wanted to collapse. Exhaustion took over. But another screech, which shook his broken bones back in place, was all he needed to hear to shake off the rust. Between passing out right now before probably being eaten alive, and struggling more to survive, well¡­ He¡¯s struggled too much to give up now in his terrible life. Tearing his eyes open, he saw the monster lurching for him, as hungry as a rabid cat trying to find its next meal. Too tired and broken to get up and run, Killjoy crawled back against the tree. Pulling up his rifle, he loaded a new clip into it, pulled back the lever, cocked it, and aimed it straight at the meaty skeleton of a zombie. Blasting at the thing, he felt the recoil of the gun push back against his weak grip, something he hadn¡¯t dealt with in years. Killjoy would grin if he could; the bastard truly got him cornered, screwing him up like this. He opened fire again, then again, then some more. Each bullet bounced off the monster like pebbles against a wall but hit just enough to slow it down. But that was all it did, that was all he could do. What else was there to do? Was this the limit? Just firing away to delay his doom, hoping¡ªno, praying, somewhere in his mind¡ªthat something would rescue him? Perhaps the next shot would be just enough to take that down? Killjoy never relied on hope, luck, divine intervention or whatnot, but why now? He was weak. Twenty years of killing, of taking, all of that to survive. It was all just to survive and make ends meet. He never had to be the strongest or smartest, nor had the quickest draw. As long as he had the grit to do the job and make it out, he could do it, and he did. It was what he was good at. After a while, he felt invincible, that he had escaped death. It was a truth, rather than a delusion. Now death was knocking, and it was not asking. The monster grew closer, inching towards him unphased by the bullets that passed. Killjoy continued to fire away, unrelenting, his fingers going numb from the pain and recoil. But it crept closer no matter how much he shot at the beast. ¡°You bastard!¡± Killjoy cried out, his voice hoarse, blood almost bursting from his throat. It let out a roaring growl, taking the human¡¯s yell as a challenge. The ghoul began to run, screeching as it leapt towards Killjoy. It bore its wet teeth, diving for the human, hungry from the hunt. All the moonlight around Killjoy vanished in a blink, faster than he could even turn his head. All he could see was only the cast shadow of the vast beast soaring above him like the immediate darkness would be the last thing he¡¯d see. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. Without thinking the hunter thrusted his rifle forward. The monster crashed its face into the end of the iron barrel, jerking back its head. The rest of its limbs landed over Killjoy, its bony arms to his sides, and its haggard legs mounted on the small human. Killjoy¡¯s arms felt like they would¡¯ve burst apart trying to hold the rifle up. It was like trying to keep a shell out of a cannon from escaping with but his bare hands. If the ghastly beast had landed a little differently, it would have snapped his body. Killjoy tried to keep it away, as much as he could, inching and wiggling back against the snow. The monster got annoyed and snorted roughly before raising its arm. It bore its claws, the sharp nails shining amidst the light. The monster then sliced through the human¡¯s gun, tearing away the end of the barrel like butter. His arm lurched to the side, still trying to hold onto the gun. And just as quickly as the monster disarmed Killjoy¡¯s rifle, it shrieked before going for the kill, lurching for the human¡¯s succulent head. He barely had time to think as his arms moved by themselves to block the ghoul¡¯s gaping maw. Killjoy pushed the broken rifle ahead of him and lodged it inside the mouth of his predator, the serrated teeth latching onto the steel trying to bite through it. Killjoy holds the rifle end to end with both hands, trying to push away the ghoul attempting to chew his gun out of the way. But the weight was immense, and blood poured from his injured shoulder. All of the muscles in his upper body felt like they were about to tear and explode. Something had to be done. He couldn¡¯t just let himself be crushed to death before it even ate him. But the moment he would let go, it would all end the same. Killjoy sighed and bit down on his lips before ripping away his offhand and struggling for his side knife. He could feel the bones in his lone arm begin to crack as it held the gun, his only barrier from being torn to shreds. It was risky, but at this point, he¡¯d rather lose an arm before he¡¯d lose his head. His fingers wrapped around the knife as if his life depended on it, because oh it did, and with all of Killjoy¡¯s extinguishing fury, he hacked away at the monster¡¯s head. He bashed it and jammed the edge of the blade into the dull skin uselessly, as dense and rubbery as whale blubber. Killjoy yelled with each desperate slash at the ghoul¡¯s tough skull, putting his entire strength behind every stab. He tried to aim for the orifices or the eyes, but the ghoul¡¯s damn dismembered hand was still wrapped around it, protecting it like some blindfold. Then a snap. The blade snapped. It broke off the handle, flying to the side. The beast howled triumphantly, like it knew something went wrong with the human, and grew more ferocious in its mauling. It reached further for Killjoy¡¯s head, mere inches away, as its long fingers wrapped around his waist. He felt the pressure of the ghoul¡¯s hands crush his body, holding him in place like a snack, all the while its head craned forward and forward, one inch at a time. Even with its prey at its grasp, it still toyed with him, as if holding a sandwich and squeezing out the juices within. Killjoy would find it ridiculous if he weren¡¯t already letting out guttural groans, his insides mashing together. The pain, the stress, the heat; it was all too much, too much even for him. Killjoy held his rifle up with every fibre of his being trying to stop his arms from giving way. He tried to bear the pain of his body being squeezed like a doll, he tried to last, to survive. But to what end? He was going to die. He was going to die, right here, in the middle of some woods. In the dead of winter where his body would freeze up for days, even weeks until another victim found him. Just another casualty for the masses to overlook. Just for Adeline to find his measly grave over many. Adeline. Killjoy felt something in his gut sink. He didn¡¯t know why at first, as he continued to struggle, but his sight lingered on the open jaw of the beast trying to devour him. Through the wet drips of saliva that spilled from the monster¡¯s mouth, Killjoy found himself absorbed by the pitch-black darkness of its throat, like swallowing every ounce of light. In that pitch-black darkness¡ªunsure in that second if any of it was even real, or just the product of a dead man¡¯s last moments¡ªKilljoy could even see himself. A dark, twisted form of himself stared back, with the same intense eyes, and gritted teeth like holding on for life. Was it himself in the immediate seconds to come, to be eaten whole and trapped in the ghoul¡¯s stomach, or was it him now? Killjoy realised there may not be any difference in that manner. How he¡¯d lived his life before and where he¡¯d be after this foolish death, there really would be no difference; it was all dark. Adeline always tried to pull him out of it, the work and the danger. Killjoy did not choose to be this way, it was just how he was. It was what he¡¯d always known, what he was good at, what he enjoyed until now. He''d say there was no time for her or their family; there was always the next job and work to do. But there was time, he soon realised. And now Killjoy would reap what he sowed. Lost In My Flesh He just didn¡¯t expect it to be so soon, so sudden. When he finally made up his mind to quit for good, after years of this hard life, his chance of settling down was being taken away from him. That chance to make up for the time lost, he could not do it anymore. Even though he neglected the time Adeline gave him, now that he was getting around to it, wouldn¡¯t it be fair to say he felt cheated, if at least for a bit? He would not have it. Killjoy wouldn¡¯t have it. Even if it was greedy of him, he asked whatever was possibly listening in now to give him one last victory, a chance, and he¡¯d be fine losing for the rest of his life. Just one last time. Killjoy glanced down at his body, scrambling for something on him, anything that resembled a weapon, even in the loosest of definitions. His knife was destroyed, his gun torn apart, and what was left of the rifle was the only thing lodging the monster¡¯s mouth apart from swallowing him whole. He then saw something heavy, its metallic glint somehow untainted by the blood and sweat of his mauling: the harmonica. It was long, flat, dull, and only fit in the palm of his hands. Barely anything usable. The man stared at it, not believing what he was about to do. But he¡¯d apologise to her later, because for now, for the last time, Killjoy would be selfish. He had to survive, even if it meant using Adeline¡¯s gift. Killjoy tore his hand off his rifle and seized his harmonica, ripping it away from his belt. Killjoy couldn¡¯t hold on for any longer and his other arm collapsed to the snow. The maw of the ghoul¡¯s mouth coated the hunter with its moist breath, its dry, calloused tongue licking around his delectable skin. It prepared to bite his delicious flesh with its giant teeth, separated only by the cold, crisp air. Killjoy could feel how the sharp fangs surrounding him reached his tender face, threatening to rip and chew; it was about to eat his head, and then himself. Killjoy drove the harmonica into its skull, screaming at the top of his lungs. He squeezed his eyes as he put all his waning strength behind his last strike. It was stupid, desperate, a defence mechanism that only the doomed can resort to, like drawing a toothpick against a revolver. Only a disgusting squelch could be heard. He could feel the slick juices drooling from its mouth, seeping onto his face, ceaselessly without end. Killjoy kept the harmonica in hand, still waiting for his demise, for the blankness in his shut eyes to become a reality. But he could only sense the cool wind brush the wet saliva on his face, and the faint warmth of its throat. The hunter hesitantly opened an eye to see what was taking so long. The jaw of the gaunt beast laid still opened around his skull, a statue of a predator about to devour its prey. But, like a statue, the monster was frozen in place. The hunter heaved at the sudden sight, reeling back his head in fear of it being snatched by the thing¡¯s teeth. However, the beast still didn¡¯t move. Nay, it let a slight moan escape from its enormous mouth, and the flesh and bones, visible through its taught skin, shook and quivered. It tried to move, escape some invisible shackles that suddenly took hold of it now, but couldn¡¯t. Killjoy felt a searing heat wash over his hand from the harmonica. Then, the skeletal ghoul lurched its head in the air, dragging the downed Killjoy up to his toes, still holding onto the silver instrument that¡­was attached to the monster¡¯s head. He glanced weakly at where his hand was, and the harmonica was wedged deep inside the monster¡¯s skull. Indigo-streaked blood began to run down his fingers. The skin where his harmonica somehow pierced was scorching hot, scalding Killjoy¡¯s hand where he held onto his makeshift weapon. Tendrils of grey smoke climbed from the burning wound into the crisp air. Killjoy wasn¡¯t spared even a single second further to process what had happened before the ghoul bellowed out a screech in his face, hoarse and loud, nearly rupturing his eardrums. Its head spasmed and twisted out of place. The monster dangled Killjoy in the air before suddenly swiping away the hunter, like an invasive mosquito, from where he held the harmonica. The force was so great, that Killjoy¡¯s rag-dolling body almost split the snowflakes that fell from the sky. The hunter fell back onto the hard, compact snow. His harmonica and arm flew into the air¡ªwait, his arm? A dazed Killjoy took a glimpse of where his instrument fell. Amidst the blurry snow, he saw a severed arm lying next to it. His arm. He glanced down at his shoulder, and where he expected an attached limb, he could only see the white snow and the pouring blood that stained it. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Yet he could not even feel it. Adrenaline had surged through his veins so much, geared toward survival, it reduced the life-threatening injury to a numb, throbbing sensation, like it was never even there. Save for the feeling of the blood leaking from it, and how his side became worn and weak with each passing moment. But the ghoul was also hurting; it withdrew itself. Killjoy gazed at the monster, and he saw it grip the burning wound on the temple of its head. It almost gasped for air, its moan like a dead man¡¯s last wheeze. It bought the hunter time, enough at least to figure out how he was alive and why the harmonica saved him. Somehow, Adeline¡¯s instrument kept him from being at dinner. Killjoy rolled to his side and, summoning what little strength he had left, tried to push himself up on his brittle legs to retrieve the harmonica. When his legs wobbled and strayed, he limped. And when it got too tiring, too much to even do that, the hunter fell back onto the snow and crawled. The stress on his muscles burned. As he dragged himself across the dirt and debris, it scraped against his exposed skin. It hurt. It really, really hurt. But he had to make it before that ghoul behind him snapped out of its ache. The silver instrument was only a few inches away; if he could reach out his hand right now, he could get a sliver of a hold. But then, he heard a guttural growl groaning behind him. Slow, heavy steps lurked behind Killjoy, the snow crunching deeply with every tramp. It eased after the trailing hunter, before becoming faster, and impatient. It was there, and he was on the ground. He hastened, digging his fingers into the ground, his nails beginning to bleed with how hard he scraped the earth. As Killjoy tried to get there faster, he heard the monster¡¯s steps grow louder and rampant, turning into full-blown running. Running for him. It was right there, he was close, yet so far. He couldn¡¯t die now, not after he had just survived with the skin of his teeth, and when the one shot of getting out alive was barely ahead. The hunter groaned, yelling as he prepared a last-ditch effort to close the gap. Pummelling his right fist into the ground, Killjoy tried to pull himself, his limp body, into the air. He lurched forward with all his might for a split moment, grunting as he landed on the ground as hard as he went. His hand lands on the silver instrument, the finger brushing the metal. Killjoy gripped it like water in a barren desert; part of the shape was splintered off into a wedge from when he stabbed the beast with it. He then twisted around against the snow, turning to his back. The ghoul was there, its skullish face leering for the hunter. Its wide mouth was agape, its teeth ready to shred and maul. And the torn-off hand that latched onto its eyesockets hung loosely, partly revealing the void of its gaze. It ran on its four, bony limbs before it hurdled into the air for its bleeding prey. Killjoy was quick to the draw, thrusting the harmonica into the air before him, shutting his eyes and yelling as he did. He held it tight in his grip, almost crushing the silver. If he died now, at least this time around, he¡¯d have done it fighting. A loud thud was heard as the beast¡¯s giant corpse of a body crashed into the human beneath it. It smothered the hunter below, the monster¡¯s mouth, ajar, wrapped around his head, swallowing even the shoulders. It crushed him, and then silence. Not a single moan from the monster or a sign of struggle from the human pierced the air. Nothing moved. Things were still. Too still. The grains of snow began to finally shift and turn, clumps of the snow sliding away as something began to shake and persist underneath the limp beast¡¯s weight. The monster slightly turned, its elongated left arm falling to its side, its other remaining complacent. And then, its head slid too, the gaunt skull rolling against the mound of dirt they were on. A slow grunt emanated from someone under its belly. That short exhale turned into tortured moans as he tried to push the rest of the beast¡¯s body away, his arm still stuck inside its throat. After another second of struggling, the man freed his hand from its jaw. He tried to use his remaining arm to slide out of the heavy monster lying atop him. And, after another moment of unrest, he finally mustered a bit of strength to lift the bony arm trapping his legs and rolled away. Killjoy stayed still on the ground, not enough to even limp and crawl. He breathed heavily, trying to catch his breath, but also to soothe the pain washing over him; the adrenaline had set aside, and all of that would-be lightness in his head, the fatigue in his legs, the grazing on his shoulder: it came crashing down. It hurt. One Last Time From head to waist, the hunter was drenched in the sticky, metallic-smelling coat of blood. It was uncomfortably warm, and unnaturally viscous, sticking to his face like second skin. He could not see a wink as it glazed his eyes, keeping it shut to keep the crimson liquid out. In his left eye, there was a massive, searing pain that he was unfamiliar with. Unlike any pain he¡¯s been through before. He lifted a finger to graze the wound, to check what was wrong with his left eye, and gushing out was more amount of blood than anywhere else on his body, bar his severed arm of course. The man wiped the blood away from his face, and where on his right eye he could see the night sky pass through the canopies of the trees, he couldn¡¯t see anything in his left. Only darkness, and specks of colour. The hunter let only a soft sigh escape him. Killjoy had rested enough to be able to sit up against the mound of snow. From where his left arm used to be, he tightened up the wound with the remains of his cotton shirt and a durable stick on the ground for a makeshift tourniquet, and his gouged left eye with a piece of cloth. He had checked around his body given the excessive amount of blood on him, but most of it had come from the monster after he stabbed the bastard inside its throat. For something so surprisingly cunning to have covered up its orifices, it leered its teeth at him at the last second. What is a beast remains a beast, he concluded. He bellowed out another sigh as he draped his arm over his knee, staring off into the woods. The aching of his body, his leg still slightly shaking, and the searing pain in his eye and arm; it hurt him, it hurt his body, it hurt his soul. For what he thought was strong, was frail. He was frail. His hand balled into a fist. It squeezed the pool of blood that drenched his palm so that it seeped through the fingers before dripping onto the cold earth below. The reminder of his mortality, how weak he was, itched him. Perhaps he wasn¡¯t cut out for this anymore. For all his years, there is still much he did not know apparently, including that demonic thing that nearly got him killed tonight. Killjoy was never one for the superstitious, never even one to have gone to church, but what that was¡­ it was not earthly. He had stoked the flame of a fire he thought was all ruckus and noise, but now it had scarred him beyond repair. To think even someone as well-lived as he was barely survived the attack with but the cost of an arm and an eye shook the stubborn man. Killjoy did not want to admit it, but it did. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. Killjoy fell back onto the snow, taking in the coarse slush as it hugged him in return. He glanced to his side and saw the laying body of the beast, and atop a pile of snow on the ground, he found the harmonica he had used to slay it. His gift, his only token of his wife. This life had consumed so much of his time that Killjoy thought there couldn¡¯t be anything else he could take away from Adeline. But he stained her present with the blood of his work. Now even his only memorabilia of his loved ones, who so resented his hunting, had been used as an instrument of it. Killjoy let out a shallow sigh once more, digging into one of his pockets. He didn¡¯t know what he was trying to get; his cigarettes had fallen out, his lighter was cold and damp, and everything else was in disarray. He just had to do something to get this itch away from him. But he couldn¡¯t. It gnawed, beating at the back of his skull in ways that even that ghoul couldn¡¯t hurt. Shifting to the side, the hunter reached for the harmonica with his remaining arm and grasped it with his palm, the snow falling through the fingers like a waterfall. He stared at it. Despite its sullied appearance, the silver had kept its shine. The metal, though bruised and battered, persisted to be tough and cold against the pores of his skin. And then it became blurry. The harmonica in his palm swirled and the world before him turned hazy, like bubbles. Killjoy immediately turned his head, trying to find whatever was making his vision like this. But as he felt the salty wetness of something swell in his eyes, its surface tension broke and the water streamed down his face. The hunter sat there as he let the tears escape his eyes, both his missing and remaining, staring off in the distance to nowhere. He then gasped as he clutched the silver instrument tighter in his grip, pulling it against his chest. Killjoy coughed on his sorrows, grinding his broken teeth. ¡°I¡­I¡¯m sorry, Adeline¡­I didn¡¯t mean to use it in that way¡­I swear I didn¡¯t¡­¡± Killjoy said aloud to no one. ¡°I had to, I-I needed to survive¡ªI know I said I wouldn¡¯t get hurt¡­¡± He grew quiet. Killjoy then got up, at least with great difficulty with all of the injuries tolling on him, and started ambling his way outside the forest. He stumbled on his lead foot, dragging his other weak limb against the coarse snow. The hunter didn¡¯t know if it was broken or he was just fatigued. Killjoy dug the harmonica as neatly as he could into a torn pocket in his pants, some sparse threads barely stopping it from slipping out. ¡°I¡­.I think I¡¯m not cut out for this anymore¡­¡± Killjoy muttered as he tried to walk. ¡°When I get back¡­you can stitch me up one last time¡­and I won¡¯t ever leave again¡­you can barricade the door if you have to¡­¡± A Game With No Prize As he stumbled away, suddenly howls and shrieks rang out in the distance. Killjoy stopped dead in his tracks, turning back slightly at the noise. It let loose again, their screams deep and harsh. He tried to shake away the screams, dismissing them as the simple yells of coyotes. It had to be just coyotes; they usually screamed at night, and a few lived in the area. Killjoy tried to take another step, but the yells blared again. The hunter groaned raggedly as an idea set in, barging into his head, knocking incessantly. It was a horrible idea, an impossible thought: what if it was more of them? The hunter wanted to forget about it and just keep moving; his job was done, cut and clean. But, just for the sake of the idea, if there were more: he couldn¡¯t possibly risk leaving them alone. What if they went out and followed him, out of the forest? What if there were so many of them, and they reached a town? His eyes widened at the thought. There was no way he could let even a sliver of a chance of that happening. Not even a gun could pierce its skin; they could devour a settlement in mere hours. However, what can he do about it? Even he nearly died trying to survive against one. If he turned back now and there were more of them, what could he possibly do in his state? But he can¡¯t just leave. And Killjoy hated that fact. Because now there was only one thing he should do: to turn back. Killjoy stumbled through the dense woods, the various branches and thick oak prickling him like a coffin of edges. He still reeked of the horrible odour of the beast he slaughtered, its blood sticking to him like honey. He gauged the moon''s position in the midnight sky and realised the sound came from the south, where the mines lay abandoned. So the miners were the first victims of those things, or ¡®Wendigos¡¯ as that local called it. Or, just maybe, it was the miners who disturbed them first. After having limped for so long, Killjoy had finally returned to the mineshafts. The grounds were as still and ever-empty as it was before. Not a single wisp has changed about it. Yet, the air felt thicker, an unfamiliar weight that churned Killjoy¡¯s stomach. Though, if there was any proof that this was the right place, then it would be the fact he felt hungry. Soft groaning escaped from one of the caves. Killjoy quickly turned, gripping his harmonica. It was laughable that now all he had left as a weapon was but a single instrument, but he had long realised now that it wasn¡¯t the simple tune that made it deadly. It was probably, somehow, the silver that it was encased in. The hunter approached the maw of the cave with a careful stride. Its entrance seemed to be sparsely made, with little in the way of equipment or real infrastructure. Only some crates lay on the side, and some piles of pickaxes, lanterns, and other dusty tools dotted the ground. It was like the cave was only recently discovered and they were quick to try to make work with it. The cave rumbled some more, the ecstatic moans increasing in number, like stray groups of cats purring violently. If it wasn¡¯t clear to him what kind of monsters could¡¯ve been down there, it was now. He nudged the harmonica against the temple of his head, trying to think of something. Even though he got nearly outright destroyed, he was still the same Killjoy that earned the ire of many: he always ensured he had something up his sleeves, even if they were ripped away from him. As he paced back and forth around the entrance, Killjoy found himself glancing at the pile of crates once more. He might as well take a look; if there was anything useful, he wouldn¡¯t find it on himself. Killjoy bent over to pick up a crowbar lying next to the wooden boxes. Approaching one tall crate, he plunged the bar inside the top of the box and pried it open, wearing out his sore muscles. Inside were bundled upon bundles of small logs wrapped in greyish-brown paper, some ineligible text written on the casing. Dust and age had taken its course on the worn sticks, but there was no doubting it: it was dynamite. It looked like the miners were planning on blowing up the cave after digging far enough. With how things looked, Killjoy figured they couldn¡¯t dig any further. And with how much was left, an idea became clear: the hunter would use the dynamite himself to collapse the cave. Killjoy had unboxed the dynamite from the crates, which were much more numerous than he had thought. He stacked them at some edges and points along the cave''s maw, structurally weak places. He had even ventured deeper into the cave from where the moonlight could hold, not letting a single chance of this plan fail. He panted, holding himself up against the wall. Killjoy had tied another round of rope and secured a stack of dynamite against the rocky surface. Having to use only one arm to move all this weight is catching up to him; his already worn legs were shaking, like even a strong gust of wind could knock them over. His shoulder was torn to pieces, his sweat had mixed with the Wendigo¡¯s blood that drenched his clothes, and where his left arm should¡¯ve been, it stung with a phantom pain that shouldn¡¯t exist. But no matter how much Killjoy was inevitably screwed, it wasn¡¯t something he could negotiate. If he was going to live as a cripple the rest of his life, he¡¯d much rather do it after solving the problem that did him in, permanently. Something then stumbled in the darkness of the cave, its footsteps echoing like that of hollow bones. Killjoy averted his gaze. Grim settled in. Killjoy dropped everything and stood there, shaken. He slowly turned his head into the void that is the unlit depths of the tunnel, biting down his teeth. If even a single one of whatever was coming out now was alike the Wendigo that had nearly killed him, he wouldn¡¯t survive. He could not simply let them leave, but he also could not light the dynamite in time now if he didn¡¯t do anything to slow them down. Killjoy had to buy time. He had to buy time. Killjoy scoured the cave for whatever he could try to use to hold them off, trying to figure out what else could hurt those bastards aside from plain silver. What did the miner say again? Silver and fire? As much as he found it almost ridiculous, that miner was right about them being vulnerable to the metal. Then Killjoy pondered what else the man could¡¯ve been right about. Killjoy figured if silver hurt them, what else could? Wood stakes? No, they weren¡¯t vampires. And if a bullet can¡¯t kill them, what can a stake do? What else could send them back to the fiery pits of hell they belong to? Fire. Killoy tore away a few kerosene lanterns lying around the cave and threw them on the ground. He picked one by the metal handle and swung it against the walls, screaming to ease the struggle of labour. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. The oil spewed everywhere, coating the ceiling, drowning the rocky earth in its clear, thin liquid, reflecting the moonlight like a puddle of fireflies. Along the ground was a long string of rope, slicken with wick, attached to a small depot of dynamite. He ambled towards the middle of the cave and ignited the wick. It blitzed into a small spit of red flame, slowly consuming the rope and inching close to the dynamite. Killjoy meandered to the middle of the puddle of oil, holding his harmonica in his sole hand, and a match by the finger. The hunter bowed over himself, reaching to the side of his boot. Killjoy placed the lighter match flush against the leather and swiped it forward several times before a small fury of light flashed. Then after a gentle burn of a flame. The hunter stood as tall and calm as he could, staring off into the darkness. He waited for them to come out. Before, he was wholly unprepared, and those monsters made him their prey. But this was different. He was a hunter himself, a predator of prey and for those whose coin he was paid to fetch. He had seen it all, been hit by everything, done anything to survive. And if it was the supernatural that threatened to end his legend, then he simply had to become something more. He tried to remember what it was that one German philosopher said, something he had read once on the paper: he who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby became a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you. Killjoy gazed into the abyss. Seconds passed, but they felt so long. Like the moments before a kettle of tea whistled, or the stare of another man as you both draw your gun. Then something scraped against the walls of stone. A foot crept out of the fog of darkness. It slowly emerged from the shadows lurking behind it, approaching the light in the palm of Killjoy¡¯s hand. The figure stumbled and growled and when the light finally shone on it, all Killjoy saw was a haunting smile. It looked like a zombie, still taller than a man but far smaller, more gaunt, than the undead ghoul that hunted Killjoy before. Its skin not only hugged its bones, it sunk within it. While the Wendigo he encountered was out there, probably feasting on those human bodies to grow as strong as it was, these bastards must have been starving. Killjoy took a slight step back. Though he had prepared more thoroughly, it was still unnerving: could he really do this? The ghoul approached with painstakingly slow steps as it pitched over the side of the wall. More footsteps, like crackling against the rocky floor, came behind it. Eventually, many more of them began to march out of the depths, lurching and shambling on their tilted, bony soles. They all had this same wide smile, reaching almost to their sunken eyes, almost gazing at Killjoy, staring right through him. He tightened his hold of the silver instrument. One of the skeletal cadavers twitched its neck forward, looking towards the outside of the cave. The outside and its moonlight enticed an even wider grin on its dry, splitting mouth. It jerked forward, jolting towards Killjoy with a gleeful moan. The hunter yelled with fury as he threw the match onto the ground, alighting the puddles of oil ablaze. From what first lit into a ring of tall flames rapidly spread to the far reaches of the maw. The spitting fire climbed the cave walls, quickly emblazing the surrounding earth like a tsunami of fiery white and amber. Some of the beasts stopped dead in their tracks, grinding their claws into the ground. Others lurched back, letting out painful screeches. One, however, kept charging, its jaw hanging with its tongue loose, dripping slick saliva, the drops of it burning up as it touched the fire around it. Killjoy ran forward, trying to match the ghoul at its turn. He raised the broken harmonica in the air before explosively lunging it forward, his muscles giving way. The Wendigo leered at the human that dared challenge it and bashed into the hunter, smashing him out of the way and into the air with the brute force of its shoulder. It knocked the wind out of Killjoy, and he was sent flinging against a wall. He stumbled onto the ground painfully, harmonica still firm in hand. A burn in his chest squeezed him as he coughed out dry blood. Despite the whiplash, Killjoy was left undeterred as he spat out another drop of crimson before forcing himself off the ground. Killjoy steeled his nerves and stared off the same Wendigo before charging forward, trying again. It cried out another thundering groan as the rotting mass of a corpse tore its way forward, shoving itself into the air, its void eyes set for the way out. The hunter dropped to his knees, sliding along the blazing ground. Riding the earth, he went under the Wendigo and drove the silver instrument upwards into the gut of its belly, where its splintered edge had met, as the beast flew over. The ghoul had dragged the harmonica with it, and so too did Killjoy, stumbling onto its hindlegs with a massive growl. But he used the last bit of strength in his body to push the harp downwards against its organs, deepening the wound, like plunging a stake into the dirt. Tripping on itself, the monster hurled itself forward as it tried to run. Its entire abdomen split open as it fell on itself, ripping apart from trying to pull away what is essentially a knife embedded in it. Guts and bones flew from the Wendigo and splattered on Killjoy with an uncomfortable squelch. He simply ignored the foul innards, wiping some excess off his eye; the hunter had grown accustomed to it. Killjoy pulled the grey harp out of the fallen beast with a huff, tottering backwards on his worn feet. He then turned to the rest of the ghouls. There were crowds of them, like packs of hungry wolves baring their fangs at the flames around them. Some of them staggered further, away from the large masses of hot flames and only to the cool stone where it didn¡¯t burn. They were growing brave, it appeared. Killjoy wheezed dryly. He was certain a lung or two were already punctured, and dealing with only one of those predators had knocked the stuffing out of him. The hunter wobbled on the two feet that held him up, heavy like carrying a slab of iron through the Mojave. He was certain he couldn¡¯t keep this up for long. He turned faintly, his gaze falling on the hoards of dynamite placed around the cave, the stalactite-stricken entrance practically encased in the grey explosive. The sticks had to explode soon, to cave the walls in and keep these bastards from ever leaving. But that would take a quarter of an hour to finally burn up and explode, and Killjoy wasn¡¯t sure if he could last even another minute holding these Wendigos off. It was a riddle with no answer, a game with no prize. If he continued fighting now, he¡¯d probably die before the wick even burned up. And if he tries to go outside and detonate it from afar, those ghouls would escape by then. He spat against the ground, looking back at the threatening Wendigos in front of him. There was no point in waiting to think about it if they were going to try to kill him at any second. He Who Fights With Monsters The hunter strolled onwards, approaching the beasts that were twice his size, thrice his strength. He raised the harmonica forward, even when his wrist shook, wanting to fall. He kept it there. One of the Wendigos broke fast, snarling as it pounced forward towards Killjoy. Another leapt forward as well, and then another; they came rushing in, blitzing past themselves. Killjoy jumped in front of the beasts, charging like bulls, and harshly yelled as he bumped against one of their shoulders, hacking away at their skulls with his silver instrument. The ghoul swerved to the side, crashing against a mountain of smouldering flames. Killjoy was sent ramming into another, which he then tried to stab furiously, reeling his arm. It muscled the human with a swing of its head before falling on itself, screeching with pain. Killjoy was sent barging into another monster, then swept back to another, then another. With every haggard zombie that he tried to fight, sneaking in a few slashes and thrusts here and there, he was sent right back, tumbling and pummeling to the next shrunken ghoul. They rag-dolled the frail human around as it struggled to slow them down, let alone slay them. However, with every fall and stumbling, Killjoy got back up each time. He darted in front of the nearest Wendigo, latching onto its shoulders, almost digging his nails into its skin. It wailed and hammered into the ground, wrecking Killjoy in the ribs. The hunter could have almost heard a crack. It tried to get back up, dragging Killjoy to his feet. But he raised his fist in the air, the harp firmly in hand, and dug it straight into the monster¡¯s skull, screaming with fury. He stabbed it with repeated succession, blood flying everywhere from the cranium as the ghoul lashed and tried to move. The zombie banged into another that lolloped forward, bringing the two ghastly creatures down to the ground, like two horses falling against each other in a race, Killjoy rolling with them. He fell as another Wendigo landed on top of him, crushing his back underneath its weight. He groaned loudly, but adrenaline coursed through his veins, and it wasn¡¯t nearly as heavy as the first one he slew. The hunter roared, his throat slightly tearing from producing the sound, as he pushed his body up, the heavy beast sliding to the side. Killjoy quickly reached for the harmonica still stuck inside its skull and jumped on top of the other Wendigo that fell with them. Before it could try to get up or recover its senses, he plunged the self-made weapon deep into its throat, blood squelching everywhere, the crimson pooling his fingertips. He shook and turned the instrument around with both hands, the Wendigo croaking as its neck was turned into a puddling red smush of entrails. Killjoy pulled, pushed, and spun until he gave one last thrust, putting his weight behind it. He let go and grabbed its jaw and tore its head off, the hacked and severed neck giving way. The hunter returned to his feet with the head in hand, blood raining everywhere, some droplets incinerating amidst the concourse of fire that engulfed the cave. Killjoy stomped towards the next few Wendigos trotting towards him, then dashing to the one directly ahead of him. He reeled the decapitated skull back before clobbering the stampeding beast against its jaw, pulling it back on his swing, and sending another consecutive swing. It sent the beast crashing down into another. The man was not done yet, however, far from it. Something took hold of him, like a raw surge of power, this intoxicating strength that freed all inhibition, and took his courage and increased it a thousandfold. Rushing for another that dared try to lurk past him, Killjoy smashed its jaw into the air with the head he wielded. It groaned in surprise, but that surprise would be short-lived as he then dropped the skull, and quickly plunged the silver harmonica into its throat¡ªstab, stab, stab; he tore its throat apart until the monstrous thing fell limp in front of him. He continued his onslaught, with no care for his skin, no concern for the blood he spilt onto the burning ground as long as most of it was of theirs. It did not even feel like the Wendigos were trained on the human in their way. Killjoy wasn¡¯t sure why, but he¡¯d had been dead a long time ago and had their leering gazes set on him. He was like a ghost. Like lambs to the slaughter, they just prowled for the outside. But it only made it easier. The struggle was hard and destructive; he felt his bones rattle with every push against the ground like being run through a train. He slowly lost the sensation of his fingers, his wrist, as he slashed and hacked away at the hordes of decaying ghouls. Their skin was like taffy. It became less a battle for his survival and more a test to see how long Killjoy could last. Just how much he could do; what was his limit? He hadn¡¯t known for years, not until now. Time ground slowly to a halt, like rushing into a dream: one moment, he hadn¡¯t even thought about it, and the next, it was simply there, and he existed within it, and he forgot why. Yet it felt as natural as the air he breathed. But here, he could only smell the soot and smokey tang of burning oil, and hear the cries of the beasts he fought and fought. It was exhilarating. It was exhausting, tiring, utterly hellish, but it was a break. Each time he was put to the ground, every time he was punished, every moment he got knackered was a reminder that he was mortal. A testament that he was only human, and he was still weak. Killjoy was weak. Killjoy had entered the cave with his nerves steeled, set on finishing this once and for all. But amid his rampage against the walls of flesh, the way his blood flowed, the sweat first dripping then pouring down his skin, the way he felt his bones fracture¡ªthe sharp pain like a needle piercing through his body¡ª, he found himself living in it. He hoped that he wouldn¡¯t leave the cave with a smile on his face. But his gritted teeth began to relax, and the stress on his body became no more than a fleeting noise. He could feel his body break away with every second, time lost to him. The only thing sustaining the broken human was the lump of silver in his hand and the rush that pounded through his heart. The rush kept him on his two feet alone. And he liked it, only standing through pure adrenaline. It was a feeling he hadn¡¯t had in a while. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. And then he began to smile. Killjoy let a whisper of a breath go, that moment of exhale turning into a soft chuckle. He then burst into frenzied laughter, as he had just broken free of the tethers that chained him. For all the broken bones in his body, the fleeting loss of blood that squeezed his head of its air, he never felt more alive. Never more light. The rush, the rush, it got to his head. He brimmed with an exuding courage that even the finest of Peruvian couldn¡¯t provide. Like he was immortal, how could a human like him survive all this much if fate had not intended it? His dilated gaze fell upon another Wendigo that dared approach him, its ribbed body lurking across the cave. Like a man possessed, Killjoy darted for the beast, looking for another trophy among many. He glided his clenched silver towards its skull, going in for a strike that he swore could obliterate it. But as Killjoy swung his weapon, he was suddenly blindsided back into the air, a zipping flash of flesh bashing into his chest. Killjoy flew back like a sack of meat and bones being thrown, crashing down by the maw of the cave. His body hit the ground with a gross thud, the shock reminding him of the immense pain he was in. His vision was dazed. When he tried to reach for the wall, his hand swiped against the thin air. He could feel the brain in his skull sway back and forth, side to side, turning into mush. And the way his stomach pierced in pain, like something was ripping him from the inside out, he was sure a few more organs than just his lungs were bleeding. He wheezed, searching for oxygen. The cave was filled with a thick smog now, the flames never dying. It suffocated the injured man; the more he tried to inhale, he could only cough out smoke and dust. The Wendigos were sparser in number, but they still numbered the cavern. Their legs, swollen and skinny like sticks, clacked against the stone as they carefully drifted towards the exit, weaving past the spitting flames. They were learning. Of course, they did. He craned his head to search for the dynamite, and they were right next to him. He saw that the still-burning wick was close to burning up, the small flame eating away at the remaining thread. Killjoy leaned back against the wall, his head resting on the rocky surface. Then, he let out a long gasp, so long it was as if he hadn¡¯t breathed in years. The man had done his job. He thanked God, or the Gods, or whatever deity was watching him closely, if at all. By some chance, at least, he could ensure these damned things could never reach the light of day. But he would have to die with them, he realised. With how his body was, there was no way he could walk anymore. Killjoy could crawl, but not fast enough before the dynamite explodes. This was the end. Was this all that his fate amounted to? To die in a cave in the middle of nowhere, just as he was about to retire, to rest? How cruel. How cruel indeed. It¡¯s not like he had much of a choice if he wanted to keep all of them in. He had to stay from the start. A fair trade to prevent a calamity. He propped himself to be more flush against the wall, trying to feel at ease. Killjoy¡¯s breathing was ragged and short, but that was fine; it was not as if he needed air for that much longer. Killjoy looked down at the remaining chunk of silver in his palm. It was barely recognisable to be a harmonica of all things. But it was still the instrument that Adeline gave him. Adeline. The man placed it against his chest. He exhaled, sealing his eyes shut, and tilting his head back even further. It had been a long while, a long time, but now he thought he had felt truly at ease. No more worries, no more problems, nothing else to think about but to wait for the dynamite to explode and swallow him whole, and the monsters with it. He made himself grin, satisfied. Seconds passed, but they felt like days. Killjoy shifted in his spot as he tried to continue smiling, but he could not. He could feel his smile begin to crack. The man then frowned and shook his head, prying open his eyes. He breathed jaggedly. Something raced in his chest, beating and coursing through his blood; it was his heart. His skin felt warmer than even the tsunami of blazes that surrounded him. As he glanced at the nearly burnt-up wick, Killjoy immediately shook away, craning his neck elsewhere. Killjoy dropped even the silver in his hand, clattering against the ground. He stared into his palm, and it rattled. ¡°W-why¡­¡± Killjoy asked. Why did he not want to die? Hadn¡¯t he done everything he needed to? The man had accepted death, he couldn''t care less about his own life. So why did he feel afraid? ¡°It¡¯s¡­It¡¯s the only way,¡± He tried to remind himself. He sighed deeply and tried to squeeze his eyes shut once more. But that momentary reprise was all he could manage before giving up, his frown turning into a scowl. ¡°What more do you want, you psychopath?¡± Killjoy screamed. He was confused. What kept him aching to live, if not to protect his own life? Why did something race in him to continue fighting? While every bone in his body was broken, lung and organ torn, his muscles ripped and exhausted, adrenaline continued to pump his veins. That rush, the brush against death, reminded him of how sweet life was, but even sweeter the feeling of surviving with it. Killjoy wanted to survive. Not just to survive, but to come out of it clean. He wanted to¡­maybe he wanted to come back to Adeline. This was no place to die. The fire grew more ferocious, engulfing the cave, basking the space in the warmth of its heat. The Wendigos inched closer to the maw, and as Killjoy glanced at the wick, it was only a finger close to igniting. He was about to die. This was to be the last moments of his life. As the imminent press of death took hold, Killjoy began to yell. ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡­I¡¯m so sorry¡­Adeline¡± He said, choking on the tears that drowned him. ¡°¡­I¡¯m¡­I can¡¯t¡­Forgive¡­forgive me¡­you won¡¯t even get to stitch me up¡­I¡¯m so sorry for what I¡¯m about to do¡­¡± Killjoy glanced at the wick. The small flame rapidly approached the end of the rope, its bright red sparking bits of yellow and orange into the air. Its glow reflected off his skin, and it was all he could focus on. If he were to die, it wouldn¡¯t have been a bad last sight to see. Becomes A Monster The thick fog of smoke swirled through the room. The man sat lazily on his chair, his feet resting against the wooden desk, hands cupped together. Throat calloused, he was more busy to talk than to breathe through the nicotine-thick air. He coughed. ¡°I mean, it¡¯s totally stupid; how on the nose can you get? ¡®DEAD¡¯? ¡®Domestic Expedition Division¡¯?¡± The man then plunged the butt of his cigarette into a tray. ¡°I swear, every time them feds start up a new agency they give it a stupid name to play up the papers.¡± The Sheriff across him thought differently. Also huffing a puff of smoke, Jeremiah gestured to him with his cigarette. ¡°Makes sense, no? Without them, silver, those ¡®things¡¯ are quite literally unkillable. And y¡¯sure you should be mouthing to your employer, Joy?¡± Killjoy leaned back, the wood creaking with every second. He smirked, winking his left eye, or what else remained of it, only a leather patch plastered over the socket. ¡°I can mouth about damn anyone I want; they need me, after all.¡± ¡°Yeah, well, you¡¯re still not invincible,¡± The Sheriff dismissed. He then perked a brow at his friend¡¯s prosthetic. ¡°That arm sure as hell ain¡¯t picking anything up. I¡¯m surprised they didn¡¯t take your other arm to boot too.¡± The bounty hunter lifted his brass-metal arm, the gears whirring within it. He gleefully inspected his mechanical fingers, the silver coating deflecting the chandelier¡¯s shine. ¡°Well, I was just too deft,¡± Killjoy said. ¡°They messed me up, sure, but,¡± He nodded, ¡°I got the last laugh. And it felt fucking great.¡± ¡°...You seemed like you enjoyed it.¡± Killjoy snickered. ¡°Well, why else would an armless and legless man still be fighting if he didn¡¯t? I¡¯m not suicidal, that¡¯s for sure.¡± ¡°For the love of the game,¡± Killjoy said. ¡°I think you lost a few screws, Joy,¡± Jeremiah countered, then pressing the butt of the cigarette against a tray. ¡°Right before that mission, you said you were going to retire. Then you go get yourself mauled, and now you want back in?¡± ¡°Well, it¡¯s gotta be me. Who else knows more about the Wendigos than the one who lost an arm and an eye to them? I¡¯m the David, Jeremiah.¡± Jeremiah gave a soft breath. ¡°Maybe you¡¯re right¡­as much as I don¡¯t like it, there aren¡¯t many that can handle them Wendigos¡­they¡¯re everywhere now. Martial law is one thing, but, nationwide? Never thought that day¡¯d come.¡± ¡°It is an apocalypse.¡± ¡°Well fuck the apocalypse,¡± The Sheriff said, suddenly exasperated. ¡°Fuck it all,¡± He then leaned against the table, letting a slow breath escape him. Killjoy remained silent for a fleeting moment, surprised by Jeremiah¡¯s sudden demeanour. ¡°...I¡¯m sorry for what happened to your daughter,¡± He finally said, attempting some form of comfort. ¡°Thanks,¡± the Sheriff merely replied. ¡°If only I¡ª¡± ¡°Don¡¯t blame yourself, Joy,¡± Jeremiah said, waving away the wish. ¡°It¡¯s already a miracle you escaped that hellhole at all, and that you got so much intel on them.¡± ¡°...Right. But that don¡¯t mean I can¡¯t help a friend.¡± ¡°You helped enough¡­I just hate it. Only in the first few days of this ¡®outbreak¡¯, I was holed up down south here. Hell, we didn¡¯t even know they were coming until the next week!¡± The Sheriff exclaimed, the words coming out of him like droves. ¡°So when I got that letter¡­that they¡­those things took Kiera from me, in Minneapolis¡­she¡¯s probably already one of them if those rumours are true¡­¡± ¡°Jeremiah¡ª¡± ¡°I wish I was there with you,¡± Jeremiah continued, giving Killjoy a hard stare, his eyes never quavering. ¡°To stop them from having ever come out of that fucking cave.¡± Killjoy remained still, not wanting to be the one to talk. He was far from the man to do it, after what he did. ¡°Anyway,¡± The Sheriff sniffed, rubbing his nose, ¡°How¡¯s your family?¡± ¡°Ah, they¡¯re doing fine,¡± Killjoy eagerly responded, as if waiting for the subject to change. ¡°I haven¡¯t seen them in a while, though. Y¡¯know how it is, busy fighting them Wendigos. Hell, even all kinds of creatures started popping up; it¡¯s hard to settle down.¡± Killjoy dug into his breast pocket, retrieving a flask and taking a long swig of it. ¡°Jane didn¡¯t even say hi to me once this week! Those papers are stacked so damn high you can¡¯t even see her.¡± ¡°It¡¯s taking a toll on all of us,¡± Jeremiah said. ¡°Yes, yes it is, I suppose.¡± The room grew quiet, a palpable silence setting in. Killjoy then slapped the armrest of his chair before standing up and smacking his lips. ¡°Well, it was good talking to you,¡± He said. The hunter adjusted his jacket and turned over his stetson hat, whose long folds concealed his forehead. ¡°Next time, let¡¯s do this over a cup of lager.¡± As Killjoy pivoted and strode towards the door, Jeremiah could not hold this back any longer. He had to bring it up. ¡°Wait,¡± the Sheriff said with a breath. The bounty hunter stopped. He craned his neck slightly, non-too gently. ¡°There¡¯s¡­something we still need to discuss.¡± Killjoy had fully turned around, ambling towards his seat and setting himself back down. ¡°What is it?¡± Killjoy asked brows furrowed. Jeremiah absently tapped the top of his desk, his middle finger twitching up and down. ¡°It¡¯s about what happened in the woods.¡± The bounty hunter sat back against his chair, nonplussed. ¡°...I thought I already told you what happened. That was what this entire interview was about.¡± ¡°Right, but¡­just one more rundown.¡± Killjoy scoffed. ¡°You really gon¡¯ make me recount what happened for the fifth time?¡± Jeremiah shrugged as he then got up, circling the room until he was behind the seated Killjoy. ¡°Officer¡¯s orders.¡± The bounty hunter sighed. ¡°As I said, I encountered them things in the forest for a reported misper. Barely survived with my life, killed a few; and tried to take them down with me, but the dynamite malfunctioned. And now we¡¯re here.¡± Jeremiah exhaled. ¡°Now we¡¯re here,¡± He agreed. Killjoy rolled his eyes at the Sheriff standing behind him, shifting in his seat. ¡°Now what? I gave you your fifth testimony of the day.¡± ¡°I just needed to make sure your account of the events was as accurate as you claim it to be, so we can match it against other findings.¡± ¡°What are you talking about?¡± The Sheriff looked at Killjoy with a stern glance, holding his stare for what felt like an eternity. Like how a copper would look at a delinquent who claimed they were innocent. ¡°Y¡¯know, it was damn difficult securing that mountain you were in. After all, it was the heart, the epicentre,¡± Jeremiah explained, waving his hands for exposition. ¡°But eventually, them Wendigos were only interested in the bigger cities, with¡­more prey. So the military had secured the area not long ago.¡± ¡°Uh-huh,¡± the Bounty Hunter said, unconvinced. ¡°But why? There¡¯s not much else left there, and I already told you everything you needed to know.¡± ¡°Just to stake out a few details. And the detectives over there came up with a new conclusion of what exactly happened.¡± Killjoy turned his head to stare back at Jeremiah from his seat. Fidgeting with his flask, cold metal on the cold metal of his prosthetic fingertips, he took another gulp of whiskey, glancing off elsewhere. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you mean,¡± He commented. ¡°How exactly did you survive, Joy?¡± Jeremiah took a step closer. ¡° The dynamite didn¡¯t work, so you couldn¡¯t blow yourself up. And it turns out that Wendigos aren¡¯t exactly interested in food that is covered in the guts and blood of their own.¡± ¡°That is exactly what happened,¡± Killjoy refuted, a frown growing on his face. ¡°So what?¡± ¡°The dynamite worked,¡± Jeremiah said loudly. ¡°They found the setup of explosives you talked about¡­they extracted it and, well, tested it.¡± ¡°...And?¡± scoffed Killjoy, ¡°I may have got a few details wrong, but I was a dead man walking. I lost so much blood, I¡¯d look like a ghoul myself; cut me some slack.¡± ¡°...They found a string of rope, Joy, attached to a box of dynamite. It had a wick on it, and the end was charred black. Ring any bells?¡± The bounty hunter hammered the flask down, creating a loud, dense thud. ¡°No, it doesn¡¯t,¡± He denied lowly. ¡°I-I lit it, I¡¯m sure of it, and one way or the other, it didn¡¯t blow up. Whether the dynamite malfunctioned, or the wick was¡ª ¡°Snuffed out?¡± Jeremiah finished for him. ¡°Cos¡¯ that¡¯s what they said, it was snuffed out. Just a few inches off too¡ª¡± ¡°What do you want me to say, Jeremiah?¡± Killjoy interjected. ¡°I just missaw a few details.¡± Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. ¡°Must have been pretty bad to miss that.¡± ¡°Yeah. I was half dead, after all.¡± The Sheriff sighed, letting his elbow rest against the wood, his knuckles holding his head up. ¡°Joy, I¡¯m sorry. It¡¯s just¡­your story just doesn¡¯t match.¡± ¡°And if it doesn¡¯t? What are you trying to say?¡± Jeremiah raised his hands defensively.¡°I¡¯m not trying to say or mean anything, Joy.¡± Killjoy¡¯s lips contorted to a scowl. ¡°Forget this, Jeremiah; I appreciate the time, but I have to go. I¡¯m quite busy.¡± He slammed his hands on the edge of the desk. ¡°There¡¯s a Wendigo infestation in Dallas and it ain¡¯t getting better. So, I¡¯ll see you later.¡± He tried to leave no room for discussion, quickly standing up from his seat so that the wood creaked. But the moment he rose, Killjoy heard the faintest shuffle behind him. He stopped dead in his tracks. It was an all too familiar sound that was drilled into Killjoy¡¯s head from young; the rummaging of dense leather, then a metallic clack. Whenever he was on the job, if he had heard of even a hint of an enemy drawing their gun, he¡¯d have left several holes in them already, double time. But this was from a friend. Killjoy¡¯s hand fluttered towards his holster. The bounty hunter turned with haste, his fingers gripping the steel handle in a rush to release it. A bang rolled out from Jeremiah¡¯s pistol, beating him to the chase. The force of the round struck his stomach, reeling Killjoy back, a loud groan skirting out of him. His back crashed against the desk, his pistol falling out of his hand. Killjoy leered at Jeremiah, his gaze wide, clenching his teeth. Red began to seep against his shirt. Jeremiah returned his stare with an equal amount of intensity. Smoke leaked out of the sizzling barrel of his pistol. He waved it away, training the gun at the injured bounty hunter in front of him. The murderer. The cause of this all. ¡°Y¡¯know, it¡¯s quite ironic,¡± the Sheriff remarked with a dry chuckle, ¡°You say that you¡¯re busy fighting them Wendigos¡­even though you¡¯re the one who released them in the first place.¡± Jeremiah then stepped further, his strained grin falling. ¡°Which makes it even more confusing as to why you did.¡± Killjoy coughed, trying to get the words out of himself. ¡°I¡­I did no such thing¡ª¡± ¡°Bullshit, you didn¡¯t! Don¡¯t lie to me, Joy; I know you did. The evidence is there. Don¡¯t even try to play dumb.¡± The bounty hunter sighed, looking up at the ceiling and then back to Jeremiah. The once snarky retorts that used to come out of his mouth came no longer, only silence being his words. ¡°I just wanna know why you did it, why you didn¡¯t finish the job. Surely it wasn¡¯t just to survive, right?¡± Jeremiah smashed his pistol against his head in frustration. ¡°In this line of work, we don¡¯t give a fuck about our lives. And you came back to that cave, when you coulda¡¯ walked away! To your family! You set up that dynamite and fought them off! You lost a fucking arm, an eye. And at the last possible second, then you blink?¡± Killjoy failed to utter a word in response. Jeremiah shot the wooden ceiling, a loud crack ringing out. Debris fell into the air, dust settling on the ground. ¡°Say something!¡± He said. The hunter looked up, finally looking back at Jeremiah. If there was any sorrow in his eyes, the Sheriff would have known. But it was still, soft, like that of a man accepting what he has done. ¡°I won¡¯t lie, Jeremiah, I¡­I enjoyed it,¡± Killjoy confessed. ¡°...Not the aftermath of what happened, but¡­but the fighting. Not fighting to put the other down, but fighting for my life. A real struggle for survival. It was¡­horrifying. Literally, at any single one of those moments, I could have died. Not even close, mind you; it was a bloodbath for me.¡± He continued his tirade. ¡°That adrenaline, that rush in my blood, all just to put one foot over the other¡ªto get away from them¡ªit was unlike anything I¡¯ve felt in years. Or even in my life. How many times were you chased by the supernatural in your time, something as real and brutal as that Wendigo was, hm? Not many, probably. And I faced a hundred of them.¡± ¡°What are you getting at, Joy? Huh?¡± Jeremiah said, exasperated. He wanted a real answer, not a half-tangent. ¡°You saying you¡¯re some sort of masochist, is that it?¡± ¡°...I suppose so¡­it all just got so¡­numb. Y¡¯know, in all my twenty years of doing this, I didn¡¯t have much else to fall back on.¡± ¡°...You had your family,¡± Jeremiah said, a hitch in his voice. ¡°What good would that do?¡± Killjoy retorted, almost scoffing. ¡°You think after years of putting up with my shit, Adeline deserves that after so long? That the only reason I would have come back to her, our kid, wasn¡¯t because I missed them or I was prepared to take it seriously; no. Not at all.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Because I had nothing else to do. That I got so bored of this work that now I¡¯ll settle down? She doesn¡¯t deserve that. I did it for me.¡± ¡°For you?¡± Jeremiah snarled, stomping towards Killjoy. He got into his face, pressing the warm barrel of his gun under his jaw. ¡°I bet you weren¡¯t thinking that when you were at the end of the line, ready to let the dynamite bring them all to kingdom come and with you in it! Why didn¡¯t you finish the job?¡± ¡° Because I wanted to keep fighting!¡± Killjoy yelled back. ¡°You know, I haven¡¯t had an injury, or any graze in the ten fucking years? It was dull. Now I¡¯m a limb short and I can only see out of my right eye. And do you know what the one thing I have been only thinking about since then? Not the fact I can¡¯t see, not that I have a metal arm¡­But the adrenaline¡­the rush!¡± ¡°Shut the fuck up!¡± Jeremiah berated. ¡°Is that it? You let them live, you didn¡¯t let yourself die, because you wanted to keep fighting? Just to fight?¡± The hunter let his head hang low. He couldn¡¯t believe it. ¡°...T-thousands died because of the Wendigos¡­¡± ¡°It¡¯s something I have to live with,¡± The hunter said. Jeremiah shot Killjoy in the chest, squeezing the trigger the moment those words came out. The bastard rocked against the desk, wheezing in pain. ¡°I have to live without my fucking daughter because of you!¡± Killjoy wheezed. ¡°Ugh¡­c-calm down¡ª¡± Before he could cough out his words, not even a whisper, the Sheriff fired another round. The first struck his leg, and then another to his shoulder. Blood splattered from Killjoy¡¯s wounds. ¡°I-Is Kiera a fucking joke¡­? I¡­I lost her mother once; that, I had to get through, for her¡­But now there is no one I have to protect.¡± Jeremiah took another step, eyeing down Killjoy as he bled out all over the wood. Faint wheezes escaped him, desperately trying to pump air into his lungs. He scowled. Staring intensely at the broken man before him, the Sheriff could not believe this was the same person he had respected and worked with for the better part of his career. ¡°I only hesitated to kill you because I thought you at least had a family to come back to, Joy¡­But now?¡± Jeremiah scoffed. ¡°You don¡¯t have anyone, but yourself.¡± ¡°...You¡­You can¡¯t kill me¡­¡± Killjoy said dryly, shaking his head. ¡°The government needs me¡­they need me for the Wendigos¡­I¡¯m the best chance you¡¯ve got¡­¡± ¡°I don¡¯t care.¡± Jeremiah blasted another round into his sternum. Killjoy reeled back in pain. ¡°Agh, fuck!¡± He yelled, holding onto his chest as the blood soaked his fingers. He rasped, croaking forward as he deigned a stare at his former friend. ¡°...You¡¯ve made me Swiss cheese¡­¡± Killjoy said lowly, an attempt at humour. It fell on deaf ears. ¡°Say you regret it,¡± the Sheriff merely demanded. ¡°Say you regret doing this to her. To the thousands you¡¯ve doomed for your fucking pride.¡± Killjoy kept his gaze; no quiver in his lips, a rise of his brows, or even as much as a sniffle. Even in the face of death, he held still. Even for all he¡¯s done, he could not bring himself to lie to a friend. ¡°...I-I¡­¡± Killjoy stammered on his words for the first time in god knows how long. ¡°I¡¯m¡­sorry¡ª¡± Another bullet escaped the barrel of his revolver. Not to torture him any longer, it struck its target. He fell back on the table, with all but a mundane thud. Jeremiah stared at his body. For a near indestructible man, it was surreal to see him draw his last breath, and utter his last word. The only question that beckoned in the Sheriff¡¯s mind was where did it all go wrong? ¡°I hope you¡¯re satisfied,¡± Jeremiah said.