Part One-Kidnapped

Samuel Wilkins

West Virginia, 1874

Samuel Wilkins walked from the fields, stepped into the small house, and saw the blood on the table, pooling onto the floor, streaks and handprints on the walls and wooden planks. He stood in the room, the soles of his boots mud-caked, heavy, sodden things. At first, he could not understand it, could not connect what used to be to what was. Like all other nights, he left the field late and walked the quarter mile to the house. It was not like all other nights, and his eyes could barely take in the horror. He gagged, bowels tightening, the unnatural smell that so permeated the small room, forced stomach bile into his mouth. He covered his nose with his arm and ran back out the door.

The stable was dark, and he could not hear the stallion. He called out to him, but the stable doors were unlatched, swinging, the rusted hinges grinding, binding against themselves, resisting the late October breeze. He called again. Again, that smell. He put his arm across his nose and moved cautiously toward the back of the stable, straw sticking to the mud on his boots. The back of the barn was a deep black shadow on shadow. He did not go forward but crouched to the floor. He moved slowly, intentionally, hands out to guide him in the darkness. He could feel the dampness of the straw. He moved to the large open barn door, the wind sweeping the stench from his nostrils. He moved to the tack room, leather soles tapping on the raised wooden floorboards. He reached across the tack box to the Henry rifle, the cold of the steel meeting the inside of his hand as his fingers curled around the stock. He lowered the barrel so that it was perpendicular to his thigh and continued, crab-like, to the front of the barn.

He watched the house for some time, the shadows from the large moon, the swinging front door, broken windows, toppled chairs on the porch. His mind was gathering information, connecting dots that had not been connected. With no horse, he would have to make it to the Johnson’s house on foot, ten miles or so. He looked at the house again. His right leg was going numb, so he shifted his weight and watched the woods beyond the house. He shook his head. Too dark to make any decisions. He eyed the woods just beyond the barn and the small corral. A shadow moved, shifted, pulled back into the darkness. He pushed himself against the wood siding and lifted the Henry rifle to his chest with both hands, thumb pulling back on the hammer. Slowly, he edged his way forward. The shadow appeared and was gone, but this time a shuffle, a snap of twig, the creaking branches swaying in the wind. He raised the rifle, barrel out, finger on the trigger. At the corner of the barn, he was accosted by that smell. His throat tightened, and with great effort he swallowed the gathering saliva in his mouth.

“Lil John,” he said. His voice a whisper. “Lil John.”

He raised himself up and shifted the Henry rifle to his left hand and with his right he reached around the corner and pulled the horse’s head toward him. He was bridled, and the metal rings jingled as he pulled. The horse snorted and reluctantly stepped toward the familiar man.

“Okay, boy,” Wilkins said. He looked into the horse’s eyes, dark orbs. The horse snorted and jerked. “Easy, boy. That’s it. Easy now.”

Soon the horse was standing next to the barn door. Wilkins hurried into the tack room and grabbed the blanket and saddle. He pulled tight on the girth strap until Lil John breathed in, quickly buckled, and mounted him.

“C’mon, boy,” Wilkins said and clicked his tongue several times.

He jabbed his heel into Lil John’s sides, until the rushing wind nearly blew his hat from his head. He had not felt such fear since the war, a horrible coldness, unrelenting, an animal fear. As he rode toward the Johnson’s house, he wept, for he was once again alone in the world.

Hunter

Colonel Hunter stooped to the damp forest floor, knees jutting out, hand on the ground. His body twitched with rage, an electrical impulse of hate. He would exterminate them all, everyone, for what they did…to him…to them all. He clenched his hand into a fist then relaxed it. He was in his element, high in the Kanawha Ridge. His breath a smoky apparition, slow even, heartbeat a subtle rhythm. He placed several fingers into the print, moved a leaf that had settled only hours before and looked into the coming dusk. The trees swayed, creaked with the October wind. He could smell it, a stale odor on the damp breeze. And yet, he still had miles to go. The wood was thick, and the path uncertain. Night would come fast, and with it an increased danger. He spit and was off, a silent, ominous creature.

When he came across the heads, it had grown quite dark. He nearly stepped on them, the small bundles of matted hair and elongated ears. And sure enough, a few paces beyond, the distended and stiff carcasses. As he examined the fur, he could see the bloody fingerprints around the torso of the rabbit. One by one he picked them up, examining their decapitated bodies. He set the last one down and rubbed his thumb and finger together, sniffing it, looked up again into the darkness, eyes wide, pupils dilated absorbing whatever light remained. He was always surprised at this, how well he could see, how much he belonged in his enemy’s world. He scooped the soft blood and dirt into his hands. He rubbed his palms together, closed his eyes, and swept the mixture over his forehead, cheeks, around his neck. His eyes blinked open to a distant crack of twig, and his enormous Bowie knife became an extension of his arm. He moved swiftly, breath constant, heart rate low, even though every muscle in his body strained and pulsed with the onslaught of adrenaline. His senses exploded, every sound, all movement, the acrid taste of the saliva in his mouth. He saw the shadow huddled near the tree, back exposed and vulnerable. He stopped, a moment of caution, and then the fury released.

~ * ~

Reginald McKindrick woke late in the evening to a light outside his tent. He was nervous about the rendezvous. He had never been this far into the West Virginia wilderness before, and if he was quite honest with himself, he was spooked. Leonard was late, and it was not like him to be late. It was Leonard’s idea to head west. New England had changed since the war. Hell, the whole nation had changed since then. There was no room in the cities anymore. A strangeness about it all. Others of their kind stayed and were dying. Leonard spoke of the west, the unsettled territories, the movement out, openness with less distraction. “You had to count the cost,” Leonard would always say. And now Leonard was late. Leonard was never late.

Reginald McKindrick moved toward the opening of his tent, the light flickering. He untied the cloth ties and pushed the flap open. Leonard had made a fire. That was odd. He stepped through the small opening and crawled out onto the damp earth.

“Damn you, Leonard. Why the hell did you make this fire? You know how I hate…”

But it wasn’t Leonard who made the fire. Leonard was looking at him alright, those empty sockets gaping like small round mouths, the sagging chin. In seconds, he saw the clean line from the swift and sweeping blade, Leonard’s head, squashed on the rough-hewn stake.

“Shit,” he said, but it was too late.

He felt the percussion of the blow against his chest before he heard the gunshot. His body snapped back, and he fell onto the tent, the canvas collapsing around him. The pain was severe, but it soon passed. He closed his eyes, blinked them open and sat up. His luck had just run out.

“Go to hell, Hunter,” he wheezed, as his assailant throttled him. “Go to hell.” His throat clicked and gasped for breath.

Colonel Hunter grabbed his hair and pulled it tight, nearly pulling the flesh away from the scalp. “You running, Reginald? You think I forgot about Andersonville?”

Reginald struggled to get free, mouth open, neck lunging toward anything near him. Colonel Hunter pulled the head back with ruthless pleasure, securing it to the ground. He leaned into Reginald’s ear. “Blood for blood.”