Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Banditos ❯ The New Work-Out Plan ( Chapter 15 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Extreme AU, OOC, non-historic West, violence...supernatural themes, violence...Just be prepared for the amount of violence and utter chaos.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
Based somewhat on that thrilling vid-game, Darkwatch. Heh. My inspiration for something gory and dark.

Ebon4Shiv: (innocent expression) Whomever are you talking about? Which boys? Which connection? (Grin)

I’m Alive: Yup, I think Junior got some of what he deserves. But let’s just see how he continues to handle being on the other side of the domination scheme. Maybe he’ll actually change...? As for Ebon...well...this story isn’t halfway done, yet (wince). Plenty more to go–more confusion and explaining to go. Hope that’s comforting and helpful (happy smile).





Chapter Fifteen:
The New Work-Out Plan




The voice that commanded him to wake up made him jolt. As he did so, everything sang with pain. His ribs gave him the most trouble.

Blinking terribly heavy eyes, Junior focused first on Randy, then on Adam. His head pounded with a continuous throb that was only enhanced by the bright white of snow around him. He lifted an arm to cover his eyes, groaning, but that arm was wrapped in a sling, and pulled terribly. More pain raced up his limb, making him growl as he strove to rein in the sudden rise of nausea.

Both men were throwing some blankets over him–making him realize that he was on a travois of some sort. He looked around with some surprise, wondering where they had found two pieces of wood long enough to accommodate his six foot form, and how they’d managed to tie a strong piece of buffalo hide to the two pieces to hold his weight. His body had been wrapped with stale smelling blankets that reeked of male, and he wrinkled his nose at the sour smell. Among these were the furry warm pelts of various animals, but they were a welcoming warmth.

His body felt burned in various areas, mostly in those exposed to the elements. His nose burned, his ears feeling oddly numb. He wanted to move, touch and examine himself, but his arms were tied close to his body. That sling held his hurt arm more firmly than necessary, he thought.

He could face the white landscape at an angle from the ground, two horses shifting slightly with the added weight that they were going to pull. His tongue pushed at his two front teeth, wiggling them–groaning as one came away. Hastily, with his other hand, he pushed it back into his gum, hoping that it would reattach, the way Jerry’s did that one time when–

He immediately sat up, and hated that mistake, too. His ribs immediately protested action, making him cry out and growl with impatient regard.

“Chill out, man,” Adam said gruffly, shooting him a venomous look. Randy made sure that Junior was strapped in securely, then signaled that his end was done.

Adam straightened, giving Junior a fairly fed-up expression. “We’re taking you to the nearest town. Ya’ll don’t have any idea where the kid might be?”

Junior felt the world fall away from him, staring at him bleakly. The two men waited, and he didn’t want to think that he was alone–he took in the snow, realizing that it had been some time since Paul and the others had found them. He glanced from side to side, watching Virgil approach him, pulling on a long jacket, giving him the same expression Adam had.

Junior realized that he was alone–his plans fell away. He stared out at the snow, wondering just how long he was out–what happened to his companion.

“No,” he croaked. “He weren’t with me?”

“No,” Randy replied while the other two looked completely dejected. “We almost never seen you. Ran right over you. What happened?”

Junior thought of how the group of men had surrounded them; he felt wholly responsible for whatever fate Richie had come to. He didn’t even know his name.

“Maybe they took ‘im,” he suggested, throat thick and heavy. He coughed into his shoulder, clearing out the sickness in his chest. “Those men. They prolly felt sorry for him. They prolly took ‘im!”

“Who?” Virgil asked, his tone full of venom.

“He all by himself–! He didn’t even look good, man!”

“Kid didn’t even have shoes,” Virgil then added, grumbling.

Oh, they were a sheltered bunch, Junior thought. So much anger for one missing kid...

“Buncha guys...” Junior trailed off sullenly. He looked away from them, glaring at the snow. The others looked at each other, then shifted. Someone’s horse whinnied, and Junior realized how utterly still and silent it was around here. It was as if nothing wanted to move.

He had many questions and concerns, but he felt he couldn’t talk at this moment. Upon realizing that he was basically alone, that he’d never find his father or show up that old man’s plans with some of his own, Junior realized that life was bleak. He didn’t look at any of them as they asked more questions, persisting–wanting to find the kid.

Once Virgil realized that Junior wasn’t going to talk anymore, Adam sighed heavily. He tugged at his coat. “Let’s get going, guys,” he said with heavy reluctance. “Sooner we can drop this one off with someone, sooner we can get back to our lives...”

They mounted their horses, Virgil scanning the horizon once more. Could they have missed him, somewhere? Maybe he was buried under snow, or–what if he were still alive, and had only wandered away for a little bit?

While reluctant to leave, Virgil agreed with Adam. Virgil hadn’t been impressed with Junior’s character–especially now. To him, Junior was just another pathetic thug that worried only about himself–frankly, people of Junior’s nature utterly exasperated and encouraged Virgil’s ire. He threw an annoyed glare back at the beaten man, not really caring whether or not Junior was comfortable. As far as he knew it, Junior deserved those wounds.

Nearly a day and a half later, they had reached a very small settlement. There were people already there, and while Randy quietly explained that it was a train depot, not really succeeding in any other manner, they were being approached by men carrying torches and weapons. Junior sat up slightly to look around himself as they were surrounded.

There was an aura of desperation and desolation in these people. The town reeked of waste and sickness. It was a collection of stained tents and listless shanties–the train depot station had been ransacked for its lumbar, and the rail line had been raided for its ties. Most of the men facing them were thin, gaunt–their eyes were rounded with scheming examination, and made him feel uncomfortable. They were animals, really, and Junior felt that sickening sense of helplessness and vulnerability again. He hated those feelings.

Recognizing none of these men, he laid back down and listened to the others talk, his fingers clutching inward, anxiety racing through him.

The jolt of the horses stopping made his head pull forward.

Virgil had a bad feeling about the town, and was eyeing the weapons carefully as Randy chose to speak, first. He was seeing everything Junior was, and despite himself, he felt the need to leave. He reached back to rest his hand on his saddle bags, of his supplies that was tied securely to his horse. He noted many interested eyes taking in his horse, and heard Sparky snort with apprenhension. He could feel the gelding’s anxiety match that of his own. He pulled forward to rub the Arabian’s neck with some comfort.

“Lookin’ for a doctor,” Randy said, facing the single man that approached them on foot. “Got us a hurt man, here.”

The silence was thick as many pairs of eyes studied the four men, and even Junior grew apprehensive as he frowned at the men glaring down at him.

The man on foot took his time before answering, sweeping his torch from side to side to look closely at their horses, their meager supplies. Sparky was considered for examination, men murmuring as a couple ventured forward. Virgil pulled his horse in closer to the others, hoping he wouldn’t have to use his guns.

Venomous looks were thrown at both Virgil and Adam. “We don’t serve their kind around here,” he muttered.

Virgil threw up his hands in exasperation, and stilled when the locks of many guns shattered the silence. Holding his hands up in surrender, he kept himself quiet as Adam hissed at him to keep still.

Randy sighed, obviously weary by the journey–by this practice. He gave the man an even look. “We’re bein’ attacked by demons and zombies, and ya’ll are still uppity about black men? What th’ hell’s wrong wit’ you people?”

The man spat angrily, eyes narrowing. He stepped away from their horses, slashing his torch through the air. “Think you better leave, mister. We’re a peaceful people–don’t want no trouble.”

“What about this guy?” Virgil asked, gesturing back at Junior. Junior, staring at the men, didn’t want to be left with them.

“I don’t wanna stay,” he announced, shifting in the travois. “They look fucked up.”

People looked offended at this, and the man gestured at them to get moving.

“He needs medical attention–!” Virgil insisted, ignoring Junior’s words.

“I’ll live! I don’t wanna stay here!”

Virgil shot Junior an annoyed look, but followed as Randy and Adam began to prod their horses forward. The men began shuffling into their path, and horses were reined in. Junior sat up slightly, looking back at them.

Adam could sense a feeling of impending doom as hungry eyes took in their horses, their supplies. While the first had wanted them to leave, these men didn’t want them too. He doubted it was because they wanted to invite the four for dinner...

“we’re just gonna go on our way,” Adam said carefully, feeling incredibly tense as guns were turned their way, flame finding steel.

“Leave them supplies, mister. Real neat an’ quick,” one of the men instructed. “Got us children to feed.”

“We’ve got none,” Virgil said quickly. “We hunt every day. Small game!”

“Quit yer lyin’! Give us your supplies!”

“I want that horse,” another said, reaching for Sparky’s reins. Virgil pulled back on the reins, frowning as the group started crowding them.

Seeing this, Junior muttered to himself, sliding off the travois quickly. He hit the snow covered dirt with a pained grunt. Virgil turned to see what he was doing, and somebody grabbed Sparky’s bit, shifting quickly to grab his reins.

“Shit!” he cursed, Sparky rearing as more people crowded upon them, trying to reach for their supplies.

Adam and Randy quickly untied the travois, and Junior hurriedly crawled up behind Randy, with strength that came from somewhere within. Adam used his horse to push people out of the way, hitting it quickly for safety. Virgil followed, withdrawing his twin Colts, and that’s when shots began to fire. He felt the heated warmth of a bullet whiz by his ear, and began firing randomly throughout the crowd–hoping that he didn’t hit anybody. Soon, the Arabian was tearing through the darkness, charging after the other two.

Adam was grumbling low to himself, their horses slowly walking along the flat road. The clouds above had parted to allow the moon’s light to shine down, millions of stars twinkling brightly above them. Randy winced, struggling to keep upright as Junior was passed out against his back, clinging determinedly to his gunbelt.

“Man, that was fucked up!” Virgil declared, his voice shattering the silence. “You’da think, that wit’ all this shit goin’ down? That racism would be the furthest thing from their minds!”

“This place hates Injuns, Mexicans, blacks,” Randy supplied. “They got them signs up everywhere. No Dogs Allowed.”

“Yeah, but...”

“Ain’t nobody change that much. ‘Specially with this shit. I mean, they was all crazed, anyway.”

Virgil scoffed, shaking his head. He stared up at the revealed sky, shivering. “Just wish I knew where Sharon was, man. Just keep wonderin’ if she’s out there...I don’t wanna think that she’s one of them things. I’d rather that she’s all normal.”

Adam agreed with a low murmur. Virgil looked over at him, sadly looking over his friend.

“She all right, man,” he then said softly. “Ya know that gal. She, like, don’t take nothin’ lightly. More steadfast than...than anythin’ I know.”

“Yeah...just...sometimes, I get down about it. Honestly. Cuz...I dunno. Look at us. We struggling. She’s the only one unaccounted, for. Don’t know where she was, don’t know where she goin’.”

Virgil sighed, thinking of the day Hotstreak had to kill Robert. He thought of the man walking up the road from the timber mill, frowning. “Unless she all went with pops to the mill, that day. I...I wonder if he had to do her in, then got bit–”

“Don’t think that way, man! Just...just don’t.”

All three lapsed into silence. Their horses negotiated the cold trail with the loud clomping of their hooves, snorting as various night animals sounded their existence around them.

Virgil sneaked a glance over at Junior, then whispered, “What we gonna do wit’ him?”

“Shoulda just left ‘im,” Adam muttered sullenly.

“I don’t trust him. I don’t like him.”

“Thinkin’ no one does.”

Virgil mulled over the problem for a few moments, then shrugged. “We’ll just find another town. Drop him off, there. Let him fend for himself. We can’t take care’a him.”

“Somebody whupped him good...”

“Bastard deserved it, anyway. See how he likes bein’ beat all the damn time. Drove me crazy when he was yellin’ an’ hittin’ on that kid.” Virgil’s lips tightened. “Bet he’s dead, an’ the bastard just lied about it. He prolly ate him.”

Adam snorted, then shot him a look. “Doubt it. No Alva wants ta dirty their hands.”

“Do people eat people?”

“I heard o’ that,” Randy supplied. He winced, shifting as he struggled to keep Junior from smushing him. The man kept snoring away, dead weight against his back.

“It’d be gross. But I don’t care fo’ this one. Soon’s we find a town, we’re droppin’ him.”

“Right on.”

“We heading up to French territory, Randy?” Virgil asked curiously.

“Bout...maybe three weeks’ ride from the nearest.”

“You live up here?”

Randy told him briefly of his past.

Still pretending to sleep, Junior sullenly hated how guilty he himself felt for being inadequate.

010101010110

He didn’t remember falling, nor falling asleep. But there was excruciating pain flashing up and down his limbs, and his skin felt like it was on fire. Through the thick haze that felt warm and peaceful, he heard the faint mumble of sounds that coaxed him from that warm haven that he felt reluctant to leave. Things started to come alive, again–though he didn’t remember ever dying, or even coming to this point. He had a vague remembrance of looking around himself while he was walking, and seeing bleak white everywhere he looked. He faintly remembered leaving Junior–then nothing more.

The pain made him jolt, pulling further away from the heaviness that grew steadily cold and torturous. It was as if his skin were being burned–sharp tingles of flame seem to lick up his arms and legs, and even sweep across his face and ears. It flayed at the surface, and seemed to jolt every cell.

He wanted to pull away from that pain, but he couldn’t even get himself to move at his own prompting. The pain was something he hadn’t felt, before, and was quite agonized. Was he burning alive? How? When...?

He registered fingers in his hair, a brief shake. Then words that were blurred and unrecognizable. He had no idea what they were saying; he tried to focus on the sounds, realizing that his ears must not be working, because no matter how focused he was, the words just didn’t clear with him.

Until he realized that it was another language.

He inhaled deeply, wanting to awaken and refocus–wanting to know what was going on. But Richie’s body continued to disobey him, and he could only listen to rapid, alien words and endure that pain.

Unexpectedly, though, he awoke–the pain wasn’t as bad, through, and he was fully aware of the warmth. He blinked open heavy eyelids, frowning at the dull light cast around him. It was a hazy sort of glow, dulled by orange and brownish shadows. He could hear the soft sounds of movement all around him, and realized that he was covered in fur–the smell of the animal’s pelts on him made him sneeze, registering the heavy, painful feeling in his chest.

The pelts were lifted away from him, and he was treated to a full, round face–small eyes, harsh hook nose, stern chin, thin lips; the woman’s braids almost smacked him as she bent over him, saying something he didn’t understand.

Realizing that the woman was Indian, that he was in a tent, made him incredibly tense; all the horror stories hit him, and even as he panicked over being scalped, tortured, burnt–common sense asked him why they would bother with warming him in the first place.

Two more faces bent over him–one was that of a younger woman’s, scornful; the other was that of a cheerful, delighted woman, giggling as she said something that made the other women laugh uproariously, straightening from him. Their laughter filled the tent, amplified by their surroundings, prompting questions from the outside.

Richie thought they were delighted by his future torture; he cringed, wanting to hide, but every muscle in his body told him they were very sore. The third woman stopped laughing, wiping her almond shaped eyes, which were nearly hidden by the high, round fullness of her strong cheekbones. None of the women were beautiful–their bone structure was too harsh, too proud. If it weren’t for their musical voices and from the way they were dressed, Richie would have thought they were men dressed as women.

She bent over him, pulling the pelts back up and over his shoulders, tucking them tenderly around him while saying something teasing and tender–sending the other women into more gales of laughter. He winced.

Then they left the tent, replaced by males that were dressed in warm buffalo hides, their long braids covered with a light layer of snow. The pelts were ripped from Richie, and he cringed at the severity of their stoic expressions, the fearsome look in their black eyes. One was especially menacing–there was a wicked scar across his hawkbeak nose, and part of his right ear was missing. The others were just as menacing with their stern stances, their quiet mannerisms.

Richie didn’t know what was going to happen–maybe they were going to skin him right there, sacrifice him to some God that they followed earnestly. He heard the stories–he read the history. He just knew they were going to take their revenge on them.

Then, the flaps over the tent opening were flung open, that third woman and the first crawling in, saying something that made a couple of the men snort, forgetting they were supposed to be menacing. At the odd sounds they made, the men burst into laughter, including the scary looking one.

The third woman gestured at Richie continuously, laughing and talking–she had many of the men laughing once more, and this time they looked at him with curious delight and smirks; they looked at him as if they knew him, and were waiting to share a joke with him.

The first man snickered, reined in his cheerful expression, then cleared his throat as he crouched in front of Richie, scarred hands pulling the pelts up his waist. The woman crouched with him, and Richie realized that the pair of them were very similar in appearance–they had to be siblings.

“I speak English,” the man said, cheery grin in place. His teeth were white, a stark contrast to his tanned red skin. “No worries, man. How you feeling, eh?”

Richie was astounded that he was speaking to him; astounded that they were so cheerful in wanting to kill him. He shifted, realizing that he wasn’t wearing his clothes, but the heavy warmth of hide that was similar to theirs. The woman was examining his arms–the bitemarks from Angel, and his fingertips. He looked back at the man, uncertain of how to proceed. The woman murmured something, making him roll his eyes.

“This is my sister. Her name’s Spotted Deer. Mine is Kills-Many-White-People. You can just call me Kills, for short, okay? She all feeling jealous cuz you’re her competition.” He stressed the last word with joking mirth. As if it were a complicated word.

Richie was confused, catching the mock-resentful look she tossed him upon hearing her name in English. Then she laughed, swatting her older brother across the head. He looked pained.

“Anyway, we been find you in the middle of no where, man! You all alone?”

Richie pulled his hand back from Spotted Deer, who then began to examine his face, touching him so carefully and tenderly that he felt embarrassed by her attention.

“You got some frost bite, man. You ain’t got no shoes! Where your shoes, at? We been out this way, trackin’ some deer, an’ then my friend here,” Kills-Many-White-People gestured at a stout, barrel chested man that waved cheerfully from the back, “his name’s Running Elk, he been see you walkin’ along. Then you killed over. We thought you were dead. Where you from, man?”

It was astonishing how easily the man spoke to him, how suddenly and easily the mood had changed from earlier. Richie realized he wasn’t going to be killed–not with how friendly they were, how compassionate their expressions were. He was bewildered enough to answer automatically, “New York.”

The others immediately began mimicking his words, his accent–the woman said something sullen, and they burst into laughter, her included. The other woman added something that made them laugh again. Were Indians supposed to be this cheerful? This was a total difference from what Richie had learned and seen of the few he had seen since he’d arrived out here.

“Noo Yawk,” Kills-Many-White-People repeated, thoughtfully. Then he laughed. “It sounds like–! Never mind. Uh...so...you been walking long?”

Richie thought of Junior, wondering with desolation if it were even worth to go back for him. He didn’t even remember where he’d left the man–he figured Junior was dead, and decided to leave it at that. He shrugged, feeling the sharp, shooting pains of skin revitalized by warmth. He wondered how they managed to save his limbs from the bite of the cold, and wondered if he was missing patches of skin.

“Well, it’s kinda weird, yanno? I mean...what are you?”

If he said ten or thirteen...

“Fifteen? Sixteen?”

“Sixteen,” he said quickly, relieved that someone had come close to his age.

“Damn...”

Richie sullenly watched the men sigh or cheer, exchanging what looked to be bones and small animal spines amongst each other. Kills-Many-White-People handed over a single strand of beads from around his neck to the woman that smiled smugly at them all, taking some other pieces of treasures from the other. Spotted Deer laughed suddenly.

Kills-Many-White-People returned his attention to him. “I mean, most people just die walkin’ around that area. Especially without supplies, man. What are you, like, some kinda messenger?”

The first woman mentioned something, and everyone just stared at Richie with disbelieving expressions, looking entirely puzzled and stunned.

The woman burst out laughing, the others following suit and shouting loudly with negatives and comments. Richie sighed–it was good that they weren’t planning on killing him, but the constant laughter and mirth was getting to him.

Spotted Deer touched his shoulder, eyes scrunched with concern. “All by self?” she asked in a puzzled tone, in heavily stilted English. Her brother looked proud of her.

“No...I was with another, but...he might have died.” Richie quickly explained Junior’s run-in to Kills-Many-White-People, who listened intently, then relayed the story to the others in their language. Many of them shrugged and looked entirely nonchalant about the missing man–Kills-Many-White-People shrugged.

“Aw well, too bad for him, ennit? I mean, if he didn’t get to live, then–one less white man to worry about. Don’t worry, kid–we ain’t about to do you in. I mean, if you lived through that, and–oh, besides, we gotta keep ya safe and snug!” He shared a knowing expression with the others, who looked simply delighted as they shared conspiratorial smirks. He looked up at the first woman, gesturing at her. “This is Turtle Moon. She’ll take care of ya. Spotted Deer, Running Elk, Yellow Grass, Kicking Horse, and Punches-With-Many-Fists. Our elders wanna meet you, too, but Turtle says you ain’t well enough to go out in the cold, yet. She your new momma-bear, so I suggest you listen to her.”

Kills-Many-White-People leaned in with a low whisper, hiding his moving lips with his hand. “And, word of warning? You eat what she cooks. If you don’t...dude, it won’t be pretty.”

He flashed a charming grin at the woman, who smiled with some hesitation. The men began to file out from the tent, Spotted Deer sighing as she drew the pelts back over Richie, patting his shoulder.

Kills-Many-White-People rose, stretching out the kinks in his back.

“Relax, man,” he then said. “You with good people. We can’t let kids die, no matter their skin color. ‘Sides, I got a friend lookin’ for ya.”

Richie was puzzled, looking at him with a frown, wondering what he met. “Who?”

“Ah, just this guy I knew. He’s cool. He’ll find ya. I bet he’s all lookin’ for you, right at this moment.”

“I know him?”

“Um...I don’t know.” Kills-Many-White-People frowned. “She didn’t see that part of her dream. So...I dunno. Guess we wait an’ find out.”

“Then how do you know he’s looking for me?”

“Why do you ask so many questions, kid? Just accept it.”

“But–!”

“Sleep! Sleep...sleep...” Kills-Many-White-People waved his fingers and hands at him, as if willing him asleep. He then yelped as Turtle Moon slapped him across the head, ushering him out of the tent.

Richie relaxed against the pelts, utterly puzzled and confused by the entire situation. Turtle Moon looked at him, smiling gently as she pressed a stocky finger against her thin lips, gesturing that he go back to sleep.

Sighing, Richie pulled his hands up from the pelts, looking at his fingertips. His skin was withered and starting to blister–but the warmth of the hides he wore, the pelts, the fire burning nearby made him forget just how uncomfortable he had been out in the snow. Figuring he was going to trust them–for now–he rolled onto his side and went back to sleep.


010101010110

Nearly three weeks passed since a band of Lakotas found Richie, and Virgil and his friends found Junior. Hotstreak was still looking for Richie, Kangorr was still looking for Caine and ‘him’.Snow had slowed progress considerably, but it didn’t stop. The West was still under assault, and that assault was steadily moving Mid-West. Rail lines were permanently stopped, and settlements, towns were wiped off of known maps. As more and more people disappeared, questions were asked. Those moving in from the East were bewildered with what they found, but as communication dropped between this and that State and Territory, no one outside had any idea that humanity as they knew it was being taken over.

It was now the middle of Winter, Spring just a hope away. As more people fell to their deaths by demons and ghosts, Madelyn’s powers continued to grow.

The agonizing scream of the girl was loud.

The carriage was simple–but it was obviously thought out by the men that built it. Iron shaped its doors and sides, the wheels carved out of what looked to be rubber. The inside was brightly lit with candles in decorative glass vases, and the curtains that shielded the windows were a dark purple color, easily defined by the candlelight that lit the night.

The carriage was being pulled by atrocities–Mammoths, but creatures that were mawing in agony themselves. Their backs kept shifting, their tails slashed the air–they swayed within the confines of their chains and ropes, the carriage shifting with their movements as well. There were other creatures around the carriage–zombies that held their heads in agony, Hounds that rolled in the muddied dirt with barking screams, Ghouls shouting angry obscenities as they lashed out at anything closest to them with their man-screams and shouts.

Standing outside the carriage, just within reach, was a tall man and a small girl-child.

Madelyn screamed in agony, childish features screwed into intense torment. Caine stood nearby, calmly watching her writhe in the ground. The short fluctuating sounds echoed throughout the valley, shattering the silence violently.

The child’s mouth seemed to expand with unnatural movement. It revealed all her teeth and gums, grotesquely pulling her lips back with a cartoonish grimace. The whites of her eyes showed, lashes fluttering violently–skin stretching all around her jaw line to accommodate the action of her mouth. Her nose was hidden by the back curl of her upper lip, tongue spilling over her bottom teeth in unnatural action. Blood, dark and quick, dribbled over the exposure of teeth and gums, dribbling over the stretched skin of her chin. .

Madelyn suddenly rose, pin-straight, spine arching then straightening once more with violent force. Her upper torso snapped back and forth with animated fashion, arms stiffening at her sides. Black hair sliced through the air as her head snapped from side to side. Her scream was strangled–as if air was trying to force itself back into her lungs while an opposing force tried to force its way back out.

Her eyes began to bulge, lids pulling back as the orbs pushed from their sockets. Her screams stopped, a steady stream of suction pulling into her throat, tendons and veins pulsing against her skin. Previous dribbling of blood stopped its forceful flow, stilling for several moments before slowly pulling back into her mouth. Previous stretching skin began to slide back into place, but it sagged noticeably, lined with violent red marks around her mouth. Her eyes stopped bulging, but her lashes continued to flutter violently, the whites still visible.

The suction stopped, and her body stopped convulsing. Caine continued to stand calmly, watching her as the creatures around them shuffled, emitting low noises of their own torment. Madelyn’s arms loosened, shoulders pulling up and rounding back. Her knees started to buckle, her body losing control. Urine drizzled down her thin legs, excrement spilling loosely onto the dirt. It was as if she were held by her shoulder with invisible rope–her body was entirely loose.

There was a sharp cracking sound, followed by several popping noises. In the light spilling away from the carriage, Madelyn’s skin color fading abruptly–from light tan to stark white, veins suddenly bright blue. It also seemed to tighten, sculpting around her muscles, sucking against her limbs and body, as if vacuumed from the inside.

Her body began to shrink in that action, bones suddenly shifting–it was as if someone were inside her frame, rearranging her body from the inside. Her shoulders popped outward in unsynchronized action–one jutted outward while the other shifted away from her frame. Arms uneven, fingers spreading.

She was silent throughout the process, a terrifying difference from the screaming earlier. Her facial features were shifting–cheekbones jutting outward, jaw detaching with a sickening crack. Skin stretched with a slurping sound around her mouth as it stretched downward, nose shifting grotesquely. Nostrils stretched–one moved downward, skin slicing around the curves. The rest pulled away from the face, cartilage disconnecting with sickening snaps.

The area around her eyes blackened suddenly, swelling immensely until the lashes were barely visible. Her face contorted into ghastly action. Her arms lengthened, bones breaking as her knuckles hit the dirt. Skin stretched, red marks digging into the smooth texture. Her chest jut outward, followed quickly with her ribcage.

Bones noticeably shifted outward, snapping loudly. Movement pressed at her clothing from the inside–her arms shifting, disturbingly curling upward with abnormal length and movement. Fingers shot outward, disconnecting from her palms with sharp cracks, hanging limply from skin.

But they curled into her clothing, ripping off the material with astonishing ease. Her hipbones disconnected from her body, stretching outward, shifting with unsynchronized action. Her ribcage was separating, spreading outward with a snapping action, similar to that of a rubberband snapping. Skin stretched to accommodate this, but it was stretched so tightly that it appeared to be on the verge of breaking.

The small ribcage shifted upward with a sudden jolt, separated ribs pushing fiercely against her sides. These bones stretched outward, following the length of her arms so that she had four limbs hanging from her changing torso. They snapped back up, considerably shorter than her original arms. She suddenly shot up in height to accommodate the lengthening of her limbs.

Her face stretched outward, neck lengthening, bones shifting and adjusting. Soon, she was standing over six feet tall, bones snapping loudly with repetitive cracks. Her dark hair contrasted with the color of her skin.

Madelyn was, in no question, male. The evidence was obvious, changing along with her form. Male genitalia shifted and expanded into grotesque proportion until even with the length of her form.

When she was finally done changing, she was panting–a sort of airy sound that merged swiftly into that of a man’s deep bass.

“That hurt, father,” she panted. One of her short arms, handless, lifted so she could examine them. Her scowl was murderous. “I look like a freak.”

Caine snorted. “I recall saying the very same thing whilst you were wearin’ girly clothes, darlin’. My beautiful baby boy just grew up a few inches. How do you feel?”

“Give me my hands, father. And stop using that tone on me. It’s patronizing.”

Caine shrugged, bending slightly to retrieve a hollow book from inside the carriage. The creatures were still carrying on in their own agony–what he didn’t see was that they were changing, too. The Hounds grew heavy spikes, and their tails slimmed–their skin stretched tightly, and bones lengthened until they were sleek and armored like demons; their furred pelts fell away to reveal rocky scales and hardened plates of armor. They no longer resembled the clumsy creatures they were, before.

The Ghouls were more muscled–walking walls of power and strength, covered completely in shadow, but their eyes were more menacingly dots of color, their mouths visible in cartoonish white rows.

The Mammoths were now heavily armored things with spikes throughout their backs and haunches–tails flicked with points, a huge, rounded knob of something holding those points together.

Zombies remained zombies, but it appeared that their coherency and understanding had come back to them. They were speaking to each other in confounded tones–as if learning how to speak all over again. Carrying awkward conversation that was stilted–much more smarter than they were, before.

Madelyn stretched, her two normal arms stretching for the sky, the other two stretching out to the sides. She looked down at her transformed body, reaching with one abnormally long hand to grasp her new genitals. As Caine opened the hollow book, she stroked herself with all the casual regard of something to play with. Not really hitting arousal, but just to feel.

Caine held out the mummified hands, tsking. “Now, a lady ain’t a lady when they all playing with themselves that way, son! You want hair on your palms? You want people to think of you like a freak?”

Madelyn scowled at him, abnormally long face reflecting her discontent with his words. She snatched the hands from him, untying the faded rope. Carefully, she held the wrists of those hands against the stumps of her arms–muscle, skin and bone snapped, slithering and connecting with each other, hands coming to life.

Then, she was holding up four hands, examining her two new arms with impatient discontent.

“I look stupid,” she said sullenly, dropping her arms.

Caine pretended to sniff, wiping at his eyes. “You make me so dang proud! You all changed an’ shit...ready to take over the world.”

“Stop. Talking. That. Way,” Madelyn growled.

“Can’t I just be happy for my baby?”

“Old man...you...exasperate me.”

Caine grinned, pushing his hands into his pants pocket.

His plans were nearing completion with Madelyn’s transformation. No longer a ‘baby’ demon, she was rapidly reaching a serious threat with every death she absorbed as they made their way through the West. With every creature she produced from the powers of her mind, taking example from the book of the Underworld that Caine had, her powers grew much more stronger, transmitted further. She was able to hold her armies with less strain, concentrate more intensely–they just needed a few thousand more until she reached the next level of her transformation.

...If only she’d stop thinking she was a girl.

010101010110

Richie was jolted awake suddenly, flashes of alien things running through his mind. He jerked up from the pillow of animal pelts, seeing the race of demonic creatures flashing in his mind’s eye, planned out with a sort of orchestrating air. It was suddenly a knowledge instilled in him, that he knew how the Hounds worked; how the zombies communicated. Suddenly, he knew more about the animals than he thought he would.

It was strange and wondrous how he was given this unexpected knowledge. It felt as if he’d just left a classroom–overflowing with new and fantastic information that made him eager to share with others. But he’d only been sleeping–how could...?

He looked around himself, hearing the various snores of people around him. Since he’d arrived, he’d gotten to know more of them. Turtle Moon was rather menacing in appearance, but as sweet as honey; as commanding as a mother should be. Despite their language barrier, he realized that sign language was used more often than words. He was learning quickly, much to their relief. Since he was still sick, and Turtle Moon decided that venturing out into the cold temperatures so soon after coming out of it was a bad idea, he’d remained only inside the spacious tent. He was visited a few times by Kills-Many-White-People and his friends, as well as Spotted Deer, who had a very keen interest in him.

He was told by Kills-Many-White-People and Turtle Moon that the elders wanted to meet with him, and was apprehensive about that. He didn’t know why they would want to. He was sort of scared that they’d see him, and decide to want to kill him just because they feared the white man. Despite the kindness and caring of those that attended to him, there were most that were cold toward him. Of course, while he felt bad that the Indians were being slaughtered and forced to move out of lands that had been in their possession for years by settlers, he wasn’t part of that front.

Dammit, he’d just wanted to teach and educate!

And above it all, everyone had a joke that he just wasn’t getting. It was irritating when he hadn’t any idea of what it was they were so thrilled about.

While he was nursed from his various injuries–they were still new to gun wounds, and helped as best as they could, but really couldn’t do much–and illness, he stayed and learned what he could from those that visited.

From the urgency they spoke around him, it was apparent that they were getting ready to move. There was constant activity outside the tent, and whenever he was helped outside to relieve himself, he noticed that the flat area, filled with hundreds of Indians, animals and the constant smell of smoke, was slowly dwindling. People were packing up their belongings–loading down their ponies, oxen; even dogs. He was surprised to see dogs with packs of their own. He’d never seen that, before. He was also startled to realize that these animals went missing, and he had to question the contents of his stew, tasting odd things he’d never tasted, before.

But above all that, despite the constant threat of being a single white among them, he felt relaxed. At ease. Nobody wanted anything from him. They never threatened him with fists, with words–and though some shot him mean looks, they never advanced on him. It had been awhile since he could feel like he could relax, and he was starting to enjoy it.

He remained cautious–tense whenever their alien words grew agitated, and laughter was replaced with a pensive atmosphere.

But tonight...tonight he dreamed odd things and didn’t know what to make of them. He sat up in his bed, blinking as the now-familiar environment of animal and smoke bothered his eyes. His glasses were hanging nearby, next to Turtle Moon’s primitive jewelry. He hadn’t a need for them inside the tent. Turtle Moon was snoring loudly–it seemed to rattle the hide that kept them warm. Behind him were two young couples and a couple of men. No one had any qualms about body space, and had to throw off Punches-With-Many-Fist’s foot from his back, and uncomfortably give himself space away from another. One of the couples were busy doing their business underneath their blankets, giggling and moaning quietly in such a way that he blushed.

He was still sore–but considerably rested, feeling more healthy. He didn’t feel as shaky and weak as he had, before. Carefully, he stepped around the others, and froze when the man threw off his blanket to look at him with a question. He had to blush at the sight of their nakedness and position.

A question was asked, followed by impatient hand signals that were interrupted by the position. The woman giggled, trying to cover her breasts with her hair.

He gestured outside, trying not to look. The man grunted, and pulled the blankets back over, and both of them laughed.

He grabbed the buffalo hide that Turtle Moon used every time she went outside, and covered himself with it. Pushing through the hides that were laid over the cut-out of the tent, he stepped outside. The cold immediately sucked his breath away, and he hesitated for a moment, getting used to it. Everyone was asleep, save for those warriors milling about to watch over everyone while they slept–a couple of dogs hurried by, one looking for a quick scratch behind its ears before hurrying off.

He wandered away from the tent, the ground worn with constant activity by those living in the camp. He walked away from the closely populated area, and headed for the herd of horses that were milling around nearby–they scattered lightly as he approached, but most were calm and relaxed to let him touch them as he passed through. A couple of dogs investigated the movement, but relaxed, taking off for more interesting things as Richie walked away from the herd. He could see several warriors standing around a circle ahead, laughing and talking quietly. He recognized Kills-Many-White-People, and wanted to share what he’d dreamt. As he approached, they all looked suddenly guilty, one of them quickly hiding what looked to be a long pipe behind his back. This prompted more laughter.

“‘Ey, White Boy!” Kills-Many-White-People hollered, being shushed immediately by the others. They all began giggling like school children, and Richie frowned at the smell of alcohol. Kills-Many-White-People gestured at him to join them, then tossed an arm around his shoulders. He said something that made the others laugh, then quickly stifle the sounds. Then they went on to sharing the pipe–smelling suspiciously of something sweet, something Richie wasn’t familiar with–and sharing a small bottle of alcohol amongst each other.

“What you doin’, brother? Can’t sleep?” Kills-Many-White-People asked him. “Here, have some of this. This’ll grow hair on your chest.”

He laughed wildly, the others shushing him. Richie refused the pipe. “No, I–couldn’t sleep. Something was bothering me.”

The others began mimicking his words, stringing out the drawls of his accent, and he frowned at them. They laughed again.

Kills-Many-White-People then looked at him with curiosity. “Turtle’s cooking?”

Richie tried not to think of her stew. But his tongue seemed to sting in remembrance to the amount of flavoring that had left a rather bad taste in his mouth. “No. Just...odd things. Things that didn’t make sense to me.”

“You had a vision...” Kills-Many-White-People nodded in sudden understanding, signaling for the others to shush. He quickly relayed what Richie was telling them, and suddenly they were looking at him gravely, pipe and bottle forgotten. Richie was suddenly embarrassed at the attention. “Tell us, brother, what you have seen.”

Someone snickered and was immediately shushed. Kills-Many-White-People tried to stifle his mirthful expression, but it was obviously a losing battle. Richie was starting to get used to these moments, and gave him an annoyed look. “You’re going to make fun of me.”

“Not us. No. Seriously, we won’t. What you dream about?”

Richie caught the hand motion that a man was making, and gave him a disgusted look. They burst into laughter finally, losing that stoicism. “How can anybody take you people seriously?” he asked. “You’re all just–you’re just like drunken men in a crowded saloon!”

“Shush, shush, he’s getting mad at us,” Kills-Many-White-People said, waving at them to calm down. He sent a warning look at the man that made the hand motions. “You cut that out. Seriously. I question you, man. I’m thinkin’ there was more of that with ya an’ that cowboy back on the summer grounds.”

“Not uh!” the man cried, much to the ribbing of others.

Richie sighed as they began to make fun of the man with their alien language and hand signals, turning to walk back to the tent.

Kills-Many-White-People followed him, choking back some chuckles. He clapped a hand on Richie’s shoulder. “He’s coming, man. Don’t worry. He’ll be here.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about!”

“Most likely, he’ll be here by the time we pack up for summer grounds. The guys we have, the scouts? They saying all those monsters are heading further East. Away from our summer grounds. We’ll be safe, then. But I’m kinda thinkin’–we got us a lot more families, here. An’ I’m thinkin’ I won’t have to lug as much with you here.”

“I’m not your slave! Not anyone’s!”

“Now, see here–the way the elders see it, you’re property. We take you in, we fix you up–basically, kid, you are. But we ain’t about to get all mean about it,” Kills-Many-White-People added, Richie giving him a disbelieving expression. “I mean...yeah, you can stay wit’ us, and, like, grow up here. But see, the thing is–a majority of the elders don’t know you. They need to meet you. But you need to get over bein’ all sickly before they can.”

“I–”

“We know you’re a nice guy an’ all? But...what do we know ‘bout you? Huh? Nothin’. So, for now, after you get well, you’ll be used. Chores are plentiful ‘round here. Bringin’ in the water, taking down the tents, loading–all that. No one’ll be mean ‘bout it. It’s just how it goes. Old man Snapper Turtle, his daughter is a white girl–she was orphaned cuz our warriors invaded her village cuz of those rapes? Yeah. He took her in, now she all married and has kids. But she went through the same thing.”

Richie thought of the buffalo bladders he’d seen filled with water, being carried up the hill by teen girls and women. It didn’t look so bad...and he didn’t think that they’d use him for sex. No one looked at him that way. No one knew of his past in that manner. But the notion terrified him.

“‘Sides,” Kills-Many-White-People scoffed, slugging his shoulder companionably. “You ain’t stayin’ long. I’m just fuckin’ wit’ ya.”

Richie looked at him, confused. A dog barked at their arrival, then ran to greet them, nosing his hand for affection. Kills-Many-White-People booted the dog away, sending him yelping off into the night. “Why do you say stuff like that? All of you people know something I don’t, and you won’t tell me who this person is!”

“Let’s just say...it’s fate. And my sis’s dreams ALWAYS come true.”

“I don’t–!”

“She says it’s all good, anyway. But you’ll be better off with him, than wit’ us.” Kills-Many-White-People looked serious, for once. “You’re meant for other things. Not to be here. Part of a grander scheme. You wanna know why you survived? Old woman Kicking Woman saw it all. You see how different it is, here? Most of the women lead the band. You get all these stories of men leading, but those ones–they ask the women for permission. Women lead the council. Women know when to leave, when to stay. They the ones we look to for advice. So when a woman tells you what to do, you damn well lissen to them.”

“...Um, Turtle Moon–”

“THAT one you listen to, most. All those babes, full of babies? They go to her to have their kids named, and blessed. We have a few two-soul people here in this camp. And they all know your destiny, too. They know you ain’t gonna be here, long.”

“...what?”

Kills-Many-White-Peop le looked at him blankly. Richie waited for him to continue, confused. The older Indian looked around himself blinking curiously, then focused on him. Richie blinked, unsure of what to say, now.

“Who we talkin’ about?”

Richie sighed.

The man laughed, slapping him across the back. “Just fuckin’ with ya! Laugh, for once. Say somethin’. Joke about things! Yeah, shit’s tough, but be happy! Hey man, ‘least you won’t HAVE to skin and fix up hides, like Turtle’s planning on making you do. We initiate that to every foreigner we come across. It’s so funny to see them handle the brains...”

Richie didn’t want to know what that was about.

“Anyway, go back to bed. An’ keep those dreams to yourself. They came to you for a reason.”

“...But–!”

“Like they said, you’re part of a grander scheme. Don’t question it. SAVE it.” Kills-Many-White-People made a severe nod, then walked off.

Richie watched him leave with a disgusted expression, more confused than ever. How could people know things if they hadn’t seen them, yet? How they could they heap all this mysterious bullshit on him and expect him to follow it as seriously as they?

He didn’t think he’d ever get the Indians’ concept of thinking. With that, he made his way back to the tent to somehow go back to sleep.