Two of the boys who'd come to the fort a few days earlier had set up a sort of tavern in what used to be the mess hall. They'd brought a wagonload of fine whiskey with them and sold it for the two bits a shot, provided you had your own cup. Their first night, a small gang of hardcases had tried to steal the stash of booze by gunpoint, but the rest of the fort's population—against all odds as far as Baron could figure—had rallied against them. After a brief gunfight, the would-be robbers were dead and the make-shift tavern was back in business. Apparently, these were criminals and wanted men who valued forward-thinking enterprise.

  Baron met Pete and Neil outside the mess hall just as the sky was going purple with dusk. "'Bout goddamn time you showed up," Pete said. "We got us a powerful thirst and here you are dilly-dallyin' around."

  Baron clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, let's have a drink on that, then."

  The three of them moved inside. The place was lit by four lanterns and a barrel fire in the middle of the room. A few makeshift tables and chairs were scattered around, and a short bar made of rough-cut planks at the far end. There were about forty men in the entire fort and well over half of them were crammed into the mess hall at the moment, the stink and heat of them heavy enough to make a delicate-minded person faint dead away.

  The stench of the place was doubly worse on account of the peculiar rotten odor some of the fort's more long-term residents carried around with them. Not for the first time, Baron speculated on that. The stink of them, the pasty paleness, the dull eyes. He wondered about the disease that had supposedly driven the Army out, wondered if it really had run its course.

  But like always, Baron managed to push the thought out of his head. There was whiskey to be drunk.

  Men were already rowdy and half-gone, even though the sun had barely disappeared outside. The walls and floor vibrated with booming voices and raucous laughter. The two tavern keepers worked behind the plank bar, pouring out shots and pocketing coins. Baron, Pete, and Neil bellied up, cups out and coins in hand.

  "Welcome, sir," one barkeep said, grinning like a fool. "May I interest you in some oh-be-joyful?"

  Baron slapped his coins on the plank, held out his battered tin cup, received a less-than-satisfying slosh of whiskey in it. He threw it back, slapped more coins down, took another.

  When all three of them had wet their whistles, Neil said, "So what you gonna do with your fish in a barrel out there, Baron?"

  "Don't rightly know yet. Something. He's been dogging my heels for too long, making me a nervous wreck. Whatever I do, it's gonna be nasty."

  Pete said, "Coop Johnson's got one of them dentist kits. Maybe you could borrow it, yank that bastard's teeth out one by one."

  "That's not a bad idea."

  Neil said, "I think you should cut off his fingers. And then his toes. And then—" He took another shot. "Then his pecker."

  "Yeah, that's good too."

  "Or," Pete said, with a philosophical shrug. "You could just shoot him. I kinda wonder why you don't just do that."

  Baron paused with his cup halfway to his lips. That was a damn good point, he had to admit. He said, "Well, that fella, the one at the station house ..."

  "Charlie Peeples," Pete said.

  "Yeah, Charlie Peeples. I reckon he put the thought in my head. The thought that I should ponder on it and all, maybe do something really vicious come morning."

  Neil took off his Derby hat and leaned in closer. "You boys ever wonder about that fella? I mean, you ever think about what a queer one he is?"

  "Well, hell," Pete said. "That's stating the obvious, ain't it?"

  "He's an odd stick, sure enough," Baron said.

  "And he smells something fierce."

  "Shit," Pete said, "Almost everybody in this place smells like a dead beaver's asshole."

  They drank more, slapping down coins, getting their cups filled over and over, and it wasn't long before they were half-roostered. The conversation turned to their various bizarre encounters with the fort's older residents, the way their eyes never seemed to change no matter what they were saying, the way they ate like animals, the way they would stare off into the distance when they thought no one was watching.

  Neil said, "I tell you boys 'bout the other day? I swung by Barracks B to see if Savory still had that whore with him, and I come across old Marcus Condon. He was out behind the building with a jar a' ointment, putting it all over his chest."

  "Yeah?" Baron said. "So what?"

  "Well ... he had these ... marks, like. All over his chest and stomach and back."

  "What kinda marks?"

  "Like teeth marks, 'ceptin' they was perfectly round, you know? Like leech bites."

  Baron said, "Again, so damn what?"

  "But they weren't no leech bites. They was big. Like, bigger than my mouth."

  Pete said, "That's pretty goddamn big."

  "To hell with you. I'm trying to tell you something."

  Baron said, "You're saying he had a bunch of marks on him that looked like they came from a giant sucker leech."

  "Yeah. And some of 'em was scarred up, but others looked fresh as milk. They was still bleeding."

  Baron and Pete pondered on that for a bit. They all ordered more whiskey.

  They drank, and didn't notice the shifting mood in the mess hall. They didn't notice the long-term residents getting quieter, and eyeing them with growing hunger.

  Close to midnight, when Plague overtook Fort Mason, Baron and his friends never saw it coming.

  * * *

  He could hear Johanna screaming, somewhere in the dark, and he tried to run in her direction, tried to reach through the blackness to save her, but he couldn't move.

  He snarled and raged, straining against his invisible bonds. He tried to call her name, but no words came out of his mouth. Johanna screamed and cried, but then her high-pitched wails of agony and terror changed, grew deeper, hoarser, until they weren't her sounds anymore but the sound of a man screaming.

  The sound of many men screaming.

  Hawthorne opened his eyes.

  The stone walls of the brig surrounded him, and just enough light came through the single barred window to let shadows play across the steel bars and dirt floor. It was cold.

  Something was happening in the fort. The wailing and screaming he'd heard in his dreams had crossed over into the waking world. Men were crying and cursing out there in the night, their fear punctuated by the occasional echo of gunfire.

  Hawthorne tried to move, heard the dry clank of metal. He was bound by chains, wrist and ankle, to the wall. Unarmed.

  For two long seconds, he allowed the dream to haunt him, allowed the pang of misery in his soul to breath. And then he snuffed it out. He hadn't allowed himself to think of her in years. He couldn't even recall her face. But the misery was still there, hidden in his nightmares.

  He knew what had brought it to the surface. The Sisters were here. And the chaos outside only confirmed it.

  He tried the chains, pulled hard against them, but the bolts were set fast in the stone wall. He cursed himself for being sloppy, letting that goddamn station master get the drop on him.

  But then he pushed the irritation with himself aside, as easily as he'd pushed aside his grief. He settled against the wall and waited.

  Outside, the screaming continued, some of it far away and echoing in the night, some of it closer. Hawthorne heard the thick boom of a shotgun nearby, the thin bang bang bang of a revolver. A fire raged somewhere. He could hear the crackling and smell the smoke. Someone ran by the brig, panting with fear. More screaming.

  Hawthorne waited.

  The shadows moved across the floor. He watched them.

  Ten minutes passed by his reckoning before Baron came. Hawthorne knew it was him, even before hearing his voice—he'd heard that labored, panicked breathing before. Baron came running to the brig, boots pounding dirt, wheezing, "Jesus God, help me, oh God please!" He threw open the door, stood outlined by moonlight. He braced himself against the door frame, struggling for breath, and managed to say, "Hawthorne ... Mr. Hawthorne ... please."

  Baron carried a sawed-off shotgun in his left hand. He bled from wounds on his face and hands. His shirt was torn down the front and stained with blood. Hawthorne looked at him and didn't speak.

  Baron stumbled inside and slammed the door shut behind him. "Mr. Hawthorne," he wheezed. "You've gotta help me."

  Hawthorne said, "Do I?"

  "Please. They ... they've all gone crazy. They're attacking the newer men. Blood ... I mean, there's blood everywhere, Jesus God, it's a nightmare. I don't know what's happening but we were in the mess hall and they all started going goddamn loco and ... and jumping on the others and tearing them apart, Christ, just tearing them apart with ... with their hands and their teeth and I don't know what's happening, but please, Mr. Hawthorne, please help me!"

  Hawthorne smiled. "I can't do much chained up like this."

  Baron seemed to notice the chains for the first time. He started, said, "Oh. Yeah, I got ... I got the key right here, I can get you out of that. It wasn't my idea to lock you up, I swear. It was that Charlie Peeples fella. That station master." He fished through his pockets, but stopped and looked at Hawthorne. "Oh God," he said. "Oh God. If I unlock you, you're gonna kill me, aren't you?"

  "Those lunatics out there are going to kill you."

  "But you ... you've come to make me pay." Baron started crying. "You've come to make me pay for my sins. For murdering Englehart and his wife and his daughters."

  "Everyone has to pay for their sins in the end."

  Baron was sobbing now, tears smearing blood down his face. "I know," he said. "I know it's true. I'm so sorry for what I did. God, I'm so, so sorry. If I could take it all back, I would, I swear it. But by Christ, Mr. Hawthorne, I don't wanna die."

  Hawthorne frowned, as if considering the situation. After a moment, he said, "I'll tell you a secret, Baron. I didn't really come here for you, not specifically. You're ... incidental. The second bird I'd planned on killing with one stone."

  Baron wiped snot from his chin, said, "You ... you didn't come for me?"

  "I'm here to hunt down the source of that madness out there. I'm here to destroy it. You holing up here? That was just my good fortune. A convenience."

  Something like hope began glimmering in Baron's eyes. "You can stop this? You can stop all the killing?"

  Hawthorne nodded. "If you let me out of these chains." His throat was dry and scratchy. It had been months since he'd strung that many words together, and words were things he despised.

  Baron wanted to believe. The desire for it was all over his face, as clear as the blood and the tears and the snot. He said, "I'll get you free, Mr. Hawthorne. Hang on." He found the key in his trousers pocket, set the shotgun down on the floor, and squatted next to Hawthorne. He slipped the key into the shackle on Hawthorne's right wrist, turned it, and the lock snapped open.

  Hawthorne jerked his left arm forward, pulling the chain behind it, and in a heartbeat had wrapped the cold iron around Baron's neck.

  Baron had time to say, "Wha—" before Hawthorne looped the chain twice more and yanked hard with both hands. Baron's fingers went to his throat, clawing. The two men were face to face, noses mere inches apart, Hawthorne straining with gritted teeth and Baron's face turning purple, tongue swelling and protruding from his mouth.

  Hawthorne stared into Baron's eyes as the life faded from them, and felt nothing.

  He eased Baron's body down to the dirt floor, took a deep breath, and got busy on the shackles. A moment later, he was free.

  The chaos outside hadn't abated. There was still screaming and sporadic gunfire. Hawthorne found his gun belt, strapped it on. He checked and reloaded the Schofield. There was a hunting knife with a six-inch blade in Baron's belt; Hawthorne took it and the sawed-off as well.

  His hat lay discarded in a corner. He picked it up and put it on, hiding the ugly white scar on his forehead.

  He went outside.

  * * *

  The mess hall at the far end of Fort Mason was on fire. Flames leapt toward the moon, wood crackled and snapped and hissed. In the open space between the mess hall and the brig, men lay dead or dying by orange fire light. More than a few were charred and smoking.

  Hawthorne held the shotgun in his right hand and the knife in his left. He walked toward the row of barracks.

  To his right, three sick-looking men were hunkered over a still-twitching corpse, pulling organs out of it and smearing themselves with blood. Hawthorne ignored them. Several paces in front of him, a naked madman came rushing out of the night, gibbering and giggling. His torso was covered in flaming red suction marks, like the teeth marks of giant leeches, leaking blood and pus. He saw Hawthorne, veered to intercept him.

  Hawthorne leveled the sawed-off and blasted a load of shot into the lunatic's face. The lunatic dropped, and Hawthorne walked on.

  He counted twenty dead men just between the brig and the barracks. From somewhere near the former officer's quarters, three of the fevered men appeared. Hawthorne noted the strange round bite marks on them as well before they charged at him like one mad, howling organism.

  They were less than six feet away when he unloaded the second barrel at them. One madman fell, his left shoulder and part of his head gone. A second took some shot in his arm, but didn't go down. The third was unharmed.

  The uninjured one leapt at Hawthorne, snarling and drooling. Hawthorne slashed with the hunting knife, sidestepping, and blood arced out of the man's throat and he collapsed.

  The third one had a grip on Hawthorne's arm, was trying to sink rotting teeth into his flesh. Hawthorne brought the blade down with a solid thunk right into the top of the madman's head. The knife stuck and slipped out of Hawthorne's fingers.

  He let it go. While the three lunatics died at his feet, Hawthorne chucked away the empty shotgun and drew the Schofield. He kept walking.

  A young man came screeching out from the barracks, his arm missing. Two more lunatics were at his heels. Hawthorne shot them both, but not in time to save their victim. The young man fell to the ground and bled out.

  Another madman to his left. Hawthorne put a bullet in his head. Two more from behind; Hawthorne spun and fired three times. One of the shots went wild but the other two buried themselves in flesh.

  Hawthorne was sweating, feeling dangerously close to going blood simple. Fort Mason was Hell, and he wasn't sure anymore if he was a Damned Soul or the Devil Himself. He reloaded and breathed smoke.

  The fire from the mess hall had snagged on the barracks. Black smoke billowed into the dark, heat so intense Hawthorne felt his hands and cheeks blistering. A handful of men poured out of the barracks, consumed by fire, before dropping dead in the dirt. One of them made it within a few feet of Hawthorne, and Hawthorne had his revolver up and ready to fire before the screaming mass of flames ran out of life and fell.

  Hawthorne stood there amidst the fire and death. He watched as the flames traveled the length of the barracks roof and licked out from the windows and door. The sound of it drowned out the screaming from inside.

  He didn't hear the station master calling him, but the diseased man must've been doing so, because when Hawthorne turned to look back at the train station, Charlie Peeples was standing in front of it, looking at him, and his mouth was moving.

  "You," Hawthorne said under his breath. He cocked the Schofield's hammer and started walking toward Peeples.

  Peeples didn't run. He stood rooted to the spot, still talking. As Hawthorne came closer, he was able to distinguish some words—Fallen son, Peeples was saying. Scarred man. The Sisters. Plague.

  Hawthorne smiled a nasty, bitter smile.

  Closer, he heard Charlie Peeples saying, "They say they been waiting on you, mister. They say they got some history, and you're the feast. I'm sorry, but I don't understand any of it."

  Hawthorne raised the Schofield and put two bullets in Charlie Peeples' belly. The station master looked dully at his stomach, puzzled. He looked at Hawthorne again, face going slack, before falling face-first in the dirt.

  Hawthorne didn't slow his pace. He strode toward the station, called out, "Show yourselves, you unholy bitches!"

  Flames caught on the train station. The entire fort was ablaze now. Hawthorne yelled, "You hear me? I'm calling you out, goddamnit!"

  And the Sisters appeared several feet in front of him.

  We've missed you, son of Hawthorne, their voices vibrated in his head. It's been so long.

  * * *

  They stood side-by-side, holding hands, as flames consumed the station behind them. Their shadows fluttered on the ground in front of them, touching Hawthorne's boots. Their faces were obscured by darkness.

  Hawthorne knew shooting them would have no effect. He holstered the Schofield and shoved the knife in his belt.

  How did you find us? The Sisters said.

  "I followed the stench."

  We are glad. We have waited so long to kill you, son of Hawthorne. Come forward and let us taste your blood.

  "You'll have to come and take it," Hawthorne said. "And you can stop with that 'son of' business."

  Why would we stop? You are, after all, your father's son.

  The little demons knew Hawthorne's sore spot. He snarled, "I have nothing in common with that sonofabitch."

  No, nothing. Nothing except your burning hate. And your blood. The Sisters giggled playfully.

  "If I could purge his blood from me, I would."

  And what about your hate?

  "I'll hold on to that."

  Their childish laughter echoed in him. Come then, let us purge your blood for you.

  He felt the tug of their power in his brain, almost as if someone was gripping him by the ears and trying to pull him forward. The cross-shaped scar on his forehead burned. But he didn't budge.

  "You'll have to do better than that, girls," he said. "That stuff might've worked on the Old Man, but you'll find I'm not quite as weak-minded."

  Behind the Sisters, part of the station collapsed with an ear-shattering crash, and fire whooshed into the sky. Hawthorne watched the Sisters, but kept one eye on the fire.

 

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