far wall.
"Hawkes?" Pomeroy said.
The figure didn’t move. His head hung down, both arms stretched out resting on the knees.
"Private Hawkes," Pomeroy said, more loudly.
A sharp knock came from the against the outside wall. Pomeroy leaned back and looked, but didn’t see anything. The wind must have rattled the trees. He walked inside.
"Well I see you’re awake," he said. "Come on, grab your things, and help me get mine. We’re leaving."
Hawkes lifted his head, and looked terrible. His eyes were black, his skin pale. A wet, rattling cough shook him, and a jet of black liquid spilled from his mouth onto the floor.
"Jesus, man," Pomeroy said.
Hawkes shook his head.
"No good, Major," he said, his voice thick and weak. "He come for me, and knows all of what I did. Every bit. The prison, he knew about what I did – how’d he know about that? Now it’s all inside me. Climbing up behind me eyes."
Pomeroy didn’t move, didn’t want to get any closer to the private. Something was festering in this village, and spreading. All he wanted was his satchel and a weapon.
"Where’s your musket, Hawkes?"
The private groaned, and lay down on his side. He struggled for a breath and then blew out another stream of fluid. It dripped from his mouth and chin, spilling off the side of the wooden cot. There was a sound from the roof, near the back, then a sharp tap came from the small single-paned window at the front. Pomeroy spun. There was a lightning-bolt-shaped crack in the glass. As he looked, there was another light tap, and a small rock bounced off the open door and landed on the floorboards. He looked back at Hawkes, barely discernable in the darkness, then stepped to the door and looked out across the meadow in front of the cabin. On the other side was a stand of young maple.
"What in the hell is going on?" he said.
Someone was waving their arms, just beyond the trees, not quite in the meadow. The moon slipped from behind the high clouds and Pomeroy recognized the boy, Thomas. He was waving his arms with urgency, motioning him to come. Again there was a noise from the roof, a quick series of muted thuds.
"His skin was white. And cold," Hawkes said.
He retched again. Another sound from the roof.
"Damn it," Pomeroy said, looking up. He bolted through the door and off the creaking porch. He sprang forward, but something caught his cloak. The movement put him off balance and he fell headlong to the ground. He rolled onto his back. A shadow draped the ground before him. The shadow rose up, the shape of a person – almost. The angles were wrong. Neck too long, arms differing lengths, thin and twisted. The face was stretched and white, and the eyes shown a cold, rippling silver. The red of the British uniform shown maroon in the night.
"Cooper?" Pomeroy said.
It was him, but not at all the way he’d seen him last.
"Good god, what’s happened to you?" Pomeroy said. He pushed himself backwards.
The private cocked his head to the side and regarded him with those eyes. His head leaned forward, chin pointing at him. A line of liquid hung down from his mouth. With an uneven long stride, he closed the distance to Pomeroy and leaned down, his back arching, his eyes fixed on Pomeroy’s own.
"You left us, coward," the thing that was Cooper said. "Left us to our feast."
His voice was a harsh whisper. Fetid breath washed over Pomeroy.
"I didn’t –" Pomeroy started.
"But now you’ll taste what you missed, and dream forever of her."
"Her?"
Cooper grabbed him by the collar and lifted him until he was an inch from that horrible face, gagging on the putrid smell.
"Young Darcy," Cooper said, "dancing fleshy in the night. Oh, you’ll dream of her, and dream of the times you touched yourself. Had her touch you, tricked her, used her. Dream as you crawl forever."
Pomeroy struggled to pull free. How could Cooper know about Darcy?
Darcy was his step-sister, and had been all of fourteen when they’d spent a summer hiding
"Hawkes?" Pomeroy said.
The figure didn’t move. His head hung down, both arms stretched out resting on the knees.
"Private Hawkes," Pomeroy said, more loudly.
A sharp knock came from the against the outside wall. Pomeroy leaned back and looked, but didn’t see anything. The wind must have rattled the trees. He walked inside.
"Well I see you’re awake," he said. "Come on, grab your things, and help me get mine. We’re leaving."
Hawkes lifted his head, and looked terrible. His eyes were black, his skin pale. A wet, rattling cough shook him, and a jet of black liquid spilled from his mouth onto the floor.
"Jesus, man," Pomeroy said.
Hawkes shook his head.
"No good, Major," he said, his voice thick and weak. "He come for me, and knows all of what I did. Every bit. The prison, he knew about what I did – how’d he know about that? Now it’s all inside me. Climbing up behind me eyes."
Pomeroy didn’t move, didn’t want to get any closer to the private. Something was festering in this village, and spreading. All he wanted was his satchel and a weapon.
"Where’s your musket, Hawkes?"
The private groaned, and lay down on his side. He struggled for a breath and then blew out another stream of fluid. It dripped from his mouth and chin, spilling off the side of the wooden cot. There was a sound from the roof, near the back, then a sharp tap came from the small single-paned window at the front. Pomeroy spun. There was a lightning-bolt-shaped crack in the glass. As he looked, there was another light tap, and a small rock bounced off the open door and landed on the floorboards. He looked back at Hawkes, barely discernable in the darkness, then stepped to the door and looked out across the meadow in front of the cabin. On the other side was a stand of young maple.
"What in the hell is going on?" he said.
Someone was waving their arms, just beyond the trees, not quite in the meadow. The moon slipped from behind the high clouds and Pomeroy recognized the boy, Thomas. He was waving his arms with urgency, motioning him to come. Again there was a noise from the roof, a quick series of muted thuds.
"His skin was white. And cold," Hawkes said.
He retched again. Another sound from the roof.
"Damn it," Pomeroy said, looking up. He bolted through the door and off the creaking porch. He sprang forward, but something caught his cloak. The movement put him off balance and he fell headlong to the ground. He rolled onto his back. A shadow draped the ground before him. The shadow rose up, the shape of a person – almost. The angles were wrong. Neck too long, arms differing lengths, thin and twisted. The face was stretched and white, and the eyes shown a cold, rippling silver. The red of the British uniform shown maroon in the night.
"Cooper?" Pomeroy said.
It was him, but not at all the way he’d seen him last.
"Good god, what’s happened to you?" Pomeroy said. He pushed himself backwards.
The private cocked his head to the side and regarded him with those eyes. His head leaned forward, chin pointing at him. A line of liquid hung down from his mouth. With an uneven long stride, he closed the distance to Pomeroy and leaned down, his back arching, his eyes fixed on Pomeroy’s own.
"You left us, coward," the thing that was Cooper said. "Left us to our feast."
His voice was a harsh whisper. Fetid breath washed over Pomeroy.
"I didn’t –" Pomeroy started.
"But now you’ll taste what you missed, and dream forever of her."
"Her?"
Cooper grabbed him by the collar and lifted him until he was an inch from that horrible face, gagging on the putrid smell.
"Young Darcy," Cooper said, "dancing fleshy in the night. Oh, you’ll dream of her, and dream of the times you touched yourself. Had her touch you, tricked her, used her. Dream as you crawl forever."
Pomeroy struggled to pull free. How could Cooper know about Darcy?
Darcy was his step-sister, and had been all of fourteen when they’d spent a summer hiding
Similar Books
