Chapter 8
The kid’s ride had gone a mile by the time they caught up to it, having thankfully trotted along aimlessly following its initial dash. Horse’s hooves gave their position away and the ride kept up its leisurely pace, watched them approach with a prey’s nervous eye.
The kid jumped from Horse’s saddle when they were within a few feet. “What a useless thing.” It almost dashed off even at that. The Paints had spooked it more than Dust would’ve thought possible.
She raised her crop and approached the horse slowly. Against all logic, the crop seemed to calm it and it stopped. Or maybe, Dust reckoned, seeing it broke the beast’s will. Either way, it stood motionless as she approached like a coming storm.
So the Paints weren’t to blame then. Now that he knew to look for them, Dust spotted scars along the creature’s flank. Its mane and shoes were well-maintained so it’d not been neglected, just severely disciplined.
“Is that a Solution horse?” Dust asked.
“No. It’s mine. I trained it myself. At least, I thought I had.”
Dust nodded slowly and breathed out. That explained it.
The kid climbed onto her horse and started whispering to it. As she talked, she gave it frequent tastes of her crop. And not weak tastes either. The poor animal flinched each time but accepted the punishment.
Horse gave a low whinny at seeing this. Dust patted him. He would’ve intervened but he needed that horse to be under control. But he would have a hell of a lot to say to the kid, and to Dick, when the mission was done, there was no question of that.
“Ready to ride?” he asked.
She looked up. “Yes. I don’t think we’ll see a repeat performance.”
Dust hoped not, for the horse’s sake.
So they doubled back, followed the Paints’ trails to whatever they’d been guarding. Unlike before, Dust kept a good eye out; he wasn’t about to drop his guard when the Badlands were showing off their worst. Shielding his eyes from the warm, beating sun, he scanned the horizon for anything unusual. A few new critters skittered between bushes and dunes but apart from that he saw nothing untoward.
Until he spotted the small figure. It was about an hour after they got back on track when he saw them, a dark outline against the arid land. Whoever they were, they could barely walk; each step was a stumble, a small miracle. If it were a person, they needed help.
If it were a person; at that height, they couldn’t have been with Penelope Chalmers. And there were no settlements nearby. So it was either a lost child, which seemed unlikely, or something else. And every time he’d patrolled the Badlands, it’d always been something else.
What gave him pause was the lack of a warning from his tattoo. He couldn’t be sure the damn thing wasn’t playing with him, so he watched the figure a while longer, tried to make a call either way.
The kid hadn’t noticed him watching the horizon. She hadn’t said much in the last hour, which he was grateful for. And if she’d seen him shielding his eyes, she didn’t connect it with something coming. Perhaps she didn’t think they’d be attacked again, that that wouldn’t be fair. Or perhaps she was relying on Dust to spot anything.
Well, if so, his call would be key. He went back to watching the figure.
For five minutes it stumbled along. Then it fell over, to its hands and knees. And it stayed down, as though it had given up. Not really ‘eldritch’ behaviour. That sealed it.
“We’re taking a detour,” he said.
The kid frowned. “Where?”
“North. There’s someone we’ve got to see.”
He kicked Horse into a canter. He glanced back and saw the kid fall in behind him.
Dust looked from the kid to the… kid. The other kid. That might get confusing. For now, Dust would think of her as Naismith. Maybe she’d earn the right in the next couple of days… Anyhow the kid in the distance was still on its hands and knees, head hanging loosely from their shoulders, just as he’d left it.
There was definitely something odd going on here.
Naismith finally noticed it. She gasped, put her hand to her mouth. “What is a child doing out here?” she asked through her fingers.
Dust didn’t say he’d wondered the same thing an hour ago.
Not wanting to scare the kid, if that’s what it was, Dust made Horse trot along all friendly like. When he got a little closer, Dust decided the kid was probably a boy; at least, they had short hair and a frame that’d look gangly on a girl. Maybe ten, he wore tattered clothes and shoes whose soles been worn down to nothing. Dusty as fuck too, he was, head to toe; he must’ve wandered in the Badlands for some time.
Dust’s was a face unaccustomed to gentle smiling but he tried it out to keep himself non-threatening. Which was funny, when he thought about it; most people were scared half to death when he started smiling.
The boy didn’t seem to notice their approach. When Dust saw the boy’s face, he understood why, knew his smile was worth less than a prayer; a large black smear of corrupted flesh had consumed the boy’s face, replaced his eyes. His features were a puss-filled mass that dripped and wept onto the ground. There was a deep gash down its face which left half its cheek flapping open; that seemed to be the cause of the infection as the smear spread out from there. Taking long, slow breaths, he was barely coping with the pain.
“Oh my Lord,” Naistmith said.
Dust probably shouldn’t even call it a ‘he’; a creature of Melting Flesh had given the child a Minor Gift, a sentient disease that eats at a person until they either prayed to Melting Flesh – he of the Triangle – or were transformed into something that would. Far from any settlements as he was, the Gift must’ve worn through the boy by now.
But if that were the case, why hadn’t it set off his tattoo?
Whatever it was, the figure still dangerous. And infectious. He held a hand out to Naismith, warned her to keep her distance; the only cure for Melting Flesh’s Gifts was a quick death.
“Hey there,” Dust shouted, sounding as friendly as a man can at the top of his lungs.
The figure slowly stood up and looked around blindly. “H-hello?” The voice was cracked, light and had definitely been a boy’s.
“Don’t worry. We’re a couple of rangers from the Solution,” Dust lied. “You look like you need a little help son.”
“Oh thank the Lord!” it cried, falling to its knees once more. It sobbed, which only increased the flow of puss from where its eyes used to be. “I’d thought that I’d die out here, that I’d not be seeing another person. And here you two are! Please, sirs, do you have any water? I’ve got a mighty thirst.”
Dust frowned. Why would it act so much like a child? To lull him, get him to lower his guard? He decided to play along, see if the Gifts had learned a new trick.
“Sure thing kid,” he said.
He vaulted Horse and reached into his pack for a water pouch. With one hand on his other gun, he walked over to the boy-thing. Horse backed away, not wanting to be any closer than necessary.
“I’m just coming up to you now. You’re in a bad way so I’m just going to pour the water into your mouth. I hope you understand.”
It gave him a wet croak that might’ve been a cough. “Anything you say, mister.”
Dust frowned, then leant over and slowly poured water into its open mouth. Its flesh almost seemed to absorb the water. All but two of its teeth were gone and those were an awful shade of green. Its tongue and throat were black as its blood.
“Oh thank you and thank the Lord.” It reached up to the sky, splaying sunburned fingers flecked with dark veins. “Thank you Lord!”
Behind him, Naismith choked back some reaction.
It was quite convincing, Dust had to admit that. “What happened to you son?”
It faced Dust with a broad grin on its face. “We… we were playing in the border of the Badlands. Me and my brothers, Otis and Matty. Ma always said that we shouldn’t come out here but, well…” The hanging cheek flapped awkwardly against its skin as it talked through a smile.
“But boys were made to disobey their mamas,” Dust said.
“Something like that mister.” It frowned. “Say, what’s your name?”
He couldn’t see the harm in giving it his old name. “Dustin.”
It offered him that red and black hand. “Hiya Dustin, I’m Luke.”
Dust didn’t have to worry about the infection and what had once been Luke seemed genuinely please to meet him. Perhaps this was a rogue Gift, if there could be such a thing? He had to find out.
He gently shook its small hand. “Pleased to meet you Luke. This here is Eleanor.”
Naismith dismounted. Dust gestured again for her to keep her distance. She nodded, held onto her horse’s reins tightly. Thankfully, her ride didn’t seem nearly so spooked by this thing; it looked downright calm. Though that in itself was curious.
“Afternoon, Luke,” Naismith said, though there was no warmth in her voice.
It frowned, which brought a fresh avalanche of bright orange puss down its cheeks. “A girl?”
“There’s nothing wrong with girls,” she replied with barely a hitch in her voice. “I can shoot as good as a man.”
“I didn’t mean no disrespect, ma’am.”
“Anyway,” Dust cut in, “you were playing in the Badlands?”
“What? Oh, yeah. We were playing in the Badlands; cowboys and Indians. Otis was the cowboy as usual. Me and Matty are the young ‘uns, you see. So we went and hid in the brushes when something… it…” Its face crumpled up and it held onto itself for comfort. “Oh Lord, it ate Matty’s face!”
Dust nearly gaped; that was real emotion. “And it got you too?”
It shook its head. “Nearly. I got away. It stung me but I don’t seem to have been hurt to badly. I got myself mighty lost though. How far are we from North Springs?”
“Forty miles or so.” Dust replied.
Not that it’d ever see North Springs again.
It shook its head once more, flapping that loose cheek around like a hound with a tough steak. “No, it can’t be. I can’t have been walking for more than two hours…”
It was so genuine. Too genuine to be of the Triangle. Dust’d been wrong to say this wasn’t a boy; either the Gift hadn’t been that strong or Luke had a soul so strong that he’d partially staved off the Gift’s corruption. That explained his tattoo not warning him, Naismith’s ride being so calm…
Surviving the first attack was impressive enough but to have gone for days without giving in a Gift? Dust was proud of him.
Not too proud to sugar coat the truth though. “I’m afraid it’s true, Luke.”
Luke frowned. “I… I don’t know how that can be.”
Naismith coughed. Dust looked back and she gestured to his hand, which no longer rested on his other gun. Then she frowned, asking why he wasn’t ready to kill the boy. Dust couldn’t answer but it should’ve been obvious; he didn’t want to. Not at all. He’d never killed a child and did not relish the prospect of breaking that duck. Maybe Luke would be able to fight the Gift, be the first person to survive one?
His tattoo – which had moved to his ribs – warmed; a Gift always won, it seemed to say, regardless of a soul’s strength. Dust cursed the damn thing. Even though he knew it was right.
Slowly, Dust knelt and put a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “Look, you’ve done well to get this far but you’re a bit ill, son. How else do you explain getting so far without knowing it? I’ll help you out. Stand still, I’ve got some medicine that’ll fix you.”
The Gift began to quiver within Luke’s flesh.
“I-I don’t know, mister,” Luke said. “I don’t like you touching me right now; it feels awful weird.”
“You are very ill, Luke,” Naismith said. Her voice didn’t give away what was to come. “The medicine won’t do you any harm if you’re healthy but will help if you’re not. Just let Dustin help.”
Dust winced. He would need to tell Naismith she wasn’t to call him that, though it was forgivable under the circumstances. “Don’t worry, Luke. Now, this might sting a little but it’ll be fine; you’ll feel better right after.”
Quietly, he pulled his Colt from its holster; Luke didn’t deserve the other gun.
Dust made no sound in drawing it, he knew that, yet the Gift squirmed like a host of maggots; it could sense Dust’s intentions. Much as he didn’t like admitting it, that writhing meant his tattoo had been right, that the Gift had almost become sentient.
A Gift always won.
“I don’t like this, Dustin,” the Gift made Luke say. “How about we just wait until we can get to a doctor?”
Dust strengthened his grip on the boy’s shoulder and took a slow breath. “I’m afraid that… that I need to give you this now,” he said, accidentally being very honest. Luke was already dead, nothing else could be done for him.
The Gift made Luke try to step away. “No, I’m not happy with this…”
“Come on, it’ll just take a mo-”
Luke wrestled within Dust’s grip, not strong enough to break it. “No! Let me go!”
“C’mon now…”
“No!” Luke roared, his voice not so much his.
Naismith clapped her hands together, quietening them both. “Luke! You will do as you’re told, mister! What would your Ma say if she saw you talking back like that?”
Dust could have shaken her until her damn spoiled head fell off. Why would she put what remained of Luke to shame? Why make-
“Yes ma’am,” Luke said, interrupting his train of thought. “Sorry ma’am.”
“Good,” Dust said after a surprised and thoughtful pause. Then he slowly put the Colt below Luke’s chin. “Well done Luke. Just be brave.”
“I’ll try, Dustin.”
They remained like that for a few seconds. Dust looked past the corruption that had overwhelmed Luke and saw the boy he’d been; a bright young man who just wanted to play with his brothers. He was a kid. Just a kid.
This was going to be tough…
His tattoo warmed again. But he wasn’t going to kill Luke because the damn tattoo wanted him to or to avoid personal pain; that would be selfish, wrong. Nor would he do it because he hated the Triangle. No, this was about protecting Luke, who wouldn’t want to join the monster that had killed his brother Matty.
“Good lad, Luke.”
Dust pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed between the Badlands’ uncaring dunes. The bullet rose through Luke’s mouth and out the back of his head, spraying human and inhuman remains into the air. His body remained upright as the Gift tried to sustain itself but it couldn’t keep the body going without a soul. Luke’s corpse fell to the floor.
Dust felt a great sorrow pressing on his chest, like he wore four fully-loaded trail packs. But there was more to do. Dust rose, swapped pistols, then fired into the corpse. The flesh spasmed and jerked in agony as the blue bolt ripped through it. He shot again and the remnants of the Gift died, releasing a mess of black spores.
This wasn’t the first time he’d a Gift try to disperse. He couldn’t let the thing spread, particularly not to Horse. So he didn’t think twice about kneeling to breathe the spores in, taking that horror into himself like an opium fiend. His tattoo writhed out a familiar spell as he knelt, one which gave the spores nowhere to go but into his lungs.
After three big breaths, he had drawn them all in.
They tasted awful, like shit-stained sawdust. And his lungs felt like they were being grated from within as he held his breath. His eyes watered as his body killed the spores.
“What are you doing?” Naismith asked, horrified
He stayed like that until the pain passed. When he breathed out, there were no spores released. They were all dead. He’d have a nasty taste in his mouth near until he chewed on a mint leaf but that was acceptable.
“What did you do?” Naismith asked.
“What needed to be done.”
Dust stood and shot Luke’s corpse again. This time it caught fire, a green flame that roared over his tiny body, encompassed it from hair to dusty toe. Most of Luke’s flesh combusted in seconds. Only the skeleton remained and even that burned like wood. There had been so little healthy flesh in the poor boy that only ashes would be left of him.
Naismith sighed, perhaps bored of watching a child burn. “Why?”
Dust couldn’t look away whilst Luke’s body still smouldered. “Why breathe in the spores?”
“No. Why go through all that ceremony? Why not just shoot him straight away?”
“I wanted to know more about the Badlands. And I wasn’t certain what it was.”
Naismith raised her eyebrows. “It was a thrall of Melting Flesh.”
The fire spluttered. Less than a handful of Luke remained. “No, it wasn’t.”
When the fire died, he turned to Naismith. She was looking at him with a strange expression.
“What?” he asked.
Naismith put her hand on her chin, splayed her fingers across her face. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
She straightened her back. “Someone a little more… ruthless. All I’ve had to go on were the rumours that circle you, the legend of the Wanted Man. What I’ve found is someone who’s more complex than I’d been led to believe.”
He shrugged, letting her use of his nickname roll from his back. “Never trust rumours.”
“Apparently I shouldn’t.”
Dust could have sworn that she sounded disappointed. Which didn’t make much sense.
“By the way?”
“Yes?”
He took a step forward. “Don’t call me Dustin.”
“Isn’t that your name?”
Dust shook his head. “My name is Dust. ‘Dustin Longe’ died a long time ago.”
Naismith gave him a strange grin. “Did you kill him? Did he burn too?”
That seemed awfully disrespectful after what they’d just seen, what Dust had just had to do. But he refrained from saying so. “I didn’t kill Dustin; something else did. But that’s not a topic I ever want to discuss. You hear?”
“Okay,” she shrugged.
They mounted up and got back onto the Paints’ trail. As they rode off, Dust cast a final glance back to what’d once been a poor boy called Luke. He briefly played with the idea of gathering Luke’s ashes and returning them to his parents… but that wouldn’t do any good; his folks had likely already started mourning him. They didn’t need Dust bringing bad news.
No, best they hear it from this Otis, who had probably survived from the sound of Luke’s story; best they imagined their son had died instantly, eaten whole rather than nearly becoming… something else.
Dust turned away and rode on.