Chapter 12: Heart of Darkness

The company stalked through the dark trees, their rifles at the ready, their eyes scanning the shadows. Nobody dared to speak above a whisper lest they inadvertently give themselves away, the crunching of undergrowth and the snapping of twigs joining the creaking of the branches above.

There were more faces in the trees the closer they came to the Blighter camp, and George felt the air grow ever heavier, like someone was slowly piling weights onto his shoulders with each step that he took. It was oppressive, suffocating, his every instinct warning him to turn back. Making a man feel as though he could scarcely breathe was quite the deterrent. Still, they pressed onward. Somewhere ahead lay the heart of this corruption, one that could be plucked out if fate was on their side.

“Do you suppose we drew most of ‘em out?” Sam whispered as he trekked through the ferns beside George.

“There are probably a few left,” he replied. “The scouts said that they saw around two hundred, and we must have killed ... I don’t know, maybe a hundred and fifty?”

“Do we have enough bullets for the rest?” Sam muttered. “I don’t fancy takin’ on that many with just my bayonet.”

“I have two,” George said after briefly checking his pouch.

“Me too,” Sam said, his tone turning more serious as he continued. “About what we did back there...”

“They would have killed us,” George said, quickly picking up on the hesitation in his voice. “Worse, they would have strung some of us up on those damnable effigies, probably raised the rest as shambling corpses to turn us against our friends.”

“I know, I know,” Sam sighed. “I guess I just ... never expected to see that many men die that quickly. It’s like bein’ in a war.”

“I came out here to draw pictures of trees,” George said, Sam stifling laughter.

“Yeah, that you did, George. That you did.”

Tia appeared between the trees ahead of the group, Dawes raising a hand in a silent gesture for them to stop. She shared a brief glance with George, then turned to Dawes.

“There are maybe twenty left in the camp,” she began, catching her breath as she came to a stop in front of him. “They seem restless. They probably heard the sound of the rifles and are wondering what became of those who fell into our ambush.”

“Is it well-defended?” Dawes asked. “Any fortifications or sentries?”

“Not that we saw. There is nothing preventing us from walking straight in. Here,” she added, passing him a handful of paper cartridges. He looked down at them, then back at her, raising his eyebrows in an unspoken question. “We have more than enough arrows remaining. You will need these more than we do.”

“Thanks,” he replied with a nod. “So, what’s our next course of action? You’ve seen the layout of this place.”

“They have cleared the area around the camp, erecting their monuments,” she explained with a grimace of disgust. “The trees are all felled, which means that there is little cover. Ordinarily, this would work to their advantage, as it would allow them to see any approaching enemies from afar. Now, it only means that your rifles will be unimpeded.”

“A direct attack, then?”

“It seems the best plan to me,” Tia replied with a shrug. “They can offer little resistance now.”

“And what of the hooded figure you saw?” George interjected, Tia turning to him. “The one you mentioned back at our camp?”

“We did not see them,” she said with a shake of her head. “If they were still there, they must have been inside one of the tents for the short duration that we watched from the edge of the clearing.”

“That’s what concerns me most,” George continued, his brow furrowing. “You said that he toyed with dead flesh and performed rites for the Blighters. If he’s their leader – if he’s responsible for the abominations that have been sent after us – then who knows what he might be capable of.”

“I have not seen their like before,” Tia said. “All I know is that there is a darkness in this place, one that festers. You sense it too, do you not?”

“Yeah,” George muttered, shivering as he glanced around at the trees. “It makes me feel like I’m drowning, like I’m breathing a liquid.”

“Whoever this guy is, he ain’t gonna survive a bullet,” Sam added as he patted his rifle.

As they approached the edge of the forest, George glimpsed the Blighter camp through the trees. Before him was a clearing strewn with broken tree stumps, the ghostly fog that swirled between them thick enough to obscure the ground. Some of the trees had been left taller than the rest, and these had been made into effigies, bent branches arranged around their bases in a spiraling pattern. Just like the others that he had encountered, the wood was scored with runes, painted with a concoction of blood, hair, and feathers. Blighter charms abounded, staked into the ground, often accompanied by human skulls that had been impaled on spears. Some of them were fresher than others.

Upon the blighted trunks of the shattered trees were suspended more bodies, their arms raised above their heads in prayer to the dark spirits. As far as George could see, they had all been Blighters, many still sporting the white body paint over their decaying flesh.

There must have been two dozen of the effigies rising ominously above the carpet of mist, the scent of decay carrying on the air. They ringed the camp, a loose cluster of conical tents in the distance that was several times larger than the company’s basecamp. There were no fires burning, and between the mist and the gloom, it was impossible to tell whether there were any sentries.

The men began to advance across the open ground, their rifles shouldered, the long barrels sweeping back and forth as they peered into the fog. Tia and her warriors kept to the fringes of the loose line of riflemen, their bows at the ready, their keen senses alert.

As he passed beneath one of the grisly monuments, George glanced up to see that one of the sacrificial victims was split open. This one was facing the cracked trunk of the tree stump, his arms splayed wide. His back had been cut open, exposing his spine, his ribs broken before being spread like the wings of a bird. There was enough dried blood painting his pale body and the branches below that it looked as though it might have been done while he was still alive.

Someone to his left stumbled over a root that had been hidden by the low-hanging fog, the sudden sound making George’s heart freeze. He frowned at the man, who mouthed a silent apology.

There was a sudden whistle, followed by a dull thud, George snapping his eyes to the tents ahead as he watched a Blighter slowly slump to the ground with an arrow protruding from his forehead. Battle had been joined.

The men fanned out, taking refuge behind the effigies, which were the only cover available to them. From between the tents, more Blighters came running, their ashen skin seeming to glow in what moonlight made it through the dense clouds above. They raised their hatchets and knives, screeching war cries, but they were answered by the crack of rifles. They dropped one after another, falling into the mist, the smoke of the guns carried away on the breeze. They posed little threat, charging across the open ground, not knowing anything of bows or rifles. After maybe twenty had been shot, no more came, the bodies lying still.

“Was that the last of them?” Marshall asked, his voice breaking the silence.

“Move up, slowly,” Dawes replied.

The group began to advance again, nearing the conical tents, stepping over the dead Blighters. George noted that the tattered fabric the structures were made from was also painted with gore, taking the form of dark sigils that had soaked into the material. There were a few campfires, all of them left to go out, some of them still sporting spits that must have been used for cooking. There were tree stumps here, too, the larger and flatter ones used in lieu of tables. The Blighters had been preparing food on them, some sporting piles of what looked like hottah meat and organs, but others held a more disturbing dish. There were dismembered bodies strewn upon some of them, pieces of human flesh cleaved from the bone like mutton from a leg of lamb, the callousness that the Blighters showed one another turning George’s stomach. Even when animal meat was plentiful, they still practiced cannibalism. Why? Was it part of some dark ritual?

Laughter echoed from somewhere ahead, its tone mocking, cruel. From a large tent towards the center of the camp emerged the man that Tia had described. He was aged, his back hunched, his gaunt body draped with a dark robe. His cheeks were sunken, his black eyes set deep into his skull, his pallid skin stretched over bone. Upon his head, he wore a headdress similar to those of the Blighters but more ornate. Broken antlers jutted into the air, adorned with feathers, some of their prongs decorated with hanging charms that reminded George of the abomination. His face was painted with the same chalky substance as the rest, but there were three black, vertical lines trailing from his forehead to his chin.

They raised their rifles as the stranger approached, aiming them at him as they formed a loose crescent, but the decrepit old man posed no obvious threat. He wasn’t armed, and he was far too frail to do any damage. He opened his mouth in a sinister smile, revealing teeth that were stained black, as if he had been consuming the very tar that bled from the trees. If he was at all concerned that five score of his warriors had just been slain, he didn’t show it, seeming almost jovial as he peered back at the confused riflemen.

The old man began to speak, a low, guttural language with the cadence of a chant. Some of the men exchanged confused glances, shrugging at one another, assuming that he was trying to communicate. Many had lowered their weapons, his advanced age giving them a false sense of security.

“Don’t let him speak!” George warned as he aimed the barrel of his weapon at the old man’s face. His grin only widened, those dark eyes peering out from beneath his shadowy brow. He just kept talking, his ugly song rising in volume and intensity.

Before George could pull the trigger, he was distracted by a sudden sound from behind them, a pained groan that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He snapped around to see something rising from the mists, a dark shape stumbling to its feet. His eyes widened as he saw the arrow protruding from its head. It was the Blighter that had been killed only minutes prior. More of them were emerging from the thick carpet of fog, the fist-sized holes that the lead projectiles had torn in their flesh still oozing blood, the risen dead turning to face their killers. Their hands outstretched, they began to shamble towards them, the men turning their weapons on this new threat.

As more gunshots rang out, a sudden gust of wind whipped at their clothes, the fog at their feet thrown up into an obscuring haze by the gale. In an instant, their visibility was reduced to a mere fifty feet, the strange old man’s laughter lingering as he stepped back into the mist. Tia rushed after him, reacting far faster than any of the humans could have, but her hands grasped only empty air as she tried to grab him. He had vanished.

“Close ranks!” Dawes shouted over the gunfire, trying to rally the men. “For God’s sake, save your ammunition!”

In the confusion, they had become separated, and the risk that they would accidentally shoot one another was a real one with such low visibility. A far more human cry of alarm came from somewhere to their right, George glimpsing one of his companions being dragged to the ground by three or four of the ghouls, the fog rolling back in to engulf them again as they fell upon him.

The warriors drew in, pointing their spears into the mist, the humans forming a rough circle as they did the same with their bayonets. From the left came one of the shambling undead, this one still wielding a stone knife in its hand. It was more agile than those that George had encountered before, likely because it was only recently deceased, and it had not begun to decay yet. Its eyes were unfocused, its jaw agape, a crater the size of an apple punched in its chest where a bullet had struck it.

It went for Marshall, who was closest, one of the warriors darting in to drive a spear into the thing’s belly. It scarcely seemed to notice, the wound doing little more than slowing its advance, the warrior’s hooves skidding in the dirt as he tried to force it back. From beside him came another obsidian-tipped spear, this one plunging into the undead Blighter’s ribs, but it didn’t even flinch. It was no wonder that they had been so impressed with the company’s guns if the undead were so resistant to stab wounds.

Marshall came to the rescue, driving his bayonet into the Blighter’s mouth, the silver blade impaling it through the palate. He pulled the trigger, smoke and sparks filling the Blighter’s head for a brief moment before it exploded into a red vapor. The now decapitated body slumped to the floor, the tattered stump that had been its neck eerily free of blood, as its heart had not been pumping.

It was a close-quarters fight now, against adversaries that did not feel pain and which no minor injury could incapacitate. One of the warriors was pulled from the circle of defenders as he stepped out to jab at one of the approaching Blighters, the ghoul grabbing hold of his arm, dragging the far weaker creature kicking and fighting into the mist. Those nearby rushed to his defense, but it was too late, the fog seeming to consume him.

“Move back into the camp!” Dawes shouted. “We need to put somethin’ between us and them, or we’ll be surrounded!”

As they began to retreat, another shot rang out, one of the undead that had stalked in from the fog to their right stumbling as a gunshot hit it in the shoulder. A second caught it in the chest, an arrow loosed by one of the warriors embedding itself in the staggering husk’s eye socket, finally halting its unsteady advance.

George was quickly starting to realize that they had been baited into a trap themselves.

Another of the undead Blighters came staggering into view, one of its arms dangling, tendon and muscle visible where it had almost been severed by a bullet. The other was extended, reaching for Daugherty, the doctor letting out a yell that was a blend of fear and anger as he swung the butt of his rifle into its face. It was enough to knock the thing back, and he followed up with a shot to its head, sparks showering as the projectile blew away most of its skull.

George stumbled over a spit, then bumped into one of the tents, feeling the coarse fabric through his jacket. They were within the perimeter of the camp now, and he could see more of the conical structures through the fog.

There was a cry of alarm from his right, and he turned to see Sam lurching away from something. On one of the flat tree stumps that the Blighters had been using to butcher their dead, there was a hottah head, its skull mostly stripped of meat. Even so, it was moving, its jaws opening in a silent bleat as its milky eyes peered back at Sam. Its flesh quivered, animated by dark magic.

“This place is a fuckin’ sideshow!” Sam exclaimed, letting his frustration get the better of him for a moment. Drawing his rifle back like a bat, he swung it into the head, sending it toppling to the ground.

Another of the undead set upon their left flank, the warriors there harrying it with jabs from their spears to little effect. It fell upon one of them clumsily, almost as if it had lost its footing, but it was a very deliberate move. The warrior was far smaller and lighter, and he was unable to crawl out from under it, his yelling quickly silenced as the creature began to choke him with its bony fingers. Fortunately, those nearby were able to help, Marshall driving his bayonet into his assailant’s head. Once he had driven it to the ground, he finished it off with another well-placed shot, then frantically began to reload as the other warriors closed ranks to cover him.

They were running out of bullets, but the numbers of risen were surely thinning.

“Stay together!” Dawes shouted, trying to rally the men. They were starting to spread out, each skirmish separating them more and more as they moved to evade and intervene. George glanced around, searching for Tia, and was relieved to see that she was nearby.

His attention was drawn to yet another of the shambling corpses as it came lunging at him from behind one of the tents. This one was far more putrid than the rest, a network of broken veins visible beneath its rotting skin, its flesh swollen with decay. It must have been dead far longer than the rest. It spotted him with its cloudy eyes, uttering a low moan that sounded more like a release of bodily gasses than a vocalization. It staggered through the swirling mist, George raising his rifle, taking careful aim. He couldn’t afford to miss.

It was only ten paces away, its head lolling back and forth with each step, as though the muscles in its neck had deteriorated to the point that they could no longer hold it aloft. He waited for the perfect moment, then squeezed his trigger, the rifle rocking back into his shoulder. The cloud of smoke obscured his vision, but when it cleared, he saw that the creature was toppling to the ground. It hit the soil with a wet slap, discolored gore leaking from the hole in its skull.

“George!” Tia shouted from somewhere behind him. He spun around to see her waving to him, spear in hand. “This way!”

He made his way over to her, Sam following after him, keeping his rifle aimed at the fog beyond as he retreated.

“What is it?” George asked breathlessly. The company was spread out all over the camp now, the sound of the occasional gunshot or yell ringing out. Tia had two of her warriors by her side, one armed with a spear, the other keeping an arrow nocked in her bow.

“We have the shaman’s scent,” she replied, gesturing between two nearby tents. “His foul odor is unmistakable. His magic is the cause of all this. If we can stop him, then perhaps...”

George nodded, following after the warriors as they bounded through the camp. He considered trying to rally more of the men, but none were even in sight, the clamor of battle filling the air. George and Sam could scarcely see twenty paces ahead of them, but Tia’s nose was keen, leading them on a winding path between tree stumps and cold campfires.

They soon arrived at the base of the large tent that George had seen before the fog had rolled in, its conical peak rising high enough that it disappeared into the haze. Its base was ringed with the same bent branches as the effigies, and the fabric that was stretched over its wooden frame was painted with bloody runes.

The five of them bunched up around the flap that led inside, George hearing the faint sound of chanting coming from within.

“How many bullets do you have left?” George whispered, Sam checking his pouch.

“One, and one loaded.”

“I have one,” he added. “Keep your wits about you. This is no normal old man.”

George and Sam took up position to either side of the flap, then at George’s signal, they rushed inside with their weapons at the ready.

The interior of the tent was maybe twenty feet from edge to edge, the air inside full of stinking smoke, some kind of pungent incense that turned George’s stomach. Hanging from the wooden frame were more runes made from bent sticks, painted with blood and feathers, turning slowly as they hung from their strings. George’s eyes widened as he spotted the old man. The robed figure was kneeling before some kind of altar that rose up in the center of the tent, and as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, George saw what it was made of.

It was a monumental totem hewn from a tree, the twisted roots still embedded in the black earth. It must have been here long before the tent, which had been erected around it, the trunk giving way to splintered wood perhaps fifteen feet above their heads. It was caked in dark tar, which seeped from the cracks in its rotting bark, coating it in a glistening layer that reeked of death. The faces on the totem had not been carved by human hands but had grown from within it, just like the trees that they had encountered in the forest outside. Distinctly human forms were frozen in place, clawing through the wood, stretching the hard material like they were trying to escape from beneath an oilskin. Their faces were contorted into expressions of fear and pain, dozens, hundreds of them blending together as they wound their way up the trunk. It was like a fevered vision of the underworld encapsulated in a sculpture.

They weren’t going to give the shaman a chance to outplay them again, Sam pulling his rifle tight against his shoulder, the tent filling with smoke as he fired. The bullet hit the old man’s back like a hammer, dark tar beginning to bleed from the hole in his robe, as though his veins were full of the stuff. When he barely flinched, George did the same, the second round hitting him between the shoulders. More dark fluid splattered on the totem, and only now did the shaman react, slowly rising to his feet as he continued his frenzied muttering. George watched in horror as he raised his hands above his head, joining them together in prayer, just like the bodies that had been staked to the effigies.