‘As for the ‘Scorched Hills’ or ‘Devil’s Mark’ or whatever the fuck you want to call it, I don’t buy the stories told by the history teachers. I have family from there, and ancient journals from my great-great-great grandfather who was there personally, way back in 1852. If those monsters are from ‘rabies’ then I’m a monkey’s fucking uncle.

  Either the scientists, or whoever the fuck spreads this bullshit, are lying, or they don’t have any fucking clue what happened either and are making shit up. You should see the illustrations he did man, they’re fucking horrific.’ – Letter from Mark Buchanan – intercepted from rural Arkansas, circa 1998.

  — * —

  His lungs burned as he ran through the cursed forest. Branches whipped and scratched his ragged body as he stumbled ever forward. Behind him, creatures out of nightmares chased.

  The man’s legs pumped forward frantically and erratically as he was forced to jump over thick roots.

  That is until his exhaustion caught up with him. His tired legs just couldn’t exert the energy needed, and a root caught him by the toe and dragged him down.

  Panting and snarling beasts swiftly tore through the forest towards him, and he dug his fingers into the hard dark earth and drug himself forward.

  He turned his blurry grit-smeared eyes towards his demise.

  Withered skin met with gnarled yellowing claws and teeth. Where there should be eyes there were only dark pits filled with writhing creatures. These bipedal monsters masquerading as humans shambled ever closer.

  Suppressing a scream, the man stumbled and picked up his aching body. He knew he couldn’t keep up his sprint for much longer. He was a dead man running.

  Then, like a church bell signifying his rapture, a snap-crack of a bullet whizzed past his ear and into the head of one of the accursed possessed. The monster’s neck snapped back and the man nearly vomited as worm-like creatures clumped and oozed out of the sizable hole in the possessed’s head.

  Slowly, like a statue crumbling, the monster fell apart. The… What used to be a woman’s body convulsed and seized as holes and pits opened all over its meat suit. The same slimy creatures from her head also writhed out of the rest of what used to be a body.

  Finally, he couldn’t stand to watch any longer when worms came crawling from under the body’s fingernails, gruesomely pushing them off the rotting corpse. He turned away retching as the noises of a body being turned to nothing but viscera continued behind him.

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  A few softer cracks went off after the first, killing the rest of the monsters following him.

  The man let out a sigh of relief as the rest of the Possessed were put to rest. He laid his injured body against the side of a gnarled oak and rested his eyes. For a moment, all he did was look down at his hands, marveling that he was still alive.

  A short while later, his savior came walking through the brush, if you could even call the wiry dead wood that grew from the ground that.

  The sharpshooter was a simply dressed man in a navy blue long coat. He had a rifle on his back and two revolvers, one on each hip. Judging by the leather ammo containers on his belt and the satchel he kept handy, he was a well-prepared fellow.

  Finally, he came into close enough view to make out his face. He was a fair-skinned man with green eyes and what was probably blonde hair, before it was stained by dirt and detritus.

  The man resting on the tree held his breath for a moment.

  “You alright?” The fair-skinned man asked.

  “I am thanks to you.” He responded, sounding almost suspicious.

  The fair-skinned man was confused for a moment, before coming to realize that the man he had just saved was black, and didn’t have much context of who he was.

  “I ain’t here to hurt you, I promise. I’m from the Northeast, raised in Fayetteville, and I fought for the Union. I swear I ain’t one of them Confederate fucks, mister.” The man was quick to reassure.

  “Well that’s mighty relieving to hear you say. Names Gabriel, what’s yours mister sharpshooter?” He asked politely after breathing an internal sigh of relief.

  “The name’s Jacob Buchanan, nice to meetcha Gabriel. Now, if you don’t mind my asking, what in the blazes are you doing out in this hellhole?”

  “Now that, sir, is a good question. I just… Felt like I needed to. I guess that ain’t a very good reason, is it?” He laughed nervously.

  “No sir, it ain’t. I’d recommend you leave before you get killed. If compulsion does bring you back, at least make sure to bring a gun, will ya?”

  “Not to sound ungrateful, sir, but where would you suggest I get a gun? Not many people ‘round here willing to sell to someone like me. Why’d you think I came here unarmed in the first place?” Gabriel explained.

  “I won’t deny that you make a good point. Here, take this-” Jacob paused a moment to write a short note, “to Joseph Smith up in Fayetteville. He’ll get you settled. It’s still technically illegal, but with the Union in control, no one will prosecute him. The war’s pretty much over anyway, if it ain’t actually over, anyway. You know how news is. Might as well ride to Washington myself with how slow it is.” Jacob complained good-naturedly.

  Gabriel pocketed the letter and thanked him before making his way to leave.

  “Ah- Actually, one more thing, take this with ya.” Jacob handed him a dinky little derringer with a smile, “It ain’t much, but it might slow one of them beasts down. If you don’t mind, hand that in to Joseph when you get there, that derringer there was my mother’s.”

  “Thanks again mister Buchanan. You better believe I’ll repay you for this one day.” Gabriel said.

  “Repay me by making it Joseph. That pistol means a lot to me!”

  “I will sir, and I’ll see you again when I return. This time, hopefully better armed.” He said with a smile.

  “Amen to that!”

  And with that, their chance encounter ended, and Jacob was once more alone in the cold desolate forest. He sighed as he made his way back to his camp. He would have to reload those four rounds he fired, and he was beginning to run low on supplies. He was down to only scraps of nitrated paper, and even fewer bullets. Jacob dreaded it, but soon he’d have to make his way down to base camp.

  Perhaps unsurprisingly, most everyone who made their way to a town infested with accursed supernatural creatures weren’t normal. Hell, it was why he told Gabriel to go to his hometown, much better there than the crapshoot that was Devil’s Landing.

  The sprawling not-quite-town was home to freaks and wackos galore. And also some of the smartest people to ever grace Arkansas’ borders… Not that such a statement was saying much.