fire.”
Connelly sat beside him. The rest followed suit and rain began to lightly fall. They set out cups to catch the drops to later funnel into their canteens.
“I heard one or two things while I was wandering,” Connelly told them. “I ran into some folk who knew a thing or two about Shivers.”
“How?” asked Hammond.
“I didn’t ask. They were nice but sort of strange. I listened and when that was done I left.”
“What did they say, Mr. Connelly?” Pike asked. “What news did they give you?”
He told them.
They were not all that surprised, he thought. Then again, the idea was not new to them. They had imagined the gray man as a monster for so long that labels and names became pointless.
“So,” said Pike. “We hunt Death itself, do we?”
“It would seem,” Connelly said.
He stared into the fire. “I would call that a worthy cause.”
“Folks been having trouble with Mr. Death since forever, though,” said Peachy. “Why are we different?”
“Change is in the wind,” Pike said.
“Yes,” Connelly said. “Things are changing. Shifting. He knows he’s weak and he’s slowing down.”
“His time is over,” Pike added. “And he fears you, does he not, Mr. Connelly?”
Peachy nodded glumly. “If you say so.”
“I’d take a run at that,” Hammond said. “Yes sir, I would.” He rubbed his mouth and toyed with his makeshift eyepatch, his face hungrier than Connelly had ever seen.
“And when we’re done we can rest,” said Connelly. “We can rest and go home.”
“Wishing is bad,” said a muffled voice.
“What?” said Connelly.
They turned. Roosevelt crawled out of a tent and sat in the dirt, looking confused. His eyes were little and unfocused. “Wishing is bad,” he said again. “It makes you hurt. Makes all the missing parts hurt, makes them open up new and makes them bleed.”
“Rosie, go back to bed,” Hammond said.
“You take out a part of you,” Roosevelt murmured. “Take it out and blow on it and toss it to the winds like dust, and you say, ‘Find all the missing parts of me. Go out among the world and find the missing parts of me.’ But instead of getting back what you lost you just lose more. Wishing is bad. Wish long enough and there won’t be any of you left.”
“Go back to bed, Mr. Roosevelt,” Pike said sternly. “Go back and rest. You need it.”
Roosevelt played with his bottom lip, then crawled back into his tent. He did not seem aware of anything around him at all.
“He’s gotten worse,” Pike explained. “He mutters often. Whatever the gray man did to him, there does not seem to be any repair.”
Connelly looked at Roosevelt’s tent. Remembered the screaming he had heard in the jail and the way his friend had pawed at his knees like an animal. He pulled his coat tight.
“We have heard some strange news ourselves, Mr. Connelly,” Pike said to him. “Though it was by no means as stunning as yours.”
“What was it?”
“Apparently our quarry traveled through Marion before. I suspect it was a safe haven for him where the sheriff could offer protection, or perhaps it was just an entertaining trap to toy with us.”
“I had heard that, too,” said Connelly, frowning at Pike.
“You may have been right to have believed that man so long ago,” admitted Pike. “Korsher? Was that him?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes. I-I wanted so badly to… to be able to hurt this man that I was not willing to listen.” He rubbed his beard, took off his cap, then replaced it. He said, “But I listen now, as should you—there was a young man Hammond met not more than a week ago who had heard a story from his grandmother. A story about another group of men who had come through these very towns and cities, looking for a man with revenge on their minds. The boy could not recall if the man they searched for was scarred or not, or if he was the same thing as we hunt now, but I feel it is. He told us they were all found dead,” he said flatly. “All of them killed, up in the mountains. Found by a mining team. Well, all but one. There was one they never found. A young blond man, they never did find his corpse. But the rest died in their attempt.”
“How long ago was this?” asked Connelly.
“Sixty years. Seventy. Maybe even a hundred. It’s a story, the boy said, just a story… But out here, tales and stories don’t seem like playthings. It feels as though time sits and stagnates and ferments in some spots out here. It’s a feeling you get.” He looked down at the fire. “The road is not like other places.”
“What do you mean? It’s just a road,” said Peachy. “Just a road, I think.”
“Do you? I think everyone’s seen a few strange things along it, yes, but… but sometimes the road goes through places that are… not normal.” He scratched his face and said, “The road is more than just dirt. Or stone. It’s bigger than that. And where it’s bigger it goes into other places. That or these places cling to the road. They cling to it as mistletoe clings to the tree branch, desperate to be seen by those walking by. Perhaps desperate to lure someone away from the road, and draw them in.”
“We’ve been there,” said Connelly. “We’ve been in those places. Yes.”
“And seen the truth of things,” Pike said.
“This has happened before,” Hammond said softly.
“Yes,” said Pike. “But your news gives us heart, Mr. Connelly. This thing can be killed, you say, and I believe you. You said it could not be done easily. I agree. And yet I feel that all of us,
“I think I understand, a little,” said Connelly. “This… this man and the world he walks in. They’re twined together. He’s its Death, the end of everything alive in it. But look at what the world has become. Old and broken and dying. And there’s him. Crazy and mad. An animal. A wild thing. He’s winding down and so it’s winding down. The world is dying and so is he.” Connelly licked his lips. “If we kill the Death of this world, well. Maybe we change it.”
“But what comes next?” said Hammond.
Connelly shrugged. “Anything’s better than this. Anything.”
The rain increased. They moved the fire beneath a tree stick by stick, but once there Pike shook his head and said, “Enough of this. I’m tired as it is. I’m going to my tent and I advise all of you to do the same.” He stood up and entered his shelter and was quiet.
“How are you doing?” said Hammond once he was gone. “I mean, really.”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Monk didn’t just leave,” he said softly.
“What?”
“Monk didn’t just leave. Or at least, I don’t think he did.”
“What happened?”
“After the fight at the jail we was all shook up,” said Hammond. “I lost a finger and an eye but I’ve gotten along all right. Monk took one in the arm, Pike got grazed. We had guns we had bought or stolen from a few places and we shot back, maybe killed a few, I don’t know. We got away and recovered once they couldn’t find the sheriff. When we had healed up Monk said he didn’t want to go any further. Said he should have gone with Lottie. Said this wasn’t worth it anymore and he was giving up and he encouraged all of us to do the same.”
“And?”
“Pike said he and him should have a talk. Talk about this like learned gentlemen, he said. So they went off and did. They were gone a long while. Only Pike came back and he said they discussed it and he gave Monk his blessing and sent him on the road. Said Monk felt so guilty he didn’t want to say goodbye or take any of our food. But Pike was all out of breath. All out of breath and he had hurt his hand. I don’t know where Monk is now but I
