Gutted and Eaten

This morning I could smell the ocean on the breeze, and it sent a thrill through me. A man named Alexi caught the scent as well, and before any of us could stop him, he took off at a run from our camp.

Several of the others laughed and called for us to leave him be, that he would return soon enough, and, like any of us, he would not wander far.

I was surprised. Had we not already learned that we didn’t have to wander far to find death in the Hollow?

I got to my feet, and as I strapped on my guns, the crack of a rifle rang out through the air, shattering the peace of the morning.

Before any of the others reacted, I raced towards the sound. Unlike my comrades, I was able to heal quickly from injuries, and so I took it upon myself to find Alexi.

It took far longer than it should have to find the source of the rifle shot, but find it I did.

A small home with a thatched roof stood off to one side of a narrow road while fields divided by split-rail fences stretched out around it. I saw a family seated at a table, one man playing a small balalaika while another served tea from a samovar.

The wind shifted, and I smell strong tea and cooking meat, and I knew what had happened to Alexi.

The barrel of a rifle appeared from the window, and I drew my Colts and the fight that followed was short and brutal, and I gut shot the survivors as I passed them by.

I entered the house and found Alexi on his back. He had been gutted, and a section of his haunches was missing while a pot boiled over a fire. I gathered what material I deemed salvageable and then set fire to the home.

As I walked away from the burning building, I realized I would need to reload the brass shells for my Colts.

I paused a short distance away as the wind shifted, bringing me the scent of the ocean once again. Behind me, the house burned, and the wounded screamed.

End Jan. 15, 1890

Begin Jan. 16, 1890

The Hollow gives as much as it takes away, for such is the nature of the place. There is neither rhyme nor reason. It is chaos personified, deified, and – in the end – it is a duality that is too terrifying to ponder for long.

This afternoon is a perfect example of the strangeness of the Hollow.

We were moving slowly through a wooded area, the scent of the ocean unmistakable on the breeze now. Isaiah and I were discussing where we should make camp when one of our scouts cried out in surprise, never a pleasant sound in Gods’ Hollow.

Today it was.

Three men approached us, one who was young, the others were older and heavily bearded. When the two older men saw us, they stopped and let out cries of surprise. In a moment, those around me did the same.

The Akatuyians rushed past me en masse and embraced the two older men, and in a heartbeat, I knew why.

I was looking upon Bram and Aron, the two men who had been slain, buried, and devoured before our eyes.

Yet they were not the same. These men were obviously older, and we had witnessed their deaths only a few days before. When we sat down to break our fast and enjoy our meager meal, they told us their tale after we told them of how recently they had died.

They shook their heads and marveled at the difference between worlds.

For them, it had been nine years since the day of the women in white. And it had been the rest of us, myself included, who had been captured and slain by the women. They had tried to save us, Bram going so far as to strip my Colts from my corpse and firing them – a truth he confirmed when he unwrapped them from his bedroll – and when that did not work, they had fled.

During all this time, the young man remained silent. I had watched him and saw there was a strange familiarity about him.

Bram nodded, and the young man straightened up, offering me his hand.

“I am Marcus Blood,” he informed me as we shook hands, “and I am your son.”