Longhunter

"It's like the land itself is sick," Sam said, scanning the area with his rifle at the ready. "You can feel it in the air, like it's somehow...heavy."

"Feels like we're being watched," Meyer muttered, pausing at the head of the group. "Isn't this proof enough for Dawes that we shouldn't go any further?"

George opened his journal, making another mark on his map.

"The pattern is starting to show," he replied, his eyes fixed on the page. "The further West we go, the more sickness there is, the more the forest changes. If we keep going, maybe we'll find the source, something that might explain what's happening here."

"Do we want to?" Sam asked, turning to glance at him.

"Yeah, I don't share your academic interest," Meyer added.

"I vote we keep going," Marshall said. "No reason to turn back with nothing to show for it. You heard what Dawes said. We ain't going anywhere until we have something that'll satisfy the Company. The faster we get that done, the faster we can get the hell out of here."

There were a few nods from the other men, and it seemed like the objections had been overruled.

"I don't think we could circle around it if we wanted to," George added as he gestured to his map. A few of the men crowded around him to peer over his shoulder. The map was crude, but it showed a few landmarks, enough for them to get their bearings. "We're approaching the foot of this mountain here," he said, pointing to it. He glanced up, able to see its snowy peak rising through the canopy in the distance. "It seems to be concentrated here."

"Could something from the mountain be causing it?" Sam wondered.

"No idea," George said with a shrug.

"Come on, no sense dawdling," Marshall said as he waved them on.

***

Dusk had fallen, the sky growing darker, that obscuring fog rolling in over the ferns in a carpet of ghostly white again. It swirled around their feet as they marched, the full moon creating pools of pale light where it bled through the canopy. There wasn't much of one out here. Most of the leaves had been shed from the naked branches, as though they were in the midst of a harsh winter. That wasn't the case, however. They had been coming across trees that hadn't yet succumbed to the disease until a few hours ago, their leaves still verdant, their roots and bark still providing a home for flourishing mosses and fungi.

"I feel like it's about to start snowin'," Sam grumbled. He had draped the woolen blanket he used for sleeping over his head and shoulders for extra warmth, securing it around his waist with a length of cordage to form a kind of poncho. George was considering doing the same. The biting cold was creeping in through his clothes.

"We should find a place to make camp," Smith suggested. "I need to warm myself by a fire pretty soon, or I feel like I'm gonna start losing fingers."

After scouting around for another half hour or so, they found a suitable place. The forest was dense here, and there were no clearings that they could find, but they would be able to string up their shelters between the trunks.

They suspended the oilskin tarps that they used as tents between the trees, passing ropes through the tie-out loops that were woven into the material, creating rudimentary lean-to shelters. They were attached to the nearby trunks in a rough triangle, with two ropes to hold them up and another to pull them outward to give them a little more headroom. They didn't provide as much protection as the tents, but they would shield them from the wind.

Collecting firewood was a bit of a challenge in this area. An abundance of dead wood would usually be ideal, but the fallen branches here weren't just dead, they were decaying. They would sometimes pick up what looked like an ideal piece of kindling, only to have it practically disintegrate in their hands, turning into a foul-smelling dust. It had almost ceased to behave like wood, as if instead of sapwood, the trunks were filled with rotting meat. Still, they managed to get enough to start a fire, the six men huddling around its glow as they peered out warily at the dark woods.

"I haven't seen any sign of any animals so far," Sam said. "No tusk marks on the trees, no footprints, not so much as a chipmunk. Where the hell have they all gone?"

"Maybe they can sense the rot," Meyer suggested, pulling his blanket tighter around himself. "Remember how the horses reacted when the tatanka was nearby?"

George suspended a cooking pot from the tripod that they had placed over the fire, starting to make another round of soup. Warm food would be a boon right now, even if he felt like he could barely move his stiff hands. How had it gotten so cold so quickly? It wasn't the altitude -- they weren't nearly high enough yet.

When the soup was ready, he passed around the ladle, George able to feel the warmth of every mouthful sliding down into his stomach. Immediately, the men's spirits were lifted, and they began to engage in more conversation as they ate.

The time soon came to turn in, George wrapping himself in his sleeping blanket as best he could. Usually, one would fashion a makeshift bed from fallen leaves for some added comfort and insulation, but there were no leaves here. Cocooned in his blanket and exhausted from all the walking, it wasn't all that difficult to get to sleep.

***

"What the fuck is this!?"

George was woken by raised voices, and he quickly untangled himself from his blanket, shuffling out from beneath his lean-to. Smith and Marshall were standing just outside the camp, looking at something up in the trees. George shared a worried glance with Sam as his friend emerged from beneath his oilskin tarp, more of their company roused by the ruckus. It was morning, the fog still lingering, the sun just starting to rise behind the mountain.

"What's going on?" George asked, suppressing a yawn.

"Someone was here in the night," Smith snapped, turning to look at him with wide eyes. George couldn't tell if it was fear or anger, but something had rattled the man.

"There ain't nobody else out here," Sam said groggily, walking over to join them. "What do you mean?"

He pointed up into a nearby tree, George's blood running cold as he followed the man's finger. Up in the branches was an object, clearly man-made, hanging from a piece of hairy string. It was fashioned from small twigs that had been assembled into a diamond shape, more sticks crisscrossing it to create an odd pattern, one that clearly held some kind of meaning to the person who had constructed it. If that wasn't unnerving enough, it had been painted with what looked like dried blood, clumps of dark hair and what might be feathers glued to it. Now that he was looking more closely, the string might actually be woven from hair too.

"If one of you put that there as some kind of practical joke," Marshall began, but nobody stepped forward.

"Look, there are more," Smith said as he gestured to the forest floor. The group spread out to examine the area, finding that the whole camp had been encircled with them. Each one had the same design as the last, and they were all painted with the same macabre coating of blood and hair. Some were hanging from the tree branches, while others had been driven into the dark soil on stakes.

"There are natives out here," Meyer hissed, glancing out into the forest. "That's the only explanation. This is some kind of warning. They're telling us to get out of their territory."

"What kind of natives encircle a camp in the night and just leave a bunch of sticks behind?" Sam demanded, kicking over one of the fetishes. "I've had my share of encounters with unfriendly natives, and I ain't never seen 'em spare a man who was trespassin' just 'cos he happened to be asleep at the time."

"What more encouragement do you people need?" Meyer asked, turning to face the rest of the group. "We have to turn back. We aren't supposed to be here. Next time they sneak up on us in our sleep, they might decide to butcher us instead of leaving a warning."

"This doesn't make any sense," Marshall said, kneeling to examine one of the strange icons. "We didn't hear a thing, and they came right up to the camp. Why would they just leave?"

"We should be thanking our lucky stars, that's what we should be doing," Meyer added. "Come on, let's pack up the tents and go. Wayas are one thing, but I'm not here to tangle with savages."

"What if they're friendly?" George suggested, shrugging his shoulders. "We brought gifts and barter items so that we could treat with any uncontacted tribes that we met."

"Yeah, because leaving fetishes painted with blood is a friendly gesture," Meyer scoffed. "If you want to walk out there and try to pacify them with beads and silver, be my guest, but I'm not sticking around."

Everyone had been spooked by the strange artifacts, and even Marshall was starting to second-guess himself now. Even six men armed with rifles wouldn't be enough to fight off a native war party, especially when they knew the lay of the land.

"I say we vote on it," Meyer said. "Who wants to keep going?"

Nobody raised their hand, and as much as George was curious about the source of the corruption that was plaguing the forest, he didn't either.

"Well, fuck it," Meyer said as he started to untie the cordage that was holding up his tent. "What are we waiting for? Let's get the hell out of here."

***

They packed up their gear and headed back in the direction of the base camp, making good time, as they weren't stopping to catalog trees or survey the area. Something seemed wrong, however. There was still an abundance of sick trees and blighted land, rather than the healthier forest they had trekked through to get there. It was day, but one could hardly tell. The same thick fog clouded the sky to the point that George could scarcely make out the treetops, casting the forest into shadow, the bitter cold making his teeth chatter.

"Hang on," George said, stopping the party. "This isn't right."

"What's wrong?" Sam asked, turning to glance back at him.

George rummaged in his pocket, pulling out his compass and opening the brass case. His heart sank as he watched the needle dart about erratically.

"My compass isn't working. I don't know what direction we're heading in."

"Damn it, Ardwin," Marshall growled. "Did you sit on the goddamned thing or somethin'?"

"No!" George protested, the man marching over to snatch it from his hand. He held it up, watching the needle spin. "It isn't broken, it's just not showing North anymore. Maybe...magnetic rock in the hills?"

"Well, this is just great," Smith grumbled as he threw up his arms in a display of exasperation. "Now we're lost."

"We're not lost," George corrected, Marshall handing him back his compass rather apologetically. "The mountain was due West of us, which means that as soon as this mist clears, we can use it to get our bearings. Don't worry."

"The mist has been here since last night," Sam said, glancing up at the treetops. "It's not showin' any sign of goin' away."

"Should we stay put?" Meyer asked. "Wait for it to clear up?"

"You can bet your life that we're bein' tracked as we speak," Marshall replied. "We need to keep movin'."

"Even if we don't know where we're going?"

The men began to argue amongst themselves, unsure of what course of action to take. George started to wander away in the meantime, waving his compass around like it was a dowsing rod, seeing if the needle would go straight. To his disbelief, it actually worked, the little needle springing into position.

"Hey!" he shouted, interrupting their argument. "I have something here!"

The men walked over to see what he was doing, Marshall leaning over his shoulder to get a look at the compass.

"Did you fix it?"

"I don't think so," George replied, scratching his head beneath his wide-brimmed hat. "Unless we got really turned around, I don't see how North could be in this direction. I think the needle is pointing to something else, and it's nearby," he added as he waved the compass. "Look, see it moving?"

"What the hell is it?" Sam wondered, peering into the trees ahead.

"Might just be a big lodestone," George replied with a shrug. "We don't have anywhere else to go, though."

They began to walk in the direction the compass was pointing, following it between the trees, the way that the needle moved more and more when George turned letting him know that they were getting closer.

"Look," Sam whispered, gesturing to the branches above. George stopped to glance up, seeing that more of the charms that the natives had left around their camp were hanging there on string made from dark hair, the bent twigs painted with gore. There were dozens of them, dangling from every visible tree like morbid yuletide decorations, staked into the ground at random intervals. The air seemed somehow thicker here, colder, like the very atmosphere was weighing down on George's shoulders.

Through the fog, a dark shape came into view, a rank smell carrying on the wind. It wasn't moving, and it seemed too large to be an animal. The men readied their weapons as they trudged through the dark mud, imbued with the foul tar that was leaking from the surrounding trees.

The object ahead of them looked like it might be a bonfire of some sort, a collection of broken branches and sticks all arranged in a cone, but only its silhouette was visible. As they approached, and it came into focus, George had to suppress the bile that rose in his gullet. At the center of the construct was a jagged, broken tree trunk, so decayed by the strange disease that it looked charred. A person had been nailed to it, or rather something that had once been a person, its hands raised above its head in a kind of morbid prayer. It was the upper half of a human torso, still covered in strips of dark, rotted flesh, the pale bones of the rib cage showing through. The end of its severed spine hung below it like a tail, its face little more than a skull, the open jaw still connected by remnants of sinew. There were wooden stakes hammered between the bones of its wrists to keep them raised, more through its chest, suspending the corpse on the broken trunk. Bent branches and sticks had been lovingly arranged around its base, reaching up towards it like a funeral pyre that had never been lit, all of them painted with the same blend of blood and hair that they had seen on the native charms. There were more strange shapes made from twigs, and what could only be runes carved into the wood, the care that must have been required to produce the grisly monument contrasting starkly with its cruelty.

"Oh, what the fuck?" Smith grumbled, George hearing one of them start to retch behind him.

"Goddamned savages," Marshall added, expressing his disgust through anger. "Was this one of their own? Someone from another tribe?"

"We need to get the hell out of here," Meyer said, shaking his head as he began to retreat backwards.

"Halt!" Marshall said with a commanding wave of his hand. "Don't lose your nerve, man. Remember what happened to Baker?"

Meyer looked no less unhappy, his face as pale as a bedsheet, but Marshall's warning was enough to stop him from fleeing into the woods.

George covered his mouth and nose, starting to trudge around the base of the structure, the ferns that had once grown there wilted and decayed. He could scarcely look at the body. Even years of dissecting animals and examining pickled creatures in jars hadn't prepared him for such a sight.

"This is what the compass was pointing to," he said, his voice muffled by his sleeve.

"Why?" Marshall demanded, sparing another disgusted glance at the staked corpse.

"It must be magnetic," he replied. "Maybe...maybe they piled lodestones in there somewhere. Maybe they think there's something sacred about them." It wasn't much of an explanation -- he wasn't even convincing himself. "If there are more of these pyres nearby..."

"That's what was throwin' off the compass," Marshall whispered, turning to watch the surrounding trees warily. "Just what the fuck are these savages doing out here?"

"Isolated populations can develop all sorts of strange customs," George began. "For all we know, they might believe that staking out their dead on trees will bring the rains, or maybe that sacrificing whoever draws the short straw will confer some kind of blessing from whatever deities they worship."

"This don't look like that," Sam added, walking up to the base of the pyre. "Somethin's wrong here. Don't y'all feel that? Like...it's sappin' all the warmth out of the forest. I feel like I'm breathin' molasses, the air's so heavy."

"Still want to see if they'll give us safe passage in exchange for a few shiny beads?" Meyer asked, George rolling his eyes in response.

"We should take him down," Sam added, slinging his rifle over his shoulder as he prepared to climb up the mound of branches. "Give him a proper burial."

"Why in the hell would we do that?" Meyer snapped.

"Just help me, would you?" Sam asked.

"We wouldn't even be here if we'd stayed put like I said," Meyer continued, another argument starting to break out. The sound of raised voices echoed through the trees until Smith called out, the fear in his voice palpable.

"Shut up and look!"

George turned to glance at him, seeing that he had shouldered his rifle, the barrel pointing out into the trees as the man stood as still as a statue. He followed his gaze, drawing his own rifle when he saw what had Smith so rattled.

Standing perhaps a hundred feet away, just visible through the mist, was a figure. This was no shambling corpse. It was a stout man, standing upright as he peered back at the group. He wore only a loincloth that hung down between his legs, made from some kind of tanned leather, his head adorned with an elaborate wreath. It perched atop his mane of dark hair like a crown, bent sticks and what might be pieces of antler jutting up into the air, decorated with feathers. His already ashen skin was painted with what might be some kind of white peat, creating a cracked layer that adhered to his body, giving him a ghostly appearance.

The men formed a firing line, three of them kneeling, the other three standing over them as they stared the stranger down. Their display must have come off as aggressive, even to someone who had never seen a rifle before, but they weren't taking any chances.

"What's he doin'?" Sam whispered, training his gun on the native.

"I dunno," Smith replied, keeping his voice low. "He's just standing there looking at us."

"We must look as strange to him as he does to us," George added. "Careful now. We don't want to frighten him..."

"Frighten him," Meyer scoffed. "God forbid we should make him feel uncomfortable."

The native reached into a pouch that was hanging from his leather belt, producing a carved object. As he brought it to his mouth, George realized that it was some kind of instrument, maybe a whistle.

"Oh, maybe he's going to play us a tune," he said.

As the stranger blew into the whistle, it produced a sound that could only have been compared to the scream of a man being burned alive. It was one of the most horrible things George had ever heard, the noise piercing him, transcending simple alarm to imbue him with a kind of primal fear that he hadn't felt even when facing down the waya.

A shot rang out, then a second, blood spraying from the native as the force of the impacts knocked him off his feet like he had been hit by a sledgehammer. In the distance, they heard more whistles, screams of agony surrounding them in every direction as the tribal's companions answered his call.

"Run!" Marshall bellowed, Smith and Meyer reloading as they began to flee. Nobody had any idea where they were going. With the compass broken and the fog clouding the sky, all they could do was run away from the grisly monument that the natives had erected. They raced through the trees, stumbling in the dense underbrush, hopping over protruding roots and fallen branches. More whistles echoed through the forest, the natives coordinating, using the terrifying instruments to communicate at a distance.