Author's Notes: I don't even know what I'm doing with this. I just have a couple of ideas floating around in my head and wanted to get them down.
This is definitely in the same continuity as Looks Like You're Having Some Trouble, though it's not at all necessary to read that to figure out what's going on.
Chapter 1
"The hounds are baying," said Wendy, her wide, pale eyes focused away from the fire, toward the gathering gloom.
"Yes, dear," Mrs. Wickerbottom told her. "I hear them, too. Now, remember what we said about camouflage."
The girl's fingers found the rope, nimbly tied the bulky headgear over her fair hair. "Do you think it will serve?"
"You're the very picture of Ardisia crenata," Mrs. Wickerbottom said, but glanced her over one final time to be sure. Thick leaves, a glossy dark green, shielded most of the girl's face from view. With the makeshift headgear in place, crouched among the greenery, she would scarcely be seen. "Don't forget to take the sleep darts with you."
"Yes, ma'am," said Wendy, and she took hold of the hollow reeds with their precious contents.
Mrs. Wickerbottom gathered up the spear, herself. She threw another log onto the fire, and then a second, filling the thick wooden walls of their camp with a warm yellow glow. Then she took up her place just inside the narrow entryway, tense and watchful.
"Ma'am?" said Wendy's voice from where she crouched among the shrubs. "If death reaches out his hand for you tonight –"
"He'll go home disappointed," Mrs. Wickerbottom told her, firmly. "Now, hush. They're almost here."
Silence fell inside the little camp. The only sounds that reached their ears were the crackle of the fire and the distant howls of the hounds. Sunset dwindled into true dark, and Mrs. Wickerbottom's fingers began to ache from the grip she had on the haft of the spear.
At last, Wendy's voice came again: "Perhaps they've slain some other creature, instead."
It was what she had been thinking, herself. Usually, once they were in earshot, the beasts arrived in short fashion – guided by smell, doubtless, with the advantage of superior olfactory systems. But the moon was already rising, a round white cheese that hung low in the sky, and still not a pawed foot had stepped in their camp.
She shook her head, placed one narrow finger over her lips, as though hushing a student too loud in her library. Mrs. Wickerbottom crept toward the fire, where the flame was growing low, and added another log. Then she returned to her post.
From the darkness, she could still hear the yowling, strange and otherwordly. The sound drew tendrils of ice up her spine, and her palms on the spear were slick with sweat. What could be taking them? Had they stumbled upon sleeping beefalo, and attempted to hunt larger game?
Perhaps, for out there in the darkness she could hear snarls. But the great shaggy giants of the plains usually gave as good as they got, and there had been not one single canine yelp of pain.
Then they were close enough for her to make out footfalls, and she shelved the thoughts for later deliberation, paying attention instead to the pattering of feet against dark earth. Unexpectedly, an impact sounded – solid, as though with the wall – and then a low tearing noise.
There was not time to wonder what the sound could have been, for the footfalls kept coming – were at the narrow entryway that led into the camp, now. She hefted the spear, and from the corner of her eye, she could see the shift of foliage that indicated Wendy was ready to do her part.
Then the first figure staggered through the opening, and it was not a hound at all. It was a young man, hunched and stumbling, one arm pressed against his side where the black and red striped fabric of his shirt dripped with blood.
The hound was just behind him, slavering jaws snapping at his heels – and Mrs. Wickerbottom thrust the spear out sideways as it passed, felt the blade slice cleanly through muscle.
A second of the creatures followed, and the dart sailed through the air with flawless aim, landing with no sound at all among thick, dark fur. The hound pawed at the ground, raking up fresh dirt – thrashed its head, as though it could shake off the effects – and then it toppled sideways, its bulk tripping the third.
The first hound into camp forgot its pursuit and turned on Mrs. Wickerbottom now, intent on the spear that had wounded it. She brought the haft of the weapon up in time to intercept powerful jaws, sidestepped a mouthful of teeth. A flash of motion caught the corner of her eye and the third hound was down, its massive sides working like a bellows.
She lifted the spear again – came too close to the flashing teeth and fell back a step, alarmed by the miscalculation – and then the third dart found its target, and the last of them went still and silent.
Panting, Mrs. Wickerbottom finished the job: a spear to the carotid artery, fast and efficient, before they could wake.
In the silence that followed, she wiped a shaking hand across her brow, thinking not for the first time that she was entirely too old for this.
It was only then, when the adrenaline coursing through her system had nowhere to go and her ears told her that the world outside their walls held no more monsters for this evening, that she remembered their unexpected visitor.
He was hunched against the far wall, one thin arm outstretched to use the structure for support. The other clutched at his own torso, where blood dripped from between his fingers. His face was ghastly white, with smudges of black: the last remnants of face paint gone terribly awry.
From the bushes, Wendy rose, a small pale figure in the light of the fire. Her eyes were fixed on the new arrival, distantly fascinated.
"Death does walk here tonight," she said.
"He does not," Mrs. Wickerbottom corrected, "and he will not. Wendy, don't dawdle. Fetch the salve."
And with that, she turned toward the man in the corner.
"Show me," she demanded, but he shook his head, pulled away from her hand when she reached out.
"Don't be childish," said Mrs Wickerbottom, sternly. It was the kind of voice that had once made doctoral candidates shuffle their feet like reprimanded schoolboys. "I can stop the bleeding. Now, show me."
The tone of command served her well. The man – scarcely more than a boy, really – took his hand away reluctantly.
The wound was deep, and bleeding freely. She could see where the hound had sunk its teeth in and begun to pull; the edges were red and raw, still fresh. The arm itself was covered in half-healed burns; she could see them well enough, for the flames had licked away the fabric of his shirt there, leaving singed dark edges behind.
It was a small miracle of anatomy that he was still on his feet. He seemed ready to tip sideways at any second.
"Sit down," she advised him, and it was as though granting permission had cut the strings of a puppet. He sank slowly down until he was sitting back against the wall, eyes glazed and distant, half gone with pain and shock.
"Ma'am?" said Wendy, from where she'd appeared at Mrs. Wickerbottom's elbow.
"Thank you, dear," she said absently, and reached to take the leaf wrap that held the salve. To the bleeding man, she said: "Pull up your shirt."
He fumbled with the task, thin fingers awkward as he complied, and unveiled a mine field of bloody tooth marks.
"This will hurt," she warned him, and pressed the concoction to the wound.
The man's good hand made a fist in the fabric of his shirt where he held it, and he bit his lip and hissed in a breath, but he did not make a sound.
"Another," said Mrs. Wickerbottom, and Wendy pressed a second leaf into her hand. Deft fingers found the places where the puncture wounds were deepest and worked the healing salve in. The man's face crinkled in agony; the knuckles on his good hand were white with the strength of his grip.
She ignored him for the time being. Over the top of the newly-applied salve, she wrapped a makeshift bandage of spider silk, circled it twice around him, and tied it off neatly.
It wasn't until she finished that he relaxed, leaning hard against the wall and gulping air. He was trembling now, from pain or fear, or – more likely – both.
His gaze, dim and unfocused, was pointed somewhere over her shoulder, as though half expecting another hound to come charging in from the darkness beyond the walls. He flinched at nothing – drew back into himself – lowered his face into his hands and began to weep.
"Will he die?" asked Wendy, her strange, pale eyes fixed on the huddled form.
"Not tonight," said Mrs. Wickerbottom, firmly, and she went to fetch the bedroll.