Author's Note: Sequel of sorts to my story "Home is Where You Hang Your Hawthorn", since a couple people wanted to hear more about the unnamed hunter. Here it is.

The gash poured blood, dripping down his fingers. It was too dark to tell if it was as bad as it felt or just worse. He tried to run, but there wasn't much left in him after the last hour and a half. Just stumble then. Crawl if you hafta. He could hear Charlie's voice saying it in his head, so clear and solid like he was really whispering it. You wanna die quivering in a pool of your own blood?

No, he didn't. Maybe he was gonna die tonight, but it wasn't going to be on the floor like a frightened child, or worn out like an old man. He was gonna die standing, that much he was sure of.

Get to the bag and find the salt. Get to it, damn it. He shuffled across the concrete floor, his legs starting to feel like lead, stiff and heavy. Bad sign. Blood loss. Or was that light-headedness? Maybe it was both.

It was bad gamble coming here tonight. Charlie would have said so, would have laughed at him if this was one of their poker games and he'd made this bet. Maybe it was just stupid, or suicidal. Still....

He almost fell over when he hit the bag, forgetting for a moment what he was doing, where he was going, because he could see Charlie laughing now like in the old days. Ringing in his ears, loud and deep. Good old Charlie. But there was the bag, where he left it in a pool of light from the dripping candles. No, it was a pool of his blood. Stop moping and get the damn salt.

Okay, Charlie. He rifled through the bag, found the box by touch alone. Were those footsteps? He froze before he realized that was stupid, footsteps, yeah they were footsteps, rip open the box--

He poured it in a sloppy circle around him and his bag. He checked for bare spots, but it was really getting dark now, or maybe just his eyes were. He twisted his neck around, straining in the almost dark, just him and the little flickering candle lights now and those footsteps.

You gotta get the gun now, kid. Iron rounds. You know which ones. They were there in his bag, handmade, each bullet formed by his own hands so that he knew them all like they were his own children. Every cross etched into the surface with a nail put there by him. Good clean bullets in the gun. It was very hard to load them when his hands were wet with blood and shaking besides.

They were in. Six bullets. Six chances. Please God, don't let the firing mechanism get faulty on me again.

They didn't make much sound, never talked. All he heard were their footsteps, so soft and deliberate. They weren't scared at all. He couldn't see them, and it went against his grain to shoot at something he couldn't see. Besides, he only had the six bullets.

Wait it out. They want you too. He breathed in and out, nice and slow, heart beating fast and pumping out more of his blood. There was quite a nice collection of it now around him, and it made them hungry, pacing around outside his puddle of light and blood like dogs. He liked dogs, he used to have one when he was a kid, but he'd had to kill it after--

You don't get to die yet. First ya got work to do, so pay attention. Still nothing. He blinked hard, trying to see through the dark while his brain was swimming. There. Something. Black, darker than the shadows, moving for a second. He raised the gun up but they saw it and the black thing was gone again. Damn. He wasn't sure if the voice was his or Charlie's.

He was getting cold on the concrete floor and felt the beginnings of shivers. Loosing too much blood and he did not, did not want to die hunched over like this, crouching on the floor. He wanted to go out with his boots on. Go out swinging like Charlie had. It almost brought a smile to his lips.

Standing up was hard. He pushed against the ground with his gun, finger on the trigger still. The candles were almost burned out in pools of greasy wax, bound to go out soon. He straightened up and felt the weight of the gun in his hand. Good old familiar weight.

He stepped out of his haphazard salt circle with his boots on with his blood pumping with his trigger finger itching. The first one came at him from behind, loud all the sudden and he turned and shot it full in the face. If it could be called that. He didn't wait for the sound of it landing. One, Charlie counted in his head.

He ducked down to his knee as he heard the next one coming, faster now. They could move when they wanted to. That screeching sound again that still got to him, on both sides--

He rolled in one quick motion and fired above into the black. The bullet connected and the screeching stopped.

Two.

On the ground now, crawling up beside him worm-like, slithering like a corpse. He twisted and aimed without stopping to think--

Three.

There were still more. Rustling in the corners, somewhere unseen. He stood up, stumbling, wiping sweat and blood out of his eyes with the back of his gun hand. He had rolled into one of the candles and felt the hot wax cooling on his skin, the room that much darker now. Breathing. Was that him? No, behind him--

He shot. Heard the bullet ricochet off bare concrete, useless. You're down to two bullets, kid. It was so quiet. The quiet was the worst of it all. He danced his eyes around the room, scared to stop for longer than a split second, scared he'd miss it, scared he'd see it.

He felt something on his back and his heart jumped. Just a pillar, a steel support beam or something. Cover, get behind it, formulate some kind of plan, just the two bullets left and something still in this room. He crouched down and listened, imagining the thing out there doing the same, listening in the dark and waiting.

Two bullets left. He wasn't going to make it.

The candles went out.

You don't get to die yet, kid, Charlie repeated.

Then it rushed at him. He tried to move but the pillar was in the way and he was stuck against it and damn, didn't it move fast. Like wind rushing at him, smelling like death and his own blood and--

Bang.

He didn't hear anything. No rustling, no screeching. Not even his own breath, which reminded him he needed to breathe. He could feel it dead in front of him. He stumbled over to his bag, feeling his way across the floor with his feet and lit a match. He re-lit one of the candles and held it up. There were still dark corners and he had to check, but he already knew he'd killed the last one. Five bullets, one to spare for the ride home.

"Guess I'm not dead yet, Charlie," he said to the empty room.