General Slauson stroked his moustache thoughtfully, standing beside Ives' bedside, his shoulders stiff and legs parted firmly with what the Wendigo could only assume was the flushed strength of the meal in his belly. There would not be much left. He supposed getting rid of the bones instead of saving them for extra stock later had been a good idea. By now the man would surely have noticed something odd about the stew if he hadn't.
At the moment, it would be far easier to relax first, recover, and have a much better meal. Keep the rest of the meat fresh while they weathered out the storm.
"I did what I had to, General, sir," Ives remarked, in great spirits, tiring of the tense silence as Slauson pondered the story he'd fashioned the night they'd been brought in, and insisted Ives tell him at least three more times until he was satisfied.
He was freshly bandaged, though by now after this last bowl he certainly didn't need any more, relaxing in bed, and seeing firsthand exactly how the restorative powers of his 'cooking' worked on the elderly. Not quite as nicely, but surely enough to have given the man another decade. Perhaps even tenderize his muscles enough to make them more palatable, should the need arise. Ives had never been overly-fond of the flesh of the infirm or aging. It was best young and fresh, wherein the strength of a man or woman's true spirit was at its peak.
Initially, he'd wanted to make General Slauson like himself, but unfortunate circumstances having arisen, his desire to expand was not nearly so great anymore. After all, Hart had been a miserable disappointment.
"Unfortunately," Ives cleared his throat, "I do not think Knox will be caught. Likely...he'll have died out there in the snow by now, or been devoured by wild animals," he waved a hand casually in the hour, "devoured by wolves. I shouldn't think we'll find anything else but bones when the thaw sets in."
"You're recovering well," the General replied, "you needn't worry yourself about him. Soon, weather permitting, I will be setting out to bring back reinforcements. Lindus will remain to see to your needs, though given how you're faring, I don't think you'll need him so much as Captain Boyd will."
Ah, yes. Boyd. The late riser. What an interesting little game this would be. He wondered what the Captain would do, once he was awake. Play the hero card again? Warn them of the dangers they faced at Fort Spencer if they so much as turned their backs on Ives? Ives was eager to learn. Perhaps a visit was in order, then, when the others retired. He was more than capable of walking now. Much more.
"Don't be too harsh on him, sir, he recovered much of his senses before this incident, and once Martha left to fetch the pair of you. I must say, some of the terrors Knox brought back to this Fort made Captain Boyd a much...stronger soldier," Ives lips twitched into his pleasant and perhaps just a little deceptive smile.
Then, as if he were in the position to do the dismissing and not the General himself, Ives picked up the book he'd had in his lap, a composition of satirical essays, numbering among them one he couldn't quite see fault with and was in fact reading for the tenth time or more, 'A Modest Proposal.'
General Slauson, not quite observant enough to note the action, bowed his head to Ives, "good day, Colonel. If you find yourself in need of anything, I'm sure Lindus will be in shortly to aid you."
Once the man was gone, Ives found it more than appropriate to grab a small cigar he'd been saving for just such an occasion as this, tucked away in his fresh and folded uniform placed neatly at a chair beside his bed. It would have to be lit, so he was forced to reach for his worn box of matches beneath the bed itself.
A dragon in his den, Ives savored the smoke streaming from his lips, remembering how good it felt the first time he could do so without a hellfire cough drawing his own blood to his lips. How good it was to be alive. How delicious.
Lindus stood outside in the cool night air, back to the door of Boyd's quarters, thoughtfully staring out at the white carpet of snow surrounding Fort Spencer. He didn't think he'd enjoy staying here very long. This was the sort of place you sent a man to hide him, to forget him, when a proper military discharge would do more harm than good.
So, here they were now, and frankly he wondered if it might not have been better if they had all been discharged from service after all. Perhaps, then, they'd be alive. Or at least he wouldn't have to deal with this mess, or any of the grunt work that came of being the General's personal errand boy.
Was it selfish of him to wish Boyd a quick death, and perhaps even the Colonel? At least then they could return to San Miguel more expediently. Fort Spencer. The end of the world. Even the devil would shun this empty, miserable place.
What was that?!
He spun about, his thick coat twisting heavily in the wind about him when Lindus spun to catch a faint glimpse of some shadow slipping through the dark. "Martha?" He called out warily, and then, licking his lips with a nervous frown, he placed his hand on the knife tucked into his belt. "...Major Knox?"
The only response was silence, and even the echo of Lindus's voice was muted by the snow about him.
He didn't notice the eyes, almost black in their feral excitement, or the delightfully amused smile of Ives hidden in a dark corner beside the soggy woodpile beside the lookout station. The frosty breath of smoke drifting into the air might as well have been a stream of air from a dying rat trapped in the snow, for all Lindus could see.
Lucky, that. Otherwise the misfortunate soldier may very well have found the coiffed part in his hair far more sharply split with the head of an axe. Tense, he slowly picked his way back through the night to the main quarters, where he would spend the remainder of the evening resting and waiting for morning to check if Boyd was still breathing.
So...the unwitting mouse got to live another day, and Ives, well...Ives got to savor the taste of his fear on the air. Almost as exquisite as his dying cigar. He flicked the charred corpse of tobacco leaves into the snow, chuckling as his boots crunched in the snow.
Boyd saw sap on a healthy tree in spring being cut too soon, and the sticky sweetness of it drew his palm forward, turning as red as rubies on his skin. He was buried in a wooden cage now, covered in the stuff, trapped beneath the bodies of former friends and comrades, waiting to burn...iron and salt ran down his throat, burned his eyes, seeped into his bones. With it came something else, a hunger he'd thought to escape. A need.
He was dining with Cleaves, Hart, and Toffler, ignoring the soft prayer in favor of an extra slice of Reich. The rough, chewy flesh didn't seem to mix well with pine needles. George laughed with Cleaves, and Martha wept beside the phantom of her brother...yet still, Boyd wanted more, always more...and when he tasted real blood on his lips, his dream abruptly shattered, only for him to find Ives grinning smugly above him, while blood from his sliced palm dripped into Boyd's open mouth.
Clenching his reddened teeth, he tried to leap forward to lash out at the monster beside him, but instead found himself nearly toppling out of his bed while Ives gave a taunting laugh and easily stepped out of his reach.
"Sweet dreams, Boyd?"
Legs tangled in his fur bed covers, he jerked up and glared hatefully back at Ives, "do it, then. Eat me, you bastard!"
"Is that anyway to greet a superior?" The monster chided, kneeling down to patronizingly tap one of Boyd's cheeks, a gesture somewhere between a slap and a caress. He still didn't have the strength to make another attempt on Ives's life so soon, not when he'd only been willing (and unwilling) to eat one serving of the devil's stew that morning. Already, moving too swiftly in his attempts to lash out, he'd managed to tear open one of the crusting wounds beneath his bandages. The faint scent of iron in the air was evidence enough of that.
Teeth still clenched, Boyd bunched the fur about his waist and struggled to climb to his feet, damned if he'd give Ives the added pleasure of seeing him on his knees. It was alarmingly difficult to reposition himself on the bed, and he was all too happy to slap Ives hand away when it was offered.
"Now, now, temper, Captain Boyd," Ives stood back, holding up his hands in a placating gesture as if Boyd were some unreasonable woman about to throw a dish at his head, and not a man who would gladly kill him, and indeed had almost had.
He was still alive, and he could still taste Ives on his tongue...which only served to upset him even more.
"You've won, Ives. What more do you want from me?" It made no sense. Boyd had already proved he couldn't be trusted as an ally, much less an acquaintance, given their limited history. Did he think he could do anything worse than he already had?
"I'd like to have a little chat," Ives bowed his head slightly with the quick arch of an eyebrow, his smile a little more modest, though no less irritating. "That is, uh, if you don't...mind…" Dark eyes took Boyd in, lingered, devoured. He didn't like that. Not one bit.
In favor of silence, Boyd turned his head away, keeping his mouth shut and trying to avoid eye contact with Ives when he finally gave in to the urge to clean the blood from his teeth. To get rid of the taste, he told himself. That was all.
"Nothing else to say?" Ives inquired, tilting his head and leaning forward, "really? Not that I'm surprised, of course. You don't strike me as a man of many words, I'm sure you'd much rather hide and lick you wounds, sneak about and wait to strike, wouldn't you, Boyd?" A pause, and still he wouldn't get the satisfaction of hearing Boyd snap back at him. "Coward…" Ives whispered, knowing it would strike home.
"Bastard," Boyd hissed right back at him, jerking his head back and glaring, which gave Ives the opportunity to lash out like a viper and firmly grasp Boyd's chin. He grunted, attempting to jerk free, but there was little enough energy to fight him sitting down, let alone much else.
"Calm down," Ives commanded him, trying to soothe the weary and angry man, "you'll waste what little you have left, and then how will you kill me, hm? We're just talking tonight, Boyd, nothing more. That'll give you plenty of time to recover, perhaps even try again. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" He spoke as he would to a stubborn child, loosening his grip a little once Boyd had settled down enough to simply glare. If looks could kill...
"You know, I wondered at first when you were lying on top of me out there, why you fought me so hard, when all I did was offer you more freedom than you've ever known. More satisfaction. Life. Pleasure..." He settled down on the mattress, and Boyd clenched his jaw, refusing to move again once Ives had released his grip on him.
"I don't want whatever Hell it is you're offering," he returned with a disgusted grimace.
"Mmmmhh...perhaps if you'd had better, fare, then? Better...meat?" Ives laughed at the way Boyd finally tried to move and put distance between them. But, alas, it was not a very large bed, and it was very easy for him to lean just a little bit closer, and grip him once more, though this time by the neck.
"What do you mean by that?" He demanded, alarmed, and hating the way chills ran down his spine at those words. What the hell did he mean?!
"Hart, for instance, Boyd...I'd imagine he'd taste soft. Rich. Like pork. Now, Reich of course, you remember how he was...don't you, Boyd?" Ives leaned even closer, pressing his nose to Boyd's cheek, and the weaker soldier finally reached up to grip at the hand on his neck and try to push it away. No use, of course, but he tried anyway with steady and exhausting pressure.
"There was Toffler, too...ahhhh, like a lamb. You might have been more eager if you'd had a bit of his flesh instead, Boyd. Succulent. Innocent...tender...would you like to know what George was like? He and Cleaves had a lot in common. The peyote gave their muscles a very smoky quality...delightful, with the acquired taste, and I'm sure you could learn to enjoy it, too...if you'd just give in to what you are…"
"Get away from me!" Boyd shouted, digging his nails into the fist on his neck, scratching, cutting.
"If you're not careful, you'll bleed out even more," Ives advised, his amusement seeming to fade a little once he pulled back, though his grip remained still as he shoved Boyd back down onto the mattress. Streaks of blood were already showing through the bandages around his chest and stomach, while the fur remained wrapped tightly about his legs.
"I'm going to give you time, a luxury you'll probably regret later," he went on, settling himself comfortably above Boyd like a lover, though that was far from what he'd ever willingly take part in. Of this fact, he was certain.
"Time for what?" He asked, tensing even more when he felt an unexpected betrayal of his body, hoping Ives would not be inclined to notice it. This was far too repulsive for Boyd to feel anything but hatred and disgust...so why, then, did his hands relax a little, or his face burn furiously when Ives gave him yet another one of those awful roving looks?
"Time to give in. To accept. Sooner or later, when the storm abates, and Slauson is off on his little journey...you'll get hungry, boyd...and I doubt the potatoes or onions in the larder, or even the smoked meat, what little is left...will ever satisfy you…" Ives leaned down, pressing his lips to Boyd's ear, "and when you do...decide to give in...as if you have the luxury of a choice, I'll be waiting with open arms."
Then, faster than he had any time to register what had occurred, the pressure on his neck was gone, and Ives was at the door.
"Pleasant dreams," he chuckled, licking at his fingers.
Boyd stared back, dazed, and more fearful than he'd been since he'd learned to embrace death as an escape from the Wendigo...before he pressed a hand to his bruised neck, brushing against the sticky warmth of his own blood.