The chanting of hideous voices doesn't show any signs of stopping. To the right of the squat church there's an open gate, and a dirt path cutting through the grass. And, no doubt, a mysterious stranger lurking nearby.
Crouched low, I scuttle to the front of the church, press my back against the weathered boards and peek inside over my shoulder. The stained glass is old and hazy - all I see is shapes... a lot of shapes, a lot of hands raised up in prayer. Too many for one man no matter how tweaked his shotgun. Shit.
I can barely make out the figure at the pulpit past all the waving arms. I know he's there because he's surrounded by candlelight, arms outstretched. That, and his eyes are glowing. Creepy motherfucker.
He looks straight at me.
There's a second's ebb in the tide of voices.
I hold my breath and stand my ground. I start to sweat.
Then the sound rises up again, driven by a loud, booming voice - the eyes of the preacher move over his congregation. He didn't see me. Or he didn't care. The second thought bothers me more.
Leon, what the fuck did you get us in to?
I shake myself. Remember the plan: get Leon, get out. Kick his ass after you've saved it.
I stay low and pass under the window, roll and am on my feet. Slipping through the open gate with my pistol out, shotgun strapped to my back - the mad cacophony coming from the church gets quieter as the path descends. From the village it looked like the church was on a hill. Now I'm winding my way down a fucking cliff. I can hear rushing water, but in the early morning dim it's all just empty black and mist on my right. My head tingles.
I go on - deeper, slower. The brightening yellow sky becomes a wide slash of light above me. I feel the spray on my face. I can't hear the church-goers anymore. It's all rushing, roaring water... and the squeak of rusted metal. My eyes adjust - or maybe it just gets brighter. Do not feel safe in light, the note said. Fuck that - I like to be able to see my death coming.
A structure starts to take shape in the darkness. The water roars - must be near the falls that spill into the lake. Giant clockwork gears creak and moan as they channel the force of the river. Crates glide silently overhead on pulleys, black shapes against the strip of sky. If it weren't on the edge of a waterfall I'd say it looked like the shipping port I landed at.
A voice cries out upstream.
I drop behind a large boulder and hold out my gun.
Splash! Something heavy falls into the water to my right. No voices answer the first; no feet come thundering down on me. A few seconds holding my breath and a crate floats by on the current.
Still safe.
The crate bumps up against a board laid across the river not a dozen yards away. I make out figures walking towards it - two man-shapes - stumbling, incautious steps. Too far away to be sure of the kill.
They grunt and haul the crate onto the river bank. A garbled voice shouts to be heard above the roar of the falls - I see a few - four - shapes cast black shadows against the sky, stood on a catwalk high above the river, looking down. Lounging like men do when the boss isn't looking. They look distressingly normal.
I watch. My finger itches.
Wait.
Someone else has another idea.
A come-hither whistle from the far side of the bridge.
The men on the catwalk all perk up at once - one points at the far side of the ravine and another grabs his scythe from his back. At ground level, the men handling the crate go scampering off - I track their progress up the scaffolding - now I know the way out. No other villager comes out - I guess these six have a special exemption from church service, so that means whatever's going down, this is a choke point. All the action is on the bridge above.
A shot rings out from the dark on the opposite side of the catwalk, echoing even above the sound of the river. The first three men fall with their guts streaming out of their mid-sections and land with a splash about ten feet away from me.
A friend, then. With a big fucking gun.
The two crate handlers are hanging back. The one left on the bridge holds his ground and shouts nonsense into the trees on the other side.
I look down the length of my arm and fire twice. One good turn deserves another. The men join their friends in the river, and now the sole villager looks around, not knowing where the next shot will come from.
I dash out from behind my rock and run towards the structure. The giant gears turn; they're attached to a large gate blocking the drop-off. I run past the gate-house and notice the twitching bodies of the fallen villagers pressed up against the grate, bits of them flapping like fish. A few shots explode their heads and they are still.
A crate swings silently past me when I get to the second landing. It's stencilled with words I can't read but somehow get lodged in my brain: FUENTES. I climb, and reload as I run.
Man on the bridge spots me - no more sounds from the forest. He lets out an angry cry in his foreign tongue: "Rasagre su cabza apagado!"
I get to the bridge and take him out at the knees before he's halfway across.
He falls. I can barely hear the splash.
For a moment, all is calm. The catwalk creaks as I make my way to the middle. It's morning - the sky is overcast and flinchingly bright. I can see the ground below clearly, and the roof of the church peaking over the lip of the ravine.
"Show yourself!" I shout into the trees. I keep my gun aimed low to show I'm no threat if I don't need to be.
Crows take flight over the forest, cawing madly at the sky. Other than that, nothing.
Fine.
I wonder if my benefactor is watching. I raise my right hand it a wave. The forest is dense - like it's trapped the night under its canopy.
Nothing. The catwalk sways in the wind.
Fuentes. Something familiar about that word. Must've seen it before. I try to recall the hazy trip over stashed away on the ship. Maybe something I saw in the hold. An idea is beginning to form.
Suddenly I hear a loud gong - within seconds I see hordes of villagers spilling down the path on the side of the cliff, first in ones and twos with torches and pitchforks - then by three and fives, stumbling over themselves at the sight of me. A few fall off the side and land with their heads at right angles to their bodies.
Damn. Less fun for me.
I holster my pistol and grab my shotgun off my back.
Church is out.