Author notes: As I wrote this, I realised Ives had other plans in mind than simply killing and eating the others right off the bat...he's the consummate cat and mouse schemer, as I'm sure we all know.
It simply made no sense to trudge out into the storm that had seemed to come out of nowhere, just to honor a couple of dead men with a blanket; dead men who, by the way, Lindus and General Slauson had absolutely no way of confirming whether or not they were suicidal murderers or victims of Colonel Hart, who it appeared had not in fact died in the woods, judging by the freshness of his bloodied corpse propped up in his desk chair.
So instead, they played cards, they waited out the storm, and General Slauson greedily ate stew while he decided exactly how to go about dealing with this mess.
"Animals will get to all of them if we both leave the fort," the General remarked, lapping at the drops of thickened broth clinging to his moustache. "This sort of snow brings out the scavengers when the blood settles in the air," he went on, as if by merit of his rank he somehow knew any and everything there was to know about nature and her mysterious ways.
"Do you think Martha would have gone out in the wilds like she did tonight, if there was something dangerous out there like that, sir?" Lindus inquired, shuffling the cracked cards with their faded ink and torn corners. He hadn't the appetite the General seemed to possess tonight, and frankly would be perfectly happy to dine once they were safely away from this place. Too much death. He could get plenty of that on the battlefield.
"Can't say," the General barked. "Natives. They've got too little sense for you to make much out of them. Maybe she just didn't want to clean up the mess. Maybe she's going to go chant some kind of nonsense in the snow with her drawers at her ankles. I don't know, Lindus." His mild irritation at the younger man's constant questions, constant need to understand and sort out their situation as quickly as possible did not settle well with Slauson. He just wanted to enjoy his lovely meal in peace, let the hot broth take away the cold of the storm. He didn't bother to use his spoon now, slurping at the savory dregs of his meal, hardly even noting the slight pinkish hue to the broth, or the odd texture of the meat. Nothing like deer or beef, or even a thick shank of preserved horse hide. No, not at all.
"Boyd was too ill to have managed all of this," Lindus mumbled more to himself now, laying out the deck patiently on the dinner table in front of him. Each face he revealed for his solitary game with almost a curious expression, from what he could see through the flecks of missing ink and paper. They were his main audience now in the face of the General's ill mood. He had never seen the man eat so slovenly before. Nor could he honestly say he wasn't a little surprised to see him stand up to gather a third portion from the cookfire.
Lindus rubbed his dry fingers together, licking them so he could draw out another card from his other hand, "I think Martha said he was cuffed as well, observed, kept from causing any more harm...but what if it wasn't him? We have Hart in his office...dead, now. Ives most certainly wouldn't have done all of this. The others...it only leaves Knox." He frowned, "none of this makes any se-"
The General's bowl tumbled from his hand, spilling meat and wilted vegetables into the wooden slats under his feet, and Lindus's deck slipped from his hand just as easily to make a mess of his game on the table, both of them turning in shock towards the door at the sound of a loud, horrifying scream...a howling man…
Then...silence…
Little ants running over his skin. Tickling at first, their tiny legs forming goosebumps in their tracks to mark their path. Then biting. Scorching. Melting...god!
Every single part of John Boyd came alive with fresh pain, and he wanted to seize forward to escape it, but the most he could manage was a feeble, pathetic spasm. His eyes didn't seem to want to cooperate with him either, and deliriously he wondered if the ants he felt were in fact maggots burrowing into his skin and feasting on the tainted flesh that lay therein…
As if the very thought was enough to force his body to comply, he was finally able to pry one, and then two eyelids open. Attempting to sit up again would be too much for his weary shell of a body, and so he settled for what he could get. The ants, the maggots, whatever they were, seemed to melt away to nothing in the face of consciousness.
He was in a bed, and judging by the particular way the slats dug into his shoulders and spine, it was his own. A shabby construction of cloth, wood, and what little filling the military could afford for the exiled remnants of people they'd sent out to endure the end of their commissions and probably lives at Fort Spencer.
How?
A firm rapping at his chamber door caught his attention, with the sheer way the sound of flesh against wood seemed to drive a nail into his skull. "Boyd? Are you awake? Alive, still?" It was Lindus, the General's assistant, and he was apparently in one piece. That must mean Ives had in fact died…somehow, by the grace of the same god who'd left them to rot out here.
The door creaked open to reveal the very same man, LIndus, holding a small bundle tucked firmly under one arm, and a bowl with a spoon in the other hand, "you've been asleep for three days." He stepped inside and leaned hard against the door to close it when a fresh gust of cold air blew in behind him to nip through the pitiable excuse for a blanket on Boyd's bed, and ravage his aching flesh.
A meal! His eyes sparked, his stomach churn, and he was helpless to the needs of its protesting screeches. Though there was no steam rising from the bowl in Lindus's hand, the fragrance was strong enough to almost pull him into a sitting position, if his arms and muscles still weren't firmly convinced that they had in fact been turned into mere effigies of body parts. Tributes to the function, but completely unable to imitate it.
Lindus placed the bundle at the foot of the bed, grabbing a shabby chair from the corner of the room to drag it forward and settle beside him, "here, we've managed to get some broth in you while you slept, but nothing real. You've been through alot, Captain Boyd." There was none of the familiar censure, the sarcasm in the way he spoke the title. Lindus had, after all, been one of the select few men who'd called him a coward before he'd been sent to this post. Their previous encounter when he'd tried to warn them about Ives hadn't been very pleasant, eit-...Ives…
"Ives!" Boyd managed to rasp, akin to a death rattle in his weakness, stretching and fading into empty air.
"Don't worry, we've taken care of Ives," Lindus informed him gently, gathering a spoonful of stew and immediately pressing it to Boyd's lips in an attempt to get him fed as soon as possible, before his body finally gave out for good.
It was nice to know that apparently they'd finally understood, knew about Ives...Boyd didn't care to think how, he just wanted to eat...and the food smelled so good...the meat tasted so satisfying…
Each bite brought him closer to bliss, each gentle scrape of the spoon in the bowl a siren song...Boyd almost let himself forget what his last meal had been.
His eyes popped open fully, and he summoned up his strength, which was coming easier, to try and shove the bowl away, "no!" Boyd managed with far more force now, angered by the fact that already he'd regained a sliver...a bite or two of real life...Knox's life.
"Boyd, calm down or you'll kill yourself," Lindus warned, the firmness of his usual self returning in full force once he'd removed the bowl from harm's way, "I know it isn't pleasant to eat the last thing Knox made before he and Colonel Hart tried to kill the both of you, but this is the best we have right now until the storm is over."
"...Wh...what?" Boyd stammered, his teeth beginning to chatter before Lindus heaved a sigh and placed the bowl on the ground beside him to reach towards the bundle he'd brought.
"Ives told us, before we had him settled and bandaged in his quarters. The whole story. We know you had a breakdown when Hart led you and the others out into the woods to butcher them, and given your past...braveries...I can easily see why it was easier to believe a monster appeared to do the job instead. He also told me how you came to your senses when the man showed up again, and Knox seemed to be inclined towards the same kind of sickening proclivities." He unwrapped the bundle, weaving a story that both sickened and confused Boyd.
Ives had indeed been taken care of, only not quite in the way he'd hoped. Then...to tell such lies, to paint the very man he'd just been supping on as some sort of madman...when in fact…
It was him...and Ives...they were both far worse than Lindus could ever imagine. Boyd paled at the thought. No. Not like Ives…
A nagging little voice pricked at his conscience, the same one who'd so happily reminded him how he'd failed his friends, his fellow soldiers in battle, to claim the rewards of their bravery when he'd taken the outpost...Just like Ives...can't die…
You're just like him…
The smell of Lindus's sweat, his pumping blood and muscle, the very way he could imagine tearing the man open with his dirtied nails and teeth, told Boyd the truth of the matter. The truth he'd tried to kill with the stolen spirit of Knox settled in his stomach, and the remaining madness of Reich.
"Now, I can't say I've much experience with this, but it will have to do." The bundle Lindus had brought was several layers of torn, wrapped linens, and he quickly rolled Boyd's blanket down so he could get to work peeling away at bandages bound around his chest and stomach. "After this, I'll get you fed a bit more, bring you some water, and you can continue resting." Lindus would refuse anything Boyd had to tell him, the stern set to his jaw was evidence of that.
He would, to everyone but the devil who knew the truth, always be a madman. To some extent, too, a coward.