Author's notes: Thank you for the input, guys. Been taking my time on this story, so sorry if I've kept you in suspense. Anyway...Enjoy.
The storm had abated and weakened even as Colonel Ives seemed to miraculously recover, at least enough to be able to leave his quarters to dine with Lindus and the general by the cookfire. Boyd was not so lucky, and there was a growing doubt the man even had the constitution to survive through the week, as despondent as he'd remained with little to do but glare daggers when Ives was available to help Lindus bring in fresh linens or food for him in the evenings.
Ives was, in fact, most anxious to help out in any way he could. The General tried to persuade him to rest, but he was having none of it, and would beg them privacy in the smokehouse when he was of a mood to prepare food for them. The stew having been ravenously devoured by then, Ives insisted he be allowed this one concession, and indeed it seemed to do the man good to work as he recovered.
"A true soldier," the General would remark as he tucked into an extra helping of chopped and peppered steak, only just shy of being fully cooked. The pink juices still ran on their plates with each fresh bite. "You have a great future, Colonel, once your post as interim commander of Fort Spencer is filled," he smiled with the air of a man giving an empty compliment, an empty promise, stroking his whiskers to flatten and smooth the grease from his meal onto his fingers.
Lindus quietly examined the contents of his glass, savoring these final moments before the General would depart in the morning, and he would be left at night to keep watch and care for Boyd simultaneously. That was, of course, unless Ives was willing to help. If he was in the right condition to do so. There was, after all, still no absolute guarantee that Knox wasn't out there somewhere, alive and well. You couldn't predict the moves of a madman unless you shared his peculiarities, after all.
Nor, it seemed, could you predict the peculiarities of a man lying on what very well could be his deathbed. The door to the living quarters swung wide, causing Lindus and the General to nearly leap to their feet, steak knives at the ready. Standing in the melting snow and icy wind, a woolen blanket bound tightly about his shoulders, freshly-split wounds in his stomach bleeding into his bandages and spotting his sweater, stood a very stubborn and nearly maddened Boyd.
"Boyd!" General Slauson barked, slamming his steak knife to the table, sending it skittering across the scarred wood with a clatter. "What on earth do you think you're doing here?! Is what little sense you still possess bleeding out of you?"
Boyd's eyes flickered towards Ives momentarily, giving Lindus the peculiar feeling he was missing something very important, before the crazed man pulled back his cracked lips to speak, "I was cold. Came to sit by the fire," he ground out, stumping into the room and slamming the door firmly behind him.
The General relaxed somewhat in his seat, snatching up his knife to stab it into his meal, "suit yourself, then. Lindus won't be replacing your linens tonight, however." The General's temper lately seemed to have shortened quite a bit, and Lindus was almost astonished at how little it seemed to bother him that they'd very likely find yet another dead body to bury in the morning, given how drawn Boyd was looking. Much worse than that afternoon when Lindus had tried to persuade him to eat, and he'd flung the plate across the room in a fit of stubborn rage.
"Well," Colonel Ives settled back in his chair, having remained oddly silent throughout the tense interaction, "I can see someone will have to look after the Captain tonight, and seeing as I'm still not quite in the spirit of perfect health, I can't imagine I'd be up to the task." He had a faintly amused smile playing on his face, which could easily be taken for nervous humor or something else...and in that moment, Lindus could almost believe there was something darker lurking behind the Colonel's constant pleasant demeanor.
"Lindus," the General intoned, and there seemed little point in explaining exactly what his order would be.
"Very well, sir," Lindus nodded, glancing over at Boyd, "I hope you enjoy cards, Captain, because it's the only thing my company can offer you." He felt conversation between them would lead to nothing but a sour stomach on Lindus's part. In the last few days whenever he'd tried to speak with the man, he'd only been met with the occasional ominous remark on the natures of Aristotle and Plato. No man so dry belonged on the battlefield.
Boyd stared at them all for quite some time, giving Lindus an even greater sense of unease, those solemn and somehow too-sharp blue eyes lingering on an empty space just past Ives's shoulder. Lost in some other world.
"For god's sake, take a seat somewhere, Boyd!" The general snapped, shoveling more meat into his mouth and smacking his lips. "You're spoiling our supper."
The man seemed to finally shake himself from his trance, and slowly hobbled towards an armchair placed squarely in front of the cookfire, his back turned to the rest of the seated company.
"You should eat something, Captain," Ives remarked, placing a thin cigar between his lips. "You'll feel much better." He glanced over at Lindus, "fresh meat can work wonders on the spirit, don't you agree?"
Lindus wasn't entirely certain those last words were really directed at himself, but he nodded nonetheless. More than anything, he wanted to leave Fort Spencer then and there. He didn't like this place. He didn't like Boyd. More and more, he found, he didn't very much like Ives either.
He was cold. Through flesh to bone, not an inch of his skin had any feeling left. Boyd was a walking corpse, and each movement or spoken word drained him even further. Little by little. It had not been easy, foregoing the meals he knew would cure him. He refused to give that monster the satisfaction.
Lindus sat in a chair nearby, his hands clasped over his stomach while he slept. Sorry company, but preferable to the other two. Uneasily, Boyd listened to the sluggish beat of his resting heart. There was nothing else but the crackling embers to distract him from his dark thoughts.
Once, he had imagined dining on Cleaves in the snow. Too, he had even pictured rending Ives into nothing but bits of savory flesh and meat, taking for himself every bit of stolen strength and spirit the man or monster had to offer. He was not so fortunate to lose any and all desire to repeat these visions. Even now he wondered if the fat and tissue of Lindus, little more than a secretary, would be more tender than Reich...or sweeter than the whiskey pickled remains of Knox.
Ives was out there somewhere, now, very likely waiting in the snow for Boyd to join him outside. Expecting the fight he would surely win. Each passing hour and day he grew stronger, while Boyd...quite the opposite.
Morality...the last bastion of a coward? Or the last fleeting strength of a dying human soul?
"You're lucky," Boyd mumbled, staring at Lindus. Still sleeping. Still unaware of the horrors still lying in wait at Fort Spencer.
"You can't know…" His voice cracked, "what this feels like." He let the blanket fall from his shoulders, shaking hands slipping down to his knees so he could support himself as he leaned forward to glare into the fire. Dying. A pile of coals staring back at him with a dozen reddened eyes. Judging. Much like Ives, they would only need to consume more, to grow again into a healthy blaze. They would always eat, always take, as long as there was food to be offered. Kindling to be sacrificed at their brick alter.
Not much time left, now. He could feel himself dying. How wonderful it must be to give in, and how anticlimactic it seemed that after everything, he would fade peacefully into darkness as an old man might in his armchair. The bear trap, that great attempt to save himself from damnation, to save the world from a monster...all for nothing.
Everything was for nothing. Boyd was a coward.
He couldn't even hear the crackling wood, the collapsing shards of coal tinkling like glass. Or his thoughts, as bitter as they were. Now, there was just Lindus's heartbeat. The creaking of his own knee joints as he stood, shaking. The soft thud of heavy footfalls as Boyd lumbered towards the fireplace. Perhaps he would be fortunate to lose all strength now, or perhaps he wouldn't.
Morality.
Truth.
Sacrifice.
Three words, and now they all seemed to mean very little as he struggled to grip the iron poker beside the fire. Thought, maybe, to stoke the embers. Instead, he was spinning about slowly to face Lindus, still sleeping.
Boyd drug his feet across the wood again, the iron poker scraping on the ground. He didn't think there was anything left in him to do this, man or monster, any second he would crumble and fade to nothing.
"Boyd?" Lindus slowly opened his eyes, staring up at the gaunt man in front of him.
It was merciful. It was quick. It was surprisingly very easy, and when Boyd pulled the poker back to stare at the bleeding, horrible wound where Lindus's eye had once been, he could hardly believe how beautiful the blood looked dripping down his face, or how fascinating it was to stare at his spasming body.
"I'm sorry," Boyd informed him flatly, "I'm sorry." He wasn't sure exactly who those words were for, nor could he exactly summon any sense of surprise when the door to the living quarters swung open, and Ives stepped inside with his maddened grin and smoking cigar.
"Well," Ives removed the cigar, licking his lips, "I suppose you'll need some help, won't you, Boyd?" He clicked his tongue, striding forward, "quite a bit of life in him, isn't there?" He watched Lindus's spasming body fall to the ground, draping an arm over Boyd's shoulder just at the moment the man's strength finally gave out, and supporting him.
"There, now," Ives chuckled, "we can't have you falling asleep before dinner, can we?"
The poker clattered to the ground, and the scent of innocent blood in the air permanently stained the remains of Boyd's soul.