Author's Note: Lily just can't seem to stay out of trouble! Less than a month until season 3... I'm trying not to think about the possibility that she won't be there but that's why we have fanfiction, right? Right. :) Speaking of which, on with the story!
Three: The World That's Around Me
It's the most inappropriate moment for me to be so torn between laughing and crying but I quickly compose myself and stare straight down the barrel of my gun into the face of the man who nearly succeeded in murdering me earlier today. He's fallen to one knee — now both — and he yields with lanky, trembling arms. His skin is so gaunt that he could be his own white flag but the blistering of burns across his chest mars this vision. A fresher wound, oozing from his shoulder, puts me ill at ease.
"They are coming, Missus Lily Bell! Please, we must — we must away," he stammers, struggling under the sight of the pistol and the obvious pain of his injuries. I can't resist shaking my head in bewilderment. This must be some sort of mirage. Or a dream. I'm still asleep somewhere, my mind playing cruel tricks on my unconscious body.
"You're insane." I'm not sure of what else to say and then I point to his shoulder, using the gun to do so. "What's that there?" Thor Gundersen ignores the question, eyeing our surroundings. I have no intention of taking my eyes off of him.
"You… you woke them up. I, ah — !" When he cringes from the pain it's as if his whole body crumbles. I take some sort of pleasure in seeing him suffer but I think back to what just happened and I need answers. Now.
"Who are you talking about?"
"The townspeople. The savages. Everybody." I can tell that speaking takes its toll on him but in a different way. He uses one hand to dab at his shoulder, which grows red and purple by the minute. I straighten, trying to appear strong in the event of his weakness. Then he chuckles, dry and mocking, gesturing to my neck. "I see that you have a mark as well…"
"Where is Cullen?" I ask dismissively. The Swede groans and shakes his head, leaning back on the balls of his feet. Arms still raised he addresses me, though his face is turned toward the sky.
"The White Spirit has been summoned but He cannot rest until His thirst has been slaked. Though the Sioux have given generously, He is still displeased. I have made a blood sacrifice." My muscles are fraught with tension and I can feel them stretched to their ends when he pulls a knife from his pants. He has no idea how lucky he is that I don't fire off an impulsive shot of defense right as he lays it at my feet. I can't help but notice that its blade and handle are flaked with dried blood.
"What do I — ?"
"You must make a sacrifice now, Missus Bell." He stares up at me with cold, sunken eyes. I make no move to pick up the knife, instead using my foot to push it behind me and out of his reach. He doesn't look affronted or even remotely disappointed; he's lost any and all emotion. I can see the sweat clinging to his brow and his hand has gone back to the wound, pulling and grasping at it with desperation. Then the Swede gives a heaving chuckle and falls to the ground, stirring up a little dust and laying still as it settles.
I know I have but a few bullets left so I take the knife from the dirt even though I'm highly uncomfortable doing so. What does this mean? I study the Norwegian man just steps away. He's completely out of his mind. There's no one here. I watch him for the familiar rise and fall of breath but he's gone. Gone with a riddle in place of an answer. He's made a fool out of me again, the bastard.
In an instant I'm overcome with blood-boiling anger. I stash the knife in my pocket and then press the gun to Thor Gundersen's bald head. I barely blink as the bullet rips through his skull and blood begins to pool around it. My feet take me lightly over his body and I feel positively entranced as I journey back to the center of town.
There it is again. The silence. It sets me on edge and my worry only grows with the sinking sun. I walk through the former Hell on Wheels feeling vulnerable on all sides, one hand always hovering near my gun. I'm tired and my body longs for rest. But you can't stop now. At least find somewhere safe for the night. I shake my head at myself. This place has never been safe. I just shot two people. One deserved it, there's no questioning that, but the other?
"She was going to kill you." I have to say it aloud or else I won't believe it. A headache is beginning to pound away behind my eyes and I'm apprehensive to find a place to retire out of sight. I head west, toward the tracks. There's got to be a boxcar, a crate, something that escaped the ambush. As the sky starts to turn yellow and orange, I'm in luck. Relief is a warm flood all over me.
Durant's two luxury cars sit parallel to the tracks and although they've clearly been ransacked, they are whole and unburnt. I glance around for any signs of movement, well aware that I could be stepping into a trap. My pistol comes out and I make it visible to any eyes that may be watching. Quietly I sidle up next to the dining car, pulling the door open and backing up and inside.
In the dwindling sunlight I can see that the place is in a shambles. The table is overturned, my feet crunch over broken glass, and much of the draperies have been torn from the windows. Maps and plans cover the floor, soaking up blood and what appears to be oil from a broken lamp. I swallow hard, nervous. One spark and the place goes up. And this time I won't be able to make it out alive.
At the very far end of the car I make myself a little hideaway between a bench and a chair that's had its cushion slashed to bits. I find a curtain to drape myself in though I don't think I'll be getting much sleep tonight. The day sprawls through my head and it feels longer than the entire time I've been helping to build the railroad. How did everything go so wrong? Can this dream be salvaged?
Cullen, where are you?
I am awakened some hours later, well into the night, unaware that I had even drifted off. Outside, the moon washes over everything and peeks through the windows, casting an eerie glow on the wreckage. But it's a sound that has me rattled and, keeping low to the floor, I crawl from my lean-to and behind the dining table. The back door that connects the two cars shudders strangely, as if someone is trying half-heartedly to force it open. I eye the door I came in through, hoping they don't think to try it next.
Moving deliberately toward my escape route but keeping my gun pointed ahead of me, I reach blindly for the handle once I'm at the front door. Before I can stand, a violent shattering of glass nearly knocks me off my feet and in the pale moonlight I witness Thomas Durant heave himself through the frame and into the car. He's snarling and pawing at the air like an animal, unconcerned by the pieces of window lodged in his hands and face. I want to crouch and become small but I force myself to stand as the madman makes his way toward me.
"Thomas?" He stops to look at me, one eye put out by glass, and then growls, hands outstretched. I feel my head shake in frustration, confused by these happenings. I don't want to have to kill anyone else, but —
As I aim the gun at his head, Durant suddenly lunges forward with a burst of energy, knocking the weapon from my grasp and pinning me hard onto the floor. His strength seems inhuman and nothing I do in the way of scratching or kicking affects him. His jaw snaps away, eager for a piece of me. I don't want to die like this, torn to shreds by a cannibal! I can't!
I watch in horror as his teeth come for my flesh but at the last moment I remember the knife and manage to wrestle it from my side pocket, somehow finding the will to drive it up and through his rent eye socket. The noise that comes from him is otherworldly and I realize that I'm echoing his screams with my own. Then all is silent as his body slumps to the floor, defeated. I scramble for the pistol and with some hesitation pull the knife from Durant's face. I'm backing out of the car, frantic for another place to hide.
It's all gone to hell! What am I doing? Where, how — ?!
Run, damnit! The sound of the struggle will bring someone or something else along soon enough.