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Boyd believed with all his heart that what Ives was—what they now both were—was unnatural. They were abominations, twisted things that had once been human but no longer were. They were wrong, sinful, feeding on their former brothers and sisters to renew themselves, eating human flesh and then being filled with demonic energy.
They shouldn’t exist, and yet, they did.
When Boyd saw his reflection after he’d fed that first time, in Fort Spencer, he didn’t recognize himself. Then he looked closer, studied the eyes before him, and familiarity dawned. He felt such horror and guilt looking into those eyes that he slammed his fist into the dulled mirror hanging on the door of his room. It fell to the floor, cracked and bent out of shape, the reflection within as distorted now as he felt inside. But the eyes still stared back at him.
When the bear trap failed to kill him and Ives, Boyd lost hope. Perhaps ironically, the lack of their deaths brought something like hope to others, although in a way Boyd found twisted beyond what he’d ever thought possible.
The first follower who showed up was a faithless preacher looking for a new kind of salvation.
The man’s name was Becker, and Boyd had never seen a man so caught in despair, including himself. Becker latched onto Ives with a fervor only possible in the truly lost. Ives offered him a home and, eventually, communion in this new, most unholy way.
Their first victims started as a family of five. They claimed to seek new fortune in California, like so many others. The father was a cruel man, filled with the kind of petty anger that only a life of failure could bring about. He had four children: two sons and two daughters. The former were teenagers and shaping up to take after their father in every way. The daughters, both young women, did not have an easy life. Boyd never learned the details and was grateful for that; he had enough horrors in his own memories to keep him up at night.
Ives killed the father first. As much as Boyd felt revolt at what he knew was coming, he spared no sorrow over the man’s loss. The sons found Ives and Becker butchering their father’s corpse. Boyd stayed in his room, listening to the fight that ensued. Later, after Ives and Becker had eaten their fill and Boyd was, by his own choice, left with naught but stale bread, Ives regaled Boyd of Becker’s feats in killing the two boys. Ives’s voice ringed with pride. Boyd felt an intense sickness in his stomach, but part of him feared it was mostly due to hunger.
Boyd then remembered the sisters, who had not shown themselves during the commotion of that day and the slaughter of their family. He rushed to their bedroom and found them sitting still and silent, staring at the door. They looked resigned to their deaths. Then Ives swept past him and up to the women. He knelt before them on one knee and grabbed one of each of their hands in his.
“You are welcome here, my sisters.” He looked every part the gallant protector. “Please, won’t you join us for supper?”
From then on, the women—Charity and Grace (Boyd grimaced at their names)—were just as devoted as Becker.
Boyd tried his best not to eat their food, not wanting to ask what was actually in any of it. He subsisted on grains and vegetables, while they stretched out the bounty from the father and his sons with rich-smelling stews and even a couple of roasts that made Boyd’s mouth water fiercely until he looked at the chunks of meat hanging on the spit. He managed to make it a month before the hunger overtook him, a hunger that was not just for greater sustenance but cried out for something more. By then all that remained were some dried pieces of meat preserved in salt. He tore into the jerky with his teeth, pulling at the strands of hard, dry muscle. He almost choked while swallowing it but forced the lump of partially chewed flesh down his throat, not even stopping for some water before taking another bite. Altogether, it was barely edible and one of the greatest meals he’d ever tasted.
His strength restored, Boyd returned to avoiding Ives and his flock as much as possible. He’d sit in the great room and scowl at them as they read quietly or played cards. Ives would occasionally look over at him and smile, seemingly satisfied with life. Boyd hated all of it. He sometimes thought about leaving, except he couldn’t imagine what he would do among other people, being what he was now. The only option he could picture was to live as a hermit, secluded from both temptation and pain. Yet, he stayed.
More lost souls arrived after that. Boyd did his best to ignore them, staying ever at the edge of their jubilant meals and comfortable camaraderie. They seemed so happy. It made Boyd want to tear it all down. Which he tried, over and over again, to no avail.
He wrote a letter to the Army, detailing just enough of Ives’s offenses to pique their interest but hopefully still be believable. The Major who showed up—well displeased with the assignment—poked his nose into every inch of Fort Spencer and found only a well-run Army outpost, with a loyal contingent of civilian workers maintaining its operation. He told them all, sparing an obviously annoyed look at Boyd, that he would report back his satisfaction and promised that no further harassment would follow.
Every time strangers passed through, Boyd tried to warn them off, pleading with them that it wasn’t worth stopping there. But the strangers saw the warm lights and smelled the woodsmoke and bubbling stews. They were lost then, either to be a next meal or to become something far worse.
Boyd despaired. Each day Ives and his flock grew closer. Every newcomer would look suspiciously at Boyd, aware of how he wasn’t truly a member of their little congregation. Until they saw how Ives looked at him, at least. Ives never stopped watching him, and his eyes always looked… hungry. The followers kept their distance, obviously not wanting to interfere in whatever it was between Ives and Boyd.
Now, sitting in a heavy wooden chair near the fireplace, with the seven who had found their way to the Fort sitting before him, Ives was like a shepherd tending to his sheep. Or like a god to his worshippers. Boyd hated himself for even thinking that. He supposed he should add heresy to his list of sins.
As he looked at the former preacher, sitting at Ives’s feet and staring at him with rapt attention, and the others arranged around them, Boyd knew at least he wasn’t the only one to fall. The fact brought him no comfort.
***
The chase was exhilarating. So long as Boyd didn’t question why he was running, at least.
A man named Jones was the first to betray them (other than Boyd’s own failed attempts, of course). Boyd had been the one to uncover him, writing away in a secret journal, recording details of exactly what was going on at Fort Spencer these days. Boyd figured he either worked for the Army or was a journalist, looking for a salacious story to sell.
It probably would have sold well too. People loved reading about the macabre.
When Boyd found Jones out, he said nothing. A part of him relished discovery and the possibility of all this madness ending. Regrettably, not long after, Ives must have come to the same conclusion about their would-be Judas. Now Jones was running for his life, chased by the man he’d professed his devotion to only a few weeks earlier.
And Boyd, he was chasing him too, but he couldn’t explain why. When Jones had taken off into the wilderness, at full speed, with no supplies except his damned book, Boyd had leapt up and followed. He had no clue what he would do if he caught Jones, but he knew he’d find out soon, as he was closing on the man with Ives some distance behind, laughing. Boyd hated that laugh.
Still, Boyd ran. His feet flew across the forest floor, the trees moving past him in a blur. Their branches seemed to part way before him, no errant twig or pine needle striking him in his mad dash. He felt like his feet were barely touching the ground. It was like he was propelled from tree to tree, bounding ever closer to his prey. His heart raced as he ran, his lungs pumping, heat pouring through him, Ives’s wild screams echoing behind him. He felt alive.
Just two more yards. Then one. Then an outstretched hand met fabric and Boyd lunged at the man before him.
They fell in a tangle to the forest floor. Jones had a knife; Boyd hadn’t even thought to grab a weapon before he gave chase. Their wrestling didn’t last long, until Boyd felt Jones’s knife slice clean across his ribcage. The cut was deep and long, through skin, viscera, and muscle. Blood warmed him instantly, soaking through his clothes. Even though it was his own, Boyd found the smell intoxicating. He didn’t let his injury distract him, though, and quickly responded with a satisfying punch to Jones’s face. Unfortunately, that left Boyd open for Jones to thrust with the knife again. This time, the blade slid cleanly in between two of Boyd’s ribs, and Boyd fell in a heap as his legs lost all their strength.
Jones scuttled away from him, jerking his head around as if to look for other assailants. But the forest was quiet.
Then Ives burst through a hedge of bushes, looking like some savage forest beast, as he landed on Jones. Boyd lost track of their scuffle, the blood loss overtaking him. Darkness encroached.
Warmth hit his lips in a gush of wetness. It was sweet and thick on his tongue, a taste of metal that had become alarmingly familiar to him. Blood. And not his own. He drank out of instinct, lacking even the energy to hate himself as he did so. He felt strength rushing through him, life coursing through his veins again. Boyd opened his eyes and, unsurprisingly, saw Ives holding parts of what must have once been Jones over Boyd’s mouth. Boyd drank, willingly, before losing awareness again.
The next thing Boyd was aware of was the sound of tearing and hacking. He opened his eyes, the world slightly blurry, and saw Ives digging into Jones’s abdomen, his knife sawing at something. He emerged, looking triumphant, holding a piece of liver pulled free from its membrane. Ives sliced his knife through it, the knife moving as if through butter, and placed a small piece to Boyd’s lips. Boyd could no more resist its entrance than he could sprout wings and escape this horrifying fate. He allowed the piece of liver into his mouth eagerly. He bit down—it was dense yet delicate and silky—and tasted blood and rich meat. He barely had to chew; it was so soft. It was like eating a rare delicacy, an iron jelly. Boyd swallowed quickly, ready as Ives put another piece before his mouth. The grin never left Ives’s face, but Boyd ignored it, concentrating on consuming everything Ives put into his mouth. He could feel his body starting to respond, the gaping hole between his ribs filling in, and the blood in his veins rebuilding itself, stronger than before. As he closed his eyes again, blocking out the sight before him if not the smell or the taste that lingered on his tongue, he thought that the distance he had left to fall could best be measured in inches. He didn’t both wondering when he might cross that final line, as he knew it would be soon and inevitable.
When he awoke, there was a fire, Ives stoking it, meat on a spit across the flames, Jones’s body (what was left of it anyway) nearby but pushed aside.
“I’ve always preferred food to be cooked first, even if, when need’s must, the raw state will do.”
Boyd ignored the statement. “Where’s your flock? I’d have thought they would be rushing to your aid.”
“I told them to stay in the Fort, that you and I would handle this.” Ives’s smile toward Boyd looked genuine and kind, which made fury start to rise again in Boyd’s guts.
“Am I just another one of them? Your supplicants?” There was only bitterness in Boyd’s voice.
“No.” Ives shook his head as he said the word. And licked his lips. Boyd realized now that he was wrong; it wasn’t quite hunger marking Ives’s face when he looked at him. It was more like reverence.
Without thinking, Boyd pushed off the ground and lunged at Ives. The wound in his side screamed as he did so, but it meant nothing to him. Everything he was reached for Ives.
Boyd slammed into Ives and pushed him against the nearest tree, feeling every inch of the man before him. Ives was mostly hardness, bones and wiry muscle, his cock taut against his breeches. Boyd went for Ives’s mouth, tongue and teeth encountering more hardness but no resistance. The taste of blood overwhelmed Boyd, and he had no clue whose was on his tongue.
Boyd forced his right hand between their bodies, his left holding the tree behind for purchase. His right fingers found Ives’s trousers and slipped between them and Ives’s skin. It wasn’t hard to find to Ives’s cock, engorged and hot to the touch, pressing against the fabric. Boyd wrapped his hand around it, squeezing to the point he knew would be uncomfortable. Ives laughed softly against his mouth and pushed his hips forward. Boyd took it for the invitation it clearly was. His fingers played with the head of Ives’s cock, pushing the foreskin back and fingering the hole.
At the same time, Boyd moved his mouth to Ives’s neck, suckling at the man’s throat, breaking capillaries in his determination to leave a mark. Suddenly, that had become the most important thing to him, that he was more than the irrelevant ghost moaning in the corner. Boyd thought of all the people who had made their way to Ives and his life of damnation and wanted nothing more than to be at the center of it all. If he couldn’t stop what was happening, then maybe he could be at its heart, the one with the power to decide their fate.
Ives came with a grunt and pulled Boyd back to his mouth for another kiss filled with teeth and tongue.
When Ives’s reached his hand into Boyd’s trousers and freed his cock from its confinement, Boyd felt himself give in completely. In a way not entirely different from how he’d given in, over and over again, to consume that most forbidden food. Ives was efficient and, oddly, tender with his touch, bringing Boyd quickly to climax.
Boyd arched his back and pushed his hips into Ives as he came. He felt exultation.
He felt chosen.
He felt saved.