“Oh thank the Lord!” it cried, falling to its knees once more. It sobbed, which only increased the flow of puss from where its eyes used to be. “I’d thought that I’d die out here, that I’d not be seeing another person. And here you two are! Please, sirs, do you have any water? I’ve got a mighty thirst.”
Dust frowned. Why would it act so much like a child? To lull him, get him to lower his guard? He decided to play along, see if the Gifts had learned a new trick.
“Sure thing kid,” he said.
He vaulted Horse and reached into his pack for a water pouch. With one hand on his other gun, he walked over to the boy-thing. Horse backed away, not wanting to be any closer than necessary.
“I’m just coming up to you now. You’re in a bad way so I’m just going to pour the water into your mouth. I hope you understand.”
It gave him a wet croak that might’ve been a cough. “Anything you say, mister.”
Dust frowned, then leant over and slowly poured water into its open mouth. Its flesh almost seemed to absorb the water. All but two of its teeth were gone and those were an awful shade of green. Its tongue and throat were black as its blood.
“Oh thank you and thank the Lord.” It reached up to the sky, splaying sunburned fingers flecked with dark veins. “Thank you Lord!”
Behind him, Naismith choked back some reaction.
It was quite convincing, Dust had to admit that. “What happened to you son?”
It faced Dust with a broad grin on its face. “We… we were playing in the border of the Badlands. Me and my brothers, Otis and Matty. Ma always said that we shouldn’t come out here but, well…” The hanging cheek flapped awkwardly against its skin as it talked through a smile.
“But boys were made to disobey their mamas,” Dust said.
“Something like that mister.” It frowned. “Say, what’s your name?”
He couldn’t see the harm in giving it his old name. “Dustin.”
It offered him that red and black hand. “Hiya Dustin, I’m Luke.”
Dust didn’t have to worry about the infection and what had once been Luke seemed genuinely please to meet him. Perhaps this was a rogue Gift, if there could be such a thing? He had to find out.
He gently shook its small hand. “Pleased to meet you Luke. This here is Eleanor.”
Naismith dismounted. Dust gestured again for her to keep her distance. She nodded, held onto her horse’s reins tightly. Thankfully, her ride didn’t seem nearly so spooked by this thing; it looked downright calm. Though that in itself was curious.
“Afternoon, Luke,” Naismith said, though there was no warmth in her voice.
It frowned, which brought a fresh avalanche of bright orange puss down its cheeks. “A girl?”
“There’s nothing wrong with girls,” she replied with barely a hitch in her voice. “I can shoot as good as a man.”
“I didn’t mean no disrespect, ma’am.”
“Anyway,” Dust cut in, “you were playing in the Badlands?”
“What? Oh, yeah. We were playing in the Badlands; cowboys and Indians. Otis was the cowboy as usual. Me and Matty are the young ‘uns, you see. So we went and hid in the brushes when something… it…” Its face crumpled up and it held onto itself for comfort. “Oh Lord, it ate Matty’s face!”
Dust nearly gaped; that was real emotion. “And it got you too?”
It shook its head. “Nearly. I got away. It stung me but I don’t seem to have been hurt to badly. I got myself mighty lost though. How far are we from North Springs?”
“Forty miles or so.” Dust replied.
Not that it’d ever see North Springs again.
It shook its head once more, flapping that loose cheek around like a hound with a tough steak. “No, it can’t be. I can’t have been walking for more than two hours…”
It was so genuine. Too genuine to be of the Triangle. Dust’d been wrong to say this wasn’t a boy; either the Gift hadn’t been that strong or Luke had a soul so strong that he’d partially staved off the Gift’s corruption. That explained his tattoo not warning him, Naismith’s ride being so calm…
Surviving the first attack was impressive enough but to have gone for days without giving in a Gift? Dust was proud of him.
Not too proud to sugar coat the truth though. “I’m afraid it’s true, Luke.”
Luke frowned. “I… I don’t know how that can be.”
Naismith coughed. Dust looked back and she gestured to his hand, which no longer rested on his other gun. Then she frowned, asking why he wasn’t ready to kill the boy. Dust couldn’t answer but it should’ve been obvious; he didn’t want to. Not at all. He’d never killed a child and did not relish the prospect of breaking that duck. Maybe Luke would be able to fight the Gift, be the first person to survive one?
His tattoo – which had moved to his ribs – warmed; a Gift always won, it seemed to say, regardless of a soul’s strength. Dust cursed the damn thing. Even though he knew it was right.
Slowly, Dust knelt and put a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “Look, you’ve done well to get this far but you’re a bit ill, son. How else do you explain getting so far without knowing it? I’ll help you out. Stand still, I’ve got some medicine that’ll fix you.”
The Gift began to quiver within Luke’s flesh.
“I-I don’t know, mister,” Luke said. “I don’t like you touching me right now; it feels awful weird.”
“You are very ill, Luke,” Naismith said. Her voice didn’t give away what was to come. “The medicine won’t do you any harm if you’re healthy but will help if you’re not. Just let Dustin help.”
Dust winced. He would need to tell Naismith she wasn’t to call him that, though it was forgivable under the circumstances. “Don’t worry, Luke. Now, this might sting a little but it’ll be fine; you’ll feel better right after.”
Quietly, he pulled his Colt from its holster; Luke didn’t deserve the other gun.
Dust made no sound in drawing it, he knew that, yet the Gift squirmed like a host of maggots; it could sense Dust’s intentions. Much as he didn’t like admitting it, that writhing meant his tattoo had been right, that the Gift had almost become sentient.
A Gift always won.
