I didn’t care how the town of So Low got its name. But no matter how often I protested, the old man would not stop waxing on about the town’s history and how it got its name.

“It’s ’cause of the elevation,” the old man told me for the dozenth time. “When old Josiah Garrick was asked back in ’42 what the elevation was, he just held his hand out and said, ‘Oh ’bout so low.’” The old man laughed and slapped his thigh as though he hadn’t just told me the same story just a few minutes before. And a few minutes before that. And a few minutes before that, too.

I couldn’t complain, though. Not out loud. Old Ezekiel — which is how he insisted I address him — was giving me a ride into town on his wagon, since my horse had died a few miles back. My biggest worry wasn’t how many times Old Ezekiel had told me the story of the town’s origin. My biggest worry was getting out of So Low and catching up with Gibson Crane without a horse.

“So who’s this man you’re after?” Old Ezekiel asked me.

“Huh?” The change in subject was so sudden I didn’t even realize he had asked me a question at first. But then I figured it out. “Man’s name is Gibson Crane. About six feet tall. Red hair. Skinny as a rail. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“Can’t say’s I have. Done you wrong, did he?” He smirked. “Run out on you and the kids, maybe, or maybe took a shine to some other woman, ran off to California with her?”

I gave him the coldest look I could. “No, sir. Gibson Crane killed a dozen children back in Kentucky, and when he was done having his way with them, he ate them.”

The rest of the ride into town was quiet after that.

#

Old Ezekiel dropped me off at the sheriff’s office and drove off as quickly as he could. Fine with me. I didn’t feel a need to talk with him more than I had to.

Sheriff Black met me outside his office. He’d been standing outside, smoking a cigarette, as if he’d been waiting for me. As I dismounted Old Ezekiel’s wagon, he came forward, shoving aside a figure huddled up on the ground just in front of the sidewalk. The figure groaned.

“Can I help you?” he asked me.

I showed him my papers and my badge. He grunted, and led me inside. The figure on the ground groaned again. “That’s just Hank,” he said. “Usually I’d put him in one of the cells in back after he’s been on a bender, but he’s no bother today. Figured I’d just let him sleep it off, then send him on his way.”

Sheriff Black was the rarest kind of lawman I’d encountered since leaving Galway: the kind that barely even blinked when I showed him my badge and papers. Most of them time getting the law to take me seriously took a lot of talking, sometimes some shouting, sometimes some shooting.

He handed my papers back to me. “Galway, Kentucky, eh? You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”

“I’m in pursuit of a dangerous fugitive.” I dug in my bag and pulled out the drawing of Crane and handed it over to him. “Name’s Gibson Crane. Stands about six feet tall, red hair, skinny as a rail. Have you seen him?”

“Hm.” Black stroked his horseshoe mustache. “Yep. As a matter of fact, I have. In fact, I’ve got him right here, cooling in a cell in back.”

“Really?” I was genuinely surprised. I hadn’t expected that I’d catch up with Crane so soon. “What for?”

“Fighting.” Black spat a wad of tobacco into a spittoon at the side of his desk. “Raising hell at Rosie’s.”

“Rosie’s?”

His eyes narrowed. “She and her girls keep the men busy at night. Town like this, you have to know how to pick your battles. It’s like Hank out there. He’s not going to hurt anyone, and as long as I’ve got him in sight, no one’s going to hurt him. There’s more pressing problems around here.”

I shrugged. “It’s no business of mine, Sheriff. I’m only here for Crane.”

“Right you are.” Black stood up and grabbed the keys from their hook on the wall. “What’d this guy Crane do, anyway?”

“Killed and ate some kids,” I said.

For the first time Black’s face registered a hint of surprise. “No shit? Doesn’t seem like the type.”

“They never do.”

There were only two cells in what passed for a jail in the sheriff’s office. Crane was in the second one. He sat on the bench with his arms on his knees and his head almost down to the floor. His hair had grown since the last time I’d seen him, but even though I couldn’t see his face from here I knew instantly that it was him. “Hello, Gibson,” I said.

He looked up at me. His hair hung over his eyes. He hadn’t shaved in days, and stubble stood out on his face like blood. “Hello, Marshall. Long time no see.”

“You ready to go back home?”

“Have I got a choice?”

I tsked at him. “Come on, Gibson. You know better than that.”

“I didn’t kill those kids,” he said.

“The court says otherwise, and that’s all that I care about.”

There was a scuffling noise from the other room, then a crash. “What the hell is it now?” Sheriff Black said. He turned to me. “Be right back.”

I nodded at him and he left.

“You gotta believe me,” Gibson said. “I’m not the kind of man who would do that kind of thing.”

“I suppose you know who it was who did?”

Gibson closed his mouth, setting his jaw firmly. He didn’t say a word.

In a way, I almost believed that he was innocent, that he really didn’t do what the courts and the law said he’d done. But that he knew who did, and he was covering up for them for some reason that I could only imagine.

He wouldn’t talk, though. There was nothing I could do.

I sighed. “That’s what I thought. You know I gotta take you back to Galway now.”

“Yeah. I know.”

I realized then that I didn’t have the key to Gibson’s cell on me. “Sheriff!” I called out.

There was no answer.

“Be right back,” I told Gibson. I went back to the sheriff’s office. At first I didn’t see him, though I heard a slurping sort of chewing noise. I looked around to see if I could find where it was coming from, but I couldn’t at first. Finally I stepped around the desk and saw what was making the noise.

It was Hank, the drunk man from outside.

Eating Sheriff Black.

For a moment I just stood there, staring at the sight of the crazed old drunkard holding Sheriff Black’s intestines in his hands and eating them like a man would tear into a steak. I couldn’t move.

Then Hank looked up at me. There was something unnatural about his eyes and his face. His skin was pale, slick and greasy-looking, and his eyes were sunk into their sockets. Blood and worse covered the entire lower half of his face. He made a hideous chuffing sound, as if he were trying to speak to me.

The keys. Where the hell were Sheriff Black’s keys?

Hank stood up, swaying. He was grinning at me, horribly.

I didn’t bother with any pleasantries like warning him to back off. I just grabbed my revolver and fired two shots directly into his chest.

Hank stumbled backwards, but did not drop to the ground. He came at me, making that chuffing noise, his mouth with its horrible grin opening and closing. He reached out for me with hands that were covered in blood and tissue.

“What’s going on out there?” Gibson shouted from his cell.

I didn’t bother answering. I fired once more at Hank, hitting him again in his chest. This time he barely stumbled, and just kept coming at me. I backed up, firing again. He obviously wasn’t going to be dropped by shots to the chest, so this time I fired directly at his head. I watched the bullet hole appear in his forehead — I’m a damn good shot after all — and finally he fell to the ground with a thud, twitching.

I finally saw the sheriff’s keys attached to his belt. I went over to them, bent over and unhooked them.

“Zoe!” Gibson shouted from his cell. “What’s happening out there?”

“I’m coming,” I said.

I looked down at Sheriff Black. Hank had really done a number on him. His belly looked like it had been ripped open and scooped out. I put two fingers on his throat to check his pulse. This man was definitely dead.

I stood up and went back to Gibson’s cell, removing my handcuffs from my belt.

“What happened out there?” Gibson asked. “I heard gunshots.”

“Nothing,” I said. “Come on, we’re getting out of here. Turn around.”

Gibson turned and put his hands behind his back. He had always been a compliant prisoner, even back in Galway. I put the cuffs on him, then turned him around. “We’re going to find transport to San Augustin,” I told him, “and from there take the train back to Galway.”

He didn’t answer, but he obediently stepped out of the cell. Then he stopped and stared in front of him and said, “Mother of God.”

I stepped from behind him. Sheriff Black had gotten to his feet and was now approaching us, lurching and dragging what remained of his intestines behind him. He made the same chuffing noise that Hank had made and he was reaching out for us.

“What happened to him?” Gibson asked.

“I think he’s dead,” I replied. I pulled my revolver out of my holster and calculated how many bullets I had left. I figured I had two in the gun. I’d have to reload if any more of these things were about. “Stay away, Sheriff,” I warned.

Sheriff Black did not stop. He was grinning in the same way that Hank had grinned, teeth all exposed, that awful chuffing noise emanating from his gaping mouth.

I didn’t bother warning him again. I aimed carefully, and fired just once. The bullet went right into his forehead, and he dropped to the ground.

“What’s going on?” Gibson asked.

“I have no idea,” I replied. “Come on, let’s go.”

I led Gibson into the sheriff’s office, just planning on getting through as quickly as possible. Maybe we could find Old Ezekiel and get him to drive us out of town.

“Holy shit,” Gibson said when he saw Hank’s body on the ground. “What happened?”

“Same thing that happened to the sheriff,” I said.

The two of us went through the front door and into the street. I looked around for a horse, but didn’t see any.

“Zoe,” Gibson said with a tremble in his voice.

I turned to see what he had seen. I cursed, not even trying to keep my voice down.

A dozen men and women, all of them with injuries like the one that Sheriff Black had suffered or even worse, shambled toward us down the street, moaning and chuffing, their faces red with blood. Some of them had lost at least one leg or their entire lower half and were dragging themselves through the dirt with arms that looked like they were going to snap off at any moment. One of the uprights even held a pistol loosely in what remained of his right hand. All of them looked like they had been

I hadn’t yet had time to reload my revolver. There were a lot more than six of them anyway.

“Shit,” said Gibson. “What the hell’s going on here?”

“We’ve got to get out of here,” I told him. I looked around again, hoping to find a horse, or possibly even two horses, that we could take out of town.

“They’re getting closer,” Gibson said.

I didn’t even bother looking behind me. I knew that they — whatever they were — were approaching. They weren’t approaching fast, because all they did was sort of lurch along, walking like drunkards on a bender, but they were headed right toward us.

I took out the key to the handcuffs and freed Gibson. I wasn’t worried that he would run at this point. “Go inside and get any guns and bullets you can find,” I said.

His face paled. “There’s dead people in there.”

“And there will be more out here if you don’t do it.”

He grimaced, but went back inside the sheriff’s office. I reloaded my revolver and took aim at the one closest to me, an old cowboy with his ribs showing. I fired once, calmly, and hit him right in the eye. He dropped to the ground. I half expected the other maneaters to stop and start chowing down on him, but they ignored him and continued heading right to me.

“Gibson!” I shouted. “Get out here!”

“I’m coming,” Gibson called back.

I swore, and fired again, this time at a pretty young woman who was missing her right arm. There were bite marks on her neck and her dress had been torn. My first shot missed her forehead and hit her neck. She didn’t even pause. I fired again, and this time my bullet hit her directly in the middle of her forehead. She fell like a sack of potatoes.

“Found it,” Gibson said, emerging from the sheriff’s office. He held a revolver out to me and a handful of bullets. “Here.”

“Good. Load it up and let’s go.”

“How do you do that?”

I blinked. Was it actually possible that Gibson didn’t know how to load and fire a gun? I didn’t want to waste time showing him, whether he pretended or not, so I took the revolver from his hand, opened it, and loaded six bullets. “Okay, shoot. You have to shoot them in the head.”

He held the gun and looked at it dubiously. “I’ve never shot one of these before,” he said.

“You hold it in your hand and point it at what you want to shoot and then pull the trigger,” I said. “How hard can it be?” The maneaters — ghouls, whatever they were — were less than half a dozen yards away from us now. “Try shooting one.”

Gibson held the gun up in front of him and aimed it at one of the nearest creatures. He fired, but his hand jerked wildly and the bullet missed the target entirely.

“Ouch!” he said. “That hurt!”

I took the gun from him. Last thing I wanted was to waste bullets when these things might be lurking anywhere.

“What are we going to do?” he asked.

I grabbed his arm. “We’re going to go that way,” I said, pointing down the street.

He nodded. “Okay. Sounds good.”

I led him down the street, somewhat surprised that he was following me. “Keep an eye out for horses,” I told him.

“Like those?” he asked.

I stopped and saw him pointing down a side street. In front of a small building, I saw Old Ezekiel’s wagon. It had tipped over onto its side, but his two horses looked to be all right. “Perfect,” I told Gibson. “Come on.”

I didn’t see Old Ezekiel anywhere. I probably should have been looking out for him, but I was focused entirely on getting the two of us to the wagon and the horses. The wagon itself was probably useless by now, but I could at least free the horses and we could take them. That’s all I was thinking about.

We got to the wagon and I began immediately trying to figure out how the horses were attached to it. I’d never thought about this before, and even now I realized that the two of us would have to ride the horses bareback.

Gibson screamed. I had just figured out how the horses were attached to the wagon and loosened them. I turned.

Old Ezekiel, his neck half gone, probably eaten, had lurched his way from wherever he’d been hiding, and grabbed Gibson’s hand. He’d already bitten off two of Gibson’s fingers, and was gnawing on the third. Gibson was trying to fight the old man off with his good hand, but Old Ezekiel was too stubborn.

I took the revolver that Gibson had found for me and placed the tip of the barrel right against the side of the old man’s head. I fired. Old Ezekiel jerked, then fell to the ground.

Gibson was holding his hand in front of him, staring at the stumps of his fingers and trembling. His face was pale, as if all the blood in his body had rushed out through his injured hand. To his credit, though, he wasn’t screaming or even crying, even though he must have been in tremendous pain.

I took a bandanna out of my pocket and wrapped it around his hand.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice shaking.

“We’ve got to go,” I said. “We don’t know how many of these things there are. Do you know how to ride a horse?”

He nodded.

“Do you know how to ride bareback?”

“What’s that?”

Shit. “No saddle. No stirrups. You’re on the horse’s bare back.”

“I can try.”

I supposed I couldn’t have asked for better than that. I helped him get onto the horse, and gave him the basic instruction on how to handle the horse. He seemed to pick that up quickly, at least.

We rode to the edge of town. I don’t know how many of the creatures we passed, and I didn’t shoot at any of them unless they came too close. I wanted to save my bullets.

After we’d ridden a couple of miles, Gibson said, “You have to kill me. Shoot me in the head.”

I looked at him. “What the hell are you talking about, Gibson Crane?”

“Didn’t you notice? All of those things had bite marks on them. They were all bitten and then they all became… like that.”

“Christ, Gibson, they didn’t bite you.” I looked at him, then remembered the way Old Ezekiel had eaten his fingers. “Shit, Gibson.”

“Yeah.” He was about to say more, but he suddenly leaned over and threw up onto the ground. I couldn’t look. I’ve seen a lot in my time as a US Marshall, but for some reason I could never handle puke.

“I’m puking up blood,” Gibson said. “I’m real sick.”

I nodded. “Okay. We’ll stop here and get some rest.”

“You have to shoot me, Marshall Garrick. Before I turn into one of them.”

I helped him get off the horse. He was pale and trembling, far worse than he had been before. Whatever this disease was — and it must have been some sort of disease — it sure struck fast and hard.

Gibson fell to the ground and rolled over onto his stomach. I rolled him over and dragged him into the shade of an oak tree.

I was about to get up and try to find him some water when he drabbed the collar of my shirt. “I didn’t kill those children,” he said again. “I didn’t.”

I hesitated. After everything I’d seen, including how unskilled he was with a gun, and how broken he seemed, I found that I actually believed him. “I know,” I said. “But you know who did, don’t you?”

He nodded.

“You going to tell me?”

He said nothing. Just breathed heavily, in a raspy sort of huffing sound. My skin crawled. “If you know who it is and don’t tell me,” I said, “that’s just as bad as you killing them yourself. You want to die with that on your soul?”

“I –” Before he could say more, he convulsed once more. I rolled him onto his side, and he threw up again. I didn’t look away in time. I saw blood and a black fluid that swirled around almost as though it were alive. I didn’t like the way it looked.

“My brother,” he said at last. His voice was little more than a whisper.

“Your brother?”

“Oliver. Oliver Crane. He killed all those children.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why were you protecting him?”

“He’s retarded. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Damn it, Gibson. He could still be doing it now, back in Galway, while I’ve chased you halfway across the god damned country.”

He shook his head. “No. Just before I left Galway, I killed him. Stabbed him in the heart. Buried him out back.”

“Jesus, Gibson.” I sat back on my heels.

His mouth moved once more. I couldn’t make out what he said.

I leaned toward him, put my ear near his mouth. “What did you say?”

“Forgive me. Please, forgive me.”

I didn’t know how to answer that. I’m not much of a religious person. I’m certainly no priest, not even a nun. I haven’t been to church in years.

But what else could I do?

I took my revolver from its holster one last time. “You’re forgiven,” I said. Then I pulled the trigger and blew his brains out.

#

I hadn’t gone more than half a mile after that when I saw the riders, a dozen of them headed toward the town I had just left. Dangerous looking men, wearing all black: black hats, black dusters, black jeans. They each had at least two or three rifles on their backs. Their horses were large and magnificent.

One of them stopped and looked at me. “You just come from So Low?” he asked.

I nodded. There was no point in denying it. There was blood and probably worse all over my clothes.

He mouth twitched and he reached for the pistol I knew was holstered at his hip. “You been bitten?”

I shook my head. “Wouldn’t be here if I’d been bit. Whatever it is works fast.”

The rider visibly relaxed. “Then get the hell out of here,” he said. “And don’t tell anyone what you saw. Got that?”

I let him ride away from me.

I made my way down to San Augustin, where I set the horse free, and caught a train to Chicago, since it stopped in Galway. The ride lasted three days, but even though the sleeper I was in was relatively comfortable, I couldn’t sleep at all.

The rails beneath the train. It was the chuffing sound they made. Chuff. Chuff. Chuff.