[Catskill Mountains, October 31st, 1866]

Karsten squinted at the man, who grinned a smile with too many teeth and squinted back. Finally, Karsten asked, "What exactly is the problem?"

"Problem is that there's a war on, stranger."

"You must be confused. You folks lost the war."

The big man growled. Not the frustrated grumble of a man, but the chesty rumble of a large dog. It was punctuated by the soft click of Karsten cocking the lever of his rifle. "Not that war. The war you're getting yourself into is older than time, older than these hills. Posat is moving, we need to know why."

"If that's true about the war," Karsten interjected, "We're just bystanders."

"Bystanders taste better," the big man grinned again, "More tender."

Romy raised her voice and put the weight of authority behind it. "I invoke the Treaty of Kaltenbrun. You must let us pass."

He laughed. "I didn't sign no treaty."

"Then you leave me no choice," she sighed theatrically and raised a long, thin silver whistle to her lips. When she blew it, no sound came out.

The men surrounding the coach clutched their ears and stumbled in confusion. Karsten wasted little time, cracking off shot after shot directly into their heads, putting them down quickly and without remorse. When the last one had fallen, Romy stopped blowing and wheeled on him. "What the hell are you doing?"

"They were bad men, doing bad things, and had no intention of letting us live. I finished it."

"No, you imbecile!" Romy shouted at him. "You violated the treaty. You struck first. We could have moved on while they were incapacitated."

"I didn't sign no treaty," Karsten imitated the big man's accent.

"It doesn't matter," Romy explained, "These treaties... we inherit them. The guaranteurs do not play idle games. Madame Posat will be upset with me for allowing that."

"What she doesn't know won't hurt her."

Inola, staring wide-eyed at the corpses around them, dropped out of the coach. "What happened?" she wondered aloud.

Romy ignored her, "She's going to know."

Inola moved among the bodies, looking each of them in their staring faces.

"How would she know? Big guy down there pointed out that there weren't any witnesses. So unless one of us tells her, she's never finding out. So long as we get going."

"Mister Karsten?" Inola asked, voice full of detached wonder.

"We're going," Karsten told her, firmly.

"We are not," Romy answered, just as firmly. "We must burn them."

"Miss Romy?"

"Let the crows have them. That's what crows are for."

"You don't unders-"

"Both of you BE QUIET!" Inola shouted. "They're still alive!"

Karsten started in alarm and looked at the carnage. Sure enough, their bodies had started twitching, their half-obliterated heads knitting together from the deepest wounds outward. The process looked extraordinarily taxing; their bodies shriveled where fat was burned to fuel the process, and their faces, ruined or otherwise, contorted in maddening agony. They all looked gaunt now, and taken by a wild insanity. Inola ran back to the coach and leaped in, assisted by a ghost-pale Dupont. 

Karsten swore and opened the lever of his gun, frantically reloading the magazine. "Get that little whistle ready!" he yelled.

"It won't work until their heads are together," Romy answered and raised her own weapon. It hissed its peculiar retort as she fired. She'd fired on three of them when a shot came from one of the downed men. Despite his one ruined eye, his shot was not far off the mark. The round grazed her thigh before gouging a long furrow in the top of the carriage. She hawked and let herself roll off the driver's seat, landing lightly on the ground. 

Karsten dropped his weapon and leaped from the top himself, landing on the man who had fired. His hunting knife descended repeatedly into the man's neck until with a crack the spine gave way and the head came free. He saw out of the corner of his eye another man was beginning to rise. This was the leader, the big man. He raised a pistol and grinned; his teeth were twisted and sharp, and the gaping hole in his cheeck had narrowed to barely a finger width. Karsten didn't hesitate: he threw the severed head at the big man's gun and rushed headlong towards him. The head burst like a melon when the revolver fired, but the round followed through and harmlessly buried itself in a hillside.

Karsten tried his feat again, but the big man was more aware than the last. He clutched Karsten's wrist and held it with shocking strength. The man roared up triumphantly at Karsten, who used his other hand to punch him in the jaw. The two flipped, wrestled, rolled around in the dirt, and eventually Karsten found himself on the bottom at risk of getting pinned. He drove his knee up into the big man's groin and felt some bit of flesh give way. The thing on top of him winced, and Karsten shoved him up and tucked his feet on the man's stomach, kicking with all of his might. When he stood, he saw that he now faced four of the snarling man-beasts, and they were between him and the coach.

Panting, he raised his knife and resolved to kill at least one before he died. 

Three of the four suddenly clutched their heads and began writhing. The fourth looked at the other three and grinned wide. His evil smile was supplanted by a bloody hole lined with broken teeth and bones, and he fell forward. Aaron Dupont was leaning out of the coach immediately behind the ruffian, smoking gun still in his hand. He was pale, even a little green, and his eyes looked like a colt's when it's on the verge of bolting.

Karsten nodded, and then glanced at the other writhing men. A further look at the downed man showed that even his greivous wound had started to slowly mend sealed Karsten's mind. "We're going!" he announced and darted to the coach. Just as he climbed to the seat, Romy flipped the reins and the horses were off again, this time at a brisk trot.

"Can these things go any faster?"

Romy let the whistle drop from her lips. Her face was oddly flushed a blue-green tint and she wheezed from the effort of such a long blast on the silent device. "This is as fast as they go without rattling apart. I don't think they will pursue us, anyway. Not tonight. We hurt them and full recovery will take a few hours at least."

"You also said they'd leave us alone after last night. They usually get up like that?"

"No," Romy answered, thoughtfully. "They shouldn't have recovered that fast, not from head wounds. We will have to make a note of this and inform Madame Posat. This pack may need to be culled."

"Culled? They said it was a war."

"They were... exaggerating their contributions."

Karsten laughed. "You mean that you massacre them when you get the chance."

"Can you blame us? They're vile, murderous, cannibalistic monsters. The one you beheaded is almost certainly being devoured as we speak. It's in their nature."

"I'd rather not moralize," he answered, carefully. "We're in a war we didn't sign up for. We'll have to renegotiate... the... pay." He leaned back against the seat. "She didn't offer to pay me."

Romy smiled a secret little smile. "You will be paid."

"That's not the point," Karsten responded, dully. He chewed the inside of his cheek, lost in thought. "She just started speaking and I was going to do it."

They rode in silence for a bit, Karsten alternating between peeved fuming and looking behind them for pursuit that did not show itself. By the time the sun was just past its zenith, Karsten relaxed. Eyeing Romy's lap, he asked, "How's your leg?"

Romy was taken aback. "It's fine. I stopped the bleeding and bandaged it. If it's still open I'll sew it up when we aren't on the move."

"I could look at it-" Karsten started to offer.

"No!" Romy snapped. She glanced at him and took a deep breath. "You can't. I'll do it myself, I have a mental requirement to take care of such things myself."

"Suit yourself," Karsten placated, and lapsed into a sullen silence. 

Dupont wheezed in the back seat, chest heaving as he tried to gain control of himself. Every time Beckham or Inola turned to the window and showed him the back of their heads, his mind's eye imagined that awful meat tunnel being opened by his hand.

"Calm down, Aaron, there's a good lad," Beckham placated, digging through his travel bag for his brandy.

"I killed a man!" Aaron wailed. He looked at the gun in his hand as if he was holding a venomous snake. He flung the weapon away from himself with a cry. "I killed a man!"

"He was trying to kill Mister Yeager. You saved Mister Yeager's life," Beckham insisted. 

Aaron nodded, his panicked wheezing slowing. Beckham's eyes widened and he threw his hat into Aaron's lap. The archaeologist doubled over and vomited into the hat. 

When Dupont looked up from the cap, Inola and Beckham were both staring at him. He started to extend the hat to return it to its owner, but Beckham kicked the door open and Dupont obliged by throwing the hat and mess out onto the passing road.

"Feel better?" Inola asked, hesitantly.

"No. I don't think I can take another life," Dupont groaned. "How do they do it?"

"Practice, I suppose," Inola answered. "I get the sense that the both of them have killed a lot of people. It's not such a bad thing that you aren't on that path, is it?"

"No," Aaron nodded. "It's not. Hopefully the rest of this Godforsaken expedition will be calmer."

Beckham harrumphed. When the other two turned to look at him, he gave them a wistful smile. "I don't think those cards are on the table."

Inola sighed. "I fear you may be correct, Mister Palmer. Whatever Madame Posat has planned seems to involve some terrible things."

"Then we'll have to resign," Dupont announced. "We can't be a part of this. Or at least I can't."

Palmer laughed, "If I turned tail every time a museum sent me to somewhere unfriendly I'd never have built the capital to move to America."

"What if we do harm?"

"Do a lot of that, too on digs." Beckham sighed, turning his attention to the window. "We're grave robbers, Aaron. Resurrectionists. The people we dig up, they took it with them. The things we uncover were never meant to see the open sky again. We might be a scientific expedition, but that doesn't make us blameless."

"That's different..."

"No," Beckham answered, "It isn't. I was on a dig in anticipation of the rail from Alexandria to Cairo a ways back. Dug up a few mummies of laborers, very normal. One of them had a ruby dagger, so that was interesting. Anyway, the Viceroy Abbās was murdered and next you know the locals aren't so fond of the English digging up their great great grandads anymore. There was a bit of a riot, but we had some Royal Marines with us for security and they got us out. I think about twelve people died." He shuddered, turning his attention to his shoes. "Terrible, that. But necessary to save our own skins."

"Is everyone on this trip a monster?" Aaron grumbled, and eyed Inola curiously.

In return, she shrugged. "I haven't killed anyone. I've never actually been in a fight before. The closest I've ever been was yesterday."

"At least there's two of us."

The day wore on, without incident. As the day ended, the rolling hills began to flatten out. Aaron was astonished at the progress they seem to have made, if indeed they were nearing the coast. 

The door opened without slowing, and Karsten tossed a pair of rawhide bags into Aaron's lap without comment before hauling himself back up and out of sight, letting the door drift closed on its own. Aaron opened one and found bread and cheese wrapped in clean white napkins, and some filled waterskins. The other bag contained three Union-issued blankets. "I suppose we aren't stopping," Aaron sighed.

"Makes sense, with those people after us," Palmer nodded, and then he leaned forward to collect a portion of the food and a blanket. "Won't be the least comfortable we'll get on this trip, I'd wager."

Aaron broke himself a piece off the bread and passed the rest of the provisions to Inola. She looked at him, quizzically. He shrugged, sheepishly, "Milk and cheese don't sit well with me. It's better for all of us in this coach if I abstain."

Palmer caught Inola's eye and nodded with an overly serious look on his face, then mimed a dry heave. She laughed and he winked at her.

Dupont rolled his eyes with a self deprecating smile and passed a water skin to Inola. When he attempted to pass one to Beckham, the Brit chuckled and said, "No, my boy, I brought my own." He unscrewed a canteen and glugged loudly before capping it again. The smell of strong plum brandy filled the car, and Aaron wrinkled his nose.

"You will, of course, have to drink water at some point, Beckham."

"Rule one of every expedition is 'don't drink the water.' Not without boiling it first. You'll learn soon enough. They always do."

"This is water taken from home, I imagine," Aaron rejoined. "Hardly a danger."

"Getting my practice in!" Beckham laughed, with a caricature of indignity. The others joined him and dug into their food. 

They talked about their lives before the expedition, both shared stories between Aaron and Beckham and stories of their separate experiences. Inola returned with a few details about her life in an expensive Parisian finishing school. At some point, Beckham began passing his canteen around and the mood lightened even more. All thoughts of monsters and madmen were banished, and the three decided unanimously that they really did get along quite well.

Dupont's last thought before wrapping up in his blanket and succumbing to the night and the drink was how much he enjoyed Miss Gibson's toothy smile.