Chapter 7

Chapter  Seven:

Recovered Journal from the legend known as “The Night Mother”.

Dawn finally emerged onto the valley and we awoke to the sound of pipe organ music coming from the circus. The Bone Doctor had already been up watching if the circus would come to life for any unfortunate hunters in the area. Before we left, I asked him why he would care about this. 

“It’s not about redemption,” He stated. “History won’t remember any of us. The best we can do is hope we can still write it down.” 

Cages of malnourished dogs lined the perimeter. We debated going in through the front entrance, but then Felis spotted a hole near the right side we could duck under. As we made our way under the tent, I stepped on some dead brambles and drew blood. I winced, but quickly patched up with some herbal remedy. Off in the distance, the same ghastly roar rang out. I gestured over to the group that we should try and avoid the plant if possible. 

The middle of the tent was a bloodbath that even made Felis gag. Bodies piled within the seats, baking from the Colorado heat with dark fluids dripping from sharp wounds on their body. The Doctor knelt down beside one of them and put his hand on the heart. 

“It’s the same infection that happened in Louisiana,” he whispered as if he was acquiring knowledge from dark sight. “But something has twisted them more. Not even a soul left in these cadavers.”

As we left the scene, Eddie motioned us over to one of the pop up stands across from the tent. In Front of Bradbury’s Drinks, He stood in front of a few corpses slumped over in bar stools and on the floor with glass shoved into their throat.

“These folks definitely had something strong for them to do this,” he shuddered.

“Someone most likely was in a fight when this went down,” Felis responded. “It’s not uncommon to find bodies like this still wearing the wounds of battle.”

Eddie simply shook his head and went behind the counter to show the dead bartender off to the group. He pointed to the lacerations across the neck and the unhinged jaw.

“No one eats bottles. These folks could have been shot, but no one in their right mind would try and eat a bottle unless whatever they found was melted gold.”

He then pulled a still intact bottle and opened it. A foul stench came from permeating the nostrils as I clasped my hands together. It was if someone took the unborn idea of corruption from Nature’s womb and distilled it for sinners to parch their lips. Repugnant was an understatement. As Eddie poured the liquid into a nearby glass, its color was blood orange with streaks of dark liquid with a consistency of oil. 

“We were too late,” The Bone Doctor spoke with a hint of sadness in his voice. “Fake miracle cures and mixed drinks got the better of the population around here.”

Eddie spun around the bottle and looked at the label. “It says here it was brewed locally,” he stated. “A place called Monteros Malt. Maybe we can find out who this Bradbury gentleman is and pay him a visit.”

A shot whizzed past the group as it struck the bottle, letting the liquid splatter across the back of the stand. Eddie cried in pain and ducked behind the counter. As we drew our weapons, we saw a figure holding out his hands as he dropped his rifle on the ground. As he walked from the tent, a man covered in symbols, wearing the remains of a ringmaster’s suit and adorned with a worn hat showed his face.

“I wouldn’t recommend drinking that if I were you.”