She hesitated. Henry didn't expect that of this woman. Standing up in her stirrups, Annie gazed around before settling back down and giving her horse only a gentle tap to its flanks, heading toward the sound of the gunshots over a small rise in the land. She acted with caution, not the rush that Henry thought she would employ. For good reason, he suspected. Sounds carried far across these relatively plains.

He followed her lead, his hand falling to the butt of the pistol in his waistband, reloaded from when he had placed every bullet onto the body of Hennessy. Though he knew he would prove less than useful with it, should he need to draw it. Only damage to the brain would stop a Drifter and he expected he would miss more often than shoot true.

Atop the rise, Annie paused, her face wrinkled as she stared down at the scene below, her hand crossing her body to draw the Winchester from the sling by her leg. She ratcheted the action, loading a shell, but did not aim, even as another thunderous gunshot cracked and billowed out, echoing and repeating. One shot at a time, precious seconds between each one.

There, below, Henry saw a covered wagon, the arched, white, linen covering tilting to one side. A wheel caught in a rut and a horse struggling to extricate itself from the predicament. Standing on the running board of the wagon, a man waved a large, heavy rifle toward a gathering of Drifters that reached out toward him and the other occupants of the wagon. A woman carrying a baby. The man looked as desperate a person Henry had ever seen, unable to choose between the Drifters that clawed at the wagon.

Again, a shot rang out and still Annie did not rush to the aid of the encircled family. She looked around once more, concern etched upon her features, and Henry knew why. More Drifters were coming, urged on by the booming sound of the heavy rifle, shambling forward from all directions, converging upon the wagon. Too many for the man to fight alone.

"Damned idjit." Annie spat to the side, resting the Winchester upon her thighs. "Callin' every damned Drifter in the valley this way."

Her low growls gave Henry no indication of her intent. For certain, even were Henry to hit every Drifter he fired at, dead centre of the forehead, and Annie exhausted her rifle and her pistol, they would still have a number of Drifters to contend with. Far too many. But Henry had faith in the woman. He knew her worth and her skill with that pitchfork resting against her back. Still, he could not say for certain that they would prevail.

"We have to help, surely?" The Colt felt heavy in his hand. A hand that shook once again. "Even if only to draw the Drifters away. There must be something we can do?"

Annie looked behind, twisting in her saddle, and shook her head. A quick glance told Henry all he needed to know. Those Drifters they had passed along the way were now heading toward them, drawn by the explosive shots from that rifle in the man's wavering hands. A rifle that the man struggled to reload fast enough. One shot, reload, one shot. How he had expected to fight off so many with such a slow weapon, Henry could not fathom.

The gun belched flame and black smoke as the man fired once more, the head of a Drifter exploding in a mist of red. It made little difference. For every Drifter he shot, two more were drawn by the noise. Hissing and groaning, rotting fingers reaching, scratching, clenching. The baby wailed in the arms of the mother as she made a dance upon the wagon, trying to stay out of reach of those grasping, clawed fingers.

Annie raised her rifle, sighting along the barrel, as the man raised his own. As he fired, Annie fired, masking the quieter sound of her Winchester with the sound of the man's weapon that could take down an elephant, Henry did not doubt. It was too slow and over-powered for such an exercise. Were he attacked by bears, the rifle would serve better. Against the dead, it took too much time. With the two shots, two more Drifters fell. It wasn't nearly enough.

Annie fired again, not waiting to hide the sound of her shot, this time, ratcheting the rifle before firing again, and again, and again, hitting true with every shot. A pile of dead Drifters now surrounded the wagon, but that didn't stop the others. They continued to grab at the wagon and, inevitably, their weight caused it to shift, falling deeper in the rut, tilting and sending the man off-balance.

As he reached for support, the rifle fell from his hands, into the writhing mass of the dead and, to a one, those creatures ignored it. They had only one thing upon their minds. The mother had screamed as the wagon tilted, falling to the floor of the wagon, too close to the edge. Henry felt bile rise in his throat as a Drifter leaned in, biting into her throat, blood spraying outward, covering her, the crying baby and the wagon. With her last breaths, the mother thrust the child out toward the father, who took the baby up by one arm.

Bracing himself, one arm still holding the child tight to his chest, he drew a revolver from behind his back and began to fire. His last resort. All the while, Annie had continued to fire, hitting a Drifter every time, but she had hardly made a dent upon the horde. For every time she almost made a path for the man to escape, Drifters would shamble into the gap. Their only hope lay in trying to draw the Drifters away.

Some had turned their heads at the sound of Annie's Winchester, sending hot lead their way, but the man, his now-dead wife and the child were closer. Henry raised up in his saddle, taking his derby hat from his head and waving it, trying to catch the attention of the Drifters. His choked yelling barely heard over the incessant hissing and growling of the dead. Still he tried. He had counted the man's revolver shots and he had only three bullets left.

Annie's Winchester had become exhausted and she had no time to perform the, somewhat, complicated procedure of reloading. She shoved the rifle back into its sling and drew her Colt from its holster. At this distance, Henry doubted even she could strike the necessary placements to fell the heaving creatures. She would have to ride closer, which meant Henry had to join her. Six bullets each to save a man and his child.

Except, the man had stopped firing. He had seen Annie and Henry, even while fighting for his life and that of his family. All the fear and tension had left the man's body. His face, tense and twisted as he had fought, now relaxed. As though every other sound in the world disappeared, Henry could almost hear the click of the hammer drawing back beneath the man's thumb. He shook his head toward Annie and Henry. A deliberate shake of the head, and Annie stopped her horse from moving any further.

"Why are you stopping?" Henry stopped his horse a few feet further on, turning back to her. "We can save them!"

Annie shook her head, replacing the Colt into the holster. Holding the pommel of her saddle, she glanced toward Henry and then turned back to the wagon. She had set her face like stone and Henry failed to understand why she had stopped. They could still help. Still find a way to save the man. With a lick of his lips, he considered continuing on himself. He gripped the revolver tight as he turned back to the wagon.

The man pointed his gun once more. Not at the Drifters assaulting the wagon, but towards the head of his dead wife. The barrel shook before it fell against his leg, his chest heaving as he clutched the baby to him. The dead wife gave him no option, however. One moment, she lay in the well of the cart, head hanging at an odd angle, the next her head had raised, her arms reaching out for her husband, teeth bared and snapping. The shot rang out and Henry almost felt it himself. The wife dead a second time that day.

With the wagon rocking as the Drifters shoved and pushed against each other to reach it, the man lifted the baby to his lips, kissing the wailing child's forehead. With his gun hand, he brushed a thumb against the baby's cheek, talking to the child in words neither Henry or Annie could hear. Tears fell down the man's cheeks and, even before Henry realised what the man intended, another shot cracked across the distance between him and the wagon. Henry turned away, teeth biting into fingers that had risen to his mouth.

"Don't look away." The words from Annie almost passed Henry by, so quiet yet determined. His entire body shuddering, Henry looked to her features that hadn't changed. "Give him this dignity. Give him this respect."

Henry didn't want to. He had seen something no man should ever witness and the realisation of what he had seen curled in his gut. This world had taken much from people, far, far too much, but on this day he had seen that this world would never be satisfied. This changed world wanted more blood, more heartache and more death. More than Henry could handle.

A hand grabbed the shoulder of his jacket. Annie leaning across from her own horse and manhandling him until he faced the wagon. It was as though the man waited for him to turn. Waited for them to witness his final act of defiance against the monsters. He gave a nod. To Annie. To Henry. With the dead child held to his chest, the man smiled, lifted the pistol to his head and fired.

Now Annie moved. A pointed finger indicated where they needed to go, where the incoming Drifters were not as tightly packed. With a sharp kick to the flanks of her horse, she leaned down over its neck as it bounded away. At a gallup almost as soon as it set one hoof before the other. Henry had not moved.

He looked down to the wagon, the bodies of the shot Drifters and the bodies of the family. He saw the horse, still attached to the wagon, still screaming, its hooves flailing as it tried to free itself from the swell of Drifters that swarmed it. Henry couldn't even give that beast the peace it deserved. The Drifters wouldn't feed upon it, but it wouldn't last long unless others happened upon it, later, after the Drifters lost interest and moved away.

A lone Drifter came toward him, arms outstretched. It looked almost fresh, with decent clothing, a hat still adorning its head, a pistol belt about its waist, bereft of its gun. Henry shot it, sending the thing falling backward, before shoving the Colt into his waistband. He turned the head of his horse, kicked back and set off after Annie, weaving between the grasping hands of the dead.

He didn't want to write about this incident, didn't want it recorded. Later, when they rested, he would record it. That he didn't want to made it all the more important that he should.