Henry had seen a few settlements overrun, in his travels. He knew the signs well by now and a sinking feeling in his gut told him that he saw another one now. The gates, usually closed and barred, stood open. Watchtowers were unmanned and no smoke trailed into the sky from the smokestacks of the houses within the walls. He couldn't, however, see where the breach had occurred.

The walls, at odd angles from makeshift expansions that needed building at speed, rather than for aesthetic value, still stood, unmarred. Neither could he see the usual piles of rotting corpses, gunned down as the defenders fought to save their home. There were a few, scattered here and there, but a full incursion would have left far more Drifters carpeting the dusty ground. He looked to Annie, to see whether she wanted to share her thoughts.

With the unlit cigar between her teeth, she leaned forward, supporting herself on the pommel of her horse, eyes squinted as she took in everything that Henry had observed. No doubt she saw more evidence than he of what happened here. After a short while, she took the cigar from her mouth and spat to the side before returning it to her lips.

"Ain't no Drifter attack caused this." With a flick of her reins, she edged her horse forward, pointing at the empty settlement of Simmons. "Don't see no defenders. Maybe they're roaming the streets, hissin' an' gurglin' as the dead are like to do. I'm not so sure."

Henry hadn't noticed that detail. Even with Drifters, and their ability to turn others to their post-death state, they killed folks outright as often as turned them. If not enough body remained after the feeding frenzy, there was little to return to life. He moved his horse to follow Annie as she headed toward the open gates.

Simmons, like many other towns across the continent, had started out as a collection of few houses. A place for settlers to come and trade for everyday essentials, or visit church on a Sunday, or simply to meet others and stave off the loneliness of living upon farms some distance from each other. Even from here, Henry could see the tall, sturdy church, flanked by a general store and a saloon and the rest of the houses spreading out from there. The ones furthest from the centre were the smallest, built in some haste for the expanding population, unwilling to remain out on the plains after the dead had risen.

Annie stopped at the gates, dismounting, and unhooked her pitchfork from over her shoulder. Leading her horse, she took a deal of time to examine those gates and even Henry could tell they were not forced open, or broken. Someone had opened them and left them open. Henry couldn't imagine the residents of Simmons doing that. Not unless the walls had breached away from the gates and the townsfolk had escaped this way. Henry had not seen a breach, nor the numbers of people that would have rushed from the area in flight. Only that family. The one he had no wish to remember.

"I cannot imagine any reason to forget to close these gates." He had dismounted and joined Annie, taking a peek inside the settlement. "It's silent. As silent as Granite Peak. Could Skinchangers have gained entry?"

"Not less the folks here didn't check for bites an' teeth." Her own teeth chewed upon the cigar as she looked around before she removed it from her mouth, tucking it into the pocket of her vest. "Don't be makin' no more noise than you need to. If'n you see a Drifter, use your knife. You know where to hit an' you know how hard to hit."

She clicked her tongue, urging her horse onward, and passed through the gate. Off to the side, closest to the open gates, they found a livery, with a number of horses stabled within. They looked as though no-one had fed them in some time. Hitching their own horses, Henry and Annie cut those horses loose. They would stand a better chance of surviving free than held captive in an empty town.

The squeak of the hand-pump, at the water trough, came to Henry's ears as loud as the pistons on a steam train, filling the air as water cascaded into the trough, ready for their horses to drink. Annie cupped her hand beneath the flow, taking a sip, her eyes passing over every house, every corner, every place where someone, or something, could hide. She flicked her hand free of the excess water, wiping her mouth and looking down the main street.

Taking a drink, himself, Henry rubbed the neck of his horse as it ducked down to take on water, alongside Annie's horse. He, too, looked along the street. The wide thoroughfare held no people, only a few Drifters that tottered from one side of the street to the other. Not near enough to overrun a small town such as Simmons. A gust of wind caught against an unlit lantern upon a nearby porch, causing it to swing, the eerie creak sending chills down Henry's spine as it moved.

The next building held the town's Sheriff's office and they found nothing within. No sheriff, no prisoners. Even the gun racks were empty, as though someone had handed them out to a population that needed to defend itself. Yet Henry could not imagine what. Outside, only a few slain Drifters lay upon the dirt. He had seen no evidence of gunfire that had missed targets. The town looked abandoned, not beaten.

As they moved along the street, Annie took care of those Drifters that came too close, alerted by the warmth of their bodies, or the smell of the living, or the tiny sounds that stood them apart from the dead. Her pitchfork penetrated skulls, destroying the brains of the Drifters and she moved on before the bodies even settled.

Henry held the knife in a shaking hand. That hand seemed to do nothing but shake over the last few days. One horrifying thing after another had served to set Henry's nerves on a constant edge. He wished he could show as little care as Annie. To pass through such events as easy as walking through along a peaceful river bank. He did not have that fortitude and, after a fashion, felt glad of it. He cared and he feared for his life and those were very human emotions. If nothing else, he wanted to hold on to his humanity as long as this uncaring, brutal world would allow.

Something tumbled and crashed as they edged further along the street. A skinny, terrified dog sprinted from the gap between two houses as it sensed them approaching, ears flat to its head, tail between its legs. The metal washbasin, it had hidden behind, wobbled to a noisy stop and Henry heard the inevitable rise in the sounds of Drifters hissing and growling as they sensed the presence of food.

Annie cocked her head to the side, indicating the saloon. If they could reach there before the Drifters saw them, the creatures may lose interest. The rattling of the washbasin nothing but a noise with no humans around to feed upon. Pressing himself against the wall of the saloon, upon the stoop, Henry waited for Annie to make a cursory glance inside before easing her way past the swing doors, holding them open for Henry.

Once inside, Annie made short, silent work of the two Drifters shambling there before returning to the swing doors, looking over the top of the curled, intricate carving adornments, watching the street for any Drifters coming their way. After a while, she backed away, looking at their surroundings. Apart from the two dispatched Drifters, and one corpse that had little flesh left upon the bones, they were alone in the saloon. With care, Annie closed the main doors of the saloon, making certain she didn't make the thin, painted windows rattle.

"There aren't enough Drifters for this town to have become overrun so." Henry returned an upturned chair to its feet and sat upon it, tensing as the aged wood creaked beneath him. He removed his derby and wiped his forehead with his sleeve, glancing at the devoured body. "Apart from this poor fellow, and a few outside, there are not nearly enough bodies for a town of this size, small though it may be. As though the entire population upped and left. If they had left by the gates, Prescott would be the place to head toward, but we only saw ... we did not see near enough people to account for this town."

"Nope." Behind the saloon's bar, Annie grabbed herself a bottle, pulled the cork with her teeth, spitting it to the side, and took a long, gulping drink, wiping her mouth after with a satisfied sigh. "Figure those folks're still here, or got took. By who, I could not say. None left this town willingly upon their own two feet, I reckon."

She moved out from behind the bar, carrying the bottle and two shot glasses in one hand. The other hand held her pitchfork and Henry doubted she would put that down any time soon. With the bottle and glasses clinking together as she placed them on the table, Annie found a chair and dropped into it. She didn't seem to care about the creak that seemed to crack out like a gunshot. She poured liquor into the glasses, slopping some on the dusty table surface, and pushed a glass toward Henry.

He was not a puritan, not one to turn aside from Earthly pleasures, but it seemed incongruous to drink at a time like this. After what he had already seen that day, it even felt a little cruel, as though it insulted that family they had failed to save. It didn't stop Annie, nothing appeared capable of stopping her. She slugged back her glass and poured another. With the glass held between thumb and first two fingers, she pointed with her little finger, raising an eyebrow until Henry reached out for his glass.

"I suppose, in honour of those lost this day, it would not hurt to drink to their memories." He raised the glass, offering a toast to Annie. "May they find peace with the Heavenly Father, for we shall have none upon this Earth."

Glasses clinked together and hot, biting liquor coursed down Henry's throat.

"Damn right." Before Henry even began to lower his glass, Annie had filled it again, and hers, raising it to mirror his toast. "And to the fine folks of Simmons. If they're dead and still walkin', I'll put 'em outta their misery. If they're just dead ... well, that's a blessin' all by itself."

A shadow crossed the closed doors of the saloon, a swaying, jerking shadow and Henry tossed the drink down his throat as his hand gripped the handle of the knife. He hadn't used it yet, not to silently kill a Drifter, but that was something he doubted he could avoid forever. Here, in Simmons, he hoped it wouldn't be any of the townsfolk he had to put down, though he could not see a way to tell which Drifter came from where. He could only hope.

Hope, though in short supply these days, was all he had to cling to.