The sound of those heavy gates closing behind Henry stayed with him for some time as the woman, Annie, he supposed, led him out into the wilds of countryside. Far more wild now than it once was, Arizona had become as lawless and as desolate as every other part of the continent. People huddled within hastily built walls, rarely caring to dare to venture out where the predators prowled.

Not the bears, or the big cats, or the wolves, though they had taken to roaming further afield and with greater confidence since their own great predators now cowered in fear of things that were far worse. The Strollers, or Drifters, as the people of Prescott called them, the Murcies and the Skinchangers had only one prey and that prey could no longer rely on their great ability to find new and ever more efficient methods of killing. When those weapons did not kill what they aimed for, mankind had little else to fall back upon.

Annie rode a light coloured horse. Not a grey, not even a white horse, but a nondescript pale horse, the true colour of which Henry could not place a finger upon. Somehow, that uncoloured horse suited the woman as she rode along, swaying in time with the gait of her mount, singing in that soft, affecting voice of hers. Henry had already noted the pitchfork strapped across her back, the 1873 Winchester rifle in the saddle sling, the Colt Navy pistol in a holster, cross drawn on the opposite hip from her shooting hand, and the sawed-off shotgun in another sling to the other side. The woman came prepared.

"On Jordan's stormy banks I stand, And cast a wishful eye." The words drifted back towards Henry upon the Palomino mount that he had hired for the journey. She certainly had the voice of an angel to Henry's ears. "To Canaan's fair and happy land, Where my possessions lie."

"Miss ... ah ... Mrs ..." He tapped the flanks of the Palomino to catch up and ride at her side. She didn't look as he matched her horse's stride. "I'm sorry, I am uncertain how to address you. Are you wedded? For certain, a woman of your age could surely take her pick of men in the territory. Are you aware that men outnumber women by a grand twenty to ..."

"Annie. Might as well call me 'Annie'. Everyone else does." She tilted her head and gave him a look that had no discernible emotion upon it. A face as set and as cold as a rock. "I don't have no husband."

Her head whipped away, hand falling to her pistol grip, as a group of crows took flight from a nearby cluster of brush. Her eyes never wavered, narrowing as she stared, unblinking, until they passed far enough away. Probably nothing. Possibly they had disturbed those crows in the middle of a meal. Heaven knew they wouldn't go without fresh carrion these days. Crows were another creature that had started to thrive in the world after the Starfall.

She wasn't what Henry had expected of her after first encountering her at the bar in the saloon, nor after seeing her sat behind the bars of the cell in the Sheriff's office. He had thought her one of those folks that said little, giving off an air of menace, but, as he had made his proposal, she had talked enough to confirm what the Sheriff had already iterated.

Out here in lands bereft of humanity, Henry could only rely on his own wits and any talents he had at his disposal. She wasn't his wet-nurse, nor his protector. In choosing to accompany her, he took his life into his own hands. He had assured her that he was not averse to the use of physical violence, having a pistol of his own, a Henry Deringer two-shot pistol. He had not expected the laughter, nor that she would hand him an old, care-worn Colt Army revolver, with forewarning that she expected it back. Either from his hand or retrieved from his corpse.

"Miss ... Annie, forgive me for the multitude of questions, but it is the purpose in accompanying you." Thinking of the revolver she had loaned him reminded him of the discomfort of carrying it tucked into his pants. He tried to adjust how it lay while they rode. "Are you, perhaps, a God fearing woman? I couldn't help but notice your propensity to sing hymns."

Again, she turned to him and Henry saw something in those eyes. She had the same kind of affectation that he had seen in the stares of many a veteran of the Civil conflict from twenty years before. A look that spoke of witnessing terrible things that no self-respecting man could ever truly describe to someone who had never seen war. Henry had spoken to many a man with that stare that looked through and beyond those that conversed with them.

This woman, Annie, could not have ever fought in that war, nor any war, for that matter. Too young to have fought in the war between states and, despite how things had changed since the Starfall, the very idea of a woman serving in the army was a preposterous notion. Annie could have served. She could have fought with the best of them. He could see it in those eyes and the preposterous notion would be to doubt that she could.

"No chilling winds or poisonous breath, Can reach that healthful shore." As she returned to her song, Henry noted that she had returned to it at a different verse. He took it as a message. Or a warning. "Sickness and sorrow, pain and death. Are felt and feared no more."

She had proven surprisingly forthcoming about the reason for venturing out beyond the safety of Prescott's walls and Henry had noted the weary look from the Sheriff as she had talked before leaving the cell. She had no qualms about stating her intentions and those intentions were not upon collecting bounties.

The three men. Those dastardly, wanton killers that had taken the lives of Annabelle Potter's husband and son were abroad in the area, so others had told her, and she aimed to relieve them of their lives. Those exact words. Whether she was Annabelle Potter, a long-lost sister, or some angel of vengeance, come to bring down righteous fire and damnation upon those men, Henry could not say, but the woman had a clue. Tenuous, to Henry's ears, but a clue nonetheless.

Four days previous, a group of folks had performed the regular duty of riding to the next town along, in order to keep a line of communication open between the disparate populations. Along the way, they had taken to hiding within an abandoned homestead as a herd of Drifters had taken to passing by. Within that homestead, they found a man. Half-dead from lack of food and raving enough to call Drifters for miles around to investigate the disturbance.

"Arthur Shipton." Thinking to himself, Henry did not realise he had spoken out loud. Upon seeing Annie turn her head to him, a scowl cold enough to freeze a lake, he tried to calm the situation. "My apologies. It is the nature of my profession. We tend to ruminate upon the facts of our investigations. It helps us to make sense of all the details we intend to enter into our articles."

"What about Arthur Shipton?" He heard no anger, or malice in her question, but Henry knew to step lightly.

"Is that the first time a name has become attached to those fellows that you are hunting?" Henry wished that he were sat at a desk, where he could arrange his notes and rifle through them to find the exact words he needed. "If I remember correctly, a detailed description was made by Mrs Potter before she ... Well, before. But I don't recall reading of any names previously attached to these men."

"I'd know their like anywhere. The boys that came back described the crazy man and he's one of 'em. For sure." She gave a nod to the left of them and pressed a finger to her lips before continuing in a whisper. "If I see him, I'll know for certain and I'll let him know exactly why he's dyin' this day."

In the direction Annie had indicated, Henry could see the tops of several heads, all shambling in the same direction. Clutching his derby hat to his head, Henry leaned down, closer to the neck of his horse. His stomach turned and he realised he had caught the unmistakeable stench of the Drifters. Too enthralled in the conversation, he had dismissed the smell, but he couldn't dismiss the sounds of the hissing, gurgling and growling that now reached his ears.

Beyond a patch of clumped deer grass atop a rise, Henry couldn't quite see the Drifters. A glimpse of rotting flesh here, a patch of dried, parchment like skin there. Rotted and blackened teeth within jaws that had incomprehensibly greater strength than they should. Alone, a single Drifter could prove less than problematic. They were tenacious, single-minded, but slow to move. In a group, or a herd, the slightest mistake could cost a man his life.

Henry realised he had held his breath for far too long and struggled to release it as quietly as possible. One Drifter paused as the rest continued to shuffle along, heading to where, Henry could not surmise. The Drifter appeared to sniff the air, its milky eyes twitching and Henry could swear it looked directly at him. His hand fell to the grip of the Colt Army revolver and he prepared to prove his worth to Annie, or die as she rode away without him.