Even as Henry made his way up the trellising, onto the roof of the veranda, he continued to hear the bark of Annie's shotgun and the answering retort of the weapons from inside the house. Annie had taken it upon herself to act as a distraction for Henry to enter the house, though for what purpose, he could not imagine. After all, even with the enhancements of his new, cursed physical situation, he doubted he could take on and defeat all those inside.

Unless she expected him to, somehow, reach the doors and open them for her. With no other option available to him, Henry attached himself to that cause, finding a window, opening it and sliding himself inside. It both made sense and didn't that he found no-one upstairs in this room that smelled of old cologne and cigars. The downstairs windows had their shutters and holes to fire through and Drifters could not climb the trellising as he had.

A floorboard creaked as he attempted to move away from the window and he snapped the Winchester to his shoulder. He didn't shake or tremble now, as he used to only a day or so before. Fear had departed him and he was not so certain he could consider that a good thing. Fear would have stopped him from attempting anything so reckless, in the past, but he had the noise of Annie's assault, and the replies from inside the house, to disguise any noise he made himself.

"We can't keep this going for much longer, Boss." A voice from below as Henry crept toward the bannister of the landing outside the room he had entered. "She's too fast and the noise is just draggin' more Drifters this way."

"Then be more accurate! She's only human!" Shipton's voice carried up to the second floor as he berated his men. Henry tried to see where the man stood in the room downstairs. "Mr Pierce, please be so kind as to stop skulking about upstairs and come down here like a gentleman."

Henry stifled the gasp that threatened to escape his lips. Of course Shipton could tell he was there. His own senses could attest to how well those of a Murcie performed and he did not doubt that Shipton had spent much time honing his to a knife's edge. Without a second thought, Henry rose to his feet to see several rifles pointing his way and the barrels followed him as he headed to the stairs, heading down to the first floor, his rifle still held at his shoulder, pointing at Shipton all the way.

But Shipton did not sit alone. Kneeling before him, Henry could see the girl, removed from the storeroom in the barn and now here, Shipton's hand upon her throat. Henry no longer felt anything for that girl. He had lost his pity, his sympathy and his empathy, all due to the process of turning into a Murcie that Shipton had begun. Only a dying vestige of understanding the difference between right and wrong made Henry think of waiting before shooting the vile former-man.

"Is she supposed to be some form of shield, Shipton? Something to force me, or Annie, pause in our desire to see you dead?" The sounds of gunfire fell away as the remainder of Shipton's men turned to see Henry descending the steps, their lord and master in the sights of the Winchester rifle. "Except that, thanks to your filthy ministrations, I am fast losing my humanity and care little for the girl. And Annie? Well, she cares, I believe, but caring is a secondary concern to finding and killing the murderer of the Potter family."

"Then why haven't you shot me, Mr Pierce? Is it, perhaps, because a small part of you still wishes this girl to survive?" With a flick of his wrist, Shipton snapped the girl's neck, allowing her to crumple to the floor. "Now you have no such excuse. And, in reply to your question, I took her for a little light snack while we cleared away the problem of the Drifters."

Shipton had killed the girl with such casualness it left no doubt in Henry's mind that the man had no humanity left in him at all, if he ever had any to begin with. It only shocked Henry in so much that this callousness was what he could expect should he continue to exist as this deathless creature. He could feel his emotions slipping away, those parts of himself that he had once held so dear. Now the only emotions he felt were his innate curiosity and hatred. Hatred remained, of all the emotional mores.

"I haven't shot you, Mr Shipton, because I feel it is not my place. There are others far more deserving of that honour." The time had almost come, Henry could smell it, and he readied himself for the final act of this vacuous play. "Your lackeys, however, are more than fair game."

He shifted the barrel of the Winchester a hair to the side of Shipton and fired, striking the man at Shipton's shoulder square in the chest. Shipton almost flinched. The other men found themselves held in a momentary state of shock, unable to comprehend the speed in which the situation had turned and Henry took full advantage of their immobility to fire several more shots as he raced to find cover around a corner.

Uncertain whether he had actually hit anyone, not even considering killing, or even wounding, any of them, Henry knew that he was the true distraction here. He had thought Annie had taken that role, racing around the house, keeping their attention upon her, but, in truth, it was he that provided the distraction for her. All eyes were upon him, or, at least, upon the place where he hid. Bullets tore through the thin walls, catching him in several places, but he no longer needed to care about wounds. Shipton had seen fit to give Henry that advantage.

Now, more gunshots tore through the house, not from the men firing at Henry, but from someone firing at them. Annie. He had recognised the scent of the Yavapai paste as she had entered the building above, something Shipton would have only considered the stench of Drifters wafting in through the windows above, not having had the opportunity to smell Annie up close. Henry surprised himself with a smile. Odd that of all the emotions he had now lost, a sense of humour remained.

As expected, Shipton's men had turned to their more immediate adversary, almost forgetting Henry. He returned around the corner, recognising the man that had taken his scythe from him. Henry shot him in the chest, as he had the other, but, this time, it had little effect. The man was a Murcie, like Henry, but this man had a life of brutality and hardship before Shipton had turned him, not one of office work and penmanship, as Henry had made his trade.

The fist struck Henry upon the jaw, sending him staggering backward, the Winchester rifle falling from his fingers. He scrabbled outward with his hands, trying to make purchase upon something, anything to arrest his fall, but he could not. The cold, hard floorboards struck his back as he fell and before Henry could begin to right himself, the man had leapt upon him.

More punches struck Henry, but they meant little. Even with the strength of a Murcie behind them, Henry hardly felt anything at all, much like he could not feel the wounds from gunshots that would have ended his life before. It was as though this man had no understanding of his own condition, relying upon tactics that had served him well in the past; overwhelming brutality.

Henry weathered the blows, his hands searching to the sides for a weapon. The rifle, a skillet, something, anything to strike the man with, to take him from atop Henry's body if only for a moment. He found nothing. Nothing around them, but, as his hands raised to push the man from his chest, Henry found something far more useful. His fingers clutched around the shaft and tugged it free, turning it to afford a better grip, and then plunged the scythe blade deep into the man's body, piercing his heart.

That would not stop the Murcie for long. Henry had to finish it as fast as he could and, with newfound strength, pushed the man from atop his chest and to the side. Almost as though paralysed from the blow to his heart, the man looked up to Henry, confused that someone so meek, so weak, could have harmed him at all. To prove him even more wrong, Henry wrapped the scythe blade behind the man's neck, severing his head from his body.

It all felt so easy, now. Never could he have imagined the power he now held within his body, what it could do for his life. He stared at his hands and they made not a single twitch, not a tremble. He had cut off the Murcie's head with an almost casual tug of the scythe. With this strength, this power and these senses, no story would ever stand beyond his reach. He could bring to justice all the corrupt and foul politicians that still deigned to tell the common folk how to live their lives.

He could offer himself to doctors and surgeons as a living cadaver, the better to understand and cure this hateful disease and he could survive the worst vivisections. And all it would cost was a little blood every so often. That was not so much to ask. A price worth paying for a greater understanding of at least one of the diseases brought to the Earth by the Starfall. He could perform great things with this power. Great things.

It took him more than a long while to notice that the gunfire had ceased and Henry pushed himself from the chest of the Murcie he had killed. No blood came from the man's gaping wound and, as an afterthought before turning to see the aftermath of Annie's rampage, he picked up the severed head. He could feel the heat of the stove, realising, now, that he stood in the house's kitchen. With only a slight limp, he moved to it, opened the door with a hand that singed from the heat, but gave him no pain, and tossed the head into the flames before turning back to the room, Shipton, and Annie.

"Don't get between us, Henry." Annie had dropped the shotgun and her pistol, and now held the pitchfork in her hands, glaring at Shipton. "He's mine."