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He was in sorry shape. Huddled against the wall, breath raspy and uneven. At his feet was a pistol, and a box of ammo. He’d turned some time ago, judging by his appearance. In the dark it was hard to tell, but there seemed to be no hair left on his head, if any remained it must have been fine and wispy. His head was turned far enough that Grant could not see his face. The ear nearest to him was nearly gone.
“Hey,” he called to the stranger, loud enough to get his attention, but not so harsh as to frighten him. Or, at least, that was his intent, “You hurt?”
He flinched, and made a horrible sound, something like a strained growl in the back of his throat, and lifted his head awkwardly, “What?” he rasped, turning his head towards Grant, “No...go...g-go away, please...”
“Are you hurt?” Grant said again, slinging the shotgun over his shoulder, “I ain’t gonna harm you, I promise. Me ‘n my friend heard your stock, wanted to check up on things,” a pause as he drew a knife from his belt, “Hang on, I’ll cut you loose, we’ll get you some water.”
“No,” he rasped, shaking his head clumsily as he pulled away. His weathered hands covered the rope as if to protect it, “No, no, no don’t. Don’t cut it. I don’t wanna hurt nobody. I don’t wanna hurt my animals, please...”
Confused, Grant stopped, “What’re on about?”
He made that sound again -- that growl -- and his body seemed to tense, his eyes wide, “I’m turnin’...I can feel it happenin’. I knew. Please don’t...”
Grant’s stomach gave a lurch. His hand reached up to touch his side and his blood ran cold, “You’re...you mean you’re goin’ feral.”
A nod, or what passed for one, “Always thought I’d be able to end it when the time came but...” he laughed, coarse and wet and ugly, turning to another miserable groan. He kicked at the gun at his feet, “Turns out I’m a coward...best I could do was tie myself up so I couldn’t go no where.”
The door creaked. Grant turned to see Starling in the doorway, face startled. Her hands fumbled for her bag, “Is he hurt? What’s he need?”
Grant joined her in the doorway, shaking his head. He spoke quietly, “He ain’t hurt. Says he’s goin’ feral. Didn’t wanna hurt nobody.”
“Are...are my animals alright?” the man wheezed, “I heard ‘em out there...I wanted to go out but...t-they’re hungry aren’t they. There’s feed for ‘em in the shed...don’t let ‘em go hungry, please.”
Starling looked at Grant, and whispered, “What do you wanna do? We can’t just leave him like this...that’s not right...”
“We ain’t leavin’ him,” he assured her, “Go out and tend to the livestock, I’ll talk to him. Find out what he wants to do.”
Starling studied him for a moment, and nodded, then stepped further into the cabin, offering the stranger a smile, “I’ll see to your animals, mister. I’ll go right now and look after them.”
She left quietly, and Grant stood frozen in place, trying to compose himself. This was not new. Well, in a way it was. he had never met anyone on the verge of turning feral, though he’d talk of it. How folks just sort of drift away, losing themselves bit by bit until they’re not even really a person anymore. Just thinking of it gave him goosebumps and sent a shiver of fear down his spine. He crossed the small room, and sat on the floor across from the ghoul. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a flask.
“You know how long you been tied up here?”
The ghoul looked at him, cloudy eyed. He could see him processing the question, rolling it around in his head, “Three days maybe...don’t remember.”
Grant took a swig from the flask, then offered it to the ghoul, “Drink?”
He hesitated, but clumsily took it from him. He watched Grant’s face as he lifted the flask to his lips, as if waiting for him to change his mind and taking it away. He handed it back with a nod, “Thanks...”
“My name’s Grant Ingram,” he offered his hand out to shake, then nodded towards the door, “My friend outside is Starling Orlov.”
Another moment of hesitation before he took his hand, “Lowell Franklin.”
“Good to meet you, Lowell,” Grant was quiet for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. He knew what he wanted to offer, it seemed the kindest thing, given the situation, but he was not sure how to do it, “You said, you was gonna end it yourself...”
Lowell hung his head, but nodded, “Was. Thought that’d be right...but...” his voice broke, and he kicked at the gun on the floor, “I’m afraid. I’m afraid of turning, but...I’m afraid of dying too,” his body tensed, and he made that sound again. Tried to hold it back, but failed, “You think I’m a coward.”
“I do not think that,” he looked away, not sure what to say, “I could help you, if that’s somethin’ you’d want. I can do that for you.”
He looked up, those pale, foggy eyes wide, “I...I wouldn’t want you to bloody your hands for me. You don’t even know me.”
“Can’t say as I’ll find any joy in it,” he admitted, “But, I’d hope if I was in your place, somebody would be good enough to do the same for me. Up to you though, if you want us to just leave you, we can barricade the door so you can’t get out once...once it happens. Put up a sign or somethin’ to keep folks out.”
Lowell was silent, shaking slightly as he seemed to consider. He glanced at the door several times. The animals had quieted outside, and they could hear Starling out talking to them, her voice soft and sweet.
“W-What about my animals?” he asked, “I...I don’t want ‘em to suffer. Don’t...D-don’t want ‘em to starve...”his voice caught in his throat again, “I felt it comin’ on for a while...was trying to sell ‘em off, find ‘em homes with good people. Got some taken care of. Traded my boar last week. And my chickens the week before. But I...I ran outta time...”
“I know the feelin’.”
“Would...would you take them?” the desperation in his voice was clear, and painful, “Even...even if you just take ‘em someplace and trade ‘em away. I just...I don’t want ‘em to stay here and starve or get killed by some mongrels or worse...”
Grant considered silently, brows furrowed. Traveling a with a passel of livestock would be slow, and if there was trouble on the road they’d have a time defending them. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to deny the request, “We got a settlement we’re stayin’ at. Farmers mostly, I reckon they’d be happy to take in your livestock, if that’s what you’d want. They’d be well looked after, you’ve got my word on that.”
“Y-Yeah?” his features twitched, forming what might have been a smile, “I would appreciate that, thank you. You’re...you’re welcome to anything you might have use of...there’s tools in the shed. A cart. Alifair and Ulysses...t-the donkeys...they’ll pull it for you.”
Helping themselves to this man’s possessions hardly felt right, but he supposed he had a point. Whether Grant helped him end his life, or if he was left to go feral, he would have no use for any of it. He gave a slow nod, “They all got names?”
“Yeah,” another smile, “Call the sow Greta. Billy goat is Delmar. The nanny’s Trudy...” he made that sound again, this time fighting it back with a cough, and shaking his head, “Been callin’ the kids Tulip and Fern.”
“Good names,” Grant offered a small smile, “I’ll be sure and tell the folks back at the settlement.”
Lowell seemed in a little better spirits now. Hardly cheerful of course, but knowing that his stock would be cared for had seemed to have put his mind at ease. It was not much, but Grant was glad to have given him that at least. He let out a breath, “You know what you want?”
Lowell looked at him again, then at the floor, and nodded, “If you’re willing...yeah, I’d...I don’t wanna turn. I don’t wanna be like that...”
“I understand,” he said quietly, “I’ll make it quick, I promise. You won’t suffer none. And I’ll see you buried proper, you’ve got my word.”
Lowell choked on a sob, nodding again, “Thank you. And...and thank you for my animals too. I...I feel better knowing they’ll be looked after.”
--
Starling had filled the feed troughs, and the animals had gobbled. It was had to say for sure, but judging by the way they acted, it had been days since they’d been fed. Under different circumstances, she might have been angry at the man inside for neglecting them. Instead, her heart hurt for him. As if it was not bad enough that people treated Ghouls so horribly, but they had to live with the fear of going feral. To lose themselves completely. She could not imagine the weight of that. Once the animals had settled some, she found a couple of buckets and went down to the stream to fetch water for them as well.
Grant was a hard man. Not cold, or cruel, but well guarded. Despite that, it was plain to her that this situation had shaken him. It was hard to see, and harder to know how to help. She was sure that whatever this man chose, Grant would abide by. The thought of leaving him to go feral made her feel sick, but neither did she like the idea of killing a good person. It was sad, and not an easy thing to do. Helping him die would be the kinder thing to do, even if it didn’t feel that way.
She had barely finished emptying the buckets when single gunshot came from inside the cabin. The animals all flinched, birds in the trees fell silent, and Starling swallowed against a lump in her throat.
It was done.
She watched the door, and after a moment, Grant emerged, his head down as he holstered his pistol. He stood still, looking out through the trees.
Starling approached. He did not care to be touched, and she knew that, but even so, she placed a hand on his shoulder. Her voice trembled slightly as she spoke, “Are you alright?”
“I am not,” his voice wavered, and he cleared his throat loudly, making a point to avoid looking at her but made no attempt to pull away from her touch, “But we got a grave to dig. See if you can find a shovel, I’ll find a good place to dig.”
