Black-Room Agency - HUNT: Lore

LIBER DE ARMAMENTARIIS

Le Livre des Armes

Note de Takit :
Ce recueil est une copie du Livre des Armes original.
Certaines pages ont été ajoutées après la copie.

Les traductions sont manquantes à ce jour

Berthier Mle 1892

Berthier Mle 1892. (See also, CARBINES, BOLT-ACTION) The Berthier Mle 1892 is a bolt-action rifle that was the French's alternative to the Lebel 1886. Known as a mousqueton, this smokeless powder gun was a lightweight option designed for easy handling for both rear infantry and cavalry troops that used an en-bloc clip. This allowed both the cartridge and the three-bullet clip to be loaded into the carbine for quick reloads and convenient ammo storage ready for a firefight. The Berthier, interestingly, was designed by a French engineer for the French Algerian Railways.

Journal of Jed Owenthal
Lightly worn, red leather 4.25" x 8.25"
May 2nd, 1895

God truly blessed me with one fantastic woman. The day Annalise hauled off and punched me for making a ruckus in her bar was the day I fell in love, and no arrow from cupid could be as effective

For my birthday today, my wife gave me two wonderful gifts. The first was a new rifle. Light little thing that'll get the job done and brand new from the factory. But it confused me; I'm a shotgun man through and through and will use my brass knuckles if I'm in a real scrape. I asked my Annalise why she gave me this gun and she presented me with her second gift: She went to the doctor today and confirmed that she's with child. Said that she wanted me to keep my distance when I'm out hunting to make sure I'd be around to be a father. Boy, when I tell you I wrapped her in the biggest hug and spun in the air I ain't joking. My Anna keeps making me the happiest man alive.

June 13th, 1895

My Anna and the babe are doing well. Anna's belly is as big as a melon now and she's had to let her little siblings take over the bar. She hates being stuck at home, my Anna was always a woman of action, but I told her if I needed to be safe out hunting, she needed to be safe at home. She relented and is keeping herself busy with making clothes for the baby.

There is one concerning thing: She's been eating everything in sight since the end of May. Anna keeps saying she craves something, but no matter what she eats it doesn't satisfy either of them. At this point she may even eat us out of house and home to find it, but whatever my Anna and the baby want I'll get.

Journal of Jed Owenthal
Lightly worn, red leather 4.25" x 8.25"
June 30th, 1895

Came back from hunting pretty beaten up today. Was trying my best to make this a clean run but a pack of damn hounds got in close and caught me off guard. Felt like an eternity just keeping them at bay long enough to shoot them and by the end of it me and my rifle were so covered in entrails I still came home covered in the stuff.

I tried to sneak into the house and run to the bath before Anna could see me. Her nose has been sensitive with the pregnancy, and I didn't want to upset her. But she cornered me immediately and asked me what the smell was. Not to brag, but my Anna looks at me with eyes of desire all the time. But today was different, she was gnawing at her bottom lip like I was a three-course meal. I told her about the run in with the dogs and I saw the cogs turn in her head.

She asked me to bring a dog back when I went to hunt.

July 10th, 1895

I've never seen my Anna so happy.

The first time I brought back a hound for her it was only a hind leg, couldn't fit much else in my satchel. I had to stop her from eating the thing raw right then and there. She made quick work of cooking it and the look on her face when she took a bite was nothing short of ecstasy. Damn near swallowed the thing whole in seconds before asking for more. I've made sure to always get a hound while I'm out there, a whole one can last her a few days before another is ready.

I can't help but worry, damn things are always filled with maggots and smell like hell, but she loves the stuff. Every time she finishes a plate, she gives me a sweet kiss that smells like death and tells me that her and the baby are happy. I think it's true, whenever I touch her stomach the baby kicks and bites at my hand in response and she says it's a great sign. But sometimes I see her slowly chew on the maggots when she thinks I'm not looking, and I worry. I don't think she tells the doctor what she's eating, but they both seem fine and I'm not going to take her joy away from her. Whatever my Anna and the baby want I'll get.

Berthier Mle 1892 Riposte

BERTHIER MLE 1892 RIPOSTE. (See also, CARBINES, BOLT ACTION) The Berthier Mle 1892 RIPOSTE is a bolt-action rifle with attached bayonet. While not primarily designed for front line service, this lightened mousqueton rifle is effective with an affixed bayonet, making it a reliable and effective weapon at medium and close ranges, while still being light and maneuverable.

Journal of Jed Owenthal
Lightly worn, red leather 4.25" x 8.25"
August 17th, 1895

I am reunited at last with my Anna and her babe. They've got their shine again, they're healthy as I have ever seen them, really. Whatever they did, wherever they went, it did wonders for their health.

It was last night I came home, hung up my hat and my coat, set my gun on the table, and saw them there in the cot, smiling and laughing with each other. I was overjoyed to see them again, such joy, and rushed to fetch them their favorite cuts. Everyday I'd been gathering still, curing and salting the meat for their return, and the outhouse was hung heavy with glistening hinds, rumps, joints, ribs, and steaks.

As I was selecting from the meats, there was a low rumble from the outhouse, a gurgle, deep and ominous. I was ready with my knife. The hung meat rustled, then out stepped a slight and frail man, who made the sound again, then collapsed.

I carried him onto the table, careful of his head round the door frame. Anna said that this was the man that had found them, brought them back after all this time. She wondered where he'd gone. He looked ghostly, like no one I'd seen, his skin pulled so tight like a skeleton. It could've been the stalker, the preacher, the sheriff, but I'd never know.

This morning, I awoke to a content Anna and babe fast asleep. They'd gorged last night, eaten their fill, and the room was scattered with bones and knuckles with the marrow sucked out, hard bits of gristle, and discarded lumps of milky fat. I set to sweeping it out, till I noticed the man was gone.

He was stood in the yard, my rifle in his hands a bayonet fixed. It was pointed at me, his hands shaking. There was lamp kerosene spilled on the house, he'd set it alight, and the first flames were licking up the side

He got me twice in the chest before I closed the gap. We grappled over the gun, scrambling on the dirt, till with one hand on the barrel I pressed it back and back. The bayonet licked at his neck, and then went in, like his skin was just paper. I pressed and pressed, the blood spurting out, till he went limp.

Berthier Mle 1892 Deadeye

BERTHIER MLE 1892 DEADEYE. (See also, CARBINES, BOLT ACTION) The Berthier Mle 1892 Deadeye is a bolt- action rifle with an affixed Deadeye scope. The Berthier itself is a lightened mousqueton, being easier to handle and ideal for those in mobile positions. The Deadeye scope enhances its potential as a lightweight and maneuverable sniper's rifle, making an ideal compromise between range, handling, and power.

Journal of Jed Owenthal
Lightly worn, red leather 4.25" x 8.25"
July 25th, 1895

Whatever my Anna and the babe want, I'll get. Where ever my Anna and the babe are, I'll find.

Two weeks now they've been gone and I've searched high and low to no luck. They was looking frail, the last times, even though they ate and ate and ate. No healthy plumpness, no rosy cheeks no more, just gaunt and sickly and whatever just seemed to drop right off them.

My Anna blamed me at first. I blamed me. The babe was perfect as ever and never complained or whined or cried but just ate everything in front of it and ever wanted for more, but never put on more weight, then thinned and thinned.

I looked all over, tried tracking them. Tried to hire a skilled tracker to search for me, but no luck. He took one look at the personal affects I provided for his dogs to scent and he ran. Tried to consult a priest, to see if God in his wisdom had a plan for all this. The priest said that if there was, we were surely forsaken. Went to the sheriff for help, he locked me in the jail for the night.

All said that whatever they was now I didn't want to find it. But I need my Anna and I need my babe.

I thought I tracked them down last night. A woman with babe in arms running cross a field. I hollered for them to stop. I sighted them with my rifle, lining up her pretty white ankle in the crosshair, and fired.

The wound in her leg was awful, and I felt terrible too, because it was for nothing. Was not my Anna and babe. I begged her forgiveness before I was on my way, but it did not forthcome.

Berthier Mle 1892 Marksman

BERTHIER MLE 1892 MARKSMAN. (See also, CARBINES, BOLT ACTION) The Berthier Mle 1892 Marksman is a bolt-action rifle with an affixed Marksman telescopic scope. The long range of the Marksman scope pairs with the mobility of the Berthier to form an adaptable sniper's rifle.

The Journal of Harold Black
Undated
Black leather bound, handwritten, 6 x 8.25"
1/1

I do not recall any premonition upon seeing the house, but casting my mind back inserts a memory of deep foreboding.

It was not quiet. A dull, rhythmic thump echoed every few seconds, followed instantly by a metallic rattle. The ground was scorched with fire and, on closer inspection, blackened by copious amounts of blood. Its trail wove through the ash like a snake, beckoning me through the charred front door.

As I approached the rear entrance, I was overpowered by a rancid smell, a cavalcade of rot and infection and death. I readied my weapon as the thumps grew louder, but what I beheld made me lower the rifle. A newborn babe in a cot, dead for what must have been weeks.

Its umbilical cord spilled out of the cot and trailed under the dining table where two husks that were once human lay and then to what was once a mother. Stuck into the wall with a bayonet, it was banging its head backwards, shaking the pots and pans strewn on the floor.

Here it was, gifted to me by an impossible, incomprehensible happenstance. The perfect sample for study.

Special ammunition

Incendiary

RN: The sculptor's influence molded and distorted the old, the frail, and the weak - those without vitality, or capacity for change. What was then truly disturbing was its effect on the young, the virulent, the growing. Worse, the unborn, those still developing.

Spitzer

RN: Pregnancy results in unusual cravings. Normally the body's way of getting depleted nutrients and vitamins, a sort of instinctual craving. It's clear to us, perhaps, what the cravings for these hounds were. Perhaps within that craving lies the secret to how the sculptor works - what it feeds on, what it needs.

Bornheim No. 3

BORNHEIM NO. 3. (See also, SEMI-AUTOMATIC PISTOLS) The futuristic-looking Bornheim No. 3 was one of the first semi-automatic pistols, featuring a five-round magazine. Named for a village incorporated into the city of its design, the No. 3 only ever achieved limited commercial success as an armament. Its designer, Louis Schmeisser, would go on to design many other more successful and innovative firearms. As the number designates, this was the third model, which was designed to compensate for certain shortcomings realized at Swiss, German, and Belgian military trials. This featured a sturdier design and stouter barrel, as well as an enhanced magazine which could be fed by stripper-clip

Correspondence, Philip Huff Jones
Typewritten, original

February 13, 1895

Venerable Son,

I must advise you against taking up arms. Let the others do that work. Your place is among those who plan, who organize. Sheriff Hardin is of our cause; maintaining his friendship is of paramount importance. He's well connected, and a good friend of the governor, whose support we also require. Do not squander this opportunity by giving in to your violent passions. Your disposition has led to nothing but trouble and will continue to do so if you give it free reign.

As for the staff member of whom you spoke in your last letter - do not be so quick to judge. Coward some may be, yet cowards too, play their part. I think, perhaps, the bravest among us are those cowards who compel themselves to act in spite of their fear. Take help where it is offered; never underestimate the offer of a life.

But now to practical matters. R. has spoken to me of another potential contact. A certain VC, already sympathetic to our cause, is in a position to, should the relationship be handled correctly, supply an assortment of firearms. Please write to him at your earliest convenience. I have included his address, though no post will get through quickly in this storm.

Sincerely,
Your Father

Correspondence, Philip Huff Jones
Typewritten, original

May 2, 1895
Esteemed Colleagues,

1 take this opportunity to inform you that we will be temporarily adding a new member to the Asylum staff. Dr. Elwood Finch, an expert in many psychological conditions and treatments, will be joining us for the period of six months in order to treat 14 individually selected patients. With many years experience and a record of near- miraculous rehabilitations of patients suffering from Chronic Mania, Delusions of Persecution, Hallucinations, and Religious Mania, Dr. Finch will take on some of our most difficult cases during his stay here.

Dr. Finch will be joining us in Jackson at the end of the month. His charges will be moved into Building C and removed from all other treatment programs. Below you will find a list of those Dr. Finch has chosen to participate, based on our patient files. Those hands needed to move these patients into their new quarters will be informed in the coming weeks. Enclosed you will find your invitation to his welcome dinner on the night of his arrival in Jackson.

In service,

Dr. Philip Huff Jones
Superintendent, Louisiana Asylum at Jackson

Bornheim No. 3 Match

BORNHEIM NO. 3 MATCH. (See also, BORNHEIM NO. 3, FIELD MODIFICATIONS) The Bornheim No. 3 proved capable over medium distances, this common high-precision modification was intended to capitalize on this. As can be expected, the stock gives better stability, while retaining a light weight and ease of mobility. The sights are enhanced to give clearer visibility. Unlike other semi-automatic pistols, the carriage return on the Bornheim does not operate vertically, giving better visibility between shots.

Clipping from the New Orleans True Crescent
Author: Unknown
Newsprint, 4 x 8in.

PHILIP HUFF JONES Jackson, Louisiana. Phillip Huff Jones was found murdered in his office last night Circumstances are currently treated as suspicious. The speculation surrounding the controversies of this medical practitioner will not have escaped the attention of our reader.

Two conflicting accounts, by way of a nurse and a doctor in the employ of the asylum, who to protect their identity remain nameless, have come to the premises of this newspaper. The nurse, having been alone on duty in the East Wing at the time of the murder, had found herself at a loose end. As the reader will remember, many of the patients were in a recent calamity relieved of their residency of the asylum, and their lives. Thus, her duties predisposed her to a good view of the office, where she said she saw Huff Jones discussing matters with two women around the time of murder. Some time after, she saw the light extinguished, and assumed he had turned in for the night unusually early. The doctor's account disagrees wholeheartedly on this matter. Occupying the office down the hall, afforded with a good view of Huff Jones comings and goings, the doctor noted no one coming or leaving his room that night. He reported hearing one gunshot, and swiftly entered the office upon hearing a heavy thud. There, he noted the room absent, but for the deceased, and a window pane smashed. Rushing into the grounds, he tells us he found a homemade marksman's semi-automatic pistol discarded on the lawn, which he promptly turned into the sheriff. A similar pistol was used earlier this year in the inconclusive alleged assassination of historian Charles Gayarr .

Huff Jones was born November 8, 1855 near Jackson, La. Having studied medicine at Tulane University, Mr. Jones was appointed Assistant Superintendent to his father, John Welch Jones, at the Louisiana Asylum at Jackson in 1882, where he served for six years before replacing his father as Super indent at the same institution He is survived by his wife and four children. It is not known, at this moment, who will succeed him at the asylum.

Bornheim No. 3 Silencer

BORNHEIM NO. 3 SILENCER (See also, BORNHEIM NO. 3) In hopes of courting lost military contracts, this silencer modification was first developed to combat complaints that the Bornheim No. 3's large magazine encouraged wasting ammunition. Suppressed gunshot sounds did incentivize more precise aiming due to the slightly reduced bullet power, but they also allowed wielders to fire without betraying their position thus making them even more wasteful with their ammunition.

Correspondence, P. Jones
Typewritten, carbon copy

August 9, 1895
Please remember that your reputation is your livelihood. If you would like your paltry enterprise to last much longer than Caldwell , you must do better. I trust you are correct when you say some will appreciate the addition of a silencer, but we are your true clientele, and you were very aware of our demands when you wasted our time.

One of two things is about to happen. Indulge me as I explain.

The first and finest of your options begins with an apology, directly in response to this letter. It continues with the shipment of weapons you agreed upon (delivered three days early) and ends with a commitment to supply us with as many of your resources as we require--in writing

If you reject this option and defy our will, then your name will be dirt. You shall dwindle as a company until all your remaining customers are filth-desperate for weapons at the desperately low prices you will be selling. I and my friends have toppled far greater commercial enterprises than yours, and you would do well to consider your response carefully.

If you fail to reply, then expect myself and a small army at your doorstep within the month. And we shall not be so polite!

P. Jones

Bornheim No. 3 Extended

BORNHEIM NO. 3 EXTENDED. (See also, BORNHEIM NO. 3, RETROFIT) This Bornheim No. 3 was slightly modified with the incorporation of an extended magazine. The retrofit was realized as desirable as subsequent models naturally incorporated their own larger magazines. This naturally compliments a high rate of fire. Military trials were unsuccessful, citing the fact that the large magazine encouraged wasting ammunition. Nevertheless, it proved a popular and simple adaption.

Journal of William Salter
Severe water damage, reconstructed by archivist
Unlined paper, 3x5 in.
1/10

Something walks this forest after dark. I have heard its heavy, dragging steps as it circles the cabin. It has not tried to enter - perhaps it has not noticed my presence. I tell myself it is some large animal, but then I think of Huff's letters, and of what I have seen with my own eyes.

It had been several days since I left the cabin. Engrossed in my work, I took little notice of the passing of time. I have been practicing on small animals and then studying their wounds, and I could no longer stand the smell of the blood. I ran out into the forest as if pursued. The air calmed me, and I was able to think more clearly. I did not intend to stray far, or for long. But even that, I see now, was a terrible mistake. I was not in my right mind, if I could be said to possess such a thing in the first place. Ha!

I heard it long before I could see its sizeable silhouette. It stumbled and paced, giving the impression of confusion. I froze and ducked behind a fallen tree. The figure was shaped roughly like a man, though far larger. However, on his shoulders where his head should be, a mantle of enormous, writhing leeches. I must retire now. My hands shake to think of it again. ws

Special ammunition

Compact
RN: Was it a good thing he escaped into the bayou? He met with a sorry fate, for sure, but at least his final moments were spent according to his own whims. If one's natural necessity for freedom and the pursuit of happiness can be reduced to a whim.

High Velocity
RN: Salter's (further) descent cannot merely be explained by natural psychological phenomena (if there is such a thing). The duress under which Huff placed those in his care must have exacerbated whatever latent potential there was - and was compounded when combined with the malignancy of the Sculptor.

Caldwell 92 New Army

CALDWELL 92 NEW ARMY (See also, CALDWELL PAX, REVOLVERS) The Caldwell 92 New Army was developed by the Caldwell Arms Company as requested by the US Military. After 20 years of using the reliable Caldwell Pax, many soldiers were not satisfied with the weaker shot of the New Army's .38 bullets. But despite its lack of power, the highlight of this double-action revolver is its distinguished counter-clockwise rotating cylinder that swings out to allow for an effortless reload. Fast, light, and easy to handle, it was adopted not only by the US Army and Navy but also by police departments throughout the country.

Letter found in the uniform of a guard from Pelican Island Prison
Author: "Theo"(Surname unknown)
Undated
Torn paper, handwritten, 8.5'x 5.7"

Dear Abbie,

I wish I had the strength to write you happy lies because Lord knows I already caused you and Mama enough suffering for a lifetime. But I beg you to spare me your kindness once more, for I fear this is my last chance to expel these demons before they're buried with me

Something unholy happens between these walls. I have not seen it with my own eyes, but we all know it to be true. The guards come to collect us at night break when our bodies are weak and spent from a day's worth of steady toil. No one knows how they choose, but they come with their minds already made. They snatch a man from his bedsheets and haul his struggling body from his cell. If the poor fellow manages to break free, they'll have their Caldwells ready to aim for his knees

They disappear down to the basement, where the Warden lives. He never comes to the cells, but I swear I can see him when I try to sleep. A long face with hollow cheeks and a darting tongue that grows fat from our misery and fear.

For hours straight, we can hear nothing but pain. We try to sleep through the first muffled whimpers. We awake before dawn with the enraged yells. We wash down our scraps of food with pleading sobs. We tend to work in the rhythm of agonizing howls. When we're back to bed, the silence comes. And we wish for the screams to return because our selfish souls fear we might be next.

One of the guards has taken pity on me, for whichever reason I could not tell you. He promised me he'll see that this letter reaches you, and I can only hope he's sincere. He shows me kindness and offers solace on the hardest of days. Has even made me laugh once. It's fleeting and useless, but it's the only thing keeping me sane in this wretched place.

But despite his good intentions, I'm afraid my friend has sealed my fate. I've noticed the other guards giving us odd looks, and I hear their whispers stop when I look their way.

I'm not afraid of dying, Abbie. But no sin is evil enough to deserve what happens in that basement. Forever your little brother,

Theo

Notes on the Investigation
Handwritten, author unknown
November, 1897

As curious and intellectually thrilling as it may have been, the incident has been regarded as an unsolvable mystery even by the most famous investigators of New York, among whom my former mentor and colleague cut his teeth and learned the trade of mystery solving.

Although he was devilishly talented in the art of investigation, he lacked the mental diligence our profession required. I sometimes even wondered as to whether it was the very reason why he kept me by his side. It's not important anymore though; may he rest in peace

While going through his belongings the previous night, I came across his notes and sketches he relied upon during the investigation at Pelican Island Prison, Louisiana. I must admit, some of the writings he stumbled upon on the walls of certain prison cells rekindled my curiosity as they all point at the infamous basement of the Prison. Is it possible that they are linked to the rumors locals have reported since 1894?

To study them further in the future, should the opportunity arise of course, I've included the most cryptic writings in this dossier.

Cell 33
HELL MUST BE HERE MUST BE
WHER DEMONS LURK AND SINNERS SCREEEM
LORD YOU THERE BELOW TOO I KNOW YES I KNOW

Cell 27
SMELLS BLOOD ROT DECAY MOLDY FLESH
NIGHT CAME HOUNDS HUNGRY HOWL
CRUNCH AND MUNCH AND BITE AND SCRATCH
NO MORE NO MORE NO MORE NO MORE

Cell 57
GHOSTS SCREAM
I HATE THEYR SCREAM
THEYL LOVE WHEN I SCREAM

Cell 47
I HEAR THEM AGAIN SHAMING ME
I NEED HER TO KNOW AND SHE WILL SOON
PLEASE GOD LET IT REACH HER

Caldwell 92 New Army Swift

CALDWELL 92 NEW ARMY SWIFT (See also, CALDWELL PAX, REVOLVERS) The Caldwell 92 New Army Swift is a peripheral attachment to the reliable pistol. The innovative, counterclockwise rotating cylinder has been further enhanced by using a speed loader to insert all six bullets at once. Though not an official modification adopted by the US military or police forces, it is an invaluable tool in fast-paced combat.

Journal of Candice Rouille
Handwritten, leather-bound, 4" "x 6"

April 8,1895

I'm at a bit of a loss. New York has finally requested my return, and I'm to report back within the week. Jack says to ignore the message, that they won't waste manpower tracking either of us down, but we left very different lives in New York, lives that I can't help but miss, even if just a little. What could be so important that they'd call for me?

After the last six months, a proper homecoming could grant me the retribution I so crave. I have exceeded every estimation, disproven every mockery. I still carry the cross of my spite. Yet now I also carry an oath of secrecy in the name of the Hunt. It was sworn with a mind towards betrayal, though, and they are a pack who would most definitely betray me for a pittance. In my heart, I doubt the crusade here remains a righteous one, nor do I see an end in sight

April 9,1895

Today's Hunt was lucrative, yielding more than enough to feast on the road to New York. But I am struck, once again, with doubt. Am I making the wrong choice? Perhaps it was seeing Hardin's smug face that made me second guess. I can only imagine it'd look even more smug once he hears I'm leaving. I had half a mind to load my Caldwell pistol to see if six quick bullets might wipe the grin away.

April 12, 1895

I have decided. Distance may have bred fondness for New York, but all that awaits me there are bastards I wish to humble. Here, I have a forever partner in battle and plenty more bastards to humble. Regardless, I have only one true reason to remain, and it is not gold or glory or companionship. In truth, I simply wish to stain my hands even darker with blood. A Good Friday indeed.

Special ammunition

Dumdum
RN: Nearly everything we know about what happened on Pelican Island comes from sources that were not stored in the archive, which in the fire and flood destroyed the island's secrets. But for letters in the possession of others, and one box unlocked and unmarked by the flames.

Full Metal Jacket
RN: Who were the inmates subjected to such torture? The prison served DeSalle, the parish, the crimes of its people were somewhat unremarkable. Tax fraud, unpaid fines, petty theft, all were enough to earn a sentence. What kind of justice is that?

Caldwell Conversion Pistol

CALDWELL CONVERSION PISTOL. (See also HENRY SAMUEL CALDWELL, PISTOL) The Caldwell Conversion Pistol is distinguished as the first of the popular Caldwell breech-loading pistols that brought fame to Henry Samuel Caldwell and his arms company. Though slow to re-load, it contains a powerful .44-caliber shot. The frame, seven-sided barrel, and cylinder are of unique stability as the design was created for and tested by the US Army, where it was issued to all field soldiers until a further-improved single-action model took its place. Known for power rather than speed.

Records, Louisiana State Asylum at Jackson
Handwritten notes, two pages
Author: Handwriting match for Dr. LeMonnier

Patient name: William Salter
Date: November 23, 1894

Male, white, 32 yrs old, native of N.O., La., unmarried. Recommending his commitment, finding him insane, suffering from Chronic Mania. Admitted by his Grandfather. (Patient's Grandfather has requested he have no further contact with the patient.) He is dangerous to himself and others and attempts to harm anyone who nears. Tears his clothing and bites his chair, when strapped down to it. Has to be kept constantly under surveillance. Shows no signs of intelligence and is not capable of speech. Utters moaning barks when agitated; otherwise silent. Pupils constantly dilated, though we have found no symptoms of a corresponding ailment.

Patient name: William Salter
Date: January 1, 1895

Patient has regained capacity for speech. Though but a week ago he did nothing but bark and growl, this morning he greeted his nurse with festive words befitting the season. Docile, polite, and intelligent,

Patient name: William Salter
Date: February 18, 1895

Patient has been discharged. Evidence of a full recovery of his mental capacities confirmed by both myself and Superintendent Huff, who has taken a special interest in his case.

Records, Louisiana State Asylum at Jackson
Handwritten notes
Author: Handwriting match for Dr. LeMonnier, additional handwriting match for Philip Huff Jones (italics)

Patient name: William Salter
Date: May 7, 1895

Recommending the patient's (second) commitment to the S-I-A, having been brought in by the police after attacking a woman on the street, leaving ragged bite marks on her shoulders and neck. Judging by the date of his last confinement, he is suffering from an illness of at least six month's duration, punctuated by periods of respite, and characterized by dysphoric mood, grandiose ability, grandiose associations, grandiose identity, poor self- care, wandering, abusiveness, violent outbursts, black outs, temporary losses of speech, and aggressive behavior. Infection has not reached final stage, despite six-month incubation period. Observe

Patient name: William Salter
Date: May 9, 1895

Upon examination of Mr. Salter I must note his worsened condition and increased aggression. His temperament has, sadly, changed little since his admission, despite the intensity of his treatment. His body is now covered with festering sores, the largest the size of an apple, and unrelated to the restraints on his chair and bed.

The patient cowers and moans when any person enters the room, though, it appears, more in repulsion than in fear. Nurse Baird reports that he is peaceful and still when left alone, staring blankly at the wall for hours at a time, as if in a trance. Yet the next day, he suddenly begins to speak fluidly and intelligently. His intellectual abilities give me new hope for his recuperation, and I have scheduled him for a joint examination with Dr. Huff next week.

Caldwell Conversion Chain Pistol

CALDWELL CONVERSION CHAIN PISTOL. (See also, PISTOL, VICTOR CALDWELL) The sluggish reload time of the original Caldwell Conversion Pistol inspired Victor Caldwell - son of company namesake Henry Samuel Caldwell - to experiment with variations that would add both speed and grace to the original design. The result was the innovative if unusual Conversion Chain Pistol, the only of Victor's designs to see production, though of a limited scope. Caldwell family friends have speculated that the design was an attempt by the younger Caldwell to repair the decade-long estrangement between his father and himself. The failure of this attempt has been linked to Victor Caldwell's disappearance in 1895, when his design was eclipsed by a simpler and more popular single action revolver.

The Caldwell Conversion Chain Pistol was innovative in that it uses a ribbon of 17 cartridges. Cocking the hammer propels the loop through the chamber, readying a new cartridge for a quick and immediate release. According to company memorandum from the time, there was great doubt surrounding the concept, but it was not prone to jamming or misfiring as feared. However, once the cartridge chain is spent, the chain pistol is slower to reload than its predecessor, and what it gains in cartridge capacity, it loses in accuracy, range, and power.

Correspondence, Philip Huff Jones
Typewritten, carbon copy

May 21, 1895
Victor,

I write in haste. Last night we were surrounded by what I can only call a pack. Previously, they wandered alone, barely taking notice of their own kind. Perhaps it was coincidence; perhaps this marks a new development. I pray it is the former, for if they are growing more intelligent, we will need more men

Your latest shipment had just arrived. The chain pistols. Finch had begun the training, but I was wary, and they were still unpracticed. Seven trainees were forced to use them immediately, as they were close at hand when the pack arrived. Most were unprepared for such a trial and handled the weapons clumsily, though that does not explain what happened next: the ammunition bundles began to explode in a chain reaction that took out many.

The initial three survivors were badly burned, and did not survive the night. What cruel satire of the holiday so recently celebrated! My hand is injured, and one of the staff was bitten and is under observation. I must end here; 1 will write again as soon as I am able,

As ever in high regard,
Philip

Caldwell Conversion Uppercut

CALDWELL CONVERSION UPPERCUT. (See also, CALDWELL CONVERSION PISTOL, PISTOL) Based on the design of the Caldwell Conversion Pistol, the Caldwell Conversion Uppercut differs predominantly from the original in that, being designed for use with rifle bullets, the drum is elongated in order to maintain the velocity of the shot. The Uppercut is also known to have a more powerful recoil than the original Conversion. It is, however, quite rare, as its production was cut short by a fire in the Caldwell factory.

Correspondence, Philip Huff Jones
Typewritten, carbon copy

March 20, 1895
My Dear Sir,

Thank you for your swift response. I feel that we are of one mind on this subject, and I am deeply moved that you would take on so much expense to aid our cause. Any additional firearms are a boon to us. For my part, I will provide the souls to wield them, as well as training in their use

I'm eager to introduce you to our compatriots. A fine group, prominent and powerful men, who's connection will serve you well once we resolve this issue.

I would be honored if you would write more of the ideas you alluded to in your last letter, for I believe we share one and the same philosophy, and I am anxious to discuss these points further. I find few with whom I am able to discuss these subjects as an equal, for few know what we know - the newspapers report only that an infection is spreading across the city. But the truth is the situation here is deteriorating, and we must act while the numbers are still in our favor. That I am in a position to move against this evil tide is an honor I hope I can live up to. I look forward to your answer.

With high regard,

Philip Huff Jones, M.D.
Superintendent of the Louisiana State Asylum

Caldwell Conversion Uppercut Precision

CALDWELL CONVERSION UPPERCUT PRECISION (See also, CALDWELL CONVERSION PISTOL, PISTOL) The few surviving Caldwell Conversion Uppercut Pistols proved exceedingly popular to a certain niche, whose primary need was a way to stabilize the weapon's recoil. Though not enough demand existed for the Caldwell company to manufacture variants, some independent gunsmiths began to craft stock attachments for the weapon.

Letter to Unknown
Author: Elliot Schneider
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.
1/2

Dearest husband, I desperately hope our time apart is coming to an end.

It is with utmost gravity that I must ask you to refrain from sharing these letters with our child. These tales may strike you as daring and fanciful, but they are all of them true. Every sun sets against the cries from the dead, and every sun rises against the bellows of the deathless.

My hands and arms are still bloodied from last night's hunting. Please believe your spouse when I say that the hellspawn are real, they are violent, and they are worthy of your fear. All of my heavenly rewards are long spent, but I am near to achieving the funds I require only two more successful forays into the bayou before we can be reunited. This city belongs to Abaddon now, and my heart will be relieved to be free of it.

Henry Monroe and I will have our quarry soon. His Romero and my Uppercut are a formidable duo, more so now that I have found a smith to affix a stock, but I fear for his sanity. It seems he recognizes more of these demons every day, whispering their names under his breath as he raises the glass shard over his head to strike

For the first time, I saw his hand falter yesterday. I surely owe him my life a few times over, but mark my words that there would have been no salvation for him without me. That beast wouldn't have lost its nerve, though it seemed curiously docile for but a moment when Henry whispered a name. I didn't hear what it was over my gunshot. I've seen these things maim and kill and devour, so I take no risks out in the swamp. Heard the bastard's name later though, as Monroe muttered it all through the night. William, it was.

All my love and pain, Elliot

Caldwell Conversion Uppercut Precision Deadeye

CALDWELL CONVERSION UPPERCUT PRECISION DEADEYE (See also, CALDWELL CONVERSION PISTOL, PISTOL) With a stock providing some amount of stability, a telescopic sight became a viable modification to the Caldwell Uppercut. It allowed skilled hands and eyes to make full use of the Conversion's mix of power and reliability, though it typically came at the cost of mockery for using what is, nominally, a pistol

Letter to Unknown
Author: Elliot Schneider
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.
2/2

I demand you reveal your last letter to be in jest

Dearest, if you do not believe my stories then I beg of you to at least trust this: there is no home for us in Louisiana and we will not last the summer. A plague sweeps the city from all sides, and I can barely survive this grave frontier.

I plead with God that you receive this and that you believe it. On my mother's grave, you must not journey to Louisiana

It is truly painful to be apart, but to have you or Gerald taken from me would be a test of faith I would not win.

All my love, Elliot

Special ammunition

For regular versions

Dumdum
RN: The Victor Caldwell episode remains, to me, one of the stranger resolutions of Huff's brief tenure. Was there a subtext in the urgency of their correspondence which belied something greater going on? What was it that triggered Victor's turn in allegiance?

Full Metal Jacket
RN: No doubt, VC was just one of many recruited to the cause, though perhaps evidence of others was lost in the asylum fires. Fortunate that evidence of him remains, as it seems that his attack of the army was significant in itself.

For uppercut versions

Incendiary
RN: Idle speculation, but were others in the Hunter organization really happy with Huff's slapdash assembly of former asylum patients? Was VC really as uninitiated in our ways as he seems?

Explosive
RN: Huff's meticulous records have been scrubbed clean of references to Henry Monroe. Mostly. Whoever did this was committed, but they'll have failed, somewhere. He must have met Salter, must have met all of them. To have an insight, that would be groundbreaking.

Full Metal Jacket
RN: Huff's letter would have been just before newspapers stopped acknowledging any infection. It appears when an infestation becomes rampant enough, it stops being newsworthy.

Caldwell Marathon

CALDWELL MARATHON. (See also, HENRY CALDWELL, RIFLE) A short lived experiment to craft a slide-action rifle, the Caldwell Marathon first found an audience with game hunters. Comparable in many aspects to contemporary rifles such as the Winfield M1873, its novel but familiar reloading mechanism and prioritized firepower take slight precedence over accuracy and speed.

Letter to Brood and Bile
Author: Plague Doctor
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.
1/1

Join me. Be with me once again as we take part in the evolving horrors of this plague. Let us experiment on its flesh and its fluids. My anger has found a home, become something new entirely: something wholly free.

This bayou is unfiltered madness. The Corruption has fully wormed itself into the veins of the swamp, blossoming into oily sheets of foul rain and monsters that unravel, grunting, from the mud. Blazing infernos erupt in horrific cyclones to lick the trees and anything that comes too close. Crackling fingers of Arc Bloom reached out to grab Hunters by their throats, sizzling their souls as they scream out in agony. And the rot... the rot. It is unlike anything we ever saw in the days of before, when disease had boundaries, rules. There are no rules in this Corruption. Things with no heads. Things with no faces. Things with a thousand voices, all of them coming from the same unknown, shadowy place. Before I left the two of you behind, you didn't think there was anything to the rumors,

that nothing could possibly pose more horror than the Black Death outbreak in our home.

Come, come. See how terribly wrong you were.

Letter to Plague Doctor
Author: Brood
Single loose sheet, stained, 8.5 x 11 in.
1/1

Our dearest Doctor,

Oh, how we've wondered what may have become of you and your rage. You say now that it has changed into something else. Does it still sing like it used to? Cut through muscle to bone like a knife through summer butter?

The flesh samples you collected the night before your departure are still in the laboratory, just as you left them. They've broken down at the mercy of the wriggling fly larvae that hatched beneath the surface, eating the diseased matter like children gobbling up holiday sweets. I refused to throw them away. Someday you might have missed them, after all. Someday you might have come back.

Bile thinks your claims are fueled by madness. Your hallucinations always were of the most vivid strains of marvel. But I think that if there were really nothing in those swamps, you'd have already returned. Something is keeping you there, holding your interest. We want to see what that something is consequences be damned.

We will leave next week. I will first send a gift to precede us: a new instrument for your beloved Hunts. I can all but guarantee there's nothing of the sort over there, this Caldwell Marathon, capable of punching holes through bone and spilling blood. Use it well. We will see you soon. I wonder if, after all this time, you may be more willing to show me whatever hides beneath your mask.

Brood

Caldwell Marathon Swift

CALDWELL MARATHON SWIFT. (See also, HENRY CALDWELL, RIFLE, CALDWELL MARATHON) Continuing the Caldwell Marathon's interesting approach to its loading mechanisms, a speed loader was manufactured alongside the rifle, useful for loading the 15 cartridges the Caldwell Marathon can hold.

Old Hunter log, author unknown
Bound with worn leather, 58" x 8.3"

Night fell and supplies were dangerously short, so I took shelter in a dilapidated hut in the heart of the swamp. The smell alone was enough to keep most away, but at least I could think about sleeping without the fear of being found by another desperate Hunter, or worse.

I first noticed the carvings on the wall when I set my lamp down in the corner where I hoped to unroll my bed. The scratched words were neat in some places and illegible in others. I the spider, she the fly. frowned as I squinted at the other messages, trying to make out more. How did I get here? one scrawling wondered. Then, more lettering directly below it: William Salter.

Salter. Why was that name so familiar?

That night, I slept deeply, dreaming about all sorts of decayed things. I woke up to what I thought was the sound of a man moaning in agony, only to discover that it was nothing but a loose window shutter blowing in the wind My heart pounding, I relaxed back into my bed, turning towards the wall to see if I could decipher any other messages.

Soon, it was time to return to the horrors outside. I didn't see the decomposed leg on the kitchen table until I was on my way out, and the last words I'd read scrawled on the wall repeated, hauntingly, in my mind:

Eat. Gorge. Wall.

Special ammunition

Poison

RN: Another log without a name. Too many people deserving of remembrance will never receive it. This truth I can bear, but my own memories will not heal from watching the story repeat itself again and again and again. We record, we recite, we remember, and then we massacre all over again.

Full Metal Jacket

RN: I often ponder the fact that what we study are the writings of people who would rather stay in hell than make a short carriage journey. When I try to fathom the excitement expressed in these letters, I fail.

Caldwell Pax

CALDWELL PAX (See also, REVOLVERS) The Caldwell Pax, sometimes known as the Single Action Army, swiftly became one of the most iconic and popular firearms of all time. A single-action revolver with a six chamber cylinder, designed for durability and reliability, it proved a success at the U.S. Government Service Revolver Trials of 1872. Its reputation was truly earned, as the years that followed put it through its paces across the American west. Named for the Latin word for "peace, the firearm played its part in dominating the American continent and cemented Henry Samuel Caldwell's legacy.

The Papers of Hayden Collins
Filed under: Lynch
Story draft?
Undated

She had pinned him to the ground with giant, rusty railroad stakes. The factory must've laid the tracks to move raw materials around the large grounds. With a scalpel she had cut the flesh from his leg into long strips before peeling it off in long, blood-damp ribbons. These she dipped in a foul smelling bucket and hung from a clothesline, no more forced to carry the starched undergarments of the family whose corpses still sat around the kitchen table inside the house.

The man before her was no one - not special, not chosen - though perhaps, once, there were people who valued human sacrifice. Who saw it as an honor. But in order to believe that you had to believe in something.

His breath was shallow, and that he was still alive at all was due to the glowing, pulsing liquid she had injected into his arm while she was still playing the role of nurse, when he still thought he was a patient, about to be treated, to be healed. She laughed at the thought, and slowly pulled another length of warm flesh from his leg The nerve endings ripped and the muscles below, now exposed, convulsed. He felt nothing, which was a shame, because the pain and the terror tended to make the results more potent. Non est pax. But screaming might draw in others, and she could not afford to be found before she completed her task.

She wrote her name on a piece of cloth and sewed it in the place where his tongue had been. Lynch.

The Papers of Hayden Collins
Filed under, Lynch
Story draft?
Undated

She left only his face intact. The pieces of flesh there were too small to be of any use to her, the thick black hair would only get in the way, and at least if someone remained behind to mourn, they might be able to identify the corpse, though the man was not yet dead.

While the strips of flesh she had hung from the clothesline slowly dried in the sun, and the man slowly died, she slept. It would take a while, a day at the very least, both the man's death and the preparation of his skin. Death filled the house, and so she lay outside, curled around herself in a pile of leaves, like a dog.

When she awoke, the afternoon and the night had past, and the man had begun to moan, though he did not appear to have regained consciousness. She stepped over his body to check the drying meat. Almost ready. Once the flesh was cured, she would braid it into thick ropes. The spirit, the demon - though they did not refer to themselves that way, their word for themselves was more accurately translated as gods- must be called, bound, and carried. Subdued, it could be distilled. The process took seven days, and resulted in a liquid that she used to carefully fill syringes of metal and glass, and sold to that idiot Huffington. The eyes and lips of the corpse would be used in the summoning ceremony, and the process of binding was part speed, part spell, part patience, part wit. They thought themselves infallible, and it was their greatest weakness.

Caldwell Pax Claw

CALDWELL PAX CLAW (See also, CALDWELL PAX, FIELD MODIFICATIONS) The Caldwell Pax Claw was never an officially mandated design, and rather the term given to a particularly malicious field modification. The handle is extended with a large knife blade, particularly suited to a stabbing thrust motion. The namesake is purely visual, resembling an animal's claw. This practice emerged and became popular in lawless backwaters, where conflicts are solved brutally at close quarters, somewhat at odds with the name Pax.

The Papers of Hayden Collins
Filed under: Lynch
Story draft?
Undated

The circle was drawn in salt, the symbols that danced around and inside and through it painted in ash. The corpse had been laid across the border of the circle, bait and bridge. She crouched in the shadows, the long rope of flesh in her hands. She lamented the fact that intestines could not be used to bind a demon - it would be so much easier - before she forced her attention back to the circle.

And then it was there, a glimmer like heat in the air, an absence of light, a wisp of smoke, and the faint smell of wet clay. It crawled across the body, its image solidifying with each movement, running a long purple tongue across the exposed muscle. The expression on what she thought of as its face was unreadable, too other for human interpretation, though it was ecstasy and greed she projected upon it.

As the being crossed the line of the salt where it was broken by the body, Lynch jumped into action, pushing the corpse into the circle even as she entered it herself, closing the broken full moon of salt again with a quick motion of her hand. The being, the demon, the creature, the god remained atop the man. She was not worthy of its attention during a meal. The last mistake you will make, she thought, before she sprung and bound it in the ropes made from the same flesh it was currently devouring. So it was sustained. And so it was undone

She would distill its corpse into the serum used by the Association, an inoculation of a sort, though nearly as deadly as the ailment it prevented.

Caldwell Pax Trueshot

CALDWELL PAX TRUESHOT. (See also, CALDWELL PAX) After becoming a staple among US lawmen, the Caldwell Pax's popularity saw it fall into more nefarious hands. To keep pace with outlaws, sheriffs and marshals began to strike unofficial deals for the expensive "Trueshot " variant of their service weapons, reducing stability in exchange for a more powerful shot. Though named to distinguish it as the one true vessel of peace, the mighty revolver was servant to a great many ends.

The Papers of Hayden Collins
Filed under: Lynch
Story draft?
November 1909

Beneath a shadowed cypress tree, a cloaked figure waited. Unmoving, she gazed upon three women at a distance, who all waded through filthy waist-high waters to reach her. Each of the wading women wore the coats of law marshals with matching firearms, and each looked prepared to kill. As they arrived, Lynch for it was Lynch under the cypress smiled shrewdly at how malleable the human mind remained. She gave a nod.

A moment and five gunshots later, one marshal remained, standing above the two corpses of her companions. She was battle-scarred and graceful. Lynch rose and cast off her cloak, now singed by two bullets.

Fac quod faciendum est, said the survivor, breathless. Lynch caressed her snarling face, and the survivor's expression softened.

Close your eyes, my paragon, and I will mold you anew against your creator's wishes, remade in your own image.

The survivor hesitated, but ultimately obeyed. The sway Lynch held was potent, and it arrested the survivor with enough faith for Lynch to pull her cloak from the earth. Thereby she revealed to no watching eyes: a metal bucket, rusty stakes, two scalpels, a filled syringe, salt, and a silver dagger. She reminisced at the thrill of forcing the stakes through men's hands, yet her hair nearly glowed with eager anticipation for the improved concoction one which flowed from a willing sacrifice, and one which held her very own blood.

Serenity was upon the survivor's face as salt was spread around her feet. It remained as Lynch injected her forearm. It even remained as the scalpel was traced slowly across the flesh of her chest. As Lynch drove the stakes through her feet into the sodden dirt, however, her eyes snapped open, and her hand twitched to her holster. But it was too late, for Lynch was already aiming the survivor's own pistol into her left eye. Screams echoed across the bayou as Lynch worked. Gasps rustled through the leaves as an ethereal deity devoured the euphoric survivor.

A sigh struck hell as Lynch brewed her finest inoculation yet a toxin for herself that you will be powerless against. Tremble, twisted Beira. Lynch is hunting still.

Special ammunition

Incendiary
RN: Gruesome, too gruesome for any publisher. To what extent were these descriptions drawn from personal experience? It seems that nothing remains of his own journal - if Collins even kept one. No doubt such a journal would be a valuable find.

Dumdum
RN: Collins had a penchant for embellishment, in fact made a career of it, and it's strange to read his version of our somber practices, which I always thought in a way clinical. Yet the gravitas of his language also fails to convey the forces that really flowed, or the vitality of the moment.

Poison
RN: Was every inoculation prepared in such a way? Would the hunters really do that? The answer seems obvious, yes, yes they would. Yet. The truth is a hard bitter pill to swallow. The taint of such a ritual runs deep.

Full Metal Jacket
RN: These papers seem rougher, more gruesome than any others. Less filtered? The question remains, how much of Collins writing is fanciful imagination, how much was verbatim? The more I read into this, the less I think I'm able to differentiate.

High Velocity
RN: I find myself called back to this passage time and again. Collins' mind must have been addled to concoct a story such as this. Yet every visible incentive would have pushed him to sanitize his work, so to write as brutally as this makes me wonder.

Caldwell Rival 78

CALDWELL RIVAL 78. (See also, HENRY CALDWELL, SHOTGUN, WINFIELD REPEATING ARMS COMPANY) The Rival was the first long gun created by infamous handgun-manufacturer Caldwell, the moniker Rival a less-than- subtle gibe at competing long arms manufacturer Winfield. In response to the Rival, Winfield began work on the Adversary, a handgun that could be placed in direct competition with some of Caldwell's own best-selling arms. It followed, it is said, that Caldwell and Winfield conducted a private meeting to discuss the stand-off, and over a handshake, to have agreed to keep out of the other's territory.

The Caldwell Rival was produced between 1878 and 1889 in numbers nearing 23,000 and is a long gun refined for general shooting and hunting. The side-by-side position of its double barrels allows for easy loading of a wide range of shot, depending on the size and the nature of the target. An exposed double hammer with a double trigger and 32-inch barrel give the gun its versatility and range. The Rival and shotguns of its kind earned notoriety as so-called "coach guns,"as they were often used to defend the delivery coaches from bandits, though with a sawed-off barrel.

Correspondence, Philip Huff Jones
Typewritten, original
Undated

Esteemed Dr. Huff,

This letter accompanies another shipment per our agreement. The next will come shortly. I would waste no time. Due to an unpleasant business matter, my family's company has found itself with an excess of the Rival 78 that cannot be sold. It is an exceedingly capable shotgun, with great versatility and range. I expect that your people will adapt to them with ease. In the field, they will ensure that no one must fear coming too close to their prey. I must confess, it is with great curiosity that I await the moment when I see them for the first time with my own eyes.

Our engineers are doing further work based on the same design, and perhaps I will soon be able to send you some more experimental variations. This would serve the dual purpose of helping me to test a new design, and providing you with further arms for the fight ahead.

In highest respect,

V.C.

Records, Louisiana State Asylum at Jackson
Handwritten notes
Author: Unknown

Patient name: Dr. Y.R. LeMonnier
Date: May 13, 1895

Dr. LeMonnier was attacked by an asylum patient (William Salter, Ward C), during a routine examination and sustained extensive lesions, including multiple abrasions, lacerations (from fingernails of WS), and puncture wounds. WS freed himself from his bonds and attacked Dr. LeMonnier with tooth and nail and, finding a pencil left on a desk, stabbed Dr. LeMonnier in the thigh, arm, and neck. The pencil tip was embedded in the flesh of the neck, but was successfully removed. The saliva evident on the bite wounds was thick in consistency and of yellow hue.

LeMonnier remains in the infirmary for observation, as his wounds have become infected, though it has only been three hours since the incident. He is running a high fever.

Salter went missing in the chaos. The police have been notified, but there has been no sign of him at his former residence. Good riddance!

Caldwell Rival 78 Handcannon

CALDWELL RIVAL 78 HANDCANNON. (See also, SHOTGUN) After the conclusion of the production of the Caldwell Rival, the Caldwell Arms Company began to look into which elements of the Rival's design might be useful in future arms development. The 78 Handcannon appears to have been the result of experiments that company engineers were conducting with sawed-off shotguns. A significant number of sawed-off Caldwell Rivals, colloquially known as Caldwell Rival Handcannons, were discovered in the factory warehouses many years later, and inexplicably, in a barn near Jackson, Louisiana. Whatever the reason for its creation, the Caldwell Handcannon was, functionally, a mixed success: though powerful, the shot scatters upon firing, which reduces potential damage and accuracy, as well as range. Its main advantage is its size; it can be carried even when already weighed down with several other weapons, as it is, essentially, a pistol.

Correspondence, Philip Huff Jones
Typewritten, original

May 30, 1895
Honored Dr. Huff,

The conviction of your friendship, and your dedication to this cause, moves me. This shipment of Handcannons will be the last, as soon I will leave the home and employ of my father, and join our brethren, as you have so aptly named them, in this fight. I had hoped to convince my father of the cause, but his attention, as always, lies elsewhere. His single-minded purpose has brought him great success, but at what price? But I did not intend to write of personal matters.

I am sorry to hear of these recent developments and particularly of your loss. I hope your injury will not interfere with your work.

The malfunction of the cartridges troubles me deeply. Our own tests showed the initial designs for that ammunition to be stable. I can only assume that what I sent to you was in some way compromised by the journey. Perhaps by heat, perhaps cold, perhaps the movement of the coach over bumpy roads. I will not know until we have performed further tests, and I find no support among the engineers or from my father. Though tragic, the incident confirms what a dangerous weapon this could be, with further testing and precautions. I cannot believe there is no future for this weapon. I will continue to refine the design, as I think a weapon capable of spreading fire at a distance such as this would be of great help against the creatures you have described, and as your experience of four nights past has proved.

With the highest respect,
V.C.

Special ammunition

Flechette
RN: Up until now, it seems we've been looking for traces of VC in the wrong places, and he's been in plain sight all along: It's no wonder that around the time he arrived, it seems that many types of novel ammunition found their ways into the hands of the hunters. Could this insight give us new leads?

Dragon Breath
RN: More evidence that Salter may have been a carrier of the infection. More specific findings on what became of LeMonnier could certainly shed more light on the theory...

Penny Shot
RN: Dr LeMonnier, from what I've heard, seemed to be a good man. But what good man could bear witness to such things? Monroe spoke of him frequently, it was said, but spoke of his silence and passivity. Perhaps that was more troubling that the sadistic manner of Huff himself?

Slug
RN: William had no contact with the outside world after admittance. Yet it was accordingly his attack on Dr. LeMonnier that put him such a critical condition a condition of which we all know the cause. Was Salter carrying the Sculptor's influence? Or do these notes misattribute the cause of LeMonnier s affliction? I circle and circle and get no closer to the truth.

Crown & King Auto-5

CROWN &KING AUTO-5. (See also, SHOTGUN, AUTOMATIC FIREARMS) The Crown &King Auto-5 was a revolutionary firearm, the first semi-automatic shotgun. Designed by the illustrious John Moses Crown, it marks the epitome of a series of his highly innovative shotgun designs. Coming at the end of a period of accelerated development in firearms technology, this laid the foundation for a century to come. Crown himself pioneered this, developing a lever action shotgun some years prior, and then improving on that by developing a pump- action, then finally, the Crown &King Auto-5. "King"refers to a mysterious collaborator. Featuring a five-round tube magazine, the most critical innovation was the development of the blowback tube design. Essentially, the barrel was mounted on a spring. The blowback from the recoil would send this back, in turn driving the bolt, ejecting the spent cartridge, and chambering a new round. You can fire as fast as you can pull the trigger.

Journal of Charlie Salter
Bad condition, 10 x 8 in.
1/4

June 10th

Many years ago, I rode with a man by the name of Moses. We were on the chase of something. Said to be a Thunderbird. From Ogden to Eureka, we rode in its shadow across golden plains and dark mountains. We almost had it on the shores of the great Pacific, when the winds turned. We watched it soar away on the trade winds, over ocean blue, disappearing into sunset, sun melting into sky.

When Moses and I met we didn't take to each other. He didn't like me joining him and his brothers. But, by the end of the hunt, we'd grown to know each other well. He was to be a gunsmith, by profession. But a genius, a poet of some kind too.

Through that ride, day and night, he filled my ear with talk of guns: actions, bolts, levers, mechanisms, frictions, ballistics. He could conceive of weapons to kill the way other men write to live.

I thought of him today when Yuri showed a shotgun to us. Brand new, called the Auto-5. He said it was semi-automatic. You could shoot once, and automatically, it would chamber a new shell. It was like the things Moses and his brothers had dreamed of, on that long ride.

Now Bill, being a hothead, scoffed at the thought. Said we was being swindled, like that "everlasting" magazine I bought last year.

He slipped in a couple of rounds in the Auto-5. He fired the first shot into the ceiling, saying that no way would it fire the second, automatically. Yuri warned him, don't point that thing at anyone. Bill had drunk too muchwhiskeyv. took this as a challenge. To the end he was a sporting man. Lee, Martin, and I were in fits of laughter. He pointed the shotgun at Yuri, who jumped backward. I thought he was gonna kill him then and there, but at the last moment he raised the barrel up, and took out a lump of plaster.

Journal of Charlie Salter
Bad condition, 10 x 8 in.
2/4

June 11th

By morning, we'd slept off the liquor. Bill was nowhere to be found. We went back to finish the deal with Yuri. It was clear that we all wanted to take an Auto-5 off Yuri's hands. Sure, it had a big kick, but there weren't anything could be done for it. The benefits outweighed the costs.

But the price Yuri wanted was too high. We tried to haggle him down, but he wouldn't budge. Martin had a fine idea though - to tell Yuri about where we were headed. Rumors, where there were open bounties, hotheads, rich and looking for firepower. We told him we'd take him with us, hook him up with our contacts. Promised him he could sell these as fast as they were manufactured. He agreed.

After we shook on it, we found out Bill got picked up by the Sheriff on an outstanding warrant. No honor among thieves, so the four of us headed out

Yuri, I didn't know at all, but he seemed to have an uncanny knack for guns, and would no doubt prove a useful friend. At least his intentions were clear: profit. Martin was always the smart one, having got us out of many scrapes already. No doubt he was heading down South to challenge himself, find a mess he couldn't think his way out of. Lee, would have to keep an eye on. He was impossible to read.

And what did I want? It was a long time since I'd been home, and home where was we were headed. Looking at the country slip by from the train window, I realized how much of a patriot I was deep down.

But returning home wasn't enough. I had to find Will. hadn't thought of nothing else since that Telegram arrived.

I thought by leaving he'd be safe from me, what I've become, but seems it came home anyway.

Special ammunition

Penny Shot
RN: Charlie's gang was one of many brought by the allure of gold. It seems that at the time, easy riches were hard to come by - and so however violent this gold rush was, what other choice did any of them have?

Slug
RN: If Charlie Salter had returned sooner, before his brother was so far gone, what would have happened? The corruption affecting William was, one might say, contagious. Had Charlie whisked him away to another state, calamity could have spread through the nation.

Flechette
RN: What might have happened in Louisiana if Yuri had been driven by something other than money? This shotgun had a stark impact on containing the Corruption. What more could have come from his knack for weapons?

Dolch 96

DOLCH 96. (See also, GERMAN FIREARMS, PISTOL) Of the Dolch 96, Winston Churchill has said: "[I] was the best thing in the world."A semi-automatic, top-loading pistol produced by the German manufacturer of the same name, the Dolch 96 was favored by the military because of its powerful ammunition.

The shape of the Dolch's stock earned it the nickname "broom handle,"and it was effective at "sweeping"an area of enemies with the 10 high-velocity rounds held within the magazine. However, the box cannon variation model of the Dolch 96 is generally preferred as the addition of a holster and shoulder stock increases safety and ease of use.

Journal of William Salter
Severe water damage, reconstructed by archivist
Unlined paper, 3x5 in.
6/10

jul.? 1895

Black outs more frequent. Memory unreliable. Came to today in the midst of a horrific act. Have become hardened to violence, but feelings of fear and shame return to me in the remembering tenfold. I make my confession here, on these pages, and pray that God finds me here. Perhaps He has not given up on me yet.

I awoke astride a man, knife in hand, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing, unable to stop. I wept and yet I could not stop. There was a sound in my head as of a storm. I felt horror. I felt powerful. At peace. And then shackled with guilt at my own response. And still 1 did not stop my hand from driving the knife again and again into his chest, crunching through the brittle bone blanketed in ragged strips of skin. I drove the knife into him until the corpse upon which I sat was little more than a damp puddle, a heap of slippery wet matter. The smell was overpowering. Iwill surely go to hell. What does it matter? I am already there.

Journal of William Salter
Severe water damage, reconstructed by archivist
Unlined paper, 3x5 in.
7/10

Nighttime, she walked straight into my cabin. She the fly. I the spider. A surprise guest! Hahaha. Her name is Mary. An older woman, not suitable to fight, but I found another use for her. I feel as if I know her. She seemed disoriented, and I pretended cordiality, offering tea. She seemed nervous, but sat down at the little table, and I heated some water and poured it over a handful of swamp grass. She didn't seem to notice and sat silently sipping the vile liquid as if in a dream. I had her tied up in the chair faster than a squirrel up a tree. She did not resist. My knife was polished up so the first thing I did was test out the blade. She bleeds profusely. I must find a way to staunch the flow, I am not ready to let her die. I must consult the medical book. Perhaps I can keep her alive a few days longer.

Anything to take my mind off. Pored over the Roebuck. Cheery ads and nice pictures of every gun you could want. All so clean, in the picture. Blood splatter on it now. Makes it look like my Dolch, leaning over there in the corner. Rusty and broken. Did Papa have one? No, probably not. Used to shoot rabbits off the porch, they got at the crops. Didn't have no crops. Just pigs. I could get him one for his birthday.

Dolch 96 Claw

DOLCH 96 CLAW. (See also, GERMAN FIREARMS, PISTOL) The Dolch 96 Claw exhibits the power of the original Dolch 96, with the addition of a knife blade to the handle. The geometric engineering of the pistol is certainly not a feature that the German manufacturer would have approved of, but those who survived an unexpected stabbing from the pistol's handle swear by its effectiveness

Journal of Daisy Duch
Very worn, brown leather 4.25" x 8.25"
1/2

1 relic
1 bowl
cups salt water
2 heir's fingers
1 willing heart

June 2nd, 1895

I stowed away on a boat because a ripped advertisement in the gutter promised me homes for the homeless. Nobody mentioned that my home would end up being in a shack without a roof or a garden. Should have known by then not to dream. And when I birthed my Julie, the spawn of that accursed sailor, even my dreams of having dreams were dissolved.

But I am rekindled.

It has been a rotten life, and it was the world which rotted me. But now I see the world decay, all the horrors it rained on my head dropping off my back and taking root. I still do not dream I can t dream anymore but I can't sleep either. I am awake every night, as my thudding heart will not rest until the rot overruns the world. My dormant pact has shown me how to tend its roots.

Julie will not understand. Her dreams are still alive, and she believes mine can still return if I am pious enough if I become a righteous defender of the marshes like her. I mourn that only the pain I have befriended will show her the way. But I did my duty as a mother and now I do my duty as a vessel

My mind strains more than what is common here. It will not let me take these truths to sleep, but my heart needs to know they will not be found. These pages will rot with my body, and I will enjoy the freedom.

Dolch 96 Deadeye

DOLCH 96 DEADEYE. (See also, GERMAN FIREARMS, PISTOL) It was vital that the scope modification to the Dolch 96 avoided hindering the pistol's ability to effortlessly holster. It was affixed slightly to the side of the pistol to not interfere with the action of the receiver. This way it can be wielded as a surprisingly dynamic weapon: a quick-firing sidearm that is effective at much longer distances than comparable pistols which aren't as lightweight.

Journal of Daisy Duch
Very worn, brown leather 4.25" x 8.25"
2/2

June 8th, 1895

Six days since Daisy disappeared.

This is unmistakably my mother's pistol, the taloned Dolch she thought I never saw under her pillow. It's all that's left of her, save for this journal at the feet of this strange boat-scrap-shrine. I struggle to grasp what happened, and I struggle more to write about it.

Hands that comforted me, stroked my hair as I panicked in the dark. They taught me how to tend a flower, to birth fruit. Those same hands robbed me of both trigger fingers. I do not fathom. What duty has she done? Did she bring another's heart for the ritual, or did she offer her own?

All I had was hers, and now all I had is taken.

She writes of leaving her body behind, and her new friends oft encouraged her to forsake this coil. I fear she has, yet I also fear what I might do to her if she remains. Turn her pistol against her? Her pistol blade has blood on it, and salt water too. I misspeak it is coated with blood and was at the foot of this shrine. If she has forsaken her body, where then is her soul?

June 14th, 1895

I can await a sign no longer. I hear her voice upon the wind, but I also hear my heart's own fears whisper in my ear. The bayou tries to rot my mind and it will succeed if I am not steadfast. I leave this journal here, mother. May your unquenched soul see these writings and rejoice that your daughter will survive. I will defang your pistol, perhaps add a scope, and burn your legacy. This journal does indeed die with you.

I hope you are tormented in that wooden prison. I love you, mother.

Dolch 96 Precision

DOLCH 96 PRECISION. (See also, GERMAN FIREARMS, PISTOL) The Dolch 96 Precision exhibits the power of the original Dolch 96, with the addition of a wooden shoulder stock for increased stability and accuracy. The stock also doubles as a holster and carrying case, a dual functionality that earned the clip-loading, semi-automatic firearm the name "box cannon."The box magazine is reloaded by sliding a row of cartridges into the magazine from a slot on the top of the bar. Recommended when quick, powerful fire is required.

Journal of William Salter
Severe water damage, reconstructed by archivist
Unlined paper, 3x5 in.
8/10

I am a surgeon now. Pappy would be so proud. Following in the family line.

No proper tools. The sharpest knife in the cabin is the blade fastened to the talon with cutting wire. I pushed the sharp point into her flesh just above the wound where I shot her, and she was unconscious, but she moaned. Slicing the flesh was easy enough. I have experience gutting squirrel and deer. But a bayonet is no bone saw. I was forced to strike at it with force, many times, until it shattered. The screams that followed hurt my ears. When I finally severed the leg and cauterized the wound, I stood silently on the porch, gripping the cold limb in my hand, the slow realization dawning on me that I had not eaten meat in some time

I feel strong now. Nourished. I have learned so much today.

Special ammunition

Dumdum
RN: Cannibalism such as Salter's is surprisingly commonplace. But the glee with which he partakes is quite rare. Ghastly enough to question one's notions of the human mind.

Full Metal Jacket
RN: Records are sparse and unreliable, but it appears a Julie Duch did wield a modified Dolch Deadeye and became a respected local gunsmith in her lifetime.

Drilling

DRILLING (See also, RIFLES, SHOTGUNS) A combination gun such as this is delicate to manufacture and rare as a result. Triple-barreled rifles never justified their cost enough to enter mass production, but rather were crafted with the primary purpose of hunting and gamekeeping. They remained a specialty tool that indicates an increasing wealth amongst the Hunters of the bayou.

Journal of Mara Cranston
Handwritten, water damaged and hardly legible, 5" x 7"

December 18, 1894

In the weeks since her passing, I've mourned the loss of my sister Hannah. Even when we were both well into adulthood, I always thought of her as a baby, the very same way she looked on the day our mother howled and sweated while giving birth to her on the floor of our cabin. To know that Hannah died doing the very same thing, bringing a child into the world, has haunted my every dream. I can't help but blame myself for it, think that if I had only been there to hold her hand and keep her grounded through the pain, she might have somehow pulled through. I'm sure Jonathan did what he could, although I will admit to being wounded that instead of coming back to tell us of her passing himself, he ran off somewhere, leaving some stiff-lipped stranger from whatever organization he and Hannah were a part of to deliver the news: Hannah dead. Jonathan missing. The baby...the baby. I was told the baby also died during the birth, but something about the man's face gave way to something more. Was I just being paranoid? Why would he have any reason to lie about such a thing?

Regardless, it does nothing to change the circumstances. My sister is dead, and I miss her more than anything.

January 12,1895

I can hardly believe it. Today some woman came into the shop and told me that she was one of the delivery nurses from the day that Hannah died. She pressed a locket into my palm as she spoke in hushed whispers, looking over her shoulder as though she was worried someone might be following her. She called your name in the thick of it, - the nurse told me, and I wept into my sleeve. She loved you and would have wanted for you to have this. The locket was empty. The woman told me that Hannah had planned on using it for a photo of her new baby. Remembering the strange way the man from the organization had held himself when mentioning the baby, I pressed her until she spilled like a pierced yolk.

Don't go if you value your mind intact, - she told me from where I had pinned her against the wall. You don't want to see what it became.

Journal of Mara Cranston
Handwritten, water damaged and hardly legible, 5" x 7"

January 31, 1895

It was never a baby at all

The truth is something I would have never believed if not faced with the evidence. Something is wrong in Louisiana, something that goes deeper than a nightmare plague. Nosing around the outskirts of that crumbling organization unveiled the truth: Hell has broken loose in this bayou, taken root in its marshes and mines and compounds, the very soil corrupted. And it doesn't start or stop with what happened to Hannah.

There are so many of them now, but if what I've pieced together is to be believed, Hannah gave birth to the very first. A lumbering, monstrous, headless blasphemy, voiding its bowels of bloated leech creatures which slither around its ankles and alert it to prey. Pa's Drilling rifle found its heyday as it helped me bring one down yesterday. I shot at a distance at first, and then, not realizing that the thing wasn't dead yet as I came to inspect its corpse, delivered the killing blow with the shotgun barrel of the very same gun.

I will live out the rest of my days scouring this land and killing every last one.

?????, 1895

Been weeks in this bayou now, or has it been months? The days blend together. The Meatheads, as the Hunters call them, are never-ending. One of these monsters will have to be the last of its kind, surely, surely.

My mind is going funny from being out here alone for so long. At night it's the worst. I've started hearing Hannah whispering to me from the dark, begging to know where her baby is, what's been done with her baby, where is Jonathan, where is her family? I had a dream that she stood before me, rotting and ruined from the waist down, torn open and gored and pointing at me, mouthing the word: family. The Meatheads are my family in some twisted, wretched way. All of this is just wrong.

I awoke from the dream sitting up against a tree, my shirt opened, my arms cradling a dead leech from the Meathead corpse still sprawled across the road behind me. I had been holding it as if to breastfeed. I do not know

how much longer I will last before I succumb.

Come back, Hannah. Next time I won't be too afraid to step forward and take your hand in mine.

Drilling Handcannon

DRILLING HANDCANNON. (See also, DRILLING, RIFLES, SHOTGUNS) To modify a weapon as specialized as the Drilling typically required either great luxury or an equivalent irreverence. It was generally the domain of thieves, as it allowed the looted prize to be hidden far more easily and to be wielded with far more abandon.

Letter to Jodie Cranston
Author: Franklin Kinney
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.
1/2

Cousin Jodie,

I am well. I still miss the snow a lot but I like swimming in the river. I'm big enough this year that I can stand up on the tips of my toes and walk all the way across!

I do not think that Auntie Hannah moved away. Uncle Joseph moved away last year and Mommy and Daddy didn't look so sad every day after that. And Uncle Joseph was funnier than Auntie Hannah. Mommy has never forgotten to cook dinner but yesterday I told her I was hungry five times until she made soup.

How are things on your farm? I hope you will come and visit us soon, maybe for my twelfth birthday? Then we can eat that new pecan pie your mommy makes. I bet you can't walk all the way across the river.

I'm still hungry.

Goodbye cousin Jodie,

Big Frankie

Drilling Hatchet

DRILLING HATCHET. (See also, DRILLING, RIFLES, SHOTGUNS) The Drilling as manufactured had great utility for hunting: being a combination gun that could bring down a boar as easily as a duck and keep both carcasses profitable. Shortening the Drilling and adding a hatchet was common among brigands, as it turned the combination gun from an elegant hunting tool into an all-purpose murder weapon.

Letter to Franklin Kinney
Author: Jodie Cranston
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.
2/2

Cousin Frankie,

I may be four months your junior, but I am surely taller than you. I wager that I can walk across your river without it even coming up to my chin! In fact, I'll even wager my slice of my mom's pecan pie, since I am so certain.

The farm is very quiet these days. I hope you will visit soon to bring some cheer and make me laugh. Nobody makes me laugh anymore. My family hasn't been talking a lot, so I am glad to hear from you, cousin. I was listening to the adults talking from my bed and I believe Aunt Mara and Aunt Hannah both went to New Orleans, so they did move away. But there was a man who I hadn't heard before and he said some words I didn't understand.

I hope you come and visit soon, for I think my family is going to move away as well, far away from Louisiana. Do you think moving away is why your adults are so sad too? Do you think we'll be moving to the same place? Gosh that would be lovely, would it not?

Maybe it will be so lovely that Mother and Father will start sleeping again! The words they have started singing at night scare me. One time I heard a third voice that sounded like Auntie Mara. She said take your hand in mine, and I wanted to see her so badly. I ran downstairs and saw Father's eyes were black while Mother painted things on the floor. She had bandages on her arms to not get them stained. Mother hates our arms being dirty when we make breakfast.

Now I stay in bed and close my ears every night.

Jodie

Special ammunition

Dumdum
RN: Records about the family of Hannah Kinney are scarce clearly she wanted to protect them when she left behind her old life for the Hunt. Alas, it's a shame that such measures were made in vain in the case of her sister Mara.

Penny Shot
RN: A surprising coincidence for Mara to see her late sister's delivery nurse. Was she sent by someone as part of a grander design, or did guilt push her to Mara Cranston's door? Alternatively, Mara's derangement began long before she picked up that Drilling rifle.

Flechette
RN: Discovery of these writings also asks the immediate question of what became of Mara. As we know she did not successfully eradicate the Meatheads - her most obvious fate is a disquieting notion.

Full Metal Jacket
RN: The disturbing turn of Mara's mental state begs the question: Did she simply fall victim to the harsh isolation of the bayou, or was there something more at play?

Slug
RN: Mara being aware of the AHA but refusing to partake puts her in a very dangerous position. If the madness or monsters didn't take her life, it seems likely there would be guns ready to silence her.

LeMat Mark II

LEMAT MARK II. (See also, REVOLVERS, UNIQUE WEAPONS) The LeMat Mark II is the cutting-edge reproduction of one of the most iconic arms of the Civil War. The original LeMat was a cap-and-ball revolver invented by Jean Alexandre LeMat of New Orleans, which in addition to nine chambers, also featured a secondary 20-gauge, smooth-bore barrel. This was capable of firing a shotgun shell. While only a few of these were ever produced, they became iconic weapons of senior officers of the Confederate States of America during the US Civil War. The weapon had to be produced in Europe, and daredevil blockade runners came to fame bringing the weapon to the South.

The Mark II made an important development, the integration of a cartridge firing system, bringing the hand gun up to modern standards. Even so, the changes were not enough to encourage formal military adoption. The revolvers were somewhat unreliable under heavy usage, and unable to stand up to too arduous conditions. Consequently, the Mark Il remained a revolver which denoted a certain status and infamous reputation.

Unpublished manuscript, "Bad As They Seem"
Author: Hayden Collins
Undated
Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

-19-
"What do you care about the fate of these twins?"

"I have sent enough people to their grave this week."

"And you'll send two more."Lynch paused to examine a copper paperweight on Huffington's desk. "But they will return. You will call them in the name of the AHA, and you will send them to the Butcher's House, to his Cold House."

Huffington raised an eyebrow. That place was the stuff of myth, not maps. But he said nothing. Lynch continued.
"You will explain to them that your medical experiments have led you to the conclusion that you have been informed as to the location of a weapon that might end this. And you will send them to The Butcher's House. I will advise them on the rest."

Huffington nodded briskly, clearly opposed, yet clearly bound to fulfill her request.

"And you will do it now. They're waiting outside."

For the first time, Huffington looked surprised. Lynch knocked on the door twice before opening it to two young women - surely not yet 20! - dressed as men for the field and heavily armed. One wore her hair tied back with a string, the other's scalp was - in part - crowned by a sheath of what looked like scales. Huffington wondered at the sight as they introduced themselves, forcing his face into a grimacing smile as he repeated the words he'd been fed.

Unpublished manuscript, "Bad As They Seem"
Author: Hayden Collins
Undated
Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

-20-

Lynch sent the twins on to the smithy to prepare their weapons, staying to observe Huffington's examination of a new recruit. A nurse led the patient into the office. She was a slight woman of 25, clearly marked by the pox, and brought to the asylum by her own mother.

"Name."Huffington's tone was brusque and unfriendly.

"Nellie Crown."

"What ails you Miss Crown?"

"Nothing ails me but my ill-tempered mother! I've my very own Angel, Doctor, I couldn't be better."

"Tell me about the Angel Nellie,"Huffington said as he took her pulse. "What does it look like?"

"Don't see it, feel it. Angel's right there, Doctor Sir. Right there,"she pointed to her rib cage. "And here," she said, pointing to her lower abdomen, lowering her voice to a whisper, "Here is where the snake lives. He's quiet now, all quiet. Shhh shh shh. Let's not wake him, doctor.

Huffington opened his mouth to speak, but Lynch interrupted him. "Nellie do the Angel and the Snake speak to you?"

"Not like you and I speak, no. Get the feeling thoughts come into my head, just from nothing, get the feeling those thoughts come from here."She looked back to the places she had pointed.

"Nellie, "Lynch said, her voice sweet and rotten, her eyes on Nellie's, unwavering. "Would you mind telling me what the Angel tells you now?"And as she ended the sentence she drew a jagged blade and ran it across Huffington's throat. The cry that had started in his throat turned into a wet choking sound as he grasped at the wound, hands red with blood.

"Oh it's very pleased ma'am, very pleased,"Nellie replied, cheerful as a daisy. "The Snake doesn't like it much, but I've learned not to listen to the treacherous thing. Are you a doctor, ma'am?"

"As for the first, I'm glad to hear it. As for the second, no."Lynch cleaned her blade on Huffington's jacket, stepping across his convulsing body. "Now, if you would care to join me, I'd like to discuss your future employment."And as Huffington took his final breath, Lynch led Nellie from the room.

LeMat Mark II Carbine

LEMAT MARK II CARBINE. (See also, REVOLVERS, UNIQUE WEAPONS) As the LeMat Mark II's infamy grew, other versions of the same weapon started emerging around the US, featuring various attachments or modifications. Though the extra barrel, for one shotgun shell, made the LeMat Mark II a highly effective revolver in close quarters, its heavy frame made it difficult to aim. To compensate for this disadvantage, a rifle stock was attached to the handle for increased accuracy and smoother handling. In addition, the extended barrel increases the overall power of the revolver and reduces the spread of the shotgun shell.

Pages Recovered from the Journal of Sister Sophie-Angeline
Found in the Ursuline Convent, New Orleans
Blood stained, handwritten, mostly indecipherable
1/2

July 1,1895

Praise the Lord! A Bishop will honor us with his presence in a few days. Mother Laverne asked me to skip all my duties to tend to his chamber. She also insisted we make acquaintance as he is renowned for his wisdom in ailments of the soul. May I find redemption at last? No matter. I should not occupy my mind with such expectations, for now is the time of God's favor, now is the day of salvation. Amen.

July 5, 1895

The Bishop finally arrived.
We gathered in the chapel shortly after his arrival. Mother Laverne was in the front row and filled with amazement and admiration. But when I saw him, my hopes died. This man carries no hope of redemption.

I remember him from the brothel. His cold blue eyes. His small, impish hands. The unnaturally orange face, framed by sickly blonde hair. My stomach churned in disgust when he said if we did not obey the Lord and follow his commandments to the letter the fruit of our womb would be cursed! That Devil, he dared taint God's words with his hypocrite's tongue! He is no Bishop. He is no holier than the Devil himself. I must leave before he recognizes me. Lord, grant me strength!

July 6,1895

A terrible omen, or perhaps a revelation.

Sisters discovered a body impaled on the main gate this morning. It was the ranch owner who disappeared after the DeSalle shootout. May God have mercy upon his soul. It was a terrible sight to witness: Two marigolds were sitting in his empty eye sockets, and devilish symbols had been carved on his forehead. But what chilled us to the core was something else. When they took the body down, we saw his bare chest covered with deep incisions, all forming an inverted cross still dripping blood

The lawmen arrived shortly after to inspect the body. They contemplated if we needed protection, but Mother Laverne dismissed them, saying the Lord would protect us. But then, strangest thing happened when I returned to my room: A woman greeted me with crazed eyes, full of excitement and expectation. Before I could say a word, someone else covered my mouth from behind. A sudden pain, a rush of ecstasy, and my heart started racing as the other woman looked me in the eye. "Come find us, she whispered, if it's redemption you seek. She leaned on the bed and left a letter and a revolver with two barrels, and a stock attached to its handle. Then, the woman behind me loosened her hand. I turned yet could not see her face hidden behind a veil. They started towards the door together, looking at each other, and left. God knows how long I stood still staring at the door, but I came to my senses when a sister opened it in panic. The Bishop had gone missing

LeMat Mark II Carbine Marksman

LEMAT MARK II CARBINE MARKSMAN. (See also, REVOLVERS, UNIQUE WEAPONS) With the widespread use of the LeMat Mark II, different handlers found very different primary uses for the revolver. After the Carbine modification's success, many found a scope the ideal variation to capitalize on its newfound stability. This was long after production had been discontinued by its first manufacturer, but an easily produced standard for the scope attachment did emerge among gunsmiths. This was deeply frustrating for the first young gunsmith to create the variation, who spent years chasing down the thieves of his blueprints. Eventually he discovered other gunsmiths had simply come to the same practical conclusions as he had

Letter to Unknown
Author: Unknown
Single bloodstained loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.
1/1

Have you ever been strung up by your foot from a tree? It wasn't my first time, but my foremost thought was that I had to concede you were right about the two strange ladies: the nun and the blonde lady did this to me, of course It gave me a fantastic view of the Crematorium to watch as the nun threw herself ferociously at the Spider, her partner keeping a distance back to patch her up. An entertaining display to be sure, sullied a shade by my blood draining into the blonde one's bucket

I write to tell you that I am safe and recovering as we speak they did eventually cut me down, but left me to bandage my own wounds with leaves and vines. Although they kindly honored my request to keep intact the waistcoat you gifted me! Regrettably, my goal of finding who continues to pay these bounties shall remain unfulfilled. I was certain this path was the clever one to take, but I was left to die on that tree under a polluted moon, and so the structure of this enterprise eludes me

Fear not that I will betray my oath to you, Father. That man's final thought will be the taste of gunpowder and desperate fear. Nor will my humiliation at the hands of two witches to go unpunished. As it happens, I can see them returning home now when I peer through my LeMat's scope. It is time to pay them a visit.

They will give me answers, or I will shoot them. The choice is theirs. Hopefully they choose answers, for they were fascinating companions before knocking me out cold, and I hope to spare their young nephew Kevin from sorrow.

LeMat Mark II Uppermat

LEMAT MARK II UPPERMAT (See also, REVOLVERS, UNIQUE WEAPONS) Based on the design of the LeMat Mark II revolver, the UpperMat has been modified to feature greater bullet power. The original LeMat Mark II has been expensively overhauled to fire long ammunition while being weighted down to negate recoil. That expense makes this a rare modification, but a powerful one.

Journal of Micah Mitchell
Handwritten, paper-bound, 5" x 7"

May 4, 1893

Cousin Jonah won't stop flappin' his trap about this Bayou Boogeyman down in Louisiana. Says that countless have disappeared without a trace, but someone is out there coverin' it all up. Says that there's a rumor goin' around that whoever finds this boogeyman and kills it will be paid. Based on what little Jonah heard, sounds like it's probably a bear gone off its rocker. I've killed plenty of bears in my time. Thinking of bringing my UpperMat to Louisiana and show them how it's done.

May 8, 1893

Finally here. The journey was rougher than expected. Made a point to steer clear of any sort of town. There's a sickness spreadin' around the state, and I'll be goddamned if I catch it in the name of bragging rights. The further I get into the swamps, the stranger things get. There are sounds in the night that defy anything I've ever heard, human or animal. Last night, I came across a strange skeleton. Human. Looked like it once belonged to a lady with severe spinal deformities.

May 10,1893

Jonah, you numb-skulled son of a bitch. I should have never come here. The dead walk the earth as though Hell is full, just like the preacher used to promise at church. I'm currently on my way back, Bayou Boogeyman be damned. Just have to make it through this last area in Lawson Delta before I'll be home free. There are men around here who shoot each other to shit, hardly blinking at the monsters that stumble around them, like they're in a world of their own. I've been hiding and sneaking since yesterday morning. I'm tired and scared.

May 12, 1893

I found the Bayou Boogeyman by accident. Weren't no bear. Not even close. It was some ungodly atrocity that sent a river of beetles to cover me from head to toe, crawling over my face, forcing themselves down my throat while I garbled out a scream. It moved with the shadows and slashed my flesh open with its impossible blades. In a last moment of desperation, I shot my UpperMat blindly. The bullet penetrated the wall and landed squarely in the thing's head, pissing it right off. Others rushed in to help, then. Those Hunter folk. They told me that if I wanted my share of the reward money, I'd have to take an oath, and an injection.

You can imagine where I told them to shove their reward.

I should be home by the end of the week. Lost my UpperMat in the squabble and don't care one bit. I won't be shooting anything for fun anytime soon.

Special ammunition

Regular versions, compact ammo

Incendiary
RN: What was the secret weapon that Collins wrote about? Was there something of the sort? While it would explain how things wrapped up, you would think that something that powerful would have been more fiercely contested. Maybe we'll find more evidence of it, though my personal theory is that Collins was exaggerating the power of something very real.

Full Metal Jacket
RN: Whether this weapon of Lynch's was Collins' invention or whether it really existed, we'll never really know. But we do know that there was a plan, a way to stop this before it became as bad as it did, that fell through.

Regular versions, shell ammo

Starshell
RN: Rather, it was allowed to fester. No firm hand was taken in regulating its spread, so spread it did. If training was given to those headed into the bayou, many lives would have been saved. Basic precautions. The list goes on.

Dragon Breath
RN: While it did come to an end (though if you believe the pessimists and conspiracists it's still going on) the costs were grossly magnified, to an unbelievable amount. What I would give to go back, have the resources we once did, and do the affair over again!

Slug
RN: Huff's death further compounded the problems. If he'd been removed, peacefully, we might have stopped the Hunters from fracturing. But with his assassination went any glimmer of an authority. Lynch would sooner kill them all than unite them.

Uppermat versions

Poison
RN: One has to wonder how word of the Hunt reached such distant ears, even if muddled beyond recognition with the Bayou Boogeyman" story. If this man's account is to be believed, it's a wonder he survived the blades and fury of The Assassin at all

Full Metal Jacket
RN: Looks like the penetration power of Micah's UpperMat saved his life in the end. A stroke of luck, indeed.

Lebel 1886

LEBEL 1886. (See also, RIFLES) The Lebel 1886, adopted by the French Army, was the first military-issued smokeless powder rifle. It stayed at the forefront of armaments when in 1893 the majority were retrofitted with an improved bolt-action receiver. Smokeless powder was evolutionary, and at the time the Lebel outranged all black powder weapons. The namesake of the rifle was Lieutenant Colonel Nicolas Lebel, who designed the 8mm round. He protested, as in his belief General Tramond who led the team deserved the namesake.

The Lebel sported an eight-round barrel magazine, which was relatively light. Cartridges were brought to the barrel via an elevator. Reloading the magazine was also done through this elevator, making the process relatively slow, especially compared to magazine fed rifles. The cartridges, though full length, were only 8mm. This made them lighter to carry, reduced the recoil, and their power was compensated for by smokeless powder.

Unpublished manuscript, "Bad As They Seem"
Author: Hayden Collins
Undated
Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

-8-
Jos lay sprawled on the floor of the small cabin, and the deflated leeches she had cut from her body littered the floor around her. She wrapped her fingers around the handle of her sledgehammer, a sweet comfort. She could not move her legs, and she did not know when the numbing effect of the leeches' saliva would subside.

Fin stood beside her, her back to the mountain of flesh on the floor, dead and motionless at last. (Had it ever truly been alive?) She faced the small man who huddled on a small cot near the dead fire and began to reload her gun. The man shuddered, muttering quietly as his eyes darted between the two women. He was covered in sores and caked in dirt, obviously terrified and desperate, but there was an intelligence in his eyes that moved beyond the fear.

Outside, crickets chirped incessantly, punctuated by a mammalian moan, an owl's deep-voiced call, or the low gulping of a toad. Night had fallen upon them as harshly, and as suddenly, as the Meathead.

Fin finished reloading and stood staring at the man as he continued to mutter. "Never at night, never at night, they've, cabin, never, my notes notes notes, night notes."His words fell in staccato bursts. His cheeks were caked with puss and blood, washed clean only where tears streamed down his face.

"Who is the woman on the tree?'Fin asked.

His body went rigid and then his face fell into his hands in a moaning slurry of words: "Oh Mary Mary Mary, oh Marv Marv Marv Marv Marv. I. I. I."

Fin looked to her sister, catching her eye for the length of one nod, looked back up at the man, and shot him in the head

Unpublished manuscript, "Bad As They Seem"
Author: Hayden Collins
Undated
Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

-9-
Twins. Doubles. Deux. Qupa. The oath of two was all the more powerful when they spoke it, doubling as it reflected between them. Two mirrors facing each other, infinite, and expanding with each utterance. They found comfort in the repetition of the words. In the name of two, bound by blood. Let us drink from the fountain of death. Here's to the hunter. Here's to the hunted. For we are the blood and we are the body. We are the bullet, and we are the knife. Let us drink from the fountain of death. Our thirst shall never be quenched.

It was as on any other day, though on this day, they had slaughtered a monster, had peeled fist-sized leeches from reddening skin, and had killed a man for torturing an innocent woman. Since their initiation, many other days had been just like it. Mirrors in time.

The violence of their lives - begun in death and blood, and riding along that slick surface still - was the violence of their days was the very fabric of the world. People said the West had been won, but Jos and Fin knew there were still wilds, had seen and destroyed what roamed the deadlands, had cut the blackened hearts from the chests of callous and evil men. As they walked out of the swamp they spoke idly of dinner. As on any other day.

Lynch watched them, biding her time, looking to the cards for patience. They were almost ready now.

Lebel 1886 Aperture

LEBEL 1886 APERTURE. (See also, LEBEL 1886) The Lebel 1886 Aperture differed from the base model with an affixed aperture sight. This sight, composed of a small disk, was preferred as it allowed for more precision at medium ranges. It's supposed that much of the benefit of this sight is rather psychological, allowing the shooter to better visually isolate their target.

Interview with Fenella Cleve
Interviewer: AHA member
Date: Redacted
Typewritten, questions omitted (...), 8.5in x 11in

1/3

In my early childhood, I remember the woods that grew tall all round DeSalle. They were impenetrable old growth that had stood since before the founding of our nation. They all went when the lumber yards and sawmills came. The new industry sprawled out, its chutes and rails stretching out to waterways and thoroughfares like roots, anchoring its trunk, the mill itself. The cavernous building rumbling with the whirring of saws and belched black smoke from its rickety chimneys.

We never were allowed to play near the log stacks. They fascinated us. Where once the trees had grown tall and towered over us, here they were subdued and orderly, arranged perfectly to be climbed on, claimed as our own as soon as the dusty workmen left for the day. As the sun waned, they cast long shadows, standing atop them you'd see yourself stretched out a hundred foot tall.

The bayou was dangerous at the best of times. But the stacks, despite their intimation that the wild had been tamed, harbored the perfect nesting holes for snakes and scorpions. But that wasn't why our parents had sworn us off them. There was a story which we all knew of the three Bisset boys who'd been playing near one when the bottom log had given away, and an avalanche of logs had tumbled down and crushed them. We retold the story in hushed tones whenever we passed Bisset's Farrier, rich with sounds of cracking bones and squelching skulls.

It was that story which came to mind years later: my first return to DeSalle. A pack of grunts shambling downhill of one of the tallest stacks. With my sighted Lebel, deathly accurate at range, I took aim at one of the stakes holding the logs in place and fired. With a heave and groan, they tumbled down, pitching the grunts here and there like bowling pins. I wondered then if something had snapped inside of me, as I savored the destruction.

Lebel 1886 Talon

LEBEL 1886 TALON (See also, LEBEL 1886, FIELD MODIFICATIONS) The Lebel 1886 Talon was an unusual sight, one that went against military doctrine at the time. Whilst generally, organized armed forces preferred fore-mounted bayonets, the Talon instead eschewed this in favor of a rear-mounted axe blade. This made it far more effective as a bludgeoning and hacking melee weapon, rather than a precision weapon

Unpublished manuscript, "Bad As They Seem"
Author: Hayden Collins
Undated
Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

-21-
The twins traveled a day and a night before they reached the cave.

Minimally armed and draped in matching suits of decadent red cloth, their differences were muted.

Lynch provided Jos and Fin the clothing, instructions, a map, and two small stones, and sent them off in a carriage. Their suits had been tailored some weeks before and had lain ready in Lynch's trunk. She had remained behind

"The cards afford me a certain clairvoyance,"had been her answer to the question the twins had not dared ask. But how did you know? How did you know?

Huffington's orders had been as cold and calculating as the man himself. The twins had grown accustomed to doing Lynch's bidding, and at her nod of approval, had immediately agreed to take his commission. They would bring Huffington the weapon, and he would provide weapons and information.

The carriage driver left them an hour's walk from the mouth of the cave, and left them there. When they returned, should they return, they would find their own way back.

Before the gaping grey maw of the cave, Jos turned to Fin, and their eyes met, still identical, still a mirror, even after all that had changed. Somewhere inside, they would find the Butcher's House. "To a life well lived and a death well deserved,"said Fin, in a quiet voice, as each placed a small, cold stone on their tongue

They turned, and entered the cave, the mournfully high cry of the wind their only farewell.

Lebel 1886 Marksman

LEBEL 1886 Marksman. (See also, LEBEL 1886) The Lebel 1886 Marksman capitalized on the base model's advantageous long range and high accuracy with the attachment of a telescopic sight, which made targets visible at a further distance. The Lebel's original sights were vulnerable to misalignment, as they were unprotected against shocks. It was therefore natural that sharpshooters would first modify this aspect of this weapon. The Lebel round's conical shape further enhanced its accuracy. The cartridge also offered an additional benefit, as before the innovation of smokeless powder, sharpshooters were vulnerable from gathering clouds of black powder smoke giving away their position.

Unpublished manuscript, "Bad As They Seem"
Author: Hayden Collins
Undated
Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

-15-

Huffington was a nefarious man, quick to throw morals to the wind for his own advancement, drunk on power, and scornful of consequence. Yet his power was bound up in earthly matters - politics and prestige - unlike the woman who stood before him, whose steely gaze and white-blonde hair betrayed an otherworldly quality.

"How dare you consort with Laveau?" Her words were a hiss. "She is one of mine."

"That," Huffington replied, "is none of your concern."

She greeted his answer with a cold stare, then sat down in the chair that faced his desk, and laughed.
"Bold." From her pocket she pulled a worn deck of cards, wrapped in silk. "But stupid. Draw a card please."

She fanned the deck out before him, waiting.

"I don't abide parlor tricks."

"Neither do I. Pick a card, Huffington, and hope it's not the last thing you ever do."

He drew. She looked at the card in his hand. "Well, well, well. The Two of Arrows. How convenient."

He shrugged. "Get on with it Lynch."

"There are two young women I'd like you to meet."

Special ammunition

Incendiary
RN: That Salter should turn up here, another monster to be dispatched by the Twins, speaks measures and is surely more than a coincidence. The account must have had more importance, otherwise why would the Twins have remembered the name - it's a shame Collins did not wholly recount it.

Spitzer
RN: The flourish with the card trick speaks of a lost thread of inquiry. That the occultism of various tarot cards would hold in them greater, unnatural powers. However, it seems that at some point this rumor was just that, and they never existed. Still, they made their mark, in reference, here and there.

Mako 1895 Carbine

MAKO 1895 CARBINE. (See also, RIFLE) A relative of the Winfield rifle line, it exceeded their lever-action rifles in raw power at the cost of accuracy. Its high caliber led to the manufacturers advertising that coastal farmers could use the rifle on sharks such as the Shortfin mako.

The Journal of Circe Elias
Handwritten, 8 x 10 in.
Severe fire damage, reconstructed by archivist

My father's nose was missing from his corpse. Four days of mourning in those ruins, and it was the only piece of my family that I did not find.

Mary's gift is a fine one. The Mako is a mighty rifle, clearly a token of admiration, and presented with thought and care. But can she not see the insult in this gift? It is a sharpened request that I bury my Berthier along with its history, just to spend my days with her.

"Put to rest your quest" are the words she whispered in my ear, and they hum like angel and devil both upon my shoulder. Against my will, a trembling hand is already carving runes into this rifle.

These are new runes, etched with the story of when we first caved to temptation months ago. They tell of campfire tales, stolen touches, lives saved, and of regret wrestling with desire. For I am tempted still.

How could I forsake the name Elias? What betrayal this must be to you, Mother, Father, Edward, Hans, and Thula, to see my heart pulled away from your vengeance. A disgrace I know myself to be, yet still I carve. Mary gave comfort which I have not felt in an eternity, a love akin to air returning after I rise from water.

Please forgive how deeply I long to put your quest to rest. Please forgive how deeply I wish to forget you all and forsake your memory. How could I be so selfish?

How dare Mary ask this of me?

Letter to Unknown
Author: Unknown
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.
1/1

Dear Father,

Since you do not believe my word, here is the transcribed conversation. I recorded this as soon as they set me free (without my weapons) for I knew you would doubt my conclusions.

Circe: New York is not paying the bounties. I wrote recently and thought to ask them of it. My contact is trustworthy and knowledgeable, so I believe his denial.

Mary: When did you last visit home?

Circe: Our noble sheriff has let slip of being backed by powerful people once or twice around other lawmen and such. Seems to be recruiting for something.

Mary: Circe.
Circe: I know what you would speak of to me, and my heart will not bear it.

Mary: Your heart must know that I only seek to spare you from the sulfur of a hopeless death.

Circe: Death? You think so little of the last living Elias?

Mary: Accept it or don't, but you cannot slay Lynch without an Elias army. So you would only be sacrificing your life, and the love we share, at the altar of crude, human vengeance.

Circe: My life is vengeance. To love me is to share in my retribution. You do not know that Lynch purged my family, and neither does the Jos of your letters.

Mary: I have shared everything with you, shared my heart and stained my body, in the hope I could bring you peace. I see now that you do not wish to be spared from the sulfur and fire of a hopeless death.

Circe: There's just one question, then. Will you follow me into fire?

Mako 1895 Carbine Claw

MAKO 1895 CARBINE CLAW. (See also, RIFLE, MAKO 1895 CARBINE) With all the traits of the original Mako 1895 Carbine, the Claw variation is a thorny field modification to construct. Bolting a blade to the rifle's lever needed a deft touch to avoid fracturing it, but it was useful enough to warrant the risk.

Letter to Circe Elias
Author: Mary Burgess
Original, transcribed, 8.5"x 11

Dearest Circe,

Would you still care to hear my plea?

I have allowed my mind to be fogged with a red, passionate mist. It has risen from a pit buried so deep in my soul's abyss that I had never thought to look down upon the cracks. When it shattered, I fell. Lo, did the fall make my heart sing as I dropped, sinking into the desires that awaited. Desires that I was powerless to resist.

And there you were. In that hidden sanctum was your shoulder, your scent, your hypnotic hands. In many, many moons I have not felt peace with my back turned, but the bumps along my neck have calmed with your presence, your partnership on the Hunt. In craving to preserve that peace, and to protect my desires, I preached many temptations that I twisted into truths.

Our time was blissful, and I am fervently honest in saying my heart was full-beating harder than it ever has in terror. Yet it has been heavy too. As I heeded the yearnings of my flesh, the keening of my spirit has been dampened. Thus, I bear you no ill will, but for both our sakes I ask that, come what may, we refrain from tempting each other again.

Pray that I may be forgiven, but I will not burn for my heart's lie.

Mako 1895 Carbine Aperture

MAKO 1895 CARBINE APERTURE. (See also, RIFLE, MAKO 1895 CARBINE) Fashioned with the Aperture sight, the Mako 1895 Carbine Aperture was a small but effective improvement upon the original carbine. This version of the aperture sights was still a fairly new innovation in 1895, as rifles had only recently achieved enough firepower for a fixed sight to be reliable.

The Journal of Circe Elias
Handwritten, 8 x 10 in.
Severe fire damage, reconstructed by archivist

It is time. Time to cross lines I hoped to never see again. The letter is sent.

I have stayed my course. There are so, so many scars etched upon my soul, and my heart has handed Mary Burgess a dagger. Lynch or no Lynch, she was honest to say I need an army, for we are on the heels of an almighty witch.

I should have known better than to hope I would feel triumph for remaining steadfast. There is no relief, or joy, or vindication, but still-I am conflicted. Every day brings a new chance to revoke my words and chase everlasting joy with Sister Burgess.

My oath is unchanged, but my will has been blemished I hope not beyond my repair. Though I passed this test, I must fulfill my oath before I ultimately waver.

To catch a witch is a grueling trial in itself, but I shall hold to the tenets left by my father. One: knowledge, to see the witch under their skin. Two: diligence, to pursue until their back is against the wall. Three: wisdom, to avoid rousing a rabble. Four: skill, to pin the fiend to their chosen flesh and purge them from it. And five: power, to grind its soul to dust.

The letter is sent. The traces are strong enough and my plea was bold enough that they will send their best.

Special ammunition

Explosive
RN: Another primary source which corroborates the existence of Lynch and Jos. There can be no doubt that they existed in some form, but many details of Collins fantastical writing still require confirmation.

Full Metal Jacket
RN: Circe carving her and Mary's story into the weapon is a testament to the power their bond held. Couldn't that power have been the very thing to help Circe keep her family's sacred oath?

Martini-Henry IC1

MARTINI-HENRY ICl. (See also, CARBINES) The Martini-Henry IC is the carbine version of the workhorse rifle of the British Empire. First adopted in 1871, it was the first to be designed from the start as a metal cartridge-fed rifle. The falling block action was first developed by American Henry O. Peabody and then finessed with an internal coil-spring striker mechanism contributed by Swiss Friedrich von Martini. Scotsman Alexander Henry lent a polygonal barrel rifling design which further enhanced accuracy. The IC1 Carbine variant, finalized in 1877, was designed from the outset to be suitable as an armament for both cavalry and artillery crews.

Recollections of Nadia Orville
Handwritten journal, 8 x 10 in.
1/5

It had been a set up. Trevors hadn't said where the case had come from, but that wasn't out the ordinary. A fresh initiate, a local boy, had worked the oars across moonlit Barataria Bay, pointing the spots where his father had taught him the Bisayan names for fish. He fell silent when I asked him where his father was now.

The oyster lugger was waiting. The captain seemed to be alone. I made him sure to see Night Terrors, to make him remember everything he'd been told about me.

The hull stank of fresh catch. He dug through the fish and pulled out a wooden case. Stamped on the side, a coat of arms.

"Martini-Henry Carbines,"he said, pulling one out. "Workhorse of the Empire, "he added, handing one to me. On deck, I checked the rifle. I asked the captain what the smell of oil was. "Cosmoline,"he answered, "to protect them on the long and...perilous sea voyage." worked the lever, and the block dropped. The hexagonal barrel was a black hole, a pit. A hand clamped round my mouth, the smell of chemicals overpowered the fish and Cosmoline. I tumbled into the black.

When I woke up, the sky was orange. The sun setting. Flashes of pain stabbed through my head. The reassuring shape of Night Terrors was out my grasp. I was lying on sand. My clothes were drenched. Not with water, I could smell, but gas

"You're awake"said the boy. He stood up from the grass. I asked him what happened. He thought long, then answered "You were drugged. They, I don't know how many, dragged us here."T looked around, a small island, one of a thousand that dotted the bay. A pyre had been built. The boy then continued "they covered us in gasoline. To burn us. But the dead attacked. Too many. Forced them back to the boat, forced them onto the water."

Lying in the sand were a few of the rifles, abandoned in the fight. "We clean those up," commanded. "They'll be back soon."

"The dead, or the men?"

"Both."

Recollections of Nadia Orville
Handwritten journal, 8 x 10 in.
2/5

I knew something wasn't right with the boy's story, but that would have to wait. We needed guns. We stripped down two of the rifles. The Cosmoline had built up a waxy residue. I bunched up my cloak and squeezed out the gas. Using a scrap of cloth and the rod, we cleaned the barrel, then brushed up the receiver and action the best we could. By the time we were finished, the sun was almost down. I realized then I was starving.

"The lugger's coming back"the boy said, looking across the water. Its light was in the distance. We reassembled the rifles. I worked the lever, the action was smooth. Pulling the trigger, the striker struck home with a smooth click. The catch on the side flicked too. It seemed to be in working order, though there was no way to know for sure. I dropped a cartridge into the block, and worked it home. We only had a handful.

The lugger pulled into earshot of the island, its light reflecting the glossy surface of the water.

"Nadia, you proved yourself as capable as I expected"a voice called out. It wasn't the captain, but someone else. I didn't recognize the accent. Someone not from here. But familiar.

"What do you want with us?"I replied, sighting the length of the rifle. I couldn't make out a clear silhouette on the boat

"To send a message. To Isaac. That's all I've ever wanted with you."I wondered, was the man from the North? New England? His voice sounded like it came from money.

"Tell me now, and I'll think on if it's worth passing on."I shouted back. A match sparked from beyond the searchlight. I squared the sights on it.

"You fire that, you'll go up like a match."The man called back. The way he said match. The syllable "atch."A memory took hold. Flooded my senses. My mother. A British soldier, talking, saying "watch."

I squeezed the trigger, the world burst into flames.

Martini-Henry IC1 Riposte

MARTINI-HENRY IC1 RIPOSTE. (See also, MARTINI-HENRY CARBINE, BAYONETS) This variant of the Martini-Henry IC1 is further outfitted with a long-bladed saber bayonet that makes it a competent weapon in melee combat. While the weighting of the bayonet means it no longer suits as a bludgeoning weapon, the blade more than compensates when used to slash or pierce. The need for a bayonet variant of the carbine was articulated by artillery crews and is the major difference from carbines issued to cavalry divisions

Recollections of Nadia Orville
Handwritten journal, 8 x 10 in.
3/5

I pulled myself out the water. My white robes were blackened where they'd been engulfed. I tipped water out the rifle. That wouldn't fire again.

"I think I got the captain, too. The initiate said. "Either way, the lugger's pulling away again. Why'd you shoot?"

"Bad blood,"I replied. The firefight had been short. Before I knew if my shot had struck true, I had dived in the water. The boy must have finished the job. I went over to him. "You're hurt. Shot?" asked, noting the way he held his arm

"Not exactly. Last night, when the dead attacked. I fought them off, but..."he showed me his arm. A wound, a bite mark on the forearm. It had turned black and festered. "Do you think I'll turn?"

"Into one of them?" I replied. I wish I knew. I think we all wish. No one knew for certain, is why all we had was superstition. "No. But only if we act quick."

"What do we do?"

"The arms going to come off" replied. All that we had available were Martini-Henry bayonets. Long sabers that would be good enough for the operation. But not for the first time in my life, I wished I had a bone saw. I sparked the pyre alight, when it was hot, I would sterilize the blade. "It might stop the infection."

"Does it work like that?"

"Are you going to take your chances?"The fire crackled. He would have to make the choice quickly. Before the fire went out, or before it spread. I added, gently, "I'll do it for you."

He bit down on a piece of Cypress root. marked a place below his elbow. When the blade was heated, I began sawing. His screams must have carried far across the water, the splatter of arterial blood decorating my robes with a new set of markings.

Martini-Henry IC1 Deadeye

MARTINI-HENRY IC1 DEADEYE. (See also, MARTINI-HENRY CARBINE, SCOPES) The Martini-Henry IC1, being a single-shot rifle, was capable of chambering an extremely powerful, and unusually large, black powder cartridge. Despite its low muzzle velocity it had tremendous stopping power and could be used as a sharpshooter's rifle.

Recollections of Nadia Orville
Handwritten journal, 8 x 10 in.
4/5

By the morning light two things were clear. The lugger was adrift in the sound, and there was a storm approaching from the south that would drown us on this strip of land. There was no way the boy could swim, missing an arm. I would have to swim out and bring the boat back.

We took stock of what we had. Two clean rifles, one with a telescopic sight, four bayonets, and the rest of the crate of preserved rifles. The boy would do what he could to cover me from the shore. I loaded the rifles for him. We both knew it was unlikely he could reload them. I took a bayonet and stripped off the cloak. "Bill"said the boy, telling me his name. I nodded, replied in kind, and set into the water.

Aboard the vessel was a corpse. I rolled it off the deck with my boot. I jammed the bayonet through the hatch handles, securing it. I raised the sail and turned the rudder, drifting us away from the island. Bill would have been a better sailor. I darted to the sail, to try to catch the wind right.

The storm had moved off the horizon. Its wind snapped the sail, lurching the boat. I grabbed the mainsheet to hold the sail. Another gust tore it from my grip. The bayonet clattered at my feet. I looked up to the captain emerging through hatch, leveling a six-shooter at me.

There was a distant gunshot, and a shower of splinters from the mast. The captain shot. A thudding pain blossomed then spread from my gut. He cocked the hammer a second time.

Doubled over with pain, I imagined the boy now readying the second rifle. He would have one chance. To grit through the pain of his arm, line up the captain in the sights, and take the shot. The wind had pulled the sail.

taught, a spray was rising above the bow. The captain snarled something, lost on a west wind that carried the sound of a Martini-Henry firing a second time.

Martini-Henry IC1 Marksman

MARTINI-HENRY IC1 MARKSMAN. (See also, MARTINI-HENRY CARBINE, SCOPES) The Martini-Henry IC1, when utilized as a Sharpshooters rifle, had a reasonable performance. The usage of a more powerful telescopic sight allowed cavalry or artillery regiments to use it proficiently in a support capacity.

Recollections of Nadia Orville
Handwritten journal, 8 x 10 in.
5/5

There're stories like that you don't forget. Stories you do. I don't know yet what's important and what's not. Every word I commit to the page means another slips my grasp. I recount what I can, direct as I can. So that before the night is over, any indication of the dawn's arrival is not lost to us. The dawn Isaac never believed in.

We'd been promised a crate of dependable rifles. We returned with just two, a severely injured Bill, and the knowledge of the loss of an ally. Our flatboat was long gone, and the lugger left torched in an inlet. Its hulk would rot.

The next move would be against Trevors. But we were unsure how to proceed. Was the smuggler working for someone else? Or had he moved straight up, establishing himself as a new force to be reckoned with? Who could be trusted? And who was moving against who?

He knew two associates of the Gunrunner were taking a shipment in that night. Isaac decided to move rashly. He ignored my pleas for sanity. A widow's upper story served as his perch. I held her at gunpoint. She was stoic, told me she'd seen worse in the war.

Was it for Bill's right arm that we retaliated? The associates bodies fell among the cadavers. Isaac had purposely used the Martini-Henrys, with marksmen's sights. Trevors would find out, eventually. He'd recognized the cartridges used. Knew it was us. That the assassin had failed.

In the furor of the night, the dogs barking at the two shots that had broken the quiet, we stole out of the city. I hoped against all hope that a war hadn't started over a crate of guns. Or Bill's arm. That it wouldn't stop the gloaming from beginning.

Special ammunition

Incendiary
RN: Isaac Powell's clandestine blood cult marked a period of darkness in the bayou. While they once worked with the AHA, it seems their cause branched away from ours. Nadia Orville, the eternal acolyte, was charged with securing their own supplies to carry on the fight on their terms.

Full Metal Jacket
RN: Not much is known about the cult, except that Orville was Powell's close second. The initiates that followed never lasted long. Shedding their old lives seemed a prerequisite of initiation, and those who survived took similar titles, e.g. The Night Speaker and The Night Listener.

Explosive
RN: Jim Trevors wormed his way into everything. We thought him once to be no more than an arms dealer, but his association with The Night, the Salter brothers, and the AHA point to higher personal stakes. Most unnervingly for us is perhaps how little we really understand of his influence.

Mosin-Nagant M1891

MOSIN-NAGANT M1891. (See also, RIFLE, RUSSIAN FIREARMS) Scandal surrounded the Mosin-Nagant M1891 from its conception. After a bloody defeat by troops armed with Winfield repeating rifles, the Russian Imperial Army realized it was in need of a more powerful infantry rifle. Three designs were submitted in a government-sponsored contest, and after much deliberation, the design created by an Imperial Army Officer named Sergei Ivanovich Mosin was chosen. However, the committee decided to combine this design with the design submitted by L on Nagant, a Belgian. Nagant was bitter about his loss in the contest and filed a patent suit. In order to avoid a scandal, Nagant was awarded the money, though his contributions to the design of the gun were considered negligible. The gun became colloquially known as the Mosin-Nagant or Nagant-Mosin in the West, though neither are considered the weapon's official name.

The Mosin-Nagant M1891 is a five shot, bolt-action rifle that uses two front-locking lugs for the action. The rifling in the barrel is right turning, and the internal cartridge holds five rounds

Interview with John Victor
Author: F.W.B. Volunteer
Single sheets. Typewritten transcription. 8 x 11 in.
2/5

The Twins? Some said they were Hunters, drawn by the call. We all were in those days, following noble causes that is. But others said they were something worse: what we fought. In my experience both could be true. They were tied up with Lynch, I remember that much. That was why I knew I had to find them. It was a sorry chase that left me poorer.

I was given a hint. In those days I was working close with a man called Aveit. But this may have come after. He gave me a lead though, something one of his cartographers had picked up. Once I found their tracks, they were almost impossible to follow. Lynch had trained them well. Now, rumors described them as young, but they seemed too careful. I saw them once, in the first days, in the distance. Or thought I did: a flatboat crossing a bayou silhouette against the moon. I followed their ripples across the water.

few days later, I found their camp, the fire was cold. I kicked at the coals. I remember that growing there amongst them, untouched by the fire, a single stem of wild violet. There, right in the charcoal. I picked the flower and rolled it into mush between my thumb and forefinger

Another time, I found their prey. One lay dead, the other man still gasping, clumsily trying to close the hole in his chest. A palm was pressed to the entry, the other to the exit. He mouthed "twins"at me, spluttering blood. I took the rifle from his hands. I'd seen it before. The Russian had one. A Mosin-Nagant. You know it well today, back then though, it was cutting edge. It was bloodied. I asked the man if it was theirs, meaning the twins. He nodded with the last of his strength.

I reached for a fissure, for a rift, a means to track: but found none. I left the men for dead.

Interview with John Victor
Author: F.W.B. Volunteer
Single sheets. Typewritten transcription. 8 x 11 in.
2/5

Or was that earlier? When I took the rifle, I mean. I was using it for a long time. Got to know it. The smooth action of the bolt. People called me unpatriotic. Fools, for having allegiances to fire arm makers. Pay attention to the guns themselves.

Because, I followed them, and I came close. I even remember reading about me in one of them dime novels. At least I thought it was me. He described one particular shoot out with a man with deadly aim, dressed all in black, with ropes dangling from his wrists. But I thought it was me because it described the way I blink. One eye at a time. You see? That's subconscious. I can't shut both of them if I try.

Well, the reality was there was no way they saw my eyes: their whites, whether they was shut. You name it. I wasn't trying to kill them, either. Another fiction for the fancy of imagination. I was trying to help them out a stitch.

Mosin-Nagant M1891 Bayonet

MOSIN-NAGANT M1891 BAYONET. (See also, RIFLE, RUSSIAN FIREARMS) The effectiveness of the Mosin- Nagant's bayonet was highly valued; Imperial Russian Military doctrine at the time required soldiers to always keep them affixed. The theory behind bayonet combat at the time placed a significant emphasis on reach, that being as longer reach constituted an apparent advantage. The standard issue Mosin-Nagant bayonet was designed with this concept in mind, as well as limited by factors, as in all Russian designs, of cost and complexity of production. Unlike American, British, and French bayonets at the time, the design is intrinsically utilitarian: rather than being a cutting blade, it instead tapers to a narrow point. This is effective when lunging, taking paramount advantage of the rifles reach. The base length of the rifle is around 1.2 meters.

The bayonet attaches via a socket onto the end of the barrel and simply twisted on. It has no handle and is in no way designed for use as anything other than a bayonet.

Interview with John Victor
Author: F.W.B. Volunteer
Single sheets. Typewritten transcription. 8 x 11 in.
3/5

The trail was cold. Duke was dying, I remember that, but I also remember it took him a long time to die. He didn't know then. As soon as I reached his workshop, I produced the sample, the blood scraped from the bayonet. He worked quickly, grabbing various vials and tools without looking. The sample of dried blood was separated into a petri-dish. He dripped in this dark viscous liquid, it began to boil. He went on heating, mixing, measuring, distilling, filtering, electrolyzing; I fell asleep.

It was dawn when I awoke. He presented a long syringe filled with a solution, swirling hues of red, green, and black which never mixed. I unfolded the package and dumped it out onto a silver plate. The blackened heart seemed to recoil as the dawn light touched it. I readied the Mosin-Nagant, the bayonet held forward as if cavalry were oncoming. Duke readied the syringe.

The solution flooded into the heart. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the heart began to gently bulge and bubble. Then violently it pulsed and spasmed. From the valves, black tendrils erupted, they crept toward the edge of the plate, recoiling from the cool silver. It rocked like a hatching egg, clattering to the floor along with the silver plate. The tendrils crept out again, sliding with ease through the dirt. One wrapped up around the table leg, coiling around it as it ascended.

Duke cautioned me.
But the swollen heart had escaped the dawn light. It trembled and throbbed as it fattened, rocking the table,

rattling the instruments. It got to the size of a wagon wheel. A crease appeared in its center and slowly opened. There, in the folds, were rows of human teeth. They yawed opened; I plunged the bayonet deep into the gullet.

Mosin-Nagant M1891 Sniper

MOSIN-NAGANT M1891 SNIPER. (See also, RIFLE, RUSSIAN FIREARMS) Scandal surrounded the Mosin-Nagant M1891 from its conception, and the addition of a sniper scope caused further legal problems. Closely following the release of the Mosin-Nagant M1891, the sniper version was released and immediately involved the firearms company in another legal battle, though in this case L on Nagant was not involved, but another contestant in the original weapon design contest who claimed the addition of the sniper scope was stolen from his own design. Unfortunately for his case, he was killed by a drunk bicyclist several days after filing his suit.

The Mosin-Nagant M1891 Sniper mirrors the design of the original weapon in all things, adding a sniper scope for increased accuracy over long distances.

Interview with John Victor
Author: F.W.B. Volunteer
Single sheets. Typewritten transcription. 8 x 11 in.
4/5

The rift created within gave me a glimpse of the Twins' location. I let the workshop burn. From it rose a greasy plume of smoke, cracks of lightning trapped within it. I left Duke awestruck and rode hard into the dawn. I crossed farmland and swamp as the sun wandered the sky.

I loved riding then, I had fine horses. I rode that day until a bank of cloud swept through, stripping the land of its color. I kept on driving that horse as the light waned. The wind picked up. Far slung rain drops heralded an oncoming storm. I rode on

The storm was in full force when I reached a low building, deep in the backwoods. A bolt of lightning burst a Cypress into flames, the flash blinded me, I was thrown from the horse by its force. It wasn't the first time I'd almost been struck. As the thunder peeled far above, I watched my horse bolt among the trees. I knew I had money for another yet. As I said, the days were going good. The tree still burned.

I walked the last half a mile and entered the dwelling, wind flaring the hearth into life. But, despite the fire, it was empty. They must have left in a hurry though, the walls were covered with weapons. A Hunter's arsenal. Maybe it was theirs, or they'd just purchased weapons here. A snake's tail disappeared under a table, every inch of its top covered with rifle parts. I didn't know better than to disturb it. I lifted one end, the barrel, springs, and levers clattered to the ground. There was nothing underneath. There was a fine rifle scope there which I took as my own. Among the papers, I saw something to my dismay. The Mark of the Night of the Hunter.

I stepped onto the porch. The storm raged on. In the distance, by the light of the burning tree, I saw the movement of dancers. Peering through the scope, I saw immediately their long pale cloaks. Powell was leading the chant. The fools had wandered into the storm, to celebrate the omen of a burning tree. I settled into a crouch, and prepared to take the first shot. The night proved to be long.

Mosin-Nagant M1891 Obrez

MOSIN-NAGANT M1891 OBREZ. (See also, RIFLE, RUSSIAN FIREARMS) Obrez roughly translates to "cut down"in Russian, though the term has become synonymous with sawed-off shotgun barrels. In the case of the Mosin-Nagant M1891, the "Obrez"designation refers to just such a shortened barrel on what was very clearly a makeshift weapon improvised in the field. Not only the barrel is sawed-off, but also the hand guard and wooden frame have been roughly modified by hand, in evidence by the crude splintering of the wood and the use of leather belts and scrape metal to hold the remaining pieces together. This short-barreled Mosin-Nagant was likely designed for use on more discrete missions, as its size allows for easier concealment and transport. The Mosin-Nagant Obrez is also lighter than the original model, making it easier to handle. However, the weapon's fierce recoil makes it less accurate

Journal of William Salter
Severe water damage, reconstructed by archivist
Unlined paper, 3x5 in.
9/10

july?
I should not have removed the leg. She has been unconscious for a full day now, and though I moisten her lips with water, I fear she suffers for its lack. Black lines run up her body from the festering stump; her blood has surely been poisoned. I have been a fool. Now she lies on the floor of the cabin, brown hair matted with sweat, lips grimacing, limbs limp, moaning. She might have been an ally, and I have, in my madness, used her for target practice. What is wrong with me WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME I

july
Off the porch, I saw a man out way in the woods running. Why? I tried to track him, took the day. Near dusk I came to the banks of the bayou. He was gone. But his things were not. His boots, an overcoat, and a long rifle, with a strange glass sight. Where did he go without his things? Mary is dead, but she keeps me company.

Mosin-Nagant M1891 Obrez Mace

MOSIN-NAGANT OBREZ MACE. (See also, MOSIN-NAGANT OBREZ) The Mosin-Nagant Obrez Mace is an extensive re-imagining of the shortened Obrez. Having lost the majority of its mass, the Obrez is poorly suited to close combat applications. However, it is of sturdy construction, and therefore makes a capable bludgeoning weapon. The Mace goes one step further, however, extensively reinforcing the barrel and then adding great bulk to the stock. This allows it to be swung like a mace of the Middle Ages, delivering on contact extensive internal trauma. A favored modification by outlaws and thugs, the sight of one carrying such a weapon is unusual, such as it is a sure indication of bad character.

Journal of William Salter
Severe water damage, reconstructed by archivist
Unlined paper, 3x5 in.
10/10

jul. 18 9 5
her corpse outside before it stiffened, strung it up against the cypress tree I nailed her hands into the bark above her head she didn't feel it shh don't worry, you won't feel a thing the sparks sparks sparks haha, well it should take down an elephant, now human flesh human fleshso delicate so easy to rip shrapnel of flesh arteries blood wet mass - this is a true haunting a baptism hers and mine

o u t on the prairie sky above sky above and grass in the wind. Far away that bison herd snorting and snuffling wander on and on like flies crawling on her skin
Take off my hat. fine piece from a fine haberdashery. The boy hands me the rifle. Gleaming. I remove the leather covering from the lens and raise the gun to my shoulder. The bison big I see them shake their manes. I hold my breath and squeeze the trigger.
Boy coughs shot ricochets - miss - I chased the boy to give him a wooping

Mosin-Nagant M1891 Obrez Drum

MOSIN-NAGANT M1891 OBREZ DRUM (See also MOSIN-NAGANT M1891, RIFLES). The barrel magazine Drum modification of this shortened Russian rifle boasts an increased capacity, making it an incredibly effective support arm, made the more reliable for its but occasional necessity to reload.

Journal of William Salter
Severe water damage, reconstructed by archivist
Unlined paper, 3x5 in.
Appended, undated, uncertain in continuity.

Tricky Trevor, torn innards. Out of a belly came a bigger belly full of lead. He sold me the piece all the same. Now burning through bullets faster than a scalded haint

I like this one. Small but deadly. Like the smaller brother. The runt grown big. Out of Pa's litter now. Big pig. Ain't a runt now, now a haint. Ha

Went back. All the pigs're dead. Charlie too. We used to play amongst the pigs but now we would be playing in the corpses. Carcasses. Ready for the butcher.

They know where to get me. The docs put up a letter. Fresh, as nothing else. Pretending to be Charlie. Charlie's grown now though, halfway cross the world. Not looking for the runt. The runt grown fat on feasting. Big belly, full of lead.

On the way back, I ran into a man. Knew me for a Salter. Salt of the earth, earth all rubbed and smoked. I let him have it. Bang, bolt, bang, bolt, bang, bolt. Dear journal, I won't waste your time. Fifteen bangs and bolts and Trevor's belly full of lead empty and belly of Pa's pigs full. A scalded haint running

Mosin-Nagant M1891 Automat

MOSIN-NAGANT M1891 AVTOMAT. (See also, RIFLE, RUSSIAN FIREARMS.) The original Mosin-Nagant rifle may be one of the most difficult - bordering on the impossible - bolt-action rifles to modify into a fully automatic firearm. No sane engineer would even consider such a thing, and the design of the Mosin-Nagant Avtomat clearly indicates that its creator was an adept, if mentally unstable person. It would have taken extraordinary gunsmithing skills to modify the Mosin-Nagant in this way, making it one of the rarest automatic weapons of its time. As such, it never gained traction among conventional military forces, going to far against the grain of contemporary military theory, and was never mass produced. The Avtomat improves upon the original Mosin- Nagant design primarily with the addition of a gas driven receiver. A larger cartridge drum magazine that can be reloaded five at a time or individually, should one have fewer than five cartridges available. The speed of fire can cause the weapon to overheat, as such the barrel has been modified for cooling.

Interview with John Victor
Author: F.W.B. Volunteer
Single sheets. Typewritten transcription. 8 x 11 in.
5/5

I barely escaped the Night with my life. Powell was still alive, but I'd burned his arsenal, and had with me his journal. Sometimes, you just stumble into your target.

I couldn't read it. The first half was delirious scrawling. Most was our own alphabet, some Russian, and some in characters beyond my comprehension.

But, the second half was covered in highly detailed, intricately drawn plans. Metal parts with dimensions carefully labeled: lengths, circumferences, diameters and depths. Different screws and angular plates marked. It all tied in, somehow, to a larger blueprint. I suspected then that this wasn't in fact Powell's journal. More likely, his gun smiths. The plan spread over many pages, each narrow one containing a tiny section of the whole. On each page, arrows protrude in the four cardinal directions, showing on which page the picture continued. But the pages weren't numbered or marked in a way I can understand. I wish I had it now, it was a work of art.

What I could understand were the words "Mosin-Nagant" and, hastily underlined, the word "Avtomat."l was struck by the coincidence, that I was carrying the very same rifle. Now that I'm wiser, I know something had transpired to deliver this to me.

Yuri was the one to put it together. Had the blueprint in his head. I helped where I could, but he was a master with lathes and saws, bringing together new elements as according to the strange design in the journal.

Our working relationship was as profitable as it was brief. With the rifle done, we tested it briefly in the woods. One squeeze of the trigger, the mechanism juddered violently, threatening to burst apart as every crack sent a bullet downrange. I'd fired a Maxim Gun before, but this lacked that one's elegance. It was crude, but it worked. Something told me, this was a sign of things to come

Special ammunition

Incendiary
RN: John Victor, Voelkel, Voelkell, all seem to refer to the same man - stalking always in the background. Whether his centrality to the events was a delusion of his, or truth, we also are not sure. It seems that his thread crosses into the Twins, and he is certainly one of the creatures said to stalk them.

Spitzer
RN: Significant among his papers were the seeming verification of multiple other events. On top of that, the confirmation of early prototypes of automatic weapons. Many greenhorn Hunters lived in fear of these, rattling out, and originally we mistook their accounts to be intimidation by disciplined fire - until the very same schematics noted here turned up once more.

Nagant M1895

NAGANT M1895. (See also, REVOLVER, RUSSIAN EMPIRE) Designed by L on Nagant, the Nagant M1895 was commissioned as a bespoke service revolver for the Russian Empire and would see use throughout the armed forces. This created relatively stringent design requirements. The Russian Empire was a vast expanse stretching across some of the most inhospitable terrains in the world. At the same time, the nation was lagging behind in terms of modernization. Manufacturing standards at the time were relatively less sophisticated in Russia than throughout the United States and Western Europe

As a result, The Nagant M1895 proved to be a unique, albeit unconventional, single-action revolver. It proved to be durable enough to survive use in adverse conditions, and simple enough to be manufactured quickly and in staggering quantities. The cylinder is pressed flush to the barrel on firing, though this does mean that it requires unique ammunition. A major disadvantage of the weapon was that reloading was slow. Shots had to be removed individually with the ejector rod, and then loaded individually.

Letter to Frank Chambers
Author: Russell "Snakeskin" Chambers
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.
1/9

Pa,

The short is: I need you to front me $20 dollars for bail. I'm interred at Jefferson Parish, LA.

The long is: I took a train from San Francisco to Ogden, bad luck, the inspector decided my ticket was invalid. The next station was a nowhere town, Wells, Nevada. They turned me out.

I fell badly, landing on the piece which I had tucked into my belt, cut up my hip, a lot of blood. In town, the folk were not forthcoming with aid. Irony in that the gun which had in part caused my injury, was also the means by which I was able to get help. I'm not proud of threatening the woman, but I needed stitching up. Truth be told, I had to hope that none would call my bluff, I didn't believe the thing would fire after I'd landed on it

The piece could take one hell of a beating. It's Russian, called a Nagant M1895. Strange bullets, tucked up inside like they were afraid to come out. I won it in a game of street craps. The owner was a Russian, a deserter, he had made across the Pacific to escape a certain death. I wouldn't say his chances of survival really increased that much.

Well, the lady finished up her work about the time a lawman arrived to tell me I wasn't welcome in Wells. And not to wait for the next train

With nowhere to go, no money, and just a little food, there was nothing for it but following the tracks. What I was hoping for, I don't know. Towards nightfall I came to the ruin of a ranch, set in a dead gnarled orchard. The trunks bleached white. There was a dry gulch running through it, with nought but a trickle of water. Good as place as any to rest, I was lucky enough there was water.

Yours,
Russell

Letter to Frank Chambers
Author: Russell "Snakeskin" Chambers
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.
2/9

The next morning, I woke to find the dressing the woman had done was bad. The wound was festering, a fever setting in. The last thing I clearly remember, crawling on my belly towards the gulch, gulping what water I could.

Time passes different with such a fever. The first day, I took apart one of the strange bullets, using the gunpowder to cauterize the wound.

The second, I heard a rattle of a sidewinder. Somewhere in the dirt. held the Nagant tight. Funny a gun from wintery Russia would find itself out in the badlands, guarding a man drying out in the sun from a rattlesnake.

The third day, I saw the snake. Coming toward me. I took a pot shot and it went back into the brush. That evening, it came again, and I got it

The fourth day, the pain in my leg showed no sign of abating. I wished I'd left the snake there, to kill me. On that I realized what a coward I was.I saw no way out my predicament.

I pushed out all but one bullet from the chamber, and spun it idly. Placed it to my temple. Pulled. Click. Next, it was the snake's turn. Spun. Pulled. Click. We went back and forth like that, me and the snake, till the gun kicked back in my hand, a puff of dust emerged from the snake. He'd eaten the bullet meant for me.

The fifth day, the pain subsided. I ate that snake, saving the skin. With the strength, I walked on. Came across the next town. Found labor, the day after, shoveling manure. Took the first train out.

Ended up here - in New Orleans. Got picked up for playing dice. So now I'm writing you from jail. I need $20 dollars for bail

Yours,

Russell

Nagant M1895 Precision

NAGANT M1895 PRECISION. (See also, NAGANT M1895, SHARPSHOOTERS) The Nagant M1895 Precision is simply a typical single-action revolver with a sturdy leather and metal pistol stock that doubles as a holster. This allows it to be supported in the crook of the shoulder, and guarantees much greater stability, and increased accuracy

Letter to Frank Chambers
Author: Russell "Snakeskin "Chambers
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.
3/9

Pa,

I've enclosed $10. Write me that vou've received it.

The hunting started good. We bagged a few easy contracts. Quick money: Sick men. Alone in the swamps. Something rotten in their mind. In their flesh too. Each one, we took a hand. My Nagant has a stock that nestles into the forearm, accurate and powerful enough to pick them off - it turns out I'm a dead shot.

The other prisoners, we made one big posse. There's a huge Russian we call The Bear (who noted my gun, but says he himself prefers to only fight with fists), an old man named Pellella, and a girl from Oregon, Billy. The Sheriff led us, still wearing his badge.

Things took a turn for the worse when we went out looking for a man called The Butcher. Said to be impossible to kill. Hiding in an old Slaughterhouse. Two days out. The first day, Pellella and Billy had took sixteen hands a piece. They were overflowing their packs. When we set up camp, they thought aloud about heading back to town already, having so many hands.

I woke that night with a start. Pellella and The Bear were scrabbling on the floor. Were they wrestling? When my eyes adjusted to the moonlight, I realized they were fighting, just not each other. Hands, crawling over them, clawing, strangling. The severed hands of the dead men. I felt something grip my shoulder. It was Hardin. He said they got Billy already. I saw the dead girl: bruises round her neck. Hardin passed me my pistol

Pellella was being smothered. He was jerking around, trying to get himself free. I aimed true, and picked off the hands I could. My seventh shot, the last in the cylinder, was aimed at a hand gripping his neck, choking him out. 1 told him to sit still, but he still thrashed. His face blue, I pulled the trigger. It hit him in the temple. The Sheriff took no time in fanning his Pax to kill the rest, the bullets thudding into Pellella's lifeless body.

We took on a new rule. No trophies.

Yours,
Russell

Nagant M1895 Silencer

NAGANT M1895 SILENCER. (See also, NAGANT M1895, UNIQUE WEAPONS) Unique among revolvers, the Nagant M1895 can be silenced. Other revolvers have a gap between the cylinder and the barrel, meaning that when they are fired gas, and therefore sound, is expelled. This is the most significant origin of the onomatopoeic bang, such noise which a muzzle suppressor will not alleviate. When the Nagant is fired, however, the cylinder is pushed tight to the forcing cone, the opening of the barrel. The gas must instead escape through the length of the barrel, meaning that a suppressor will in fact alleviate the noise. What makes this a remarkable happenstance is that the Nagant was not designed with this in mind.

Letter to Frank Chambers
Author: Russell "Snakeskin " Chambers
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.
5/9

Pa,

I never did tell you how I got out jail. Sheriff made me earn it

Second day I was there, Sheriff Hardin does his rounds. Takes me out, makes me run up and down the yard. Lift sacks of grain. Checked my teeth. Then threw me back in with my cell-mate. An old fella, by the name of John Hayward. Stark crazy, on account of the climate, but a good man. In his sleep, he muttered about monsters in the swamp. And a sculptor. I considered his wife had left him for an artist.

Third night, Hardin comes to me. Offers a deal. My freedom, under conditions of his employment, no questions. Lady Luck had shined on me. Hardin took me into the yard. Chalked on the ground were concentric circles and strange patterns. Waiting round the edges were two other guards, and a handful of other prisoners.

One by one, me and other prisoners walked the circles, reciting lines Hardin told us to speak. An oath he made up. At the end, we were to drink a gulp of some brackish red liquid. The second boy hurled it up. He was taken out the yard and I heard a muffled cry. On my turn, the taste of nails, but I kept it down. There was to be a final test. I drew the short straw, I was first. A guard dragged a man by his hair out the cellblock. Threw him at my feet. In the moonlight, I saw it was John, my cell-mate.

Hardin handed me a gun. My Nagant. Fixed on the end was a heavy, improvised, muzzle. He explained this was as the community didn't take kindly to gunfire after dark. I understood what was to be done. He looked up at me, the crescent moon glinting in his eyes, like a snake's.

It seems having a record of these events is in my best interest. I'm beginning to wonder if I'll lose my mind.

Yours,
Russell

Nagant M1895 Deadeye

NAGANT M1895 PRECISION DEADEYE. (See also, NAGANT M1895). While unconventional, the Deadeye variant of the Nagant was a conversion with an attached telescopic scope. A rear mounted stock increases the stability of firing at range. One challenge of such an attachment is maintaining accuracy over distance with a heavy trigger pull. The degree of difference in experience becomes most pronounced in such a case. Effectively accommodating this, and achieving a smooth pull, offers a great advantage, making the Nagant a capable range weapon, though still compact. Therefore, it is for the disciplined shooter to utilize one in accordance with an unsteady weapon such as the one in question.

Letter to Frank Chambers
Author: Russell "Snakeskin "Chambers
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.
4/9

Pa,

Have you been receiving my letters? I haven't heard back. We took recruits to replace Pellella and Billy. They were dead soon after. The Butcher ain't a man at all. Hounds prowl the roads in packs. Swarms of locust descend from the skies and La Llorona cries at the moon.

Hardin had been getting darker in his moods. Huff turned out to be no friend at all. I shot dead a would-be assassin on the steps of our station. An old deputy. We found a letter on the body, said it was the work of Huff, and he burned the letter before I had a chance to read it. He said things have been different. Since Lynch.

By way of congratulation, so I thought, Hardin gave me his badge, and bought me a new scope, as would fit my revolver. Said I was doing a different kind of Hunt, from now on. We scouted out an old barn, overlooking a field to the east of the grounds. I was to pick off the wandering, should they stray toward the town.

I took 12 the first night. 14 the second. The nights that came after, I stopped keeping track. Just pick off the strays as they come across the field. It's been something like a month now.

I'm worried I've done something bad to warrant guard duty. Something to take his anger. Each dawn, I tip the bodies into an open pit. The Bear stays sometimes. One of the dead men broke our boundary. He laid into him with his brass knuckles, glinting in bright full moon as he pummeled the man dead again

He's took a wound though, taking this letter to town, so I don't know it'll reach you. Write to address on other side.

Yours,
Russell

Nagant M1895 Officer

NAGANT M1895 OFFICER. (See also, REVOLVER, RUSSIAN EMPIRE) The Nagant M1895 was produced in two models: a single-action and a double-action variant. The single-action was cheaper to produce and was issued to privates, whilst the more expensive and desirable double-action was issued to officers

In double-action revolvers, the pull of the trigger performs two actions: drawing the hammer back into the cocked position and releasing the hammer to strike the firing pin. This differs from single-action revolvers, in which the pull of the trigger only releases the hammer. This action compensates for the slower firing mechanisms of single-action revolvers, as there is no need to draw the hammer back manually. The double-action design of the Officer variant confers it a relatively higher rate of fire but also circumvents novel strategies used to circumvent this, for instance, fanning the hammer.

Letter to Frank Chambers
Author: Russell "Snakeskin " Chambers
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.
6/9

Pa,

I'm sorry I haven't written you in some weeks. It's all gone to hell. The superintendent's dead. Seen in the paper too. Not like us to make such an announcement. Someone took their place, though I didn't meet them before they was dead too. Hardin is keeping his head down. Can't say I blame him. Out in the grounds, word's coming back that it's more ruthless than ever. Huff's men killing our men, our men killing Doctor John's, Doctor John's killing the Reverend's. And so on. No one knows who's riding with who no more, and we're all the worse for it.

I lost my old Nagant in one such shootout. Luck went against me. A group of the Reverend's fanatics, setting all in their path aflame, torching the charred remains of an already burned church the Sheriff and I was bunkered down in.

Did chance upon a second. Trevors had imported the latest: an Officer model with a Double-Action. Heavy pull on the trigger. Hardin asked me my preference, why I favored a Russian Imperial revolver over a good old-fashioned American piece. I recounted to him the time out in the desert. He nodded. Told me of a similar predicament he'd faced.

One of his first Hunts. Back when it was just dead men, or so he'd thought. A woman called Lynch showing him the ropes: how to heat and skim the blood, see in the dark without losing your sight, why to burn bodies. A young girl had given testimony of an afflicted parent, and they were pursuing her. A huge swarm of plague flies set on them, driving Hardin and Lynch into a bunkhouse. The swarm covered the house, and gave no chance of letting up.

Hardin sealed up the front door and Lynch went further into the house to ensure it was sealed up. He didn't see her again for a long time, assumed she was dead. But he was holed up there for almost a week and

[LETTER INCOMPLETE, ENDS HERE]

Letter to Frank Chambers
Author: Russell "Snakeskin "Chambers
Single loose sheet, 8.5x 11 in
7/9

Pa,

It seems all out war between the hunters is about to start any day now.

There's hushed word that in the middle of all this trouble is nothing but two young girls who overstepped their bounds. Not sure if I believe that myself, but everything I've heard seems to boil down to those two. None that I've met will admit to knowing them personal, mind. Either they're not real or no one wants to get entangled up. Like they're in the eye of a hurricane, everything rushing round them faster and faster, but they're unaware there's even a storm.

I've heard stories from Hardin about such storms marking the end of Summer. He's grown up with them and is rightly afraid. Speaks of them in the same tones that devout men talk about their God's wrath. I hope against hope I see one. I hope if anything kills me, it's a storm. For one, it will mean I lived to at least the end of August. Maybe even September. Another, it will mean I didn't die to one of the things in the bayou, and rise again to rot on my feet.

Dreams of young huntresses and hurricanes are a welcome relief from the funeral of ragged corpses that have marched through my dreams since I arrived here. With everything gone to hell, and everyone waiting for the cards to fall, it doesn't seem right to have such a relative moment of peace.

Last night, Walcott and I burned our white shirts. He said it was a symbolic gesture of innocence lost, to mark the calm before the storm. That was the laugh I needed to get my head out the clouds. It's sweet to think anyone came here innocent.

The officer's badge looks better on black, and after all, I'm carrying a gun now fit for some Russian Duke's son. I should look the part.

Yours,
Russel

Nagant M1895 Officer Brawler

NAGANT M1895 OFFICER BRAWLER (See also, M1895 OFFICER) The unorthodox Nagant M1895 Officer Brawler modification is essentially a knuckleduster welded onto the pistol grip, serving as a hand guard and enabling the pistol to be used extremely effectively in close combat. Should the owner of the pistol find themselves in a position in which firing a shot is no longer a viable strategy, then the knuckledusters serves to effectively concentrate the force of a punch. While unwieldy, the weight of the Nagant itself would magnify the power of the attack, as well as spreading the received pressure of the blow throughout the whole hand.

Letter to Frank Chambers
Author: Russell "Snakeskin "Chambers
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.
8/9

Pa,

Last week, we lost Walcott and Foal, horribly, something called the Assassin ripped them apart. After seeing that, the Bear blacked out. Hardin and I dragged him out. Since, Hardin's been shut up in his office. Whatever this thing is we're fighting, it's fighting back. The hunters are at each other's throats. And there's more money than ever. I thought I had a handle on this, but it's gone.

The Bear hasn't been the same since his wound. Most nights, he stays out, staring up at the moon, even when the clouds are thick. Mad. Thought about handing him over to Finch, there's not the same bad blood between us as there was with Huff. He don't fight no more, he don't talk no more.

Yesterday, I took his knuckles from him, to try and provoke any response. His prize knuckles. He'd told us, when he'd left his home, he'd stolen a brass crucifix from the church and traded it to a ship's captain, a very religious man, for passage. When they docked in America, he'd stolen it back. The captain came after him, and the Bear beat him to death with it. Since, he melted it down to a pair of knuckles and they'd been with him ever since. That was ten years ago. But he just kept staring out at the moon. Hardin saw them later, said the Bear would have those back.

When I went to buy ammunition, Trevors suggested fixing them to the handle of the Nagant. I agreed, and we welded on the dusters.

When I got back, I showed the Bear by slugging him in the face, while he stared gormlessly at the moon. Lying in the mud, I stood over him and showed him his prized weapon, ruined. He stared through me, up, to the moon.

Enclosed is twenty dollars.

Russell

Nagant M1895 Officer Carbine

NAGANT M1895 OFFICER CARBINE. (See also, NAGANT M1895 OFFICER, FIELD MODIFICATIONS). From their inception, the concept of revolving cylinder rifles had the potential to revolutionize the firearms industry. The original mechanism, developed for pistols, was applied to rifles in order to increase the rate of fire. The earliest models were engineered before the Civil War, before the widespread adoption of bullet cartridges. However, the concept was flawed.

When firing a revolver, there's a gap left between the cylinder and the forcing cone. The gasses which propel a projectile with incredible velocity are also traveling at that speed, some of which escape through this gap, known colloquially as "blow-by."While proper handling technique mitigates this problem in a revolver, the use of itin a rifle or carbine necessitates the rifle be supported fore of the cylinder, forcing the user to position their forearm vulnerable to the blow-by.

The unique cylinder mechanism of the Nagant M1895 seals the gap between the cylinder and the forcing cone. This mitigates the danger posed by blow-by to the user's forearm, therefore making them well suited to carbine conversion.

Letter to Frank Chambers
Author: Russell "Snakeskin "Chambers
Single loose sheet, 8.5 x 11 in.
9/9

Pa,

Summer's finally coming to an end. The wound in my arm has worsened. With the cold coming on, I feel it more and more. Too weak to hold a rifle. Trevors had a solution though. Took my Nagant away for two days. I felt naked without it, I was stuck in working on the books.

I didn't recognize it when it was returned to me. Fashioned into something resembling a carbine. Apparently, a lot of Hunter's are doing such a thing, other firearms are too pricey. Makes me think, what others do out of desperation, I do out of a sense of sentimentality and necessity. Made me realize how far I'd come since squatting out in that ranch in the desert.

Tused it for the first time today. The Bear had gone feral, finally living up to his name. We locked him up. He just stood staring at his ceiling like he could still see the moon. Starved himself thin. Last night, we found his cell empty, the bars bent and bloody. We tracked him out. The moon was full in the sky. We knew where he was looking, if not where he was.

We stumbled down to the bayou, following the glimmer, till we found him. Standing out in the middle of a still lake. The white shadow of the moon settled on the water. The Bear turned his head, looking straight at us. For a second, I was happy. I thought the sorcery binding him had broken, he was again aware of us. His face was scratched and tore, from where he'd squeezed through the bars. It turned to a grimace, he snarled, and he started wading to us. The moon broke apart in the ripples

Hardin nodded, and I only shot once. He bucked and fell into the water, face down. The two of us just stood there, as the crickets and the bugs started up again their nightly song. We stood there till the moon settled again on the water, then we waded in for the corpse.

Enclosed is fifty dollars.

Russel

Nagant M1895 Officer Carbine Deadeye

NAGANT M1895 OFFICER CARBINE DEADEYE. (See also, NAGANT M1895, NAGANT M1895 OFFICER CARBINE DEADEYE) This modified Nagant adds a telescopic sight to the original Russian-designed double-action Nagant Officer Carbine.

Journal of James Byrne
Handwritten, original
Incomplete, chronology could not be determined
1/?

Death old friend, eternal rival, shadow that plagues my steps. Why can we not meet on friendly terms? I am certain we would have much to discuss. I saw you so many times during the war. When I tried to tell the others, after, they looked at me strangely and told me about the hallucinations, so common among those as badly injured as I, having lost so much blood, longing for death.

But were they really hallucinations? I saw soldiers breath leave their bodies and float toward the night sky like moths. I saw you walk among them, and reach out your hand, allowing injured men to lean upon your shoulder as you walked with them from the field. Their bodies remained, gored and bloody, on the cold ground, and yet at the same time, they walked with you. Hundreds of you, walking. Singing. I saw it, and I will never forget it.

But you did not see me. You did not offer me your hand. I begged for you to take me too. Yet you passed me by, as if you could not see me. Perhaps the living are but ghosts to you, only taking form once they have crossed over your shadowy threshold. And though you would not take me with you, you raced me home and took my Agatha and my Mary instead. You left me here to weep alone over my own unopened letter, on the stoop of an empty house.

The wound festers. I must turn my mind to other things.

Last night a man named Finch approached me. He said he understood my plight and then, cryptically, that he could help me. What plight, I asked him. The song, he said. Not a man of many words, and likely a madman. But if so, he is a well-dressed madman - he carried upon him a fine scoped Centennial and is clearly a man of taste and means! Perhaps, in him, I can seek patronage. If it is indeed my songs that interest him. He would say no more, but we have arranged to meet tomorrow evening, and I admit to feeling the first spark of hope in many months.

Special ammunition

For regular nagant

Poison
RN: Russel Chambers, most valuable for his close following of Sheriff Hardin. Did he get lost in the mud? Make it out? Following up with the father proved a dead end. Either way, he escaped his creditors, which he curiously never mentioned in the letters.

Dumdum
RN: It seems Chambers simply vanished. No further documentation of his existence can be found. In particular, Hardin's reticence to mention the man is quite curious.

High Velocity
RN: Hardin was well known after Huff died, one of many who contributed to the chaos which saw Hunter turn on Hunter. His heart was in the right place, but that don't count for much.

For officer variants

Poison
RN: Chambers' attachment to his handgun was characteristic of many Hunters. All they had, really, to rely on. It was that snake in the desert that did it, gave him a sense of luck, most likely. Shame only the gun turned up; it can't answer many questions.

Dumdum
RN: The chaos of different factions was not something that lessened over time. More would form with goals spanning from financial to demonic, but all were united in their ruthlessness.

High Velocity
RN: We torched the jailhouse once we'd taken what we needed, then returned and to burn what was left. Another loose end that could have led someone down a trail that didn't need following.

Nitro Express Rifle

NITRO EXPRESS RIFLE. (See also, RIFLE) A break-action, double-barreled rifle ideal for hunting large game, the Nitro Express was often used by British colonials on elephant hunting expeditions. It is similarly effective in bringing down buffalo, bear, and other large game found in the Americas. Though the Nitro Express has a short range, its shot is incredibly powerful, with an equally powerful recoil.

The Nitro Express Rifle is actually named for its cartridge, called as such because of the bullet velocity, which is fast as an express train, according to James Purdey, who coined the term, and because the propellant used is cordite, which is made of nitrocellulose and nitroglycerin.

Unpublished manuscript, "Bad As They Seem"
Author: Hayden Collins
Undated
Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

-12-
The visions continued. Fin did not sleep, but tossed and turned as one caught in nightmare. She fell into a restless sleep, lying unconscious for hours, then days. Her vision writhed with snakes, echoed with hissing. Inside of the vision, the world shook and shimmered around the edges.

Mud, blood, fog and shadow and movement and explosions. Gun shots, and screams. Run through the darkness, hope you don't trip, hope their bullets don't pierce your skin, hope you make it out alive in spite of your waning strength. The odds are not in your favor. The odds have never been in your favor. It's why you play the game.

You press your back against the thin boards of a shed, not knowing if it harbors your own angel of death. Not knowing if some hidden gunman prepares to write your finale, and send it express. You hasten to reload your rifle, wary of the sound of metal on metal as you slide a cartridge into the chamber. Then you take a small syringe out of your coat pocket, raising a sleeve, and sending the point into your arm with a sharp thrust. The solution takes effect quickly, and you feel invincible, euphoric, giddy, prepared. You raise your gun and you run. And you run. And you run.

The noise of gunshots surrounds you as you are seen and targeted, but you are quick, zigzagging like a jackrabbit, laughing. You feel like you could run forever, could shoot a nickel from a weathervane in a storm. You kill five men and one woman on your way to the building that will afford you cover, reloading as you run. Your head will haze over into an intensely painful fog when the injection wears off, but for now, you are fueled by its fire.

When Fin came to it was dark, and Jos had gone. Jos' absence was disorienting; her sister was her anchor, an assurance of her own existence. She knew but one way to focus her mind. With a sledgehammer and a rifle, she left the cabin, extinguishing the lantern Jos had left burning as she shut the door. There would be monsters in the swamps tonight, and she would find them.

Unpublished manuscript, "Bad As They Seem"
Author: Hayden Collins
Undated
Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

-13-
The snake's venom had affected each twin differently; it could not be doubled. Their battle magic - as they thought of it - had weakened. The mirror had cracked

That evening, Jos' mind was on death: her own, her mother's, her father's, her victims . She found no meaning in the loss of life, was unburdened by its gravity. Death was inevitable, and its inevitability rendered it meaningless The word fate rang hollow in her ears.

The priests offered no solace - though they had begun to hear rumors of a Christian association of hunters - and they did not trust those who offered sanctioned redemption. Some called the creatures a plague; some called them the devil. Both were wrong.

Pulling on a long jacket against the cool air foreshadowing fall, armed only with a small pistol, Jos left her sister behind to meet another.

Allison - the woman she would now meet - had sought Jos out, and they had progressed from cautious silence to confessional outpourings, from wary strangers to friends, and then further. Camaraderie existed among hunters, but connection was taboo. Like children left unnamed until they survived their second birthday, hunters preferred not to name - which is to say, preferred not to know - that which they were likely to lose. To hunt, you must be able to survive both combat and constant loss.

To remove the calloused skin that protects the delicate shell of the heart was to choose life. A hunter always chooses death. Does not think of the future. In the cracks of the mirror, their images bent and multiplied: reflections, no two the same.

Special ammunition

Shredder
RN: That so many beliefs arose amongst these people is no wonder, or that the believers expanded their fold by preying on the lost. It's thought that the Christian sect mentioned here, in passing, was that of Ishim Gird, whose sermons of reclamation were never recovered.

Explosive
RN: Uncategorized documents mention an Allison. We paid them more attention, until we really picked up on the Twins. Some might have been fakes, too. Either way, it's an unpicked thread, one which needs serious Investigation.

Romero 77

Romero 77. (See also, SHOTGUNS) Romero Arms and Tool Co. was founded in 1853 by Eugene Romero. They developed a line of steel tools and an early model break-action revolver. However, their interest in the firearms industry dwindled following the Civil War, and that aspect of the business was shut down. Eugene Romero passed in 1871, leaving the company to his son, Custer Romero. Following the 1873 Panic, Romero sought new ventures.

Romero Arms was resuscitated in 1877. New investment came from John Harrison, the younger brother of the famed Oliver Harrison &Roberts Firearms. Happy to work with Custer Romero, John Harrison put to paper early designs for a new shotgun focused on sporting, beginning with the Romero 79, named for the year of its entry to market, 1879. Following on from this were four successive improvements on the model, the 83 in 1883, 84 in 1884, 85 in 1885, and, confusingly, the 77 in 1886.

His health ailing, Harrison designed his final iteration. The Romero 77 entered into production a year after his death and was named for the year the company was founded. The Romero 77 became extremely popular, one of the most well-regarded sporting shotguns available at the time.

Journal of Daniel Glanton
Severely deteriorated, bound in unidentified leather, 8 x 8 in.
1/5

May first

IT hadn't seen him since he was standing right over me, so absorbed in my work as I was. My lap was filling with metal dust as I was going at the indentation stamped on the side of the barrel. My file slipped an I looked up and saw him standing there.

He asked me what I was doing and I told him I was taking off the engraving on the Romero. He asked why, and I kept dumb. He didnt look like no lawman, but still I weren't about to say straight forward it was stole from a dead man.

He didn't leave and stood waiting and then I told him it was taken. He said no lawman from here to Marfa is gonna know one gun from another by an engraving, but having one scratched out is something sure conspicuous. I told him I hadn't thought that part out, which he said he figured. I gathered then his intention was to make me feel small

He took the gun from me quick as can be. He had the hinge pin undone and cracked the receiver, pulling the barrel off. He turned it upside down and put the back end before me. If you're gonna do a bad job, at least do it right. he said pointing at a second engraving that had been hidden there.

He started walking on down the road and I set about following. He asked me what I was doing. I told him I was a hunter like him. I showed him the Romero. He said that was more a sports mans gun.

I told him straight back that there was no finer sport than hunting.

Journal of Daniel Glanton
Severely deteriorated, bound in unidentified leather, 8 x 8 in.
2/5

May fifth
We left the road and were crossing open country.

Until yesterday, I'd not got a word straight about what we were hunting. The man stopped midday and said we would make camp here. Tomorrow morning we'll pass into the grounds themselves, he said, crossing himself.

He set up camp and sent me to fetch something for dinner, and some groundsel, hackberry, and devil's snare. I found a family of swamp rabbits. They're so dumb, you shoot one of them and they all disappear back underground. But you wait an hour and they come out again. I bagged four with the Romero.

Evening I got back to find the man waiting with a mortar and pestle. He got me cooking and set about mashing the plants I'd got. I thought it was for flavor, but instead he mixed them into a steal vial set that in the fire.

After eating, he took it out with a tong and carefully poured the hot red syrup inside into a doctor's syringe. It poured like molasses. He said I had to take this. I refused, I hated the doctors. He said, word for word, think of it like a rabies shot, but if you don't take it, it'll be me killing you, not rabies. I saw he was serious.

This morning, I hurled up chunks of swamp rabbit. The man said that we can get going.

We went on. The woods became copses and got flatter and wetter. Soon was splashing out in water past sunk flat bottoms, the banks cloyed with old fish nets. Old outhouses fallen apart, huts collapsing on their stilts.

Romero 77 Handcannon

Romero 77 HANDCANNON. (See also, SAWED-OFF SHOTGUNS) The Romero 77's utilitarian design - a single barrel and no magazine or reloading mechanism - made it simple to modify, the most common modification being a shortened barrel. This offers many advantages, most notably, greater mobility and easier handling, particularly advantageous in wooded and urban areas. The main drawback was losing the choke, making it less accurate at range. There was an additional psychological benefit to such modification, sawed-off shotguns are infamous with good reason.

Journal of Daniel Glanton
Severely deteriorated, bound in unidentified leather, 8 x 8 in.
3/5

May thirtieth

Pa never would have forgive me for losing his old shotgun. Once had pride of place on the mantle, though he hardly would of recognized it. I left it when we scrabbled out of the burning barn while the Spider was ripping the hunters from New York limb from limb.

The man with no name led the way through the darkness, surefooted through the cattails. You can never be sure who to trust, he ranted, people here from all over, with religious creeds and blood oaths and contractual obligations, everyone wants the same thing, don't matter why, when there's not enough to go around.

I repeated to him what my Pa had always said, Providence will provide. He grunted.

We walked through the night and eventually left the grounds. We found an abandoned church suitable enough to hole up in and rest. Searching for something to eat, I found a Romero 77 shotgun in the knave. I repeated again Pa's saying, along with some blasphemy. The man grunted and said it was not a surprise, pastors needed protection too and weren't known for their taste in firearms.

We woke up as it was falling dark again. We would go back, the man said. He had cut down the Romero to be half the size. Better in close quarters, he said

I didn't want to go back, we were weaker, we were worse equipped. But there was no use saying that to the man. Something inside him had snapped in the burning barn.

I fired a few rounds in the yard to test out the handcannon. It would do. The final shot, I aimed up one-handed at the bell, dangling by a rotted rope in the tower. The shot swung my arm back, hit myself in the head. The bell pinged rather than rang as the shot recoiled off it, then dropped. The shot had spread and severed the rope. It clattered to the floor, the man then headed off into the woods, shaking his head.

Romero 77 Talon

Romero 77 TALON. (See also, Romero 77, FIELD MODIFICATIONS) The Romero 77 was predominantly a sportsman's gun. As such, a key quality was its lightweight barrel. While suited to shooting game, where quick reflexes and deft accuracy are required, when adapted for use as a melee weapon, the barrel was ill-suited to the task. Modifications made to such weapons would often reinforce the butt of the shotgun, that being the most robust part. Moreover, some examples show that in addition to structural reinforcement, additional blades were also added to the rear of the weapon. This would make it a particularly lethal and vicious club.

Journal of Daniel Glanton
Severely deteriorated, bound in unidentified leather, 8 x 8 in.
4/5

June first

I keep having dreams of back when I first met the man. They always begin with him asking you know what you're out here hunting, prying open a tin of beans with a large knife, the remains of a war bayonet.

I'm hungry though and looking at the beans and so don't hear him so he has to repeat himself which makes him mad. Then the dream carries on.

I told him I didn't know what we were hunting. He said that would be better but I should know one thing and that's how to fight. I told him back I used to tumble with my older brothers and they was stronger but I fought dirty and he laughed and said this was no tumble in the yard and your mam wouldn't grab you both by the ear and break it up when you got beaten.

That got me riled up and I ended up telling him about the boy last summer, why I couldn't go home. I hadn't meant to tell no one ever.

Then it's later and we're paused by a gurgling creek which reminded me of the boy and the sweet streams we used to drink from when ranging away from the farm.

The man, who still ain't told me his name, took my Romero and swung it like a bat, then said there would be times when I wouldn't have no time to reload and I'd have to use it as a club. I practiced and he told me how to do it better. Then the man noticed the water in the creek had stopped gurgling

We went up the bed 'til we came to the source of the blockage, a corpse. The water behind him had made a pool. He was freshly dead.

The man checked the body and told me to get a hold of myself so I went some ways away and waited. When he called me back he handed me a rusted old blade. The man's, we'll put it in your gun's stock, give your swing some more bite, he said.

He went off again, and I couldn't help but look again at the body. Its heart was cut out. Then I wake up.

Romero 77 Hatchet

Romero 77 HATCHET. (See also, Romero 77 HANDCANNON, FIELD MODIFICATIONS) The Romero 77 was not only utilitarian, but also robust. Once shortened, however, the weapon was found to lack an edge in close quarters. To compensate for this, perhaps too much, some owners would affix a hatchet blade to the barrel of the weapon. This would be complimented with an extended stock, both balancing the weight and granting a larger graspable surface

Journal of Daniel Glanton
Severely deteriorated, bound in unidentified leather, 8 x 8 in.
5/5

June second

Still no sign of the Spider, our hunt this morning only turned up two hunters from Utah, still green. I killed them both.

Yesterday evening, the man handed me his hatchet and told me chop firewood. I swung it around a few times, then into a tree stump. It rained dead leaves. I swung around the Romero a couple of times

What do you think, they're about the same size, I asked the man. He didn't look up from the fire. After chopping firewood, I whittled at the handle of the hatchet. When I got halfway through, I realized I could just stamp and snap off the blade. The man looked up. I carried that hatchet for eight years, he said.

In the morning, I fixed the hatchet blade to the Romero. I spliced the old handle and inserted the old one. It's good to work in the morning light. The man cooked the last of the beans. After breakfast, I kicked the charcoal out the pit. We walked through the woods. I swung at the low hanging branches with the new and enhanced Romero, the fallen ones making a trail behind us.

Think we'll find the spider today, I asked the man. He grunted something, maybe yes. I suppose it doesn't matter, I replied, seeing as we're having such fun.

It was then we came across the Hunters. Devout it seemed, carrying out their mission in the name of the Lord. The man wanted to leave them, but I had an itch to try out the hatchet. In the end, they noticed we were there, and fired.

I charged them, laid out the first with a blast from the Romero, and went into the second, burying the hatchet into his neck. The blood spurted all over my white shirt. I hacked and hacked, each time making the shirt darker and darker.

Romero 77 Alamo

Records, Pelican Island Prison
Handwritten notes
Author: Handwriting match for Solomon Jabez

Date: August 20, 1894

Findings on inmate No. 47 "Ernst"

He is one of the younger inmates at the prison, sentenced to seven years for theft. The court case documents state that he was embezzling from his former employer and had plans to run off with his boss son when the time was right. For some reason, he chose to take on the complete burden of the trial and the sentence

Last night I walked through on observation. Most of the prisoners are broken, and many cowered away as they heard me approach. But not No. 47, it seems that he still has enough spirit left in him to fight back, he's pure defiance. Good, I was beginning to grow bored. He'll be sent to the basement tomorrow.

Date: August 21, 1894

Time is running low to meet Huff's request, so the training had to begin quickly. Some of the guards had expressed interest in making someone with attachments. Appendages. Enhancements? A man with a knife or a gun constantly at the ready for fighting. I proposed No. 47 to be part of these experiments.

Smith requested permission to sever one of the arms himself and I obliged. After giving No. 47 three doses of Laudanum, two other guards tried to strap No. 47's arm to the wall. No. 47 fought and fought, lashing and kicking. Smith couldn't get close with the saw. Then, he lost his temper. Threatened him with his new toy, a shotgun with some odd loading contraption. It did leave me impressed, how quickly it reloaded while Smith shot off the arm. Smith had talked our ears off about it. Not long after the third shot No. 47 passed out from shock, and the arm is now gone. He will be taken to the medical ward for treatment and have a mechanism attached so that we can replace the appendage.

He will get rest in his cell tonight; the training can begin in earnest tomorrow.

Special ammunition

Starshell
RN: Ordinary farm boy turned monster, a story which was a dime a dozen and yet this one stuck out as a particularly monstrous transformation one worthy of preservation. Preserved, but perhaps buried, in the dusty corner of some forgotten archive.

Dragon Breath
RN: It was once proposed to me that Lynch's weapon may have been Glanton. A far-fetched theory, but one that arose out of the horror of his character, in order to try and rationalize it, fathomable. Just one of many, however.

Penny Shot
RN: Theft, mutilation, fratricide, cannibalism; nothing was beneath him, as it would turn out. It's speculated that there was something more of the Sculptor in Glanton than in others.

Slug
RN: In truth, Glanton was never all that significant. It was just the horror of such actions performed by a plain, ordinary boy that caught the imagination. His journal charted such a trajectory of degeneration, and served as the foundation for notoriety. Ha! Even I must contradict myself at every turn.

Scottfield Model 3

SCOTTFIELD MODEL 3 (See also REVOLVERS, UNIQUE WEAPONS) A break-action handgun originally patented in Europe around 1858. This gun relies on a hinge pin that joins the receiver and barrel together which can allow the two pieces to be separated for storage and travel. Unhinging the revolver exposes the breech and allows individual bullets to be added to the barrel. An owner who manages their ammo and times their shots can use the Scottfield Model 3 to pin down an opponent with continuous gunfire in a fight.

Clippings from the New Orleans True Crescent
Authors: Unknown
Newsprint, variable sizes

July 3,1894

BODY FOUND IN THE STREETS. Around 8 o'clock this morning the errand runners and job goers of Lawson were shocked to find the body of a young man dead in the middle of the street near Goddard Docks. Based on witness testimony and police reports, the body had holes of various sizes from the neck down and the eyes gouged out. Police are looking for any information on who this young man and his attacker could be.

September 28, 1895

THE LOUISIANA SLUGGER STRIKES AGAIN. Four more bodies appeared in New Orleans as police continue the search for the now infamous Louisiana Slugger. With a calling card of four metal slugs, the murderer seems to have no preferred target, killing people of all sexes, ages, and faiths. The authorities have asked that the citizens of the area to stay vigilant in keeping themselves safe as they continue to hunt down this ruthless killer. The Louisiana Slugger is alleged to have killed 27 people so far.

October 17, 1895

THE SLUGGER'S FINAL GAL. The people of New Orleans can finally breathe a sigh of relief as police have arrested the Louisiana Slugger. One Anna Lane Croix was able to escape her would-be killer after slipping out of her restraints and beating her assailant unconscious. She then ran to the police and took them to his hideout. Many were shocked to discover that the Louisiana Slugger was none other than Damien Moreau of the Moreau Family, landowners, and members of the New Orleans upper class. Damien was known for his charm, good looks, and gun collection. Police currently have him in custody and awaiting trial

Interview with Mr. Damien Moreau
Interviewer: New Orleans Constable
Date: October 18th, 1895
Typewritten, questions omitted(...), 8.5"x 11"

Yes sir, it was me. Not much use hiding it now since she can still speak. Though I will admit it took you all much longer to catch me. Just what was all my tax money going to?

(...)

Constable, have you ever felt a bullet wound? Now I'm not talking about the feeling of getting shot. I'm asking if you've ever let yourself touch one. Let yourself sink your finger into the hole a slug makes and dig around inside. Feel how hot the muscle and fat get to the touch and maybe even feel the prick of broken bone on your fingertip.

It even feels different depending on the person. An athletic young man's muscles tighten around your fingers more than, say, an old woman who needs to use a cane. If you work hard enough you can work your hand right through the arm of a small child, they're easier to make bigger holes into with just your bare hands. And the screams? Well of course a woman makes a lovelier sound, but everyone has a beautiful voice when they're begging for mercy.

You can't really find people willing to let you...experiment the way I want to, and I've been wanting to for a long time. I knew the police would come knocking if I started so I decided to have my fun, the state of Louisiana being what it is. The title and the fascination of the papers was a nice bonus.

(...)

You can call it sick all you want, sir. I just know what I like.

Scottfield Model 3 Brawler

SCOTTFIELD MODEL 3 BRAWLER. (See also, SCOTTFIELD MODEL 3) The Scottfield Model 3 Brawler modification is essentially a knuckleduster welded onto the revolver grip, serving as a hand guard, and enabling the pistol to be used extremely effectively in close combat. Should the owner find themselves in a position in which firing a shot is no longer viable, then the knuckledusters serve to effectively concentrate the force of a punch. The shortened barrel of this Scottfield variation allows for better handling of the gun during a hand-to-hand fight but causes the weapon to lose accuracy for this purpose.

Journal of Lulu Bassett
Brown leather with gold filigree 5" x 7"
Date Unknown

I'm no stranger to disappointing men, but lately they've been showing up in droves. The saloons been full of the truly vulgar type, and few of them like to pay. I've had to pull out my gun on a few bastards to get whatever's left in their wallet. This job was never easy, but I liked it well enough. With the new Johns in town, I'm not sure it's worth it anymore.

But there are always treasures among the trash. For every man I've had to deal with, I've met beautiful and powerful women. One has caught my eye. Never stepped foot into the Saloon, just stands outside and watches. I tried speaking to her once but all she did was stare at me like a fox about to eat a rabbit. God, I'd let her. From then on whenever she came, I'd catch her watching me.

Thomas Glover came into the saloon, an okay man. He got drunk enough for two and was causing a ruckus in the bar, enough to make Jacobi cut him off and kick him out. I watched him stumble into an alley and then I saw that woman follow him. Got me curious and a bit jealous, so I decided to follow too.

When I got there, I saw Thomas taking a gun to the woman's face. A Scottie with dusters made to hurt. Before he could hit her again, I got behind him and started talking soft to calm him down. It didn t work and as he pulled back to punch the woman with the Scottie, his elbow met my face. Seemed like he was about to mumble out an apology when quick as a flash she got in close and took the gun from him.

Time began to move real slow right as she landed the hit. As soon as those metal knuckles hit Thomas nose it popped right open. Right after the blood came the flesh and right after the flesh came the bone

Thomas was writhing on the ground and the woman knelt by him. She looked up at me with expectation and offered me the Scottie with the dusters. I knelt on the other side of Thomas and started beating him. When he tried to put his hands up to protect himself, she got behind him and held his arms down. We stared at each other as Thomas poor face began to crunch and squish under my fist. I couldn't hear it over my pounding heart

Scottfield Model 3 Spitfire

SCOTTFIELD MODEL 3 SPITFIRE. (See also, SCOTTFIELD MODEL 3) Although the original Scottfield Model 3 was praised for the many advantages its fully exposed cylinder offered, its weight and barrel length made it an inconvenience in situations that required discretion and great handling. To compensate for such disadvantages, the Spitfire design comes with a shortened barrel that allows it to be easily concealed, and a modified finger rest that offers a higher rate of fire at the cost of accuracy.

Interview with Julia de Guerra
Interviewer: Wayne Hardin
Date: June 17, 1895

Hardin: Before we begin, please state your full name and the reason for your presence in the Sheriff's Office at the time of the incident

Guerra: Julia de Guerra. I was appointed as translator to the interrogation conducted by late deputy Howard J. Poulin. The suspect didn't speak English, and he assumed she was a fugitive travelling from the south.

Hardin: Thank you. Tell me more about this suspect

Guerra: She hardly spoke. Even when she did, she only mumbled and stared at the deputy. She kept her silence even when he grabbed his tools and.

Hardin: Miss Guerra, I remind you that your statements are being transcribed, please be mindful as to what kind of information you share. We wouldn't want you to get into trouble, would we?

Guerra: I understand, Sheriff. The deputy needed a translator. That was the reason for my presence in the Sheriff's Office

Hardin: Thank you. Now please continue.

Guerra: Yes, the suspect. She was silent, and terrifying I must say, looked like a corpse, an expressionless, lifeless bag of bones. Her face was covered with deep scars, and her eyes, Dios mio! Her eyes, like two gates into the abyss. The deputy wanted to know where she had come from and asked about the murdered men. It seemed like she didn't understand, maybe she ignored him, but didn't say a word even when he mentioned her accomplice.

Hardin: Her accomplice?

Guerra: Yes. The deputy had heard from the townsfolk that she'd been seen with a woman near the Saloon. I don t remember the name, but when he dared say it, sus ojos... Her eyes grew even darker, the room grew silent, a chill ran down my spine. The deputy, he froze in fear, couldn't even turn around when the door was kicked open and a woman appeared in the doorway, holding a revolver with a short barrel in each hand. She smiled, so did the suspect, they looked at each other while she emptied her guns on him and the transcriber in just a few seconds, but she spared me. She looked happy, Sheriff, thrilled even, her eyes were glowing with a twisted joy. She untied the suspect, they embraced each other, and finally she spoke: Esta aqui. Mi Santa Muerte.

Hardin: And what does that mean?

Guerra: She's here. My Lady of Death.

Scottfield Model 3 Precision

SCOTTFIELD MODEL 3 PRECISION. (See also, SCOTTFIELD MODEL 3) The Scottfield Model 3 Precision is a typical break-action handgun with a sturdy pistol stock. This allows it to be supported in the crook of the shoulder and guarantees much greater stability and accuracy

Journal of Lulu Bassett
Lightly worn, brown leather with gold filigree 5" x 7"
Date Unknown

I could write a damn sonnet about all the things I want to do with this woman. Anyone who dies to the bullets from her gun are lucky that she's the last thing they see. Even watching her take a swig from a flask by the fire is enough to make my heart race and by hell's fire she knows it. She catches me staring, I can't help it, and the left side of her mouth moves up ever so slightly. If she'd let me, I would kiss that smirk right off her beautiful face.

I joke with her that we're married, we took the vow to join the Hunt together after all, and that she'll never be rid of me. I think she gets the idea of what I'm saying, and she just holds my chin in her fingers and looks at me for a while. It drives me mad. When the hell is she just gonna kiss me? When can I take her to the bed and do more than sleep? I want to see that stoic silent face scream for me. I wish I knew enough of her language to tell her how she makes me feel, I wish I could tell her how much I need her.

Sofia saved me again today. My angel and moon and stars. She was away from me for a moment, that's all it took, when that bastard Billy and his crew caught sight of me. Thought that they could get a taste right in the middle of the damn Hunt. I thought I could talk my way out of it like usual, but Billy is a special breed. Before I knew it, one of his friends had taken the stock of his Scottfield to the back of my head and my arms were pinned to the ground. I could barely make out anything in the black except for Billy getting on top of me. He had the butt of that gun to my neck, but then like an angel of death, she was right there behind him. Didn't even see her slice his greasy throat as I came to my senses and grabbed the Scottfield. The one who was holding my hands ran and I buried the muzzle of their gun deep down the throat of the last one alive. His eyes begged for mercy, but I granted him none.

That night by the campfire, I opened my arms to ask Sofia to let me hold her. I was shaken, out of anger, out of what could have been. She walked over to me and let me hold her. She was shaking too, for what reason I don't know why, but when she put her ear to my chest the shaking stopped. Maybe she needs me too.

Scottfield Model 3 Swift

SCOTTFIELD MODEL 3 SWIFT. (See also, SCOTTFIELD MODEL 3) The Scottfield Model 3 Swift is in effect a regular Scottfield Model 3 that takes advantage of a simple device with a great benefit. Said device, circular in form, can hold six rounds that can be released together once inserted into the exposed and fully emptied cylinder. This allows the wielder to spend less time and effort when reloading the gun even in quick succession.

Interview with George P. Tolsten.
Interviewer: Wayne Hardin
July 5, 1895

Hardin: Please state your full name and occupation for the record.

Tolsten: George Peter Tolsten, ranch hand.

Hardin: Thank you. Now, you told me you had information on the shootout that took place in Lower DeSalle last week, is that true?

Tolsten: Yessir, I was down by the Saloon when it happened.

Hardin: And why were you involved in the shootout?

Tolsten: Well, I just followed the boss, sir, the ranch owner, I swear. Told us we'd get double wage if we'd follow him. He'd been on edge since the murder near the Saloon, you know, after what happened to that Glover feller. Said they was looking for him too.

Hardin: Who did he think was looking for him?

Tolsten: I ain't sure, sir. Mayhaps one of them DeSalle boys, I reckoned. I'd heard they had a bone to pick with the boss, but... I don't know nothin' about that

Hardin: It doesn't matter, you're not here to tell me about your boss or his business

Tolsten: Yessir, the shooting. Was a real butchery, bullets flew like mosquitos in the bayous. In a minute, three of our men was lying dead on the dirt, them boys looked like strainers with all the bullet holes. I didn't move a limb, was scared; there's mouths I need to feed, sir, and I ain't got no reason to bite the dust soon, no I don't

Hardin: How many were they? How many men did you fight that day?

Tolsten: Yessir I did, one of'em was the whore the folks've been talkin bout, who gone missing not long ago. And the other... Lord, the other was a scary looking lady, seemed madder than a wet hen behind the veil she was wearing. When the boys were dead, the whore dragged the boss away, while the other approached the bodies holding a dark knife in her hand. She stabbed em in the eyes and carved something on their foreheads, whispering, then she licked the blade clean.

Special ammunition

Incendiary
RN: After the trial, the wife of one of the killers victims attempted to assassinate the defendant on the court steps. She'd selected incendiary ammunition for the job, reasoning that she'd wanted to burn a hole through him, and leave him no satisfying wounds.

Dumdum
RN: Hardin later noted more than half of the bullet wounds were especially unsightly, due to one of the two ladies using Dumdum ammo.

Full Metal Jacket
RN: From the police reports, their key identification of the killer was his use of distinctive full metal jacket slugs that didn't deform significantly after penetrating the body.

High Velocity
RN: Some writings note that Hardin was later seen working with the killers he was chasing. Was he always intending to recruit them? Or did his priorities simply change?

Sparks LRR

SPARKS LRR. (See also, RIFLE) The Sparks Long Range Rifle (LRR) is a long-bore single-shot long gun of exceptional range and with a reputation for being reliable, simple to use, powerful, robust, and accurate. During the War of the Rebellion, the Sparks LRR M74 model experienced incredible popularity thanks to these traits, and breech-loading percussion carbines of this model were used with success by the Union Army and Navy. Further to that, it was one of the earliest issued weapons to make use of cartridge ammunition. The LRR was the most common Sparks model, but its occasional designation as the 74 was incorrect, as it was actually produced in 1871.

Records, Louisiana State Asylum at Jackson
Handwritten notes
Author: Handwriting match for Philip Huff Jones
Undated

Candidates for immediate recruitment

Frank Fisher. Diagnosis: Delirium of Persecution. File notes: "lucid, but insists he is persecuted by spirits flying about his room and person, that they torment him."I suspect Mr. Fisher will be an easy recruit. However, if a demonic element has attached itself to him, I wonder whether he can be controlled. Finch.

Nellie Crown. Diagnosis: acute Religious Mania. Badly marked from small pox. Claims an Angel is in her; then it is a snake. And who is to say that she is not possessed by Angels or Snakes? I have seen leeches the size of a human head burrow into a man's skull. Much more is possible than our medical textbooks would admit. Possibly a previous initiate. Have others reacted poorly to the serum? Observation required.

Johathon Costello. He "imagines himself possessed by the voudous and is impertinent if one disbelieves him."He would not be the first to be sent to the asylum for speaking the truth. Finch

Fannie Camba. Insomniac, experiences violent rages daily at sunset. Properly directed, this rage could make of her a formidable hunter. (Infected?) With patient instruction, we will put her night-time energies to good use in the field. Finch.

Oliver Locke. Diagnosis: Religious Mania and Delirium of Persecution. Mr. Locke is "very ragged; he imagines himself persecuted by the so called voudous, who have placed snakes in his body."Such a common affliction in this city it would seem - and it is no coincidence that we see so many cases now, as the situation worsens Interview required. Finch.

Records, Louisiana State Asylum at Jackson
Handwritten notes, partial
Author: Unknown

Louisiana State Asylum at Jackson
Doctor's Memorandum - 27 June

14 asylum patients were brought to the infirmary at 4am this morning. 11 dead on arrival, 3 with extensive wounds died in the following 3 hours from internal bleeding. Cause of death: multiple gunshot wounds (rifle shot?), burns.

Patients brought to infirmary by Dr. Huff, who provided no details about what nightmare had transpired to deliver to us 14 corpses, all patients of Dr. Finch. Huff rushed back to the grounds. At the time, I assumed he was needed urgently elsewhere. However, he has continued to refuse to provide any information, telling me only to wait.

Why were the patients out of their rooms? How did they get past the night watch? Who shot them and why? Was Dr. Huff involved? These questions press upon me. This incident must be investigated, as it represents a failure of great magnitude on the part of our staff. I intend to report the matter to the police tomorrow should no further information be forthcoming

The patients in question are listed below, along with a description of their injuries.

Sparks LRR Silencer

SPARKS LRR SILENCER. (See also, SPARKS LRR) The Sparks LRR Silencer offers the sharpshooter convinced of subterfuge the ideal armament. The boom of shot and flash of muzzle are often recounted as the key giveaways to a sniper's position on the battlefield, which when identified are particularly vulnerable: while well camouflaged, the leafy bower as that which is favored as hide and vantage point offers little in the way of fortification under a barrage of targeted rifle fire. The fitting of a silencer, designed to effectively eliminate the flash and crack of firing, offers a sharpshooter some peace of mind, and the chance of getting of more shots before having to re-position.

Unpublished manuscript, "Bad As They Seem"
Author: Hayden Collins
Undated
Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

-25-
Voices spoke to each of them. Through the snakes. Through the cards. And through metal. Fin. Jos. Lynch. Three Hunters, three voices, and an uncountable trail of corpses behind them, leading up to this moment.

They stood in a circle, as was custom for such things, three points of a sacred triangle. They had stood in this sacred formation before, in friendship. Now they stood poised for attack.

Lynch knelt slowly, hands grubbing into the damp bayou soil, blackened fingernails breaking as they met stone, then metal, then flesh. She kept her eyes on the twins as her hands slowly, painfully, became the large claws of a bird. The claws scraped deeper, searching, digging. They met purchase, then, and pulled from the earth a man, held in her clutches like a doll, and seemingly dead.

She held the small man in her craven claws, muttering, and he opened his eyes and screamed in pain as his body slowly began to change. As his hands transformed into talons, Lynch regained her own hands. Feathers sprouted violently from his neck, as a beak forced its way through the skin of his lips, the only evidence that he had once been a man the blood smeared across them.

The bird screamed and flung itself into the air, letting gravity return it to its prey, claws outstretched and reaching for Jos' throat.

But as the bird descended, the ground between the twins began to shake and rupture as from its depths the thick muscled length of a giant snake flung itself into the air, intercepting the bird's murderous grasp. The two beasts crashed to the ground, snake wrapped around the bird's body, talons wrapped around the body of the snake.

Their strength was matched; however, inside the snake's gruesome bite waited a poison that would tip the balance. As the snake sunk its fangs into the bird's breast, it shrieked, shedding crimson feathers like tear drops, shrinking as it did, until it lay on the ground, a lifeless ragged little doll man once more

Sparks LRR Sniper

SPARKS LRR SNIPER. (See also, RIFLE, SHARPSHOOTER, SPARKS LRR)The characteristics for which other Sparks rifles are known are also evident in the manufacturer's sniper model. That is to say, it is an easy-to- handle, long-range, single-shot rifle of reliable, powerful, and robust design. Particularly suited to hunters of large game, the Sparks LRR Sniper could take down a beast of considerable size, such as a lion or an elephant, at a distance of up to one kilometer. In the United States, it has proven well-suited to the buffalo hunt. Should you, however, be unfamiliar with the particulars of the power necessary to overpower quarry of this size, I offer a second comparison. With the regulation charge of powder, the LRR Sniper propelled a bullet through 33 half-inch elm planks, and the missile was then only stopped by a 34th panel of solid oak

Correspondence, Philip Huff Jones
Typewritten, carbon copy

June 29, 1895
Father,

Victor Caldwell has failed us. That onion-eyed rump-fed miscreant! I will wring the man's neck who recommended him; surely he must have known the nature of the Caldwell's character? He has destroyed all we have so carefully built. May he burn in hell. Ha! I suppose I have my wish already.

Caldwell arrived on Wednesday evening, and though tired from the week-long journey from Connecticut, was eager to see one of our "home-grown" Louisiana monsters. It took a good deal of persuasion to convince him he would not be best served to hunt in a state of exhaustion.

Oddly, he had with him a Sparks! "Researching the competition,"he told me as he displayed its fine form over breakfast the following morning. It is a firearm with exceptional range, which we would see demonstrated in the most horrifying manner that evening. We were on the grounds with Finch's 14. I spoke of our plans when he suddenly became agitated, and disappeared, and they are all dead. He found a sniper's perch and picked them off, one by one. He must have had a number of weapons on him, perhaps a scope. I could not move quickly enough to his location. Eleven died where they fell, 3 more did not survive being moved to the infirmary. He is an excellent shot.

Having destroyed our humble army - easy, unarmed targets as they were - he disappeared. However, the fire in the armory shed last night tells me he is not gone. I must speak to the staff now, they are already beginning to ask uncomfortable questions, and then there is the matter of Lynch. But that is subject for another letter.

p.

Sparks Pistol

SPARKS PISTOL. (See also, SPARKS LRR) Essentially a Sparks LRR with a sawn-off barrel and stock removed, the Sparks Pistol is famous for delivering shots as powerful as its rifle counterpart. It makes use of the single-shot, rolling-block action that the Sparks LRR is famous for, and fires high caliber rifle cartridges. Though equally powerful and deadly over short to medium ranges, its shortened barrel makes it less effective over longer distances than the original rifle, and since there is no stock to absorb the kickback, each shot delivers a stronger recoil

Sensitive information on Pelican Island Priso
Envelope addressed to the Wichard & Cohle Detective Agency
Return address: Blank
Contents: One letter, three pieces of torn paper
Processed by the Department of Police on June 3rd, 1896
Handwritten letter, 5.5" x 8.5"

To the fine detectives of the city of New York,

The documents I entrust into your care were not acquired through legal means. I admit this free of shame, for nothing in this investigation has been just or right, and I am certain this information will be of better use in your capable hands.

I see the vultures pushing you for swift results, ready to claim your work as their public victory. I beg you to remember your duty is not to the politicians but to the victims that cannot speak for themselves and the families who will not rest without answers.

While the angry mob cares only for a name to carry the blame, bear in mind the many other names you must honor. Each life lost in this tragedy deserves justice, even if their stories can't fit into a simple narrative.

Sincerely,
Someone looking for peace

Torn paper, handwritten, 2" x 3".

All tha time, feedin Theo like a pig for slauter. Chummin up to the poor coot til he lost his wits bout him. Boy still smeld like his mommas milk. Coulda been sumeone, coulda have a family. Instead tha bastard blew his face rite off with his fancy pistol

May he die chokin on a rusty nail.

Torn paper, handwritten, 3.5" x 3.1"

he came back alive and they shot him anyway he came back alive and they shot him anyway he came back alive and they shot him anyway he came back alive and they shot him anyway he came back alive and they shot him

Torn paper, handwritten, 2.5" x 4"

They gon try to put lies in my head but they cant erase what I seen. That basement took many lives but not his. That boy died right here and they cant wash his insides from the walls.

When the devil comes for the warden, he gon pay, but not for this. No, this sin belongs to Curtis Grey.

Special ammunition

Incendiary
RN: It stands as both a testament to and failure of Huff's character that he kept such extensive records of the AHA during his tenure. We have almost a complete picture of his behavior across personal notes, letters, and Journals. Of course, what's far more interesting, and likely damning, is what he wasn't writing down.

Poison
RN: Huff's competency was lacking. He was a reasonably proficient doctor, but his moral code non-existent. His handling of the situation lurched from treating it as nigh on inconsequential, to the greatest crisis to face humanity to which he was the sole defense and counterforce.

Full Metal Jacket
RN: The more I look over Huff's accounts, the more I realize that nothing the man put to paper can be trusted. His patients deaths have long nagged at my conscience. Discovering more about this Henry Monroe is of paramount importance.

Specter 1882

SPECTER 1882. (See also, SHOTGUN, SPECTER ARMS CO.) The Specter was the very first bottom-loading, pump- action shotgun. It was named not for its stealth, as would be a misnomer, but for the man who invented it. Marlin Specter was a successful engineer and inventor. To his name are accredited the inventions of the first automatic lathe, an innovative sewing machine, and a steam-powered carriage. However, his passion always lay in firearms, having learned the trade while working for Caldwell. His success with repeating rifles led him to create the Specter Repeating Rifle Co., which then became the Specter Arms Company in 1882, producer of the Specter shotgun.

The Specter 1882 was a very popular shotgun and was manufactured from 1882 to 1890. It uses a slide mechanism that loads shells from a tube-shaped magazine. The pump removes a shell from the magazine and inserts it into the chamber. Empty shells are ejected from the top of the receiver. However, it is difficult to reload while cartridges remain in the magazine - ideally all five shots must be spent before reloading. Because the barrel has no rifling, its accuracy is sub-par, its range medium, and its recoil strong

Journal of William Salter
Severe water damage, reconstructed by archivist
Unlined paper, 3x5 in.
2/10

Must be June still. Near July. Don't know the date. Been in this cabin for a couple of weeks now at least. Lose track of time easy. When did I leave the asylum? Made the mistake of reading more of Huff's papers.

Should have burned them. The nightmares come during the daytime now. Nightmares about what I've read. Nightmares about what I've seen. About whatever it was Huff injected me with. I found my own file, and I barely recognize the man they describe: dysphoric mood, aggression, grandiose behavior, violent, and they even purport to know the nature of my familial relationships!

So many lies. If they knew the first thing of my family, they would be afraid, afraid that Charlie heard I was held. I feel sad to think of all the lies, lined up so neatly in the doctors reports. What they would have done to me if I hadn't run?

Yes, I admit there have been episodes. I regret the yelling and carrying on that got me taken in, but it doesn't make me wrong or violent or crazy. Beef wilted malt worms! I am heir to a FORTUNE! I am assembling an army to defeat the forces of DARKNESS! What do these doctors know about it? Angry again. That anger-heat rises to my face same way as drink. Walking should set me right. Then it's back to work. Focus, Salter, FOCUS. Ws

Journal of William Salter
Severe water damage, reconstructed by archivist
Unlined paper, 3x5 in.
3/10

Mr. Trevors has refused to sell me ammunition on credit! He is infuriating, but no dullard, and I will admit he was correct - I had no intention of returning to pay my bill. But I know how to earn money quickly, and in my desperate state I fell back on what I know. What matter if heaven or hell awaits me? The gates of hell open into this world now, and vomit forth their grisly ilk be we sinners or saints.

But I appear to have offended Trevors greatly in both my appearance and the passion of my response, and even when I returned with the proper funds he turned me away. Perhaps he suspected my sudden change of fortune was not wholly honorable. Perhaps he is an elf-skinned pignut. I suppose only his wife will ever know.

With no further recourse, I used the last of my funds to place an order with Roebuck for the necessary ammunition. This will delay my progress, but I have mastered the assembly of the Specter, and with nothing to do but wait, my mind begins to wander. I dream of bullets penetrating flesh, but in these daydreams it is not a creature I hunt, but Philip Huff. ws

Specter 1882 Compact

SPECTER 1882 COMPACT. (See also, SAWN-OFF SHOTGUNS) Following the breakdown of the United States Army contract, Merlin Specter pursued other avenues to profit from his invention. Observing the popularity of sawn-off shotguns throughout the commercial market, as well as among law enforcement in the growing cities, he worked on a compact adaption of the Specter 1882. Originally the idea of shortening the pump action was also toyed with, though in the end this proved to be unfeasible. Instead, the barrel and stock were simply shortened and removed, respectively. Following this, trials proved that the action was awkward to work without reinforcing the butt of the shotgun against the shoulder. To compensate for this, anyone issued these firearms in the field added an improvised fingertip.

Journal of William Salter
Severe water damage, reconstructed by archivist
Unlined paper, 3x5 in.
4/10

june ?

The swamp reeks. More nightmares, and a waking hell around me when my eyes are open. First noticed walking home from Trevor's. It was a smell like rotting flesh, and the people hollow sacks of meat and blood, already rotting, already rotten. I walked down the street as if among corpses. Is this how it begins? I have been in this cabin too long, out among the flies. ws

june ?
My skin crawls; my heart races. I fear to open the door or near the window. I was woken by a knock at the door late last night, or so I believe. I am ashamed to admit that I cowered beside my cot, praying only that the intruder would depart. The knocking grew louder, and I resolved to get my revolver, which I had left on the small table near both door and window. Fearing that any sign of my presence would attract further unwanted attentions, I stayed low to the ground, crawling across the wooden floorboards. As I reached the table, the knocking stopped. So suddenly it stopped! The silence was immediate. I heard no footsteps on the veranda and could find no proof that anyone, or anything, had neared the cabin. The forest was still. I begin, not for the first time, to wonder if the doctors were correct in their assessment of the state of my mind. ws

Specter 1882 Bayonet

SPECTER 1882 BAYONET. (See also, SPECTER 1882) Impressed with the high rate of fire enabled by this pump- action shotgun, the United States Army made a tentative order of Specter 1882s in 1884. However, this order came with several conditions. Concerned that the pump action was not properly field tested, they requested that their order was made additionally sturdy and with a bayonet attachment. Marlin Specter took offence at this, and initially refused to fulfill the order. In a letter to his factory foreman, he described the request as "ludicrous,"and stated that the Specter was already the most effective short-range firearm available. Attaching a bayonet was a completely unnecessary addition, akin to "pulling a train with a horse."Once this letter had circulated, he nevertheless chose to fulfill the order. It was rumored that his thumb had covered a zero digit on the original purchase order, and in fact the payment offered would have been more than satisfactory. Shortly after delivering all 500 shotguns, a copy of the letter made its way into the hands of the General who had signed the purchase order. This ensured no further business was offered to Specter.

Journal of William Salter
Severe water damage, reconstructed by archivist
Unlined paper, 3x5 in.
5/10

It happened again today. I awoke in the forest, with no memory of how I had come to be in that place. There were bits of fur around my mouth, blood stains down my shirt. My knife still untouched on my belt. The taste of blood was in my mouth - there was blood in my mouth- and I was both enthralled and disgusted. I licked it from my lips, first thrilled, then needing to vomit. I walked for several hours before I found the cabin. The last thing I remember is setting out for town yesterday evening, hoping to obtain credit from the butcher for some meat - though I knew my chances were grim. I look a sight - the sores fester - and with no money to speak of. I thought, perhaps, I could sell the pistol, or make a trade. I am constantly hungry, but find no fullness in the small game I catch in the forest. I do not know the day, though it must by now be July. ws

Special ammunition

Flechette
RN: Salter's transformation was one of the slowest. We suppose that this was due to his long having lived in the area, that somehow it had granted him some kind of immunity. Note, this immunity was only enough to stretch the process from days to weeks, its end nevertheless inevitable.

Dragon breath
RN: Like so much else that was lost, studying his physiology would greatly enhance our capability to fight the Sculptor, should we become aware of it again. In my weaker moments I find myself wishing it would show itself to us once again...

Penny Shot
RN: Did Monroe know of Salter when he made his break? Unlikely. He never looked for him. But would I look for someone I'd been committed with? Perhaps they avoided each other. It's certain that Monroe didn't meet the same grizzly fate, but his success never quite outstripped his reputation.

Slug
RN: We tried to trace the journal Salter must have taken from the asylum, but the task was impossible. His scant description of the landscape matched nothing that we could find.

Springfield 1866

SPRINGFIELD 1866. (See also, RIFLE) A breech-loading rifle bearing an extractor and .50-70 caliber centerfire cartridge, the Springfield 1866 was oft praised for its rapid rate of fire. The design originated when the army modernized many thousands of Civil War-era muskets for the use of American soldiers, a highly pragmatic step in the evolution of the weapon.

The Springfield's speed and efficacy was particularly notable in several battles between U.S. soldiers and the Lakota, Northern Cheyenne, and Northern Arapaho tribes during Red Cloud's War, when a small number of U.S troops armed with Springfield 1866 rifles were able to defeat a large attacking force with few casualties. However, it was sometimes criticized for its weaker extractor mechanism.

Letter found in the possession of -REDACTED-
Undated
1/6

Got some answers for you today. Writing it down for you now before I forget any of the details, though I won't get to post it until next week.

Was camped last night with Thomas and playing it low. Some people just like to hear their own lips flapping. Don't need any encouragement but silence. So we're sitting around the fire and he starts up. Told the whole story about the brothers.

"We weren't always allowed to hunt in threes you know. That was all thanks to those brothers."Our own third was asleep already.

"Which brothers?" asked him, knowing damn well which brothers

"You never heard the story?"He paused to spit into the fire. Settled himself into his seat to tell the tale. Didn't even let me answer before he started talking again.

"It was always two before. Two hunters per contract. I don't know why. It was just what you did. You could hunt alone too, sure, if you had a death wish. Still can. But two was the usual number. Only one person to trust, and if you could trust them, you had an extra set of eyes on your back. Got to be a lot of superstitions about why it was that way. There was all that talk about the oath of two, and mirrors, and some sort of curse, and then that story about the twins. Well. I don't know what was true and what was tale, but it just wasn't done. Then these three show up and just ignore the rule. Just started hunting together."

He stopped speaking to stare into the fire, remembering and silent and eyes far away.

"They did alright at first. Pulled off more than a few successful contracts. Made more than a few enemies. People thought it was unfair, but most were too superstitious about the number three to do the same. Thought something might happen to them if they did. Rightly so, as it turned out. Whatever those brothers unleashed, they took the brunt of it, and we've been able to hunt in threes since. They were ripe for the asylum by the end of it, too. Before the end one of them bought a horse and painted the damn thing green. Said it was for good luck."

He paused, shaking his head at the memory.

Letter found in the possession of -REDACTED-
Undated
2/6

Up to that point in the story I hadn't said a thing. Everybody had heard about the green horse. Subtle as a dead pig. Horse even seemed immune, and I've told you what all the other horses around here look like; half dead and moaning and screaming, drawing those nightmare creatures right to you soon as they get going. Maybe it was magic, what do I know. Ha! Oh you know I don't mean it. know there's a sight of strangeness in this world, but there isn't any magic. If there was we wouldn't be in the mess

Thomas was clearly enjoying himself in the telling. That damn bear face perched on his head like a hat. I could have punched him. Instead I asked him to tell me more about the others, get him talking again. He says,

"Those three couldn't have been more different. The one with the horse was a crack shot, favored an old army- issue Springfield trapdoor. Could shoot the vest off a minister. The tall one, he was a good hunter. Told a good tale and stayed away from the bottle. Wouldn't trust him with my mother's life, but as far as hunters go he was what passes for good stock among us."

He paused to take a long sip from the bottle he'd been cradling in his lap. Guess he didn't think that much of sobriety after all. Didn't offer me a damn drop. I was getting impatient, but he got back to it soon enough.

"Third brother was a gambler. Lost ten dollars to him at cards once while the others just looked on and laughed. He didn't need it, but he took it from me all the same. But that was before things got really bad. Weren't nobody laughing by the end of it, nope. Not even about the green horse."

Springfield 1866 Marksman

SPRINGFIELD 1866 MARKSMAN. (See also, RIFLES) The original Springfield 1866 is a breech-loading rifle bearing an extractor and .50-70 caliber centerfire cartridge. The marksman model of this rifle adds a scope to the original design, making it more useful for long-range shots.

Letter found in the possession of -REDACTED-
Undated
4/6

He pulled the bear head lower over his face, as if it could protect him from the memory. We sat in silence a while. 1 thought he'd fallen asleep and was thinking to do the same when he started to whisper.

"Light the shadow though dark my way, light the shadow, light the shadow."That's what I think he was muttering at least. There was more - couldn't make out all he was saying. Maybe some kind of prayer. Maybe some kind of curse. I grabbed the bottle out of his hand finally, wanting a taste myself, and losing hold of that bottle shook him right out of it. Hell-bound sot.

"The others kept right on hunting, and it seemed like nothing else was going to happen. They always took a third, to fill in for the brother. And the third died, more often than not. They went through a lot of them, but they were piling up the bounties, and it started to seem like those two couldn't be killed. Not many would go near them after that. Figured them for cursed, and you didn't know if it was the kind of curse that might end up on your own head if you got too close. But some were saying the oath had been broken. A sacrifice had been made, and now three could hunt. Hard to say for sure. You ask me though, it happened later. You ask me, it wasn't just possible cause the brother'd died, it was possible because their third always died.

"They started to get this look about them. Wild-like. Dangerous. Less human. You'd think with what we have to deal with out in those swamps, Hunters wouldn't be so easy to trick into seeing monsters in every shadowed corner. But it's the other way around. After you see those things in the swamps you start seeing them everywhere."

Springfield 1866 Compact

SPRINGFIELD 1866 COMPACT. (See also, RIFLES) The original Springfield 1866 is a breech-loading rifle bearing an extractor and .50-70 caliber centerfire cartridge. The compact model of this rifle has a shortened barrel and sawn-off stock, making it more weildly at the expense of accuracy and range.

Letter found in the possession of -REDACTED-
Undated
3/6

"That damn green horse wasn't so funny anymore when it had its intestines wrapped around its neck. The green paint and all that red blood - looked like the Devil's Christmas tree. Horrible sight to see and the body of the brother it belonged to tied to its back with the rest of the entrails. Hard to say what killed either of them. Don't think it could have been human, but it didn't look like what those other creatures do to the hunters out in the swamps. And I know because I found him myself.

Thomas stopped and took another long drink, just muttering to himself. Had to nudge him out of it with a tap of my boot. He didn't look so happy anymore to be telling the tale. The look in his eyes is what made me believe him. Not easy to fake, that haunted look. Then he says,

"Horse looked like it was no more than a sack of skin, barely hurt otherwise. Man looked like he'd been through the thresher. Most of his clothes had been torn away, and he was all blue and purple with bruises, and covered with a thousand tiny cuts. Body was recognizable, but there wasn't much left of his face. Limbs were hanging off all wrong. My partner and I'd found him out by the edge of the tree line and called in the other two brothers quick. They didn't show much of a reaction, just looked at each other for a long time, and nodded, and then sent us off for shovels. They buried him right there. Him and the horse. They were pretty upset that his rifle was gone, the Springfield, but I would've been more upset about his face being gone, it were my brother."

Springfield 1866 Compact Striker

SPRINGFIELD 1866 COMPACT STRIKER. (See also, RIFLES) The original Springfield 1866 is a breech-loading rifle bearing an extractor and .50-70 caliber centerfire cartridge. As is the case with most weapons referred to as compact, the barrel has been shortened to make it easier to carry and handle. The addition of a knife to the firearm in place of a bayonet began as a field modification, but became popular enough as to have been imitated during the weapon's production. This knife can be used to great effect both in light and heavy melee combat situations, and its reputation as a reliable striking instrument gave it its name.

Letter found in the possession of -REDACTED-
Undated
5/6

His eyes were wild and getting wilder now as he spoke, his words coming faster.

"I shouldn't have gotten mixed up with them I know, I know it now and I knew it then, but I was desperate, and then got word back from Colorado that the ranch had burned and Lorie and Janice were gone to Jesus and well about then I started to feel like nothing much I did mattered any more, like I might as well make a deal with the devil, if it would keep me in drink. If it could help me forget."

I asked him what the hell he was on about, what the hell he thought was so bad he regretted it any more than all the rest. I've seen him take the lives of a dozen hunters and ask about dinner after. He's calm and he gets the job done and he doesn't have an emotion on him. Now he was coming apart right in front of me. I guess the confessional will do that to you. I don't envy those priests their jobs any.

"I took a job with the brothers! Not to hunt with them - otherwise I wouldn't be here talking to you, none of their thirds ever survived, see? - but I did other jobs for them. I didn't care that there might be a curse or that they were looking stranger and stranger. I didn't care what anybody had to say about it. They were offering a hell of a lot of bonds for the work, and my people were dead. What I've seen in the swamps is unnatural, but what I saw those two do was worse."

I leaned in close then, nodding. Hoping he'd keep it together long enough to confirm whether the rumors we'd heard are true. When he finally looked up and started to talk I barely recognized him, his face was twisted up with desperation and regret.

Our sleeping companion's snores stopped of a sudden, and he yelped, groaned, and rolled over. I wondered what we would see if we could step into his dreams.

Springfield 1866 Compact Deadeye

SPRINGFIELD 1866 COMPACT DEADEYE. (See also, RIFLES) The original Springfield 1866 is a breech-loading rifle bearing an extractor and .50-70 caliber centerfire cartridge. This model both shortens the barrel and adds a scope to the original design, making it an easy-to-carry sniper's fire arm, favored by game hunters who prefer to travel light.

Letter found in the possession of -REDACTED-
Undated
6/6

Turns out we were wrong about them having killed each other. Turned out we were wrong about a lot of things

Then he tells me, "They were the ones did that to the brother and the horse. That damn green horse."He started to really cry, then

Took a lot of encouragement and two more bottles to get the rest of the story out of him. He was incoherent for a while and then all of a sudden he just snapped out of it, like the guy who'd been sitting there crying had left and been replaced with somebody else. Couldn't rightly say if it was the same man sitting there in front of me. Same man I've been hunting with, sure, but not the same man who'd just been crying over a dead horse. His confession came pouring out all at once, barely a breath between words.

"They didn't say it straight out, but I helped them do it to others. Every third. Every single third! Said they were trying to break the oath. But it didn't make any sense. They must have wanted something more than to be able to hunt with three men together to do what they did to their brother, and the others, but they never told me just what it was. Every time was worse than the last. I started to think they weren't even human, couldn't be human. Don't rightly know if I'm human anymore, after the things they asked me to do. Worst thing is, I did it willingly."

According to Thomas, it went like this. Those brothers were asking him to do stranger and stranger things, and he didn't mind, for a while. They kept him in drink, and the drink kept the memories away. Then there was the incident with the Springfield and the mayor that you told me about.

Then he goes to visit them in their rooms one day, and the place was piled with mutilated corpses - right up to the damn ceiling! - cards scattered everywhere, and that drunk Rodgers among the dead, and those two brothers just sitting at there talking. Thomas must've had a soft spot for Rodgers. It's always something that seems small that sends a man over the edge, but really it's just the last thing atop a huge steaming heap of dung. Been so drunk himself at the time, though, he hadn't run right out. Had stood there wondering if his drink'd been poisoned and he was having visions. Has stood there wondering if hewas the one'd lost his mind. Says he doesn't remember much more about the night, but in the morning he left for New Orleans.

He says he thinks they're still hunting - must be if the oath of three still holds - but I wouldn't take his word for it. I don't think this explains jack about why the trinities suddenly got going without a hitch, but there you have it. The whole tale. Might find some answers in there, you look for them hard enough.

Springfield 1866 Bayonet

SPRINGFIELD 1866 BAYONET (See also, RIFLES) A breech-loading rifle bearing an extractor and .50-70 caliber centerfire cartridge, the Springfield 1866 became a truly well-rounded weapon with the addition of a bayonet. Combining the rifle's rate of fire with a close-quarters bayonet allowed the Springfield to paint a bloody swathe through the continent's history.

Letter, final page, though preceding pages are unaccounted for
Letter found in the possession of -REDACTED-
Undated

The number of folk willing to discuss the matter is dwindling, which means extra care needs to be taken in studying this account.

It also means my rates are doubled.

Gentleman, lover, and warriors how Billy introduced himself, before delaying his story to ask a passing escort if she'd like to pay him for sex. She moved on and tried to make as little eye contact as possible.

Tried to recruit me so they did, after the incident with the horse. I was sitting right at that table over yonder, and they walked in that very door. Place went dead quiet, 'cept for me and the lady nibblin' my ear. I'm usually very attentive you understand, but that dame had a way with words! His uproarious laughter was not shared. No, first thing I noticed was two Springfield rifles in me face: one shortened with a gnarled knife affixed, another with a full blood-rusted bayonet.

That detail struck me, as it matched other stories I'd accrued. Perhaps this buffoon spoke with some credibility after all.

So I orders another drink, as is my right, and I size 'em up. For all the tales, they're not much to look at. A charismatic chuckle wormed its way from his mouth, but I'd heard many a story, and I've heard this man's true laugh just before. That chuckle was haunted.

They tell me I can either come with them dead or alive and...well, as you can see, I didn't go dead. Matter of fact, someone hands me my fresh drink. I finally broke their eye contact so I can hoist that beauty to me lips. I swig the drink in one gulp and draw my pistol quicker than they can see, then fire it quicker than they can react.

He wove a striking story, but it was once again interrupted by an attempt to seduce another working lady. She elbowed him with a movement perfectly honed to look like an accident, and it was too late in the night for him to notice anyway. I'd thought it was difficult to witness Thomas be made a blubbering mess by his memory of the brothers, but it turned my stomach thrice as much to watch Billy weave a relaxed, practiced tale just to hide that same, ruinous terror.

Special ammunition

Dumdum
RN: Thomas Bridges was known as a teller of tall tales, most based on his life. Out on the mountain, there isn't much else to do but spin yarn. But The Three Brothers has more of the qualities of a fable, or allegory. Perhaps set around the time most started to hunt in threes.

Poison
RN: Bridge seemed to know the brothers intimately, be at their beck and call. Hardly the gruff man from the mountains, but much more vulnerable here. Was it really Bridgers, or was this a version of the man poisoned by the bayou?

Explosive
RN: Perhaps a testament to its truthfulness is the way in which Bridge has inserted himself into the tale. He seems a scared bystander, out of his depth. Unusual for a man who claimed to have walked the depths of Crater Lake (some 1900 feet).

High Velocity
RN: The different pictures Billy and Thomas paint of the same people are strikingly at odds. While Thomas reveals much about the brothers, Billy appears keen to unveil only more of himself.

Springfield M1892 Krag

SPRINGFIELD M1892 KRAG (See also, RIFLES) The Springfield M1892 Krag is a repeating bolt-action rifle that is known for its smooth and easy-to-use bolt action, as well as for its magazine, which was considered both an advantage and a disadvantage. Although most other contemporary rifles featured a top-loading magazine that allowed for the use of stripper clips, the receiver positioned on the side of Springfield M1892 Krags required the cartridges to be loaded individually.

In 1892, the U.S. military held a competition to compare more than fifty renowned rifles used around the globe, after which they adopted the Springfield M1892 Krag. Despite its unconventional receiver, the flexibility it offered in terms of reloading made this a great service rifle for the army. The U.S. Military then modified the rifle and its components for .30-40 Krag cartridges, which were the first smokeless powder cartridges issued by the army to that date.

Reports on the Pelican Island Prison Incident
Content: Pages Recovered from Jack Marwick's Journal
Handwritten, 4 x 6
Severely damaged, almost indecipherable

August 9,1894

We arrived at DeSalle last night, or in the morning, I can t remember, nor do I want to. We noticed armed men and women moving in mud carefully, looking for something or someone. I ordered Candice to be quiet, it was her first encounter with the outlaws of Louisiana. We didn't know what to expect, but I must admit, she's a natural. It felt as if I was the one following her lead. It wasn't long before the crackle of gunfire filled the night. One of them landing face down on a porch, others shooting at someone hiding behind an overthrown cart. Before they could even realize our presence, Candice fired, and another one hit the mud. I shot then too. It was quick, and as we approached the bodies of the outlaws, whoever was hiding behind the cart came out. A sheriff, name is Hardin, a tough feller, and smart smart enough to see through someone, and we hated each other at first sight. But now he owes us. I reckon he will be a very resourceful ally, if we play our cards right

TEXT INDECIPHERABLE

August 22,1894

The prisoners are eager to tear Jabez apart. That half-wit Curtis let that prisoner take his pistol, let him blow his brains out. Now prisoners think Curtis killed him. And that narcissistic pinhead is still in the basement, dumping corpses into the sewers as if nothing is going on. I told him if anyone came near the prison they'd notice the smell first, and soon Hardin and Candice would come knocking.

I will warn the guards about a potential riot; hopefully, I'm wrong for once in my life, and we don t have to dump even more bodies into the sewers.

August 23,1894

Those savages hung Curtis. They took him to the courtyard with a rope, tied it around his neck, and threw him over the railings. He didn't even fight back. Poor bastard must have thought he had deserved this. But no one deserves to be left hanging over a cursed prison courtyard.

This is not good. I managed to cover Jabez's filth till now; despite his arrogance, despite the letters from New York. But not even I can cover this up, it's done, and the bastard is gone. My fortune is lost before I earned it.

Damn this place and him, wherever in Hell he is hiding now. If anyone finds this journal, let everyone know that

TEXT INDECIPHERABLE

Records, Pelican Island Prison
Handwritten letter found abandoned outside the prison
Author: Handwriting match for Solomon Jabez

Date: August 23, 1894
To Dr. Philip Huff Jones,

I write this in haste in the early hours of the morning. Pelican Island has been compromised and lost to the inmates. These fools do not realize that they were the foundation of scientific breakthroughs that would revolutionize the world. Will some of them die in that pursuit? Will some of them experience pain and discomfort? Of course, but their contributions would have been essential to stop whatever is happening in Louisiana.

It seems that the death of No. 47 was a major factor in breaking the ego dissolution I had so carefully crafted at this site. It almost happened too quickly to comprehend; we were fetching another inmate for conditioning when he became irrational. They've somehow been plotting, and before any of my men could organize themselves the inmate meant for conditioning had beat Smith's face in with a Krag. It was chaos after that.

I am about to leave the prison, and if I have to go via the sewers and use every failed experiment as a steppingstone, so be it. The site is compromised, and I will not sacrifice my life for things who don't know their place. Let them rebel and "take" their freedom. What awaits them outside these walls is a hell we were trying to prepare them for. No matter, let them bleed out in the mud. We can always try again.

I will write again when I am back in a secure location, then we can further discuss next steps.

Springfield M1892 Krag Bayonet

SPRINGFIELD M1892 KRAG BAYONET (See also, RIFLES) The Springfield M1892 Krag is a repeating bolt-action rifle with a side-loading magazine. To combine the modern magazine with a classical bayonet was an obvious but exceptionally effective evolution, as it made for a fast-loading rifle that could fend off nearby attackers easily

Records, Pelican Island Prison
Handwritten paper found abandoned outside the prison
Author: Unknown

I have done my duty. Now I can only pray a Rosary for the safe escape of Doctor Jabez, that he may send swift help from his many allies.

As for myself, time runs short. My only salvation is the incompetence of these brigands revolt. Unsurprisingly, these inmates cannot even riot properly. They lined my fellow guards up against a wall and demanded I transcribe their painful desecration of a court trial, but I will not participate in their mockery. Even if any of these wretches ever had the capacity to read, I imagine it was lost long ago.

I am proven astute by watching them attempt to load pistol ammunition into their Springfields. Perhaps I could feel sorry for the poor souls if they weren't planning to bury the bullets in mine and my friends skulls. As I write, I see the fear in the eyes of those noble, loyal friends. Then I turn to see madness in the eyes of those we sheltered -- madness that can only be sated with blood. I fear they shall find a most excruciating alternative method of execution.

The Lord will deliver us, however. I have fed my family and guarded this honorable institution. Our blessed work here has helped so many, and I have protected these inmates from a far worse fate. Heaven knows what sad havoc they would wreak if given freedom. One of them now affixes a knife to their rifle. A crude bayonet, and all the more painful for it. But my hands do God's work, and He shall protect His flock.

This is not my final Amen.

Springfield M1892 Krag Sniper

SPRINGFIELD M1892 KRAG SNIPER (See also, RIFLES) Thanks to its side-loading magazine, the effectiveness of the original Springfield M1892 Krag was unquestionable, and was only enhanced with the addition of a sniper scope attached to its barrel. The fast reloading combined with long-range efficiency made this rifle a great choice for those who prefer to stay out of sight and range of their prey.

Journal page found in the woods near Scupper Lake
Handwritten, torn, water damaged
Author unknown

May 4, 1895

Haven't had any luck hunting. I hear gunshots every second. Other hunters, I reckoned at first. Then I saw a man blast another's head with a shotgun. I retched at the sight, and when I looked again, the man was gone, leaving the corpse behind. I'm not sure if I'll ever find game here. It's getting dark. I will wait for a quiet moment and escape. Should've listened to Ma.

May 5, 1895

Lord, this place is cursed, I shouldn't have come here. I wish I could forget last night.

I was scanning the riverbank through the scope of my Krag when I spotted two old ladies with hunched backs dragging a wheelbarrow. Their long, grey hair reached their knees, and their faces were hidden under the hoods of their dark gowns. The wheel squeaked in the quiet of the night. When I noticed what they were carrying in the bed of their wheelbarrow, it terrified me. There were human limbs, split heads, innards cut into smaller pieces. I remembered the butcher's story of two old women asking for discarded meat to feed gators, back in the day. The women slowly approached the man that got killed yesterday. I shivered as they severed his limbs, putting the pieces into the wheelbarrow. After, they moved to the edge of the river, where the water started bubbling. Then they threw the pieces in while they sang an off-key lullaby. The water started moving even more aggressively under the floating meat. Maggot-like creatures emerged. In only a few seconds, the surface of the river was covered with bright red foam.

Special ammunition

Incendiary
RN: The more that comes to light about the prison, what goes on there, the more it begs the question: were the perpetrators under a malign influence, or did they create one? Could it have been that in their experiments, they Ignited something they couldn't put out?

Full Metal Jacket
RN: With how things transpired here, it's no wonder that so little of what happened here ever came to light - that the cover-up worked. The corruption was not just of the body, but of the spirit. Virtues and values would be strewn like autumn leaves in the wind. Lead investigators turned collaborators.

Vetterli 71 Karabiner

VETTERLI 71 KARABINER. (See also, RIFLES) The Swiss Army adopted the Vetterli rifle in 1868. At the time, it was the most advanced rifle in use by a European nation. Its designer, Johann-Friedrich Vetterli, combined the tubular magazine of the Winfield M1866 with a bolt-action receiver, introduced by the Dreyse needle gun. This gave it a tremendous rate of fire. A couple of years later, and after a few improvements to the original design, the M1871 Karabiner was developed. A shortened variant of the original rifle, it was intended for use by cavalry. Due to the neutrality of Switzerland during the period, particularly the Franco-Prussian war, the rifle was seldom used in combat, until it was phased out in 1891. It was sold on the market to various entities, proving popular thanks to its powerful design. Of note, it saw extensive use by the Boers in the first and second Boer wars.

Interview with Leander Coetzee
Interviewer: AHA member
Date: Redacted
Typewritten, questions omitted (...), 8.5in x 11in
1/4

FORM C - TEXT OF INTERVIEW
STATE Louisiana
NAME OF WORKER Leander Coetzee
ADDRESS None Available
SUBJECT A Boer In New Orleans

My father said we had pioneer blood. Strong and bold. But there was something of the land in me, too. Maybe that's what pioneer blood needed. When you live on the edge of the civilized world, you don't have the time to worry about sophistication. I didn't feel I was on the edge of the world though. Between two, maybe. My fathers, and my mothers. It wasn't until we fought for independence I saw it run.

Acacia's in bloom meant Spring and this Spring we were headed to war. A fine Swiss rifle had bought. A Vetterli. Bolt actions outpace the most disciplined breach shooter, and can be fired from prone rather than standing. We ambushed redcoats, the ground hiding us, devastating them as they tried to form into rank and files lines. Bloody fools. Bright coats are easy targets. Bullets hitting rock, scrub, and bodies. An easy war.

Since, the Uitlanders were still settling my father opposed Kruger's policies. Seemed another war was inevitable I had no politics. My trade had become hunting. Big game hunting. The British were often my clients, on their safaris. War would make me poor. And I spilt blood for the republic once. I still have the bayonet wound in my shoulder. I have no love left for the frontier.

We call it the trekgees. The desire to wander. I sold my farm, my arms, and headed to Port Elizabeth to find passage. I arrived here with little but my Vetterli and a Nitro Express. New Orleans was a wonder, the first time. Streets lined with endless terraces, wide verandas, swarming with society types. Left a sour taste in my mouth. I wanted to head westwards, but needed to scrape together some money first. I sold the Nitro for a few dollars, but couldn't part with the war rifle.

It took me an afternoon to find work hunting. I thought that was lucky, that my profession was in high demand. I didn't know what hunting meant then.

Interview with Leander Coetzee
Interviewer: AHA member
Date: Redacted
Typewritten, questions omitted (...), 8.5in x 11in
2/4

The first night. A man called Samson had offered me work. Three of us paddled out in a flatboat to the middle of a great lake. Black sky wrapped around the boat. He shone a light. The lake was bristling with driftwood. What I thought was driftwood. One of them thrashed in the light. He switched it off. I asked him if it was crocodiles. Alligators, he said, and told me to shoot where he shone the lamp

He shone and I shot. He turned the light off and I worked the bolt. The other man paddled. The light was never on for longer than it took to aim the rifle. Never off for longer than it took me to work the bolt. We circled the lake slowly. The sky grew brighter and the water darker and a cloud of black powder smoke hung in the air.

I'd opened a cut on my hand over an old welt from working the bolt all night. I remember pausing to bind it. In the light I saw the surface of the water for the first time. The nights work. A corpse, face down in the water. Not a gator at all. I jumped up, rocking the boat. The lake's surface was covered in corpses. Men I'd killed.

I worked the bolt a final time and aimed at Samson. He was calm. I shouted at him, what have I done, crying, pleading. He began explaining.

I became a hunter again that night. We did the ritual, still paddling the surface of the lake covered with so many corpses. Not more than two nights in America, with nothing but an old war rifle, and I had a place again.

Vetterli 71 Karabiner Deadeye

VETTERLI 71 KARABINER DEADEYE. (See also, VETTERLI 71 KARABINER, SHARPSHOOTERS) The Vetterli, by default, has tangent iron sights. This gives it some capability for long range. However, that does not mean a telescopic sight was not uncommon. This would further facilitate the accuracy of a shooter to a further distance While other Vetterli rifles were specifically manufactured for snipers, the Karabiner proved itself suitable in a number of situations. The one disadvantage of using such a weapon is that the Vetterli fired black powder cartridges. The latest development was smokeless cartridges, which wouldn't leave a telltale cloud of smoke at the sniper's position. After several shots, the Vetterli would do this, requiring that the sniper either have already killed their target, or be ready to re-position. Fortunately, thanks to high power and accuracy, the former case usually prevailed.

Interview with Leander Coetzee
Interviewer: AHA member
Date: Redacted
Typewritten, questions omitted (...), 8.5in x 11in
3/4

Samson trusted me immediately. The height of Summer, and we were both working the docks, finding hungry men and pressing them into duty. We trained them with firearms, warned them of dangers, and sent them into the swamp. One thing I could never stomach, the bayonet

The wound in my shoulder ached every time we lined the recruits to drill with a bayonet charge. In the war, I'd never done it. But I'd been on the other end of one. I was a kid, laying on my back. The huge Brit was stood above me, twisting the rifle. My shoulder splitting into two. The bayonet hilt coming towards my body.

We took Grunts. Lurching and dropping maggots out their wounds. We tied them to trees. The recruits would charge them, shouting war cries. I was the grunt, always, when they hit and it's body shuddered. If they were more human, they would have screamed, and inside, I always screamed.

The recruits were splattered with blood and moths. One kid got infected from that. We tied him up too. Another went feral, stabbing a grunt a hundred times until its head was mess of pulp.

I never trained. I never could get through that memory. But I still kept the bayonet fixed. The only time I used it was an accident. Samson was missing, I was tracking him. To an old house. In the dark, one of the Armored ones charged me. I leveled my rifle and held it firm. The Armored hit and the bayonet went to the hilt. I held the rifle firm, level, steady, as it lunged and grasped at me, but not reaching. Pushing. It slid me across the floorboards, until the Vetterli stock hit the rear wall. The Armored was still grasping at me, stuck fast on the blade.

Pinned between the wall and the armored, I worked the bolt. The first shot splintered the already shattered plate. The Armored groaned and leered in closer, its tilted head gnashing up at me. I recognized it then. Samson. I kept firing.

Vetterli 71 Karabiner Marksman

VETTERLI 71 KARABINER MARKSMAN. (See also, VETTERLI 71 KARABINER). The addition of the Marksman scope seems a natural addition to the Vetterli, allowing enhanced magnification and better precision at medium range.

Interview with Fenella Cleve
Interviewer: AHA member
Date: Redacted
Typewritten, questions omitted (..), 8.5in x 11in
3/3

The life went out Lower DeSalle long before the affliction arrived. You'd of thought that when word reached us the corruption, the rot, that we would be up in arms. That we'd do everything we could to stop it. But the reality was not how we thought. People just pretended it wasn't happening, they didn't want to change their ways. And it swept through and killed us.

Leaving home was the easiest thing I'd ever done. With Papa in the ground, well. Gabe promised me, through hacking coughs, the shop would be in good hands. It wasn't long after I got briefly tangled up with Samson and Leander, and I told you how that happened.

Word then came that the rot was in DeSalle. Well that much was obvious, I'd told them when I'd come. But the hunters weren't listeners. They'd swap stories and tell tall tales but wouldn't hear the truth bellowing in their midst.

It was then that my employment picked up, working as a local guide. As far as I recall, I was the only one "survivor" from DeSalle. So I returned home, or close enough. After I gave the hunters the lay of the land, I'd camp up at the watchtower near the plantation. Closer than that, and the roaring silence of my memories would be too much.

It was through the old Marksman's scope on the Vetterli, while keeping watch, that I first spied something that wasn't right at the plantation. Of course, nothing was right about all of this. Things had been wrong since the piano man changed. Even wronger since Papa died, and what happened to Leander.

What I mean is, that it was then I noticed the strange things that weren't hunters, or the rot. Did you ever hear the old stories about the Pearl Plantation?

Vetterli 71 Karabiner Bayonet

VETTERLI 71 KARABINER BAYONET. (See also, VETTERLI 71 KARABINER) First and foremost, the Vetterli was designed as a military rifle. As such, it was manufactured with a bayonet lug. When they designed the shortened Karabiner version, this was occluded, as it was intended to be used by cavalry. However, the Karabiner could still be easily modified to add a bayonet mount, whereupon it can be affixed to the side of the barrel. As a Karabiner, the reach of such a weapon is naturally still longer than a comparable traditional rifle, connoting a disadvantage in close combat when opposing one. Nevertheless, its addition was certainly advantageous compared to its absence.

Interview with Leander Coetzee
Interviewer: AHA member
Date: Redacted
Typewritten, questions omitted...) 8.5in x 11in
4/4

I lostmy taste for violence after that. Too much of a good thing. Trying to remember, but I don't. I lost track of specific events. We all did. A led to B, B to C, C to D, but D back to B. Then B happens the same way as before, but you end up at A. Does that make sense? I don't think so. You can't trust what anyone says, or remembers. No way of knowing how long that went on for.

I took over Samson's responsibilities. I was training my own. But as I said, I didn't have the stomach for violence I started shooting from afar. I didn't want to see the eyes of those I was killing. I wasn't in it for an ideal, to stop the dead. I'd realized then that they couldn't be stopped. And the money, Finch's money, meant nothing to me really. Was it the recruits? A part of me felt responsible to keep them safe. But the safest thing for them would be to buy them a ticket out of Louisiana. So I didn't really care about them either.

I learnt later that it was Victor. I didn't really understand why he fired on us, but he did. And we fought. Him with his Sparks, I with my Vetterli. He killed my men outright, a single shot through both. Outranged, I had to close the distance, I recall. It was like the war again, running from cover to cover. Counting the seconds it took him to reload that single barrel. I don't think he expected that. Used to killing the poor and vulnerable. We'd heard about the patients. Can't say I wanted vengeance, but I wouldn't let the chance pass by.

His smoke was giving him away. Black powder. Mine too. Old guns, suited to each other. Him in the upper story of an old house. I, amongst the scrub and dirt and rocks. I blew out all the windows by the time I reached it. I fixed bayonet, went in, and the Armored Samson charged me. A to B to C to B.

Vetterli 71 Karabiner Silencer

VETTERLI 71 KARABINER SILENCER. (See also, VETTERLI 71 KARABINER) The Vetterli's precision coupled with the slight profile of the Karabiner length made it an ideal weapon for mobile sharpshooters, who favored its compromise between accuracy, transportability, and stopping power. As such, it was well suited tactically to the attachment of a suppressor, which made it extremely effective for sharpshooters to out maneuver and keep the advantage with no muzzle flash; however, the use of black powder was still a liability.

Interviewer: AHA member
Date: Redacted
Typewritten, questions omitted (..), 8.5in x 11in
2/3

But as I said, Lower DeSalle was dying already. Papa did what he could to keep it going - selling cures and ointments, anything for the sick. But it wasn't enough, this was something that no tonic could fix. This was something spiritual. A silence was settling on the soul.

You saw it first in the piano man. We all loved his playing, he was one of the few musicians in town, and it seemed otherworldly to us. He was a big draw to the saloon. Especially when out-of-towners passed through, with their own instruments, and he would greet them cheerily, and invite them to play, and the stage came alive with the sense of something fleeting

But then something changed, some years ago. The strangers stopped bringing instruments, started bringing guns. The piano man, too, hardened. Then became listless and lifeless, every song jarring and staccato. He was grinding his teeth, growing gaunt, staring into distances unfathomable. One day didn't show. I asked the barman, but he stood swirling his dirty rag round a dirty glass, didn't say a word. Hadn't even noticed. The silence had settled in

I asked after him for a while. Then forgot as the corruption hit, Papa died that February, and the quiet fell thick and heavy like the snow. It was all new: the grief, the death and the snow.

I saw him again, the piano man. After. Still walking the street in front of the saloon. Staring ahead, that same vacant way. But the rot was clear - he was gone, he was puppetted by whatever it is that preys on us.

Normally I wouldn't waste a bullet, but I took pity on him. I aimed Leander's Vetterli and the muffled shot hardly echoed on the empty street. The piano man crumpled, and the silence of Lower DeSalle thickened.

Vetterli 71 Karabiner Cyclone

VETTERLI 71 KARABINER CYCLONE (See also, VETTERLI 71 KARABINER) The invention of smokeless powder enabled the creation of self-loading rifles by keen inventors. Though the haphazard conversion was attributed to an untraced Howell, the gun resembles the work of Hiram Maxim. Yet another creation that he would be uncredited for.

Interview with Ad laide Dessalines
Interviewer: John Victor
Date: March 28, 1895
Typewritten, questions omitted (..), 8.5in x 11in

I wouldn't say I'm glad my father is dead, no. I loved my father ah, do not pretend you cared about him, you bastard, for all I know you're the one who killed him.

It was the only time since Mother turned that he hunted without me, and he came back in a coffin. Headless. Et mantenan ma peteet sooer est sans mer, per, ou frer... No, I do not think I will repeat that in English, I could not care less if you do not understand Francais.

How could anyone have possibly seen -
I...he...we...

What you must understand about my father is that when Mother's skin turned gray and her eyes went wild, he did not hesitate to kill her. Took his brand-new rifle from the wall and shot her in the heart. It was shocking at first, but as more people turned mad, I began to forgive him. So did my sister. And when he promised we would leave in a few days, we both remembered the commandment to love and honor your parents. I did love him, and I hunted with him. Protected our home with him. But we did not leave. He enjoyed killing with that fancy semi-automatic rifle, enjoyed piling up the bodies in the morning and burning them. Didn't notice our chest of money running dry, or his children's bellies running empty.

So here I am still. Fifteen years old and trapped in this hell, this abomination, this...bah! And now I am going to hang. Yes, I killed him took his prized Vetterli fucking Karabiner and shot a bullet through his eye. And when his other eye opened, I took his machete and I killed him again. I am glad I did it, and I would do it again!

I would very much like not to hang. My sister has been through enough.

Alright Monsieur Victor, I am listening...

Special ammunition

Incendiary
RN: Coetzee offers an insight from someone on the periphery of the Hunters, using their infrastructure yes, but loosely aligned with their cause. A stranger in a strange land, he found his place in the hunt, transcendent as it is amongst human capability.

Full Metal Jacket
RN: The figure "Samson" is mentioned in passing by many internationals who came through the docks. He had a keen eye for picking out those both strong and hungry enough to hunt. However, we presume the name to be an alias, as his physical description frequently differs.

High Velocity
RN: It seems that at some point, Coetzee withdrew from field work. The reasons for this are unclear, as of now. The relation between Cleve and him are also unclear. Did they collaborate? Or had she bested him?

Winfield 1887 Terminus

WINFIELD 1887 TERMINUS. (See also: WINFIELD, SHOTGUNS). Designed by notable gun designer John Moses Crown, for the Winfield Arm's company. Crown himself had about the viability of a repeating action for the shotgun, however it was specifically requested for brand recognizability - all the other firearms in the Winfield line were repeaters. Nevertheless, the 1887 Terminus proved extremely popular, and became a staple of the line ever since

Interviewee: William Carter
Topic: Local folklores
Single sheets. Typewritten transcription. 8 x 11 in.
3/5

Some said the cat was a cougar, driven to starvation. Others said a tiger, escaped from a circus, taking revenge for its years of torment. Incidentally, that's why I refuse shows with predators myself. Just one gets loose, your name is dragged through the muck.

For twelve days, Ethyl and Jana stalked the Monongahela forest trying to track the beast down. Wherever they went, they came across its prey. What was left was unrecognizable. Blood-matted fur and mud. Splayed flesh and bark. Molars, canines, and splinters of bone.

On the thirteenth day, they returned to Marlinton empty-handed. First, an old friend greeted them. Jane, from the show, had arrived to help. From a few days prior, a telegram from Mr. Winfield himself expressing his impatience. But there was more shocking news yet: the son of the man killed had now gone missing. Red Winters, just six years old.

A posse was formed, half a dozen or so. When they reached the Sewell tree, Jane picked up a trail. She followed it deep into the hills where they came to a cave. A bedraggled cougar sat at the opening, gnawing on a bone. Strewn around were little Red's clothes.

The posse began shooting at the cougar, but their shots missed the mark. Jane grazed its haunch as it leapt at the rocks, fleeing. But it was Ethyl and Jana who killed it, two shots tight together, twin holes in the cougar's chest.

Winfield's sales went through the roof, and Mr. Winfield was delighted, offering them lifetime contracts to promote his firearms. The only remains they found of Red were his forearm, no one had the guts cut open the belly of the beast. Nevertheless, they put them to rest. His mother, having lost a husband and a son, would never be the same. But it seemed Marlinton was free of its beast.

Jane, Ethyl, and Jana rejoined the show, and we set on round the country. Things weren't right between the three of them. They suspected Jane had tried to upstage them - she was notorious for that - but the truth was something else,

Interviewee: William Carter
Topic: Local folklores
Single sheets. Typewritten transcription. 8 x 11 in.
4/5

Eleven years later another body turned up in the Sewell Tree. The wounds the same as before. The face was mauled beyond recognition, but it was clear he was a very young man. Most disturbingly, the body was missing a forearm, the wound long healed over. The word went around that it was young Red, back from the dead, and dead again.

Word reached us. Ethyl and Jana immediately took leave from the show, to go to Marlinton. Unbeknownst to them, Jane left a day later. Mr. Winfield somehow caught wind of all this. Waiting for Ethyl and Jana in Marlinton was a journalist to write the story. With him, a pair of their newest model repeaters, the Winfield 1887 Terminus shotgun. The Widow Winters had withdrawn, he said, unavailable for interview.

Ethyl and Jana again set off on the hunt. As they roamed, they discussed the possibility of whether or not it was really Red, whether it would have been possible for him to live this long in the woods, if the cougar they killed

The area around the Sewell tree was heavily trod. No chance of finding tracks. The body itself had been removed, buried unmarked a few plots down from Red Winters own. In the hollow of the tree was a rusty pile of trinkets, gifts left for old man Sewell. At a loss, Jana sifted through it, and one item caught their eye. A bit of trash really: a rusty, small, iron statue of me, William Carter. A show souvenir.

What struck them as odd was that this was newer type, only sold that year, 1887.

Meanwhile, my show was down three of its biggest stars, and I had bills to pay. I made the hard choice to pawn some items, charitably donated by my friends who had left me in a lurch. Amongst Jane's things I found a half- burnt pile of letters, all written in the same scratchy hand. The cindered scraps were signed by one Nika Felis But there was another letter, dated a couple weeks prior, simply stating Red was here. Now, this may be anticlimactic, but these names meant nothing to me at the time, so I went on with my business.

Winfield 1887 Terminus Handcannon

WINFIELD 1887 TERMINUS HANDCANNON. (See also: WINFIELD 1887 TERMINUS, SHOTGUNS). When shortened, the Terminus becomes an incredibly powerful firearm to pack for a rainy day. It was favored for its efficient ratio between power, rate-of-fire and size.

Interviewee: William Carter
Topic: Local folklores
Single sheets. Typewritten transcription. 8 x 11 in.
5/5

Ethyl and Jana went round Marlinton, asking if anyone had been to the Carter Wild West Show, or knew the statue. Not a soul had. Except for one. Jane had been waiting for them. What she had to tell couldn't be spoke out loud in town.

The three women walked deep into the Monongahela forest. At dusk they settled in at the base of one of those blue-hazed hills that seemed to roll on forever. It was a cool night; for warmth they lit a fire, and drew long draughts from Ethyl s flask.

Jane confessed that she'd kept the secret for over a decade. All those years ago, she'd stopped the Marlinton wildcat. Jane had followed the twins to town to take the glory. Mr. Winfield had long been her sponsor, and confidant, and she was jealous of the sisters stealing the limelight.

Well, Jane chanced upon a troubled kid in the woods, Nika Felis. She was wild, half feral, blood on her hands. Something wasn't right with the girl, but Jane knew of a healer near New Orleans, Dr. John, who could calm her troubled mind. A boy was with her, Red. In a sorry state. Jane wanted to take him to his mother, but both kids seemed equally horrified at that suggestion.

In the end, she worked with Mr. Winfield to stage the killing of a cougar, if he would take the boy. That had been the last she'd heard of Red, till he'd turned up grown at the show just a few weeks before.

The ground trembled. A monstrous slurry of earth and rock was tipping down the slope, logs caught up in its flow. Jana sprang away, but watched horrified as the landslide engulfed Ethyl, then Jane. The earth settled, the fire smothered, only moonlight

Jana watched a lone figure lope down the hillside, her body adorned with rattling pale bones. She moved lithely, picking her way smoothly down the treacherous ground. Jana called out Felis?

The figure's head snapped up in recognition: wild braids concealed two dark glinting eyes. Jana cried out in pain, a flung knife had buried itself in her arm, her trusty LeMat went flying. Felis kept striding forward.

Jana took one look at the ground where her friends had gone under. Picking up the Winfield with her one good arm, she flung the barrel forward, spinning it on the lever. At the sound of cocking, Felis's eyes snapped up, alarmed. Ethyl raised the shotgun and fired.

Special ammunition

Flechette
RN: A recent uncovery revealed a continuation of the narrative of Ethyl and Jana on the hunt for the Monongahelaen wildcat. While Carter's Wildwest show had acclaim, and they were minor celebrities, their job security was clearly scant. Perhaps why associates ended up later hunting.

Penny Shot
RN: Their association with Winfield is enlightening, to say the least. Was there a reason that he later ignored the corresondence with Huff - had he grown tired of such interventions? While Ethyl and Jana often made use of his firearms, they were afterall famed for carrying their twin LeMat's.

Dragon Breath
RN: The background of Felis - but can it really be trusted? Carter was a teller of tall tales, and whilst there might be some truth to the matter, I'm highly suspect about whether or not the details here are correct. What's more, it s a retelling of another story - as verifiable as ancient tales of dragons.

Slug
RN: The presence of Felis and Doctor John, who we know were important in the bayou, is the key thread here. It seems Jane herself had a keyrole in her life. If only we knew what she knew, we may begin to understand Doctor John's true motivations at the time.

Winfield 1893 Slate

WINFIELD 1893 SLATE (See also SHOTGUN, WINFIELD REPEATING ARMS COMPANY) The Winfield 1893 Slate shotgun leaves behind the lever-action many have become familiar with for the pump-action that allows for shots as fast as the handler can release the shell and shoot. Made with a solid frame and a magazine that holds five rounds, the production of this bottom-loading shotgun only lasted a few years before stopping due to its solid barrel design. Because of the barrel and the action, the shotgun was unable to handle the pressure of the new smokeless shells that began being produced around the same time.

Records, Pelican Island Prison
Handwritten notes
Author: Handwriting match for Solomon Jabez
Date: December 8, 1893

The best way to induce Ego-Dissolution, to make a puppet out of a man, is through drugs and pain. The drugs leave the participant in a state that makes them more vulnerable to coercion and the pain will make them do anything for it all to stop. To best make the participant open to coercion, it is recommended to use a Laudanum tincture that is double or triple the dose of opium normally used to treat pain. This causes the patient to not only see hallucinations but amplifies anxiety which can cause the very act of torture to have a deep psychological effect. Inmate No. 57 Jenkins was given 2 doses of laudanum and has been whispering about undead men that attacked his family. It seems he's still using the same alibi for his murderous rampage. I will ask some of my men to give him another dose and remove his fingernails in an hour. Let's see what he says then.

Date: March 23, 1894

We have lost four participants to our experiments with Ego-Dissolution with very little results. I have tried everything; beatings, whippings, half-drownings, and even flaying the lower extremities. But they all stay themselves even as they take their last breath. Inmate No 33 Simeon almost got out of the basement and even started yelling to warn the others about what was happening down here. Smith ended up grabbing the first gun he could find, a fine Winfield Slate, and shot at No. 33's kneecap. The blow made the leg fall right off and the shock made No. 33 go comatose then die. A pity, No. 33 was an interesting challenge to break

Date: August 4, 1894

I've been struggling to find a proper candidate to undergo experiments. The rest of the prison population is fully aware of what happens here in the basement, and that has caused a sort of Ego-Dissolution in them all. They are all perfectly submissive, none of them willing to attract attention to participate. However, the other day I heard something strange coming from the cells. The newest guard Curtis made No. 47 Ernst laugh, something I hadn't heard in these walls for weeks. There's still something left to take in No. 47, that should be enough to work with.

Medical Report, Pelican Island Prison
Author: Solomon Jabez
Recipient: Dr. Phillip H. Jones

Report #41

August 6, 1894

I regret to inform you that after many careful considerations, our personnel have concluded that subduing participants only through mental experimentation has been proved to be fruitless. If we are to support you and your father in your endeavors, Dr. Jones, we need a more efficient approach than what had been previously approved by the board members of the Louisiana State Asylum at Jackson. In that regard, I humbly ask you to read this report and consider my requests carefully.

In the light of my recent findings and arguments of many philosophers and physicians who studied the matter, I believe that the key to one s soul lies somewhere on the incontrovertible correlation between the body and the mind. Thus, expecting a satisfying result on the mind while ignoring the restrictions the body presents is nonsensical. Having discussed the subject with my personnel, I took the liberty of resorting to an unconventional method on December 8, 1893.

Although initial results bore no success, our new approach we proudly call Ego-Dissolution proved its effectiveness even in the least expected situations, so much so that not only the participants themselves, but also the prisoners in their cells displayed erratic behavior after only a few months of experimentation.

Due to excessive amounts of stress, insomnia, and ceaseless exposure to multiple stimulants, a synaptic irregularity has occurred in the Broca's area of the brain in many prisoners who haven't been subjected to the new methods. As a result, they partially lost their ability to speak which lead them to express their confusion through cell walls instead of paper, using whatever they can find to write.

One such prisoner, overwhelmed by insomnia and paranoia, bit his nails to the point where the flesh around his fingertips was exposed, and the prisoner used his finger like a soft pen to spread his blood on the walls. What started as ominous, crimson writings eventually turned into incomprehensible, shallow scratches once the flesh was gone, as the prisoner continued carving symbols on walls using his exposed finger bone

I believe these behavioral changes are enough to prove you the potential of success our methods present. In that regard, I hereby ask for the board's permission to continue our research, and more funding to acquire the necessary equipment

Winfield 1893 Slate Riposte

WINFIELD 1893 SLATE RIPOSTE (See also SHOTGUN, WINFIELD REPEATING ARMS COMPANY) After the successful innovation of the Winfield 1893 Slate s pump-action, it would not be improved upon until the mass production of smokeless shells. In this period, the best way to improve this sturdy shotgun was to attach a bayonet to the end, making the weapon more effective in large-scale warfare or intimate combat.

Story entitled The Song of La Llorona from the book Tales From the Bayou by Remy Jane
Undated, Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

Part One

Bartlett trembled from where he crouched, hidden from view, in one of the leafy bushes that lined the shores of the water between Blanchett Graves and Lockbay Docks. The scuffling noise was gone as quickly as it began, leaving him in dead silence, his arms covered in gooseflesh. The light of the moon was yellow and weak; it revealed little in the heavy darkness when he tried to peer out. "Jasper?" he whispered as loud as he dared. "You still there? Trevor?"

Neither of his partners replied. They'd all stopped to recover after barely surviving a shootout at Blanchett, each of them low on supplies and ammo, and Trevor had sworn he'd heard the ghastly wail of the Spider rising out from the rafters of Lockbay. "We're not prepared," he'd said, encouraging them all to take shelter in the bushes. "Let's wait to see if more Hunters come along. Take 'em by surprise and strip 'em for all they're worth."

That had been about five minutes ago.

"Fellas?" Bartlett waited for either of them to reply. "What was that scufflin' sound?"

Silence.

Part Two

Suddenly, there came a flurry of gentle splashes in the water nearby. At first Bartlett thought it was a Water Devil who'd been made privy to the fact that an unwelcomed guest had stepped foot in its waters, but as he tightened his grip around his blade-tipped rifle, he recognized that it wasn't the same vicious churn that the Devils were known for, nor were there any high-pitched shrieks filling the air. Like the scuffling sound that had come before it, the splashing came to a sudden and eerie stop.

Carefully, Bartlett crawled out of the bush. Immediately he saw both of his partners floating motionless in the water before him, face down, the blood blooming around their heads as black as ink under the light of the moon. The softest hum of a woman tickled Bartlett's ear just before he was thrown by the back of the neck into the bloody water, where he struggled until the very last beat of his heart, joining Trevor and Jasper in their eternal silence.

The woman who drowned the trio came to a full stand, the edges of her wide-brimmed hat dripping. She picked up Bartlett's Slate riposte from where it lay discarded on the shore, running her finger along the edge of the blade before tracing a line down the body of the gun. Without a word, she slid it into the harness that was strapped across her back before moving on, humming gently along with the tortured groans of the bayou and disappearing into the night.

Special ammunition

Penny Shot
RN: The link between Dr. Jones and the administration at Pelican Island indicates that the AHA itself knew what was happening, or was at least aware it had happened. It was known that Jones spoke openly in private circles about his business, a dangerous trait for those with a stake in it.

Slug
RN: What happened at Pelican Island Prison belies belief, but it happened all the same. It is likely no coincidence that such evil could happen by human hands in such close proximity to the Sculptor. But we should not give too much credit to otherworldly entities. Perhaps it was first drawn here by our own wickedness.

Winfield M1873

WINFIELD M1873. (See also, ONE IN A THOUSAND, RIFLE, WINFIELD REPEATING ARMS COMPANY) Known for its accuracy, long range, and quick fire, the Winfield M1873 was referred to by Confederate soldiers as "that damned Yankee rifle that they load on Sunday and fire all week."The M1873's side-loading lever action made it possible to fire many shots in succession without reloading. It was also the first Winfield rifle to use center-fire cartridges.

The Winfield M1873 earned prominence in the United States as a rifle that could be used both for protection in and around the home and for hunting game, particularly buffalo, which it was powerful enough to bring down at 200 yards. After two years of production, the M1873 was so popular that the Winfield Repeating Arms Company started a special line. Specially finished M1873s were engraved with the words "One in a thousand"and sold for
$100 - quite expensive for the time - and were said to be even more accurate than the standard model.

Correspondence, Philip Huff Jones
Typewritten, carbon copy

December 7,1894
Mr. Winfield, Sir,

I am sorry that you thought necessary to send me such a letter as your last. The troubles of the world have given a morbid tone to your feelings, which it is your duty to discourage. I cannot agree to entertain your proposition, either in justice to yourself or to my own interests. The location in which you have suggested I insert my last letter is suited to the task in neither size nor terrain.

If you did not wish to partner your company with my cause, you had only to say so. Or, perhaps better yet, simply never to have answered, pretending to an error on behalf of the postman.

If by accident you have taken it into your head, if by any sad accident you should believe that I am to be insulted with impunity, I can only assume that you are no better than a beggar's shoe. This one point being distinctly understood, I shall feel myself more at liberty to be explicit. You church bell, you gibface, you hedge creeping plague sore! Your arrogance, or perhaps the success of your company, has turned your brain. What you have clearly failed to understand is the urgency of the situation. Our problems will soon become yours, if they have not already. This is of no small consequence and far beyond the reach of the God on whose mercy you call.

But perhaps there is no need for undue severity. Let us meet as if we had not exchanged letters, and let us pray we never meet.

Philip Huff Jones, M.D.
Superintendent, Louisiana State Asylum at Jackson

Unpublished manuscript, "Bad As They Seem"
Author: Hayden Collins
Undated
Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

-5-
They closed the shop for one week and went into the swamps to train with the woman who called herself Lynch. Jos, who preferred the sledgehammer to a ranged weapon, who preferred the wet mash of flesh and the crunch of bone reverberating up her arm after a direct hit to the distant ease of long-range firearms, learned to shoot, and a Winfield became her constant companion. Fin, who could Robin Hood any target with a crossbow, practiced with knives, a pistol, and a machete. But the knives were her favorite. Such an intimate way to incapacitate flesh.

It took several days to learn to shoot, but Jos was focused, obsessively so; the twins both were. They took quickly to every weapon Lynch was able to provide, though she had but one trunk: a portable arsenal and their first box of toys.

A pack of rabid dogs were their first real opponents, and the twins slaughtered them with ease, working back to back: methodical, brutal, graceful. Lynch watched from a nearby perch, ready to take down the dogs with her own rifle should the twins prove incompetent, but she found no reason to fire.

Learning to track was more difficult, and local black bears provided the practice they needed. As they learned to read the signs, Lynch described the beings they could expect to face. The gruesome butcher with the head of a pig, skewered with hooks and bits of metal. A giant spider that lurked in dark, enclosed spaces, skittering and fast, clicking and keening and hungry. A tall, spindly killer, deceptive and quick. They would, she explained, receive a large bounty if they were successful in killing creatures like these

"Then I guess we're going to be rich," Fin said, the rare light of a smile illuminating her lips.

Winfield M1873 Aperture

WINFIELD 1873 APERTURE. (See also, WINFIELD 1873, WINFIELD REPEATING ARMS COMPANY) The Winfield M1873 Aperture was a minor improvement on the original Winfield M1873, one which with a small and simple change offered greatly enhanced accuracy. The aperture sight is simple in its construction, that being the addition of a small disk with a centered hole, known to some as an iris. This makes use of the eye's natural tendency in which it centers objects by allowing the foresight to be seen through the aperture.

Unpublished manuscript, "Bad As They Seem"
Author: Hayden Collins
Undated
Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

-22-
Into the cave they went, the space narrowing, and then narrowing again until they were forced to crawl.

As they rounded a corner - Fin in the lead - they came to a stretch of tunnel hung with the bodies of dozens of gigantic rattlesnakes, strung up like lanterns, writhing and alive. Fin, perhaps half snake now herself, led them on, the cool scaly lengths of reptilian body running the length of their backs as they crawled passed. Not one bite was given. Perhaps the snake's message had traveled farther then they thought. Or, perhaps, the lantern snakes were not to keep people out, but to keep them in.

It had been hours, but still they crawled, snug as corks in a bottle, barely able to breath. They crawled in silence, tongues worrying at the icy stones that bought them passage, their clothing gone from red to brown with dirt and filth.

Finally, the tunnel opened out into a large room, ceilings high and spanned with bright banners above a table set for seven. At each place, a figure sat, still as statues.

The twins walked from figure to figure, stones still cold in their mouths. At the side of the smallest figure, the stones glowed red hot. Jos removed the ember stone, and placed it in the hand of the small figure. Nothing. Then, a flicker of the eyes and an impish smile.

And the Lord of the Dead could not bar their way, for they had not paid tribute to false idols, but to Him directly. He must answer, and he must let them pass, though they did not know if it would be enough to stop him from preventing their departure.

Winfield M1873 Talon

WINFIELD M1873 TALON. (See also, BLADED WEAPONS, RIFLE) The Winfield Talon is a brutal variation of the much-lauded side-loading, lever-action, repeating Winfield M1873. With a modified blade resembling a cleaver or axe head attached to the stock. The Winfield M1873 Talon can be used effectively at both a considerable distance and in hand-to-hand combat. The Talon can also be put to efficacious use to chop light undergrowth and to roughly butcher game while in the field

Unpublished manuscript, "Bad As They Seem
Author: Hayden Collins
Undated
Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

-24-
No one living remembers their own birth. Trauma re-shapes memory, leaving in its place a sardonic likeness. But the Dead remember.

Careening towards birth and - for a time - away from death and away from fear, the Dead are formidable foes. The time spent in the Land of the Dead is a time of regeneration, of rest. The Dead build their halls of their own bones, and dine on their own flesh.

Beyond the first Hall of Bones is the Hall of Fire, and in it pools of tar burn eternal, filling the air with a thick oily smoke among which the dead walk. The twins, who had won the favor of the Lord of the Dead, walked freely among them now, though none acknowledged their presence. He had challenged them to a knife throwing contest. The fool. Knives had been one of their first playthings.

After that, it was easy to obtain what they had come for. In 14 years, he would come to return it to its resting place. Until then, the scorched and strangely etched bladed fire arm was theirs, a loyal servant to their cause.

Winfield M1873 Swift

WINFIELD M1873 SWIFT. (See also, RIFLE, WINFIELD M1873) The Winfield M1873 Swift is a classic Winfield M1873 in design, differing only from the original in that it is equipped with a loading pipe attachment for increased reloading speed. This allows one to reload - with one swift push - and is the feature that gave the weapon its name.

Unpublished manuscript, "Bad As They Seem
Author: Hayden Collins
Undated
Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

-23-
Long you've heard tales of their prowess in the hunt, and so you can, perhaps, imagine how easily they fought their way through the caves, across the field of knives and past the razor wolves - dogs were, after all, their very first trial - and to the weapon Huffington had described, thus securing their rite of return passage from the Lord of the Dead, for it gave them the power to take his life for good. Fin and Jos returned to Lynch, and they did not return empty handed.

When they handed the strange weapon over to Lynch, the skin on her hands was left wreathed in frost. But as they were dressed in fiery red, dressed in blood, the twins had not been bothered by the wretched blade's icy burn.

As Lynch wrapped it in red silk, Jos offered to deliver it to Huffington. "No need, no need, "her voice was quiet, reverent, a near whisper. "Huffington is dead."With that she called for her attendant, a girl they had never seen before, who carefully carried it from the room.

By whose hand?"Fin asked, wary.
"By mine."

The twins remained silent. What they thought of this revelation was a secret they'd take to their graves, sooner or later.

"How did he offend you?" Jos asked.

"He was arrogant, and growing bolder. He needed to be put in his place. His place being a shallow grave."Lynch looked to the twins. "But there are more important things to think about now. What you brought back is extremely important. But there is more."

The only sound Fin made was a metallic hiss, as she sharpened her blade.

"There is a second weapon. Now that I know you can gain entry to the Butcher's house, I would ask you return for something else.

The twins looked wary, the words from that fateful vision echoing in their ears: Lynch is not to be trusted. But they would go. They would go, and this time, they would not hand off their prize.

Winfield M1873 Musket Bayonet

WINFIELD M1873 MUSKET BAYONET (See also, WINFIELD M1873) The first muskets date back to the early 16th century, when the design was favored for its ability to penetrate heavy armor. Though the original musket fell from favor as the use of such armor declined, the term continued to be used for any long-muzzled flintlock in the centuries that followed.

The popularity of Winfield's M1873 Musket design has been attributed by historians to a period of nostalgia for
simpler times among firearms enthusiasts, though one infamous researcher made notable fool of himself by claiming it was created specifically to counter a strange alleged new breed of creature appearing in various American backwaters - one whose papery, tough armor would necessitate such firepower. However, like many apostles of folklore before and after, he was discredited and went to his grave the laughingstock of his peers, and was certainly never employed by this fine publisher of encyclopedias, you can rest assured.

Journal of James Byrne
Handwritten, original
Incomplete, chronology could not be determined
2/?

I have met with Finch, and I fear I was correct. The man is mad. We met at the kind of dining establishment where I could not afford the price of a slice of bread - I was not wrong about his financial standings - and he got straight to the point. Immortal, was the word he used. Complete and utter madness.

I did not take him seriously, of course, but he met my laughter with a grim smile. He leaned back in his chair and simply watched my reaction to his words in silence as it progressed from mirth to confusion and back to mirth again. But I was determined to humor him. In exchange for patronage, I would be willing to overlook quite a lot of eccentricities, and I made light of his words.

But my mood changed when he admitted to having observed me for some time. Perhaps I should be thankful to know that one has enjoyed my performances so much, but instead I felt uneasy. There is something hard and serious in his eyes I do not like. I could not say why, but it was as if his gaze brought with it a cold draft of air that sent goosebumps up and down my arms.

He took my jokes in stride, but did not veer from his purpose. We are two of a kind, he said, and when I told him I did not see what we had in common, he told me I would in time. At that he laughed. "It took me many, many years to understand as well, "he said, then spoke of the wives he had buried before he had accepted his fate. I struggled to remain cordial, fearing the man a murderer or fiend, but my confusion was evident on my face, and caused him further mirth, and me then further confusion still. At that he called for the bill, leaving me alone to finish my meal, and saying we would meet again. In that moment I grew bolded, and spoke directly of the chance of patronage. More of a mentor, dear James, he said. More of a mentor.

And so I remain with no funds, evicted from my room, and without patronage. I have his card - he appears be employed at the asylum in Jackson - and have not lost hope in parting him from a few coins. Tonight I will set out for the Bayou. Aidan mentioned there were many empty houses there, and perhaps I can find one suited to shelter me for a few nights.

Special ammunition

Incendiary
RN: Collins wrote of a Huffington, clearly a proxy for the superintendent. We know now that their relationship was strained. Perhaps he took satisfaction in writing of his death, though we know now that heralded a greater time of chaos and desperation.

Poison
RN: Other notable mentions of the Lord of the Dead both corroborate and conflict with Collins writings. A shared delusion perhaps? I now believe so much that I once disparaged that it would be wrong to dismiss it too hastily.

High Velocity
RN: After Huff, the AHA is a shadow of its former self. Perhaps the situation could've been better contained. But we'll never know. Controversial to put to word, but many now believe Huff was a symptom of our degradation, not the cause. That he should gain a position of prominence was certainly our own failure.

Full Metal Jacket
RN: The more I pour over the works of Collins, the more I consider how much it must fit into the overall picture. A vital source that's guided so much of what we know but also limited in its scope. What I need is new sources, new stories. How sure are they to come?

Winfield M1873C

WINFIELD M1873C. (See also, RIFLE, WINFIELD REPEATING ARMS COMPANY) The Winfield rifle s namesake, Oliver Winfield, began his career as a clothing manufacturer, moving into the arms business, at first, as an investor in the Lava Repeating Arms Company. Lava's rifles were technologically advanced, but performed poorly because of a badly designed cartridge. An improved cartridge - brass-cased .44 caliber rimfire - was the company's first big step toward success. Winfield eventually took over ownership of the company, changing its name to Winfield Repeating Arms Company in 1866. Though most of the firearms that would make the company a success were designed by engineer Henry Tyler, the most iconic repeating rifles of the time would bear the Winfield name. The company became well known for its high-quality arms and sold its rifles to both American hunters and pioneers, and armies around the world.

The Winfield M1873 was one of the most iconic rifles manufactured by the Winfield Repeating Arms Company, and the Winfield M1873C is a slightly smaller version of that first big success, measuring four inches shorter than the original model. Its lighter weight makes it easier to handle and store, though otherwise the design does not differ from the M1873.

Unpublished manuscript, "Bad As They Seem"
Author: Hayden Collins
Undated
Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

-6-
They bathed in gold; they bathed in blood. By day they worked on horseshoes, pots, and pans, and once the smith was closed, they chose their weapons and headed out into the swamps. They were silent, and ruthless: a perfect team of two, able to communicate without speaking, and they killed almost as many hunters as they did creatures, clearing the field of every kind of evil.

Lynch opened up a world of connections. Superintendents, government men, captains - men who the day before wouldn't have given them the time of day. Now, they were eager to meet the infamous twins. Dispatch them. Pay them, on their return, handsomely. This society of hunters, it seemed, was more a loose band of greedy ruffians than the tightly knit society Lynch had described, "led"by the self-important and power-hungry. The twins reputation spread, and as it did their own heads became a much-sought bounty. They each slept with a Winfield beside their bed, now

It was a Sunday when they found the woman's body, nailed to a tree beside a dilapidated cabin, rotting, and missing the right leg

Fin nodded towards it, the nod an acknowledgment and a question. Monster or human he nod asked.

Jos shrugged. The answer was monster either way. The woman's corpse - pile of rotting flesh, marshy vessel for flies and maggots - had obviously been tortured, used for target practice, and my God, had she still been alive when she had been nailed to the tree? Fin shook her head and pointed toward the door, which hung open. Inside they found a man - dirty and covered in weeping red boils - asleep on a cot. They both raised their rifles and waited. They would learn his victim's name before he died. But as Fin leaned down to shake him awake, a meathead broke through the front door, spraying leeches in every direction from the open sore of its neck.

Unpublished manuscript, "Bad As They Seem"
Author: Hayden Collins
Undated
Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

-7-
Salter awoke to a floor awash with leeches, a Meathead stumbling against the wall and then the small table, knocking papers and pistols to the floor. He awoke to two strangers, two girls, standing beside the fireplace, guns raised, weapons strapped at every possible point across their bodies. One signaled to the other, who took something out of a pouch tied to her belt and threw it through the paper tacked to the window. Outside a cacophonous racket began and the creature began to throw itself against the far wall with renewed force

One slung her rifle onto her back, and took up a sledgehammer that she wielded with a strength unseemly for a woman, let alone a girl. Who were these intruders?

She swung the hammer through the air and into the spine - assuming it had one - of the creature. The sound it made, that wet thud - a noise that every being of flesh and bone must loathe to hear - echoed in his ears, though he was glad to see the thing floundering on the floor where it heaved and writhed. The girl struck down a second time with the added force of gravity, crushing its leg, but she had not accounted for the leeches, which had, in the meantime, found their way to her feet. She gasped and screamed as their sickening tendrilled suckers found purchase on her flesh, and they began to feed.

Winfield M1873C Silencer

WINFIELD M1873 SILENCER. (See also, ONE IN A THOUSAND, RIFLE, WINFIELD M1873, WINFIELD REPEATING ARMS COMPANY) The same as the base model Winfield M1873 in every way, with the addition of a sound suppressing device for quieting the sound of each shot

Serial published in the Tulane Phoenix
Author: Hayden Collins
Publication date: 1907
1/2

She taunted the law at every step. Every moment she was just one false step away from being... LYNCHED

The Supernatural Library Sunday Edition
FEATURING Lynch in THE STOLEN CORPSE

South of New Orleans, and to the west, the land veins with water, congealing into bayous and swamps, tupelo and cypress trees protruding from the still waters in a chaotic fence, branches sending a play of shadow and light down onto the waters below. Wild and savage, it is this country in which our story takes place, and a country more water than land, a people less civilized than they like to think.

She had caught the fugitive by boat and saved him from an alligator about to rip his throat out so she could do it herself. He had stolen a kill from her, and that could not be tolerated. She didn't need the cash, but she needed the kill, a new shuffle of the deck to bring her clairvoyance back into its full power.

When they landed on firmer ground, she set a bear trap and forced him to step on the pan at gunpoint. Then she cloaked herself in a heavy robe and led him toward the city market on the end of the trap s chain, a Winfield hung from a strap across her back.

Winfield M1873C Marksman

WINFIELD M1873C MARKSMAN. (See also, RIFLE, SHARPSHOOTER, WINFIELD M1873) The original Winfield M1873 was known for accuracy, long range, and quick fire, and the Winfield M1873C Marksman refines those capabilities with a lighter weight and the addition of a scope for more accurate ranged shots.

Serial published in the Tulane Phoenix
Author: Hayden Collins
Publication date: 1907
2/2

The Supernatural Library Sunday Edition
FEATURING Lynch in THE STOLEN CORPSE

They were a sight: him bloody, wounded, and moaning; her, cloaked and mysterious; soon a crowd had gathered to find out what was to become of the unfortunate prisoner.

"Who is he?"one yelled from the crowd.
"Who are you?"yelled another.

She hesitated. Then, with a swift, graceful movement, she flung aside her muffling robe, cast off her hat, and stood before them, transformed.

She was fully five and a half feet tall, straight as an arrow, superbly powerful of development, and morosely, though pallidly handsome, with straight hair, white as sea foam, pulled back at the nape of her neck, and piercing black eyes.

She was dressed in dark-blue cloth, cut and made partly in the fashion of men, the edges of the coat reaching her knees. Her feet were incased in high boots of rugged leather, while her belt was well supplied with cartridges, and a trusty revolver reposed in its holster on her right hip, a machete hung from her left. Across her back a Winfield hung in a sling.

In her hand was a metal chain, connected to that gruesome metal bear trap that held the man. He moaned loudly and more spectators gathered. He was a man illiterate in speech, ugly in features, and ungainly in form. A laugh ran through the spectators, and she called loud and clear into the crowd, "Enough! Would you know this man's crimes? Or shall we hang him immediately?"

Gosh all hemlock! Has he done ye wrong?"
"He has. He took something that belonged to me."
"Then hang him. Hang him,"the call echoed around the crowd. "Hang him now! We want for a hangin!"

"And no one will speak for him?"Her voice was hard and certain as it asked the question, challenging the crowd to speak against her will. "He cannot speak for himself as I have cut out his tongue."Each moan spilled another river of blood from between his damned lips.

"I will."A man whose suit was adorned with diamond buttons stepped forward from the crowd. "I believe that he has not had a fair trial."

But you surely know yourself all too well that this world was not built on foundations neither fair nor good, no matter what we might tell ourselves as we count sheep in our beds. For she had raised her Winfield to her shoulder before the newcomer had finished speaking and had shot him dead, and the crowd hung her poor prisoner, his neck snapping in an instant as the weight of the bear trap clamped to his leg pulled him down toward Hades.

Winfield M1873C Vandal

WINFIELD M1873C VANDAL (See also: WINFIELD M1873C, RIFLES) is a shortened variation of the Winfield M1873C. While the regular M1873 necessitates complex adaption, the C model's already reduced magazine length allows the barrel to simply be sawn off. Suited for confined spaces, the rifle proved popular with those seeking further range than could be conventionally provided by a revolver.

Letter, Gus Leroux
Handwritten, 85x14 in
1/3

When I read my story, published in today's paper, I hardly recognized myself. I imagine the recently deceased must face a similar moment of reckoning when, rising from their deathbed in astral form, they might ready themselves for the new day, yet unaware of their fate. Only later to realize their candle had been snuffed out, their fate transpired. I thought not idly of ghosts, for the paper spoke of a phantom, a specter, terrorizing the French Quarter. It had not occurred to me that my pursuit of errant justice would be considered supernatural.

People were abuzz with excitement that something other-worldly walked among them. Yet, if that Irish Woman can be believed, there truly were such creatures among us, and it was fear and caution we should cultivate. As I walked among Bourbon Street's crowds, I considered the irony that people should not recognize me as the phantom, for they certainly recognized me otherwise. Memories of my humiliation haunted me.

At the farrier's, I collected my order. My father's Winfield, cut down to size so that I could still fire it with my good arm. He'd taken off the stock and shortened the barrel. Gripping it, I found it suitable. When I turned to leave, the smith asked why I'd not bought a pistol. Some things should be done the old-fashioned way, and my father was nothing if not old fashioned. I did not answer him.

The letters had by then made the rounds, and I knew my father's hand would soon be forced. If the Irish Woman had her way, I feared for the fate of the city more than the fate of my kin. The Winfield was concealed easily enough in the sleeve of a long dinner jacket, and my scar with a mask. Its flamboyance was not out of place in the French Quarter.

The plan had been to wait for the crescendo of the piece, but my patience was not what it was, my penchant for drama eroded by my desire for revenge. The orchestra were still tuning their instruments and the crowd still settling when the Winfield barked. Father tumbled from the box, and I receded into the dark labyrinth of the theater.

Winfield M1873C Vandal Striker

WINFIELD M1873C VANDAL STRIKER (See also: WINFIELD M1873C VANDAL) is a shortened Winfield M1873C with an attached blade for proficient melee combat. The modification makes it a competent all-rounder, with a decent range, stopping power, rate of fire, and handiness in melee.

Letter, Gus Leroux
Handwritten, 8.5 x 14 in
2/3

Weeks ago, while searching the attic for the letters, I had come across a book of medical anomalies. I'd since kept it in my pack, turning to it in quiet moments. Today, I read a chapter about the "phantom limb," a phenomenon discovered in the Civil War, and an affliction of the mind that tantalized those with an amputation with fleeting corporeal memories

Since the loss of my arm, I had struggled to put a name to a certain sensation of uneasiness. I would awake with a start, and reach out to grope for the light, only to realize that I was reaching with the arm that had been taken When shooting the shortened Winfield, I propped the barrel on my forearm. Yet still I had the sensation that my missing hand was gripping the gun's own missing barrel

I'd had a revelation on what I had assumed would be the eve of my death, the day that the Irish Woman found me. After the incident in the theater I had headed north, travelling at night, evading her hunters the best that I could At some nameless crossroads, I came across a veteran of the war face down in the dust. I relieved him of his uniform and covered my face with dirt, walking by day now thus disguised

My revelation was thus: the justice I'd fought for did not exist. Not on the road. Not anywhere. The rule of law was farce, nothing more than an illusion. I starved and I begged and then I robbed. I reached the state border but turned back. There was nothing on that road for me. I fixed a blade to the end of the Winfield to make it more fearsome and dreaded the day I would use it. When that day arrived, I felt no different.

They have called me so many things. Terrible names. Ridiculous names. One that stuck out was vandal. There was still something of the lawyer in me that took affront to that; for all the crimes I'd committed I was no vandal. But the phantom and the vandal had a ring to it - the same appeal the scandalously titled Dime Novels bore, their characters equally ridiculous. I could not relate to the name, but perhaps I could play the role. Perhaps I already was.

Winfield M1873C Vandal Deadeye

WINFIELD M1873C VANDAL DEADEYE (See also: WINFIELD M1873C VANDAL, RIFLES) bears an attached scope, enhancing its ranged capabilities. This increases the weapon's competency at medium range, enabling the target to be sighted, then brought down with rapid fire shots

Letter, Gus Leroux
Handwritten, 8.5 x 14 in.
3/3

Perhaps I was drawn back to the bayou by the realization that I was still flesh and blood. Perhaps, I - like the ghost I felt I had become - was unable to truly depart until some matter was resolved. It didn't take long for the Irish Woman to find me, for she could commune with the unliving, and surely I belonged to their numbers.

For my last stand, I chose a barn with a hundred points to shoot from. To its rear was a vast pond in which something dwelt, something I witnessed dragging all manner of creatures beneath the bracken surface. To the fore lay a field which I burned, and then illuminated with electric lights. Downstairs, a generator hummed. There was enough fuel to run it for three nights. I'd affixed a short scope to the Winfield, which allowed me clear vision across the area. I paced the barn until I could walk it with my eyes closed and not make a sound.

She had sent three after me. Through the night, we dueled from the distant tree line to the barn. With my good eye, I was just able to catch the glint of their barrels. I think by dawn two of them were dead. The standoff ended then.

At noon, the Irish woman herself stepped from the tree line, her shock of white hair concealed under a wide hat, carrying a wooden case. Watching her through the scope, she seemed wryly amused. I waited for her to call out, but instead she just set the box down and left. She returned to the tree line, and then turned. My eyes flicked nervously back to the box, expecting it to explode. When I looked back, half a second later, she was gone

When dusk fell, I judged the light reduced enough to risk checking the case. Lighter than imagined, it was engraved with the letters "A.H.A."I mulled for a long time over whether I would open it, and eventually curiosity overcame me. Inside, a letter. I scanned it briefly.

"After the efforts we had gone to secure him, the death of your father was most inconvenient for us. But revenge would be an over-commitment of our limited resources. Instead, we offer you a token of peace, in the hopes it will better help you settle your debt. Now you may find yourself in ours."

Regards,

L

Alongside the letter was a beautiful prosthetic arm. I turned it over in the light, I'd never seen such craftsmanship, such attention to detail! I put it on, and, turning it over, saw written in tiny letters the word "Phantom."

Special ammunition

Poison
RN: Curious to discover in hindsight that Leroux found more loyalty for his father's firearm than for either the Irish Woman" or the Association.

High Velocity
RN: We have more than enough testimony of the Twins, the Salter place has been documented, and there's something listed here as the Meathead sketched out by Black. Only fools insist it is all the invention of Collins. One mad writer could not conceivably start a faith, let alone lay this out.

Incendiary
RN: I long considered The Phantom another invention of Hayden Collins. Yet, as so many others, eventually fate has shown its hand, in this case, the whole arm - and - a direct reference to the "Irish Woman". The more cross-references I discover, the more worried I become.

Full Metal Jacket
RN: I long considered The Phantom another invention of Hayden Collins. Yet, as so many others, eventually fate has shown its hand, in this case, the whole arm and a direct reference to the Irish Woman. The more cross references I discover, the more worried I become.

Winfield M1876 Centennial

WINFIELD M1876 CENTENNIAL. (See also, WINFIELD, RIFLES) The Winfield M1876 Centennial was so named for its debut at the 1876 Centennial International Exposition, the first World's Fair and a celebration of the United States first century in existence. What could have been more American, therefore, than for Winfield to mark the occasion by releasing a higher caliber variant of their iconic repeating rifle. With significantly more stopping power than its predecessor, this became a favored rifle amongst big-game hunters.

Interviewee: William Carter
Topic: Local folklores
Single sheets. Typewritten transcription. 8 x 11 in.1/5

Now many of my fine tales are those of my own but many of my finest tales are those of dear friends, retold while supping broth and passing a flask of whiskey around the fire. And the finest of those stories was told to me on such a night as this, when a light snow flurry graced us with its presence, and the flakes were turning to drops before us and hissing on the coals. So this isn't my story, but another's, and that's the story of the hunt for the last wildcat

Two women in my company, Ethyl and Jana, were travelling with me in the shows early days as we traipsed up and down the East Coast. That year, I remember we marveled at the forests of New England, bustled through New York and Philadelphia, and sweated through the Carolinas, and then at the end of summer, were held up in Virginia. In Richmond, an unsettled debt had caught up to me, and I couldn't pay wages. So, for some time, the show came to halt. They was understanding, but many left not to return.

Ethyl and her sister Jana tried what they could to get together a few dollars to get us all on the road again. They had a sick mother at home, see, and had to send a little money each month. Now, they had had one stroke of a good fortune: in Philadelphia, we'd performed at the Centennial Exhibition, and taken a sponsorship from one Mr. Winfield to shoot his new Model 1876. So they wrote to his company again, and some kind secretary offered them a bit of money to tour the hunting towns of Virginia and make a show of the rifle.

So I forlornly said goodbye to them for a brief while, and they set out with not much else than their wits, a pair M1876s and their famous trusty six-shooters. They went from town to town, drawn deeper into the ancient bower of ponderous woodland and marsh that had once formed the first frontier. Though now enclosed with roads and towns, that place harbored many mysteries much older than our own young country.

Interviewee: William Carter
Topic: Local folklores
Single sheets. Typewritten transcription. 8 x 11 in. 2/5

Ethyl and Jana visited all the bigger towns, Harrisonburg, Lynchburg, Roanoake, and so on, performing their shooting tricks. They spun and fanned their Winfields, shooting pennies clear out the air, plucking the stems from apples, and piercing the hearts out of playing cards. But that weren't all they did to make their mark, as where the season permitted, they hunted bears, elk, and boars. Mr. Winfield was delighted as mail orders came in from across the state, and he dispatched a courier to take them a message, as a particular opportunity had arisen

Deep in the Monongahela Forest, a small town by the name of Marlinton had made its name in the national press. Marlinton was a town as old as they come, the first town founded west of the Appalachians, by a man called Marlin and another called Sewell. Shortly after founding the town, the two had quarreled badly, and the story went that Sewell went out to live in a nearby hollow sycamore tree. What a tree that must have been. I can't rightly picture it. Marlin found him soon after, killed him there, and left him to rot in the roots. The town took Marlin's name, but soon misfortune befell it. The townspeople figured that Sewell's spirit was cursing them, so they began leaving gifts in the tree hollow to placate him, and the town had better fortune.

Marlinton had made it into the press, though, as a particularly gruesome gift had been found in the tree. Now people normally left little offerings of food and drink, nothing too precious. But then, something had begun leaving different offerings, mice and birds and so on, their necks snapped. And over time the offerings had grown bigger: stoats, ferrets, cats, goats, and finally a dog. The wounds to these poor creatures only grew more savage: skin shorn off, limbs torn asunder, heads lolling at the base of the trees.

That was enough to spook people, so one man volunteered to keep watch over the tree, and catch the culprit. He weren't seen back in town for a while, and when they returned to the tree, they found him doubled over, lifeless and stuffed into the hollow trunk. His wounds were such that the people concluded that they could of only been caused by a wild cat, toying with its prey. So the put out a call, for someone to help them with their problem.

Winfield M1876 Centennial Shorty

WINFIELD M1876 CENTENNIAL SHORTY. (See also, WINFIELD, RIFLES) The growing popularity of the Winfield M1876 throughout the country brought a wide range of users who desired more flexible versions of the rifle Some took an increased recoil to be a worthwhile trade-off for this flexibility.

Clipping from the New Orleans True Crescent
Author: Unknown
Newsprint, 4 x 8 in.

A most peculiar show by William Carter's company. I had heard tell of their marvelous feats from my extensive network of academic peers around the country, but none quite prepared me for the spectacle I witnessed this weekend.

Carter sells himself and has been sold to me by friends as a rambunctious and extraordinary showman, yet the man I witnessed seemed entirely different from the proud performer on the posters all around town. He and his tales both reeked of sorrow, and he took up no gun in his own gun show, which I might allege to be false advertisement.

The show itself was pedestrian. I fancy that I myself could shoot a penny out of the air (I have certainly seen the trick done enough times) and it seemed like something of a ramshackle set of showmen without much coordination. They seemed to please the rabble-rousers and children in the audience, at least.

It was the ending of the show that truly arrested me. As the final applause rolled on for longer than what was deserved, a pair of outlaws, armed to the teeth, stormed through the entrance and screeched Carter's name with violence greater than any pistol shot heard previous. A silence immediately grasped the crowd until the pair fired their guns into the air, and everybody scattered in terror.

Winfield M1876 Centennial Sniper

WINFIELD M1876 CENTENNIAL SNIPER (See also, WINFIELD, RIFLES) After the Winfield M1876 Centennial's stunning debut at the 1876 Centennial International Exposition, the rifle soon became a firm favorite among hunters. Its increased stopping power over lighter repeating rifles made it ideal for big game hunting. To capitalize on this, the rifle was later sold with fixed hunting scope, a variant which proved even more popular.

Topic: Local folklores
Single sheets. Typewritten transcription. 8 x 11 in.
1/1

At the time, there were half a dozen other Wild West Shows approaching our size. We were bigger than ever, the money was good, and the competition fierce. And things got bad after that, we lost a lot of good performers.

I told you about Ethyl and Jana already. Then Jane, well. We developed a double act, her and me, and performed it for a year and one day. It was a hit. It went this way.

We plucked a story out of thin air: the time Jane chased me down to set me straight. We set up a series of obstacles she would chase me through, and all the while we'd be shooting at each other, dramatically just missing every time, panes of glass shattering, and barrels of water sprung with leaks to mark how close we'd come to death.

There were some greater feats too. I would shoot a rope Jane was climbing, she would cause something to fall in my way, and when I thought I was home free she'd shoot the nut off a wagon wheel so it collapsed

Jane always used a Centennial, I trust you remember her prior association with that gun? This had a scope attached, to catch a dazzling light, and she would hardly break a stride when the ring of her gunshot was followed with a crescendo, the crash and bang of something falling apart. Always pursuing relentlessly. It was pulse-racing, and the danger of it delighted the crowd.

The finale featured me trapped, cornered at last. I would raise my six shooter and fire a final time, the audiences holding their breath, only to hear the empty click of an empty cylinder. Except for one year and one day after our first performance. I raised my gun, and Jane her rifle, but there was no hollow click to relieve the audience. Instead, the terrible ring of gunshot, and Jane's groans as she collapsed.

Winfield M1876 Centennial Shorty Silencer

WINFIELD M1876 CENTENNIAL SHORTY SILENCER. (See also, WINFIELD, RIFLES) Once the rifle is reduced in size, a suppressor attachment makes the Winfield M1876 both dynamic and quiet. It's well suited for hunting multiple creatures in a small area with speed and subtlety, but requires some deft handling.

Letter on rough paper, very worn
Author: Unknown
Handwritten, 8.5 x 14 in.

April 2, 1889

We're out of food. In case I die, tell my sister Jo Barnes that I'm sorry. I never thought I was until I stared death in the face with a parched throat and empty stomach. Wish I at least knew what I was dying for.

By way of explanation, I work for William Carter's gun show. On my third performance, two ruffians who knew Carter came charging in with guns blazing and we all ran for cover. Didn't see my shooting partner, but Will says that if he ain't here, he's dead. Frankly, death in exchange for not being in this metal box is getting more tempting with each breath. Not sure what Will had this box for, but there was a couple Centennial rifles and a skeleton inside, so I'm too scared to ask. Took the rifle, of course

Not sure what we're waiting for. It seems like we'd stand a good chance in a fight: three of us against two of them. But Will said he'd shoot me if I so much as talked, even attached a silencer to his rifle so that he could do it without giving away his location.

I'm near out of the ink I had tucked away. I want to know what these two were so angry about that they'd wait us out for two whole nights. We heard them patrolling above us just an hour or three ago.

April Â 3, 1889

Will says to get ready to sneak out all quiet-like and see if we can catch them by surprise. That being said, I take back my apology, Jo, you thieving sack of cattle shit.

Winfield M1876 Centennial Trauma

WINFIELD M1876 CENTENNIAL TRAUMA. (See also, WINFIELD, RIFLES) As the original Winfield M1876 Centennial's reputation quickly grew in the same year it was introduced to the market, many firearms enthusiasts and hunters discovered its potential in terms of modifications and attachments. Although many preferred professional solutions such as scopes, others relied on makeshift modifications to make this already- versatile rifle more effective in certain situations. This particular version of the rifle features a reinforced stock that delivers a hit as heavy and deadly as a sledgehammer, making it viable in melee combat.

Journal of Candice Rouille
Handwritten, leather-bound, 4 x 6

July 15,1894

Another suspicious murder, and another crime scene without a clue. I wonder why they assigned me to this case, why didn't they ask Jack? He is the Hawkshaw after all. But I will not be disheartened. This alleged New York Ripper will eventually leave a trace behind, and I will be waiting for him.

July 27,1894

Jack visited me today, asked about the case reports I was glancing at a disemboweled woman with a crosscut on the spine, nothing pointing at the murderer; a dead end I must admit. No wonder they gave it to the only woman in the office. Bastards. But Jack was supportive. He said I deserved better than an impossible case and mentioned a cross-states investigation of which the details he refused to disclose until I agreed to join him, and as expected, I did.

We are to leave next week and arrive in DeSalle, Louisiana to investigate a so-called association involved in, well, alot. I can hardly wait to leave, I will finally prove I'm as capable as others, if not more.

August 11, 1894

Jack is missing. He said he would head to the Saloon, that he needed to clear his mind after the shootout. But today I learned that no one in the Saloon had seen him, or knew of his whereabouts. I am worried something bad happened. But Hardin didn t seem concerned whatsoever, he continued attaching a clamp to his Centennial's stock, and looked at me dismissively. Said us city types would come and go. He's been suspicious of us since day one, and Jack's disappearance made it even worse. I don t understand, we're helping him with the cases he's been struggling with. Is it envy I see in his eyes? Or maybe he knows why we're here. I feel we will know soon enough.

August 24,1894

Something terrible is happening in Pelican Island Prison. Gunshots heard on the island yesterday. I telegrammed New York to ask if I could investigate but was ordered to leave the matter to the local law, in other words to Hardin. He insisted I stayed out of it, but I didn't back down. He saw I wouldn't quit. Maybe he's seen something in me, or I earned his trust, because he gave me what he swore he didn't have: A contact at the AHA. I reckon I will need to continue the investigation alone. I must go deeper into this so-called association.

Special ammunition

Poison
RN: It seems the rural and wild areas of our country are prime to breed not just the monsters of these tales, but the tellers the accounts far and wide. Carter appears to be the latter, though it's possible that he and his associates were often the former - the monsters.

Dumdum
RN: Carter was known for his skill in turning rumors into sagas, trading on stories people had heard whispers of to make his tall tales seem believable.

Full Metal Jacket
RN: Reference to such a hunt taking place was not directly found in historical papers of the area, though similar stories dot the country. Does that mean that Carter was stretching the truth, or rather that there was a reason the story wasn't published?

High Velocity
RN: An uncharacteristic melancholy in Carter, according to this reviewer. Likely as much a performance as both Carter's show and stories.