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The fat pig squatted in the center of the road with its head thrown back to unleash one full-throated cry after another.
The hog didn't react when Sean killed the truck, scooped his hunting rifle out of the rack in the cab's rear window, and hopped onto the asphalt.
Sean shouldered the rifle and drew a bead on the pig's outstretched throat.
The damned thing kept on screaming even when Sean was ten feet away.
Sean squeezed the trigger and the bullet ripped through the pig's neck, then blasted through the little bulb of brain nestled at the base of her skull. Blood and shards of bone exploded from the back of the sow's neck, and she pitched over onto the street with a quiet sigh.
"Got you, sumbitch," Sean crowed. He stowed the old rifle on the gun rack and dug an oil-stained tarp from the truck's bed. He didn't have time to field dress the beast. He'd just wrap it up and throw it in the pickup's bed and deal with the mess later.
Sean unfurled the tarp on the gravel road next to the pig and smoothed it with the toes of his work boots. "Good enough," he declared, and knelt down to haul the pig onto the tarp.
The Long Man whipped the sow's head around and latched its teeth, his teeth, onto Sean's wrist.
"Get off!" Sean screamed. He smashed his fist into the side of the pig's head, to no effect. The efforts to free his arm from the pig's jaws opened Sean's injury ever wider.
The Long Man slithered out of the hog and into the wound. Threads of dark essence wriggled into Sean's blood. They streaked along his veins and arteries, seeking his heart, his brain.
Sean's body cracked and stretched, his bones lengthened as his skin buckled and expanded to accommodate its new occupant. Nubs of cartilage twitched alongside his spine, and Sean was no more.
The body's new owner staggered onto its feet and flexed its arms and knees. A twisted grin split its face.
"I'll be goddamned," the Long Man crowed. "It's good to be back."
The Long Man's new body annoyed him. The thick band of beer-soaked fat around its center made it hard to move, and the layer of suet coating its organs made it slow and weaker than he'd imagined possible. He could still feel the part of himself left in the squirrel. It, at least, wasn't slow.
The possessing spirit watched the Night Marshal, Joe Hark, through the bar's front window with stolen eyes. The asshole rolled a bottle of beer between his palms. He twisted it this way and that, like a child trying to figure out how to operate a pistol found in his daddy's nightstand.
He watched Joe wrestle with the demons baked into his very soul. The Night Marshal had fought and killed a hundred different monsters, but none held a candle to the one inside him. All the power he'd stolen from the Long Man was useless in fighting his thirst for another drink of the booze that had nearly killed him.
The Long Man waited in the cab of Joe's truck for hours. It was boring and fascinating. Did his old enemy struggle with this weakness every day? The bottle of beer in his hands had the trappings of ritual, a spell woven to ward off the darkness.
The Night Marshal's former master wondered if it worked.
When Hark left the tavern, the Long Man hunkered down in the passenger's seat. He half turned toward the driver's door and levered Sean's stolen rifle up at a slight angle.
Joe's eyes went wide when he opened the door and saw the weapon aimed at his chest. A cold rage settled into those eyes. "The fuck're you doing in my truck?"
For a moment, the monster hesitated. Power rolled off the Night Marshal in heavy waves. Power stolen through bonds Pitchfork's onetime guardian had forged between them himself.
The moment passed and it was evident his old enemy didn't recognize him. "Get in the truck. Close the door."
The monster wearing Sean's skin wondered if the Night Marshal would follow orders. Joe wasn't an easy man to scare, and even the rifle aimed at his heart didn't make much of an impression.
"This better be good," Joe said. He hauled his lanky frame into the truck and slammed the door. "Now what?"
The gun hung between them, a promise of violence whose time hadn't quite come to pass. "Drive."
"Anywhere in particular?" Joe leaned on the steering wheel and shrugged. "I mean, I got plenty of gas, we can go wherever your heart desires. Just speak up."
The Long Man flicked his eyes toward the road. "Head north on 44."
They rode in silence for half an hour, until Joe's captor had to ask, "Do you even recognize me?"
The Night Marshal chuckled. The sound was as cold and dry as winter's first frost. The glow from the dash cast an unhealthy green glow onto the Night Marshal's face. His eyes sank into deep pockets of shadow and his teeth glinted like knives when he spoke.
"You got no idea how many people might want to point a gun at me. It's a long list, and no way I can keep all their names straight."
