We're Dead, No Redemption

This is a Feckin' SHACK

(Hey, author here. Just letting you guys know off the bat that this story is originally from Quotev. Ergo, if you find it there-yes, I have permission to put it here, because I'm the author. No story ripping-and-reposting here, don't worry.
However, since this is a copy-and-paste, things may go a little funny. Please tell me if there's any layout issues or other issues and I will go back and fix them.)

"You've gotta be kiddin' me."

Riding on the back of Bill's filthy, smelly, sweaty horse for miles on end was one thing. Having to bounce from horse to horse (to prevent any from dying from exhaustion) was another. Being thrown off repeatedly by the Count-Dutch's high-strung Arabian shithead stallion-was yet another.
But this?
"Stop bitching, Arthur," Bill said, urging Brown Jack on through the mounds of snow. "I don't know about you, but I'd rather spend a night in an old mining town than one more night out here."
He had a point.
Arthur Morgan grumbled to himself, shifting his weight on the back of Brown Jack's saddle (just as dirty as the stallion himself). The heist in Blackwater was supposed to make them rich beyond their wildest dreams, rich enough so that maybe they wouldn't have to run around like this anymore. The gang's smooth-talking senior, Hosea, had found out that a ship loaded with goods was coming in to port. Dutch, their leader, had thought this was a stroke of luck and started planning to rob it. If they got away with it they'd be well-off for more than a year (as long as some people didn't spend it too foolishly and wind up outing themselves). So how did he find himself shifting around on the back of a dirt-encrusted stallion, horseless and hungry?
He'd been thinking about that the entire ride here, and he still wasn't sure. He only had flashes of memory as to what happened to his horse; banging, squealing, the ground rushing up to meet him, watching the maddened-from-pain animal charge head-first off the dock. Lenny'd quickly come back for Arthur and pulled him up onto his horse, which is most likely the only reason Arthur is even on Brown Jack and not hanging from a rope.
Is he thankful to Lenny? Of course! But even gratitude can give way to negative emotions...Especially when the only memories your mind coughs up of the past 24 hours are all negative.
Now, staring at the building that Javier, Lenny and Charles were searching, he'd felt like he hit an all-time low. Not an unusual feeling but disheartening nonetheless.
Arthur and Bill both slid off Brown Jack's back, Bill throwing the dirty horse's reins into Arthur's hands before rushing to help some of the women unload Davey; a member of the gang that had been severely wounded during the getaway trip. He looked so pale and limp coming down from the covered wagon that Arthur doubted he'd actually survived the trip.
Brown Jack's nose was suddenly at Arthur's face, unwittingly blowing dust straight into it. Arthur coughed and pushed the horse's nose away. "God, animal..." He grouched. "That's gross."
Brown Jack just blinked at him with his large eyes. Arthur sighed and tugged his reins foreword. "Come on, let's get you to your friends..."
The dark shape of the other horses against the snowy background made him think about drawing it in his journal later when he got the chance. Brown Jack tossed his head appreciatively when Arthur practically peeled the dirty bridle off his long head and looped it over his saddle, then walked off to join the others in digging through the snow for grass.
"Arthur!" A young voice made the cowboy turn around as Lenny struggled through the snow to get him. "Dutch wants us all inside."
"What's the difference between out here and in there?" Arthur grumbled. Lenny made it to his side and leaned against him for a moment to catch his breath.
"Well for starters..." Lenny huffed an exhausted sigh, pushing his hat back. "It's warmer, th' ladies built a fire inside."
"Sold."
Lenny laughed a little as Arthur slung his arm over his shoulder and dragged him to the biggest building in the old mining town.

"Arthur!" Dutch greeted him when he entered. "There you are. I was worried you were blown away."
"Very funny, Dutch," Arthur growled.
"Dutch..." One lady from the group of them in front of the campfire stood up and put her hand on the mustached man's shoulder. "Davey's dead."
A somber silence filled the room. They were down another body. This doesn't bode well, at all.
"Listen, all of you," Dutch said in a loud voice, carefully removing the woman's hand from his arm. "We've had a couple of bad days, I understand. I loved Davey, Jenny, Mac...And Sean. If I could throw myself into the ground in their stead, I'd do it. But we are going to survive, I promise you. With a storm like this, no fool would dare try to follow us out here. We'll scout for food after it dies down enough for better vision out there. Mr. Pearson, Miss Grimshaw, I'm going to need you two to turn this into a camp."
The two people he'd spoken to nodded, Pearson pulling back on the wet coat he had just shrugged off. Dutch walked to the middle of the room, keeping the remaining member's of the gang's attention on him. "We've been through worse before. At least we have shelter this time."
That got a few laughs. Arthur found himself smiling and shaking his head. 'Good old Dutch.'
"I suppose a few of you are wishing I would shut up, because we're all cold and hungry." More laughs. A smile tugged at Dutch's mouth as he continued. "All of you, we will get through this. Now get yourselves warm!"
"Come on, ladies," a brown-haired woman said, standing up from beside Davey's body. "We've got some work to do."
The group immediately set to work making the drafty building a home. The sight of everyone working together never failed to make Arthur feel a little less cynical.
Dutch started speaking again about an hour later, this time quieter. "Arthur and Javier," he said. "I need you two to come with me."
Arthur raised his eyebrow. Dutch glared at him and motioned to the door. Javier gave an amused smile at the two's non-verbal conversation and walked out ahead of them.
"What're we doing, Dutch?" Arthur half demanded when they left the building. "We just came in from freezing half to death on the horses, now we're doing it again?"
"I have a clear goal this time," Dutch rebuffed. "Micah told me he'd found a house we could rob."
"How, telepathically?"
Javier stifled a laugh at Arthur's sarcastic comment. Dutch whistled for the Count. "Keep talking like that," he warned, "and I'll make you ride Brown Jack again."
"Like Hell I'm getting on that horse's back again!"
"You aren't too cold to complain, I see," Javier cut in, already mounting his horse. Dutch didn't bother hiding his smile as Arthur went back to grumbling about his situation and set to work trying to catch Lenny's mare, Maggie.
There wasn't much other chat as the three rode into the barely receded storm. The Count was hardly visible in the storm, his white hide blending straight into the snow-a far cry from how he stuck out like a sore thumb in Blackwater. Arthur recalled Dutch ranting about how many people kept offering him money in large sums to try and buy him. Dutch wouldn't part with that horse for his weight in gold.
Javier's horse, a white-splattered grey American paint he named Boaz, flicked his ears happily each time Javier spoke softly to him. That stallion obeyed only him, Arthur had learned that the hard way several times. You can't steal a horse away from the man that tamed him literally from the ground up-Boaz was born a wild horse.
Then there was Boudica. Arthur's old horse, and a sight for sore eyes. A fiery chestnut with an intelligent gleam in her eyes, that mare was as dedicated to her rider as he was to her. She was vain, high-strung and smart enough to know how to walk along narrow mountain paths. Fuck knows what her breed was, it wasn't important. Her violent death left Arthur horseless and more convinced the human race was buggered up in way too many ways.
"Dutch!" A rough voice called out, snapping the cowboy back to the present. Micah harshly urged on his horse against the blowing winds.
"Where the Hell did you come from?" Dutch called to him. The small horse parade stopped as Micah slid off poor Baylock, the thin black horse's sides heaving from over-exertion.
"I lost track of John," he said simply, fiddling around with the belt under Baylock's saddle. "He said he went to get you and he took off."
"Wonderful," Dutch growled.
"I have no doubt the idiot will return, he can't survive alone in this weather." Micah patted Baylock's neck before pulling himself into the saddle again. "C'mon, the house is along this way."
Baylock snorted shallowly, clearly tired but still pushing through the snow for his master. Arthur had the urge to rip Micah a new one for pushing his horse so hard. By the tense way Javier was holding himself, he could tell the Mexican was thinking the same thing. Both men barely kept their mouths shut as the extended horse train continued-this time at a slower trot for poor Baylock's sake.
The house they came across was very large and very much in the middle of nowhere. How people could live out here, Arthur had no idea. The men dismounted and drew their guns before taking cover behind various nearby objects. Something about this place felt very funny, though Arthur couldn't put his finger on how until he heard Javier softly curse.
"Dutch! Come look at this!" He called in a harsh whisper. Dutch, Micah and Arthur all crept over to take a look.
The wagon Javier was hiding behind had some cargo; a dead body, the identity indistinguishable due to the head being almost blown off. Dutch whispered a curse of his own and looked over his shoulder at the building.
"I say we still got for it," Micah said, brandishing his pistol eagerly.
"I don't think it's worth the risk," Javier hissed, also watching the house nervously. "I think someone got here before us."
"So? There's four of us!"
"There could be more of them!"
"Enough! Both of you." Dutch glared at the two before looking to Arthur. "What do you think, Arthur?"
It always pleased Arthur that Dutch often turned to him when stuck on decisions. This wasn't the time for selfish pleasure, however. This could either save the camp or doom them to starve.
"Let's go for it," he said at last.
"YE-" Micah started to shout, cut off at the last second when Javier punched him in the gut.
"BUT," Arthur continued. "We have to go about this carefully. We don't have many men or ammunition. One of us should distract them, the others will sneak in and set to work."
"What if there's a gang inside?" Javier asked. Arthur sighed.
"Then we fight, but we must be careful."
"That is why I like you, Arthur Morgan," Micah said with a laugh. He patted Arthur's shoulder harshly. "You're a man not afraid of action!"
"I'll provide the distraction," Javier offered.
The men split up again, Javier standing up and brushing off his clothes. Arthur ducked back behind his rock and drew his repeater.
There was a tense silence as Javier knocked on the door. The first knock didn't get an answer, but the wind carried men's whispers down to the waiting Van Der Linde gang members. Arthur tightened his grip on his gun.
The second knock caused someone to finally open the door. "What do you want," the answering man asked Javier in a harsh voice.
"I-I'm sorry, amigo," Javier said, making his voice shake in that still-learning-English way. "My familia...estamos muriendo de hambre-"
"ENGLISH, please," the man growled. "I don't have time for your Spanish shit."
The click of a gun made Arthur look to Micah. He was aiming at the man early and ignored Arthur's desperate attempts to get his attention.
"Listen here, Spaniard," the man growled again, cutting off Javier from more broken English rambling. "We don't have anything for you. We took this place over and are still scavenging it ourselves. Now I suggest you leave, before we show you why we O'Driscolls are not to be messed with!"
A gun went off, and the man dropped dead. Javier had just started putting his pistol away when other men came from everywhere-the windows, the coal attic, almost out of thin air. Arthur, Micah, Dutch and Javier put down as many as they could (and wasted several bullets in the process) before the remaining O'Driscolls called for a retreat. One fell off his horse when it bolted and ran for cover in the barn.
"Leave 'im be, boys!" Dutch said, walking towards the house. Micah and Arthur both started heading to the barn-only to be stopped when Dutch grabbed the back of their coats. "I said, leave 'im be!"
"Dutch, if we kill this one, there's one less O'Driscoll in the world," Micah argued.
"He won't survive in this weather, Micah," Javier cut in. "It's too cold for a man alone."
"That's right." Dutch turned around and pushed the two members of his gang towards the house. "Now, come on. We got some looting to do."
The group disappeared inside the house just as a brown and white horse exploded out of the barn, the man that had run in earlier clinging to his saddle. He threw the man and galloped towards the house, whinnying loudly for his companions and charging towards the Count, Boaz and Maggie when they responded.
The man that had fallen off the horse died from the impact, his neck snapping. A few minutes later, however, he got back up again...But something was seriously wrong.
The sound of a cow mooing in a field called to him. He shuffled off towards it, broken neck making his head flop around in a way it was not intended to. Clawed hands thirsted for raw flesh and veins.
He was the first. There would be hundreds more before Dutch finds out, thousands more by the time the gang tries to stop it.
The world as they knew it was coming to an end.