Animal (Chapter 8)

“Who are you?”
“I am God.”
“And I?”
“You are the servant.”
John stands alone in a shadowed hallway. A towering figure of light forms in the distance.
“What do you ask of me?” John whispers.
“I want you to save yourself.”
“I can’t stop.”
“You can’t stop what coming.”
John recognizes his own words mimicked by the thundering voice.
“What’s coming?” he asks.
“Death.”
The light fades to black. John stands alone. A doorway appears at the end of the passage. He readies himself to face whatever waits on the other side. The handle turns and the door creaks open. A ray of light enters yet the hallway remains shrouded. A figure emerges, both John’s father and The Tall Man. A crack splits down the body separating two faces, one half mimicking the man who raised him, the other who destroyed him. John hesitates.
“What are you?”
“We are the twin fates of destiny,” the creature replies, two voices entwined into one.
“Destiny.”
“You tread a thin path, John. On one side darkness, the other light. The path of the Rider.”
“I control my own path.”
The Tall Man speaks. The left side matches the rhythm of the words while the other half remains unmoved.
“You tread the path of sin, the path of the wicked. You were fueled by hate just as your father was. You must follow that path for it leads to glory.”
John’s father speaks.
“Glory is for the weak. Do not seek to become a hero or a monster. Leave his path and rejoin your old life."
“Silence!” the left side shrieks.
The two voices rise and their screams join as one. John turns away and shuts his eyes. The figure’s hand reaches out and explodes into dust.

***

The Tall Man opens his eyes. The railcar has stopped. He stares off into the sunrise, watching as the darkness fades and light begins. He stands and ruffles his clothes, wiping his damp face and smoothing back his matted hair. He presses his hand against the train window. The glass is cold to his touch but outside the sun warms the pane.
The Tall Man glances down at the bloodstained carpet. The guard’s body is absent, more than likely lying unburied in a field beside the last town. He rubs his rough, unshaven skin. He feels drained.
Outside a shadow passes as a prairie rabbit bounds across the road and off into the tall grass. From behind a nearby shack a gray wolf emerges, tracking the scent of the creature.
The wolf stops and glances up to meet The Tall Man’s gaze. Its silver eyes shine in the dying moonlight. White fangs show. The animal watches him for some time, unmoving, unblinking. Finally it turns away, ears raised and tail tucked back, and rushes off into the brush. The Tall Man continues to study the road where the beast once stood.
“Something has changed,” he whispers, “who is the hunter and who is the hunted?”
He rubs his hand across the black revolver at his side, feeling the fine engraving beneath his fingers.
“What are you becoming?”

***

John wakes. He does not rise in fright with weapons drawn. He opens his eyes slowly and takes in the smoldering remains of his fire. He sits and watches the sun’s steady climb. The winding rail line lies ahead. John has found it. Wind blows without sound, shaking his shirt and chilling his skin.
“The path of the righteous, what path is that?” John asks, grasping the silver crucifix that rests against his chest.
John prods the fire with a wooden stick. A few ashen embers fly out but nothing sparks. He tosses the branch and a handful of broken wood down, striking a match and tossing it into the burrow. A flame catches. John fans the sapling fire into life until it crackles and dances to its familiar rhythm.
John approaches his horse. A rifle hangs from its saddle, a gift from Sonya and her people. He removes the weapon from its sheath, a work of art, light and slender. He checks the chambers then snaps the barrel shut, pocketing several shells. A weapon of vengeance lies in John’s hands. He grasps it tight.
“I will make my own destiny.”
John turns and makes his way down the sloping hill, rifle in hand, moving away from the blazing fire that aids the brightening sky.

***

Prince makes his way through the oil drenched field. The workers have gone save a few stragglers. The remaining Chinamen wrap their tools and scavenge the dead, looking for money, papers, food, anything. He nears the middle of the camp where Orson’s two guards lay. Prince breathes in the battle. Tears and blood, feelings of all race smear throughout the land. From above a steady dripping sound emanates. He glances up at the twisted remains of the oilrig.
Orson dangles from a noose tied to the metal creature, eyes bulging in their sockets. His tongue, puffy and black, protrudes from the corner of his mouth. His body is stripped of all clothes save for undergarments smeared with shit and urine. The smell drifts down to Prince. Orson’s corpse reeks with pitiful death. His feet dangle limply, shoes and socks missing, covered with blood and dirt and oil.
A worker advances. He attempts to move around Prince but the Rider grabs hold of his arm. The worker does not resist, he has no strength left to fight.
“Tell me, who is this man?” Prince asks.
The worker glances up at Orson’s body. His gaze lingers on the dead man as he speaks in fractured English.
“Him? He boss.”
“Who is your boss now?”
“No boss now. We free.”
“Free?”
The man nods. He turns his head to meet Prince’s dead eyes.
“Yes. The savior help us. He kill men who rule. He leave us boss but he hurt.”
“He was wounded?” Prince asks.
The worker shakes his head.
“No,” he replies, tapping Prince’s chest, “He hurt here.”
Prince pushes the man’s hand aside.
“What happened?”
“He come, save boy, but he leave us sad. Boy dead.”
“The boy died?”
“Yes. We bury him near river. We bury him where the flowers grow, flowers not killed by oil.”
“Was this man one of your own?”
The man shakes his head again.
“No. He like you. White man. He have same guns as you, but silver.”
“Where did the man go?”
“Savior leave, follow bad man.”
“Where?” Prince asks. His temper threatens to flare.
“To the plains. He no tell us where. He find bad man.”
Prince curses and trudges back to his horse. The worker calls after him.
“I see your guns, they not like our savior. You bad man. You no find him. You try, but you no find him.”
Prince smiles and keeps walking. A young man sits beside his horse. With one hand he strokes the black creature’s leg. In the other he holds a shattered china doll. His eyes stain red, his face smeared with dried snot and tears. Prince takes hold of the reins but the man grabs his hand.
“Are you angel?” he asks. His eyes shine with tears.
Prince mounts the horse and pushes the worker aside. The man follows his horse as it trots through the charred remains of the camp. He calls out to Prince.
“Are you angel?”
Prince turns in his saddle and listens to the man’s babbling. The man grasps the reins and places the broken doll in Prince’s lap.
“Please. If you angel, you save her.”
Prince sits up on the horse holding the broken doll in his hands. A crack runs through its chest. Crude stains its skin. Whatever color the hair had once been is unknown as little remains, now matted and torn. One of the arms is missing, the other bent and melted from heat. He passes his hands over the doll’s face. Its bright blue eyes are all that remain perfect, unscarred by time. Prince places the doll inside his saddle bag and straightens up, turned away from the man.
“I am no angel,” he whispers and jabs the horse’s haunches with his spur.
The man no longer follows him. He sinks to his knees in the mud and wraps his arms around his chest, holding himself for support.

***

John sits behind a gray, weather-beaten rock. He has been hunting for some time. The morning sun hangs overhead, casting its rays upon his tanned skin. He stares over the side with rifle raised. The tall grass shakes with movement. The brush shifts and a lumbering possum emerges. John cocks the hammer of the rifle and steadies his aim. The animal stops.
From below the possum’s stomach comes a soft squealing. Half a dozen babies scamper from the nutrients of their mother’s underbelly and mount the creature’s back. The possum resumes its walk, its children gripping firmly to her skin. John lowers the rifle and watches the animal disappear.
He stands and turns to leave but another sound rises. A coyote exits the underbrush, nose upturned and hungry eyes wide. A thick red tongue droops from its mouth as it follows the possum’s path, sniffing the earth, head drifting from side to side as it tracks the scent. John raises the rifle. The coyote glances lazily in his direction. He pulls the trigger and the animal drops into the dust, letting out a final, pitiful yelp of pain. John leaps over the rock and approaches his kill.
The coyote lies dead in the dirt, its jaws agape and eyes cloudy. Blood bubbles from the bullet hole in its side. John raises the weapon and scans the area for signs of further movement. Nothing stirs. He grabs hold of the beast’s legs and drags it back to his camp, guided by the smoke of his fire.
John makes his way to the camp and sits beside the flames, removing his hunting knife from its sheath. He sets to work skinning the coyote. He remembers his first hunting trip, how he and his father hunted muskrats and how he’d been taught to prepare and clean an animal. He cuts open the belly of the coyote and removes the guts. He drives his blade into the earth, shifting the dirt until he has a large enough hole to shuffle the innards into, burying the future smell. After removing the skin he places the animal upon the spit and sets it over the fire.
John lies back and lets the morning light warm his skin. The meat begins to cook.
“Lord, give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change what I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Let me be able to not give up on what I think is right, even though I think it is hopeless.”
John stares at the glorious skyline, his rifle held close in arm.

***

Prince traces his hand through the prairie dirt. An imprint of a horse hoof embeds itself in the ground. The trail is fresh, no more than a few hours old. He lifts his head and sniffs the air. No smell of fear or hate lingers. John has changed.
The familiar scent of roasting flesh meets his nostrils. The harsh odor of smoke and fire drifts across the land. Prince’s dead eyes do not allow him to see the smog that rises beyond the sloping hills but he knows it’s there.
He stands and draws his revolvers, checking the cylinder and sliding his fingers across the unspent shells. He slaps the chamber back in place and spins it, raising the weapon to his ear and listening to the dry clicks. The parched grass crunches underneath his boots. The sweet smell of fading life rises up.
Prince approaches his horse. He opens a saddlebag and removes the twisted doll from its depths. He slides his hand across its perfect eyes, allowing himself to become lost in the feel for the briefest of moments before shaking himself from the trance. He returns the doll to its pocket and removes a handful of beef jerky. He bites into the dried meat and chews hastily, not allowing himself the satisfaction that comes with savoring a meal, then washes down the salty food with water from his bloodstained canteen.
Prince mounts his steed and feels the rays of the newly risen sun upon his shoulders. Beads of sweat grow upon his skin. He wipes his face and licks his hand, tasting the salt. He grasps the reins, feeling the rough leather grind against his skin, and spurs the animal twice, rushing off towards the smoke that drifts into the cloudless sky.

***

John removes his breakfast from the spit and tears away a chunk of meat. The coyote is rough and dry but filling. John watches the tongues of flame dance. He swallows and takes another bite, savoring the taste, letting it fill his empty belly. Rays of heat waver across the barren earth yet he still feels chilled.
He finishes the meal and wipes his mouth, tossing the spit back onto the fire, then unbuttons the top of the water bag the Comanche left him and drinks. The heavy flames sooth his body. He lies back and tips his hat down to block the sun’s glare.
A cawing crow flies above. Its malnourished frame casts a thin shadow over John’s camp. John watches the creature land near a dying plant. The creature digs into the ground, upturning root in search of worms, but the land holds no bounty. It takes off once more and disappears beyond the dunes.
John closes his eyes and listens to the rustle of the prairie plants as the breeze blows through the camp. His horse whinnies contently. Soft clouds drift across the sky. He closes his eyes and dreams.

***

John is back in the empty hotel room. The bed remains messed, dirty sheets and pillows strewn across the floor. Blood spatters the walls. His clothes are white once more, standing in sharp contrast to the darkness around him. A chill fills the air. Goosebumps stand against his skin. From the corner of the room comes movement. John reaches for his revolver but his holsters are empty. John steps back as the figure rises from the darkness.
“John.”
His reflection stands in the corner. Its form remains crushed and beaten but portions of its body are intact, spliced haphazardly together.
“It is time to fight,” the reflection says.
“I have not yet reached The Tall Man.”
The figure shakes its head.
“Another Rider approaches.”
“The blind man.”
“Yes.”
“How do I fight him?”
“He is strong, stronger than you alone, but together we are powerful. I am weak, but I hold the shattered spark of the Riders within me. You must return the flame.”
John runs his hand across his arms trying to bring some warmth to his chilled skin. His breath passes from his lips in a visible stream.
“How do I know this is true? When will I ever be safe?” he asks.
“You have chosen a path meant for the wicked and damned, yet you tread upon the surface as though you belong. You, a pure spirit, fight against all who poison this world. The man who approaches is a tortured soul and a tainted man, an evil man. He will kill us, John. You must find the strength, for now he comes.”
The reflection holds out its arms. In its hands lay John’s silver pistols. They glitter in the light of the hanging bulb. John takes the weapons. The cold steel grows warm in his hands. He glances back to his shattered reflection.
“He approaches?”
The being nods.
“Then we will meet him when he arrives.”
“He’s already here.”
John swallows hard and holsters the revolvers. He grasps the image’s hand. The reflection raises its free arm, grabs the swinging chain and pulls.

***

John lies against the dusty ground. His head swims. He focuses on his dream. The reflection, what did it say? He holds up his hand to shield himself from the piercing light. His horse sniffs the air and stamps the ground. Atop a sloping hill a black steed stands unmoving, awaiting its master.
“No,” John whispers and rolls to the side, revolver drawn.
A cloud of dust and dirt kicks up as gunfire cracks in the distance. The bullet skids across John's right arm leaving a shallow gash. John leaps to his feet and sprints across the prairie grass. A second and third bullet catches the ground at his feet. He fires once in the direction of the shots. Prince returns his fire with three more deafening blasts. John covers his face as dust whirls around him. He dives behind a chunk of rust colored rock. Two more shots crash against the stone, chipping away at its sides.
John’s heart beats in his ears. He tries to catch his breath and steady his shaking hands. Blood spills down his arm. He cocks the hammers on the two pistols and peaks around the corner of his cover. The prairie seems empty. Prince’s horse stands still. John considers shooting the animal but it will do him no good, there’s no running from this. His breathing slows and he waits. From beyond the camp, not far into the tall grass, Prince’s voice emerges.
“I’ve been hunting you, John. I’ve been hunting you many days, many weeks. Do you know who I am?”
A bullet ricochets off the stone with a violent crack. John flinches from the spray and calls back.
“You’re a Rider.”
“No! I’m not just any Rider. I am a general, a servant of the highest man. I am blind, but I see all. I hear your heart beating, taste your fear and smell your sweat. You are no savior. You are nothing but a bastard child. Do you hear me?”
John fires twice over the side of his cover.
“I am no great man, but I fight with honor,” he says.
“Honor? The code of the Riders is nothing but. You would have made a fine Rider, just as your father had, but instead you chose the way of the righteous and weak, a way extinct for many years.”
“The righteous are not dead!”
John lets loose two more shots. He snaps the chamber open and empties his spent shells. Prince fires three times, each knocking tiny bits off the rock’s sides.
The wind rushes by Prince’s ear carrying with it the sound of John’s thundering heart. He snaps the chamber open and empties his spent shells. He keeps still, unmoving, tracking his prey.
“Your father taught you well, but he held back," he says.
“Paul didn’t.”
John fires again. Prince’s Stetson flies off his head, caught by the blast. The Rider vanishes into the foliage.
John watches the field. The wind is dead. He pulls the trigger twice more. Nothing moves. He holsters his emptied revolver and haphazardly draws his second. He makes his way around the rock but keeps his back to its side. He glances towards the hill. Prince’s horse has vanished. His own retreats across the plains, frightened by the gunfire.
John advances upon the patch of grass holding his left hand against his bleeding arm while steadying the revolver with his right. No sounds emerge. John holds his breath. Suddenly the wind picks up and Prince's Stetson rolls across the dirt. John follows it with his revolver, realizing his mistake.
Prince bursts from his hiding spot. John lets his left hand drop from his wounded arm and draws his other weapon. Prince stops, barrel pushed into the side of John’s head. John’s pistol rests against the Rider’s gut.
“I have you,” Prince whispers.
“And I you.”
“Perhaps, but you’ve made one mistake. Your left remains empty.”
John pulls the trigger. A dry click returns.
“You should have reloaded.”
“Kill me then,” John says.
Prince smiles. He stretches out his hand, fingers clutching at the air.
“Hand me your revolvers.”
“No.”
“Hand me the revolvers, boy.”
“You’ll have to kill me, I’m not surrendering Paul’s guns.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” Prince says.
John lowers his weapon slightly, confusion etched upon his face. The blind Rider tears the loaded revolver from his hands. He opens the gun and empties the shells. They bounce with soft taps against the sand. He snaps the chamber back and hands it back to John, then raises his own into the air and squeezes the trigger twice. A shot rings out on the first pull, the second dry.
“I’m giving you until tomorrow at dusk,” Prince says, “Head into the next town and wait for me there. Clean up, rest, fight, screw, I don’t care. Just be ready for me.”
“What?”
Prince ignores the question.
“Don’t try to run. I caught you when you had a two day head start and I will find you again. We’ll finish this then.”
John glances down at the silver pistols in his hands.
“Why—?”
“Why? Because you are the greatest foe I’ve ever faced. I’ve fought stronger men, wiser men, older men, but none have held the same fire and drive as you. You’ve cost me quite a bit, more than you know, but I’m not about to end this because of a slight of hand trick. When we face each other we will fight like men and only one will walk away.”
John returns his weapons to the holsters at his sides. He stares into Prince’s scarred eyes.
“I can still see, John. I can see darkness. I can see the black that swallows the entire world, the filth that surrounds our empty hearts. I see far more than any man. I even see you. I see the dark that has filled your mind. Yet it fades. It dies. Do not let hate cloud your thoughts. Do not let it encompass your soul for if you do you shall become like me, a keeper of eternal hellfire, a Rider forever lost.”
Prince holsters his revolver and whistles. His horse cries in the distance. John watches the stallion gallop over the hill and down the sloping land as it rushes towards its master. Prince mounts the creature and stares down at John.
“You’re a mighty man for one so young, but even the mighty fall. I have been given a job and I shall fulfill it, just not this way. I’ll fight you the way true men fight, facing each other and staring down death’s barrel. Make no mistake, death is coming for one of us. I’d say pray that it isn’t you but that wouldn’t do any good. We both know how this will end. I suggest we both make our peace with life for death is coming and he’s riding a flaming horse.”
Prince snaps the reins and the horse rears up, turning on its hind legs.
“Tomorrow at sunset I’ll find you and come calling. I suggest you be ready.”
He spurs twice. The creature cries and gallops off under the unforgiving sun. John watches until the Rider is gone.

***

Prince rides for many hours before he brings his horse to a stop. He dismounts, his body shaking, back drenched with sweat. He paces through the dirt.
“I am no mere man. I am no mere man,” he whispers, chanting the words over and over to himself.
A vulture lands upon a cactus shrub before him. The creature cocks its head and watches him with quiet interest. It shrieks once and steadies itself, crooked limbs grasping plant’s spiky frame for support. Its eyes blaze with hunger. Prince smells the rotting stench upon its beak.
“Leave me, demon,” Prince says, “I command thee.”
The vulture ruffles its feathers and squawks, oblivious to the threats. Prince draws his revolver and steadies his shaking hand. The barrel shines in the sunlight, its black form polished and strong. He squeezes the trigger. An empty click returns.
The vulture spreads its wings and takes off, beating the air in its haste. Prince hurls his gun to the ground.
“Damn you, vile creature! Leave me, leave me be! Get out of my mind!”
He stumbles to his horse and undoes the leather strap on his supply bag. He removes the broken doll with the perfect eyes and caresses it, whispering to the ruined plaything.
“I am no mere man. I am no mere man. I am no mere man…”

***

John gathers his goods and returns them to his saddle. He removes both revolvers and slides the chambers open, loading them quickly. His rifle lies by the campfire, the flames reflected on its steel frame. John approaches the dying fire and stoops to pick it up. He carries the weapon back to his steed and slides it into the holster that hangs from the side.
John kicks his boot against the earth, tossing dirt and sand upon the fire until it burns no more. He mounts the horse, securing himself in the stirrups, and rides.
The world is quiet. No animals call as John passes the rising hill. Prince and his horse have gone from sight. John continues down the slope. His horse shuffles beneath him, its muscular legs beating against the earth. Its coat, covered by war paint, glistens with strength.
Far beyond the desert lies the town of Haven. John can make out the writing upon the mottled wood sign that stands before its entrance. He rides towards another unknown, perhaps the last place he’ll ever know. The faces of all the dead flash before his eyes. His hands tighten on the reins.
“This is for you.”