Animal (Part 2)

John wakes. Spirals of light flash and dance across his eyes. His head spins wildly and he shuts his eyes again. His face, raw and sullen, stings with sharp pain. Dried blood mats his hair down, changing it to a shade of dirty crimson. A bright bruise blossoms over his right eye. His leg throbs numbly; a cast of bandages loops neatly around his calf. A spot of blood presses against the tourniquet, but the bleeding has stopped. John’s vision blurs, his head heavy, his mind slipping in and out of focus. John struggles to move, his hands cuffed tightly, chained to an iron side stove. Blood trickles slowly down his wrist Light spills in as he opens his eyes. The small room, dirty and cramped, surrounds him. Refuse spills across the floors.

The door bursts open and two guards enter, the tall man following close behind. A young man inches inside. In one hand he grasps a polished camera, pulling it close to his chest. The man’s red hair drips with oil, shining in the dusty light’s glare. His pale skin presses tightly against his expensive suit, spotless and well maintained. He’s no rider. Nothing hangs from his rawhide belt. A black bowler’s hat sits perched atop his head, lying at a slight slant. The brass buttons on his coat glitter silently. In his other hand he carries a makeshift camera stand. He places the stand carefully on the ground and begins to assemble it.

“Meet my associate, Mr. Daniel Barrow,” the tall man says, waving a hand formally in the air.
“Where am I?” John snarls, tearing at the ropes that cut into his soft skin.

The tall man shakes his head and kneels before John.

“My, the world simply has no manners these days.”
“Where am I?”

The tall man strikes John across the face. John slumps to the ground, his hands burning as he’s held up against his will. The copper taste of blood fills his mouth. He spits into the dirt.

“You have no respect, John. Your father was always courteous. A man with no respect is not a man.”

The tall man stands and navigates the room, he turns to the photographer.

“How long?”
“Two minutes.”

The tall man sighs and turns back to John.

“Take me, for instance. I am a courteous man. I could have left you dying in the sand, let you lie there until you bled out like a worthless pig. Now that's far more than a man like you deserves. But I’m a courteous man. I treat my guests with respect.”

The tall man lifts his foot and places it against John’s bandaged calf.

“You have no respect, John.”

The tall man pushes his foot into John’s leg. Searing hot pain shoots through John’s nerves. He screams in agony and fury.

“You have no honor, John,” the tall man says, shouting over John’s screams, grinding his dusty, spurred boot into John’s leg. Blood seeps through the bandages.

John closes his eyes and begins to let the darkness swallow him. The tall man seizes a mound of his brown hair and shakes him awake.

“Don’t you fall asleep on me now, boy. Don’t you pass out. I’m not done with you.”
“We’re ready,” Barrow whispers.

The tall man stands and faces Barrow.

“I want the exact moment. The moment his heart skips. The moment he freezes inside. The moment his soul becomes tainted with the sight.”

Barrow nods, swallowing hard. He lifts the silk curtain and disappears beneath the shade, holding the flash bulb up.

“Ready.”

The tall man turns to John, drawing from his pocket a grainy, black and white photograph and lays it at John’s feet.

“Your love was a beautiful woman.”

Rose lies in the photograph, spread across the ground. Her long hair splays across her shoulders, tangled and ruined. Her dress is stained with seeps of gray blood. She stares off into the void, into the sky.

Barrow clicks the flash button and a blaze of dazzling light fills the room as the flash bulb bursts. Sparks litter the ground and die with a spark. The tall man closes his eyes. Peaceful. Sublime.

John doesn’t know how long he sits there, screaming and spitting and fighting and bleeding, raw animal sounds emanating from his throat. Snot and tears spill to the dirt as he shakes with hopeless rage. Finally he falls silent and sits shaking against the stove.

Barrow removes the photo from the camera.

“I’ll take it to the dark room.”
“Don’t bother. I know it’s beautiful.”

The tall man turns to leave the room, speaking as he goes.

“You’re a broken man, John. You’re barren. As barren as the whore who spit you out.”

John opens his eyes and watches the tall man leave, his mind mulling over the words. He calls out as the tall man opens the doorway.

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

The tall man turns back and approaches John, kneeling before him. He lifts John’s head and stares into his eyes. Knives pierce the darkness. Screams fill caverns in John’s mind. The tall man’s eyes do not shine with glee or blaze with anger. They are empty. They are cold.

“I leave you with nothing and take from you everything. I have ruined you.”

The tall man speaks to the two guards that stand in the doorway.

“Take him to the fields. Kill him.”

* * *

The wheels of the small carriage rock as it plows up the gravel trail. The chestnut horses strain against the reins as the stage coach driver ushers them on, his whip cracking through the rumble. John rests against the coach’s rocking side, his hands cuffed behind his back. He grasps blindly behind, his hands scraping the wood. The two guards sit across from him, watching with quiet eyes. The first guard, a man even younger than John, sits on the left side. His short, black hair sticks against his glistening skin. A foreigner, his olive skin shines in the light. The second guard, tall and dark, his head neatly shaved, watches John. He flashes John a toothy grin. His teeth are black and rotten, stained dark from years of neglect and tobacco chewing. His hand disappears into his pocket and returns with a small, silver snuff box. The guard retrieves a finger full of dried tobacco and places it under his lip. John’s hands brush against a jutting nail. The head wiggles beneath his open palm. His fingers close around the body.

“Got the time?” John asks.

The second guard smiles.

“Yeah, you want to know the time of your death as well?”
“The time now is just fine.”

The guard pulls out a dull, brass pocket watch, tied to his belt by a small chain, and flips the top open.

“Almost noon.”

John glances out through the small gap that serves as a window. Outside tumbleweeds drift by as fields of wheat sway in silent form.

“Why do you do this?” John asks the young guard.
“Do what?”
“Kill.”
“My father fought before me. He trained me to fight, to shoot, to die.”
“To die?”
“To not fear.”

John frowns, scraping the rusty nail with his hands.

“What do you fear?” he asks.
“I fear the darkness. The wrath of God and the hand of Death.”
“God and Death, you view them as the same?”
“How else does one view the Almighty?”
“With quiet eyes and a pure soul. With love.”

The young guard nods.

“What do you fear?” the guard asks.
“I fear being alone. I fear waking at night to find that my Rose has moved on without me. I fear being sent to the fire for my sins. I fear being lost, with no hand to guide me through the darkness.”

The nail falls lightly into John’s hands. The bald man shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. The young guard sits staring at John, finally speaking.

“I’m sorry. Truly, I am.”

* * *

John hits the dirt hard. His shoulder breaks the fall. Sharp stabs of pain radiate through his body. His hands tighten around the nail, keeping it buried in his palm. The bald man lifts John by the scruff of his shirt, dragging across the ground. John’s shirt tears and shreds from the rubble. Blood trickles down his chest as rocks grind his naked skin. The young guard follows, marching close behind. The coach driver sits perched atop the wagon, watching John’s struggle.

The shriveled plants smoke in their charred remains. The wheat lies as ash upon the earth. Mounds of gray dust stand piled in heaps around them. Shivers of small fires wither and die far beyond the tall grass. All lies dead beneath their feet. Nothing breaths in the empty lands.

The bald man pulls John into a clearing and lets him drop. John pulls himself, struggling, to his knees and glances wildly at the carnage that surrounds them. Charred bodies litter the land. Corpses burned beyond recognition lie scattered among the ash. Hands outstretched in pleading fashion, scabbed and molted, stand twisted towards the sky. Mouths hang open, etched clearly by the final screams that spewed from them in their final hours. The body of a young child lies mangled and broken in a briar of thorns. The two newest bodies lie in a half-filled hole. Bloated and pale, they lie alone, the smell of rotting flesh drifting up from their lifeless corpses. The smaller corpse’s shirt is dyed red from the blood that spilled from its slashed throat. The other’s eyes bulge in silent wonder, darkened maroon. A bullet hole pierces its skull, dried gore sprayed upon the earth behind. The corpse’s pants are smudged from the excrement released upon its death.

John shifts the nail up into the key chamber of the steel handcuff. The young guard stands at John’s side. The bald man with the tobacco stained teeth approaches, drawing his revolver.

“Where do you want it?” he asks, spinning the chamber.
“Nowhere.”
“That’s not an option, friend.”

John wiggles the thin nail as it shakes inside the keyhole.

“I’ll ask you one more time, where do you want it?”
“What do you fear?”

The bald man stops, struck dumb by John’s question. He grasps for an answer and speaks.

“I fear change.”
“You can’t change what’s coming.”
“What’s coming?”

With a quiet snap the handcuff on John’s left wrist snaps open. He grasps the opened side, the sharp end facing outward. The sun glitters upon the cold steel.

“Death.”

John pushes himself up from the dirt, grabbing the young guard by the shoulder and pushing the handcuff blade like a sickle to his throat.

“Drop the gun,” John commands, pushing the boy out like a shield.

The bald man stands still, his weapon trained on John. He glances from the young guard’s wide eyes to John’s bloody face. He slides his tongue slowly across his rotten teeth. The bald man smiles and pulls the trigger of the revolver three times. Shots rock the young guard’s body as John lets him fall, pushing hard off the ground towards the bald man. The bald man fires again and the bullet whizzes over John’s ear, wind rushing by. John reaches the bald man and strikes his arm with the cuff. Blood spatters the ground. The revolver goes off in a haze of smoke, the impact rocking John’s body. Blood spills from John’s abdomen. He pushes the bald man’s head up and sinks the cuff’s sharp edge into his neck. John jerks the cuff from the man’s throat as thick ropes of blood gush from the wound. The bald man drops to his knees, holding his hands to his throat and gasping for air. John pushes the man into the dust and drags the cuff across his throat in one quick motion. Blood fountains down the bald man’s shirt as John releases him. The bald man thrashes in his death throws as John turns to face the coach driver, the revolver raised.

A trail of dust fades as the carriage rides off down the road, disappearing beyond a tall hill. John lowers the revolver and removes the bald man’s boots, placing them on his bare feet. He stands and approaches the young guard who lies motionless in a puddle of red sand. The young guard’s eyes follow John as he kneels beside him. John grunts and places his hand over the small hole above his waist. Blood slowly flows beneath his fingers. The young guard coughs violently, blood dribbling down his chin.

“Where am I?” John asks.
“The fields.”
“Where is my home?”
“East. Seven miles.”
“Where is he?”

The young guard moans.

“Everywhere. He’s in the wind. He’s in the dust.”
“Where is he?”
“I’m no one. He tells me nothing.”
“Where is he?”
“Barrow. Find Barrow.”

John’s mind mulls over the name. The greasy photographer. The man who captured his pain, etched it forever in time.

“The photographer?”

The young guard nods.

“How far?”
“Twenty miles. On a farm. Stanton.”

John pushes the chamber of the dead man’s revolver out. A single bullet remains. He snaps the chamber shut. The young man stares up at him with pure eyes.

“My father taught me not to fear.”
“He taught you well.”

The gunshot echoes into the sky, a storm of black crows take off from the ashes.

* * *

John isn’t shaking yet. His face is painted ghostly pale. Occasionally a trickle of blood leaks from the makeshift tourniquet and falls to the ground below. He stumbles through the tall grass, pushing on towards home. Up ahead lies a broken stream, flowing above the dirty sand, pebbles float along. The water, clear as white crystal, shines with unnatural light, a source of life in a desert of ash.

John falls to his knees, dipping his hands in the clear water. His lips, cracked and raw, embrace the water. He drinks until his hands are empty. John begins to sob. He removes his shirt and runs the water across his skin, washing the sins from his body. He cries for the young man who lies unburied in the killing fields. He cries for what he has become.

John turns his head to the sky. Above him clouds float with slow content, watching his purification.

“Do you watch? Do you keep her from me? Am I destined to walk as an outlaw, to die like a dog? Is that your will? Then damn you, oh merciful God.”

* * *

John walks through a field of white orchids, petals float up to the sky and drift slowly down to the earth below. His shirt is clean, his wounds healed. The light leaves brush against his skin, tickling his arms. A drop of dew hangs from a leaf. It falls slowly to the ground. The sun shines bright upon him. Warmth spreads through his body. The smell of rich earth drifts up from the soil. He looks down at his form. Clothes of white, gentleman’s clothes, cover his skin. The fabric bristles smoothly under his touch. His mind is clear, clearer than ever before. He sees the world, the universe. A crunch of dry grass comes from behind. John turns.

Rose stands before him, a gown of white silk spilling from her shoulders. She smiles at John, without words. John’s throat closes and he tries to speak. Rose stares solemnly at John, glancing down at the bundle of cloth in her arms. John pushes the stalks of corn aside and approaches his love.

John’s child lies cooing in Rose’s arms, kept close to her chest. John watches the child sleep. It lies buried beneath a blanket of cloth, only its head shows. His tiny scraps of blonde hair drift in the breeze. John begins to shake. Rose raises her hand and places it across his cheek, rubbing it tenderly. John breaths clear again. He stares at the ground.

“Must I leave?”

Rose nods.

“I don’t want to.”

Rose smiles and lifts John’s head with her hand. He deep blue eyes warm his soul. Her mouth never moves. He eyes speak for her.

“I want to stay here with you.”
“This is only a dream, John.”
“How long must I wait?”

Rose leans in and kisses his cheek softly.

“You must wake, John.”
“I love you so much.”
“You must wake.”

John nods and feels himself grow cold again. The field turns to ash and the sun burns dark. The light still blazes from Rose’s gown. From the bundle of cloth the infant’s hand appears, grasping John’s finger tightly. John closes his eyes and wakes.

* * *

John stumbles through the forest, approaching the clearing. His body trembles as he walks. He feels that every step he takes will crush him. Bracing himself against a leafless tree’s trunk, he grasps for breath. Sweat drips down his face, burning his eyes. He leans forward and lets the salty sweat fall from his brow. He stays there for some time. Finally he pushes himself up and enters the clearing.

The bald man’s boots crunch dried leaves underneath his feet. A rustle comes from ahead. John draws the empty revolver, steadying it. The cheap handle shakes in his grasp. The rustling intensifies and stops. A gray wolf emerges from the brush. It eyes John with caution and halts, its hair standing on end. The wolf’s yellow eyes twinkle. A low growl issues from its throat. John’s legs begin to shake, he stands his ground. The wolf watches him.

A curved scar runs through the wolf’s left eye and down its snout. Matted blood stains its hind leg. A chunk of the beast’s front paw is missing. The wolf struggles to stand but carries itself with quiet dignity, harsh wisdom, and grace. The two stare each other down. The wolf’s growls cease.

John stumbles by as the wolf continues on, still watching him. But the look has changed. The wolf’s eyes no longer echo caution, but rather a subtle understanding, almost pity, held by respect. The wolf disappears among the leaves. The wet sent of its fur floats through the air. High above the treetops the sun begins to set.

* * *

The fields lay stained and black, burned under the western sky. John makes his way through the charred corn. The farm ahead stands intact, untouched by the once searing flames that ravaged the land. John shakes violently as he reaches the tipped wagon. He coughs into his hands which come away wet with blood and phlegm. He stumbles to the ground, falling on his side. His father and Samuel lie dead in the dust. A small dustbowl forms, spreading sand across the bodies. John drags himself up. Out beside the corn stalks lies Rose.

John kicks off from the ground, sputtering and gasping for air. Blood spills down the fist he buries in his wound, trying to keep it closed. The wound throbs beneath his touch, The small tourniquet made from his shirt is soaked crimson. John falls to his knees beside Rose, coughing wildly.

Rose lies with her eyes turned to the sky. Her dress is tattered and torn. She’s been shot in the stomach five times. Her rounded belly is caked in dry blood. The bullet holes leave her blouse shredded. Her blouse has been pushed up around her waist. John pulls it down silently, shaking. He strokes her cheek, kissing her face, tears streaming from his eyes.

John leans back and rubs his hands through his hair, moaning. He raises his head to the clouds and shrieks, asking why and pleading for death. For redemption and salvation. His throat burns and still he screams. John removes the empty revolver and shoves it in his mouth, pulling the trigger again and again. Dry clicks issue from the barrel. He hurls the pistol to the earth and weeps. John place his face in his hands, swaying from exhaustion. A jingle of spurs issue from behind.

“She’s dead, son. I’m sorry.”

The fading sun hides the man’s haggard face. His weather beaten clothes hang loosely to his form. His hands flex and loosen. From his belt hangs a pair of shining silver pistols, engraved with the sign of a wolf. The guns of his father.

“Pa?” John asks, blinking in the light.

John falls silently, his limbs weak and his body pale and shaking. Exhaustion overtakes him. His body runs cold and he hits the ground. The silver spurs of the rider shimmer in the light. John closes his eyes and sleeps.

Copyright 2008
Michael Carr