Chapter 10
"Any last words now you piece of shit?"
I could still feel the cold barrel of the gun on my forehead. It was weird how in this instant, everything around me seemed somehow heightened. I could still hear the whore he had been screwing mewling under the rustling bedsheets and the crackling of the logs in the hearth. The pain in my leg seemed almost as if it belonged to someone else. I looked up at the man that took everything from me, the man who had raped my wife and daughter and left me for dead. I looked up at him and smiled.
"Yeah I do. Seems you forgot to put on your boots."
It was just a momentary flicker, his eyes flashing down to his bear feet and I moved. My right hand flashed down from over my head, having freed my knife from where I had stashed it. My left shot out, driving the gun wide. I could feel the hot lead of the gun as he fired and the bullet farrow through the side of my scalp. My vision went red as the blood poured down my eyes. At the same time I plunged the knife deep into his foot until I ran it into the floorboard. I was rewarded with a scream through the red haze of my own blood.
My face a mask of crimson as I sprung upwards off of my good leg and tackled Morgan to the ground. I could hear him roar as his foot was pulled free from the floorboards. I kept his gun arm wide of his body with my hand as we pushed forward. He pulled the trigger reflexively again and again, the shots echoing in the room. I heard the whore start screaming at one point, but I drove the thought out of my mind as we fell to the floor. On top, I had the leverage, but he still outweighed me in muscle. The last year had made me lean, and in a straight fight, Frank Morgan would have killed me. But I wasn't fighting straight. I rammed my forehead into his nose hearing the crunch of cartilage. The headbutt had hurt me more than I thought, but I did it again anyway, catching part of his jaw and cracking a few teeth.
I felt my own hot blood running down my face as I brought the knee of my good leg up and drove it into his solar plexus. I could hear him grunting and huffing for air as his eyes went wide. I finally heard his gun click over to the empty barrel and I brought my right fist across into his jaw. I slammed his left hand onto the floor repeatedly until he dropped the gun with a clatter. Then I just kept punching. I smashed his face over and over until I couldn't feel my hands anymore. I didn't know where the blood of his face ended and the cracked knuckles and torn flesh of my hands began. I might have punched for minutes, or just a few seconds, but either way he stopped moving. Finally I stopped and leaned back from his body, my own breath coming in deep ragged rafts.
Frank Morgan's face was a bloody pulp. His breath came in forced gasps through a smashed nose and a mouthful of blood and teeth. He laid on the floor, eyes too swollen to open, and didn't move. I looked over to the whore in his bed, whose cries had long went from loud screams, to simply pathetic whimpers. One of Morgan's shots had caught her in the stomach and she was bleeding to death. I slowly stood up and retrieved the shotgun from where I had dropped it. My left leg was numb from the bullet, and Morgan's pistol had cut a deep gash across my scalp, running from my temple down through my already cut ear.
Moving to the bed, I used my boot on my good leg to kick off the dying woman to the far side of the bed. I fired the last round from the shotgun into her and silenced her sobs. Then I began ripping the blood soaked sheets into long strips. When I had a few solid strips, I took one and wrapped it around my head and another around my leg and hoped I wouldn't bleed to death until I was done. Then I flipped the bed over and stood it on end to expose the wooden slats beneath. I grabbed Morgan by a bloody mop of hair and dragged him to the bed. I rammed another hard fist into his stomach as I hoisted him up and tied one arm off. He began whimpering something, maybe a prayer, but God doesn't hear men who are about to die. I tied off his other arm after an even harder kick to the gut, until he was splayed across the underside of the bed, arms akimbo. I pulled the bloody knife from his foot and cut off the remains of the soiled nightshirt we wore. Still he whimpered.
I went back to the fireplace and placed the poker into the flames, feeding it the last of the logs that lay beside it. I waited until the poker glowed a bright orange and the flames licked the flume of the hearth before pulling it free. Then, I showed Frank Morgan the real meaning of pain. I did things that I didn't think I could. I hurt him and hurt him until the flames grew cold and he had grown hoarse from the screams and the begging. I hurt him until I became a worse monster than he ever was. When Frank Morgan took his dying breath, I whispered into his ear the name of my wife. Emma. The name of my daughter. Eve. And my name, Death. Then I fired my third bullet.
Epilogue:
A week after my business at the Morgan estate, a single horse was found tied to the post in front of the Lawson house. It had a fancy saddle with the letter's B.T. engraved on the side. When Maggie opened the bags, she found several stacks of currency and a note that simply said, "A gift for an angel." Several other bags full of currency matching that of a series of train and stage robberies were also found at Sheriff's office.
As for me, I returned to the farm I had bought with my wife. I had done things I was not proud of. I had become something in seeking revenge that my wife wouldn't even recognize. A worse monster than the men who had taken everything from me. I held up my Father's gun and opened the barrel. There was still one bullet inside. The bullet I had found in the gun when I picked it up. The one I had saved as I loaded in those three more bullets. The bullet I had saved for the last monster on my list. Me. I tasted the cold steel of my Father's gun and prayed to see Emma again.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Showing posts with label Three More Bullets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Three More Bullets. Show all posts
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Flash Fiction: Three More Bullets
Chapter 9
I didn't have to look for the last man on my list. I knew exactly where he was. The same place he had been since that fateful night over a year ago. Frank Morgan was the son of one of the biggest cattle barons in all of Colorado. He had been born rich, but he had a wild sadistic streak that even quelled his Father. At the age of 16, he had been disowned from his family after brutally murdering a prostitute in Denver. Cut off, he took what money he had and set up in New Mexico, vowing one day to run even his Father out of business. He used any means necessary to buy up land and cattle, rustling and strong arm tactics. If the law got in his way, he'd buy them off of have them killed. So far, no one had directly linked him to any crime but his stake in the territory was getting bigger everyday.
He had approached me tyring to buy my section of land, offering me far less than the property was worth. He wanted my land because of its location, and because it would give him a foothold into JR Campbell's land, whom I had bought the land off of. I told him I wouldn't be selling for any amount of money. Emma, my sweet Emma, had picked this land and we weren't moving. He came back that same night, even before I had the chance to tell the Sheriff, and killed my family.
Morgan had a ranch a half a days ride from my old house. I looked down from the hilltop overlooking the ranch and waited. It was July 4th, the middle of summer, and many of his "ranch hands" were in town celebrating. Morgan and a few of his boys had stayed behind. I could see the fireworks in the distance, and hear the sounds of singing from below. I had taken Billy Travers horse and my own, and I kept them quiet. Waiting for the drink and the festivities to slow them down.
Finally, after the moon had grown thick in the sky, I walked down to the ranch, horses in tow. I had managed to tie them off before the first of his men saw me. His pants were undone and he had a bottle in his hand.
"Hey..Who tha' fuck are you?"
I pulled up Billy Travers shiny steel plated Colt that I had taken and shot him in the head before he could utter another slurred sentence. Walking past him I saw the door to the ranch house open up as another man come running out, clad only in his shirt and boots. I shot him before he ran 6 steps as I walked to the front door of the ranch house and kicked it in. Two more men lay passed out on the floor, surrounded by empty bottles. I emptied the last four shots into them, killing them in cold blood. Reaching across my shoulder I freed the sawed-off shotgun from its holster across my back and began walking upstairs.
I made it about halfway when another of Morgan's men came around the landing. He was tall and dark haired, and he fired his pistol as he cleared the corner. I felt something hot burn into my thigh and my leg go numb. I let fly with both barrels as I collapsed on the stairway. I probably took out as much of the railway as I did him, the man screaming as his face was full of buckshot and wood splinters. I could hear him screaming as I thumbed open the shotgun, sliding two more rounds into the barrel. I held the gun in my left as I used my right hand to pull myself up the railing. At the top of the stair I fired again, taking the man out of his misery. Far more mercy than I was gonna show Frank Morgan.
I limped down the hallway, leaving a trail of blood down his fine carpets until I reached his door. I turned the handle, throwing it wide. Frank Morgan stood next to his bed, clad only in his long shorts and gunbelt. The room was lavishly furnished, with an ornate wardrobe and washstand on one side. A roaring fire was lit in the hearth, casting the room in an eerie orange glow. A dark skinned girl with hair as black as his soul lay under the bedsheets, eyes wide with fear. I could see her dress strewn across the floor. Morgan had his gun pointed at me, one arm out in front of himself. I dropped the shotgun to the floor and raised my hands.
"Hello Frank. It's been a long time."
"Who the fuck do you think you are? Killing my men, coming into MY home? I'm gonna fucking hear you beg before I kill you."
He walked closer, keeping the gun trained on me. He turned the gun over and smashed the barrel across my face. I fell to my knees and tasted my own blood, hot and wet, and laughed. Loud and thick, I laughed. Then I felt him press the barrel of his gun hard against my forehead.
"Who the FUCK are you?"
I opened my eyes, looking at his and smiled.
"My name is Ethan Edwards. You, along with John and Billy Travers raped and murdered my wife and daughter, forcing me to watch. You beat me, shot me, and tied me to my own horse and left me to die. All for a lousy piece of farmland. Now, I am going to do to you what you did to me. Except I won't be as nice."
His eyes sparked with recognition.
"You sonuvabitch. You tough fucking sonuvabitch. You're resilient, I'll give you that. You just got one problem, see, I still got the gun and I'm not a man who makes the same mistake twice."
Then I heard the click of the hammer being drawn back. It was almost over.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
I didn't have to look for the last man on my list. I knew exactly where he was. The same place he had been since that fateful night over a year ago. Frank Morgan was the son of one of the biggest cattle barons in all of Colorado. He had been born rich, but he had a wild sadistic streak that even quelled his Father. At the age of 16, he had been disowned from his family after brutally murdering a prostitute in Denver. Cut off, he took what money he had and set up in New Mexico, vowing one day to run even his Father out of business. He used any means necessary to buy up land and cattle, rustling and strong arm tactics. If the law got in his way, he'd buy them off of have them killed. So far, no one had directly linked him to any crime but his stake in the territory was getting bigger everyday.
He had approached me tyring to buy my section of land, offering me far less than the property was worth. He wanted my land because of its location, and because it would give him a foothold into JR Campbell's land, whom I had bought the land off of. I told him I wouldn't be selling for any amount of money. Emma, my sweet Emma, had picked this land and we weren't moving. He came back that same night, even before I had the chance to tell the Sheriff, and killed my family.
Morgan had a ranch a half a days ride from my old house. I looked down from the hilltop overlooking the ranch and waited. It was July 4th, the middle of summer, and many of his "ranch hands" were in town celebrating. Morgan and a few of his boys had stayed behind. I could see the fireworks in the distance, and hear the sounds of singing from below. I had taken Billy Travers horse and my own, and I kept them quiet. Waiting for the drink and the festivities to slow them down.
Finally, after the moon had grown thick in the sky, I walked down to the ranch, horses in tow. I had managed to tie them off before the first of his men saw me. His pants were undone and he had a bottle in his hand.
"Hey..Who tha' fuck are you?"
I pulled up Billy Travers shiny steel plated Colt that I had taken and shot him in the head before he could utter another slurred sentence. Walking past him I saw the door to the ranch house open up as another man come running out, clad only in his shirt and boots. I shot him before he ran 6 steps as I walked to the front door of the ranch house and kicked it in. Two more men lay passed out on the floor, surrounded by empty bottles. I emptied the last four shots into them, killing them in cold blood. Reaching across my shoulder I freed the sawed-off shotgun from its holster across my back and began walking upstairs.
I made it about halfway when another of Morgan's men came around the landing. He was tall and dark haired, and he fired his pistol as he cleared the corner. I felt something hot burn into my thigh and my leg go numb. I let fly with both barrels as I collapsed on the stairway. I probably took out as much of the railway as I did him, the man screaming as his face was full of buckshot and wood splinters. I could hear him screaming as I thumbed open the shotgun, sliding two more rounds into the barrel. I held the gun in my left as I used my right hand to pull myself up the railing. At the top of the stair I fired again, taking the man out of his misery. Far more mercy than I was gonna show Frank Morgan.
I limped down the hallway, leaving a trail of blood down his fine carpets until I reached his door. I turned the handle, throwing it wide. Frank Morgan stood next to his bed, clad only in his long shorts and gunbelt. The room was lavishly furnished, with an ornate wardrobe and washstand on one side. A roaring fire was lit in the hearth, casting the room in an eerie orange glow. A dark skinned girl with hair as black as his soul lay under the bedsheets, eyes wide with fear. I could see her dress strewn across the floor. Morgan had his gun pointed at me, one arm out in front of himself. I dropped the shotgun to the floor and raised my hands.
"Hello Frank. It's been a long time."
"Who the fuck do you think you are? Killing my men, coming into MY home? I'm gonna fucking hear you beg before I kill you."
He walked closer, keeping the gun trained on me. He turned the gun over and smashed the barrel across my face. I fell to my knees and tasted my own blood, hot and wet, and laughed. Loud and thick, I laughed. Then I felt him press the barrel of his gun hard against my forehead.
"Who the FUCK are you?"
I opened my eyes, looking at his and smiled.
"My name is Ethan Edwards. You, along with John and Billy Travers raped and murdered my wife and daughter, forcing me to watch. You beat me, shot me, and tied me to my own horse and left me to die. All for a lousy piece of farmland. Now, I am going to do to you what you did to me. Except I won't be as nice."
His eyes sparked with recognition.
"You sonuvabitch. You tough fucking sonuvabitch. You're resilient, I'll give you that. You just got one problem, see, I still got the gun and I'm not a man who makes the same mistake twice."
Then I heard the click of the hammer being drawn back. It was almost over.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Flash Fiction: Three More Bullets
Chapter 8
I found John Traver's brother Billy three days later on the road to Sedition. He was traveling with another man I didn't recognize, but I knew neither of them meant anything good. He might have been a hired gun helping in the stage robberies, or just another cutthroat that Billy adopted. Either way, Billy was traveling with a big pack, and one other man didn't make any difference to me as to what I had to do.
They had set up a camp near the Henessey River which led south, toward Sedition and what he was guessing was his brother. They were a good two days from another farm or town, though this particular spot had been a stop along the old Pony Express route. The building and stable had long since fallen down, though the horse post was still there and it made for a popular stop along the trail. Billy was cooking over the fire while the stranger lounged on his bedroll, peeling an apple with a long knife. I observed this as I walked down the hillside. It was just close enough to dark to break for camp, though not to dark as for me to see each of them react as I closed in. Billy's hand eased towards his gun as he stood over the fire, the smell of bacon wafting in. The stranger never moved, just peering up from under the wide brim of his hat while he kept peeling the apple.
"Greetin'! I was on from Sedition and I noticed your fie and the smell o' cookin'. Was wonderin' if I could share it with ya. I got some whiskey I'd gladly pass."
I might have laid the country accent a little thick, but Travers seemed to buy it. He eased his hand off the pistol and broke into the kind of smile that never touched your eyes. He'd as soon kill me and take what he wanted. I didn't plan on giving him the chance. The stranger never moved, other than the knife over the skin of the fruit.
"Hell yes. Yer more than welcome. Why don't you pass that bottle?"
I smiled wide and mentioned my thanks as I reached back under the blanket I'd laid over my horse. I felt underneath it until I gripped what I wanted. I whipped the double barrel sawed-off shotgun out faster than Travers could react and fired, the buckshot ripping through his stomach as he cried out. I had swiped the gun from Traver's brother three days before, turning its use for my own. I turned the second shot to the stranger but he was to fast.
He drove his head hard into my gut and I felt the air leave my lungs in one great whoosh. We fell backwards landing even harder on the packed clay dirt trail. The shotgun fell with a clatter as the stranger loomed on top of me. He still held the knife which he pressed down towards my throat. I threw one hand up around his fist, the other clenching at his throat. He grinned wildly, flecks of spit at the corners of his mouth, as he pulled his free hand from my own throat and pressed down on the blade, leaning in on it with his weight. The headbutt had hurt and I could already feel my strength begin to wane under the strain. The knife glinted just inches from my throat, getting closer. Desperate, I wiggled my hips lower, stretching my neck up to avoid the blade, until I could move my right knee. then I brought it as hard as I could up into his balls.
His eyes went wide with surprise, but he held on. I did it again, then again, until I heard a sickening crunch. His eyes went buggy and wild as he screamed. I pushed the knife with all my strength to the right, the tip narrowly missing my throat, but meeting the thick cartilage of my ear. I could feel my own blood, hot, flowing down my neck. His body was still on me, so I pushed the pain in my ear to the side and stiffened my fingers. Drawing back, I drove them deep into his eye, hearing a wet sucking sound as I drew them free. He threw himself off me, trashing wildly on the ground, screaming in pain. I crawled to the shotgun, placing my hand on its grip.
As I stood, one hand to my ear, the other around the gun, I looked at the two men. Billy Travers laying in a pool of his own blood, the life slowly trickling from his body. The stranger, thrashing in pain, with a broken eye and broken balls. I walked over to the stranger first and kicked him hard in the ribs. I kept kicking until I heard a crack and his breathing grow ragged and forced. He stared up at me, unable to breath, terror and pain etched on his face. I placed the shotgun to his head and fired, tasting the spray of his blood on my lips.
I dragged Billy Travers to the shore of the Henessey River, leaving a bloody trail of dirt and gore on the packed clay road. I plunged his head into the cold waters again and again, never letting him drown, never letting him breath, until the milky foam of his eyes grew dark and he was knocking on the door of hell. I pulled him free of the water and drew out my father's revolver. I pulled his ear to my mouth and told him my tale. The name of my daughter. The name of my wife. He knew the final name before I said it. The name of death. Then I placed the cold barrel of the old gun into his mouth and fired. I left him in the river, the red of his blood mixing into the deep blue of that river, washing downstream.
Only two more bullets to go.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
I found John Traver's brother Billy three days later on the road to Sedition. He was traveling with another man I didn't recognize, but I knew neither of them meant anything good. He might have been a hired gun helping in the stage robberies, or just another cutthroat that Billy adopted. Either way, Billy was traveling with a big pack, and one other man didn't make any difference to me as to what I had to do.
They had set up a camp near the Henessey River which led south, toward Sedition and what he was guessing was his brother. They were a good two days from another farm or town, though this particular spot had been a stop along the old Pony Express route. The building and stable had long since fallen down, though the horse post was still there and it made for a popular stop along the trail. Billy was cooking over the fire while the stranger lounged on his bedroll, peeling an apple with a long knife. I observed this as I walked down the hillside. It was just close enough to dark to break for camp, though not to dark as for me to see each of them react as I closed in. Billy's hand eased towards his gun as he stood over the fire, the smell of bacon wafting in. The stranger never moved, just peering up from under the wide brim of his hat while he kept peeling the apple.
"Greetin'! I was on from Sedition and I noticed your fie and the smell o' cookin'. Was wonderin' if I could share it with ya. I got some whiskey I'd gladly pass."
I might have laid the country accent a little thick, but Travers seemed to buy it. He eased his hand off the pistol and broke into the kind of smile that never touched your eyes. He'd as soon kill me and take what he wanted. I didn't plan on giving him the chance. The stranger never moved, other than the knife over the skin of the fruit.
"Hell yes. Yer more than welcome. Why don't you pass that bottle?"
I smiled wide and mentioned my thanks as I reached back under the blanket I'd laid over my horse. I felt underneath it until I gripped what I wanted. I whipped the double barrel sawed-off shotgun out faster than Travers could react and fired, the buckshot ripping through his stomach as he cried out. I had swiped the gun from Traver's brother three days before, turning its use for my own. I turned the second shot to the stranger but he was to fast.
He drove his head hard into my gut and I felt the air leave my lungs in one great whoosh. We fell backwards landing even harder on the packed clay dirt trail. The shotgun fell with a clatter as the stranger loomed on top of me. He still held the knife which he pressed down towards my throat. I threw one hand up around his fist, the other clenching at his throat. He grinned wildly, flecks of spit at the corners of his mouth, as he pulled his free hand from my own throat and pressed down on the blade, leaning in on it with his weight. The headbutt had hurt and I could already feel my strength begin to wane under the strain. The knife glinted just inches from my throat, getting closer. Desperate, I wiggled my hips lower, stretching my neck up to avoid the blade, until I could move my right knee. then I brought it as hard as I could up into his balls.
His eyes went wide with surprise, but he held on. I did it again, then again, until I heard a sickening crunch. His eyes went buggy and wild as he screamed. I pushed the knife with all my strength to the right, the tip narrowly missing my throat, but meeting the thick cartilage of my ear. I could feel my own blood, hot, flowing down my neck. His body was still on me, so I pushed the pain in my ear to the side and stiffened my fingers. Drawing back, I drove them deep into his eye, hearing a wet sucking sound as I drew them free. He threw himself off me, trashing wildly on the ground, screaming in pain. I crawled to the shotgun, placing my hand on its grip.
As I stood, one hand to my ear, the other around the gun, I looked at the two men. Billy Travers laying in a pool of his own blood, the life slowly trickling from his body. The stranger, thrashing in pain, with a broken eye and broken balls. I walked over to the stranger first and kicked him hard in the ribs. I kept kicking until I heard a crack and his breathing grow ragged and forced. He stared up at me, unable to breath, terror and pain etched on his face. I placed the shotgun to his head and fired, tasting the spray of his blood on my lips.
I dragged Billy Travers to the shore of the Henessey River, leaving a bloody trail of dirt and gore on the packed clay road. I plunged his head into the cold waters again and again, never letting him drown, never letting him breath, until the milky foam of his eyes grew dark and he was knocking on the door of hell. I pulled him free of the water and drew out my father's revolver. I pulled his ear to my mouth and told him my tale. The name of my daughter. The name of my wife. He knew the final name before I said it. The name of death. Then I placed the cold barrel of the old gun into his mouth and fired. I left him in the river, the red of his blood mixing into the deep blue of that river, washing downstream.
Only two more bullets to go.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Flash Fiction: Three More Bullets
This summary is not available. Please
click here to view the post.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Flash Fiction: Three More Bullets
Chapter 6
I spent another month and a half with the Lawson's before I was ready to ride. I could walk straight, shoot straight, and stand straight, it was good enough. I had managed to clean up and fix my father's gun, though it did pull to the left. I also had a nice rifle that Maggie used to hunt rabbits with. This family had taken in a complete stranger and cared for him and my repayment was to take their gun and leave them. I felt bad, but I knew Maggie felt worse.
Maggie was a beautiful girl who probably could have had her pick of any husband, but her dedication to her father's doctoring and the farm had kept her from that. I knew that she had grown fond of me. I had caught the eyes she made when she thought I wasn't lookin' and the way she held herself around me. I was flattered, and yes, maybe even a little tempted.
But That wouldn't be fair to her. Fair to my wife and daughter. I did what I had done with everything else that had happened to me. I bottled it up and wedged it deep inside myself. There would be a time for everything. Either I would find my revenge, and hopefully peace, or I would die and join my family.
I tried to avoid a tearful goodbye by slipping out in the early hours, before the roosters crowed and the sun rose. I left a note, thanking them for all they had done and slipped out the door. As I saddled up the horse they had lent me and threw my meager belongings over the mare's back, I looked back at the house and saw Maggie in the doorway. She was still in her shift, the moonlight reflecting off the thin garment. I could see the slight glisten of a tear rolling down her face. Her lips moved and i could hear her words carried by the night breeze.
"Promise me you'll come back Ethan."
I got on my horse and slowly rode away. Leaving behind Maggie Lawson. My angel.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
I spent another month and a half with the Lawson's before I was ready to ride. I could walk straight, shoot straight, and stand straight, it was good enough. I had managed to clean up and fix my father's gun, though it did pull to the left. I also had a nice rifle that Maggie used to hunt rabbits with. This family had taken in a complete stranger and cared for him and my repayment was to take their gun and leave them. I felt bad, but I knew Maggie felt worse.
Maggie was a beautiful girl who probably could have had her pick of any husband, but her dedication to her father's doctoring and the farm had kept her from that. I knew that she had grown fond of me. I had caught the eyes she made when she thought I wasn't lookin' and the way she held herself around me. I was flattered, and yes, maybe even a little tempted.
But That wouldn't be fair to her. Fair to my wife and daughter. I did what I had done with everything else that had happened to me. I bottled it up and wedged it deep inside myself. There would be a time for everything. Either I would find my revenge, and hopefully peace, or I would die and join my family.
I tried to avoid a tearful goodbye by slipping out in the early hours, before the roosters crowed and the sun rose. I left a note, thanking them for all they had done and slipped out the door. As I saddled up the horse they had lent me and threw my meager belongings over the mare's back, I looked back at the house and saw Maggie in the doorway. She was still in her shift, the moonlight reflecting off the thin garment. I could see the slight glisten of a tear rolling down her face. Her lips moved and i could hear her words carried by the night breeze.
"Promise me you'll come back Ethan."
I got on my horse and slowly rode away. Leaving behind Maggie Lawson. My angel.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Friday, February 13, 2009
Flash Fiction: Three More Bullets
Chapter 5
I walked away from the spot where my wife and child had been taken from me. I could see Maggie waiting nervously at the edge of the clearing. Her horse figiting, detecting the riders unease. She and her father had been good to me these past year, I felt bad about dragging her along with me. Another month and that wouldn't be a problem.
As I walked back to my horse, I saw a slight glint in the grass. Near the spot they had held me down. I slammed my eyes shut for a second, trying to block out the images of me failing my family again. But then I let them flood back, all the guilt and all the rage, flowing over me. I walked towards the glint.
There, laying in the grass, was my fathers gun. Time and weather had not been kind to it, almost a year out here in the elements. Still I picked it up, probably thrown away after he had shot me. I ran my hand over the ivory handle, and cracked the barrel open, There was still one lonly round inside the chamber. I ran my hand over the rest of the gun before tucking it into my belt.
i limped back to my horse, tired but better for the wear. I saddled up and began the trek back to Maggie's farm. We rode in silence for the better part of the day. Myself lost in my own memories, Maggie gratefully allowing me time to come to terms with what I had seen. When we settled down for camp that night, Maggie finally broke the silence.
"What are you gonna do now?"
I looked up, brush and oil in hand, cleaning my fathers gun.
"I'm gonna get three more bullets."
End of Line.
Gerrad!
I walked away from the spot where my wife and child had been taken from me. I could see Maggie waiting nervously at the edge of the clearing. Her horse figiting, detecting the riders unease. She and her father had been good to me these past year, I felt bad about dragging her along with me. Another month and that wouldn't be a problem.
As I walked back to my horse, I saw a slight glint in the grass. Near the spot they had held me down. I slammed my eyes shut for a second, trying to block out the images of me failing my family again. But then I let them flood back, all the guilt and all the rage, flowing over me. I walked towards the glint.
There, laying in the grass, was my fathers gun. Time and weather had not been kind to it, almost a year out here in the elements. Still I picked it up, probably thrown away after he had shot me. I ran my hand over the ivory handle, and cracked the barrel open, There was still one lonly round inside the chamber. I ran my hand over the rest of the gun before tucking it into my belt.
i limped back to my horse, tired but better for the wear. I saddled up and began the trek back to Maggie's farm. We rode in silence for the better part of the day. Myself lost in my own memories, Maggie gratefully allowing me time to come to terms with what I had seen. When we settled down for camp that night, Maggie finally broke the silence.
"What are you gonna do now?"
I looked up, brush and oil in hand, cleaning my fathers gun.
"I'm gonna get three more bullets."
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Flash Fiction: Three More Bullets
Chapter 4
I eased off my horse and took in the surroundings. It had been almost a year since I had last seen the place. From the looks of it they had looted the place before burning it to the ground. I tied my horse off at one of the trees at the edge of the clearing and looked over my shoulder at Maggie. She had hung back, respecting my need to do this alone.
I had spent the last month helping them plant and prepare for spring. Doing what chores I could and helping Maggie with the plow as long as my strength held out. It was hard work but I knew it had to be done for two reasons. I would need my strength if I wanted to get back at the people who had done this. The other reason was that i owed them. I should have died, and while I thought that my purpose here on Earth was for revenge, it didn't change the fact that a man paid his debts.
This was the furthest away from the house I had been, and I was tired. The horse ride had taken its toll but I knew the time was now. I had to see for myself. I walked further into the clearing. Emma, my wife, had chosen this spot herself just before our marriage. The plot of land had a small grove in front with a path that led to a small stream, just a short ride away from the main river. Behind was a parcel of land perfect for farming and cattle raising. We had bought it from one of the local cattle barons who had owed my father a favor from the war. It was a prime piece of land, land that had cost me more than money in the end.
Inside the house was ruined, our furniture burnt and broken, rain water resting on the floor. I could still see traces of the yellow sheets Emma had made for our bed fluttering in the wreckage. I picked up a broken picture frame and pulled the photo free. The picture had been burnt badly but you could still see Emma in it. She had given it to me the day of our wedding, to remember how beautiful she had looked that day when we were both old. I ran my thumb over her face as I wiped away a lonely tear from one eye.
I walked out of the farmhouse and started back to my horse before stopping short. Steeling myself I went to the spot where he had defiled them. You couldn't see any sign of it now, but I would always remember it. I closed my eyes, trying to cut out the images flashing back, and dropped to my knees.
"I will make this right Emma. I swear to you. I will make this right."
End of Line.
Gerrad!
I eased off my horse and took in the surroundings. It had been almost a year since I had last seen the place. From the looks of it they had looted the place before burning it to the ground. I tied my horse off at one of the trees at the edge of the clearing and looked over my shoulder at Maggie. She had hung back, respecting my need to do this alone.
I had spent the last month helping them plant and prepare for spring. Doing what chores I could and helping Maggie with the plow as long as my strength held out. It was hard work but I knew it had to be done for two reasons. I would need my strength if I wanted to get back at the people who had done this. The other reason was that i owed them. I should have died, and while I thought that my purpose here on Earth was for revenge, it didn't change the fact that a man paid his debts.
This was the furthest away from the house I had been, and I was tired. The horse ride had taken its toll but I knew the time was now. I had to see for myself. I walked further into the clearing. Emma, my wife, had chosen this spot herself just before our marriage. The plot of land had a small grove in front with a path that led to a small stream, just a short ride away from the main river. Behind was a parcel of land perfect for farming and cattle raising. We had bought it from one of the local cattle barons who had owed my father a favor from the war. It was a prime piece of land, land that had cost me more than money in the end.
Inside the house was ruined, our furniture burnt and broken, rain water resting on the floor. I could still see traces of the yellow sheets Emma had made for our bed fluttering in the wreckage. I picked up a broken picture frame and pulled the photo free. The picture had been burnt badly but you could still see Emma in it. She had given it to me the day of our wedding, to remember how beautiful she had looked that day when we were both old. I ran my thumb over her face as I wiped away a lonely tear from one eye.
I walked out of the farmhouse and started back to my horse before stopping short. Steeling myself I went to the spot where he had defiled them. You couldn't see any sign of it now, but I would always remember it. I closed my eyes, trying to cut out the images flashing back, and dropped to my knees.
"I will make this right Emma. I swear to you. I will make this right."
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Friday, January 30, 2009
Flash Fiction: Three More Bullets
Chapter 3
It was 4 months before I could even get out of bed and another 3 before I could walk without help. Ever so slowly, my body was becoming my own. I had to relearn how to walk, how to hold things. My bones had been broken and despite the help of Maggie and her father, my bones had not set evenly. I knew that it was just a matter of time though until I could return to my true purpose.
It turns out Maggie's father had been a pretty good surgeon back during the War of the States, until an errant shot cost him his leg. In the battle where he was shot he was captured. Gangrene and other infections, along with an inexperienced doctor amputating his leg, almost killed him, along with a bout of pneumonia he suffered while recovering in the prisoner's camp. In the waning days of the War as he was released, he, his wife, and their young daughter had headed out West for the drier climate to hopefully help him along. Her father's name was Charles, though her mother had died in an Indian raid before the county had been fully settled, forcing Maggie to run the house and help her father.
Charles did what he could for me with Maggie's help. Though her Father didn't have the ability anymore, he was still sharp and Maggie made a helluva nurse. They lived on a small plot of farmland about a week's ride from my farm. Maggie had been heading down to the river with a load of wash when she found me on the side of the creek bed. She wasn't sure how long I had been there or how I had got there, but I assumed that somehow I had come dislodged from my horse when he hit the creek and I washed downriver. I had to have been there a day or so though as my pants had been mostly dry.
Charles had doubted I would have survived the night with my injuries. The belly wound had infected and in my weakened state it should have killed me. Still he had managed to stop the bleeding and treat the infection as best he could. The rest involved time. Time to heal my broken bones and broken flesh. Time to rest and find my strength. I knew there was one thing that time wasn't going to heal. That was the hate. The need for revenge. Though I was grateful for the Lawson's help and hospitality, I knew it was only a matter of time. Time I had. I could wait. I could rest. I could heal. I could pay my debt to these people, to Maggie who fed me when I couldn't lift my arms and to Charles who brought me back to life. But one day I would find the men who did this to me. I would find the men who raped and murdered my wife and daughter.
Maggie may have been an angel of grace, but I was still alive to become an angel of vengeance.
It was 4 months before I could even get out of bed and another 3 before I could walk without help. Ever so slowly, my body was becoming my own. I had to relearn how to walk, how to hold things. My bones had been broken and despite the help of Maggie and her father, my bones had not set evenly. I knew that it was just a matter of time though until I could return to my true purpose.
It turns out Maggie's father had been a pretty good surgeon back during the War of the States, until an errant shot cost him his leg. In the battle where he was shot he was captured. Gangrene and other infections, along with an inexperienced doctor amputating his leg, almost killed him, along with a bout of pneumonia he suffered while recovering in the prisoner's camp. In the waning days of the War as he was released, he, his wife, and their young daughter had headed out West for the drier climate to hopefully help him along. Her father's name was Charles, though her mother had died in an Indian raid before the county had been fully settled, forcing Maggie to run the house and help her father.
Charles did what he could for me with Maggie's help. Though her Father didn't have the ability anymore, he was still sharp and Maggie made a helluva nurse. They lived on a small plot of farmland about a week's ride from my farm. Maggie had been heading down to the river with a load of wash when she found me on the side of the creek bed. She wasn't sure how long I had been there or how I had got there, but I assumed that somehow I had come dislodged from my horse when he hit the creek and I washed downriver. I had to have been there a day or so though as my pants had been mostly dry.
Charles had doubted I would have survived the night with my injuries. The belly wound had infected and in my weakened state it should have killed me. Still he had managed to stop the bleeding and treat the infection as best he could. The rest involved time. Time to heal my broken bones and broken flesh. Time to rest and find my strength. I knew there was one thing that time wasn't going to heal. That was the hate. The need for revenge. Though I was grateful for the Lawson's help and hospitality, I knew it was only a matter of time. Time I had. I could wait. I could rest. I could heal. I could pay my debt to these people, to Maggie who fed me when I couldn't lift my arms and to Charles who brought me back to life. But one day I would find the men who did this to me. I would find the men who raped and murdered my wife and daughter.
Maggie may have been an angel of grace, but I was still alive to become an angel of vengeance.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Flash Fiction: Three More Bullets
Chapter 2
Again it was the pain that woke me. It seemed like all there was in the world was the pain and nothing else. Even the memory of the angel had faded away, her golden hair and perfect skin now just a thought lost to the recesses of my pain. I tried to remember where I was, tried to remember the anger and the passion that had been so fervent before, but now I only knew the pain.
Ever so slowly though, I began to feel things from outside this realm. First it was the feeling of fabric beneath me. Threadbare and worn, but soft to the touch. Touch..my fingers! Coarse and rough, but I could feel them again. Then I opened my eyes.
The light wasn't as bright this time, just the soft dull glow from a small bit of tallow on the table beside me. I was in a room I had never seen before. There was a table with the candle and a wash basin and a chair against the corner. There was a small window across from the bed I was laying on. The walls were white stucco, but well washed and clean. The door to the room was cracked open, but there was nothing but darkness outside.
I tried to lift my arms from beneath the sheets, but they were sluggish and slow. Every motion sent a fresh wave of agony through me. I tried to speak but only a dull croak escaped my throat, my lips chapped and cut. I desperately tried to work a bit of spit up in my dry mouth to lick my lips, as maybe that would quell one instant of pain.
I closed my eyes trying to wall off the pain, but when I closed them this time something more painful than the hurt came back, it was her face. My wife. My daughter. Dead. A pain so powerful that even the roar of my body paled in comparison. Somewhere deep within, I let free a wail bringing with it a coughing fit of blood and phlegm.
It was then I saw the glow of a light outside my door and it pull open. There, framed by the glow of candlelight, was my angel. She wore a white cotton sleeping gown that had seen better days and her hair was pulled into a loose nest of pins and bangs. She quickly came to my bed and whispered soft words of encouragement that at the time I couldn't hear, but looking back realized they were meant to calm me.
"Who.......are.......you......"
I had managed to spit out that one sentence as she pressed a damp cloth to my head. She rubbed my head soothingly as she talked.
"My name is Maggie Lawson, I live in Sedation Falls. I found you down by the river, half drowned and mostly dead. I brought you home and me and my Pa patched you up. He said in alla his years he never seen someone as ornery as you as to spit in the devils eye and cling ta life like you did."
I should have said I was surprised to still be alive but I wasn't, I knew why I was here and I knew what I had to do. Three men had killed my family. They had raped and tortured them for a lousy piece of farm land. I knew what my job was and why I was still alive. Revenge. Plain, simple, cold blooded revenge.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Again it was the pain that woke me. It seemed like all there was in the world was the pain and nothing else. Even the memory of the angel had faded away, her golden hair and perfect skin now just a thought lost to the recesses of my pain. I tried to remember where I was, tried to remember the anger and the passion that had been so fervent before, but now I only knew the pain.
Ever so slowly though, I began to feel things from outside this realm. First it was the feeling of fabric beneath me. Threadbare and worn, but soft to the touch. Touch..my fingers! Coarse and rough, but I could feel them again. Then I opened my eyes.
The light wasn't as bright this time, just the soft dull glow from a small bit of tallow on the table beside me. I was in a room I had never seen before. There was a table with the candle and a wash basin and a chair against the corner. There was a small window across from the bed I was laying on. The walls were white stucco, but well washed and clean. The door to the room was cracked open, but there was nothing but darkness outside.
I tried to lift my arms from beneath the sheets, but they were sluggish and slow. Every motion sent a fresh wave of agony through me. I tried to speak but only a dull croak escaped my throat, my lips chapped and cut. I desperately tried to work a bit of spit up in my dry mouth to lick my lips, as maybe that would quell one instant of pain.
I closed my eyes trying to wall off the pain, but when I closed them this time something more painful than the hurt came back, it was her face. My wife. My daughter. Dead. A pain so powerful that even the roar of my body paled in comparison. Somewhere deep within, I let free a wail bringing with it a coughing fit of blood and phlegm.
It was then I saw the glow of a light outside my door and it pull open. There, framed by the glow of candlelight, was my angel. She wore a white cotton sleeping gown that had seen better days and her hair was pulled into a loose nest of pins and bangs. She quickly came to my bed and whispered soft words of encouragement that at the time I couldn't hear, but looking back realized they were meant to calm me.
"Who.......are.......you......"
I had managed to spit out that one sentence as she pressed a damp cloth to my head. She rubbed my head soothingly as she talked.
"My name is Maggie Lawson, I live in Sedation Falls. I found you down by the river, half drowned and mostly dead. I brought you home and me and my Pa patched you up. He said in alla his years he never seen someone as ornery as you as to spit in the devils eye and cling ta life like you did."
I should have said I was surprised to still be alive but I wasn't, I knew why I was here and I knew what I had to do. Three men had killed my family. They had raped and tortured them for a lousy piece of farm land. I knew what my job was and why I was still alive. Revenge. Plain, simple, cold blooded revenge.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Flash Fiction: Three More Bullets
Chapter 1
It started with my finger. Just the one. Moving ever so slowly. Eventually it was two, then three, until I could clench my fist. Slowly feeling came back into my arm, then my body began to awaken. It was agonizing like my entire body was on fire. The pain threatened to make me black out, but I held on to the glimmer of light at the edge of the darkness. I cracked my eyes open and my vision went white, blurred against the blaring sun and reminding me of just how dry my mouth was. My lips cracked as they spread and my throat felt like it had a layer of dust in it.
My sight still a blurry white smear, the night before came flooding back to me.I could still see his laughing face leering over me. The smell of his breath, like bad whiskey and onions. The memory of hate was the only thing that hurt more than this pain. I could still picture his two laughing cronies over his shoulder as he held me down, bashing me with the butt of my own gun. The gun my father has used in the war. I remembered my boots being pulled off and my shirt and jacket removed as they punched me repeatedly. Never letting up. I remember him throwing the gun in the dirt as he motioned for his men to go back in the house and pull them out. My wife, my daughter.
I remembered as they beat me with wooden clubs until my bones cracked. Hitting my feet until they were blackened lumps of blood and meat and I couldn't stand anymore. Bringing them across my hands and face until I could barely open my swollen and puffy eyes. Hearing the sobbing sounds of my wife and daughter as they pummeled me. Then laying in a pool of my own blood as they turned on my girls. Raping and murdering them in front of my eyes. Punching my wife in the face over and over until she couldn't even speak.
Afterwards he took my gun and shot them in the head, laughing as his friends pissed on their mangled bodies. I screamed with rage until my throat was dry and hoarse; the whole time unable to protect them. When they were done, they turned my own gun on me and shot me once in the stomach. A slow, painful death they promised as they tied my broken hands behind my own horse.
My arms were nearly pulled out of their sockets as the mare sprang forward, the weeds and thickets surrounding my homestead tearing at my exposed flesh. The last thing I remembered was the sound of laughter falling further behind me.
As the blurry white nothingness faded away, I began to hear something at the edge of consciousness. The sound of crying, and suddenly I could see her face. Blond hair and smooth skin, tears flowing down her cheeks, eyes alight in blue from the watery tears. She had to be an angel.
Then she spoke.
"You're ALIVE!"
End of Line.
Gerrad!
It started with my finger. Just the one. Moving ever so slowly. Eventually it was two, then three, until I could clench my fist. Slowly feeling came back into my arm, then my body began to awaken. It was agonizing like my entire body was on fire. The pain threatened to make me black out, but I held on to the glimmer of light at the edge of the darkness. I cracked my eyes open and my vision went white, blurred against the blaring sun and reminding me of just how dry my mouth was. My lips cracked as they spread and my throat felt like it had a layer of dust in it.
My sight still a blurry white smear, the night before came flooding back to me.I could still see his laughing face leering over me. The smell of his breath, like bad whiskey and onions. The memory of hate was the only thing that hurt more than this pain. I could still picture his two laughing cronies over his shoulder as he held me down, bashing me with the butt of my own gun. The gun my father has used in the war. I remembered my boots being pulled off and my shirt and jacket removed as they punched me repeatedly. Never letting up. I remember him throwing the gun in the dirt as he motioned for his men to go back in the house and pull them out. My wife, my daughter.
I remembered as they beat me with wooden clubs until my bones cracked. Hitting my feet until they were blackened lumps of blood and meat and I couldn't stand anymore. Bringing them across my hands and face until I could barely open my swollen and puffy eyes. Hearing the sobbing sounds of my wife and daughter as they pummeled me. Then laying in a pool of my own blood as they turned on my girls. Raping and murdering them in front of my eyes. Punching my wife in the face over and over until she couldn't even speak.
Afterwards he took my gun and shot them in the head, laughing as his friends pissed on their mangled bodies. I screamed with rage until my throat was dry and hoarse; the whole time unable to protect them. When they were done, they turned my own gun on me and shot me once in the stomach. A slow, painful death they promised as they tied my broken hands behind my own horse.
My arms were nearly pulled out of their sockets as the mare sprang forward, the weeds and thickets surrounding my homestead tearing at my exposed flesh. The last thing I remembered was the sound of laughter falling further behind me.
As the blurry white nothingness faded away, I began to hear something at the edge of consciousness. The sound of crying, and suddenly I could see her face. Blond hair and smooth skin, tears flowing down her cheeks, eyes alight in blue from the watery tears. She had to be an angel.
Then she spoke.
"You're ALIVE!"
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)