Animal (Chapter 15 - Part 2)

John is walking again, but this time he isn’t with Rose. His clothes are torn and dirty. His revolvers hang from his belt. Dead embers float down from the sky. All around, holes half-filled with dust and ash burrow into the earth. Corpses line their sides. John remembers this place.
The bald man lies covered in dirt, body bloated and green, beady eyes empty. Dried blood stains his shirt, having exited the wide cut across his throat and the puncture in his neck. A fat, glistening beetle scurries down his temple and disappears inside his mouth. John shudders and turns.
The young Rider stands before him, arms outstretched like a wooden puppet. The hole in the middle of his forehead where John ended his suffering remains. He stares at his savior, head lolling against his shoulder, face ghostly white and body smeared gray with the ash of burnt lands. He breathes sharp, strained intakes of air. His hands thrash and convulse, opening and closing with blinding speed. He chokes out a single word.
“Ride.”

* * *

John wakes a second time. He rises from his ditch and beats away the dust that clings to his clothes. He stands tall and breathes in the cool night air. Grains of sleep cling to the corner of his eyes.
His blanket returns to its place within his saddlebag. The face of the dead man burns bright in his mind.
“No sleep tonight.”

* * *

“Are you insane?”
The Tall Man rises from his cot. The muffled groan of the Black Rail’s mighty gears drowns beneath the fury of the man in the suit. Two guards stand behind him carrying polished rifles.
“This is a private compartment,” The Tall Man replies, “I figured the locked doors and closed shades would make that clear.”
The man in the suit rushes forward and pushes a clean cut finger into The Tall Man’s chest.
“You’re a smart guy, aren’t you, Varlyn? Know everything about everything. You think you can back out of an assignment, try and run, but you best know better. This train here can only carry you so far.”
The Tall Man looks down at the finger pressing into his chest. He glances up and meets the man in the suit’s gaze. His eyes shine dark. His jaw clicks back.
“Get your hand off me.”
“We control this line, we control this country, we control you.”
“Get your hand off me,” The Tall Man repeats.
The riflemen shift their stance. Legs spread in firing stance. Hands tighten around trigger guards.
“You got your boys with you now, don’t you?” The Tall Man asks, “Backup when it comes to having to deal with your messes, ain’t that right?”
The man in the suit smiles. He draws back his hand only to rest it upon The Tall Man’s shoulder. With the flip of his wrist a straight razor slides forward. The sharpened edge touches skin. He leans forward slowly, his lips nearly touching the Rider’s ear.
“They make me bring them, Varlyn, but I don’t need protection.”
The Rider’s free shoulder drops a hair. The click of a hammer cocking back rings forth. The man in the suit glances down. The holster at The Tall Man’s right hip: empty. The revolver once hidden behind his vest now presses against the man’s stomach.
The man in the suit edges closer. The barrel of The Tall Man’s gun digs deep into him. His blade slides slowly across the Rider’s throat. A thin line trails, just enough.
“My strike will kill, Varlyn,” he says, “Yours will just wound.”
The Tall Man pushes forward, extending the cut further back.
“You ever been shot in the gut? That pain stays with you. Pain the like you’ve never experienced. I’d rather die.”
The man in the suit draws back, folding the razor into its handle. The Tall Man returns his revolver to its holster. The guards behind the two shrink back from their exaggerated display of intimidation. The man in the suit draws from his coat pocket a thin envelope and thrusts it under the Rider’s nose.
“We have another assignment for you.”
“Of course you do,” The Tall Man replies, accepting the envelope.
“I know you prefer your targets to not be personal but my employers will consider this penance for your recent transgressions.”
The Tall Man tears the envelope open and unfolds the single sheet of paper enclosed. His eyes scan the page and drift up towards the well dressed messenger before him.
“You’re sending me to take care of this?”
“We are.”
“The man hasn’t left his homestead in years. He can’t even walk.”
“Well think of it this way; it’ll be a nice opportunity for the two of you to catch up.”
The man in the suit pats the Rider twice upon the arm and turns to leave. The riflemen open the door upon his approach. He glances back at The Tall Man before stepping out.
“I’ll admit it’s nice when they do that. So much devotion. I can see why you like it.”

* * *

Father Peter knocks twice upon the red door. A few seconds pass before the doorway opens a crack. Mrs. Carlyle peaks through the opening. Her face brightens.
“Hello, Father Peter.”
“Mrs. Carlyle.”
Mrs. Carlyle’s head twists to the side. “What happened to your hand, Father?”
“Shaving incident. Nothing to worry over.”
Peter watches the woman. A teasing smile forms. He raises his eyebrows and lets out a soft whistle. Mrs. Carlyle jumps as if shaken from a trance.
“Oh yes, where are my manners, please come in,” she says, stepping back and allowing entrance into her home.
The living room is uninspiring but decorated with the lovely little touches unique to the family. A single table sits in the middle of the room, a pack of cards scattered across its top.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess, Jeffrey and I were playing Old Maid,” Mrs. Carlyle remarks.
“No harm in that. Where is Jeffrey?”
“He’s in the bathroom tidying up before dinner.”
“So that’s what that heavenly aroma is. Who’d have thought angels could descend through ovens?”
Mrs. Carlyle giggles like a schoolgirl.
“You’re too kind.”
“And where is your young one?”
“In his crib beside the chair. We moved it into the dining room so we could watch over Jeffrey Jr. while playing cards.”
“Jeffrey Jr.? Such an inventive choice.”
“Don't tease, Father.”
Peter nods. He lets out a false laugh as his eyes drift across the room.
“I shall do none the same. Now I need to speak to you about Jeffrey. More importantly, I need to speak with him. I’m convinced I can save him.”
Mrs. Carlyle’s eyes shine. She beams up at the priest.
“Truly?” she asks.
“Indeed. He is in the bathroom, correct?”
“Yes.”
Peter turns from Mrs. Carlyle. He navigates the cramped house and steps into a nearby corridor. He makes his way down the hall, drawing the curved blade from his pocket, paused outside the bathroom entrance. The sink faucet sounds from the other side. He clasps his hands behind his back and places his ear to the door. Inside, Jeffrey hums over the rush of water. Peter knocks twice.
“Hello Jeffrey, it’s me, Peter. May I have a quick word?”
“Sure. Come in,” Jeffrey replies, his voice muffled behind the doorframe.
Peter enters the bathroom and closes the door behind him. Mrs. Carlyle’s husband and he stand eye to eye, meeting each other’s gaze through their reflections in the mirror. Jeffrey smiles as he wipes his tan skin and crooked nose. He’d had it broken in a bar fight two years before he married.
“What can I do you for? Hope you don’t mind if I fix my hair while you talk.”
“Not at all.”
Jeffrey runs the comb through his curly hair, trying in vain to hold the wild flow back with each brush.
“I want to speak with you about your religious choices.”
“This again? I’m sorry, Peter, but if Father Maxwell failed to convince me I doubt you’ll have any more luck,” Jeffrey says, setting the comb down and abandoning any notion of taming his curls.
Peter sighs. His hand tightens around the knife.
“That’s what I feared.”
Peter presses the curved blade against Jeffrey’s throat and slashes, leaving a smooth gash in its wake. Jeffrey’s eyes open wide and he clutches his wound. Blood sprays in bursts against the mirror. His legs buckle and he starts to drop but Peter grabs hold of his hair and hoists him back up.
“Oh no, you won’t die like that, you’re going to watch,” he whispers, “Look.”
Jeffrey’s horrified eyes focus upon his reflection as the mirror smears with blood. His body shakes, legs dancing across the hardwood. The spray of blood begins to slow. Peter holds him until the struggling stops. He relinquishes his grasp and lets the dead man crumple. Jeffrey lies with his legs pulled to his chest, eyes rolled back into his head, perfectly still save the occasional reflexive twitch.
Peter exits the washroom. His shoes and clothes are clean but his hands stain with blood. He makes his way through the kitchen and past Mrs. Carlyle to the sink. The faucets start with his pull and a rush of water flows forth. He washes the crimson blood from his hands.
Mrs. Carlyle stands from the table, setting the cards she holds aside and glancing back into the empty hallway where her husband should have passed.
“Father Peter, are you alright?”
Peter ignores her. He grabs a rag from the counter and stuffs it into the drain. The water rises. He waits until the sink is full then shuts off the tap.
“Your problem is dealt with,” he says as he steps back from the counter.
“What do you mean?”
“Jeffrey will no longer poison you or your child.”
“Wha—what…what did you do?”
Peter pushes her aside and makes his way to where the deformed child lay. He slides his pale hands across the child’s twisted face.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Carlyle asks. Her body trembles.
“Jeffrey is dead.”
“No.”
Mrs. Carlyle turns to flee but Peter grabs her shoulder, pulling her to his side and locking his arm around her throat. He whispers in her ear as she kicks and bites his skin, calling out for her husband, anyone, to free her.
“Do you fear for your soul, woman?”
“Get off me!” she screams.
“Do you love your child?”
Mrs. Carlyle ceases her struggle.
“Do you love your child?” Peter repeats, loosening his hold.
“Yes.”
“How can he be saved when a nonbeliever polluted him so? Look at your boy.”
Peter shoves the terrified woman into the crib. She cries out from the impact and stares down at her baby. The wretched child opens one eye and begins to cry, a wild, gurgling sound.
“Look at it! Do you want your child to be saved?”
“Yes.”
“He is beyond that. This beast is a mockery of God. It must be destroyed.”
“No! Please, just leave us alone!”
“It must be destroyed, dear girl, and you must do the deed.”
“No…”
“You brought this tortured creature into this world and so you must be the one to end it.”
Peter scoops the shrieking child up and shoves him into his mother’s arms. He drags her to the kitchen, hand locked around the nape of her neck the way one might carry a disobedient dog, and stands before the flooded sink.
“Kill the beast,” he says, tapping his curved blade against the child’s bare skin.
“Please—” she begs, eyes red and shining, tears falling without control.
“It is your only hope to save your child and your own soul. Kill it. Kill it or I’ll do it myself.”
Peter releases the woman and turns away. He stands outside the kitchen with back pressed to the thin wall. Mrs. Carlyle’s weeping reaches forth. The infant’s cries pierce the air with the sound of splashing water. Two voices cry together. Two becomes one. The splashing stops.
Peter enters the kitchen. Mrs. Carlyle lies shaking on the floor, dress soaked. Peter glances at the floating dead thing and closes his eyes. He can feel the purity return to the house. The Lord is pleased, His will carried out.
Peter stares down at the broken woman.
“When the town asks, Jeffrey went insane, drowned the child and killed himself. You were never here. I was never here.”
Mrs. Carlyle nods. She stares down at her trembling hands.
“Good,” Peter says, “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”
Peter pauses at the front door, hand clasping the iron handle, and glances back.
“Make sure you lock this door. There are many bad people out nowadays and I wouldn’t want you to get hurt. I expect you at mass tomorrow.”
Peter exits onto the porch and stops, breathing in the cool air, savoring the silence. He makes his way down the main road towards his church, path lit by the candles that blaze in the windows of his follower’s homes.