Animal (Chapter 11 - Part 2)

A band of carnies, tradesmen, and performers await Prince upon his exit. He shakes his head and rubs a hand through his eyes as he steps down from the fortuneteller’s domain.
“Don’t you people have a show to run?”
Boss steps to the front of the band, his hatchet brandished.
“Customers are leaving, sir, and now we’ve got all the time in the world to deal with any problems that might have arisen tonight.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t go for a nice run once the stands started catching fire. Heard someone was stabbed, fire breather got burned, even had an assault on your poor coffin maker.”
“They’re being tended too.”
“Might want to tend a little longer. Now step aside, I’ve got what I came for,” Prince replies, glancing back to the wagon where Harrison and Selina peak out, “Uriah, was that it? Yeah, Uriah there already told me which way John’s heading. Smart of you to send him through Larrity. That would’ve made for one mess of a track.”
Boss glances up towards the brother and sister. His eyes match Harrison’s. He shakes his head.
“Neither of us wants to be here, sir, but this is where we are. And now it appears you simply leaving is no longer an option.”
Boss steps forward towards Prince. He stands over the lanky man, more than two heads taller and several times broader. His hatchet shines at his side. Prince draws his hunting knife from its sheath. He notes the notches that line the hatchet’s handle.
“We in the same business?” he asks.
“In my youth.”
The crowd forms a circle around the two men. Torches light the world. Their eyes shine in the glow of the flames. They hold weapons, but none move.
Prince scans each of their faces. He turns back to the giant before him. Boss’s bald head shines in reflection of the scattered light. Both men tighten their grips on the weapons they hold.
“We really going to do this?”
“No choice.”
The Rider sucks in a harsh breath.
“Alright then.”
Prince drops to his knees as Boss swings the hatchet sideways. He drives the blade partway into the giant’s leg. Blood pools and juts as he pulls it out and prepares a second strike. Boss pushes forward, slamming into Prince’s jaw with his unscathed knee.
Prince falls back into the earth with a groan. Before he can rise the giant brings the hatchet down again, missing his head by inches as he rolls to the side, latches onto Boss’s arm, and brings the hunting knife up in a curve, dragging its sharpened edge across the top of the giant’s arm. Boss roars but does not surrender his hold. He grabs Prince by the throat to hold him for the strike. Prince’s blade catches hold behind the hatchet, trapping it in place.
Boss hurls the Rider from him and into the dirt. He wastes no time catching his breath, the giant offers him no room to move as he slashes with his hatchet, finally connecting. Prince lets out a savage shriek as his left pinky separates from the rest of his body. Blood stains the earth. He slams into the giant’s form, but Boss gives no ground. His massive fist connects with Prince’s cheek, dazing the Rider long enough for his hand to lock around Prince’s speedy and tighten. Prince lashes out uselessly, his blade merely skimming the giant’s chest. The hatchet rises for a finishing blow. The crowd cheers. In desperation, Prince pummels the giant’s face with his free hand, leaving a streak of his own blood across the man’s eyes.
The temporary blindness gives Prince the opportunity he needs. He slips from Boss’s hold, slithering around the giant’s form, and drives his blade into the back of Boss’s knee. The giant drops. His scream sounds through the carnival. Prince catches Boss’s armed hand and brings the knife to this throat.
“You people prepared to watch this man die?” Prince shouts to the onlookers, “It didn’t have to be this way. It never does!”
A sudden blow connects with the Rider’s skull. He stumbles back, vision blurred. The form of his attacker takes shape. Harrison. His sister shields the giant from further harm.
“You’ve got the chance to flee now, Mr. Prince,” the carnie says, “Take it.”
“Uriah—”
“Shut up, Boss.”
Prince rises on shaky legs. He returns his knife to its sheath, then draws his revolver.
“I’m afraid, as the big man himself said, that just isn’t an option.”
“Harrison, Selina, Boss, run!”
Prince turns to the voice. Mal stands at the front of the crowd, bandaged hands clasping a flaming cocktail. He lets it fly. The brother and sister scramble to pull the giant away. Prince retreats. The bottle erupts on a wide arc, separating the Rider from his opponents. The crowd calls for blood. He fires several rounds into the thinnest portion, parting their ranks, and sprints to freedom. The crowd follows, but not fast enough. He’s past the road. Past the booths. On his horse. Gone.

* * *

John pushes his way through the crowd of workers. Screams of every creed meet his ears. A young man lies with his legs twisted, arms outstretched in pleading agony. John steps over him, focused only on the boy he promised to save.
“Samuel!”
Orson approaches from the rig, broad grin still plastered across his face.
“Give it up, John, the boy is gone, probably crawled off to die with the other lousy pickpockets.”
“Shut up,” John says.
“He’s dead.”
“I said shut your mouth!”
John draws his revolver. The two guards tense. Their hands tighten around their rifles. Orson’s grin fades. High above, clouds litter the sky. Lightning clashes but no rain falls. The flash illuminates the stained land.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” he asks, his voice lost of its former glee.
John holsters his weapon. He turns on his heel and sprints into the darkness. Men and women push their way past him. Some lie dead in the mud, some shot. One worker struggles with a guard, grabbing for the man’s rifle. Two cracks issue and both men drop. Another gun fires overhead. John turns to the source.
Orson stands with his revolver leveled at his chest.
“That’s enough, the boy’s dead,” he says.
“No.”
“Stop!”
Lightning cracks again. John’s scream rises with the sound of thunder. Samuel lies in a massive ditch. A trail of blood trickles from the bullet wound in his chest. John glances down into the pit. Bodies upon bodies pile in a heap, rotten and bloated.
“This is where you bury them,” he says, turning to the oilman.
Orson smiles. “It’s all about the profit.”
“You bastard.”
John slides down the muddy slope and gathers the child in his arms. Samuel opens his eyes. He sputters his words.
“John—”
“Samuel. Samuel, don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”
“I’m scared.”
“Don’t be, you’re going be okay.”
The child smiles. Red spills from his lips. He raises his hand to his mouth and coughs, a ragged, choked cough. His hand comes away wet with blood. He lets it fall back.
“Do you dream?” he asks John.
“I do.”
“Then I will be here.”
Samuel breathes out one last time, thin frame shuddering in John’s arms, his bright green eyes dulled.
“Samuel? Samuel!”
John sinks to his knees. He holds the boy’s body to his chest, weeping and shaking with both fury and sadness. Orson cocks the hammer on his revolver.
“You’ve seen enough, time to be heading on.”
“You’re a monster,” John spits.
The other guards are dead or gone. Only Orson and his two men remain. They step up on either side with rifles pointed at John’s head.
John’s hands travel down towards his revolvers. Orson wags a finger through the air.
“You'd best think twice, we both know you won’t reach it in time. Just walk away.”
“I can’t,” John replies, his hands continuing their descent.
“Just walk away, John. Walk away."
A crowd of workers surround them. John scans their blackened, tortured faces. So many stories never told. His sight rests upon Samuel’s lifeless body.
“I can’t.”
John sinks to his knees, dropping below the barrel of the guard’s rifles. Their shots sail wide. He draws his revolvers and fires twice, once into each of the guard’s guts. The men sink to the oily earth. John shoots them both a second time. Orson stands with his revolver raised, his eyes wide, unsure of what to do. John swings the guns back and fires again. The bullet tears along the side of Orson’s face, shredding away a large portion of his ear. A thick spray of blood exits the wound.
Orson drops his gun, face pale from fear and shock. His fingers hover over the wound as if scared to touch. John puts another round in his left knee. He stumbles to the ground, holding himself up with one hand, the second still hanging over the side of his face. He reaches forward, grabs hold of the ragged mound of cartilage that once attached itself to his head, and pockets it. John shoots him a third time in the right leg. He drops.
“John! Oh John, what have you done?” Orson howls, rolling across the wet earth.
“I’ve freed these people.”
John watches the pathetic man struggle to sit up. Orson stares at John, his face smeared with crude, body convulsing. He reaches out towards the man.
“Kill me,” he begs.
“No.”
John holsters his weapons and lifts Samuel up. He approaches a young woman at the edge of the crowd and hands her the dead boy.
“Give him a proper burial. Give him the freedom he deserved.”
The woman nods and watches John turn. He makes his way past Orson towards his horse. As the crowd parts to let him pass, a voice calls out.
“What do we do with boss?”
John answers without looking back.
“Whatever you want.”

* * *

Prince sets strikes a match and lets it drop to the woodpile below. A bar of iron burns red hot in the flames. The crude bandage that wraps his hand falls away. He lifts the iron and holds it up. It’s tip glows fierce. He brings it to his bloodied hand and pushes the burning end into the stump.
His screams are primal.

* * *

Cyrus leads Harrison through the tent to where the wounded stay. Mal offers him a curt nod as he leans forward to let the children scratch their names into his bandages. Michael lies muttering in fever, his stomach wrapped in thick white gauze. He smiles at their approach.
“Know I’m not in heaven. No pretty girls, just you,” he grunts, holding up a purple bottle and taking a long draw, “Looks like we finally found a use for your potions, eh Cyrus?”
A small pile of colored bottles lie off to the side of his bed.
“He’s drunk, I guess?”
“He is.”
“Anything fatal, Cyrus?” Harrison asks.
“Not a one. We were lucky that way.”
“Hear that, Michael, you’re lucky.”
Harrison leans forward and lightly pokes Michael’s stomach. Michael’s retaliatory swing misses widely.
“Go to Hell, you dirty son of a bitch—”
Harrison moves on, leaving Cyrus to deal with Michael’s flurry of curses. Ahead his sister and Alexander stand beside a small crowd. Selina glances back on his approach with cold eyes that stop him in his tracks. He stands still. Alexander takes notice of his wife’s frigid behavior. He looks to Harrison and leans forward to whisper words in Selina’s ear. She nods, lifting her hand and waving to her brother.
“I’m sorry,” Harrison mutters.
“I know,” Selina replies, glancing back at Alexander and smiling, “You’re lucky my husband likes you so much.”
The three share a soft chuckle.
“What’s that I hear? Someone laughing with me lying here?”
Harrison moves forward to where the crowd gathers. Boss lies in rest atop a pair of beds pushed together. Thick bandages wrap around both legs. A tourniquet presses into his arm. A children’s blanket functions as a wrap for his bared chest. His eyes catch sight of Harrison.
“Was wondering when you’d show up,” he says with a thin smirk, “Sure took your time.”
“I expect you’re going to blame your misfortune on me now, is that it?”
Sonya slaps her brother across the back of the head, calling him by his real name.
“Uriah!”
Boss lets out a bellow that turns to groan as he clutches his chest.
“It’s alright, Sonya, it’s alright. We just had a disagreement. Could you give us a moment alone?” Boss asks, adding, “That means all of you.”
The crowd disperses. Sonya mutters a few more curses in her native tongue as she begrudgingly hugs her brother.
“Thanks for saving me,” she whispers.
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re still a bastard.”
“I know.”
Harrison takes a seat beside Boss. He notes the drawings and scribbles that cover the bottom part of his leg wrappings.
“Kids get at you?”
“It was Mal’s idea.”
Boss sighs. His eyes catch Harrison, holding him till he has no choice but to look away.
“He’ll be okay, Boss. We bought him time.”
“Call me Morris.”
Harrison finds himself struck dumb by shock.
“Morris?” he asks, “Your name is Morris? Wh—why are you telling me it now? All these years we known each other. Does anyone else know it? Mal or Cyrus?”
“No, just you,” Boss replies, “and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to anyone else.”
Harrison leans forward.
“Of course, but why are you telling me now?”
“Because you’re a part of the small group of men who know my real name. You all share one thing in common.”
“What’s that?”
Boss closes his eyes.
“You’ve all killed innocent men.”

* * *

John pulls his horse to a stop. The sky remains dark despite the slow rise of the sun. He makes his way to a large group of trees that sprout from the dry earth; an oasis. A soft voice, a child’s voice, reaches out to him, bringing forth a holy tune.

“Child of mine
I call you in the water
and put my name on you.”

He pushes his way through the brush. Ahead lays a small pond. A line of horses stand beside the water unburdened by saddle or rein, their glossy coats shimmering in the filtered light. A group of men and women, cloaked in pure white, turn to him. Two children, a boy and a girl, stand beside their parents and wave to the stranger. A man with gleaming blonde hair stands in the middle of the pond. The water reaches up to his waist. He beckons John forth.
John makes his way to the pond. The people observe him with faces serene. He steps in, gliding his palm across the surface, and wipes his face with the back of his hand. It comes away dark with oil and blood. His clothes are stained but the worshippers say nothing. He pushes his way through the water. A trail of black follows him, soon vanishing along the clear surface. He takes his place beside the leader.
The blonde man holds no bible in his hands. No rosary hangs from his neck. He makes the motion of the cross and presses his hand to John’s chest, his other resting behind the newcomer’s head.
“Do you accept him?” he asks.
John stares off into the sun and watches as a bluebird flies over the trees. He lets his limbs go loose. He breathes deep.
“I do.”
The man pushes him back. For the briefest of moments, sight obscured by the ripples of the water, sound of the world muffled in his ears, John understands why he pushes on. The man pulls him back up and he sucks in the clear air. The oil and blood slide from his skin.
“Thank you.”
John makes his way towards the shore feeling the first rays of the morning sun warm his skin. He steps into the clearing and glances back briefly to watch the worshippers continue their ceremony, then turns, the voices of the children following him as he goes.