Animal (Chapter 12 - Part 1)

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

* * *

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