Animal (Chapter 3 - Part 2)

(Part 2 of Chapter 3 Rewrite)

John can hear Paul cough at night, hear him struggle to breath. It goes on for minutes without pause. John closes his eyes to pretend he doesn't notice but the sound goes on and on, filling the house.
John stands and makes his way through the darkened hall. His feet patter against the cold wooden floorboards with each step. He enters Paul’s bedroom. He sits up, coughing wildly, his body shaking from the effort, forcing a stop upon spotting John.
“John?” he asks, panting and clutching his chest.
“Yes sir.”
Paul points to the wooden chair next to his mattress.
“Take a seat.”
John sits next to his caretaker. Beside the bed lies a picture of a young woman. She sits in a grainy photo, holding a flowery umbrella behind her head. Her beauty shines through the dust and wear. Paul lifts the frame.
“This is Lisa. She was my daughter.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died long ago,” Paul sighs and rubs his finger along the picture’s edge, “I would have liked for you to have met her.”
He sets the frame down, hovering over the memory of his girl a little longer, and turns away.
“You’re not the only one who’s lost someone, John.”
“Yes sir.”
John shivers under his bandages. He struggles to speak. The darkness of the room surrounds them both. Outside, the harsh wind roars against the windowpanes.
“Without Rose, I feel I’m wandering in the night, like I’m lost in the dark with no one to guide me home.”
“Not all who wander are lost.”
Paul glances up. Curtains of moonlight spill across his eyes. He speaks. “You’ll eat in the dining room tomorrow. We’ll start your training in the morning. I don’t think we have long.”

* * *

Paul paces around John. His blue eyes blaze with light. He watches his apprentice with long forgotten fire in his heart.
“Focus. Steady your aim. You have all the time in the world, John.”
“Not in a firefight.”
“No, but now we train. Steady the gun. Keep your shoulder locked in place and absorb the force of the weapon.”
John squeezes the trigger. The bullet hits the target circle just outside the bull’s-eye.
“Good. You know how to shoot, but we need to teach you how to focus. Your father taught you well, but well isn’t good enough. Again!”
Paul stands behind John, adjusting his shoulders and arm.
“Keep your finger on the outside of the trigger, it gives you time to check that it is a foe. We can’t have you shooting friends. Your legs should be level. Don’t bend your knees.”
John turns slightly.
“Good. Keep that stance. Now for the hard part. Keep the barrel level at all times. Never hesitate. You hesitate, you die. Don’t tense up. Breathe in deep, slow breaths and fire when you’ve finished breathing in. Remember that!”
“Yes—” John begins.
Paul spins around, his voice magnified.
“Don’t interrupt! Keep the weapon level. Keep yourself strong. Now wait for the wind and adjust accordingly. Just wait. Fire when you’re ready.”
John lets his breath flow in steady streams. He shifts his aim slightly as the wind picks up. He squeezes the trigger three times. The bull’s-eye explodes from the impacts of the shots.

* * *
Paul stands before John with his fists raised, ready to block the young man’s attack. John lets loose a punch towards his head, he sidesteps. Next towards the ribs, he blocks.
“You’re thinking like a boxer, like a fancy fighter, John!” Paul says, taking a blow to his side and returning one to John’s cheek. The young man steps back, ears ringing, and he continues, “You’ve got to fight like your life depends on it, and it probably will!”
Paul slips behind John and lands a kick to the back of his knee. John drops with a shout and grabs hold of Paul’s torso, bringing him down into the dirt with him.
“Better!” Paul shouts, laughing as John scrambles up and raises his fist.
Paul lets loose the handful of sand into John’s eyes.
“Son of a bitch!” John shouts.
Paul leans back and kicks into John’s chest, forcing him onto his back. He draws his pistol and points it at John before the younger man can even rise.
“Thought this was a fist fight,” John remarks.
His trainer smiles, “There are no fist fights, John, especially if there’s a gun around. Knife works too. The Riders know how to fight but they also know to avoid getting their hands dirty, it’s what makes them so dangerous.”
Paul returns his pistol to his holster and takes a seat on his porch. He opens the canteen that sits on the top step and drinks.
“Give me five minutes, my back’s hurting.”
“So’s my gut.”
“I’ve also got over three decades on you,” the elder replies, offering his protégé a swig.
John accepts, “Fair enough.”

The days pass.

* * *

Prince and The Tall Man sit beside the campfire. The embers of the flames blaze in the night, briefly illuminating the endless dark. Ash falls upon the sand in quiet death.
“He approaches,” Prince says.
“I know,” The Tall Man replies.
“There’s no body, no stench. His horse is gone.”
The beaten Rider appears. He marches his way to the fire, his clothes torn and covered in dust. Desperate lips search for a drop of drink.
“Where is the boy?” The Tall Man asks.
“Couldn’t find him. Water.”
“Why do you return so late? Where is your horse?”
“Bit by a rattler,” the Rider gasps, “Please, water.”
“A rattler.”
The Rider nods in frantic exhaustion. The Tall Man turns to Prince.
“Thomas, fetch me a water can.”
Prince tosses him a small canteen. It hangs by a metal chain wire-like in design. He kneels before the Rider and passes him the container. The boy drinks greedily from the lid.
“Thomas?” The Tall Man asks.
“He’s lying.”
“I know.”
The Rider’s eyes fly open and he shakes his head. Water spills down his lips. The Tall Man loops the chain around his throat and tightens it against his flesh. The Rider’s hands flail at his leader as The Tall Man pushes his knee into his back and pulls the wire deeper. His jugular bursts in a jet of warm blood that bathes The Tall Man’s hands. A sickly shade of black spreads across the Rider’s face and his body spasms as his bowels loosen. The stench of death fills the camp.
The men are silent. The only sounds that rise are the crackle of the campfire and the choking gasps of the dying man. He soon falls limp against the chain. Blood drips down his shirt. The Tall Man turns to Prince and lets the Rider drop. Prince stands.
“Sir?” he asks, awaiting his master’s words.
“Find him.”
“Yes sir.”
“Kill him.”
“Yes sir.”
Prince turns, bloodied canteen clasped between his thin fingers, and mounts his horse, spurring its haunches. The Tall Man watches his right hand disappear into the night.

* * *

John and Paul sit at the dining table eating fresh ears of corn. Cooked cobs pile high inside a porcelain dish that rests in the center.
“Why does The Tall Man hunt you?” John asks.
“It’s a long story.”
“It’s a long night.”
Paul smiles.
“It was about a decade after the war ended. Charlie, your father, and I, we’d grown tired. We’d grown up. Your mother was pregnant with you. Charlie was married. Me? I was just old. Lisa’s mother had passed earlier that year. We were hunting war criminals and abandoners, murdering our own men. Varlyn led the pack. He’d found more loyal followers. None better, but men willing to die. His pistols were already black. It was sometime in the summer that we stormed a house and pulled out the occupants, an entire family, all because of one man who was guilty of nothing but running from a stupid war.”
He stops a moment to take another bite. John sits quietly, waiting for him to continue. Paul swallows and speaks.
“They had many children. Seven in all. An infant too. Varlyn told us to shoot. We couldn’t, so he killed them all. The mother, how she wept. Varlyn’s men pried the child from her arms and threw it up for a target. I can still hear how she wept. We turned our guns on each other soon after. Then we split. We killed every man Varlyn had before he let us leave. When we turned to go he shot your father in the back. He barely survived. We left Varlyn lying in the dust. I remember his screams as we left him bleeding in the dirt, the raw sounds. I couldn’t bring myself to end him. None of us could. Despite all his sins, he was still our brother. I knew he’d come back one day, wouldn’t be surprised if Charlie’s dead as well.”
John sits in silence before returning to his senses. Paul watches the boy. He pushes his plate aside and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“John?” he asks.
“Yes?”
“How’s the wound?”
“It’s fine.”
“Good.”
Paul frowns. He rubs his hands through his hair.
“John.”
“Yes sir?”
“This is your last day here.”
John stops. His fork falls from his fingers. He tries to speak but his throat is too tight. A single word exits his lips.
“What?”
“I’ve packed your horse. You have food and ammunition, horse shoes and feed, water, everything you’ll need. You’re leaving tonight.”
“But—” John begins. Paul waves his plea aside.
“I’ve taught you all I know. I want you to stay so badly but you can’t. I never told you, but I was there at your birth. Varlyn never knew, neither did Charlie, but I was there. I recall how small you used to be, how you smiled when you saw me. Your father asked me to be your godfather. I said yes.”
He smiles and wipes his eyes.
“I want you to stay so much, because I love you as if you were my own, but I can’t ask. You have to go. I’m dying, John. I can feel myself wasting away. I cough blood in the night. I forget where I am when I wake. Sometimes I think Lisa will come running into my room and jump upon my bed, like she’s just hiding beyond my door, and it hurts. It hurts so much. Now I need you to go. I want you to start a new life and leave these thoughts of violence behind because you won’t survive this. You won’t.”
“I can’t stop.”
“I know. But you can’t stay either.”
Paul reaches down, undoes his holster, and places the silver pistols on the table.
“Take them.”
“I can’t.”
“Take them.”
John gathers the weapons in both hands and pulls the shining revolvers to his chest. He stands.
“Goodbye, Paul.”
“Goodbye, John.”
John turns from the dinner table and exits through the back door. Silence returns to the house, swallowing it once more. Paul does not rise from the table, does not make a sound. He sits there for some time before he starts to cry.