The Sheriff of Janestown was a scruffy looking man, head cocked sideways and chewing some dip. His kind weren’t too fond of us gunslingers, regardless of our cause. They only wanted to see us run out of town—us and the problems that brought us there.
“All right, that’s quite enough!” the Sheriff bellowed as he pushed his way through the saloon, “control yourselves or I’ll get my boys to do it for you.”
The barfly’s made no attempt to cease their brawl until the Sheriff ordered them clubbed black and blue. No one liked to see a man beat down by a group of thugs, except men like the good Sheriff, who only seemed to smile at the sight of another’s plight. It was a sick kind of man that took enjoyment from that, but I was in no position to remind him of that.
“Jaysus, please!” the Irishman screamed out in agony. “We didn’t realize what we were doin’!”
“Forgive us, Sheriff Madsen,” the other man cried. “We didn’t mean to upset the order of things!”
“Well la dee da,” the Sheriff mocked. “You’re sorry… yeah, right. You’re only sorry you got caught, but I tell ya, you’re going to be real sorry, soon enough.”
He ordered the drunks dragged out of the bar. They kicked and screamed like school girls, anything to keep from going through the door.
“Well I’ll be damned,” I whispered to the bartender. “I’ve never seen two men so afraid to spend the night in the drunk tank.”
“You’ve never seen a drunk tank like this one, I reckon,” he replied. “Like I said… we’re nothing but sinners, the whole lot of us.”
“This is the second incident this month, barkeep,” the Sheriff stated as he looked down his oversized aviator glasses at the man. “One more time and I’ll have this establishment shut down.”
“You’ve got my apologies,” the bartender answered. “It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t,” Sheriff Madsen said. “I won’t be nearly as tolerant next time.”
The Sheriff kicked over a stool on his way out and gave one look back to show his seriousness. Like any one of these folks would stand up to him. This wasn’t my battle; I repeated over and over again in my head. There’s nothing I could do for them. I had much bigger problems than some puissant Sheriff.
“That’s your second incident this month?” I asked. “Dear lord, man, that’s a slow day even in the tightest knit communities and backwater shitholes.”
“Tell me about it,” he said. “Sheriff Madsen’s a real stick in my craw, but there ain’t a damn thing I can do about it.”
“I feel for you,” I said, sliding my glass towards the edge of the counter.
He poured another shot and pulled out another glass and filled that one too. It was as if he was a mind reader, or that I was just another lush in his bar. Whatever it was, I liked the man and guzzled the shots.
“Get to sleep, Horace,” said a familiar voice swirling around in my subconscious. “You should really get to sleep.”
I suddenly became aware of the fact that I’d been traveling nonstop for over six months now and I hadn’t gotten one good night’s sleep in all that time. Not that a good night’s sleep would be possible with a gut full of Jack, but a bed was better than I was used to.
“The kid in the stables said to come to you for my room key.”
“Yup,” the bartender replied as he reached underneath the counter and pulled out a key. “It’s upstairs, third door on your left.”
“Thanks,” I said, slowly rising to my feet. “I hope it’s a big meal tomorrow. Lord knows I’m going to need the energy.”
I was teetering on the brink of collapse, but I didn’t get more than five feet before the bartender hollered for my return.
“I think you forgot something, pal,” said the bartender as he wiped down the counter. “That’ll be ten bucks for the drinks.”
“Put it on my tab.”
“No can do,” he stated. “Ain’t a tab in the Rusty Nail.”
“All right,” I stammered. “This outta cover it.”
I tossed the bartender a bill, whatever was in my pocket and by the gleam in his eye, it was probably a twenty. I was ready to pass out here and now, third door on the left he had said, so that’s where I headed.
Chapter Eight
Duster and a Gun: Reaper
Gregory Blackman
Invitation Not Refused
Austin was a safe place full of good memories. There wasn’t another place in the world like it, I thought, but at the age of ten I hadn’t exactly been many other places. I lived there with my mother and father, not a care in the world and living in the moment. Maybe that was the problem, cause when fate came knocking we were caught completely unprepared.
We lived on a farm, a few miles from the city, just on the outskirts. It was a small place where we grew fields of the most delicious corn you ever had. The house was a long running bungalow with dark cherry painting and matching bay windows. Fields of grass swayed in the wind and hinted at the adventures over each hillcrest. At the edge of our property a white fence ran down to a rickety old barn where we housed all the equipment.
My father was a decent man, hardworking and honest. He always treated my mother well and never once laid a hand on me, and around these parts that was pretty uncommon. I’d see kids at school black and blue from the beatings they’d receive from their dads. He didn’t have much time for me, but we enjoyed the times we did have together.
My pa employed half dozen farm hands, working the land and fixing the machinery who kept the farm going during the tough times. Dad said that was all that mattered.
“Ya always gotta keep truckin’,” he would tell me. “Even when things look like they can’t get any worse, ya gotta make do with what ya got in front of ya.”
He was kind to the colored folk; he always hired a couple of them. Good people, given a hard time cause the color of their skin. Sure they were free, but even the most basic necessities were barely afforded to them.
One of the men’s kids was my best friend and we hung out just about every chance we could. His name was Isum Bailey, a heavyset boy with wooly hair and a smart mouth.
We were hanging out just like any other day in the barn when fate came calling. It was quarter past noon and we could hear my dad arguing with my mom in the yard, something real fierce, too, with hollering and hands waving all over the place. He never lost his cool like this, and both Isum and I rushed to get as close as possible.
“Quit yer shoving’,” Isum whispered as he pressed up against the inside wall of the barn. “I can barely breathe.”
My father, Malcolm McKidrict, was a strong man, lived his life on the farm and never made excuses when hard work needed to be done. The stress took its toll on him, however, and in his late thirties his hair was going grey. Sure, it was still thick and down to his shoulders, and a constant source of amusement for my mother and me. It wasn’t his looks that my mother loved in him, it was his mind. He was as wise as the day is long and a gentle soul to all those around.
And my mother, warm and loving, sharp as a whip and hip to all my boyhood schemes. She was a pretty Scottish lass, my father would always say, Edna McKidrict, maiden name Ritchie. My mother was the rock on which our home was built, always making sure things were running and my chores had been completed. It was hard work for a kid my size, but she’d always reward me with freshly made pie and suddenly the work had been worth it.
“I don’t give a damn what any holy man says!” my father shouted. “He’s my boy and I’m fit to raise him as I bloody well like!”
“It’s the order, Mal,” my mother said. “Yeh wanna take ‘em all on, is that it?”
“It’s not like that,” he said. “I… I knew that priest takin’ all that interest in him wasn’t a good idea.”
“I don’t like this, not one bit,” my father continued. “My boy’s gonna grow up workin’ the farm, just like his daddy; an’ if he doesn’t wanna do that, then he’ll be some fancy doctor or lawyer
. What he won’t be is some goddamn weapon of mass destruction! I’ve read what they do to those boys… it’s not right, Edna! It’s a monstrosity, unnatural and perverse… I won’t have it for my boy… not my boy!”
“Maybe we can buy ‘im off,” she replied. “I don’t care if we have ta sell off half the farm ta do it. If they take my baby I expect my heart ta burst.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he hollered, “Willie; I need to talk to ya!”
Isum’s pa was a loyal guy, been around for longer than I had. He opened the barn door and poked his head in to get a look. I had to pull Isum back to keep him for seeing us, but he didn’t mutter a word if he had.
“Don’t do this,” my mother pleaded. “Please, Mal, yeh’ve gotta listen ta reason.”
“I’ve never been a violent man, love,” he said, “but there are some things even a man like me can’t let happen.”
“Willie!” he said. “Get my gun an’ make sure it’s loaded!”
“Yeh bloomin’ idiot!” my mother cried. “Yeh kill ‘im and we’re gonna have to pack up and leave… our lives will never be the same… his life will never be the same. Please… there’s gotta be another way… there’s just gotta.”
“I pray that yer right, Edna,” he said with regret.
“What’re they talkin’ ‘bout?” Isum asked. “Is someone comin’ to yer house?”
“I wish I knew, Isum,” I replied as I opened the door a crack. “Wait a minute… I think I see someone.”
“I don’t see a thin’,” he said as he poked his head out just a bit further. “Where ‘bouts you seein’ this feller?”
“Right there,” I said, “between my parents, a quarter mile down the road.”
The man was dressed head to toe in black robes, at least that’s what it appeared like from this distance. He must be the order, my mother said, but what did it mean?
“What’re we gonna do?” Isum asked.
“I wish I knew, Isum,” I repeated. “I don’t think nothin’ good’s comin’ outta these here events.”
“Oh ya?” he inquired.
“I can feel it. Deep down in my bones… somethin’ ain’t right, Isum… ain’t right, at all.”
* * * * * *
I’d been waiting in my room for a couple hours by this point. The robed stranger had been out there with my pa the entire time, and by the look of things, it wasn’t going well. I was peering through my window, save for the moments when my father would glance back and send me hiding. I don’t rightly know what they were speaking about, but that feeling, deep down in the pit of my stomach, was more pronounced.
My father had never acted so out of character before and while I looked down upon him, I came to a troubling discovery. Something had changed between my father and me, as if an emotional tether had been severed between us. He was my father, but it was like he was no longer my pa.
This so-called priest was a terrifying man, deathly pale and wrapped in a contrasting black ceremonial dress. He was shaved bald with a nasty scar that ran down his brow and past his milky white right eye, the other was a piercing blue that seemed to stare into ones soul and see their true self. He scared the life out of me, yet I couldn’t look away in fear of what might happen.
Knock. Knock. Startled, I once again dashed from the window.
“May I come in?” my mother asked from the other side of the door. “I’d like to talk to yeh.”
“Of course, mum,” I replied.
“Do yeh know what’s goin’ on, Horace?” asked my mother as she sat down beside me on the bed.
“No, mum,” I said. “I haven’t a clue.”
I was lying, of course, but she didn’t need to know that. I figured if I played dumb that there might be a chance of learning something. It wasn’t a good chance, but for an eight year old boy, I figured I didn’t have much in the way of options.
“Good,” she whispered into my ear. “Thing’s you don’t need to worry nothin’ ‘bout.”
“Can I ask ya somethin’ ma?” I asked with eyes wide open. “You an’ pa… yer always gonna be ‘round, ain’t ya?”
“Always, ‘ace,” she said soothingly. “There ain’t a force on this earth that’ll keep yer pa and me away from yeh.”
My mother wasn’t the crying type. In many ways she was a tougher sort than my father, always primed for a fight and a take no prisoners attitude. She’d seen a lot of rough stuff before meeting up with pa. Not that you’d ever be able to tell, unless you got on her bad side. Whoever this priest was, I didn’t envy him one bit.
The arguing outdoors stopped and I rushed to the window. Neither my father nor the priest could be seen. My mother joined me and gave me a tight hug that seemed to last an eternity. Maybe it was her way of saying goodbye, or it could’ve just been hopeful wishes, but even her touch now felt distant and foreign. She was my mother, always would be, but she didn’t feel like ma.
Knock. Knock. Knock. I could always tell when my father was at the door. These knocks were unfamiliar and somewhat hostile.
“Can I come in?” my father asked. “The priest an’ I’ve made a deal.”
“Would that be okay, ‘ace?” my mother asked as she squeezed my hand. “Yeh just say the word and he ain’t gonna step foot in ‘ere.”
“No, ma… I’ll talk to the man.”
“Are yeh sure?” she asked.
“I think so.”
“Aye, Mal,” my mother hollered. “Yeh can bring ‘im in, but talkin’s all he’s gonna do.”
“I promise you that, ma’am,” the priest replied as he entered the room. “My name’s Walter Astor and I can assure you my intentions are only to offer Horace an alternative. The choice is his to make.”
“Better be,” my mother grumbled, “or I’ll get the shotgun myself.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Horace,” said Walter. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting with you for some time now.”
“Mr. Astor’s from the Order of Reapers and he’d like a few words with ya,” my father said. “I told him that ya’d listen to his words, but he’s no right to force ya to anythin’ ya don’t wanna do, ya got that?”
“Yes sir.”
“I appreciate the introduction,” Walter began, “but I didn’t exactly say I’m part of the order, though our interests often overlap with one another.”
“My apologies,” my father said.
“None needed,” the priest replied. “First, young Horace, I’d like to know if you’ve any questions to ask me.”
“Where ya from, sir? I don’t rightly recall another man talkin’ like ya do… or looking like ya do—.”
“Horace!” lectured my mother, “Yeh watch yeh manners when in this man’s company, yeh hear?”
“It’s quite all right, Mrs. McKidrict,” said Walter as sat down. “A little curiosity is always a good thing in a boy. Well, boy, I’m from Liverpool… and the story of how I came to look like this is a very long story.”
“Yer a Brit?” my father asked in astonishment. “Met at lot o’ Brits in my day… never would’ve pegged you as one.”
“Ah yes, the accent,” Walter said with a smile. “I may’ve been born in Liverpool, but I was educated with the order… hence why you weren’t able to detect my accent.”
“Yer real old, mister,” I said. I should’ve been more respectful, but around here there weren’t many people that reached his age, his face all wrinkly and the scar was off-putting.
“Oh?” Walter asked with a stroke of his chin. “I’m not that old, am I?”
“Ya look it.”
“Looks can be deceiving, boy,” Walter affirmed. “This mask I wear is nothing more than a battle scar from an encounter with a succubus.”
“Ya fight monsters?” I asked beaming with excitement. “How cool is that?”
“Yes,” he said, “and you can, too.”
“Mal,” my mother said through pursed lips. “I don’t like where this is goin’.”
“Please
don’t fill the boy’s head with stories, priest,” my father said.
“I understand,” Walter replied. “Perhaps it would be better if I explain just what the order does… and why we choose the people that we do.”
“That’d be fine,” my father said.
“The order of reapers has existed for over five hundred and fifty years,” Walter continued. “When the first Vatican City was swallowed whole by the earth and opened the gateway to the other dimensions, humans were caught in the middle of a war that raged for decades. A long period of darkness followed in its wake and plunged humanity down a dark path. It’s the job of a reaper to cast back that darkness and fight for those that cannot. Heaven has its hands full, son, and it’s our duty to give them the edge in the battle against the Devil himself.”
“I... I don’t think I’d like that.”
“Well, Horace,” said Walter as he rose to his feet. “There are some things in life that we cannot walk away from. You’re a very talented young man and I’m here to bring you in.”
“Ya heard the boy!” my father shouted. “He don’t want nothin’ to do with yer cause. Get out now, priest, or I’ll shoot ya dead!”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Walter said. “Now I don’t take any pleasure in separating a boy from his family, but this boy was meant for a higher calling. Disagree all you wish… your boy leaves here with me.”
“Mal,” my mother wavered. “… Get the gun.”
My father rushed from the room and down to the living room to fetch his shotgun. Walter waited patiently for his arrival; my mother pulled me back into the corner of the room and held me tightly.
“Yeh better get goin while yeh got a chance, priest,” she said. “I swear… if Mal don’t find the stomach to pull the trigger, I’ll do it myself.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Walter said. “Things generally end on this path.”
My father entered in a hurry, sweat beading down his forehead and shotgun quivering in front. He wasn’t a bad man, and I knew he could think of nothing worse than killing a priest. It wasn’t until I saw the bright flash of fire streak across my bedroom that I understood what it was that he truly feared.
Reaper (#1, Duster and a Gun) Page 5