Red Star Sheriff

by Timothy Purvis

  With great care, he made his way past the bend. The orange dot had shrunk to a pale yellow and was showing the location as inside a room near the end of the hall on the left. Reaching the door, he found it closed.

  Please don’t be locked. The knob twisted easily and the door swung wide with a low creak. He grimaced, waited, and took a step forward. And stopped cold. There was someone on the bed.

  Shit! You gotta be kidding me! I was told you were on a mad quest for revenge! Blast it! He crouched there for a moment. The dot on his display was in the closet just across the way. Alright, you can do this, Durante. You can do this. Silent as a mouse. Minus the squeak.

  Durante inched into the room making no sound despite the floor being wooden. The indicator dot in his display continued to shrink and shift in color until it was nearly a vivid purple upon reaching the closet. With deliberate slowness, he rose to his full height and opened the closet which folded open with hardly a sound. His heart thumped wildly in his chest. The dot pinpricked onto the top shelf and he frowned.

  One of these boxes? The shelf was loaded with them. Durante reached up and went to work pulling down boxes one by one to stack on the floor, each time the indicator still swearing what he was looking for was on the shelf. He continued until not one box or item remained.

  What the hell? The shelf is empty, how can it still be showing it’s here? Has it just broken down after all these years? He frowned and, by the dim light pouring through the thin curtains, saw a shallow rise on the shelf. Wait a sec…

  Durante ran his hand along the surface and pressed. A lid popped up and the dot flashed rapidly. He reached up to his right lobe and disengaged the indicator. Then reached into the dark cavity. He pulled a leather-bound journal out and smiled.

  There you are. You were right, professor. You were right. Now, just to get this back to Mr. Berricks and—

  Click.

  He froze in place at the sound coming from behind him.

  Oh fuck…

  AIDELE COULDN’T SLEEP. Hours had passed, yet every time she closed her eyes her pulse raced. Not even an hour ago, she’d heard Grandfather turn in for the night and already he was snoring soundly. She sighed, frowned, and rolled onto her side to stare at the door.

  Wish ah would find sleep so easily. Visions kept haunting her. Toiling on her mind and always they were a montage of death and destruction of the same people and places. And continually the urge to get up and ride away surfaced. Like if she could go back to shooting and fighting, the pain would vanish. It was an ache deep down. She pulled the sheet closer.

  Ah need ta git back out there. Back ta sleeping under the stars. Hearin’ the mangers crying their songs. The scraggy desert crickets lulling me ta sleep wit’ their symphony. Ride far an’ hard, takin’ down bad dudes. This… this ain’ mah life no more, is it? An’ quiet. It’s too, too quiet. It’s driving me nuts! Something howl! Something storm! Something, anything! Just make this dead silence go away!

  She was on the verge of leaping out of bed, tossing off her cotton gown and throwing on her riding clothes, when the knob to her door twisted and the door slowly creaked open. A crouched shadow paused there, looking right at her. It remained there for a long moment then inched into her room.

  Who the fuck? Whoever it was clearly couldn’t see her eyes in the shadows since her back was to the window. She glanced toward her Iron hanging in its holster right next to her head from the knob of the bedpost. She was certain she could reach it before the shadow reacted. But a strange curiosity came over her. What did he want? He was crouched but he didn’t look quite six-foot, and his face was paler than anyone she’d seen before; like sunlight was his mortal enemy. His face was smooth, had short sandy brown hair neatly trimmed, and a gentle jaw. He had on a black jacket and jeans. His shoes soled in such a way he made no sound as he skulked across her floor and towards her closet. She furrowed her brows as he started removing boxes from her shelves.

  What the hell are ya doin’, sir? Her eyes widened as he found her secret compartment and lifted out her father’s journal.

  She reached for her Iron, pulled it, cocked the hammer, and aimed at his back. He froze and, before she could even utter a word, had grabbed a dress off a hanger and turned to fling it at her, then dashed for the door.

  Aidele tossed aside the dress, dropped her gun, and rolled forward on the bed, grabbing a blanket in the process. It flung out of her hand and completely covered the intruder. He stumbled into the door as she was leaping off the bed. But recovered quickly enough to thrust himself towards her, blanket still around half his chest. They flew back towards the bed. Aidele managed to bring her knees to her chest and plowed her feet into the man’s chest sending him flying over her. The force was so great that the man couldn’t find his feet and crashed through her second window backwards.

  “What’s going on in there?” Grandfather’s voice howled sleepily from down the hall. “Aidele? Are you alright?”

  A clump echoed out as she heard his feet hit the floor and she knew he was headed for her room. But she didn’t reply. Only grabbed her revolver and rushed to leap out the unbroken window. She slid it open all the way and was outside before the intruder could free himself from the blanket still wrapped up around him, a fresh striping of silky curtain joining his newfound bonds. He stopped moving and held up his hands when he found her gun pointed right at his face.

  “Don’t shoot! I’m unarmed!” the man shouted, trembling.

  “Who the hell are ya an’ whaddya want wit’ mah journal!?”

  Face paling, he shook his head. “I… I just need it…”

  “Why!?”

  “Who is that?” Grandfather asked looking through the broken window.

  “A dead man,” Aidele replied.

  “I’ll get the rope,” Grandfather turned and left.

  “I… sorry… don’t understand… Berricks…” the man babbled and passed out.

  Aidele scrunched her eyebrows and lowered her weapon to kneel down by the man. She checked his pulse seeing he’d gone even paler. She unwrapped part of the twisted blanket and saw blood pooling onto it. A grimace rose and she turned him carefully to find that a shard of the window had pierced his lower back.

  “Shit…”

  Grandfather came ambling around the corner of the house holding a bundle of thin rope. He stopped and Aidele looked up.

  “Ah think ya might want ta grab a med kit instead.”

  He knelt down. “That’s a nasty wound. Put that blanket back. Hold it as close as you dare. There’s a good kit in the workshop. Oh, Spirits, Spirits, Spirits…” he muttered as he stood and raced as fast as he could towards the workshop.

  Aidele held the blanket around the shard large enough to be a knife, and was careful not to jar it any further. She braced her thigh against his hoping to keep him stable.

  Dontchu die on me, stranger. Ya kent steel into mah home ta go thievin’ then leave us wit’ yer corpse ta bury! She looked towards the workshop. Panic flowed into her. Hurry up, Grandfather! Ah don’ like how he looks!

  HE STOOD AT attention hands clasped behind his back. Sweat cascaded down his brow and cheeks in little rivulets. Mr. Berricks was angry, angrier than Durante had ever seen before. And all because he’d failed to acquire the journal. But he hadn’t counted on Aidele being there. As far as he knew, she’d still been out hunting down Kern Michaels after his failed attempt to retrieve the journal. At least, that’s how the scuttlebutt in Chesik Villa had it. In hindsight, hedging so many bets on that being true might have been premature. Yet, she’d been there and now he wished he was anywhere but in General Samuel Trevor Berricks’ personal quarters.

  “…And comin’ back to me empty handed? You tol’ me you had an idea where that book was! That you could get it an’ bring it back,” Mr. Berricks fumed as he paced back and forth, his features masked in shadow. Now that Durante thought about it, the light behind Mr. Berricks was incredibly bright, casting the general in a deep silhouette. “Two day
s! That’s what you tol’ me! Two days! It’s been over a week!”

  A week? No… it couldn’t have… is it hot in here? And why does his voice sound so far away? Echoey…

  “I’m sorry, general. Ms. Wilson returned home and caught me by surprise. I thought she was still dealing with that Michaels guy. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. I didn’t want to bring up raw pain. I didn’t want to go to that house and say, ‘Sorry your dad’s dead, but can you give me his journal? You know, that book full of all his thoughts and ideas and loving insights! Can you part with that?’ How horrible and corrupt would that be? But, no, like a thief in the night, I snuck in and she caught me red handed with my greedy hands wrapped around her heart! So, she hurt me, and she had every right to do so! I was lucky to get out of there alive!”

  …Wait, how did I get out?

  “Kern Michaels is dead! And so are you, you little shit!” Mr. Berricks went to a desk and picked up a glass only to slam it down and break it.

  “No! Don’t! I can… I can still get it!”

  “Where is it?”

  “I can’t tell you that, I won’t tell you that! But… I can get it!”

  My god! He’s so angry, his eyes are glowing red!

  Mr. Berricks snorted and picked up a hefty looking knife standing on the table, its point in the surface. It was the kind of knife Wastelanders used to skin their prey or saw off old limbs. It came loose with a metallic schwip and Mr. Berricks turned slowly, holding it outward point first like he was getting ready to poke a pig.

  Durante tried to will his body to move, run, escape, but his terror held him firmly in place. He could only watch as Mr. Berricks circled around him, disappearing from view. His powerful hand clasped Durante’s shoulder and tightened like a scalding iron.

  “I gave you one mission. Bring it to me. You tol’ me you just had to talk to your contacts in Chesik. So, where’re they at? They ain’ nowhere! Cause you went off an got,” a scowling voice filled Durante with terror as General Berricks pulled back his arm and thrust the blade deep into his lower back, twisting it in the motion, “STABBED! And that makes you dead, son.”

  SEARING PAIN WRACKED his body causing Durante to roll over onto his side. The place where the blade had pierced throbbed violently. And it was so very dark.

  “Wooa, wooa, wooa, ya gonna hurt yerself again.”

  He froze hearing the voice of a woman washing over him. It was a heavy drawl, almost ridiculously thick. A hand gently guided him onto his back and he took a deep breath, grimacing as he tried to figure out what was going on. His mind was foggy.

  I’m… in a bed. Wasn’t I just with Mr. Berricks? He tried to open his eyes. After a moment, there was the slight tinge of yellow orange in a hazy murk of sleep. I’m… in a bed. This is …real. Wait, but whose bed?

  “It doesn’t look all that bad,” the voice spoke and he felt her hand leave his dressing. The yellow orange haze was vanishing and he was starting to get a better look at where he was.

  He was in an old wooden bed and the bedroom was bathed in a dull yellow light coming from a standing lamp on the dresser to his left. To his right was a rocking chair and in it a young Chuhukon woman with long, raven black hair and fair features. Her jaw seemed firm. Her black soulful eyes were somewhat scrunched giving her a weathered look, like she’d been through some great trauma. And she wore a stern expression.

  Wow, she’s beautiful. I wonder who she’s angry at? Then he saw the window behind her and how it was boarded up and he groaned inwardly. Durante, you freaking dumbass!

  In the young woman’s hands were a syringe and vial. She was drawing some liquid from the vial. Once done, she placed the vial on a metal tray sitting on the end table and flicked the needle’s tip.

  “Still in pain, though, ah reckon,” she said deepening her frown. “That’s what happens when a shard of glass the size o’yer palm sinks into yer back.”

  There was a tremble wracking his body and he noted he had a cold sweat. He was shivering. He tried to move as she gripped an arm and held him still.

  “Now, don’ go actin’ like a baby. This’ll numb ya up fer a spell, but, don’ think that means yer off the hook. An’ don’ go getting’ outta bed. Don’ want ya tearin’ yerself back open.”

  There was a pinch as the needle found its target and a strange calm overcame him. She withdrew the syringe and placed it on the metal tray. Her hand went to a steaming kettle sitting behind the tray and poured its contents into a ceramic mug. Whatever it was smelled amazing. There was the aroma of a fruity tang that he could almost taste. And also, that of a meaty broth full of vegetables and spices.

  “Ya obviously ain’ from ‘round these parts.”

  “Wh, wh, whatever gave it… away?” he managed to stammer as she put a hand behind his head and lifted the cup to his lips. He sipped the brew and immediately his mouth exploded with satisfying, warming flavor. It was better than he imagined, and tasted much like how it smelled.

  “Yer as pale as ah’ve ever seen. Skinny as a weed. Yer speech ain’ nothin’ like what ah’ve heard in the Sutures. An’ based on what ah hear when yer mumblin’ in yer sleep, yer manners are impeccable. Not someone local by any means. Now jus’ you take it easy there,” she said taking away the mug before he could go for another long swig. “Kent go drinkin’ so much, so fast. Yer gonna make yerself sick again.”

  She sat the cup down and felt his forehead with the back of her hand. “Damn fever refuses ta break. Don’ worry, though, yer gonna be fine. Jus’ a real good case of the Suture knots. Takes a goodly bit ta get used ta some o’the bugs goin’ round out here. Ah should know, usta put me down fer days when ah was a wee yung’un.”

  She offered a small smile and he smiled back, hypnotized by her tenderness. The sedatives and broth weren’t too bad either.

  “Yup. Stuff sucks. Now, that soup is phenomenal. What was it?”

  She raised a brow. “We call it Creiber Bock. A stew made from wild bina berries, terry sprigs, and creiber meat. Sort of large rodents, ah s’pose. Real good concoction fer gittin’ over what ails ya.”

  “Its… a rat?”

  She chuckled. “Ah wouldn’t call it that exactly, but ah s’pose it’ll work. You rest now an’ ah’ll check back on ya in a bit.”

  She stood up and moved towards the door. He watched her and cleared his throat. “I guess… you’re Aidele Wilson then?”

  She stopped and propped her hands on her hips. “An’ how d’ya know mah name? Know what, never mind. Ah ain’ grillin’ ya while yer in this state. But knowin’ ya ain’ jus’ some roamin’ thief is good ta know. We’ll git into it when yer in better shape.”

  “I’m sorry. I was just trying… to keep you uninvolved.”

  “Welp, sir, ah am involved. Ya broke inta mah house, tried ta steal mah father’s journal, and smashed mah window. Whatever it is ya were hopin’ fer, has brought us right along inta yer little tale.” Aidele sighed but didn’t look angry. “Fer now, jus’ rest. We’ll talk later.”

  Aidele turned down the light and left the room. Durante was asleep before the door was fully shut.

  AIDELE WALKED OUT into the screened in recreational patio and went to sit down at the card table where Grandfather was examining his playing cards. He played a card as she sat. She picked up her own hand from where it lay face down on the tabletop.

  “How’s our guest?”

  “Sleepin’ like a baby now,” she smirked and played a counter card causing him to scoff. “He seems more cognizant now. Despite his screamin’n hollerin’, it weren’t nothin’ serious. Jus’ the parnine wearin’ off. Though, that glass musta done some deep damage if’n he’s still feelin’ it like this. The wound’s healin’ up real good. No infection, no sign it’s gittin’ any worse, either. Ah’m startin’ ta worry, though, that maybe ya din’t git it all out.”

  Grandfather played a card and shook his head, eyes to the table. “No, I got it all. It’s possible there was some nerve damage, though. Normally, that sor
t of damage causes a loss of feeling, not an enhancement of it. Perhaps he’ll heal out of it. At least, we should hope so.”

  Aidele countered and leaned back. “He asked me if I was Aidele Wilson. He came here knowing who ah am, Grandfather. Who do you think he is?”

  Grandfather’s eyes looked up at her. She could have sworn he froze and didn’t just pause, but it was all of a moment and he looked back down to his hand.

  “I’m sure he’s just a burglar. No one to worry about. Once he’s healed, we’ll take him to the sheriff.”

  Aidele leaned forward and folded her arms on the table. “He knew where mah father’s journal was. Went straight to it, in fact! I don’t accept the notion that he’s just some random crook out late at night facing the mangers so’s he ken burgle a ranch house out in the middle of nowhere. That would be insane. No, he came here for the journal and ah want ta know why!”

  Grandfather creaked back into his chair laying his cards on the tabletop and stared off towards the great clock on the far wall. His gaze stayed there for a long time prompting Aidele to knit her brows. There was something he wasn’t telling her. After too long a silence, she reached a hand across the table to pat his.

  “Hey, what’s going on in there?”

  “Hmmm? Oh. No, it’s nothing. Just thinking about what to do about him. He can’t stay here. And… whatever answer you hope to get out of him will probably be a lie anyhow. We’ll give him another week. If he’s healed enough by then, if sooner even better, then we should take him to the sheriff and let him figure it out. If it takes longer, I may just fetch him and bring him here anyway.”

  “But I… ah—”

  Grandfather stood up. “It’s late, Granddaughter. I didn’t even realize how late it was. Almost ten. I’m tired and going to bed. Will you clean up before you turn in?”

  Aidele looked up at him, mouth agape. “Well, yeah, sure, but—”

  “Goodnight, Granddaughter.”

  He turned and headed back inside to the main house. Aidele watched him leave in stunned silence.