Rare Lansdale

by Joe R. Lansdale

  What they don’t got is spare legs for when they step in a chuck hole, and that’s what happened. It was quite a fall, and I had an idea then how that Apache had felt when his horse had gone out from under him. The fall chunked me and Cullen way off and out into the dirt, and it damn sure didn’t do the mule any good.

  * * * *

  On the ground, the poor old mule kept tryin’ to get up, but couldn’t. He had fallen so that his back was to the Apache, and we was tossed out in the dirt, squirmin’. We crawled around so we was between his legs, and I shot him in the head with my pistol and we made a fort of him. On came them Apache. I took my rifle and laid it over the mule’s side and took me a careful bead, and down went one of them. I fired again, and another hit the dirt. Cullen scuttled out from behind the mule and got hold of his rifle where it had fallen, and crawled back. He fired off a couple of shots, but wasn’t as lucky as me. The Apache backed off, and at a distance they squatted down beside their horses and took pot shots at us.

  The mule was still warm and he stunk. Bullets were splatterin’ into his body. None of them was comin’ through, but they was lettin’ out a lot of gas. Way I had it figured, them Indians would eventually surround us and we’d end up with our hair hangin’ on their wickiups by mornin’. Thinkin’ on this, I made an offer to shoot Cullen if it looked like we was gonna be overrun.

  “Well, I’d rather shoot you then shoot myself,” he said.

  “I guess that’s a deal, then,” I said.

  It was a bright night and they could see us good, but we could see them good too. The land was flat there, and there wasn’t a whole lot of creepin’ up they could do without us noticin, but they could still outflank us because they outnumbered us. There was more Apache now than we had seen in the daytime. They had reinforcements. It was like a gatherin’ of ants.

  The Apache had run their horses all out, and now they was no water for them, so they cut the horse’s throats and lit a fire. After a while we could smell horse meat sizzlin’. The horses had been killed so that they made a ring of flesh they could hide behind, and the soft insides was a nice late supper.

  “They ain’t got no respect for guv’ment property,” Cullen said.

  I got out my knife and cut the mule’s throat, and he was still fresh enough blood flowed, and we put our mouths on the cut and sucked out all we could. It tasted better than I would have figured, and it made us feel a mite better too, but with there just bein’ the two of us, we didn’t bother to start a fire and cook our fort.

  We could hear them over there laughin’ and a cuttin’ up, and I figure they had them some mescal, ‘cause after a bit, they was actually singin’ a white man song, “Row, row, row you boat,” and we had to listen to that for a couple of hours.

  “Goddamn missionaries,” I said.

  After a bit, one of them climbed over a dead horse and took his breech-cloth down and turned his ass to us and it winked dead-white in the moonlight, white as any Irishman’s ass. I got my rifle on him, but for some reason I couldn’t let the hammer down. It just didn’t seem right to shoot some drunk showin’ me his ass. He turned around and peed, kind of pushin’ his loins out, like he was doin’ a squaw, and laughed, and that was enough. I shot that sonofabitch. I was aimin’ for his pecker, but I think I got him in the belly. He fell over and a couple of Apache come out to get him. Cullen shot one of them, and the one was left jumped over the dead horses and disappeared behind them.

  “Bad enough they’re gonna kill us,” Cullen said, “but they got to act nasty too.”

  We laid there for a while. Cullen said, “Maybe we ought to pray for deliverance.”

  “Pray in one hand, shit in the other, and see which one fills up first.”

  “I guess I won’t pray,” he said. “Or shit. Least not at the moment. You remember, that’s how we met. I was—”

  “I remember,” I said.

  * * * *

  Well, we was waitin’ for them to surround us, but like Colonel Hatch said, you can never figure an Apache. We laid there all night, and nothin’ happen. I’m ashamed to say, I nodded off, and when I awoke it was good and daylight and hadn’t nobody cut our throats or taken our hair.

  Cullen was sittin’ with his legs crossed, lookin’ in the direction of the Apache. I said, “Damn, Cullen. I’m sorry. I fell out.”

  “I let you. They’re done gone.”

  I sat up and looked. There was the horses, buzzards lightin’ on them, and there were a few of them big ole birds on the ground eyeballin’ our mule, and us. I shooed them, said, “I’ll be damn. They just packed up like a circus and left.”

  “Yep. Ain’t no rhyme to it. They had us where they wanted us. Guess they figured they’d lost enough men over a couple of buffalo soldiers, or maybe they saw a bird like Colonel Hatch was talkin’ about, and he told them to take themselves home.”

  “What I figure is they just too drunk to carry on, and woke up with hangovers and went somewhere cool and shaded to sleep it off.”

  “Reckon so,” Cullen said. Then: “Hey, you mean what you said about me bein’ a top soldier and all?”

  “You know it.”

  “You ain’t a colonel or nothin’, but I appreciate it. Course, I don’t feel all that top right now.”

  “We done all we could do. It was Hatch screwed the duck. He ought not have separated us from the troop like that.”

  “Don’t reckon he’ll see it that way,” Cullen said.

  “I figure not,” I said.

  * * * *

  We cut off chunks of meat from the mule and made a little fire and filled our bellies, then we started walkin’. It was blazin’ hot, and still we walked. When nightfall come, I got nervous, thinkin’ them Apache might be comin’ back, and that in the long run they had just been fiinnin’ us. But they didn’t show, and we took turns sleepin’ on the hard plains.

  Next mornin it was hot, and we started walkin’. My back hurt and my ass was draggin and my feet felt like someone had cut them off. I wished we had brought some of that mule meat with us. I was so hungry, I could see corn-bread walkin’ on the ground. Just when I was startin’ to imagine pools of water and troops of soldiers dancin’ with each other, I seen somethin’ that was a little more substantial.

  Satan.

  I said to Cullen, “Do you see a big black horse?”

  “You mean, Satan?”

  “Yep.”

  “I see him.”

  “Did you see some dancin’ soldiers?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you still see the horse?”

  “Yep, and he looks strong and rested. I figure he found a water hole and some grass, the sonofabitch.”

  Satan was trottin’ along, not lookin’ any worse for wear. He stopped when he seen us, and I tried to whistle to him, but my mouth was so dry, I might as well have been trying to whistle him up with my asshole.

  I put my rifle down and started walkin’ toward him, holdin’ out my hand like I had a treat. I don’t think he fell for that, but he dropped his head and let me walk up on him. He wasn’t saddled, as we had taken all that off when we went to cut wood, but he still had his bridle and reins. I took hold of the bridle. I swung onto his back, and then he bucked. I went up and landed hard on the ground. My head was spinnin’, and the next thing I know, that evil bastard was nuzzlin’ me with his nose.

  I got up and took the reins and led him over to where Cullen was leanin’ on his rifle. “Down deep,” he said, “I think he likes you.”

  * * * *

  We rode Satan double back to the fort, and when we got there, a cheer went up. Colonel Hatch come out and shook our hands and even hugged us. “We found what was left of you boys this mornin’, and it wasn’t a pretty picture. They’re all missin’ eyes and balls sacks and such. We figured you two had gone under with the rest of them. Was staked out on the plains somewhere with ants in your eyes. We got vengeful and started trailin’ them Apache, and damn if we didn’t meet them comin’ back toward us, and t
here was a runnin’ fight took us in the direction of the Pecos. We killed one, but the rest of them got away. We just come ridin’ in a few minutes ahead of you.”

  “You’d have come straight on,” Cullen said, “you’d have seen us. And we killed a lot more than one.”

  “That’s good,” Hatch said, “and we want to hear your story and Nate’s soon as you get somethin’ to eat and drink. We might even let you have a swallow of whiskey. Course, Former House Nigger here will have to do the cookin’, ain’t none of us any good.”

  “That there’s fine,” I said, “but, my compadre here, he ain’t The Former House Nigger. He’s Private Cullen.”

  Colonel Hatch eyeballed me. “You don’t say?”

  “Yes sir, I do, even if it hair lips the United States Army.”

  “Hell,” Hatch said. “That alone is reason to say it.”

  * * * *

  There ain’t much to tell now. We said how things was, and they did some investigatin’, and damn if we wasn’t put in for medals. We didn’t never get them, ‘cause they was slow about given coloreds awards, and frankly, I didn’t think we deserved them, not with us breakin’ and runnin’ the way we did, like a bunch of little girls tryin’ to get in out of the rain, leavin them men behind. But we didn’t stress that part when we was tellin’ our story. It would have fouled it some, and I don’t think we had much choice other than what we did. We was as brave as men could be without gettin’ ourselves foolishly killed.

  Still, we was put in for medals, and that was somethin’. In time, Cullen made the rank of Top Soldier. It wasn’t just me tellin’ him no more. It come true. He become a sergeant, and would have made a good one too, but he got roarin’ drunk and set fire to a dead pig and got his stripes taken and spent some time in the stockade. But that’s another story.

  I liked the cavalry right smart myself, and stayed on there until my time run out and I was supposed to sign up again, and would have too, had it not been for them Chinese women I told you about at the first. But again, that ain’t this story. This is the one happened to me in the year of 1870, out there on them hot West Texas plains. I will add a side note. The army let me keep Satan when I was mustered out, and I grew to like him, and he was the best horse I ever had, and me and him became friends of a sort, until 1872, when I had to shoot him and feed him to a dog and a woman I liked better.

  SURVEILLANCE

  When Johnson arose from bed he was careful to not scratch himself, and when he went to the bathroom to do his business, he sat on the toilet with his pajama pants down and a towel across his lap. Finally, however, modesty had to be discarded. He finished up on the toilet and undressed quickly and jumped in the shower and pulled the curtain, knowing full well that he could be seen by the overhead camera, but at least the one over the door was not directed at him, and sometimes, he felt that if he could minimize the number of cameras on him, he could count it as some sort of victory.

  He toweled off quickly, wrapped the towel around his waist, and then he dressed even more quickly, and went down and had his breakfast. He wanted to have two eggs instead of the one allotted, but the cameras were there, and if he had two, there would be the ticket from headquarters, and the fine. He had the one, and the one cup of coffee allotted, went out to this car and pushed the button that turned it on. It went along the route it was supposed to go, and he could hear the almost silent twisting of the little cameras on their cables as they turned in the ceiling and dash and armrests of the car to get a full view of his face, which he tried to keep neutral.

  When the car parked him in the company parking lot, he got out and looked at the cameras in the parking garage, sighed, went to the elevator that took him down to the street. In the elevator he looked at the red eye of the camera there. He didn’t even feel comfortable picking his nose, and he needed to.

  He could remember before everything was so secure and so safe, when you could do that and not end up as an electrical charge on billions of little chips funneled through billions of little wires, or for that matter, thrown wireless across the voids, to have the impulses collected like puzzle pieces and thrown together in your image, showing all that you did from morning to night.

  The only place he had found any privacy was under the covers. He could pick his nose there. He could masturbate there, but he knew the cameras would pick up his moves beneath the covers, and certainly plenty of people had no problem picking their nose or showing their dicks or grunting at stool, knowing full well that eventually some human eye would look at it all and smack its lips over certain things, or laugh at this or that, but he was not amongst them.

  He arrived at the street level and stepped off the elevator. All along the street the cameras on the wire snakes moved and twisted every which way. He walked along until he was a block from his office, and he noticed an old building off to the side. He passed it every day, but today he looked at it, and saw there was a doorway set back deep. When he came to it he looked in and saw that it had a little squeeze space inside, a place that had been made to get out of the rain or to place your umbrella.

  He looked at the cameras on the street, and they looked at him. He stepped into the alcove and turned so that he was in the little nook and cranny. He stood there for a while, and then he sat down in the space, and knew for the first time in a long time, no camera could see him. The camera knew he had gone there, but it couldn’t see him, and that gave him a great moment of peace, and soon he found he didn’t want to leave, and he watched as the sunlight changed and moved and people walked by, not noticing. He couldn’t see them, but he could hear them and he could see their shadows. He picked his nose and flicked the boogers, and took deep breaths and enjoyed the coolness of the stone on his back.

  Come nightfall he was still there, and he felt content. He was hungry, but still he didn’t leave. He sat there and enjoyed it. When the lights of the city came on, he still sat there, and wouldn’t move, and finally two police officers came. They had seen the cameras, the film, and they had seen where he had gone and that he had not come out. They arrested him and took him downtown and put him in the jail where the cameras worked night and day from every angle in the cell, and when they put him there, he began to scream, and he screamed all night, and into the morning, when they finally came for him and gave him a sedative and put him in a ward with others who had tried to hide from the cameras. The shots they gave him made him sleep, and in his sleep the cameras whirled and twisted on cables throughout the place and took his image and shot it across wireless space and tucked it away on little cells smaller than atoms.

  In the next week, the old building was torn down and a new one was put up and the cameras were installed. Everything worked nicely. No one could hide from the cameras. Everyone’s mail was read before they read it, and their phone calls were monitored, and to be safe they made sure no one had the chance to use lawyers or complain, and the world was nice and easy and oh so safe, now that there was nothing left to fear.

  "Surveillance" from Subterranean Press on-line magazine © 2007 Joe R. Lansdale.

  THE STARS ARE FALLING

  BEFORE DEEL ARROWSMITH CAME BACK from the dead, he was crossing a field by late moonlight in search of his home. His surroundings were familiar, but at the same time different. It was as if he had left as a child and returned as an adult to examine old property only to find the tree swing gone, the apple tree cut down, the grass grown high, and an outhouse erected over the mound where his best dog was buried.

  As he crossed, the dropping moon turned thin, like cheap candy licked too long, and the sun bled through the trees. There were spots of frost on the drooping green grass and on the taller weeds, yellow as ripe corn. In his mind’s eye he saw not the East Texas field before him or the dark rows of oaks and pines beyond it, or even the clay path that twisted across the field toward the trees like a ribbon of blood.

  He saw a field in France where there was a long, deep trench, and in the trench were bloodied bodies, some of them missing
limbs and with bits of brains scattered about like spilled oatmeal. The air filled with the stinging stench of rotting meat and wafting gun smoke, the residue of poison gas, and the buzz of flies. The back of his throat tasted of burning copper. His stomach was a knot. The trees were like the shadowy shades of soldiers charging toward him, and for a moment, he thought to meet their charge, even though he no longer carried a gun.