AWOL: A Character Lost

by Anthony Renfro

  “I think he’s back in his story. The place you should be,” I replied, finishing up my latest writing project, so I could focus in on him.

  “You think or are you sure?”

  “Nothing is really sure at the moment. They are more educated guesses than anything else, but logic says if he isn’t here he should be there.”

  “How can you be sure he isn’t in another story?”

  “I honestly can’t be sure, but my hunches are rarely wrong, especially when it comes to my writing.” I paused for a moment and he waited. “Did he say anything strange when you saw him or remember anything that might help you out?”

  “No.”

  Silent moments passed.

  “I was hoping he would have some more insight.”

  “Nothing at all,” the character replied.

  “Do you need to stop for any reason or shall we continue?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Okay then, the Western genre is next,” I wrote, words flashing on the wall.

  The character looked at the next door, trying to get the thoughts of Michael out of his head. He just had to hope his son was home safe and waiting for him.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine,” the character replied, even though he knew he wasn’t, but being pissed wasn’t going to help get him home. He just had to suck it up and try to get back into the spirit of things.

  “We can pause -”

  “I’m perfectly fucking fine. Now let me move on to the next story. I can’t dick around in here if I plan to get home. So let’s get on with it.”

  “Okay,” I replied, giving him another second, and then continued when he didn’t say anything. “You will need different clothes for that one. The ones you have been wearing are modern, and they fit in the last two stories, but not the next one.” I paused, thinking of western clothes, the ones I had seen in the movies. I have to admit I don’t watch a lot of westerns, but I have a basic idea of what he should wear. “Here goes.”

  The character looked down and waited.

  “You will first need a hat, a white one, good guys always wear white.”

  The hat appeared on the floor. The character picked it up and looked at it.

  “Next, jeans, a shirt, and boots with spurs on them; you have to have spurs.”

  The objects appeared at the character’s feet as he held the hat in his hand.

  “Next, a belt and belt buckle, with two holsters on each side, six shooters like all the cowboys had back then.”

  He put the hat on his head and picked up the gun belt. “Will I really need these?”

  “I just don’t know, but my hunches are telling me that there is something foul behind that door. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it. I want you to be armed, just in case.”

  “But, I didn’t die in the zombie story when the truck crushed me, so why would I need to worry about anything harming me in this one?”

  “I want you to start out with every possible advantage you can have, just in case, and also, you might be home in the next story, so you need to start out fully prepared because you can die if it is your home story.”

  “Got it,” the character replied, reading the flashing words.

  “Go ahead and get dressed so you can get started, and remember, I don’t know if you know how to use those guns, so be careful.”

  While the character dressed, he talked to me, trying to find closure from the last story he was in. “You know that was a pretty shitty thing to do to Becky, after all she did for me.”

  “Those vampires were lethal, she just met her match.”

  “I know, but I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye. You could have at least had me go down there and find her.”

  “I guess I could have written a scene like that, but it seemed like it would have slowed down the pace.”

  “It would have been the honorable thing to do.” He finished dressing and put on his hat. “What happened at the end of the last story, with the guy dead at the door? What was that all about?”

  “You mean the two guys guarding the stable?”

  “One was dead in the doorway, and the other guy was nowhere to be seen. What happened out there?”

  “What happened was that the vampires came up on them, and both men fought them till bravely. In the fight, they killed the vampires, but both men were so badly wounded one bled to death; and the other guy wandered up to the door for help, but bled out before he could find it.”

  “Nice, real pleasant stuff there,” the character replied.

  “I try to have a happy ending, but sometimes the story doesn’t warrant it.”

  “Did you eat a lot of glue when you were a kid?”

  “No. I just have an over-active imagination,” I replied.

  “By the way, those werewolves were a bit much. Don’t you think?”

  “I’m just trying to think outside the box.”

  The character looked himself up and down once he was finished. “What do you think?”

  “You’re no Clint Eastwood, but you’ll do.”

  “Thanks for the confidence.”

  “So you do know who Clint Eastwood is?”

  “I know a lot of stuff. Surprised how much I knew in the last story, but I just can’t remember my home,” the character replied.

  “You’ll get there.”

  “I guess I’m off then.”

  “Yep, good luck.”

  “Thanks,” the character replied, opening the door on a warm, dark, moonless night. Tumbleweed went rolling by as he stepped through the door and closed it. The door shut, and I was all alone again.

  “What to do now?” I thought about it for a moment. I could take the car in for an oil change, take my son for a walk, make some lunch, maybe work on that blog post I have wanted . . . “Wait, I’m writing this. I thought I was thinking about it. Please, go on to the next chapter. Never mind me. I’m shutting it down now.”

  GOODNIGHT KILLER 1

  High Midnight

  Cottonwood Springs, Arizona.

  *

  The character appeared out of thin air in the center of an Old West town. The night was dark and dusty with a thick blanket of sand and dirt hanging in the air. The sky above, moonless, was littered with bright stars for as far as the eye could see.

  The road he was standing on ran through the center of a town. This road was small, barely big enough for two lanes, barely big enough for anything to pass going in opposite directions.

  The town was deserted, a ghost town, one in perfect, well-maintained condition. There was a jail, a small saloon with bat wing doors, a bank, a general store, and a two- story hotel; all these brown buildings, built with the same kind of wood, were silent, all were dark. A little further away from this cluster of buildings was a stable, with horses shuffling about on nervous hooves, a whorehouse, and a white church complete with bell and steeple.

  “Can I help you?”

  The character jumped. The strong voice had come from out of nowhere. When the character turned around to see who was behind him, he saw a small burly man, who looked like he could eat raw nails just to have some iron in his diet. He was dressed in black from head to toe. He had big guns on his hips, and he wore a button up shirt, jeans, and a cowboy hat. He wore no beard on his face, and under his hat was a perfectly trimmed hair line. The character trained his eyes on the Silver Star pinned to his chest, and he saw that it read SHERIFF.

  “So, can I help you?”

  “Take it easy boss,” another guy replied, the one standing beside the sheriff. He was also dressed in black with two guns on his hips. He was thin and tall, had to be at least six feet, clean shaven, with short hair under the hat.

  “There’s a lot of strangeness going on around here. Just trying to see where this one stands,” the sheriff replied.

  “I don’t think he’s the one we’re after. You can tell that by looking at him.”

  “Just keep an eye on him.” The
sheriff rolled out a cigarette as he walked back to the jail, leaving the two men alone.

  “Don’t mind him. He’s just on edge since the killings started.”

  The character looked at the Silver Star on this guy’s chest and he saw it read DEPUTY.

  “The killings?”

  “It’s real strange. The guy doesn’t dress like anything anybody around here has ever seen.”

  “Really?” The character thought of the author, and he felt rage rise up inside of himself. He was so hoping to step into a nice western story, shoot a few guns, play cowboy, and either stay or move on. It wouldn’t be so bad if this was his home. It looked peaceful. Now though, he wasn’t so sure; and with this strange killer on the loose, he was sure it also wasn’t a typical western.

  “He wears this mask that covers his face. It looks like it has been knitted and it has two holes for the eyes and one for the mouth,” the deputy continued.

  “A ski mask.”

  “A what?”

  “Nothing. Go on.” The character thought that this is how the past gets screwed up when people time travel. It all starts with one slip of the tongue.

  “He also wears these big black boots with rubber on the bottom of them and what looks like some kind of roping system going up to the top of these boots. He wears white jeans that look like they had acid poured on them, and a shirt that has cutoff sleeves with a v design around the neck.”

  The character thought about this description for a moment. It sounded like the guy was wearing combat boots, acid washed jeans, and a v-neck tee shirt.

  The deputy continued. “His hair hangs long and blond from his mask, real muscular, and he kills with a big sharp knife.”

  The character thought it sounded like a killer from one of those slasher movies from the late seventies or eighties. “How do you guys know all this?”

  “A young couple who were out by the lake a few nights ago got attacked. We lost the boy, but the girl got away and hid somewhere. She said she could see him as he stalked the bushes. He eventually gave up and left.” The deputy looked at the character. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this since I just met you and all.”

  “I guess I have that kind of face.”

  “Still, though. I’ll need to take you back to the jail until we kind of figure out where you came from. We need to rule you out as the killer even though I’m sure you aren’t.” The deputy looked at the character and the guns on his hip. “I’ll also need those six shooters.”

  The character took them off and handed them to the deputy as the sheriff came walking up the street, briskly, but not in a hurry.

  “There’s been another murder. Two kids out by the lake. We need to check it out. The boy’s best friend just found them.”

  “What about him?”

  “Put him in a cell until we get back. I don’t need him roaming around without supervision until we know more about him.”

  “You heard the sheriff, come on now. No trouble.”

  The character allowed himself to be led back to the jail without any fuss or argument.

  *

  The killing the sheriff was just talking about. Here’s how it all went down, in case you need or want the gory details. If you don’t, skip to the next section, just below the asterisk, and keep moving forward. I promise you won’t miss a thing. Are you still reading? Okay, here goes.

  The young man and woman were lying on a blanket and making love to one another, as the lake gently lapped at their young heads. The beach was deserted and empty. They were all alone, as the sun faded into a perfect sunset.

  A basket (once full of food) lay by itself next to their deserted pile of clothes, and a belt with two six shooters – old west ones, lay on top of this pile. The guy wanted to make sure that if anything happened, the first thing he would be able to do, would be to grab those guns. Those guns were the most important thing in this lawless world. Clothes were a distant second.

  The man, or should I say boy, because he was only 19, was on top of the girl doing his young man thing. He was well stocked, muscular, and not too tall with brown hair and a hairless body. The woman underneath him, trying to show excitement, was a red head, just barely 16 with soft white skin.

  A loon rattled off its noisy cry in the distance.

  “Slow down,” the girl replied, as she tried to savor her first time. The guy, of course, had no part of it. He was racing down the track towards the orgasm finish line, and he couldn’t wait to get there.

  “Come on,” he said. “I have been waiting so long. I need to do this.”

  “Just let me get there with you.”

  The boy paid her no attention as he seized up, shuttered, and then fell onto his back beside her. He was done.

  “We’ve been waiting so long, and this is how it goes.”

  “You didn’t enjoy it?” The boy asked, clueless. He certainly did.

  “I guess, but it was so fast.”

  “The next time it will be better. I promise,” the guy replied, euphoric afterglow pushing him towards sleep.

  A rustling sound caught his ears and attacked them. He sat up to a sitting position and looked over at the trees.

  The girl caught on to what he was doing. It was best to keep your instincts in a world like this, and hers were just as strong as his. “Did you hear something?”

  “It was probably a critter.” The boy reached over and grabbed one of his guns. He checked the chamber, and made sure it was loaded, as he heard the noise again – a cracking twig, nothing more, but it was closer than before. He was sure of it

  He pointed the gun towards the woods, cocked it, and aimed. “Who’s there?” He asked; standing up, gun still pointing forward.

  Another broken twig.

  The sound of a loon.

  A hooting of an owl.

  “You’re getting me worried.” The girl covered herself with the blanket.

  “Something’s out there.”

  A second later that something came busting out of the trees.

  It was the killer, wearing a black ski mask, acid washed jeans, and a sleeveless cut off v neck t-shirt that read – “I brake for death”.

  The boy managed to squeeze off a couple of rounds from the gun that echoed out across the night. This, of course, did nothing to the killer, as his charge stayed true. He rushed up onto the boy and jammed a knife into the boy’s stomach. It went in easy enough; and, as the girl screamed, the boy spit up blood, which ran down his chin to his naked chest. He looked into the eyes of the killer, and all the boy saw was death. The killer then took out the knife and grabbed the boy by the hair. He jammed the knife into the boy’s throat and slit him from ear to ear. The killer let the boy drop onto the ground with a geyser of blood shooting out of the wound in his neck. The girl tried to roll over, but the blanket was wrapped too tight. She managed to get onto her stomach, but that was as far as she could go. The killer saddled her and then started to stab her, over and over, and over again.

  *

  Now back to the main story line for those who read the last section, and if you are here without reading that section, then you can go ahead and continue on.

  The sheriff knelt down beside the girl’s body and checked for a pulse. She had so many holes in her that it was probably pointless; it was obvious she was dead, but he did it anyway.

  “It is the work of the killer. Isn’t it?” The deputy asked, trying to keep the food in his stomach.

  “Appears to be so,” the sheriff replied, as he stood up and looked out across the calm dark lake. His eyes traced the forest, the shadows thick under the moonless sky; he heard a loon and an owl, the whisper of leaves, other than that, nothing, just a nice calm night by the lake. “It’s so peaceful here.” The sheriff removed his hat and ran his hands through his hair. “Why would anyone do this?”

  Someone rode up into the clearing on a white and brown horse. This was a guy dressed out in a typical cowboy outfit. He looked to be around 40 years of age. “Someo
ne just spotted your killer moving towards town.”

  “How long ago?” The sheriff asked, shining a lantern on the man, the same lantern that had just helped him inspect the girl.

  “I don’t know. He was just walking and stalking. He had that silver knife in his hand, and he looked like he was on a mission.”

  “All right, saddle up. Nothing left to do here. We’ll give them a proper burial tomorrow. Let’s get back.”

  The sheriff and deputy climbed onto their horses and followed the man back to town as fast as they could.

  *

  The character sat in the cell and watched the door. He could see the keys sitting on the desk, just out of arm’s reach, far enough away that he couldn’t get to them without some major planning. He heard the sound of thundering hooves and looked up. The horses he heard were at top speed, charging fast. When the horses reached their stopping point, it was just outside the jail’s front door. The character could hear voices, muffled, and the sound of the horses as the men tied the animals to the hitching post.

  The door opened.

  The sheriff and deputy stepped inside while a third man stood watch outside.

  “Did you see anything?” The sheriff asked the character.

  “How could I? I have been here the whole time.”

  “Don’t get smart.” The sheriff was in no mood to hear the character fire back at him.

  “Sorry, but no, I haven’t,” the character replied. “No one has been here since you left.”

  “We got word that the killer was heading back in this direction.”

  The sheriff looked at the deputy. “Why would you tell him that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have a big mouth, always talking the business when casual citizens don’t need to know the business.”

  The deputy was ready for this verbal confrontation. When the sheriff got upset, he usually took it out on him, so he was use to it. “Don’t get on me just because you can’t wrap your head around this.”

  A large thump hit the door – hard enough to make all of them jump and look towards it. The character eyed the keys, and his guns in their holster, all of them right there on the desk, in plain view, taunting him.