By then Claude's breathing had almost returned to normal, and his body kicked out the slugs that Miles put in there only moments ago. He raised his eyebrows and nodded in amusement.
“How 'bout that?” Miles said. “Sorry, I had to see it for myself. Now what say we discuss this matter further at the sheriff's office?”
Fire burned in Claude's eyes as he looked at Miles with pure hatred. He thew a handful of sand and rocks at the bounty hunter's face, causing him to step back slightly. Scrambling to his feet, Claude drove his shoulder into the other man's gut, and wrapped his arms around his waist.
Miles was caught off guard, as he was hoisted off of his feet, and slammed into the hard packed dirt. As the angered assailant hammered away with fists on the bounty hunter's face and head, Miles realized that Claude was much more powerful than he had originally let on. Grasping onto anything his hands could get a grip of, Miles rolled and tossed his foe into the trunk of a nearby tree. The deep crack resonated as the trunk nearly split from the impact.
Miles did his best to clear his head, it felt like he had taken on a bull in a head butting match. As he got up onto all fours, a boot struck him solid in the side. His body was hurled across the ground as he rolled into the rocky creek. The fuzzy figure of Claude Batten approached in his blurred vision. Miles brought his hands up, ready to scrap, and the two powerhouses exchanged blows.
Boulders were chipped and cracked. Trees were broken or uprooted. All the horses fled in terror. Large craters were formed as the two combatants battled for the upper hand. Miles would try to take flight to catch his breath, only to be caught by his ankle and whipped back into the earth. Claude, a brawler, would wind up for a vicious blow, only to be cut short by the other man's crisp technique and accurate strikes.
Miles was covered in bruises, and both men were bloodied. Most of it belonging to Claude. Miles realized that he wasn't able to recover from injury as fast as Claude. He could withstand a greater amount of punishment, but Claude was able to bounce back easier. It was a downhill battle for Miles and he needed to end the fight soon, or he would be crushed. Toe to toe was not the best approach, and he had to set his ego aside. He had to fight smarter.
First he had to 'defang the snake' to make his plan work. Using his training, he was able to avoid most of the punishment that was leveled at him. He was on the defensive until an opening presented itself. He caught one of Claude's fists and squeezed, crushing the small bones in his hand. Claude's eyes were flooded with rage as he hurled his other hand in a wide, undisciplined arc. Miles caught the blow just as it passed, and drove his forearm above the elbow, dislocating it with a sickening snap.
Wrapping his arm around Claude's neck, Miles secured his grip, placing his hands palm to palm. He took off, dragging the bandit into the air with him. With his crushed hand, and broken elbow, Claude was unable to effectively loosen the grip. Even through the whistling rush of the air, Miles could hear Claude's gurgling howls of anger. He pushed harder than he ever had to, dragging his foe higher than he had ever gone even without a passenger. He could feel Claude's grip improving as his hand and arm mended themselves.
The air was thin up here. The cold was harsh. Miles hoped that he was more accustomed to this with his experience and abilities. His gamble paid off as Claude's body went limp and his eyes rolled back. Miles relaxed as well, too tired to keep pushing, and just let gravity take over. The two plummeted back to the ground. Miles slowed their descent nearly at the last moment. The hard landing sent a jolt through his whole body. He collapsed next to Claude's prone form.
* * *
The bounty hunter's horse approached the group of lawmen gathered at the end of the town's main street. He turned his quarter horse, giving the men a better view of the man draped behind his saddle. As well as the two wrapped bodies on the other horses in tow.
“Two hundred.” The bounty hunter said, foregoing any official greeting.
“By Jiminy! Looks like you got your plow cleaned, son.” The sheriff said, readjusting his hat. He pulled his horse up along side Miles. “This him?”
“Curly wolf Claude.” Miles said. “Back there is Rollie Greb and Sean Wickwire.”
“Wheel gun?” The sheriff seemed surprised. “I guess I shouldn't be too shocked that he ain't breathing. Didn't figure him as the surrendering type.”
Miles locked eyes with the sheriff, clearly in no mood to chat.
“Pay the man.” He said to one of his deputies. “Four hundred for the whole gang.”
One of the deputy passed three envelopes to Miles, as the other pulled Claude's unconscious body to the ground. The deputy that paid Miles let out a low whistle. “Nice work.”
Miles paid the comment no mind as he rode past the men toward the saloon.
“You can't go in wearing, son.” The sheriff said.
Miles answered with a thumb over his shoulder. The sheriff looked down and saw that Claude's hands were bound with the barrel of a Winchester 44-40, and his feet had a Henry repeater wound around the ankles. The sheriff tried to make sense of what he was looking at as he scratched his head under his hat.
“Son of a –”
* * *
Miles slept for three days. Only waking long enough to get some food and drink in his belly, and pay the tab on the room for one more night. Once he finally felt rested he was a new man. Almost reborn. That was a hard fight, but he felt good.
He reached into his pile of belongings and pulled out an old journal. It was his father's journal that Miles had found shortly after his death. Flipping to the last page his father had written on, he picked up the small, dull pencil tucked inside and scratched out the first of five names on the list. Claude “Curly Wolf” Batten.
# # #
LIFE WORTH LIVING
The lone figure crouched next to the tree with one armed draped around its slim trunk. Using the monocular in her free hand, she visually scoured the yard around the house. She slowed her breathing to a shallow pace, to pick up any suspicious sounds. The home was abandoned, and after several minutes, she decided there were no lurkers in the vicinity. Using the sleeve of her flannel jacket, she casually wiped her nose and mouth, more out of habit these days.
“Stop using your sleeve. I just washed that shirt.” Her mother said
Glancing down, the bright red smear revealed the aftermath of her Kool-Aid mustache shave. She just looked up and giggled.
She opened her eyes again, not realizing they had been shut. The memory had felt so real. The sound of her mother's voice. The rich vibrant stain on her favorite shirt. Almost like it happened yesterday, and not in another lifetime a decade ago. Satisfied the path was clear, she tucked the monocular into the side pocket of her backpack. Shouldering the burden with her left arm, she moved quietly toward the driveway.
The rusted out husk of an old Ford pickup truck provided cover so she could get a closer look at the door. The chances of finding anything of value in this house weren't looking so hot anymore. The door hung open slightly, and now that she was closer, she could see that a large section on the bottom was kicked in. She rested her hand on the grip of the Sig Sauer P226 holstered at her right hip. Knowing it was there helped to reassure her, getting her heart rate, and breathing back to normal.
She wasn't fully comfortable with the idea of using it, although she was happy to have it. The pistol was loud, and lit up dark rooms when fired, and she only carried one spare magazine. It was definitely a last resort tool to make her escape. Still, it was far better than nothing. Strapped to the side of her backpack was the quiet way to get the job done. Affectionately named the Point of No Return, she grabbed the 28 inch length of rebar. The makeshift weapon was ground down to a long 4-inch point on one end, with the other half wrapped in para cord.
She pulled the backpack up onto both shoulders, but left the waist strap unbuckled. Always a good idea to be able to drop it quickly if it got snagged or grabbed. She held the Point firmly in both hands pointed forward, like a very sh
ort spear, and walked calmly across the unkempt front yard. Her eyes darted side to side with each carefully placed step.
Once reaching the front entrance, she used her weapon to slowly push the door inward. Hinges squeaked complaining of months of neglect. The door hit something and stopped, just after the halfway point. Her left boot crossed the threshold, so she could lean in and peek around the door. The heel of a foot poked out from behind the door. Blood stained the flesh but had since darkened, and the ankle was twisted about 80 or 90 degrees beyond the normal range. The smell finally hit her, but its effects on her were blunted over the months. Stepping into the house all the way, she could see that the body attached to the foot was laying across the entry into the kitchen on the right.
The sharpened rebar sunk into the base of the corpse's skull. She was taught early on, never to step over landmines, without making sure they were finished. The heels of her boots clunked on the hardwood floor as she walked the length of the kitchen. She had to make sure nothing else was waiting before letting her guard down. The room was safe, so she let the straps of her pack slide down her arms, controlling the fall all the way to the floor. She sunk into the only chair left standing at the table and put her spear on the table, keeping it close at hand. What strength she had left for the day was draining from her weary body. She found herself staring at the bits of bone, hair and flesh caught in the rough surface at the sharpened tip of her weapon.
“Hold it like this. Your lead hand palm up, and your rear hand palm down.” The gravelly voice of her uncle instructed.
The man repositioned her elbows in closer. She felt like a goblin, awkwardly slumped over, holding a little spear.
“Now when you thrust, look right at your target, not your weapon,” he continued. “Turn your hands one quarter clock-wise as you strike, so the palms of the lead hand and the rear hand are both facing to either side.”
She shuffled forward slightly, and easily sunk the tip of her spear through the coconut. As she pulled it back out, she noticed some of the fibers still attached.
“Ha, it's like the hair and stuff doesn't wanna let go.” She joked.
Her elbow slammed into the table, as she jerked back into the moment. Was she asleep? Her heart raced and pulse pounded as she leapt to her feet, slamming the chair against the wall with a bang. In one smooth movement, the pistol was drawn from its holster, pressed firmly between both palms, sweeping the room for any threats. Trying to focus on the white dots of the gun sights, her vision blurred as tears streamed down her left cheek. She wiped them away one side at a time, with her upper arms. She just wanted to go home.
A laugh broke through the emotional wall, although she was still upset. She knew this would be hard, and everyone that volunteered went through this after a couple of weeks. The families were all relying on the supplies that the runners could bring back.
Holstering the pistol, she ran her left hand through her short chestnut hair. She cut it short two weeks ago, thinking it was a good tactical decision. She regretted it the instant the clippers buzzed their first swath of hair away. Don't give them anything to grab and hold onto, was all she could think to make herself feel better. The problem was that it was also one more thing that she could no longer hold onto. One less reminder of who she was in her previous life.
* * *
All the food in the house had either been taken, or spoiled before she arrived. It wasn't a complete loss, though. She found a box of bandages, some recently expired ibuprofen, and a half -empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Last week, she probably would have considered the bottle half-full. The rest of the house was empty, but signs of death were all over. This place had been overrun. Judging by the state of the body in the kitchen it was probably only a few days ago.
The back door lead out to a huge open backyard, ending right where the lightly wooded terrain began. The next nearest house was too far to travel out in the open. Moving through the trees would be her best bet.
In the back yard, there was a section of hard packed earth, with a pole and basketball hoop mounted. The net disappeared long ago, a victim of the climate, perhaps. The ball sat about 10 feet away tucked in a tall patch of grass. Oddly the grass around the synthetic leather orb was taller and healthier, than the rest of the yard. She hesitantly approached, kicking the ball with her foot, like it was going to trigger some kind of trap.
“Of course its flat.” She said
The bottom of the ball was sucked in and slick with dew. She held it for a while smiling as she remembered all the fun she had shooting hoops with her brothers at the park. She had almost forgotten those summer evenings completely; forgotten what it was like to not have other concerns. She was hardly the best player on the courts, but at least she wasn't the worst.
The point of her weapon sunk into the ground next to the pole, and the backpack hit the ground with an audible thud. She may not be able to dribble the ball, but at least the back half was round enough to try a shot or two.
She planted her feet square to the rim about 15 feet from the backboard, right about free-throw distance. With a slight bounce from her knees she straightened up, pushed with the right hand, guiding with the left, and flicked her wrist. The ball wobbled a bit in flight, and contacted on the back right corner with a clang. Her form was rusty from due to lack of practice. She realized that she forgot to point at the rim with her shooting hand, as she jogged to retrieve the ball. It settled on the flat part, not too far from her gear.
Once more she squared up with the rim, making a few tweaks to her form, repeated the attempt. This time, pointing with the first two fingers, and giving the ball a little more arc. It had more distance that she would have liked, but the ball hit the backboard and bounced around in the rim. The sound of the ball striking the flat metal surface rang out like a gong, and the loose rim rattled loudly. The echo seemed to last for ever, reverberating back mockingly.
She realized this was probably a bad idea glancing around. She geared up, with the backpack on her right shoulder, and the Point of No Return in her left hand. Her fears were confirmed as she saw two figures in the distance, slowly making their way toward the wide open backyard. They lumbered awkwardly in the direction of the makeshift court.
“Sorry boys, not the best time for a pick-up game.” She said, almost under her breath. She took a direct path to the treeline, staying calm and moving as low as she could. Her eyes focused on the treeline, making sure nothing was coming out to greet her.
Ducking into the foliage, she turned back to observe, checking to see if the uninvited guests would follow. She saw a third visitor, a woman, already in the backyard. Far too close for comfort, she thought. That was a really stupid thing to do. At least she felt human again for that brief moment the ball was in flight. It wouldn't take long for them to disperse and find her here, so staying nearby was too dangerous.
* * *
She skipped the next house over, fearing it was too close to the backyard barbecue she left behind. Moving through the trees had slowed her pace. Her mind placed lurkers behind every large tree, making the empty forest feel too crowded for her tastes. The next house that came up along her route would have to do, she decided.
The property was fenced in, the wooden barrier squared off the area perfectly. It was too high to see over while standing, so she took mental snapshots by jumping to get a glimpse from various positions along the near side.
Sun bleached, neglected toys littered the yard, but other than that, nothing stirred. She noticed a hole in the fence on the far side. It was near the only tree within the perimeter. A good sign, since she wouldn't have to worry about spending calories needlessly to get over the wooden barrier. Slipping through the opening, she noticed that the boards were kicked or pushed outward. Was someone trying to escape?
The tree, a large oak, cast a blanket of shade across half of the yard. More importantly, there was a floor and a partial wall of a treehouse nestled within in its branches. She glanced toward the house, and ba
ck again at the elevated platform. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, knowing which would be the safer spot for tonight.
Settling in on the weather beaten floor of the treehouse, she was thankful that the evenings were getting warmer each day that passed. She couldn't start a fire for warmth up here, and the sleeping bag wasn't rated for cold weather. The sun was going down. While there was still some light, she unfolded the piece of paper she carried in her shirt pocket.
It was a list. Each line contained a single item, hastily scrawled onto the crinkled yellow page. A few of the items had a small hole punched next to them. She didn't have a pencil, so that was how she checked them off. After a quick debate, she took the sharpened end of her spear and slowly worked a small hole next to the second item on the list, medication.
Laying back and resting her head on one of her arms, she held the list in the failing light, memorizing the items that haven't been punched out yet. Her breathing slowed, each breath drawing in a little more air than the last, as her eyelids grew heavy.
“Do you want to push the cart?” Her mother asked, checking soup off her list.
“Can we just hurry up and finish, so we can go home?”
“Just a few more items. Besides, your face-friends aren't going anywhere.”
“Facebook friends.” She muttered.
Grocery shopping was always so boring. It took such a large chunk out of her Saturdays, and she never really had any say in what foods they got. Boring creamy peanut butter, health-nut cereals and whole-grain breads. Low sodium this, sugar-free that. Everything she asked for was always answered with a comment about the price, or about how she was the only one that would eat it, so why bother getting it.
“It's Saturday, and the party is tonight.” She said. The inflection in her voice elevated to punctuate the importance of the end of her statement.
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