I know the way folks scream, in anger, or grief, or panic and fear—which are two different ways, and very distinct. I’ve heard and sometimes caused them all. The noise coming from outside is a whole new way to let the world know you’re not happy with it. There’s a kind of uncertain madness laced all over it and that’s what frightens me.
Screams of madness are those of an individual, not of a crowd—except right now it sounds like they are. It’s like all those doing the screaming know perfectly well why they’re running scared, but don’t have the slightest comprehension of it at the exact same time.
It’s not a good sound. It isn’t improved by gunfire.
I admire the resources I have to hand: my clothes, my boots and a bloody rag, three splinters, a wooden pot to crap in, and one fully working hand. I rattle the cell door with it, squint at the lock. I need a plan. Plus the key.
The screaming seems to move further away, then out in the sheriff’s office I hear the familiar thud of someone bodily opening the door to the street. It bangs shut again. “What’s going on?” I start to call, but I stop when Bellow enters behind his long barrel pistol, an oil lamp in his free hand. He swings the piece from me to the drunk, and I can smell that he’s been shooting it.
The gun comes my way again. “Open wide,” he says, his lip sneering as he thumbs back the hammer. Looks like I was worth it after all.
“See you in hell, you bastard,” I say. Last words should be memorable, I always thought.
Bellow stares at me down the barrel, then lets out half a laugh and lowers it a little. “Already there, Leonard,” he says, and puts the lamp on the floor. “I have to tell you, I enjoyed our chats on the trail. All that science. Quantum dynamite, vanishin’ cats.” He reaches into a back pocket, fishes out a tin flask and spins the cap with his thumb. “A million-and-one worlds and a million me’s livin’ in them.”
Yeah, we had that conversation. He’d heard it all corrupted before I could tell the truth of it, of course. Goddamned preachers always have to give it their spin and make the flock see a man like me as the bad guy. And reasonable debate always ends up with a shooting.
He raises the flask like a toast. “I don’t know if you’re a sorcerer, or one of them demon-ogists, or what you are, but you do tell a crack-pot good story.” He leans his head back and swallows it dry, then takes a shaky suck of air and levels the gun at me again. “That’s why I’m doin’ you this favour,” he says. And pulls the trigger.
The room is filled with solid sound in the shape of a cloud, pierced by a singing whine as the bullet hits one of the bars of my cell and spins off into the wall. We both stare at the little hole in the plank, then at his pistol, then at each other.
“You ain’t that lucky twice, Baker,” he says and cocks it again. As the pistol jumps I throw myself sideways, smash against the bars between my cell and the drunk’s, bounce backwards as he fires again, again, again. I tumble to the floor and cower there, waiting for it.
Then the shooting stops. My ears are ringing. So are the bars. Bellow stares at me like I’m a ghost risen from the dead as I get back to my feet, cradling my aching ribs.
“What the fuck?” he asks, although of course he’s not really asking anything except how does a professional gunman miss five times from less than six feet away?
“I guess there’s five worlds out there with dead Leonard Bakers in them,” I say, because for all my learning I guess I’m not that smart. His lip curls, he steps forward, he thrusts the gun between the bars and right up in my face. It’s going to take a miracle this time. Or another.
“Well let’s join ’em,” he says, which is when the sheriff comes in.
I guess my subconscious plan, if you could call it that, must have been get him close, grab the gun, wrestle it off him, and… and then figure out some way of having him find the sheriff’s keys, wherever they might be, but without leaving the room, that being the point at which my having his gun wouldn’t help so much. Now the sheriff is here and staring wide-eyed at the two of us like a moron, his jaw hanging open, and the one bullet in Bellow’s gun isn’t going to be much use against the two of them. New strategy.
“He’s going to kill me, sheriff!” I yell, and that’s the first Bellow knows about us having company. He snaps his head around, sees the lawman standing there, and before I can make a grab for the gun anyway he pulls it back through the bars and points it at the sheriff instead. Not what I anticipated by a long shot.
Without saying a word the sheriff lunges for him. Before he can take two steps, Bellow blows a hole in his head just over one eye. The bullet takes a left turn and comes out somewhere behind his other ear, and the sheriff drops like a rock.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” says Bellow, fumbling with the gun, and against my better judgement I have to agree. Outside the building, the screams seem to be coming this way again—maybe all this shooting has attracted more than just a dead sheriff. Bellow swings out the cylinder and shell casings clatter to the floor as he digs for fresh ammo from the loops on his belt.
He’s just got the first bullet in when the sheriff jerks on the floor, a whole-body flop like a landed fish, a fresh spurt of blood sprinkling the wall by his head when he lands. Bellow jumps out of his skin. The unfired bullet goes flying out from the cylinder, into my cell and hits me in the chest. I’m so surprised I catch it without thinking. I stuff it in my pocket quick, but Bellow doesn’t even look. If he’ll only throw the gun at me next, I might be in business.
The sheriff spasms again and this time he comes down on his back, his mouth still hanging slack. Bellow is white as a sheet. Then I see something dark and gleaming move inside the sheriff’s mouth and I feel the blood drain from my face, too. It slithers out on gliding legs—like a long blue-green scorpion with needles instead of pinchers, fat as a bull’s tail. Instead of a sting, it ends in a flaccid tapeworm that reels back into its ass as it settles onto the sheriff’s chest.
I do not know what it is. But I think it’s the most awful thing I’ve ever seen.
Bellow throws his empty hip flask at it, misses—bad time to start a habit—then grabs the oil lamp and slings that instead. His aim is better this time but the thing dodges with snakelike speed. The lamp bounces off the sheriff and smashes against the drunk’s cell door, spraying oil and flame into the corner of the room. The drunk’s arm catches fire and, finally, he stirs, garbled nonsense falling from his lips as he beats at his burning sleeve.
The thing twists to look at the fire, then weaves down to the floor and arrows at Bellow, who squeals like a little girl and kicks at it in a panic. Third time must be lucky, because his boot toe hits it and it goes flying. Towards me.
It coils into a ball in mid air, skipping between the bars of my cell—I press myself to the back wall—then skids to a halt in the empty one at the end. It uncoils itself, weaving, but facing the wrong way. Stunned maybe.
“What the hell is that?” I ask.
“Everywhere,” Bellow says, answering his own question and ignoring mine. “This town is gone.”
I glance back to see him reloading. “Let us out of here,” I husk, trying not to draw the thing’s attention.
Bellow snaps the cylinder shut and heads for the office. “You’re on your own.”
“The keys!” I point to the sheriff’s body. “Throw me the keys at least!”
He looks at me from the doorway, then his dirty old smirk resurfaces for a second. “Take your punishment, Baker,” he says, and steps out of sight.
“You bastard!” I shout after him, “I’ll kill you!” Then I bite my tongue as the thing turns to face the room, including me. Its head and needle-arms make dizzy little circles in the air, but they keep getting tighter, more focused.
The outside door opens. Bellow’s gone. I drop to my knees, thrust my good hand between the bars and stretch, but the sheriff’s boot is just inches too far for me to grab hold of.
“There’s a fire goin’ on here,” slurs the drunk, unhelpfully. He’s extinguished hi
s shirt but he’s also correct, the far wall is burning and part of the floor is, too. What he apparently hasn’t noticed is the sheriff, lying right by his cell door.
“The keys, grab his keys and open us up,” I yell.
“Okay, yeah,” he says, and then I feel something at the top of my boot, running up my leg, and there it is, on me, on my hip, my belly. I slap at it but it’s too fast, nasty fast like scattering cockroaches, and I want to scream, but the image of the sheriff’s mouth hanging open flashes through my mind and I snap my mouth shut hard, even though each snorting breath through my swollen nose makes my eyes water.
The thing snakes across my chest and I swing my hands wildly, sweeping them over my face, but it just runs across my arm, up to my shoulder and out of sight—it’s in my hair—and—
I scream in pain as something spikes into the back of my head.
“Hold your horses, poke, I’m trying,” says the drunk, still trying to snag the sheriff through the bars.
I reach back and grab for it. Suddenly there’s a twisting mass of hard smoothness in my hand, slimy with the sheriff’s saliva, but it slips from my grip and drops to the floor, skitters away then turns to face me. Like it’s waiting.
I feel around back there, gritting my teeth. It stabbed me right in the egg Bellow gave me with his pistol’s walnut grip, but the lump feels like it’s growing bigger and bigger under my fingers. My scalp has gone numb but the skin of my face feels tight, like the swelling back there is pulling. I can’t frown, I can’t even blink properly, the lids don’t meet, and my lips are slowly stretching into a smile, trying to open… oh, shit.
I don’t want that thing in my mouth.
I dive for the bench, scrabbling beneath it as the insect thing comes my way again. I grab the wooden chamber pot and fling it backwards, driving it a few feet back as I skate my hand back and forth in the dark. Something jabs my finger—a long, thick splinter.
I jump up on the bench as the insect starts to weave my way again, then I reach behind my head with both hands, splinter gripped in my fingers. The lump is massive, fat and tight and hot, and I really, really hope it stays numb through whatever happens next.
“Got ’im!” The drunk has snagged his fingers around the sheriff’s belt and drags the corpse right up to the bars. He sees my rictus and grins back, then starts hunting for the key ring.
Oh, for the bliss of ignorance.
I jam the splinter into the back of my head.
I hear the lump burst from the inner side of my eardrums and the pain is like nothing I’ve ever felt, beyond screaming about, just a nausea that pours through my whole body. I topple forward, the cell floor looming, and then I land full length with a smack that knocks the breath from me. All I can do is lie there, curling onto one side, as a thick, syrupy fluid pulses between my fingers and into my hair, slides down behind my ear, drips onto the floor like molasses. I smell something, a high acrid stink that cuts into my head like ammonia.
The insect weaves before me, one way then the other, all but eye to eye, darting towards me then away again. The tightness is easing, I feel my face coming back under control, and abruptly it turns away—towards the drunk. I try to warn him, try to say anything, but that stink is making my head spin, and when I try to get up my arms flap uselessly, my legs kick like a colt just slipped out from the mare and not yet ready to stand.
“I got it, fella!” With a jingle of metal the drunk frees the key ring and holds it up in victory, still oblivious to what’s coming his way. “Let’s get outta here, and…what in the good Goddamn is that?” Oblivious no more.
The insect is through the bars between our cells like a flash, onto the drunk before he can even get to his knees. He lurches in a circle on all fours, turning just in time for me to see it appear on his shoulder. It rears up, both needle arms poised, then one of them stabs into his scalp—the one I didn’t get.
He squeals, but almost immediately his voice chokes off into a rattle. He rolls onto his ass and I get a grandstand view of his face as it pulls back like some kind of horrible mask, all bared teeth and shiny gums and the red around his staring eyes. He holds his hands out to me for help, the key ring dangling from his little finger. I want to reach for it, but I can’t make myself work.
Then his jaw springs open—it was either that or his lips splitting like overripe fruit—and the insect spirals into sight from behind his head, onto his chin and into his gaping mouth. He gags, grabs for his throat, stuffs one hand into his mouth like he could pull it back out.
It’s too much, just too much for me. I puke, splashing the boards my head lies on, and the room rotates around me even though I’m not moving. The drunk rocks back and forth, his head loose on his shoulders, then he unfolds and slams back on the floor, his arms dropping out to either side. I don’t see the keys anymore.
But then I don’t see anything anymore.
I come to with my cheek resting in bile. My arms and legs work again, my face feels more or less normal. My hair is matted with I don’t want to know what, but the awful stink is gone, or faded enough that I can think properly. I can smell smoke instead, and as I raise my head I see the flames from the broken oil lamp slowly climbing the far wall, and a layer of dark smoke floating around the ceiling. I slowly get upright, feeling the wound on the back of my head. It stings, and my hair is clammy with what turns out to look a lot like pus-flavoured honey on my fingers. Then I remember the drunk.
He’s still on the floor in the middle of his cell. He’s looking at the ceiling, and I don’t see him blink, but apart from that and the open mouth his face looks normal again, not stretched at all. But that’s when I see a rippling inside his cheek, see the insect as it slides from one corner of his mouth to the other, like a shiny black tongue.
He gets up like a baby, rolling over so he can push with his hands, showing me the filthy seat of his pants as he stands. He sways on his feet then turns, and his eyes are rolling in their sockets as his face comes back around—but I don’t think they matter, because the drunk isn’t driving this stage anymore. It’s the insect looking out at me from his sagging mouth now, I reckon, a passenger at the reins.
The drunk staggers forwards, expressionless, his hands coming up to reach for me like claws—no key ring hanging there now, and I don’t see it anywhere else either. His eyes fix on me, he huffs through his nose, and I feel sick again—is the poor bastard still in there, seeing me? Feeling his body move? Feeling that thing moving around on his tongue?
I’m frozen as his arms pass between the bars dividing my cell from his, then his body bangs into them and he’s stopped in his tracks. He pulls back, tries again, back, tries again—and this time I hear a clink. He keeps trying, but now I see where the key ring shows against his belly, under his grimy shirt. It must have dropped down there off his finger.
My way out. Between his arms.
In the corner of my cell I see the wooden bowl for crapping in, upside down where I threw it before. I grab it up and watch the drunk as he keeps banging against the bars, driven again and again by his terrible hijacker, relentless…and regular. I count the timing, the clink of the key ring like the tick of a clock, turning the bowl in my hands.
As he backs off for another futile attempt I dart forward with the bowl held on edge. It slips between the bars, just, and as he lunges to meet me I turn it and press it into his face, over the monster in his mouth. He grips me, arms pulling me to the bars between us, his head jerking as he tries to shake the bowl away. With my free hand I yank at his shirt, pulling it up from his pants, and the key ring falls free.
It drops, bounces on the floor—into the other cell—my heart stops—then his shin knocks it back into mine and with a roar of determination I break free of his clawing hands and dive on it, snatch it up and scramble to the door, fumble it blindly into the keyhole outside.
The door swings open and I fall into freedom.
The bowl drops from his face and he keeps banging at the bars with his torso,
but awful though his situation may be I’ve other problems to deal with now. Like what the hell might be waiting for me out there in the night.
I look back at my cell, as if there was anything left for me there, and see five shiny marks on the old dull metal of the bars—traces of the bullets Bellow fired when he tried to kill me, before he shot the sheriff and left this little monster to kill me instead. That son of a bitch.
Six bullets, but I’m still breathing. There’ll be no hiding for me, no barricading myself behind the sheriff’s door. I am going out. Because that’s where I’ll find Bellow.
I drop to one knee beside the sheriff, one eye on the oil burning just nearby, the other on the drunk as he withdraws his arms from the bars over there to try again at the ones right here. I unbuckle the sheriff’s gun belt and pull it free. It feels like new leather as I strap it on and the bullet loops are empty. The pistol looks pristine from muzzle to grip. I’d be amazed if he’d ever drawn it, much less fired, but there are six rounds in the cylinder. And that’s perfect. Bellow had six shots for me, now I’ve got six for him.
Through the office I can see the door to the main street. Nothing moves and I realise, for better or worse, I can’t hear any screaming now. Time to go.
I give my unfortunate companion a final look as he prepares to charge me through the door. I’d shoot him as a mercy if I didn’t want to make as quiet a departure as I could. Here he comes, arms up and grasping, passing through the bars before his chest strikes them—and the door opens freely, pushing the sheriff over and into the flames and swinging himself in an arc until the door jams against the body. Which, forgive me, but he deserves for not having the basic common sense to lock an insensible social menace into his cell when he had the chance.
I bite my tongue to keep from unleashing a little scream of my own and stumble backwards into the office, banging my hip on the sheriff’s desk as the drunk disentangles himself and turns, mouth gaping, the thing moving within, and this time he runs, he’s on me even as I reach for the unfamiliar hang of my new gun, grappling with me.
Lucky or Unlucky? 13 Stories of Fate Page 4