However, flipping the volume knob did nothing to lower the painful level of sound. Screaming and stumbling like a crazed runway model, Katherine made her way towards the cramped bathroom. She had to have some kind of meds in there that could put a stop to all of this. If only she could...
Running into the bathroom Katherine found herself standing back the living room. Unable to breathe, she took off down the short hallway into the bedroom. Yet she only saw the terrifying familiarity of her couch all over again.
Trapped.
The tugging inside her grew impossible. Defeated, she threw herself onto the couch-sobbing her overly confused eyes out. She noticed the bottle of Smirnoff, full once again, beckoning to her. She twisted the plastic lid off and took an unhealthy swig.
The alarms stopped.
The music became soothing once again.
Exhausted, Katherine laid out on the couch. She was naked now. She took a few more sips from the bottle and placed it down on the floor next to her. Her fingers brushed across something plastic...something familiar.
The music stopped. All sound stopped except for the slow muffled beating of her heart in her ears as if she was under water.
She picked up the open bottle of sleeping pills from off the floor and turned it upside down above her stomach. It was empty.
Katherine Sullivan closed her eyes and smiled.
The Last Stand of the Outlaw Pete Larson
Fuck this shit.
Pete was in a real bind. Much like one of those pigs seconds before slaughter, he figured.
He looked down at his boots -now near half covered with mud, blood, and shit.
He was hoping it was mostly mud, but he knew better.
Pete pressed his face against the gapped boards that made up the wall of the barn. Once the first blinding light of the setting sun subsided he was able to make out the shapes of the devils sent to claim him. Let's see...Marshal Williams...Buck Keeler....maybe Vernon Mathers.
Pete didn't know much, especially at this moment, but he was damned pretty convinced that if Williams was standing out there there was a good chance he had at least five of his boys in with him. And Buck, well Buck had hated Pete ever since he had hopped off the train a good six years ago. Vernon Mathers had every right to be out there seeming since it was his kid brother Andy that was flat dead and lying here in this barn right next to Pete.
And if Vernon was out there, the rest of the Mathers boys were out there as sure as sunrise. Vernon, Charles, David, and fuck, might as well throw in old man Edward too, just to be safe.
That made his odds a clean 11 to 1.
"Larson!" A voice barked out with the accompaniment of restless horse hooves kicking up death."We'll burn this here fuckin barn down just to get to you!"
It was Louis McFarland.
Shit, better make that 12 to 1.
Pete pulled his wet face away from the wood. He shook the Colt Revolver awake from his lap and flipped open the chamber. Two bullets stared back at him in the most pathetic manner. Even if the mud packed piece could successfully fire both of them, there was no guarantee he could make them count.
Not with half of the Nebraska Territory closing in on him and this stupid rotten barn. He clicked the chamber shut again for what was probably the fifty sixth time-putting his last two friends back to sleep. He closed his eyes and muttered that prayer that fools say when they wish that the real life they find themselves stuck in is nothing more than just a nightmare. If God had a saint for such moments, Pete was hoping he wasn't sleeping on the job.
The word hopeless entered his brain.
Hell, it wasn't even his barn.
He thought of that pig just before he reached the dinner table -the image of the eyes of the animal-that look of realization. Pete had slaughtered enough of them in his days to come to the conclusion that the pig knew what was going to happen to it. Much like Pete, it was aware.
Now he knew exactly what the pig was thinking at that final moment, because he was thinking it now himself. It was the same thing that ran through every man and animals mind through every beating moment of the day. It was the force that built civilizations and fought wars upon wars. It built the railroads and settled these vast western territories.
Pussy.
Rebecca Miller had always been a sweet woman. She might have worn her Sunday best every day and raised her pinky whenever she took tea out on the porch of the Miller home, but she didn't judge. A man was a man no matter what stories his scars told.
The Millers had been the first to show any kind of compassion for Pete. Back six years ago Peter had arrived at the McCook Station vowing to begin his second life. The first, well..Peter didn't have time to bring all that ugliness back to surface at such a moment as this.
It had been Jules Miller,Rebecca's husband, that had hired Pete on to help him keep up on things around the land. Pete was good with the tools and even better with a gun. Jules never asked and Peter never told.
Jules had one of those faces carved out of the earth-rugged, yet kind. His eyes were a pair of light blue sparks that remained steadied on the land. He spent most of his hours keeping watch from the high dunes that overlooked the ranch. It was as if the man was rooted within the earth himself.
Now, with only minutes left to live, Pete could probably recite every single word that Jules had spoken to him over the entire four years he had known the man. There weren't very many. Rebecca would always jest that 'the wind spoke more than her old man'.
Rebecca was to her husband like the sky stretching over the land. For every word Jules didn't speak she spoke a hundred.
"Peter." She'd hollar from the porch loud enough for him to catch it out in the fields.
"There's a lot of evil souls walking about the Earth. I'm so glad you're not one of them."
Oh, if only she knew.
Jules had been done in by the sickness two winters earlier. Even with the fever eating his brain and his very life being shit out his own asshole, the man had remained silent.
On his last night, Jules had called Pete into his room.
"Pete." The flames of his eyes were flickering out." I don't care what you might have done with your years....God knows you're a good man and so do I. Now make sure you take watch over Rebecca. I'm not certain she can survive out here alone."
The sparks left his sockets.
And, for the past two years Pete had done just what Jules had asked. He had watched over Rebecca. It was as if her life was his own. That , if any harm were to come across her, Pete himself would go straight to hell.
Now, that's exactly where Pete found himself-holding a one-way ticket into the fire.
Andy Mathers, that son of a bitch, was lying dead only a few feet away from him.
A bullet cracked through the boards -zipping past Pete's chest and cutting right through the corpse of Andy Mathers-catching his chest with a wet smack. A red flower seeped up through the thick denim of his shirt.
Pete didn't think there was that much blood left in the bastard.
"Nice shot!" Pete hollared in response." But I can assure you the Mister Mathers is already good and dead. No need to kill him twice."
"Let me at 'im" Outside, Pete could hear the elder Mathers boy getting antsy with justice.
"Just wait it out. Now, he ain't goin nowhere. Pete's not the runnin type." By the deep ,almost kind, tone Pete made out Marshall Wilson's voice.
Out of all those bastards, crooks, and assholes out there-Williams knew him the best. Williams was a patient man himself. The lawman had waited damn near eight years for this meeting. The two men would wait it out until it was their sons left to do the fighting. That was the honest truth.
Pete didn't hate Williams, nor did he figure the lawman hated him. It was duty, plain and simple, that kept one man on the heels of the other. They were two souls that just happened to find themselves on opposing sides of that line drawn through the soil. Pete couldn't help but think that if things had been different -if the skies h
ad been a different color-the two of them would have been on almost friendly terms.
Fuck it, it's hard to be sentimental when you've got bullets in your eyes.
Pete looked at Andy Mathers' corpse-now slung over a crimson soaked hay bale. He looked like a half-stuffed scarecrow -his guts leaking out of the second grin cut across his throat-all strings of red and chunks of white -Teeth where they shouldn't be. The flies were singing a cheerful chorus all about his body. The heavens had opened up for them.
The gates of hell were waiting for Pete.
Somewhere in the mess of what was once Andy Mathers was sitting Pete's bullet -shoved up deep within his brain, Pete figured, but he wasn't a doctor.
"Damn you Andy Mathers!" Pete screamed, kicking at the corpse." Why couldn't you have just kept your pecker in your pants!"
Once again, it all came back to that single word...
Pussy.
Seeming since he was currently 'pressed for time' Pete's brain kept giving up the condensed version of the day's events.
It started with breakfast. Rebecca had fixed up some of her tolerable biscuits and gravy with her slightly less tolerable coffee.
He thanked her, and told her he would be out most of the day, tending to all the pointless things her husband had once tended to.
Rebecca sent him off with a quick prayer . Pete had kept his eyes open, like always.
Of course, that could've just been a repeat of any other day over the past two years. If there was one thing that life out here had blessed a man with it was routine.
Then there was the cow-or, more accurately, the remains of the cow. Pete had found it out there on the dunes just on the edge of the Miller property. It had somehow wandered off alone the night before. Stupid cow. From the looks of things it had clumsily stepped in a prairie dog hole and busted it's leg. But, the break wasn't what killed it. The wound had only 'helped things along'. The coyotes had gotten to the ignorant beast. They had damn near picked it clean. It just sat there, gutted. A pitiful look carved into its broken face now buzzing with insects. The long strings of eyeball jelly dripping fresh as tears.
Pete had looked around as if he could sense the coyotes somewhere out there feasting on flesh and mocking him.
The wind had picked up, and with it came the voice.
"You can run all you want Pete Larson, but the coyotes always get you in the end."
Then, as if on cue, the screaming began. It stopped the wind and rattled the bones of the sad cow corpse.
It was coming from the barn.
There's not much difference between man and animal when you get right down to it. You can see it most clearly when the man has found himself in a 'threatening' situation. 'Fight or Flight' they call it. Over the centuries the phenomena has become watered down. Yet with some men, such as Pete Larson, the response wasn't as refined.
Kicking the heavy barn door open, Pete first saw Rebecca doubled over, screaming in tortured spasms. Her face painted beaten and bloody. Next, his eyes caught the scoundrel Andy Mathers. He was doing horrible animal things to the woman.
Pete could've remembered the promise he had made with her dying husband, but there was no time for that at this particular moment.
As quick as the blinking of an eye, and even more automatic, Pete fired his revolver. The bullet caught that bastard Andy square in the neck, kicking him ass first to the dirt. The two simultaneous horrors-first of her own violation, then the killing of a man proved enough to break dear Rebecca. Half soaked in blood, she took off out of the barn, passing Pete as if he wasn't even standing there.
He had forgotten that most people weren't used to such an efficient display of justice.
He could've told the woman to go fetch the authorities. But it wouldn't of mattered. They were already on their way. Williams had arrived in town that morning and had rounded up the proper number of men he felt necessary to take down Pete.
Somehow Pete was already aware of this. He had sensed it earlier that day. He had heard it in the wind.
Another bullet flew -this time striking Pete in the arm.
Fuck!
His arm snapped numb. The skin popped open and blood oozed out, cooling him. There was a brief cheer of accomplishment from the men outside.
The sound of the hyena -a high pitch cackle cut through the thick air of the barn. It was Andy.
Pete hopped to his feet, drawing on the twice dead man.
"What good is that gonna do ya? I'm already dead. You said so yourself."
His head swung loose, broken at the neck from Pete's first bullet. That didn't keep him from talking though. When he spoke his words hissed like air through a leaky hose. His statements were punctuated with blood mist.
"Face it Larson, you're done for." Andy lifted his stiff arm , forming a pistol with his fingers and pointing it at Pete. " You think that just because you finally killed some evil son of a bitch like myself all of a sudden you deserve some kind of free ticket?"
The voice was coming from somewhere else. Pete saw it through the corpse's clouded eyes. This was the voice of the devil himself.
Andy pulled the imaginary trigger.
"There ain't much difference between you and me now is there."
"Bullshit!"
Another blind bullet shot between Pete and the corpse.
"Oh really? How many people have you killed? I'm talking rough estimate here."
The dead man demanded an answer, and for some perverse reason, Pete was going to give it to him.
Pete did the math. There were a lot of unmarked graves out there on account of him-at least one a year for....fifteen years?
"Fifteen, I guess."
Funny how what was once considered pride was now shame.
"Not bad." Andy grinned through the gaping wound in his throat. "Somehow I don't think six years of playing farmboy is gonna save you of all that sin."
Pete was already having trouble handling his guilt. He didn't need some asshole corpse giving him hell for it. Any suffering Pete would bear on his own damn time.
"I'll see you in Hell, Pete Larson." Andy's sentiment was hardly touching." Better start digging boy."
Pete kicked Andy hard in the chest, knocking the corpse off the hay bale.
Grinning, Andy spoke one last time.
"They coyotes will get you in the end. They get us all sooner or later."
His eyes closed. The devil had left him.
The shots started up again -two, three, four at a time. Pete didn't have much time left.
He dropped to the mud. There was nothing but flying bullets above him and hell below.
dig
Dead Andy had a point after all. Pete thrust his hand into the mud, pulling free a good sloppy chunk of earth. He eyeballed the distance to the back of the barn. Maybe, just maybe, he could dig his way out. The ground was loose enough, and he wouldn't have to go very deep to snake his way under the planks of the barn.
The men outside had already proven that they were poor shots. This could allow him the proper amount of time to...
dig.
Pete became a crazed man panning for gold. He was tearing at the ground-flinging the slippery dirt into the air over him. He was frantic as more shots zipped past his ears.
He was half covered in mud now. It slicked up his limbs and burned inside his fresh wound, making things rather difficult.
bang...snap...bang...bang...bang...snap
His fingers brushed against something inches below the surface...something soft..something animal. Pete stopped, sitting back on his knees, examining the substance stringing through his trembling fingers. The mud sloughed free, causing the object to unravel loose.
It was hair-a tangled mess of it.
Pete had no time for such a discovery. Back down, he started digging again. However, the deeper he got the more hair he found. Pushing it aside, his hands slipped deeper and deeper until...
He felt it. His palms caught against something solid and matted with fur. He pushed
the mud aside, exposing whatever it was he had found. It hummed with some sort of internal energy.
The mass clamped down sharp against his fingers. Pain shot up through his arms. Bringing them up for further inspection he saw the blood smears.
The object had been revealed enough now for him to see what it truly was...the mud covered snout of a coyote. It had bit him.
Shit!
The ground around Pete began breaking up in a barking chaos of mud and fur. Pete dropped to his back, drawing his revolver into the air.
In an explosion of hellfire the coyote had unearthed itself completely and was now towering over him. The beast stood at least five feet high at the shoulders, and just as wide. Pearl white daggers dripping of saliva hung from its black lips. The eyes were nothing more than yellow slits deep behind mud caked fur. It smelt of wet dog, shit, and death.
It's growl came from below the earth-rolling thunder dynamite blasts shaking the entire structure.
Prayers were worthless at this point. Perhaps something else would prove more effective.
Screaming for his life, Pete squeezed off both remaining rounds. The beast squealed, emitting a hot wave of blood and spit over Pete's cowering body. That was it-all he had. Expecting to feel the jaws of the thing ripping through his bowels, Pete starting swinging his pathetic pistol wild through the air.
He hit nothing.
The beast had fallen, and was now nothing but an gargantuan mass of wet fur on the ground.
Pete burst into tears-tears of surprise, tears of joy, tears of redemption. He got to his feet, kissing the bitter metal of his now trusted revolver. There was a way out of this mess. There was always a way. You just have to have a bit of-
Apnea Page 3