Last One Out

by Earl T. Roske

  As he’d expected, he’d found Clayton behind the mercantile. He was sitting in the soap-and-water-filled tub, smoke billowing out of the washtub’s boiler and the cigar in the outlaw’s mouth. Even now he was torn between doing what was right and leaving the man to discover his last mistake for himself. He wanted to but he couldn’t be responsible for another preventable death.

  He shoved the barrel of the shotgun against the cigar in Clayton’s mouth. He tried to shove it down Clayton’s throat as a way to vent his own anger but settled for the satisfaction of seeing the man panic and flop out of the tub like a salmon trying to spawn in shallow water.

  “Sheriff,” Clayton said as he staggered to his feet, his face a mask of drooping soapsuds.

  “Get dressed. Now.”

  He watched as Clayton looked around and then scrambled for his pants and shirt.

  “Touch the pistol,” Josiah said, “and you won’t have need for your boots.”

  Clayton’s hand hovered in place over the butt of his pistol for a second. He looked at Josiah who stepped closer, bringing the shotgun into a firmer grip against his shoulder. There wasn’t time for foolishness.

  “Easy now, Sheriff. Just taking a bath. No harm in that. I’ll pay you for the wood.” A dishonest smile showed past the words.

  “Dressed. Now.”

  Clayton dressed quickly and Josiah took a quick peek past him to the buildings that separated them from the church. No sign of motion. Still, he edged backward in the direction of the jail while Clayton struggled to pull his clothes onto his wet body. He hopped toward Josiah with one booted foot.

  “There’s plenty of gold, Sheriff,” he said. He stopped and stomped his other foot into its boot, twisting it and grimacing as his wet foot squealed against the leather. “No need for any of us to go on being greedy. Happy to share.”

  “Keep moving.”

  Josiah moved sideways to the mare and pulled her harness off. The mare, who had become agitated over the last few minutes, turned and bolted into the brush, heading for the pines.

  “What are you doing? That’s my horse!”

  “You stole it. Should I string you up for that, too? Let’s go.”

  Clayton walked in the direction the shotgun barrel urged him to go. “Where are we going?”

  “The jail.”

  “Oh, no.” Clayton stopped, his back to Josiah. “You ain’t putting me into no jail cell.

  Josiah lowered the front end of the shotgun. “There’s nothing I’d like more than leaving trouble like you to get what you probably deserve. But I can’t. So move. To the jailhouse now. You can be on your way tomorrow.”

  “You’re being mighty strange for a lawman, Sheriff.” Clayton was talking over his shoulder as he walked, stumbling over small rocks. “Knowing who I am you give me two chances to leave. Even now you speak of putting me in the jail but letting me go in the morning. I know I’m nothing to you, Sheriff, but I’d kind of like to know what’s going on. You don’t owe me but it seems the fair thing to do.”

  “You’re not exactly the man to lecture on what’s fair and what’s not.”

  They were crossing the open space between the bank rubble and the jail.

  “There’s truth in that, Sheriff.” Clayton made a modest shrug. “Still, can’t hurt to ask.”

  Josiah looked over his shoulder in the direction of the church. Darkness was beginning to settle across the valley, staggering its way across trees and boulders, falling toward the town’s edge. Time. It was all about time, now.

  “Revenants,” he said. “Now, hurry.”

  Clayton kept his hands in front, out of view of the sheriff. He kept his elbows pinned to his sides while he slowly loaded the pistol he’d put in his boot before hopping into the bath. If he hadn’t also thought to put a handful of shells in his pocket while rummaging through the piles, the pistol would’ve been good for no more than a bludgeon. He doubted Sheriff Josiah would let him get that close.

  He kept the conversation going. He didn’t care about the town or the sheriff’s behavior, he needed time to load the pistol. When he was ready, he’d do some pointing of his own.

  But when the sheriff told him why he had to hurry, Clayton almost dropped the pistol. He hugged it to his belly to keep it from falling.

  “Revenants?” He’d never heard the word before so it had no effect on him.

  It was the sound of Sheriff Josiah’s voice when he said it that caused the hair on the back of Clayton’s neck to go porcupine and almost lost him his pistol. He cleared his throat before continuing, wanting to sound unfazed but likely failing. “Never heard of a revenant. That like Mormon?”

  He must have slowed in his pace because he got a helpful shove in the back with the barrel end of the shotgun.

  “Keep moving,” the sheriff said, “Don’t know what they are exactly, but they ain’t God’s doing. All I know is what I read in the doc’s notebook. Which wasn’t easy with all the blood on the pages. Just says that they were once human and now they are but aren’t. He’s the one called them revenants. Living but not living is what he wrote. They’re town folk and miners. They don’t like the light and hide most of the time.

  “Most important is that they get by eating on living flesh. Don’t much matter what flesh, just as long as it’s living. Cows, dogs, horses, rats. You and me if we don’t get into the jail quick like.”

  Clayton had heard crazy talk plenty of times in his life. His drunk grandpa with his injun ghost stories, men in the jail set to hang the next day, miners too long on their own. Those were the people he expected crazy from, not the sheriff of a town. Not even the sheriff of a ghost town. While the word might have raised his short hairs, the idea of a lawman gone crazy was even more frightening. Who knew what kind of justice a deranged sheriff might take to.

  He knew he had to get out of here. Now that he had a loaded pistol, he had his chance. He stepped onto a bit of busted brick from the bank and stumbled. He fell to his knees.

  “I think I’ve gone and twisted something,” he said. He acted like he was having trouble getting to his feet. “Lordy, that hurts.”

  He heard the sheriff grumble and hurry toward him. When the sheriff pushed a hand under his arm and started to lift Clayton, he spun, bringing the pistol to bear. Now he was the one doing the pointing.

  Josiah didn’t need this. Time was running short. As he reached to lift the outlaw to his feet, he wished that the man had taken the advice the first time or at least run with the gold. If either of those had happened he’d already be locked in the cell. Safe for another evening.

  His mind was racing with thoughts of should-a-beens and a low-level panic in his gut as the sky grew darker. It took him a second to realize that he had a pistol barrel staring him in the face.

  “Back away, Sheriff,” said Clayton. “And drop the shotgun.”

  Josiah blinked and then held his arms out, backing slowly away. He let the shotgun fall to the ground. The shock of the impact drove the firing pin into the shell.

  Both men ducked as the shotgun round exploded, spewing buckshot out of the toppling weapon. The sound echoed through the dismantled town and too quiet valley, loud enough to wake the dead and those that should be.

  “We have to hurry,” Josiah said. He scrambled for the shotgun not caring what the outlaw did, he wasn’t going to leave it there for them to find. He wasn’t sure if they could manage to fire one, their brains didn’t seem to focus on the mechanical, only the living, but he wasn’t about to take a chance.

  There was a crack of a pistol being fired. Dust and dirt exploded near the shotgun. “Leave it. Get up.”

  Josiah got to his feet. He was trembling. He’d been caught outside in the early days only a couple of times. They hadn’t been concentrated in one place then; there’d still been cattle and wild animals to occupy them. Even so, he still had to fight his way through a half dozen to reach the cell. Even then he’d bludgeoned one of them that had managed to get into the cell with him. He�
�d sat all night with that stinking mess.

  “Clayton, listen,” Josiah said. “You can be in charge, fine. I don’t care. But we need to get to the jail cell before they get here. We need to go now!”

  Clayton waved the pistol barrel at Josiah. He seemed to enjoy being the one with the upper hand.

  “I done told you, Sheriff, I’m going into no jail cell. Not ever again. You’d have to kill me first.”

  “The revenants.” Josiah’s words were as much a curse as a plea for understanding. Why did the outlaw have to be such a stubborn mule at this moment?

  A whispering moan caught Josiah’s attention.

  “Shoot me if you want, Clayton, I’m going.” He grabbed the shotgun and ran past Clayton who was staring at the far end of the town, his pistol hanging slack in his hand. “If you’re smart you’ll come with me.”

  The first thing Clayton wondered was where did all those people come from? The second thing he’d wondered was what was wrong with them? They walked like drunk soldiers on payday night. But there wasn’t any of the usual accompaniment of song, bawdy comments, and arm waving to maintain balance.

  Sleepwalking. That’s what he’d always imagined sleepwalkers looked like. Eyes open, arms dangling, bodies tottering as if they had skinny wooden poles for legs.

  He was so mesmerized, surprised by their appearance, that he barely registered it when the sheriff grabbed the shotgun and ran. He should have shot the sheriff in the back but he couldn’t tear his attention from the slowly approaching crowd.

  More murmuring drew his attention to the other buildings where a few more of the awkwardly moving people were emerging from the dark places of the remaining cellars. There were more of them than bullets in the pistol. Still, they moved slowly enough. He aimed and pulled the trigger. He heard the crack of the round and saw one of the people stagger with the impact.

  Somewhere behind him, he heard a shotgun. Good, the sheriff was having his own problems, too. If the sheriff hadn’t been such a coward they could have stuck together. They could have put them all down.

  Clayton felt a chill. The one he’d shot had staggered momentarily but now advanced as though nothing had happened. He aimed again and fired three rounds at one of the people, a bartender by the look of the dirty apron still hanging around his waist. All three shots impacted sending the bartender to his knees. Clayton smiled with a smug assurance that was just as quickly drained from his face.

  The bartender clambered back to his feet. He didn’t even look mad; his face maintained the same bland expression the entire time.

  Four rounds to little effect. How many rounds would it take to put one of these people, these revenants, down? He had a gut feeling there wasn’t enough ammunition in his pocket to stop even one of them.

  He turned and ran toward the bank. He rounded the corner of the rubble and skidded to a stop. Two more of the revenants were approaching. The rest were behind him. That left the rubble of the bank or the jail.

  Josiah heard the first shot as he jumped the stairs to the front of the jail. He paused to look behind him. None of the revenants were coming his way. They were being drawn to the noise Clayton was making.

  “Fool,” Josiah said. He turned and cried out in surprise.

  A revenant was reaching for him, torn fingers almost touching his face. He paused only long enough to determine it wasn’t her and then shoved the barrel of the shotgun in its face and pulled the trigger. The revenant’s head disappeared in a spray of gray slime, bone, and shotgun pellets. The body dropped in a heap to the floor. He moved around the body and stepped into the cell. He’d clean up the mess when the sun came out.

  He heard three more shots and paused with the cell door partially closed. Should he go back? Could he go back? How many times did he have to try and save the damned outlaw’s life? How many before he could consider himself justified in abandoning him to his own fate? Did he have to die in the effort?

  Noises at the door spared him further thought. Two more of the revenants were lumbering up the stairs, pushing through the threshold simultaneously.

  Josiah pulled the cell door shut and turned the key. He stepped back until he bumped against the cot. He stood and watched the approaching revenants. He was safe in the cell. He listened for sounds beyond the jail. What was happening with the outlaw?

  A shout of surprise and pain answered his unspoken query.

  Clayton was halfway to the jailhouse when he misstepped. It was an ironic situation he had little time to dwell on; using a twisted ankle as a ruse only to have it happen for real. He’d been watching the revenants approaching from all sides when he stepped on another bit of brick rubble. He’d noticed the revenants at the jailhouse door when his leg twisted beneath him and he sprawled across the ground.

  His pistol skipped several feet ahead of him. He scrambled on his hands and knees to pick it up. When he stood he just as quickly crumbled back to his knees. There was no walking on that foot. Even if he tried, it would revolt and he’d be back on the ground again.

  He stood on his one good foot and began an ungainly hopping toward the jail. Two steps and he was falling. The fall wasn’t his doing. Something had grabbed the foot he’d been holding off the ground. He rolled on his back to find one of the revenants grasping his ankle.

  Before he could fully realize what was happening, the revenant pulled itself onto his leg and chomped down on it with broken teeth and a jaw strong enough to tear into flesh.

  Clayton roared in pain. He tried to shake the creature loose from his leg but its arms held tightly to him while its jaws worried and tore at his flesh. The pain was overwhelming and Clayton couldn’t find the ability to form words, to curse the creature. Instead, he pointed the pistol at the revenant’s head and began pulling the trigger. Three shots disintegrated the skull and the revenant released its grip, slouching to one side.

  He kicked the slumped creature away using his good foot and started to climb to his feet. He was jerked backward by several hands grabbing at him. He yelled in anger and frustration. He dug his hand into his pocket for more bullets. Teeth tore into his upper arm and his angry yell became a cry of confused pain.

  More revenants arrived. There was more clawing and biting. The pain mounted rapidly.

  Josiah tried to look past the two revenants clawing at him through the cell straps. He thought he could see something happening beyond the stairs.

  Then he heard the cry of pain. It was like the nightmares, like the first few days when he’d come back to town after taking a prisoner down below for the train. The doctor had written that those on the upper floors who’d stayed there hadn’t been affected by the mist, which had dissipated after a few hours. But in the next few nights, when the others became revenant, the real horror began. It was a horror Josiah had heard and was hearing now. The horror of being eaten alive.

  There was no chance that he’d leave the cell and risk his own life now. That was plain foolish. However, there was something he could do. He reloaded the shotgun and turned it on the two revenants in the jail. Once they were heaps on the floor he grabbed his rifle and made sure it was loaded. With the revenants down he was free to approach the cell’s strap walls. He used a cross piece as a support and angled himself until he could finally see the writhing mass of revenants crawling over the thrashing form of the outlaw. He waited, looking for an opening. When he saw the bloody, screaming face of Clayton, he pulled the trigger.

  Never in his life had Clayton hurt so much. He’d been shot several times and gored once by an angry bull in a rustling fiasco. But they were splinters of pain compared to what was happening now. He couldn’t push them away and the pain kept coming. He wished now he’d done as the sheriff had said when he was told to leave town. He’d have been rich.

  Through his own screams he heard a shotgun firing twice. A few seconds later all his pain was gone.

  The revenants continued to gnaw on Clayton’s body. Josiah knew the outlaw was dead, had seen his head jerk back when th
e bullet struck. He heard the screaming stop. They could chew all they wanted now, they couldn’t cause the man any further pain. Only he would have to live with the memory of it now.

  There were too many of the revenants to be satisfied by one human body. Already some of them were focusing on the jail. They’d wobbled their way to their feet, blood and strings of meat and tissue hanging from their mouths, dripping from their fingers. They came one at a time or in small groups, pushing their way through the door, surrounding the cell, reaching for Josiah.

  He couldn’t say he was used to their presence or their smell. Though he was mostly numb to both. After a month of sitting in the middle of them, hearing their mumbled grunts and seeing their hands grasping for his flesh, it felt as if this had been his whole life. He no longer shook or cried until exhaustion put him to bed.

  What Josiah did do was to watch them, looking around until he finally saw her. She was partially blocked by two others, the banker and the clerk from the hotel. Despite her condition, she still looked much like she did in the silver-framed image. He turned to her but wasn’t foolish enough to approach. Not anymore.

  “Clem?” he said. Then louder, “Clementine!”

  The revenant behind the clerk was as devoid of humanity as the rest. But as Josiah repeated her name, shouting it several times, her face changed. The muscles that had hung slack tightened with life. Her eyes sparkled and focused with life.

  “Josiah?”

  “Clem.”

  Her eyes welled with tears. “Josiah. What’s happened? What’s wrong with me?”

  “I don’t know, Clem. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Help me, Josiah. Please! Don’t leave me like this. Don’t.” She reached through the straps with one hand, the nails torn away from digging the earth hunting rabbits and mice, tearing cattle to pieces.