by John Shirley
Brazel said he knew a notorious killer name of Jim Miller who might do it. I said I’d pay him, or Miller—whoever did it. And I’d bribe up some witnesses. Jesse Wayne Brazel agreed.
I kept watch on the road betwixt Brazel’s land and Pat’s, from up in the hills. I had a spyglass and everything. It was cold up there, at my little camp in the boulders, just fifty yards over that road. Hell, it was February. But I didn’t feel the cold so much—maybe if you’ve been dead, you’re too well acquainted with the cold to be offended by it. The wind was singing a song and nipping my ears when two days later, I spotted Jesse Brazel, on the red dirt road down below, riding along one way, with his friend Print Rhode, and they come across Pat riding along in a buggy the other way, off to town. Pat was riding with a man named Adamson. Brazel stopped him and they argued, probably about those goats eating up all the grass Pat wanted for his quarterhorses.
I watched close, grinning to myself, that spyglass pressed hard to my eye. I saw it all.
I saw Pat Garrett get out of the buggy to relieve himself, pissing off the trail, steam rising up from the puddle. He was still talking, real loud and sharp, the whole time he was peeing—I could make out a word or two about property lines.
Pat was half turned away and Brazel and Rhode saw their chance. Brazel nudged Print Rhode, who stepped up to Pat, pulled a pistol, and shot him in the head. Pat fell dead in midstream, wetting himself on the trail. I was sorry I couldn’t be there for him to see who done it to him. But I felt the satisfaction of it all the same, better'n a good meal after a hard ride. I had finished Pat Garret—and got it done safely.
Later, with me spreading around the gold, it was fixed up that it was self-defense, that Pat was going for the shotgun in his buggy. A fine lie it was too, and it protected me from being found out. No one knew Billy the Kid was still alive, and that he’d worked it to have Pat Garrett killed—for killing Billy the Kid.
But that feeling of satisfaction dried up quick as a waterhole in the August sun. A few days later, I watched from afar as the pallbearers put Pat in the ground—and soon’s they were gone from Boot Hill, and the colored fella with the shovel had finished and gone home, down I went to the cemetery. I was all charged up with thunderbolt, and dug Pat right up. I pried open the coffin, hunkered down, put my hand on his chest, and shot the thunderbolt right into him. It made his eyes snap open so the coins flew off. His eyes kinda swiveled about in their sockets—he almost seemed to see me. 'Course, his brains was shot through and he was decayed some, but there was a spark hanging around him and I felt like he knew me, for a moment. “I just wanted to say howdy to you, Pat,” I told him. “Wondering if you’re enjoying your new digs. I put you here myself, Pat. It was me! I sure hope you can hear me.” His mouth opened a little, and a worm crawled out and I could see the worm was glowing from the thunderbolt. Pat made a rattling sound, like he was trying to talk—and his eyes looked in two different directions. One of those eyes was smoking—and it sizzled away to nothing. I tried to jolt him awake again … but he was gone. Still—that’s what I call shaking the last drop from the bottle. I filled in the grave, hoping he could feel it, and made my way from there, back to the buckboard, feeling more revenged.
The bribes I paid the witnesses cost me the last of my gold. I went back to the mine, and checked on Doc Victor. He was the same as before, half dead and half asleep, all wrapped up on the ice. I toted him out, and a load of ice, and then I sealed the mine behind us, blowing up the entrance.
Traveling by night I took ol’ Doc Vic and the thunderbolt cranker in the buckboard, cooled with ice.
I was set on seeing California. I had time.
Time’s mostly all I’ve had since, bub. I found a spot to rest myself in the Mojave, out in the brush, and mostly I’ve been out there since. I put Doc Vic down in another old mine close by my cabin.
By day I do odd jobs. Sometimes I crank up my machine. I keep it in repair. And I find other ways to get a charge. Which reminds me….
That is the end of Billy’s recording. But I’ll tell you what happens next.
It’s getting dark, as the tape runs out. Billy clears his throat, spits, drinks some tequila, then suddenly stands up and limps toward my truck, on the other side of the trailer. I follow after him, wondering what he’s up to. He doesn’t even ask my permission—singing "Buffalo Gals" to himself, he lifts up the hood of the truck. Propping up the hood, he turns to me and says, “I expect you think all this I told you is the biggest goddamn lie you ever heard. And maybe my hand was sewn up on the wrist by a regular surgeon. Well, have a look at this.”
Then he takes off that red bandana and turns his back to the truck. That’s when I can see a copper wire sticking out the back of his neck, at the top of his spine. It’s a bit blackened and slightly melty, but solid enough. He takes a coil of wire from his pocket, twists it onto that piece of metal sticking out of his neck and fixes the other end on the truck battery. He fiddles with it—and then crack!, there’s a spurt of electricity. I jump back, startled. I smell ozone and burnt flesh and I see him go rigid, grinning real horribly, standing there shaking like a preacher with his pants down.
Then it stops. The battery is drained. He’s panting. He jerks the wire loose, and shakes himself, shivering and grinning. He coils up the extra wire, his eyes real bright. A wisp of smoke rises up from the back of his neck. It’s getting darker out there by the second—but I can see him clearly, because there’s some shine coming off him. His buckteeth are glowing and the whites of his eyes are sparkling with energy.
“I come a ways from my thunderbolt cranker,” he says, his voice rough and strong. “I needed that jolt.” I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. He goes on, “I’m thinking about your voice machine—that’s the one got me worried. I put my story on there. I come here because I need some money. But there won’t be any money, not real soon, ain’t that right?”
“Would take a while, yeah. Maybe I can sell this story of yours or …”
“No, no, you can’t do that. I changed my mind on it. When I ponder it—why, it’s not safe for me. It’s not what was in my dream. I’ll find some other way to get the money I need. I got to buy supplies, to help Doc. He’s coming back to life, but he’s still mighty weak. That recording thing won’t be of any help any time soon.” He paused, and rubbed a thumb and forefinger together thoughtfully, watching the sparks that crackled between them. “Howsomeever, it’s good I set it down, for my story’s told on there—and that’s enough. Someday I’ll give it to folks, but not yet…. Anyhow, bub, I’m going to take that roll of talk with me.”
“The hell you are,” I say sharply. “That tape belongs to me!”
He’s still got that charged-up bucktoothed wolf grin on him. It’s making me sick to look at it. He steps toward me. “I was afraid I’d have to kill you. And here we is….”
Billy reaches out his hand toward my neck. Electricity crackles blue and yellow between his fingers.
But the Corriganville security guard, Carlos, is coming along behind the buildings below us, flashlight in his hand. “Carlos!” I yell, backing away from Billy. “Need help up here! Intruder’s trying to rob me!”
Carlos comes waddling up the slope, shouting, pulling his gun. He’s a fat man and doesn’t move too fast. But Billy doesn’t like the look of that uniform and pistol. He hesitates now, eyeing Carlos—and I take that chance to run back to the Revox. I pull the tape reel off the machine and toss it into the back of the trailer. Then I lock the Airstream up and I toss the key far away into the darkness. Figure I’ll get a locksmith later, or just bust down the door myself.
I turn around—and there is Billy, faintly glowing against the dimness. His eyes are sparking with anger and he’s reaching for me—and there’s a flash.
Then I am shaking on the ground. I’m not hurt too bad—mostly just stunned. Billy stands over me like he’s going to finish me.
But Carlos fires a warning shot as he gets to the road and Billy is slip
ping around the other side of the trailer. I hear him whistling for Pedro and then I hear hoofbeats—and Billy the Kid is riding away.
I leave the area, soon as I get my truck battery charged. I head up to Northern California. Scared, but not ready to give up that tape. Might have done something with it, too, like write that screenplay—but I slide right into the bottle and mostly forget about the tape. I lose my house and my truck to drink.
I hit a bottom, deep down.
Then I find my way to AA—and I’m six years sober now. Working for a cable company, still living alone in my old Airstream. Thinking about that screenplay I’m not writing.
But this morning, I see a strange young woman standing out by my mailbox. She’s wearing a camouflage-type military tee shirt and jeans. She’s got almost no chin to her; she’s tanned real dark and has her hair tied back in a dirty ponytail. I step out of the trailer, and she says to me, “Billy sent us to tell you, you’re to give up the tape. His mind has found you, Jack, and you cannot hide now. He said to tell you and now you’ve been told. You get the tape ready, in a box, and we will come for it.”
Then she gets in a dusty old Chevrolet, and it rumbles off.
That makes me remember a newspaper article from about two months ago. I saved it, pretty sure who they were talking about….
So I go into the Airstream and dig the clipping out of a junk drawer and read it again. And now I’m thinking that when I’m done with this recording, I’m going to go to the newspaper reporter who wrote this, and play this recording for him. I’ll sell it all to him. Someone needs to know. Okay—I’ll read that clipping out loud now:
(Mojave Desert News) Reports that an unusual clan of religious devotees has taken root in the Southeastern Mojave have been confirmed by the Caliente Sheriff’s Department. A number of complaints have been registered with the sheriff about the group, which is called "Children of the Thunderbolt.” Residents in the area complain of late-night intrusions onto private land. There have been allegations the group has raided graves of the recently interred. Sheriff LeCoste has said the organization seems to be a "cult" that centers on the worship of a very old man, who is in a coma underground. The cult is directed by a man who is "the old man’s Messiah,” one Henry "Billy" Billson, claimed to be ageless and magically powerful. The sect is said to be comprised of about thirty-five young people, many of them armed and dangerous….
I figure I better go down to the bus station with the tape and get the hell out of town so I can sell the story to the press. And I mean right now.
I’m signing off. This recording is now—
Hey there, bub. It’s been a long time. You’d best turn that off. I wouldn’t want to burn up the machine when the lightning comes. And the lightning’s come to you, bub. Time to climb up, and ride the thunderbolt….
From Hell’s Heart
By Nancy A. Collins
I am hesitant to relate the tale I am about to tell, largely because it does nothing to bolster my claims of sanity. But if I am to convince others of my innocence in this matter, I have no choice but to recount the singular events that have lead me to this cold cell.
I am first-generation Canadian, my parents having migrated from their native Scotland to this wild and boundless land. I have long harbored a deep fascination with the rough-and-tumble lifestyle of the French-Canadian couriers de bois, those rugged pioneers who helped shape our fledgling nation. Because of this, I left my home in Toronto for the wilds of what, until recently, was known as Rupert’s Land, with the intention of becoming a trapper. However, my enthusiasm proved far greater than my woodscraft, and I found it all I could do to survive the first heavy snowfall.
As luck would have it, while on a visit to a trading post, I made the acquaintance of a certain Dick Buchan and Ben Martin. They, too, were new to the trapping game and having a hard time of it. We agreed that it was a lonesome and difficult business, especially during the long winter months, and decided to pool our resources and become partners, running our traplines from a home shanty near the vast shores of God’s Lake.
Of the three who comprised our rustic enterprise, I was the youngest. Buchan was, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, the eldest of our group. He was a tall, well-developed specimen with copper-red hair and a beard to match, and claimed to have a wife and child in Winnipeg. Martin was a year or so his junior, and as stout and strong as an oak barrel, with dark brown hair and a feisty sense of humor.
Come the thaw, my partners and I transported our bundles of fur to the trading post at God’s Lake. From there they were loaded onto boats and ferried the two hundred miles to the York Factory on the southwestern shore of Hudson Bay.
After dividing our profits three ways, we discovered we had done far better together than we ever could have alone. We had done so well, in fact, we were able to hire on a Cree Indian, who went by the name of Jack, to cook for us and keep an eye on the home shanty while we were off tending our traplines.
As far as I could tell, Jack was older than any of us, and claimed to be the son of an ogimaa, which is a cross between a chief and a shaman, to hear him tell it. I don’t know about any of that, but I do know he could play a mean fiddle, which he often did to pass the time on those long winter nights.
I am not going to lie and say that we went without arguments or differences of opinion. But for the most part, despite being brought together by happenstance and necessity, the four of us found one another’s company agreeable. This I attribute to the fact three of us shared similar backgrounds and had each, as a boy, worshipped the hardy voyageurs and colorful Mountain Men who loomed so large in our newborn nation’s identity, while Jack knew little English, although he did speak French passing well.
Summer is short in this part of the world, full of mosquitoes and dragonflies, and Fall is shorter still. The first snows came early, turning the towering pines and hemlocks white by the third week of October. The next day Jack frowned at the sky and muttered something about not liking something on the wind, but I did not pay him much heed. Although we cursed the cold and having to trudge about on snow shoes, we knew this meant the beaver, fox, and rabbit would be changing into their prized winter coats all the sooner.
Our humble home shanty was the hub for traplines that extended for twenty miles each in various directions, like spokes on a wheel. Some followed the borders of the lake and the streams that fed into it, and caught mostly beaver, otter, muskrat, and mink. Others extended inland, and brought us raccoons, foxes, lynx, coyote, and the occasional bear. Along these routes were a series of tilts—squat ten-by-six structures with sharply angled roofs, fashioned from notched spruce logs trimmed by hand to fit tightly together without a single iron nail—that served both as supply depots and shelter. During the trapping season, I and my companions would set out along one of these "spokes,” checking and resetting our traps along the way, until we reached the end of our territory, then we would head back via an adjacent line.
The snow was already six inches deep, even more where the wind had driven it into drifts, when we set out to check the lines. Martin headed west, while Buchan and I headed northeast, leaving Jack to tend the fires at the home shanty. Each of us was outfitted with an Indian sledge, which we towed behind us, and enough provisions to withstand a fortnight in the bush. The sled dogs were to remain with Jack, to be held in reserve for swift traveling and transporting heavy loads to and from the trading post.
As I said, Buchan and I set out together. The plan was for me to follow him to the first tilt on the line, then he and I would go our separate ways. I would head north in the direction of Red Cross Lake, while he would head east, toward Edmund Lake.
We set out just after dawn and arrived at our destination just after noon. We spent the remaining hours of daylight left to us weatherproofing our shelter by gathering moss and alder twigs, which we used to line the walls and roof, while throwing out the rotted remains of the previous season’s insulation.
As the sun set, we crawled thro
ugh the two-foot square opening at the tilt’s gable end, tacking off the entrance with a piece of elk hide. In the far corner of the shelter was a portable stove fashioned from a long, rectangular hard-tack tin affixed to a short pipe that vented through the roof. We lost no time in putting the makeshift fireplace to good use, and soon the interior was quite warm. It was a snug fit for two grown men, but comfortable enough. As I bedded down for the night, I could hear the wind whistling mournfully about the eaves of the shelter. Every now and again the gusts would rattle the hide that served as our door, as if something outside was desperately trying to find its way in. However, I was too tired to entertain such fancies for long, and soon fell asleep.
At some point later that night I was shaken from a sound slumber to find Buchan’s urgent voice in my ear. I opened my eyes to darkness so black I could not see my companion’s face, though I knew from the heat of his breath that it had to be inches from my own. Although I had no way of knowing what time it was, I instinctively knew it was midnight.
“What’s the matter?” I mumbled.
“Do you hear that?” Buchan whispered.
I focused my senses, still blurred by sleep, but all I heard was the howling of the wind.
“There’s nothing out there,” I replied tersely. “Go back to sleep.”
“Are you sure?” Buchan asked, his unseen fingers digging into my shoulder.
I listened again, and this time I became aware of a weird noise off in the distance: half-roar, half-wail. “It’s probably something in one of the traps,” I said. “A wolf, perhaps, or maybe a lynx. They can make a hellacious racket when they’re caught.”
“You’re probably right,” he said, apparently mollified by my explanation. With that, Buchan rolled over and went back to sleep.
I lay there for a long moment, listening to the cry laced within the wind, trying to identify it, but the noise soon fell silent. I told myself that whatever was responsible for making it had died or moved on, and returned to my slumber. However, the dreams that filled the remainder of my night were fitful, providing little in the way of rest.