The Good the Bad and the Infernal

by Guy Adams

  The woman stared at them, as if not quite sure what they were.

  “Evening, ma’am,” said Hicks, doffing a pretend hat in her direction.

  “That’s my family,” the man behind the bar said, filling a tray with drinks. “My wife, Genevieve, and the apple of my eye, George Junior.”

  The wife looked terrified, as if she had been asked to dance on the table for the amusement of them all. The kid just stared, working away in his fat nose with a dirty, well-practiced finger.

  “I guess that makes you George, then?” asked Hicks.

  “It does.”

  George brought the drinks to the table, then retreated, leaning against the bar with a whisky for himself.

  “You’re looking at all that remains of the populace of Serpent’s Creek,” he said. “The town used to be five hundred strong.”

  “What happened?” asked Hicks.

  “The clue, my friend, is in the name.”

  HENRY JONES TOOK the caravan a mile or two out of town, bringing it to rest within the cover of a pair of ponderosa pines.

  Harmonium jumped down and immediately set about rousting the rest of their band. Henry couldn’t help but notice how she had taken to leadership during his time in jail. On the one hand, he was proud of her; on the other, there was a small, unreasonable voice that disliked what could be seen as shift of power. Not that he didn’t trust her: she had stuck with him ever since they had first met, a pair of young sideshow attractions, their mutual anger and ambition stoking the fire of their passion until it burned dangerously hot.

  He loved her. Sometimes too hard. Some men learned moderation through marriage, becoming gentler folk; men who settled and looked for less in life, having found better than they had hoped. Some, like him, found themselves fighting harder and harder. Henry and Harmonium would never have real children, but the sizeable grudges each bore the world had conceived a shared grudge, all the more swollen and angry for their coming together. Sometimes it made him tired, hating so very much.

  “You going to sit there all night, my darling?” Harmonium asked, unbuttoning her suit jacket and loosening the corset underneath, relieved to be able to breathe easily.

  And that anger that was always a part of him reared its head a little.

  He normally controlled it, with her. He’d been scared into restraint by an incident not too long into their relationship.

  They had been lying together in the straw, on the edge of DR BLISS’S KARNIVAL OF DELIGHTS, just as they were on the edge of everything. The hard work of setting camp for the night had been done and the acts had eaten. The hot Alabama night was as thick as the soup that had been served, although while it clung to them and made them surly, it won out over that culinary defecation by dint of containing no possum.

  A poker game was running at the centre of the camp, just as it would most every night. It was common opinion amongst the acts that Dr Bliss (in reality an angry little man from Michigan by the name of Lieberwitz) kept his business afloat by his skill at cards. An average night would see him reclaiming a sizeable chunk of the wages he had paid out. In fact, when on particularly good form he had even been known to pocket future pay. It was common knowledge that Aquato the Fish Boy would be working for free until the new year, because while he could hold his breath underwater for up to four minutes, he couldn’t bluff for shit.

  Jones had no interest in the games, even had he been able to ‘see’ the cards.

  He was consistently secretive about how he functioned without eyes, partly because he wasn’t altogether sure himself. His aim was impeccable and his speed beat the eye of all but the most experienced onlooker. It wasn’t rare that a member of the audience would cry foul, sure that the unbroken band of flesh where his eyes should be must be a trick of makeup. He had taken some convincing not to simply shoot these naysayers (Lieberwitz was a mean old bastard, but even he knew you couldn’t make money by killing your audience), and loathed the inevitable examination to which such criticism would lead. He would be sat at the front of his performance area, the public lining up one by one to stare and stroke and poke at the absence above his nose. It inflamed his anger mightily, and rare was the day that he didn’t settle back in a foul mood, his gun finger twitching to do more than entertain others.

  Harmonium had known he was prone to dark moods, but such was her confidence, her assurance of his love for her, that she rarely paid heed to them.

  “You just going to lie there?” she had asked him. “After the day I’ve had, a girl needs more attention from her man than that.”

  Her own act consisted of little more than the examination Jones so hated. Lieberwitz had her dressed in a corset and stockings that would make a God-fearing man weep, proffering all her female assets alongside the plaited length of beard. “’Tain’t no miracle unless a man can compare,” he would say. “Let ’em see the rough alongside the smooth.”

  Consequently every man took liberties with their hands, and rare was the day when she wouldn’t end up bruised from the squeeze of fingers and the slap of palm. The tears she eventually shed after hours of having her beard tugged were from more than just her sore chin; they were an angry vent, as hot and sharp as the twitching finger of Henry Jones.

  “I’m sure you’ve had attention enough,” he had said, his irritability making him take verbal shots at her, though he knew how much she hated her performing life. “You can take a few hours without a man doting on you.”

  The words struck home and she was predictably quick to bite.

  “If you knew what you were looking at, you blind fool, you’d be a little more grateful,” she said, knowing that you called Jones ‘blind’ at your peril. Though he was, and would do to accept the fact, in her opinion.

  She expected him to shout, maybe continue trading insults, but instead he leapt at her, pinning her down in the straw. “I can see you!” he shouted, before slapping her hard across the face. “I can see all I need to!” And then he punched her and the quiet yelp she gave smarted as hard as if she had returned the blow. He was terrified. She wasn’t the first woman he had hit—much as he laid claim to being a gentleman, the label rarely went further than the cut of his suit—but she was the first woman he had loved, and in that moment he was quite sure he had lost her.

  “Oh, God,” he said, wanting to climb off her but scared that if he did she would just run away and then he’d never see her again. “I’m sorry, darlin’, I just lost my mind and...”

  She brought up her knee between his legs to show him precisely what she thought of his apology. He rolled off her, curling up next to her as he tried to swallow the pain and sickness in his stomach.

  She leaned over him. “That was it, Henry Jones,” she had said. “That was the one time you get to lay a hand on me in anger. You ever get the urge to do it again, you’d better make sure you do it hard enough to kill me, because if you don’t, I’ll most surely kill you.”

  It hadn’t been the threat so much as the realisation of how close he had come to breaking the one thing of worth he had ever had.

  Which was why, now, as much as he found himself riled at her suggesting he was lazy, he bit his tongue and climbed down from the driving bench.

  “I was thinking about the journey ahead.”

  “You and me both,” she admitted. “And I’m thinking it would pass a lot easier without that preacher onboard. I don’t like the way he looks at me.”

  “Then you must hate every man,” he replied, pulling her close to him. “For I don’t know a single one who doesn’t look at you wishing they were in your bed.”

  “Now, now, Henry,” she said, though she was smiling, “not in front of the others.”

  He knew she wasn’t so bashful. Many had been the times that they had put on a show of their own, scarcely caring whether their traveling companions saw them or not. Still, if she wanted to make a pretence of virtue, he was happy to let her do so. For a few minutes, at least.

  “Toby,” he said, “fetch some f
irewood. Knee High, get to fixing us some grub.”

  “Hell,” said the dwarf, “I always end up cooking.”

  “You’d rather The Geek did it?”

  “Never cook your food,” said The Geek. “Takes all the fight out of it.”

  “You can see to the horses,” Jones told him, “and mind you keep your mouth to yourself. I see you’ve so much as licked those beasts and your next meal will be a bullet.”

  “And what will we do?” asked Harmonium.

  “Whatever we feel like,” he said, taking her by the hand and leading her beyond the camp.

  They shed their clothes a short distance away and Henry Jones washed away his anger. She had two sweet, bearded holes and his tongue rejoiced at both of them.

  He wouldn’t say that sex had been the thing he had missed most while in prison, but its absence had been a discomfort. Most of the prisoners relieved themselves in other ways, either solo or in tandem, but Jones was not a man who would let another see him in that raw a state. He would consider it weakness.

  “I’ve missed you there, honey,” Harmonium told him once he was spent. “It fair ached in those months you were away.”

  He liked to believe that was true.

  “I ain’t going anywhere again, my sweetness,” he told her. “Don’t you worry about that.”

  They lay there for a moment or two, letting a quiet space pass between their lovemaking and talk of business. Harmonium was the first to speak.

  “You going to kill that preacher?” she asked.

  “Sooner or later,” he admitted. “But he may be useful for a little while longer.”

  “I can’t see that anyone would mourn him,” she said.

  “Maybe not, but while the other two prove useful, there’s no point in taking the risk. That simpleton is in touch with something, and I want to know what.”

  “Maybe he just heard about the town and he’s repeating words he doesn’t even understand.”

  “Maybe. In which case we’ve found ourselves a talking map. Or maybe it’s nothing at all, and we’re wasting time listening to him. We’ll let the next couple of days decide.”

  “They have money.”

  “Indeed they do. A fair amount of it, I’d warrant.”

  “They’ll pay their way in the end, then,” she laughed. “Dead men have no use for gold.”

  “They surely don’t.”

  They dressed and returned to the camp. The fire was on its way, a large cooking pan set on top of it.

  “I hope you found something edible to put in that, Knee High,” said Jones.

  “No more than usual,” the dwarf admitted.

  The sun was vanishing from the sky now, a soft dusk light descending around them as they settled by the fire.

  THE GEEK WAS on the hunt. There was nothing in Knee High’s pot that was to his liking, he needed food that moved, food that kicked back as you sank your teeth into it.

  He kept low to the ground, moving as quietly as he could through the long grass that flourished by the side of the road. The low light made tracking difficult, so he relied as much on his ears as his eyes, pausing every now and then and listening to the still evening, alert to movement around him.

  In the distance he heard the sound of hooves; a wild horse, judging by the weight of it. That was beyond him for now. He would never have admitted as much to the darkie nurse, but the horse he had eaten before had been lame, thin and close to death. He had still considered it fair game—if the beast had a pulse, it was fit for the table—but he sincerely doubted he could track and capture one of its breed had it been in the best of health.

  There was a rustle closer to hand, something small foraging in the undergrowth. A rabbit, maybe, or possum. Either would do just fine, though the fur tickled your throat something awful until the blood washed it away.

  He crouched on all fours and made his way forward, moving through the grass in absolute silence.

  He had always been skilled at tracking. It had been the one thing that had kept him alive as a child. Growing up on the farm he had watched the animals, learned to copy them, understand them. Then, when the Comanche came and killed his Ma and Pa, he had been forced to find a way to survive. He knew he would. If God had wanted him dead He’d have let the Indians find him in the grain cellar. God had let him live. God was saying he was special. His Ma had always told him as much, looking up from her bible and ruffling his mess of straw hair.

  The first week had been easy enough. There had been enough food in the house to last him, and though he was lonely out there, miles away from the closest town, he had made the best of it. He’d put Ma and Pa in one of the sheds, covering them with a sheet so he didn’t have to look at them no more. He knew they weren’t really there. His Ma had told him what happened when you died, you left your body behind and went on somewhere better. He kept telling himself that, because it stopped him being sad.

  The days were long and he slept more than he should. He knew his Pa would have been angry to see him dozing in the day, but he didn’t know what else to do. He fed the animals and swept the yard, but nobody had shown him how to do anything else, so he ran out of jobs by lunchtime.

  Then the food began to run out. He tried the animal grain, but that just dried out his mouth and made his belly swell up when he drank water with it. He knew that you could eat the animals, of course, hadn’t Ma cooked up a chicken or a hog often enough? He just didn’t know how you made it so it looked like she’d prepared it.

  Once, a year or so ago, he’d come across a dead rat in the yard, picked it up and brought it into the house, thinking his Ma would be pleased. She could put it in a stew, and she’d think he was the cleverest boy for finding it.

  She hadn’t. She’d given a scream and clouted him on the side of the head. “Don’t touch dead animals!” she had told him. “It’s dirty. God only knows what happened to it.” He had looked down at the rat, fallen from his hand when she’d hit him. Its eyes were empty, its mouth wide. It certainly looked wrong, its fur dirty and matted, flies buzzing around it. Dead things were not good.

  His Ma and Pa continued to teach him that lesson as they drew the flies under their sheet in the barn. Some days he would go in there to talk to them, but he was sure they couldn’t hear him, not with the buzzing having gotten that loud.

  You couldn’t touch the dead animals, which must mean you couldn’t eat them either.

  He sat at the edge of the pig pen and watched as the swine grunted and squealed at one another. They were funny, like fat old women arguing.

  They were quick, too, but he bet he could be quicker.

  It took him four days to try.

  He sat on the fence, waiting for one of the pigs to pass beneath him. Then he jumped on it, laughing as it gave its silly squeal and snapping at it with his teeth. The pig wriggled and kicked, catching him on the cheek with one of its trotters. He gave a yell and fell back, sure it had kicked a hole right through his cheek, but it hadn’t. He was all right. It fetched up one hell of a bruise, but no lasting damage. The pig, however, got away.

  Maybe he needed to try something smaller. A chicken, maybe? But he didn’t like the idea of those feathers in his mouth; they would be as dry as the grain, and he might choke before he even got a taste of it.

  He’d just have to try again.

  He sat down in one corner of the pen, being perfectly still, letting the animals get used to him. This they soon did, even the one he had attacked before. That was the one he wanted: it had hurt him, and he decided he didn’t like it anymore.

  He was patient, waiting for that particular hog. When one of the others brushed past him, sniffing at him with its snout, he didn’t move. He let it explore him for a moment before moving on. He kept plenty of grain in there, he didn’t want the pigs getting so hungry they might try and eat him. Sometimes he even sprinkled the grain on himself, drawing them over, letting them get used to him.

  Then finally, the one pig, the hog that had kicked him, drew c
lose. He sat with his arms and legs wide and it snuffled its way within reach. It curled against him, rubbing its fat side against his belly, sniffing at his fingers. He moved quickly, grabbing it with his legs and arms, digging his nails into its skin and throwing his weight onto its back. It squealed but couldn’t move, his body pinning it down in the dirt.

  He was so hungry by now. He bit at its side, and it continued to scream as his little teeth nipped and drew spots of blood. It was so tough! Not like the pork Ma had served. His belly demanded he kept trying, so he kept biting at the animal’s side, tearing with his teeth. That first, gushing mouthful of blood nearly made him throw up, but he kept at it, finally able to tear a few chunks of meat away, which slipped down his throat easily. Slowly, the pig stopped fighting back, the dust around them getting wetter with blood. He kept one hand on it and used the other to help pull away at the wound he’d made, trying to grab as much as he could before the animal died.

  Then it was still. So he got up, his face and torso soaked red.

  The other pigs stared at him. He wondered if they were scared.

  He held his arms out to them, like a picture of Jesus he had seen when his Ma had taken him to church. Then he climbed out of the pig pen and went to the house to wash himself.

  When he came back out later, the pigs were eating the rest of their dead friend. Pigs were stupid, he decided. They didn’t know you weren’t supposed to eat dead things.

  He’d stayed at the farm for several months, working his way through the livestock. The longer he did it, the harder it got, the animals aware that he was a predator, a danger. So he had to get better at catching them.

  Now, all these years later, it was a skill he had perfected.

  As he burst through the undergrowth, meaning to catch the animal he had drawn close to, he was startled to find he had competition. The rabbit—for it had been a rabbit, a small one with thankfully short fur—gave a cry as a rattlesnake lashed out from the grass and sank its fangs into it. The Geek acted instinctively, snatching at the snake’s neck and pinching hard. He stamped on its tail, strengthened his grip on his neck and stretched the snake before biting at it two-thirds of the way up its body. He bit hard, his metal teeth slicing straight through meat, skin, cartilage and bone. The head he flung away. Rattlesnakes were good, they stayed alive for a while even after you’d taken their heads off. Perfect food that you didn’t have to rush.