"No, it ain't OK," he slurred. "You think you ken do whatever you want jus' cause your name's Greenly and your brother's too much of a pussy to stop ya. You scare everybody with your damn kids, but you don't scare me Horace.”
Mr. Hurley laughed, and Horace's face grew dark. “I remember you as a doughy little brat. You were a bully then, and you're a bully now.”
“Easy,” Horace warned.
“I was a butcher, Horace I know about spoiled meat and THAT meat is spoiled." He pointed at Anthony Valentine's body where it had been laid out on display. "That boy's been dead a lot longer than thirty-six hours. You stored him somewhere warm, didn't ya, ya fat dummy? Shoulda' put him in the snow so he didn't rot. But I guess you didn't know when you'd need him, or who you'd need him for, huh?” Mr. Hurley said, then turned to the crowd.
“Any of you see Anthony the last few days? Any of you? No? Didn't think so."
"Shut up old man," Horace growled, and Mr. Hurley laughed in his face. The tension in town started to build, an already angry crowd's anger growing unfocused. The Deputies nervously fiddled with their rifles. The town was listening.
I noticed Alex trying to move Wendell and Caroline out of the town square with little success. Caroline squared up to him and whispered something, and he took a step back. They held hands.
Sarah stood next to Willie Fetch, enraptured. Her tongue kept darting across her lips. She was positively salivating at the impending violence. Fetch didn't look well at all. He had a decent black eye coming in and a puffy lip. The Deputies had given him a taste of his own medicine, apparently.
"Or what?" Mr. Hurley said, pushing closer to Horace "You'll have your brats beat the stuffing out of me like they did Jonas? Twice by the looks of it?” Mr. Hurley pointed at me.
“That boy looks like he been hit by a Buick, Horace, and we all know who done it. Oh yeah, people talk, Horace. People talk, and people listen, and everyone in this God damned town knows that if Jonas killed Valentine, (even if it WERE last night, which it weren't,) he damn well deserved it.“
Mr. Hurley pointed at Robert Valentine: “He shoulda' done his brother too. Them boys are no damn good. None of your little 'Deputies' are any damn good." Willie Fetch winced, then felt the pain in his face and winced again.
Hurley spit in the snow to emphasize his point, and Robert Valentine launched himself at the old man. The rest of the Deputies grabbed Valentine and held him back. A few looked angry, but most were just scared. Hawkins fidgeted nervously, wearing a poker-face. The town was humming with angry whispers.
"Shut your fucking mouth, old-timer. I damn well mean it, too," Horace threatened. There was a real edge to his voice, the kind of anger mixed with embarrassment that could make a man do terrible things. Jeb shuffled his feet nervously.
"Horace, we don't need to be ugly," Jeb said. "There's been too much ugliness already. This is about... about justice right?" Jeb looked to the crowd, unsure of what to do. Horace ignored him.
"Dammit Hurley, it's fine. Let it be," I said. He didn't listen. He turned away from Horace to the assembled crowd. He was a man who spent his entire life being ignored, and he was going to have his say.
"And as for the rest of you," Hurley said, pointing at the crowd like a teacher scolding a student, "Shame on all of you. You're all in America, and that used to mean something.
What it means is that we don't roll over every time some tub of guts tells us to. You all know what's what. You know this all stinks to high heaven and you sit there and watch it because you're all too chicken shit to stand up and say that it ain't right and you ain't gonna take it
If he's lying bout one then he's lying bout the other. You all know Jonas and Franks' was friends. Shot him in the Sheriff's office did he?” Mr. Hurley turned towards Horace and laughed with derision.
“You let a murderer keep a gun on him while you were grilling him? Bullshit, and pardon my goddamned Freedom English. It's a goddamned shame those boys went out to Paradise Falls and got killed because apparently the town lost it's entire damned backbone." Hurley pulled out his flask and took a greedy pull from it, licking his lips.
"You be careful old man," Horace said, tapping his gun, "You be damned careful what you say. I've kept these people safe. We have rules because it keeps them safe." Hurley laughed again, turning back to Horace. I took Mr. Hurley's arm and tried to pull him back but he jerked it away with surprising strength.
"You get off me, son,” Mr. Hurley said, pushing me back. “Respect your elders and what not, Jonas. I get ta say what I want because I'm old and I'm drunk and I don't get scared of big tubs just because they got a tin star and a fancy rifle.”
“And that's all you are, Horace Greenly. The same mean little fat boy hidin' behind that star and the name 'Greenly' like they mean somethin'. But it don't mean NOTHING. And it never did.
You was nothing before the goddamned deaders and you're nothing now. You're the same sloppy little fuck you always was and this ain't right and I'm damn well gonna-"
Then Horace shot him.
It was horrible.
The killing was different then when Horace shot Sgt. Franks. Franks was killed neat, and precise. An elegant solution to a problem. An execution planned with care.
When Horace shot Mr. Hurley he didn't as much shoot the old man so much as he pulled the trigger while he stabbed him in the stomach with the gun.
The old man fell, but Horace didn't stop shooting and stabbing with the barrel. Over and over again, face red with rage, he slammed the AK into Mr. Hurley's stomach, until he was just dry firing into the mass of guts.
No one moved as Horace stepped back, gun barrel dripping with blood. Mr Hurley was missing most of his stomach, and some of his insides had become his outsides.
But he wasn't dead.
The old sonofabitch just refused to die. Mr. Hurley chuckled, hands trying to prop himself up in the bloody snow. His face was losing it's color, but none of it's humor. Horace was enraged, and Sarah was practically orgasmic... but everyone else was in shock.
Even the Deputies, even good old Robert Valentine didn't know what to say as the old man slipped around in his own blood, grinning like a Cheshire. Hurley felt around the snow until his hands found purchase and he propped himself up.
Then he picked his flask up off the ground and drained it, some of the liquid coming out pink from the mess in his stomach. But the tough old bastard didn't die. Not just yet.
"Takes... takes a lot of balls... to shoot an old man... t-t-tubby," Mr Hurley said.
Then, grinning, he died in the snow in the middle of town.
Fetch stepped out of line, his face as shocked and somber as the rest of us. He put his rifle to Mr Hurley's head and closed his eyes as he pulled the trigger. One shot to keep him down.
The whole town winced.
It was the first time I'd seen Fetch look so... adult. The crowd grew restless as Horace stood panting over the body of the old man.
"What the hell, Horace," Jeb said, shocked. Horace turned his rifle on Jeb, his face a mask of rage and Mr. Hurley's blood.
Jeb threw his hands up to cover his face, but Horace wasn't ready to become Cain just yet. He lowered the rifle, and wiped the blood off his face with his coat sleeve, then Horace turned to address the town.
"This... town. This town is only alive because of me. ME. Do any of you understand that?" Horace said, walking from towns-person to towns-person, his face purple with rage.
“You're all alive because I maintain discipline. Law and order. Without it you'd all be goddamned dead and none of you... you sons of- none of you respect that. Well that ends now. Right goddamned now.” Horace paused to reload the rifle.
“Anyone else who doesn't respect the rule of law, step out of line. Step out of line right now and I'll-"
"STOP," I said.
I'd had enough. Franks, Mr. Hurley... fuck... even Thomas the cat. Even Anthony Valentine. All the deaths I'd caused. So many people who were no longer living because I'd
had the misfortune to return to Greenly.
I was dying anyway, the decay almost into my shoulder (It's spreading at am almost-supernatural rate, does gangrene happen this fast? Does it matter at this point?)
And I was still letting people die for me?
No more. No goddamned more.
Horace turned the gun on me and I spread my arms wide, practically begging for the bullets that didn't come. The world slowed down to a slide show.
Sarah biting her lip, her eyes moving between us.
Fetch, away from the Deputies now, standing with the crowd.
Alex touching the spot where the gun he'd given me would have been.
Wendell comforting Caroline.
Luke trying to shield his mother from the mess, Margret having none of it.
Lucy Matthews throwing up into the snow. Hawkins dropping a tin star and walking away.
Jeb looking sad and beaten.
My town.
He didn't shoot.
“You got something to say, Jonas?" Horace said, looking down the gun site at me.
“Yeah, I do," I said.
“Go on,” Horace said, eyes dark.
"No more. I'm all done. I confess to everything. I don't dispute it. Take me to the gate."
Horace lowered the gun, and I watched some of the rage fade. The beast retreated, and what was left wasn't exactly a good man, but it was less of a monster than the Horace that'd just shot/stabbed an old man in front of an entire crowd of people.
I didn't wait for him to answer, I just turned and walked towards the front gate. Then Fetch was next to me, rifle pointed at me, but not at me. I heard others, but the rest stayed well behind. Fetch was escorting me, and strangely enough, talking to me. I ignored them all, and focused on the gate.
"That... That wasn't right. Mr. Hurley, I mean.", Fetch said. I didn't respond, just focused on the gate as it got closer closer and closer.
I walked carefully. My legs were like jelly underneath me, but I didn't want to stumble. Everyone who knew me was gone - everyone but the citizens of Greenly, and I didn't want their last memory of me to be me stumbling. I wanted to die on my feet, so to speak.
Like Mr. Hurley did.
Adrenaline and sorrow and good old fashioned hatred fought their way through my mind, along with the need for the pills that I knew I wouldn't have access to in my final days. Fetch babbled on as I tried not to fall down.
I wondered how long the cough medicine would hold out. Not long maybe, but long enough. I'd get some answers before I died, that was for fucking sure. Twenty miles to Paradise Falls.
I probably wouldn't make it. But I'd fucking try. I wanted to die knowing what was fucking what. Profanity doesn't even do the anger justice. I was angrier than that.
I barely listened to Fetch ramble.
"He used to let me come over to his house when the old man would come after me with the belt," Fetch said to no one in particular.
"Tough old fucker then, too... he told my dad he'd feed him his teeth if he ever hit me again. He never did, either, not with that belt. My pop was stupid, but he wasn't that stupid.” Fetch continued to talk through feelings that I hadn't cared about before he started this chain of events. Back when it was a game.
“That shit back there wasn't right. I mean h-" I stopped and turned on Fetch.
"Spare me your big epiphany, Fetch," I said. "Just spare me. It's bad enough I gotta die without your whining being the last thing I remember." He shut up and I almost felt bad for him. I can guess who yelled at him like that last.
He didn't leave, just kept walking with me, head down. Beaten, broken. Took the kid this long to realize this wasn't a game. That he couldn't stop playing cop when it wasn't fun any more.
Little league is over. The ten-run mercy rule doesn't apply to grown ups.
"I don't, I mean... I didn't- I," Fetch said, nearly stuttering, and I turned again and pushed my finger right into his chest. There were guns on me immediately, but I didn't care.
"Don't. Don't you dare fucking apologize," I said, and the kid gritted his teeth. I turned back to the gate, put the collar of my coat against the wind, and said:
"Open the fucking gate."
Fetch and Valentine grabbed the chains and pulled the rusty gate open.
I walked back into the world, and I didn't look back.
Jonas Waight
On his own
Chapter 10:
Cutting the String
"Will you partake of that last offered cup? Or disappear into the potter's ground... when the Man comes around."
Johnny Cash, The Man Comes Around
February 23rd, 2008
The Last Day of My Life
This is the end of the road for me. I've got a little time, I'm going to ramble. Today I give up for the last time, so indulge me a little and let me wander. I feel like I'm owed that. I tried so hard.
I dreamt again last night.
The saloon's dirty and dim, just the way we like it. We play draw poker and pass a bottle of whiskey clockwise. Always clockwise. Counterclockwise and I wouldn't be able to take the bottle, not with my dead arm as useless as it is. I have to put my hand down every time I want to take a swig.
Everyone drinks but Thomas. He likes to play sober, and that's probably why he's winning all the important pots. Lucky fucking cat. I've been getting cold decked all night. I can barely get a decent pair, let alone anything worth investing money in.
"It's not fair," Anthony Valentine says, "It's not even if the cat won't drink. That's why he's winning." It's not Thomas.
Anthony doesn't know it, but he's got a major tell. Every time he's gets a good hand he's got this disgusting habit of sticking his fingers in the knife wound I gave him. He might as well just hand us the money.
"You could play sober too," Thomas says. “Nobody's making you drink.” He's only got one working eye in his crushed skull, but it never blinks. Not a sign of a tell. Cats are very good with secrets.
"Fuck that," Franks says, "Learn to hold your liquor, kid." Valentine flips him off and slams his whiskey, the amber liquid pouring out of the knife gash. “We're drinking the same liquor and I'm not even slurring my speech.”
“If you two are done arguin' over who can drink more in theory, could you stop babysitting the bottle and pass it to one of us who'll do some drinking in practice,” Mr. Hurley says, yanking the bottle out of Anthony's hand and taking a long swig.
“No chaser,” Hurley says, slamming the bottle down on the table and licking his lips. The liquor mixes with the rest and makes the cavity where his stomach should be weep a little more blood than usual, but it's nothing to worry about. The waitress will be back soon and she'll take care of us.
They argue. I focus on my damn cards. Pair of Aces, an eight, a Queen and a Jack. A good start, except for the Queen. The bitch had been ruining my hands all night, tempting me to ruin perfectly respectable hands.
A pair of Aces pre-draw was more than a fine start, and yet there she always was, tempting me to chase impossible hands. I'd never draw what I needed; only an idiot would chase an inside straight. But with every good hand she'd shown up somewhere, tempting me with something just a bit better.
"Make your decision, Jonas," the Dark Thing says, waiting on me, tapping his finger on the table. I hate pushy dealers, so I take my time.
"You all aren't mad are you? About me killing you?" I ask, stalling. Everyone groans but Thomas, who simply flicks his tail.
"It's all night with this guy," Franks says. Blood dribbles down his cheek from the missing parts of his skull as he picks his cigar from the ashtray and holds it in place with what was left of his jaw. "Horace shot me, not you."
“Still, you have to admit I'm sort of at fault,” I say, moving the Queen back and forth in my hand. I couldn't decide if she was there to help or hurt me.
"Play cards," Thomas says, rearranging his massive pile of chips. He liked to make even stacks of them. Everything tidy. “I'm the only one you kil
led on purpose and I don't care. Nobody cares. Play cards.”
"I am mad, actually," Valentine says, frowning, "Getting stabbed really fucking hurts."
“You deserved it,” Franks says shrugging.
“It was a fight,” Valentine says, “I didn't deserve to bleed to death in a God damned basement over a fight.”
“I didn't deserve having my guts shot out. Shit happens, kid.” Hurley says, looking to his cards and adding “Like this hand.”
“Make your decision, Jonas,” the Dark Thing says. He's not impatient. I'm not sure he's ever impatient. But he's not willing to let me waffle and procrastinate forever. There's money on the table, and I'm holding up his game.
Then Sarah is there with a fresh bottle of whiskey, pouring us our first shots and buying me a little time. Her dress hugs her tightly, lips painted dark red.
"Keep the Jack," Sarah whispers, "I'm fond of him." She mops up a few spills and we all find a buck to tip her.
"Can I get you boys anything else?" Sarah asks. Franks says, "Yeah, the left side of my head." We all laugh.
It's a joke that never gets old.
"I'll see what I can do," she says sweetly and then leans close, whispering again, her lipstick-painted mouth brushing against my earlobe. "Keep the Jack. I'm fond of him."
I toss them both, the Queen and the Jack. The queen had been fucking me up all night, and the Jack, well. I just didn't like the look of him. I've never liked One-Eyed Jacks.
"Almost time now," Franks says as he glances at a Gold pocket watch inscribed with the letters 'LS.' Then my hand is Aces and Eights, Clubs and Spades, and that God damned Queen staring up at me. Mocking me. She's a spade this time.
The dead man's hand.
My hand starts to wither and fester, turning to rot and worms, and then bones, and then nothing at all.
Dust.
My cards hit the table face up and in the bottle of whiskey I only see the smallest hint of a reflection as Robert Valentine he puts the revolver to my head and fires.
I feel the barrel first, then the bullet, and then it goes through my skull and I don't feel anything at all.
Safety (One Eighteen: Migration Book 1) Page 15