Gunsmoke Blues

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Gunsmoke Blues Page 29

by Balogun Ojetade


  New Orleans is burning. Could it be true? The boundary between reality and fantasy had blurred since he’d started feeding Freda the drugs, and had become even more fluid since he’d struck her with the cane. It was hard to tell what was true. But she was certain that her prison was real, and that her jailer was a madman.

  “The city will burn,” he proclaimed triumphantly.

  The man leaned back over her, his eyes darting from her feet to the crest of her head and away again. “I was going to kill you,” he whispered, bringing the point of the knife into her field of vision. “Eviscerate you. But now I’ve got a better idea. I’ll let you watch the world end. We’ll watch it together. First the fires, then the plagues, and then the rivers of blood. We’ll die together, you and me. What do you think of that?”

  Freda grunted weakly. The gag in her mouth made words impossible, but she had learned that it was best to humor him when he asked his rhetorical questions.

  He sat down next to her on the bed, looking at her quizzically. “Do you know why you’re going to die?” he asked. “Because you’re a whore.” He spat the word at her. “And I’ve done bad things, too. Very bad. It’s not surprising that the world is ending. So much wickedness, we all deserve it.” He lifted the knife to her throat and pressed its cold steel against her soft flesh. When he withdrew it, the tip was red. He lifted it to the light, turning it in his fingers, seeming to see some message in the way it moved. A drop of blood ran slowly down the edge of the blade and trickled over the hilt.

  He laid the knife on the bed and looked into her eyes, his own eyes steady for once. “If I allow you to speak, do you promise not to scream?”

  Freda nodded, trying not to show too much eagerness. It was probably just a trick, some twisted game of his.

  But it was no trick. He pulled the balled up piece of cloth out of her mouth then discarded the soggy mess on the floor.

  He held the knife to her throat again. “Don’t speak unless I ask you a question. Understand?”

  “Yes,” Freda said. It was the first word she had spoken in a while.

  The man stood up again and walked back to the window. “The end of days,” he muttered. “So it looks like this. Well, well.”

  It was still night, but the early light of pre-dawn was turning the sky a lighter shade of gray. The sirens and horses had stopped and a sense of calm seemed to be returning to the city. Whatever had happened overnight, the worst of it must surely be over. If she ignored the bindings that tied her hands and legs to the bed, and the throbbing of her head, the day might almost be normal. It was hard to imagine that the world was about to end.

  Something new seemed to catch the man’s attention outside. He unlatched the windows and pushed them open. Cold, fresh air rushed inside. “What’s that?” he asked. He stuck his head out then leaned further, straining to see. He mumbled more words that vanished into the night air before she could decipher them. Then he drew back suddenly, ducking his head inside. His face was alabaster. “The Beast,” he said, pointing outside with one quivering finger.

  The knife was up again in a flash and he ran to the bed, holding it before him. “The Beast has come for us,” he wailed. “It knows we’re here.” He slashed the knife through the air in wild arcs, his eyes following its path as it danced. “We will both burn in Hell!”

  Freda screamed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  Robert ran on all fours, iron coursing through his veins, paws pounding against the hard pavement, strong legs pumping like pistons. The moon followed him relentlessly, low in the sky now, but shining with a bright coldness that seemed to mock him.

  The dark streets of the city were mostly deserted, with just a few late night revelers still out. They fled when they saw him, or pressed themselves against walls or doors as he rushed past, their faces contorted with fear and astonishment, but he paid them no heed. Someone yelled out, “Gator!” and he snapped back, “Crocodile!” There was only silence after that.

  One thought filled his mind, over and over. Virginia was dead. His only friend. His lover. Dead.

  It was all Robert’s fault. He had tried to do the right thing, had saved the lives of some children, but Virginia had paid the price with her life. One life against many. Now Robert would gladly give any number of lives to get Virginia back. Including his own.

  But the choice was made. He could not go back.

  So Robert ran on, hot blood rushing through his limbs as he ran, while Virginia’s body lay cold and still and dead.

  He ran without knowing where his legs were carrying him. He ran without purpose. He ran without desire, or feeling, or thought. A survival instinct had taken over, and he ran, away from the cold moon, away from Virginia’s body, away from everything he had done. A part of him begged him to turn round and return to where Virginia rested, but that voice was too small and weak to overcome the instinct to flee. And so he ran.

  He ran through quiet streets, across empty waste ground, along deserted paths that crisscrossed the city. The air was cooling rapidly in the clear night and the first crystals of frost glinted like diamonds on the edges of paving stones and on the grass and trees. A vision of Virginia flashed before him, her black skin white with frost, icicles in her hair, her full lips frozen blue. His dead friend’s eyes opened, accusing him. I am dead, they seemed to say, and yet you live. Hot tears sprang from his eyes and washed the vision away, just as quickly as it had appeared.

  And Robert ran on.

  He ran through the maze of streets, putting the river far behind him, taking random turns, left, right, straight ahead, doubling back on himself for all he knew or cared. As long as he kept running he wouldn’t have to think. Gradually, the crowded streets of the city gave way to leafy openness, and the ground rose higher until he could look back at the expanse he had crossed since abandoning Virginia’s body. The moon was poised on the horizon now, disappearing below the rise and fall of the land. He felt its pull weakening as it passed slowly out of view. Soon it would be gone.

  Robert slowed at last, walking forward one step at a time along a well-to-do street lined with old terraced houses and trees, their branches bare in the cold of winter. Where was he going? Without Virginia by his side there was no point going anywhere. He might as well stop.

  He squatted down in the middle of the road, looking up at the big houses around him. A single light shone from one high window. The rest was dark.

  “Oh, mighty Sobek,” he began to pray, “Please forgive me. I knew not of you, my true and living God, before the change into my true self and now that I know you, I have strayed far from your path. Give me the courage to continue. Give me a sign.”

  He had been asking the white man’s God for help ever since being bitten, but the voice in his head had remained resolutely silent. It wasn’t until he learned about the African gods from Virginia that he actually knew God, because finally, he knew himself. “Help me, Sobek. Give me guidance.”

  Nothing. No voice spoke to him. Sobek had abandoned him, too. He was beyond redemption, too far gone to save. He had done such terrible things. And even when he had tried to do the right thing, Virginia had paid for Robert’s choice with her life. Robert had hurt and betrayed everyone he knew, had done everything wrong. He could not come back.

  The moon had dipped behind the houses and Robert could hardly feel its pull. The night sky darkened as the moon left it, draping the street before him in shadow. A solitary light shone from one high window. Could that light be a sign? Robert padded toward it.

  A man appeared, silhouetted at the window. He opened it. Robert stared, baring his teeth and snorting curls of mist in the pre-dawn cold. The man at the window leaned out over the ledge, almost far enough to fall. Robert began to trot toward the house more quickly. The man vanished then and seconds later a scream came from the open window. A woman’s scream. Robert bounded forward and ran toward the sound.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Freda lay on the bed as the man swept his knif
e in wide arcs just inches from her face. “The Beast, the Beast!” he cried. “It’s coming!”

  She screamed again, louder.

  “Stop that!” he screeched. “It will hear us.”

  The knife flashed in front of her eyes and pricked her cheek. She struggled again with the knots, trying to pull her wrists free, but they were too tight. The rope bit into her wrists and ankles, chaffing at her skin, rubbing it raw. And every movement triggered a blinding pain in her skull.

  “Keep still!” he shouted. “Stop screaming.” The steel blade jerked before her, his arm dancing wildly and out of control. His eyes flicked around the room, searching for something to fix on.

  There was a loud bang from downstairs. Then the muffled sound of wood splintering.

  Had Freda imagined it? Were the noises simply inside her head? The drugs the man had given her, the pain, the constant threats, it had all become too much. This was all a dream, a nightmare.

  But no, the man had heard it, too. “What was that?” he screamed.

  More sounds followed, the thudding of feet coming up the staircase. They drew nearer. “It’s coming!” The man whimpered, springing from the bed, spinning to face the bedroom door.

  Freda heard the pounding of feet coming along the hallway toward the bedroom. Who was coming? She turned her head to look toward the closed bedroom door, half in hope, half in fear, ignoring the fresh pain that the movement induced in her head.

  The bedroom door flew from its hinges. Some kind of animal had entered the room, a wild animal the size of a man. The creature stood just inside the doorway, filling the space and blocking the exit.

  A giant alligator? Freda thought, shocked. It had a narrower, more pointed snout than a gator, though. A crocodile? She thought those only lived in Africa. But whatever it was, gator or croc, it wasn’t supposed to exist. Not standing like a man, its huge jaws hanging open, revealing scores of dagger-like teeth. The beast breathed heavily, scratching at the floor with its talons.

  Freda shut her eyes tightly, counted to three, then opened them again. The creature was still there, sweeping its gaze steadily across the room, its bright yellow eyes glowing like lanterns.

  The man backed away toward the window, whimpering quietly, his knife held loosely in hands that shook violently. “The Beast,” he muttered. “The Beast.”

  For once Freda had to agree with him. There was most definitely a beast in the room.

  The creature padded forward cautiously, studying the room. Freda noticed that a human intelligence seemed to lurk behind those shining eyes. It gazed at the man, watching the knife dart and flash, listening to his deranged ranting. Then the creature’s yellow eyes turned to face Freda. She saw it studying her with interest, its attention shifting from her face to the ropes that bound her to the metal bed frame, and back again to her face. The animal cocked its head to one side. Then, in a single bound it leapt over the bed and flew at the man.

  The man shrieked and held his knife aloft, but the beast crashed into him with terrifying force. It opened its jaws wide as it flew, locking its mouth tightly over the man’s head, anchoring its teeth deep in his flesh. The man’s muffled shrieks came from inside the creature’s mouth, then the beast jerked its maw away, sending a wave of scarlet flooding the walls and ceiling. The man’s headless body went limp then fell to the floor. The creature then spat the man’s head through the open window.

  Freda watched in silent astonishment. Her sister, Erica, claimed that she was never at a loss for words, but for once, she had nothing to say.

  The beast panted loudly after its exertions and hung its head, almost as if it was ashamed of what it had done. Then it turned to face Freda, yellow eyes burning fiercely, its long snout wet from its kill, its teeth glinting white against the red.

  Freda faced it unafraid. She had always refused to submit to fear, and after what she’d been through, she didn’t know if she could ever feel it again. Anyway, if the whole world really was ending, she had no desire to stay and watch it burn. “Go on, then,” she said to the beast. “Do what you’ve come to do.”

  The beast paced around the bed, lifting its head to study her. The yellow eyes swept from her head to her feet, observing the ties that held her. Its hot breath smelled of blood and gore, but she held its gaze without flinching.

  The huge crocodile sprang onto the bed, its claws digging into the soft sheets on either side of her, tearing the fabric into ribbons. It stood astride her, its enormous mouth hanging open, pink tongue drooling bloody spit onto her face, rows of sharp teeth standing tall like white stakes. “Why should I let you live?” the creature growled.

  Freda almost laughed in surprise. A talking crocodile, she thought. So this really is a dream. The result of all the drugs the man had fed her, obviously. Yet, it felt so real. She could smell the creature; feel its foul breath on her face.

  She struggled to think of a good answer to the crocodile’s question. “Well, Mr. Crocodile,” she began. The question was tricky. Why her? With her good looks, easy life and casual approach to other people’s happiness, why did she deserve to live, when so many worthy, caring, good people died every day? There were so many more deserving people in the world. Erica, for example, who gave her life to looking after an old man who could never even understand or appreciate the sacrifice she was making. Keith Gaston, who devoted his life to teaching at a school that others had long since given up on. Why should she live? “Because I’m not really a bad person,” she said. “I’m sorry for all the bad things I’ve done, and I promise to live a good life in the future.”

  That’s what the dream was about, then. The crocodile was her own conscience speaking to her. After all the carefree years, the conversation was well overdue.

  If Freda ever escaped from there, she would rethink her life and decide what she really wanted to do. She had talents, after all. She could use them to help others, instead of just herself. “Let me live, and I’ll try to be better, I promise.” Words were easy to say, after all, and no one could fake sincerity better than Freda, even when it was her own conscience she was trying to fool. All the same, she would think things over. If she got out of there alive.

  The crocodile stared at her, weighing her words, trying to divine the truth, she figured. Freda gave it the sweetest smile she could muster. Yellow eyes gazed into hers, seeming to see all her deepest, darkest secrets. Eventually the creature seemed to be satisfied with what it saw. She may even have convinced herself. With a twist of its head it bit through the rope that bound her left arm, brushing it away like a cobweb. A second snap of its jaws and both arms were free. The crocodile spun around, raising its tail, so as not to smack her with it and she felt the ties that held her legs vanish in two swift bites. She was free.

  The crocodile jumped down to the floor and brought its huge face to look directly at hers. The bright glow in its eyes dimmed, and the creature hung its head, a look of dejected sadness replacing the fierce anger of earlier.

  Freda reached out with her hand, ignoring the pins and needles that rushed in, and gently patted the animal’s snout.

  Tears welled up in the creature’s eyes, splashing to the floor without restraint, and it began to cry, a whimpering, snuffling sound that was uncannily human.

  “There, there, Mr. Crocodile. Please don’t cry.” Crocodile tears, she thought and almost laughed. She patted it again, some feeling starting to return to her fingers as she rubbed its snout. Its flesh was strangely scaly but soft, not rough as she had expected. She brushed the tears from its eyes.

  The creature lifted an enormous claw and placed it gently over Freda’s own small hand, taking care not to scratch her skin with its talons. Freda gave it a reassuring smile. “You did the right thing,” she told it. “I will change. I promise.”

  But it was the crocodile that was slowly changing, even as she watched. The scales that clothed its body were drawing slowly back, leaving bare brown skin as it ebbed away like the ocean tide leaving clean, even sands in i
ts wake. The strong snout of the beast was shrinking, flattening itself, while the protruding teeth it had put to such devastating effect were receding into the creature’s jaw. The creature’s broad shoulders and bulging muscles contracted and withered away, leaving behind a slender body. The great claw that covered her own hand shrunk, the talons receding, the fingers thinning, until eventually just a normal, brown hand, not much larger than her own, gripped her tightly in a sweaty clasp.

  Finally, the yellow lights that had burned like beacons behind the inhuman eyes vanished, to be replaced with cool, brown orbs nestling in pools of clear white. Tears flowed in rivers from those eyes, and the man who now crouched naked by her bedside wailed and sobbed in disconsolate despair, his bare shoulders shivering as if the world really had ended.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Tulane University, New Year morning, full moon.

  It was almost dawn when Mary climbed to the top of the roof and looked down with fury at the city beneath her. The moon hung low in the sky, just above the far horizon. It could only be seen now from the rooftops and the tallest buildings. In a matter of minutes, it would be gone and she would revert to human form.

  From her rooftop vantage point it was a sheer drop of eight floors to the street below. In her rage she had to suppress an urge to spring from the roof into thin air. Not even in rat form would she survive such a fall. She licked her paws instead and sat on the edge of the building, her hind legs bent under her.

 

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