by S.C. Barrus
***
The Host breathed, drew in his fury, and continued. “You have all been drinking wine, about three glasses each, give or take, a conservative estimate I believe, but no matter. Now where was I? …personal manner… drinking wine… ah, here we are.” He looked at his guests with a sheepish smile, “Sorry, I’m not a very good public speaker. I am frightfully nervous.” He scratched his forehead with the barrel of his revolver. “You all have been drinking wine, and only wine. This is to dull your senses, but not too much, while I kill each and every one of you before the night is through.”
At this Mrs. Williams burst into blubbering. Reduced to a sobbing mass of smeared makeup and tears, her judgment muddled by stress, she jumped to her feet and ran down the hallway, under the arch, past the pillars and chandeliers, past The Host, towards the front door. The Host looked up from his note and watched her run. He sighed, lifted his hand which carried the revolver, and followed her path with its barrel. As she ran past him, on down the hall, he fired, and she fell flat on the floor. He sighed again and looked back at his guests. “I’m sorry for the interruption,” he said, which sounded sincere. “I, um, wanted to finish reading my letter before that part. Nobody else run, all the doors are locked shut, you can’t get out.”
He looked back at the note, looked for his spot, scanned the note, then dropped it on the floor. “Well, it’s ruined now,” and he raised the gun and walked towards the crowd. The Host fired once, and another woman fell; he fired twice, a man in a lounge suit fell. Then he saw something odd. Still sitting at his place was the young man in the tweed jacket, no more than twenty, quivering yet oddly determined.
“Excuse m-m-me,” said the boy, his voice a fit of trembles—after all, the young man was nervous. But that was to be expected, he too was a poor public speaker. The young man held his own revolver, clattering against the table as the boy shivered, aimed haphazardly at The Host and the wall behind him.
Taking a step back, The Host looked at the boy with his gun much too large for his hands, desperately trying to support the weight of it. The Host smiled, and guests ran past him, crawled on the floor, bled, screamed, cried, and rammed doors. “Excuse me, young man, but in the heat of the moment, I have forgotten your name,” he said with a bit of a laugh.
The boy did not shift in his seat, just shivered as he spoke. “My, my, m-m-m-my name—“ but was cut off by The Host’s gun as it brought down another.
The Host unloaded the shells and began to reload. “Continue,” he said.
“My name is B-bobbie Flanagan.” A tear fell from the young man’s face.
“Yes,” said The Host, “Yes, that’s right. You killed my only love, do you remember? I can remember those eyes of yours, a strange tint of yellow, wouldn’t you say? Nervous as always I see, always st-st-stuttering. And you brought a gun to a dinner? Tisk, tisk, that is very rude.”
“Y-yes,” Bobbie said. “I do not accept invitations without kn-nowing my host.”
“Ah, I see,” said The Host. “Resourceful, twitchy, a little cunning I suppose. It’s a wonder you came at all.”
“Y-you’ve b-b-been looking f-for me. I’ve b-been afraid. I d-d-d-don’t like to be af-fraid. I w-wanted to end it.”
“Shoot me in the back, eh? But you haven’t got the nerve for that. You want to see something, boy? See these two holes in my jacket, and look here, the same holes in my shirt, where the stain turned brown. Those happened in a low point in my life, when a rat came and shot me twice without warning. But first he had the gracious sense about him to kill my love and let me watch her die as he stole family heirlooms. I wonder what he pawned them for?
“My,” he continued, “that is a large gun. It looks oddly familiar. May I see it? I can see it’s a beauty from here, but that particular gun, I would just love to hold it, just for a moment. I am a gentleman, you see, I will give it back. Now, don’t look at me like that, I could shoot you now if I wanted, bang! Come now, I want to have a look at that gun.”
The boy laughed nervously, “I’d r-r-rather you didn’t.”
The Host smiled, showing his teeth, and walked closer to the boy. The Host stood next to Bobbie Flanagan. Bobbie aimed his gun at The Host. “Put that thing down,” The Host said.
“I’d r-rather not,” Bobbie Flanagan said.
The Host laughed. He ruffled the boy’s hair. “I like you boy. For some reason I always did, and I think I know why. It’s your pure instinct of survival, no room in that head of yours for thoughts, just action and hesitation. You know what you remind me of? A rat, the kind you see in the gutters that scamper away only when your eyes touch them. Nervousness has a place in this world for a certain type, wouldn’t you say? That is why I always wanted to kill you myself, man to man, because I always have liked something in you.” The Host paused, thought a moment. “You know what, we should make this fun. I am really in the mood for some sport. I have a compromise, if, of course, it suits you.”
He looked to the boy to see his reaction, but there was none. “I have a garden out back, magnificent garden. I must have spent half my life in that garden. The shed is overgrown with ivy, the ground is covered with flowers. Now, I’m not talking about piddly bunches here and there. It’s covered with the most magnificent flowers, even orchids, which cannot grow here, I have grown. It is pure beauty. Years ago, when I was engaged, my father gave me this house, but there was no garden then, just grass and ivy. But then I was married, and my love came. She transformed this place into a palace, planted all types of flowers, didn’t matter who said if they would live or die, and she always managed to let them live. Well, the garden is nothing now compared to what it used to be. Sure, there are still flowers, but all of them are native, there is only one surviving exotic flower, a white orchid. While all the others died, I fought bitterly to keep this one alive, this one at least. This one at least. A stranger to this world, defying death; the only thing that can still love in this household. Love… such a peculiar word in these dark days… But I’m afraid I’ve digressed. Why don’t you and I go back to that garden, and we’ll kill each other like civilized men.”
The boy sat in silence.
“A duel, boy,” The Host said, excitement filling his eyes, his hands clenched in a fist over his heart. “A duel,” he whispered. “Just you and me, boy. You and me and our guns in the garden. That’s the proper way to die, don’t you say? Amongst the beauty and the sky, midway between heaven and hell. And if you shoot me dead, you and all these other people, you can all leave.” He lifted a necklace from out of his collar, a key dangled from it. “This is their key to freedom. You kill me, and you can rip it from my body as we both know you are perfectly capable of doing. You can in a way redeem yourself and become the hero of this boisterous affair.”
“And wh-what if I d-don’t kill you?”
The Host laughed good naturedly. “Don’t not kill me. You might end up like him,” he motioned to Mr. Johnson, wine and blood poured down upon the lap of luxury. “And you don’t want to end up like him.”
“Then I h-have to k-k-kill you,” said the boy, his eyes floating as if contemplating the possible outcomes of The Hosts proposal.
“Yes,” said The Host, “then you have to kill me.”
“I’ll do it,” said Bobbie Flanagan.
“Good form.”
The Host motioned for the boy to follow him. They walked to the kitchen door where The Host knocked three times. “Walter, it’s me,” he called through the door. The violin stopped. “A young lad and myself are coming through the door. Could you kindly unlock it?”
“Very good sir,” came a weary voice from the other side of the door before it snapped unlocked, and slowly was pushed open. The Host walked through with an air of confidence, followed by the young man, Bobbie Flanagan. The man behind the door shut it and locked the latch. “Sir?” he asked.
“Yes Walter?” asked The Host.
“The young master has a gun.”
“You worry too much, Walter,” The Host laughed, patting Walter’s shoulder. “The young man is a gentleman. We are about to have a gentleman’s duel.”
“Very good sir,” said Walter, his hands folded in front of him. “Would you like me to continue manning my post, sir?”
“Yes, Walter,” The Host said walking by. “That would be fantastic.” The Host stopped, snapped his fingers, and turned back to Walter. “Do you know what I have, Walter? I have a sixty-year-old bottle of scotch, which is impeccable by the way, in my safe. It’s half drunk, mind you, most of which I drank today. The safe is still open. Go get yourself a drink, you look tired. And, Walter, if the worst should happen, I’ve recently updated my will. You’re getting the house.”
Walter stepped back. “Everything sir?” He asked with a bit of surprise.
“Yes, Walter, everything. Use it well,” The Host turned around and motioned for the boy to follow him. As he opened the back door to the garden, he called back to Walter, “Take care you don’t get too greedy, Walter. It’s a sin you can’t repent of until it’s too late. Later you can talk about it with Mr. Johnson.”
Walter forced a smile. He breathed one heavy breath before saying, “Best of luck, sir.”
The Host put a hand on Bobbie Flanagan’s shoulder and led him out the door into the waning sunlight, already with a tint of red, and shut the door behind him. Walter held his post.
“Look at this place,” The Host said, his arms were spread wide as he walked over flowers and moss and ivy. The sun began dipping down below the small hills in the distance. “Smell the air,” he said. “Feel the dirt. This is a good place to die, wouldn’t you say?” he asked.
“S-smells l-like rain,” said Bobbie Flanagan.
“Indeed it does,” The Host looked up in the sky, but there were no clouds, just pink and purple where the blue is used to being. “Indeed,” he whispered, “it does smell like rain. And the sun is still in the sky.”
“The sun is s-setting,” said Bobbie Flanagan.
“Indeed,” The Host said as he looked on at the boy who would not take his yellow eyes from him. “Boy,” he said. “Why did you do it?”
Bobbie Flanagan kept silent.
“It’s simple enough. Why did you do it? This is the moment of truth, boy, and any man would tell me. So, what do you say, huh? I deserve an answer! You who dragged her and dumped her in a ditch? She didn’t deserve that! You’re a child, a fiend! It was I who dragged her back out in the morning light once I found her! I who cried over her cheeks, held her tight, and was stained by her blood. You do deserve to die! You stole her from me, you stole my heart, right here, this scar, you gave me as you broke the lock for which only she held the key, tore it from its box which only she could enter, and threw it in a scum-filled river floating with the waste of the city. And if the angels produce even Annabel Lee, here I will always be stuck in Limbo, waiting, wanting, craving, and forgetting what love feels like. It was you, boy, who viciously stole my heart and burnt black the arteries surrounding it. It was you who turned the whites of my eyes into oleander, you who brought me to kill all whom I see. I may never get returned. Boy, accept your responsibility before you die! It was all because of you. You know this, don’t you?”
Bobbie Flanagan looked at his host who walked around him, careful not to tread too firmly lest he rend a flower in two. The boy’s hand, slick with sweat, clasped his revolver tight. His knuckles were white, his face was white, and his eyes shivered. “I know it,” he whispered.
“There is something sick about you, but still, there is something I admire in you boy,” said The Host, and he stopped walking. “You might be a right rat bastard, but for some reason, I like you.
“I am a far better gunman than you. This is obvious, look at yourself. I won’t have any fun killing you in this state with my obvious advantage. It’s just not right. You can hardly lift your gun, much less take aim with any dexterity. So, lad, I’ll tell you what I propose.”
“Go on.”
The Host smiled. “We will stand back to back, and each walk twenty paces. We will turn about and I will allow you to fire first. Do you hear that? I will not fire until after you have fired. Do you understand this?”
“Y-y-yes,” said the boy.
“Good. Because if you miss me, if you hunch, if you run, if you break this trust in any way, you are little more than an animal. Take your time, aim well, because if you miss, I will not miss, and further more, I will continue the work I began here today.” The Host crossed his arms. “I’m afraid I will need your word, your word you will give this battle the due diligence and respect it deserves. Do not shrink, do not run. Give me your word and we will commence this thing.”
“Aye,” said Bobbie Flanagan, “You have my w-word.”
“Good.” The Host walked towards the boy. He stood nearly a foot taller than the boy, who stood with a hunch, dressed in far better than busted-out tweed. He held his head high with a faint smile. “I wish I could have finished my letter. But, c'est la vie, it’s probably ruined now, covered with that wretched woman’s blood. I memorized it, read it over and over, because I knew I’d be nervous. Would you care to hear what I wrote?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Right, down to it then.”
The two walked to the center of the garden and stood back to back. Crickets began to chirp, frogs began to croak, and the sun’s last rays just rose over the hills in the distance. The smell of rain was thick in the air, but there were no clouds. Inside the house, the trapped guests stood against the second-story window, all pressed up against the glass, some covered in sticky blood, some in wine. They looked down eagerly, wondering what took so long for the duel to commence. Some were still crying.
“Count your steps aloud, boy,” The Host said, then he smiled and said, “Excuse me, count your steps, Mr. Flanagan.”
They each took a step and aloud counted, “One...” They took another, and another, and counted, speaking to the air, “two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight…” The Host took his ninth step and counted “nine,” but he did not hear Bobbie Flanagan count. The Host took another step, “ten,” and once again Bobbie Flanagan did not count. But The Host did not look over his shoulder. He stood still and he heard the faint tapping of steps rushing toward him. Animal, he thought. And then he thought, I like this boy.
Bobbie Flanagan ran toward the host, gun held at his hip, and he fired a round, pulled back the hammer and fired another. The Host was hit in the back and lurched forward. He was hit again in the leg which flew out from under him, sending him to the ground. He pushed off the ivy with both hands, put all his weight on his good leg, and he limped forward. “Eleven,” he coughed so the boy could hear it, so the boy could know what a man sounds like. He limped forward again, “Tw-twelve.” He could taste the blood he had coughed up and he spat it to the ground. Bobby Flanagan stood behind him and fired another round which struck The Host in the back. His body was hurled to the ground, blood coming out in spits from the open wounds. The Host crawled forward, and Bobbie Flanagan stood over him and took aim.
Every time his heart beat, his body gargled out more red, red blood, and his sights faded to dim light, the green blur of ivy, and the white of an orchid which could not grow in this climate. But he had made it grow. He had aided it as its roots spread, watered it when the sun was down, cut back the ivy, keeping it from taking over. He had kept the perfect balance. As a breeze blew, the orchid wavered, then leaned in close and kissed his cheek.
Bobbie Flanagan pressed the barrel of his gun against the man’s graying hair and whispered so only he, The Host, and the orchid could hear. “You know you deserve to die, don’t you?”
The Host mouthed the words he could not speak. “I know it,” he tried to say.
Bobbie Flanagan pulled the trigger.
The bullet burst through The Host’s skull, traveled through his brain cutting off important connections, broke through the other side, traveled with a trail o
f blood and brain, and cut the stem of the orchid in half. The flower shot up in the air before it fell and softly landed on The Host. The white flower on the red blood on the black suit on the man with the broken heart.
Bobbie Flanagan reached down and grabbed the necklace from around the dead man’s neck, and yanked at it, but he didn’t have the strength and it did not break. He had to use his teeth, like an animal, to undo the clasp. He walked back and freed the guests, and as he did, all of them starkly knew, they all deserved to die.
So What’s Next?
If you enjoyed Midway Between Heaven & Hell then you’ll love my full length novel Discovering Aberration. Readers said, “I found it difficult to put down” and “Barrus' richly woven dialogue and character sketches collude to bring a modern-day Treasure Island. Discovering Aberration carries such a rich story that readers will return to again and again."
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