“Okay now, son,” he said, patting his head and feeling a strange lump there. “Let’s wash you up in the bathroom. Nobody is trying to eat you.”
“But Dad …!”
“Shush!” he demanded. “Don’t get your mother out of bed, you know she’s pregnant and needs to rest. If she gets wind of this night terrors crap coming back, she’ll want to drag you to a shrink. She’s got enough to worry about with a real baby coming without having to take care of a grown boy who is acting like a baby!”
* * * * *
Under the bed, Meanie and Fred-Fred struggled to contain their laughter. The Old Man was ripping into the little brat with about as much mercy as the monsters themselves. They watched The Old Man escort The Kid out of the room to go wash his face and give him a serious talk. They looked at each other and shook hands, paw to talon. Outside the bed, they heard Slithers reforming.
“How you doing out there, Slithers?” Meanie asked.
“I’m managing,” he said. “That hurt like the dickens, but it was worth the payoff.”
Slithers wiggled his way under the bed and into Fred-Fred’s living room. He had rebuilt himself using a discarded sneaker, some log-cabin bits, and even some of the late Mr. Rex’s cotton innards. Fred-Fred patted him on the back and tossed him and Meanie a beer each before popping open his own. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d all just hung out together at his place. It felt damn good, like the neighborhood was already getting back to normal.
“I couldn’t believe the way you got right in The Kid’s face,” Fred-Fred told Meanie. “That was gold!”
“Well, like I said before,” Meanie began, “the kids these days aren’t scared by the simple old ways. They need a little extra. It’s more work, but that’s what the market is demanding.”
“Oh man,” Fred-Fred said, still laughing, “when you punched him in the face! Haw-haw! I could barely breathe! I never seen anything so funny in my life!”
“Hey, you did nice work killing that mutt, too! And let’s not forget Vlad the Impaler over here,” he said, pointing at Slithers. “Boy oh boy, the way you smacked that mutt was beautiful!”
“It was a lucky shot, but thank you kindly,” Slithers said. “And allow me to add that while I, too, enjoyed watching you punch the child, it was the licking of his blood that I saw as nothing short of artwork, my good fellow.”
“You know, I really wanted to eat that brat,” Meanie said, passing out cigars to go with their beers. “But you can’t cut off your snout to spite your face, so to speak. This way is better. This way is the good, old-fashioned, nightmare way, and I never could have done it without you guys. You are true monsters, made of real hellfire and brimstone.”
“Indubitably,” Slithers agreed. “There is little chance of any boogeyman moving in on our territory now. After the horror show we put on for the boy tonight, he’s bound to be frightened of us, specifically, for years to come, if not his entire life. I daresay I think we may have even secured a phobia!”
“Wow!” Fred-Fred said.
“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, now,” Meanie said. “Maybe we did, and maybe we didn’t create a phobia. Either way, I wouldn’t hold your breath for no phobic bonus. But we still put in a fine night of freaking, and we should be goddamned proud of our ghoulishness.”
“We got him!” Fred-Fred hollered, holding out his beer for a toast.
“Damn right,” Meanie said. “We got that brat, and we got him good.”
“Cheers,” Slithers added, raising his beer with the jumprope that served as his new arm.
The three rusted cans clanked together in victory. The monsters had secured their neighborhood against the unwanted immigration of boogeymen. Better than that, though, they had also proven themselves, and now they would not have to worry about losing their positions, which, in their current economy, was truly something to be scared of.
The Bone Orchard
When it began, the snow was so gentle that when the wind blew, it made white wisps that danced across the wooden walkway, looking like the froth of a wild tide. But while the snow may have started gently, the wind was an ornery thing that howled in his ears, as if passing on the secret of the horror that was to come.
Cheyenne spit his tobacco and watched it begin to freeze when it hit the steps, looking like dung from a Christmas burro. He walked up the planks, mindful of the ice, and made his way into the glow of the brothel. He felt a sweet comfort the moment he stepped inside, leaving the winter flurries behind in favor of the soft lamplight that reflected off the pints of whiskey and the smell of talc that seemed to float from betwixt each pair of pearly breasts that popped out of the brims of those corsets.
Sonny’s Saloon and Bordello. By gum, it’d been a while, he thought. For such a poor town, the place was mighty fine.
“Belly up to the bar, friend,” the barkeep called out to him.
He wasn’t in the mood to jaw with this boy, who looked between hay and grass, but his chilled bones sure could use a swish of whiskey or some good corn liquor. He’d think about sarsaparilla only if he was planning on bedding one of these harlots tonight, which he doubted. He was low on money, and he’d just as rather spend it on morphine these days than on a lady. There had been a time when he had been so regular there that he’d bedded every whore in the house. Now there were a lot of new lassies in the place, a lot of them young and firm too, but he was too broke, pissed off and old to care much.
“Just give me a snort of that oh-be-joyful, son,” he told the barkeep. He reached for the cigar in his pocket, but, noting that there was only one left, he figured he’d save it for a happier occasion.
A pint of whiskey was slid his way, and he shot it down like a U.S. marshall in his angry dreams. He had taken to drinking Mule Skinners of late, over his old standby of bourbon. He felt played out, but the burn of the liquor popped his eyes open and tingled his guts afire. It wasn’t the kiss of morphine, but it would do.
He scanned the place, seeing semi-familiar faces amongst the new. Mostly they were harlots, like the two blondes and the chubby brunette in the corner, but a few card players and drunks were tucked in back. Some local grangers he recognized from the old days were just leaving. The harsh winter night seemed to be bad for business. He was just wondering where Sonny himself was, when he saw him come around the side of the bar, fatter now and with a little less hair; but his eyes were the same hard, black outhouse holes they’d always been.
“This whiskey tastes like belly-wash,” he snarled, grinning like a joker under the brim of his frozen hat. “I think your bar boy here is trying to bilk me with turpentine.”
Sonny glared at him like an angry cock before his face softened with recognition.
“McCracken?” Sonny asked, taken aback. “Is that you, you ol’ hard case?”
“The very same.”
Sonny walked over to him and shook his hand. They weren’t friends, exactly, but he was someone Cheyenne knew, and that was enough.
“Haven’t seen you ’round these parts in some time,” Sonny said, rolling up his cuffs. “I heard you were locked up in the calaboose.”
“Well, when no one pays the bounty on ya, they end up sending ya right back out, if’n they don’t hang ya first.”
They both snickered dryly.
“Stayin’ at Lady Demsy’s?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Cheyenne replied. He’d paid for a room for two nights, stashed his bit of plunder, and had stabled his horse in the barn Lady Demsy provided for all her tenants’ steeds. His horse, Blackheart, was more of a crow-bait gelding than anything else, but being his only mode of transport and one of his only possessions, he didn’t want him freezing in the night.
“Well, good to have you back, old timer,” Sonny said and patted him on the shoulder before wandering off to talk with one of the girls. Cheyenne had been hoping to friendly his way into a free round, but no such luck. Sonny was the same cheap croaker he’d always been.
“Old
timer,” he repeated to himself.
He looked at his reflection across the bar and realized Sonny was right. He’d never seen himself look so ashen. His stubble was coming in white now, and his hair was salt and pepper at best. Even his skin had taken on a ghostly pallor, highlighting all of the old scars he’d gained in the war. Scars, a bum ankle, and a morphine habit, he thought,and they hadn’t even won. Now he was 52 and busted. Roaming again, just to end up back in this hellfire burg, ready to rob another railcar if he could just get a good posse off the ground.
“Another?” the barkeep asked, pointing at his empty glass.
He dug into his pocket and checked his change, glad he’d secured a room before hitting the firewater.
“I reckon one more would do me,” he said.
The barkeep refilled the glass and drifted away, leaving him to guzzle his woe. But he wasn’t lonesome long. No one in a whorehouse ever is.
“Howdy,” she said, scooting next to him, her blond locks dancing on his shoulder. “My name’s Mabel. What’s yours?”
“Cheyenne McCracken,” he said.
She smelled of lilac. She was young, too, and fine as cream gravy.
“Hey, isn’t Cheyenne a girl’s name?” she teased, as if she’d been the first one ever to do so.
“Reckon so.”
“Well, you look pretty manly to me,” she said, giving him the gush and batting eyes. “A real rough-and-tough cowpoke.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, indeed.”
She gave him a knowing wink, and he belched in reply.
“Hell, I’m old enough to be your pappy.”
“I’ve seen older,” she said. “Besides, you’ve got character.”
“Ain’t got the money, though.”
“Not even for little ol’ Mabel?”
“Not even for a bath in week-old water,” he told her. “Just came in to warm up.”
“Well,” she said, already moving away, “I’d keep you warmer than that rot-gut ever could.”
As she walked off, she put a little extra swagger in her hips, driving the point home. The wind outside howled like a steam whistle, and bits of sleet began to click and clack against the windows. Cheyenne watched now as the weather turned nasty, seeing the sleet mesh with heavy flakes. They reminded him of a feathering he’d seen a preacher receive once, after the man had been slathered in tar. It was all because of a squabble over religious education in grammar schools. Looking at the snowflakes now, Cheyenne remembered the gentle float of the feathers, and how angelic it all had looked, even though they were to spell horror for the man who lay under their delicate fall.
* * * * *
“It’s getting bad out there,” a voice said from the top of the stairwell. It was a smoky voice he knew could not be duplicated. The sound of it was like velvet brushing across his heavy heart. It had to be her.
Looking up, he watched her walk down the steps, looking like a redheaded fairy from a children’s bedtime story. Maybe it was the dim light or the heavy powder on her cheeks, or maybe the hooch was buckin’ him, but from where he sat, it looked as if she hadn’t aged a single season in five years. She must be close to 40 now, he realized, but she looked just as he remembered her: the same slender form and delicate, doll-like limbs, and that hair, those untamed locks of billowing sunfire. She was still a lady of the first water, he thought. He felt his mouth go dry, so he wet his lips with the last drop at the bottom of his glass.
A few of the card players got up to leave, and she tried to coax them into staying, doing her job. Two of them kept right on with their poker game, but the others just tipped their hats to her before walking out into the now-raging winter.
“This ain’t no barn!” Sonny barked at them as they took too long to shuffle out. “Close the door!”
The men exited without a word, and Cheyenne figured that when you’re a big bug who’s got the only hot spot in a dunghill, you didn’t have to give the best customer service. This was just how he remembered Sonny’s disposition. Far as anyone could tell, Sonny was born an ill-mannered bastard, ready to spit into his own mama’s eye.
Cheyenne only saw the outside for a split second as the front door fell back into place. But in that moment, he thought he saw something strange in the sky, beyond the showers of ice. It almost looked like something was twisting the night itself, making it churn like butter, only blacker. But the door closed, and so he just rubbed his eyes, blaming the emptied glass before him.
She was drawing closer now, much closer, even though she still had failed to recognize him under the shadow of his hat. She moved up to the bar, and even three stools away he could smell her fresh application of coumarin, which sent his mind reeling back to those hot summer nights in her arms. She said something to the barkeep and then turned his way, as if he was just another granger.
“It’s getting powerful mean out there,” she said. “Stormin’ to the beat the Dutch. Seems a fella would be wise-minded to find a natural way to stay warm.”
“That’s a new flirt,” he countered, the hat’s brim still concealing him.
“Come on, cowpoke,” she said, stepping closer. “Let Jessamine take care of you tonight.”
“Jessamine now, huh?” he asked, looking up at her. “Is it all right if I just call you Mercy?”
She heard her true name just as she saw the familiarity buried within the leathery folds of his face, a face she had once kissed and truly meant it.
“Cheyenne?” she said in a hush. She sat down slowly, getting a better look at him. For a moment she didn’t speak, but she reached out with one hand and touched the thick scar that ran down the right side of his face where the bayonet had nearly taken his eye.
“Cheyenne McCracken?” she asked, not believing what she saw.
“The very same,” he whispered back.
She seemed as if she didn’t know whether to hug him or slap him. Her eyes grew misty, and she seemed to smile and choke at the same time.
“I’d heard that you were ...”
She couldn’t get it out.
“In the hoosegow?” he said.
“No. I’d heard you’d gone the way of all flesh; that you’d died fightin’ for General Lee. But then I heard other scuttlebutt too, like how you was robbing banks back in the old states with a gang of copperheads.”
“Well, scuttlebutt is all it was,” he said. “I ain’t dead, but I would be before riding with Yanks, even if they was Union-hatin’.”
“Where have you been since the war?”
“Oh, you know, just between here and nowhere.”
He didn’t want to tell her about the railcar robberies, the shootouts, the horse tripping and the bloody duels. He didn’t want to confess to the lawlessness he’d fallen right back into after the war. So there was a somber pause as they looked into each other’s eyes and said nothing.
“Been gone a long time, soldier,” she said.
“I reckon so.”
“Anything particular bring you back here?”
He sensed some hardening of her heart, and so he tried to ease her back.
“I honestly didn’t think you’d still be around, Mercy. I figured you’d moved on outta this here burg, maybe to a cottage upland. I’d heard that you were all settled down with an upstanding dude, someone to really ride the river with.”
“Just a whore in a whorehouse, Cheyenne. Same as when you left, just older.”
He fiddled with his glass.
“Just as I reckon you’re still a gunman,” she added. “Still robbing and killing and rambling like you’d just turned 18.”
“I didn’t realize you were so sore at me, Mercy.”
She took a deep breath then, struggling in the corset.
“My apologies, Cheyenne,” she said, softening. “I ain’t sore at you. I’m sore at myself.”
“For what?”
“For my own damned dreams.”
She placed her small, freckled hands over his.
“It ain’t like things ended bad between us,” she said. “How could they end when they’d never really begun?”
She wasn’t trying to dig at him now; this was her true heart talking, and that’s what made it sting all the more. He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t so, but he knew, just as she did, that there had been no courting, roses or pearls. There had been no love letters or whispered nothings. She’d been a whore and he’d been a regular customer: a lonesome local hombre who had taken a shine to her charms rather than those of the other whores he’d bedded there. A kinship had grown between them, something they both must have been desperate enough to mistake for love at the time. They’d both held on to that afterglow, neither of them knowing what it all really meant.
He sighed, wanting to tell her how he’d missed her, but it just wasn’t in him to do it, just as it hadn’t been in him to say goodbye. In truth, if he’d thought she still would have been there, he likely would have kept riding right through town. Not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t know what to do with that caring. He had heard that she’d left Sonny’s. He’d heard she had married and had a flock of little ones, and for her sake he had hoped it was true. But so much for what he’d heard.
To his surprise, she got off of her stool and leaned in to kiss his cheek.
“Good to see you, though, anyway,” she said, sweetly.
That’s when the window exploded.
* * * * *
Ice rained in like a hail of bullets, mixing with the broken glass to make a hellish spray. It was the rear window of the saloon that had somehow burst, and now the snow came hammering in. The glass and ice had discharged across the card players in the back of the house. Both of them had fallen to the floor, upending the table and sending their aces and kings adrift in the wind.
“Tarnation!” one of them hollered as he got to his knees. He was stout and portly, so it took him a moment to stand. His buddy, however, remained still on the floor, an icicle the size of a sabre having pierced his throat.
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