Plague, Chapter Three

 

Chapter Three

CHARLIE WATCHED THE tumbleweeds blow by in waves of taunting sand, the sun laughing straight into his skin and exploding through the surface, causing legions of sweat beads to erupt down his weak and shaking body. Both arms were hanging out the bars, dangling in the humid air. His chin rested along the small ledge beside the window, his eyes viewing the happenings from beyond.

    Maybe if he had some water, his tears wouldn’t be so dry. Perhaps even visible, and wet. He smiled after thinking about this. Something wet -- a liquid -- running against his face. That would be pure bliss, and Charlie would embrace every moment of it in complete soothing pleasure.

    A mosquito found its way in the isolated jail cell, and quickly made a home on the tip of Charlie’s nose, which was still resting atop the window ledge, his eyes lost in the sandy seas. He didn’t bother swiping it away; he actually enjoyed the little fella’s company. He liked the discomfort of its devious proboscis puncturing through his nose. He didn’t mind sharing that tiny drainage of blood the bug had probably flown miles to acquire.

    Charlie drifted his pupils away from the desert, descending toward the mosquito who was happily engaging in a feast of gunslinger juice. He managed to crack a faint smile. “Hello there,” he slurred. “Where’d ya come from, huh, little fellow? Ya hungry, huh? Yeah, well just go ahead and eat. I’m sure it’s mighty tasty. After all, both of us shouldn’t go ‘round starvin’ like a coupa fools, right? So, you just go ahead and do your business. I ain’t mindin’. It’s kind of nice, ta tell ya the truth.”

    For the next minute or so, Charlie gazed upon this hematophagic wonder, not saying a word or thinking of one either, for that matter. All things were lost as he watched the survival instincts of this cunning insect of the agitated. It was a true marvel, how life worked. You have one man rotting away from starvation, and a little bug feeding off the same exact man at the same time. He wondered what it would be like vise versa, and immediately raised his eyebrows, for the thought had struck him as extremely silly. What good would a tiny insect do to a full-grown man? Why, it didn’t even match up to the fillings of a mere raisin.

    His thoughts began to grow from eating the mosquito to back to his brother, whom was becoming more desirable by the second. If this bug could survive by only drinking blood, why couldn’t Charlie do the same? It seemed fairly practical.

    “Tell me, little fella,” Charlie said, looking back down at the mosquito. “How dat blood tastin’ for ya? It good? It should be good, considerin’ you nearly lickin’ the plate. What it taste like, huh? Whiskey? It tastes like whiskey, doesn’t it? Yeah? Well, that’s just fine. Maybe it won’t be so bad after all, will it? Nope, it’s gonna all be just fine and dandy for little ole me. …”

    The pain in the back of his head still ached -- it never ended, did it? And the lump, it seemed as if it grew since the last time he took notice of it. Maybe three or four feet from his skull it stuck out. Sort of like a throbbing pickle, wrapped in scalp and hair. He dreamed of the moment when he was finally free from this dreaded place, he would find a knife and saw the monstrosity off his head, letting it thrash to the ground.

    Another thing, the smell of the s**t had returned; indubitably, the pile had as well. Charlie was not going to give into temptation this time, though. He refused to turn his head away from the window. Sure, the atrocious excrement was back -- and no doubt planning to kill him -- but he sure as hell was not going to acknowledge its presence. No, instead he focused on the mosquito. The sweet, ever knowing mosquito. It was his friend, he realized. His last and only friend. He could talk to the mosquito until hour’s end and it wouldn’t so much as say a peep back. That’s what a true friend did; they hushed up and let them speak their mind, no judging involved. They listened. They cared.

    “You’re a good listener, ya know that?” Charlie smiled, trying to think of something more to tell his newly acquainted friend.

    Remembering the pickle atop his skull, he said, “So, as I was sayin’, I had just decapitated two horses, and found a safe shittin’ gold bricks. It was the biggest hit I had ever attempted, and the most gold I’d ever seen. And then that goddamn driver came out of nowhere, shooting ole Ty, right in the chest. Pow. But, of course, I took him out. But then that sneaky guard came up from behind, smashing that brick over my head, thus creating this goddamn pickle. …”

*********

CHARLIE LAY FLAT on the sandy ground, eyes watching the drifting clouds in a daze of pain and confusion. The chubby guard, wearing a blue faded suit and a red bow tie, along with a railroad style hat, stood towering and staring down at him with a huge grin of satisfaction printed across his face. The gold brick remained firmly grasped in his right hand, a stain of blood clearly smeared along the gleaming surface.

    “Gotcha,” the guard, whom had quite the mustache going for him, laughed.

    The throbbing in the back pf Charlie’s head was immense. “You better choose your last words wisely --”

    “Shut up!” the guard shouted, abruptly slashing his foot forward and striking Charlie in the ribs. “I’ll say when you can talk, got it? I’m in charge here. Me, not you, you no good filthy heathen.”

    The guard smirked to himself as he realized his own power of control, which he rewarded by giving Charlie another kick in the side. “Bet that feels good, don’t it?”

    The guard laughed once more, finding a seat on a small log that rested a few feet from the injured Morgan Brothers. (Tyler still remained unconscious, but still alive, for they could easily make out the sound of his rasped breathing.)

    “Well, you just didn’t know who you were messin’ with, now didja?” asked the guard, lighting the pipe he had recently stuck in his mouth. “Didn’t know what stagecoach you fixed on robbin’, huh? No idea that John Kilts was guardin’ it, didja? Apparently you didn’t, otherwise you wouldn’t have tried this. Coulda turned around on your horse, went down to the saloon, had a beer, a broad, coulda kept on livin’ your life. Too late now, though,” John Kilts chuckled.

    “What are you doing?” Charlie demanded, raising his head and half of his torso. “My brother’s been shot. He’s going to die. We need to get him to the doc in town before it‘s too late.”

    Instead of enabling the helping skills from John that Charlie had hoped for, it instead only provoked another roar of laughter. “Do ya really think the doc’s gonna care about youse guys? If I recognized ya, I’m sure he will. Has eyes like a hawk he does; probably more alert then you two. And if he does recognize ya -- which he will -- he’ll most likely kill the two of youse himself. Right on the spot of your arrival. Same goes for any other decent human being that encounters the walking piles of s**t known as the ‘Morgan Brothers’. Now I ain’t got a problem with that at all. S**t, I’m gonna be standin’ front row at your hanging -- I’ll be sure to spit on your corpse as well, so don’t worry about that -- but none of that is gonna happen ‘till I collect my reward. I’ve captured both of the Morgan Brothers. You know what that means, right? I’m rich! That’s what it means, bucko. I’m rich and you’re dead. What a grand world.”

    Charlie’s neck was stiff, and he felt the need to crack it. However, his head ached too badly; therefore, he dared not tempt the boundaries of pain. Instead, he said, “Why don’t you just take the gold? Surely it’s more than you’d ever receive for our heads, right? Just take it and go, leave us here. We’ll find our own way out, and you’ll still be rich. Also, you’d be a kind gentleman who has spared the lives of two men. Whaddya think of that?”

    Charlie was certain that John would go for it. After all, he sure as hell would. Who wouldn’t?

    Apparently, John Kilts, guard of the only stagecoach the Morgan Brothers had failed to rob, wouldn’t.

    Well, at least he wouldn’t subject himself to half of the deed. The first part he was most certainly up for. The part centering on the gold.

    “Where are you going?” Charlie asked, as John stood up from his log and made his way over to the open safe. Since it was incapable of closing -- the bullet from Tyler’s gun had caused that --, John tilted the safe backwards, so that none of the bricks of gold could spill out, and began to drag it towards the hill in which the Morgan Brothers had previously set up camp.

    “Me? I just got a little business to take care of before the cavalry arrives. You know, like getting this gold out of sight -- that wasn’t a bad idea at all by the way. Imagine receiving the award for your captures and keeping the entire safe. I must be the smartest man alive.”

    “Nonsense!” Charlie exclaimed. “What are you gonna tell them happened to it? Walked away? Huh? In case you haven’t realized this, but there are only two people in the Morgan Brothers gang, and both of those guys are right here.”

    John smiled again -- a smile that Charlie vowed to break before day’s end. “It’s gonna blow their minds when I tell ‘em of the third unknown Morgan Brother, isn’t it?” He continued the slow exhausting process of pulling the safe.

    Charlie sat up further, turning his head over his shoulder to face the stagecoach guard. “You sportin’ a ten dollar Stetson and a five-cent head, ya know that? No one in their right mind is going to believe you.”

    “You talk an awful lot for a dead man,” John said, traveling farther up the trail that led to the top of the hill, thus going out of sight and ending the conversation.

    Charlie realized right then that he was screwed. He had to take action right there and then -- while the guard was gone -- or else he might never have the chance again.

    He got to his knees, looking around his environment. Pretty much the same as it was before he was knocked out: the destroyed stagecoach, the giant boulder, the decapitated horses, the deceased driver and guards, the oldest of the Morgan Brothers, now shot in the chest, barely hanging in there. The only things missing were John and the safe. Even Charlie’s horse remained where he had left him.

    Flash!
    
    Charlie gave his brother one last look, searched his gun belt only to discover it empty (the same results turned up on his own belt as well) and decided that John must have took them. So, unarmed and supporting a throbbing pickle atop his skull, Charlie jumped to his feet and dashed toward his beloved horse, where a Winchester hung from a satchel. Snatching it into his hands, he got in a rifleman’s stance, keeping the sights fixed on the bottom of the trail, one eye closed and one eye aiming for death.

    Sure, he could have grabbed his brother, hopped on Flash, and hightailed it out of there before the Law arrived, but that wasn’t the Morgan Brothers way. Someone messed with them, they never saw the light of day again. John should have known better. Everybody knew better. No business was ever left unfinished.

    He could have just let them go, but no, he had to be a greedy b*****d. Could have taken all the gold and left, picked up a new life. Could have faked his own death even. Could have done anything. Well, it was too late for him now.

    “Come on you son of a b***h,” Charlie said, gritting his teeth.

    Tyler was going to die. He knew that. He was not a doctor, but it was still widely obvious. There was nothing he could do. And that what was killing Charlie the most. His brother was dying and there was nothing he could do to prevent this.

    He needed someone to take his rage out on.

    Charlie hoped that the bullet didn’t kill John, just recoiled him back to the ground, knocking him unconscious like he had done him.

    And then the real fun would begin.

    He remembered a torture technique Tyler had showed him before. Take a knife and run the blade across the person’s arm, then sprinkle gunpowder into the wound, finishing up with a lit match and a barrel of screams. Charlie found this quite fitting for the stagecoach guard. He would definitely try this out -- among with other things.

    Moments later John appeared again, happily skipping down the hill, grinning like a jackass eating cactus, Tyler’s and Charlie’s pistols held in each hand.

    “There you are.”

    Charlie pulled the trigger.

    Click.