The alarm clock goes off in the usual way, blaring like one of those old 1940’s air raid sirens. It lacks the durability of those old-school bricks, though, crumpling under the weight of Eric’s fist like the cheap hunk of plastic and solder that it is. It warbles off into a surprised diminuendo before awkwardly falling off the edge of functionality.
The sudden silence is broken only by the soft metal on cloth scraping of a long-barreled revolver being drawn. Sitting up slowly on his camping mattress, Eric looked around the barn in which he had made his bed the night before with the revolver resting in his lap, fingers still curled around the grip. The derelict pieces of furniture that had been condemned to the barn long ago – too good to throw out, too damaged to use as they are – were still propped up against the neatly slatted barn door. As far as Eric could tell, nothing had been disturbed. Still, he kept his vigil, eyes and ears stretched to peak efficiency despite having only been roused moments ago.
After several minutes of soft-breathed silence, a familiarly impatient whinny broke the silence. Eric’s soft-featured face cracked in a wry smile, and the revolver’s hammer was gently released with a mechanical sigh.
Just another morning, Eric thought to himself as he placed the pistol on the hay-strewn floor next to him and tossed off his blankets. The number of desperados wanting to rob him blind and lunatics wanting to try and kill him had dropped off rapidly as he had neared the city. The mayor kept a tight ship around here, and wasn’t going to allow any troublemakers to come along and ruin the status quo.
Which includes me, Eric reminded himself as he splashed some of the water from his canteen onto his face to wash away that just-woke-up feeling. As much as he didn’t like the city mayor, Eric knew he had no choice but be civil if he wanted to visit his friend, Jacque. Why Jacque insisted on living in such a pit of gluttony and decadence was beyond Eric’s ability to comprehend; sentimentality aside, there was nothing for him there.
“Damn French and their sentiments,” Eric muttered to himself as he rubbed the five-o’clock shadow lining his jaw, wishing he had some way of getting rid of it. When the heavens didn’t open up and drop a magical razor into his lap, though, he decided he’d better get on with his morning routine.
The revolver was the first thing Eric checked. He was pretty certain no-one had broken in last night, but ‘pretty certain’ didn’t quite cut it. Flicking out the cylinder, he checked to make sure none of the bullets had been stolen from their chambers before closing it and checking his ammo pouch for the same. Having counted all the bullets – thirty-seven in total, not counting the ones in the pistol – he closed the pouch and set about rolling up his this mattress and the blankets he had been sleeping on. They hay was slightly damp and stuck to the mattress, but he managed to get most off it off with a few brushes of his hand.
Today’s Thursday, Eric mused to himself. That makes it… Overcast, with light rain starting around two and clearing around five. Eric checked the digital watch strapped to his wrist. The generic, square-edged green numbers silently stated the time to be eight thirty-seven in the morning; that should give him more than enough time to get to the city before the rain set in.
Gathering up his the few belongings he kept with him as he slept into a sack, Eric strapped on the two Western-style gun holsters across his hips. In the right holster, he dropped his revolver, its gleaming length coming to rest snugly in the leather like it was born there. In the left, he jammed in his canteen with significantly less grace. It fit, but not overly well; it wasn’t designed for holding a canteen of water, after all.
Walking over to the barricaded barn door. he peered into the shelves of a wonkily-placed cabinet for a moment before reaching in and drawing out a long pencil. He ran his thumb over its smooth, black sides, feeling the series of little bumps that spelt out P.J. O’Rourke Accounting, before testing its point. There was a pinprick of pain, but he hadn’t pressed hard enough to draw blood.
Same as always, Eric thought to himself with a sigh, before tucking the pencil into one of the pockets of his jeans. Dropping his bag of things next to his feet, he reached up and pulled on the cabinet, tipping it to the floor with a mighty crash of wood splintering and abandoned china shattering somewhere in its depths. Reaching for the next obstacle – a three-legged table – Eric did the same again, with much the same effect. After a few minutes of noisy work, Eric had managed to create a healthily-sized pile of broken furniture, one hell of a cloud of dust and enough swinging-space to pull the door open.
Outside, the sky gloomed darkly across a stark, winter-bare forest, just as Eric had expected it to. A fresh-picketed, whitewashed fence defiantly and absurdly marked the division between skeletal trees and the painfully green grass that swathed the clearing. The trees towered over the wooden poles, but kept to their ranks – probably more out of brooding interest in the isolated farmstead than any fear of the farmer’s axe.
An impatient snort snagged Eric’s attention from the scenery with its long-suffering impatience. Swinging his travel-sack up over his shoulder, he made his way across the close-cropped grass to the warhorse lookalike that stood under the farmhouse patio.
“I’m coming, Glassy, I’m coming,” Eric said placatingly as he neared the black-coated stallion. “It’s not like there’s any sort of rush.”
Glassy just tossed his head; if he were human, Eric reckoned he would have been rolling his eyes. Glassy had never been one for patience, no matter how much time they had on their hands. He was already standing next to his saddle, waiting to be geared up so they could get back on the road.
“Kept an eye on my things last night as usual?” Eric asked, dropping his sack again to have a quick rifle through the saddlebags. Glassy didn’t even dignify that with a response; Eric trusted him to raise some sort of alarm if anyone tried to rob them. Either that, or just to take care of them himself; Glassy was a fairly imposing creature, after all.
“Everything looks to be in order,” Eric said after a few moments in a mock flight-attendant voice. “Boarding begins as soon as we’ve loaded on the baggage; so let’s get to it.”
Glassy was well used to being saddled by this point and didn’t put up a fuss at all. For his part, Eric was well versed at putting on a saddle by now, and so within minutes he was astride Glassy’s back with his eyes on the solitary gravel road that lead out of the farmhouse clearing. Glassy didn’t even have to be told where to go; as soon as Eric was settled they were moving, first at a walk, but quickly speeding up as both mount and rider limbered up cold muscles. The landscape streaked by in a blur as they rode, while up ahead the familiar high-rise of New Orleans beckoned, welcoming them back again with an oily smile.
Come, travellers, she seemed to say. Come and join in the party; food, women and wine for all. Anything you can imagine and much more that you cannot lies within. Come, leave your shoes on; the Big Easy cares not. Come, travellers; come and join the eternal festivities.
By God, Eric hated New Orleans.
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