Reaper (#1, Duster and a Gun)

by Gregory Blackman

  I tried to block the images of the woman and young girl from my mind, but the harder I tried the more it pained me. The only thing that seemed to still my thoughts was of the Stetson on the dresser, something about its presence was oddly comforting and I found myself thinking of the life my father had lived.

  He was a good man, strong and resolute with a sense of humor that could flush the worry from my head. He was sort of like this mysterious hillbilly doctor in that regard.

  The last time I saw my father, I was being taken away for training at the age of ten. I was far too young to be separated from my parents, but he told me that everything would be okay. A place for everything and everything in its place, he told me, as if that would’ve made any sense to a child whom only wanted to see his friends and family. It was God’s work, the people that took me called it.

  Chapter Six

  Duster and a Gun: Reaper

  Gregory Blackman

  Setback

  The sound of thunder woke me and I found myself shaking from the memories that still haunted me. It was six months ago that I laid on that bed in Grimsby, but as I traced over the many scars inflicted upon me that night, I realized that some pains would never cease.

  The sky was painted in dark clouds, rain would soon fall and we’d be ankle deep in mud, unless we carried on towards the town doubtfully named Janestown. I had only the old man’s assurance that we were headed in the right direction but Billy’s reaction had me wondering if we were headed in the right way, or into a trap he knew about. And if the boy did, in fact, know of a trap, I wasn’t likely to get a word out of him.

  Billy was too young to make sense of the violence he’d seen, but going mute was a new experience for me, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Unlike the old man, who seemed to get on my nerves, the boy was a survivor where many other men had died around him, and yet he was still just that scared little boy that clutched on tightly to whatever he could for comfort. In this case it was the saddle blanket that kept him safe and secure.

  “Hey, old man,” I whispered, prodding him with a stick he’d picked up earlier to walk with, “are you awake?”

  No response for the old timer. “You’d better get up. I reckon the rain’s ‘bout to drown us. We should get packed up before that happens.”

  Still nothing, “get up or I’ll be leaving you behind” I said, as I grabbed hold of his shoulder. The old man rolled over without resistance, his eyes a milky white. He was dead, and likely had been for several hours.

  “Goddamn,” I muttered under my breath. I‘d asked for it, hell, I wanted nothing more than to be rid of the old man’s relentless stammering. Yet, I had a lump in the back of my throat that wouldn’t go away—a reminder of the horrible thoughts I wished upon the old man. It wasn’t the first thing I’ve come to regret in my line of work.

  There it was, the first few drops but it would get a lot worse. There was a belief among the people of the land that the rain was the plight of angels, their cries drowning the ground below in sorrow.

  I had a different theory. The rain was just a warning, a precursor of things to come. The angels weren’t weeping for their children, no; they were too busy worrying about themselves. When the great cataclysm happened, Heaven was just as shocked as the rest of us. The endless war had begun. Some called it Armageddon, and others simply refused to acknowledge its existence, sticking their heads in the sand and praying that what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them

  That’s what the angels did, too, and I’ve been reminded often how well that turned out. The war was on our front doorstep and Heaven didn’t give a damn about us. To them, we’re all just causalities of war.

  The downpour came and with it the reality I was trying desperately to avoid. Things were going to get a lot worse before they got better. I knew it and I’m pretty sure the old man knew it, as well.

  There wasn’t time to bury him and the downpour put an end to any thoughts of cremation. I had to leave him; he’d be food for the creatures of the night, the ones that hunted without remorse or prejudice. At least he died a free man. Perhaps that was enough for him and he finally allowed himself to succumb to death’s embrace.

  I had everything packed within minutes and Billy awake after being deprived of his comforting blanket. The boy wrinkled up his face and extended his arms toward me when I told him about the old man. His lip was quivering and the tears started shortly after. I lifted him onto Betsy, I made a promise to that old man, and I’d see it through to the end.

  Billy tugged on my duster, his hands slipping on the oil slicked coating to get my attention, still refusing to speak a word. I didn’t need to hear what the boy had to say to understand, I was thinking the same damn thing.

  “Don’t look back, boy,” I said, pulling on Betsy’s reins. “He’s in a better place now… and I reckon he’d be happy to see us on our way.”

  * * * * * *

  After a seemingly never ending night of listening to the old man drone on and on, I figured it’d be nice to finally get some peace and quiet. That’s what I thought, at least, but the reality was far more solemn

  I could tell Billy wanted to speak, tell his story, but there was something wrong with the kid; something that stilled his tongue and chilled him to the bone.

  It was an awkward silence over many hours when we made our way to the edge of a ridge that overlooked the small settlement. One long road divided the town; it wasn’t much, but in this day and age better than most.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” I said with a grin. “Old man, looks like you were right.”

  There was a sign for all to see, a billboard that read, “Welcome to Janestown, where all your sins are forgotten.”

  “Clearly,” I said with a snort. “Well, we did it, boy… and not a moment too soon.”

  Betsy trotted down the steep path towards Janestown with me on the saddle and Billy clinging on tightly behind. After all this time, I would’ve figured the boy’s grip to lessen, but tighter and tighter it became with every step.

  “Don’t take it personally, boy,” I said. “You’re great company, but I reckon I’m going to need a drink after all this.”

  No more than fifty buildings made up the town, one of the outlying towns waiting for some railroad tracks to be laid that were ever going to come. Still, I could find a cold beer and warm bed, the two things I truly needed.

  It wasn’t much, but half the townspeople must’ve been out and about, fixing up the buildings and giving everything a new coat of paint. They seemed proud of what they had, what they didn’t seem to feel pride in however, was the church at the end of the street. It was boarded up so that not a single beam of light would pierce its barricade and into its inner sanctum.

  “Perhaps they caught the preacher buggering the kids,” I said to myself. “Not that I couldn’t think of a million reasons to turn from the teachings of God.”

  Still, why not burn it down and use the land for something new? A town could always use another bar. I continued through the middle of the town until we reached the stables beside the tavern and dismounted to greet the man sitting in front of the place.

  “Evening,” I said with a tip of the hat. “How much will it be for the night?”

  “Five bucks for the horse,” he said as he rose. “Twenty will get ya both a place to sleep and a meal when ya wake.”

  “Here’s thirty for the horse and me, the kids not staying.” I replied.

  “Sir, yer much too kind,” he said. “I’m gonna treat yer horse to a double helping of oats. Just you see, she’ll be up and running with the wind in no time flat.”

  “Good. The extra’s to keep Betsy ready at all times, no matter the time of night.”

  “I hear ya loud and clear, mister,” he said with a smirk. “Never know when yer gonna need to slip away, is ya. “She’s a purdy mustang,” he continued. “I’ll make sure she’s ready at the drop of a hat… hopefully not yers.”

  I bid him good night and walked off wit
h Billy beside me. How the bloody hell was I supposed to find this kid’s home when he couldn’t even tell me his own name? As much as I didn’t want to say it, I just wanted to be rid of him and wash my sorrows away with a bottle of vodka and beer chasers.

  I had lost the demon’s trail. In all the time I’d chased the monster, I’d never been as close as I was a few days ago. I came within a hair’s breadth of it; all to have it slip between my fingers. Somewhere out there, the beast was laughing at me, taunting me while I coddled this kid.

  “Where’s your house?” I asked, turning to Billy and kneeling down to look him in the eyes. “I’m really going to need you to show me the way, boy.”

  I got no response from the boy, now deathly pale and quivering in his boots. I don’t know if he ran away from home, or was taken against his will. Frankly, it wasn’t any of my concern. I promised to see the boy home and not a single thing more.

  “What house boy? Where do you live? I’m not kidding around here Billy.”

  “Where do you live damn it?” I bellowed with my hand raised in anger. “You’re going to tell me whether you want to or not.”

  I paused for a moment, caught in a flashback of my life as a child. My father was a good man and never once raised a hand to me in anger, yet here I was, ready to do so to a kid who wouldn’t or couldn’t talk. I didn’t want to be that man. I couldn’t be that man. I lowered my hand, but as mine descended, Billy’s pointed towards one of the homes behind me.

  “Thank you, Billy,” I said, stroking his matted hair. “I promise that I’ll never threaten you again.”

  I took him by the hand and led him home. It was a decent enough looking place, bright white but without a hint of charm. It was basic, simple and safe, the kind of place where a kid wouldn’t have any fun, but one where he’d grow up right and proper.

  Billy stiffened up and squeezed my hand tightly as I knocked on the door and awaited someone’s arrival. I could hear somebody fumbling around inside, coming towards me.

  “Good morning,” said a man as the front door opened for us. “How may I help you, sir?”

  He was a regular enough sort of guy, middle aged with buzzed black hair that contrasted with his white clothing, soiled with god knows what on it, and the stink of manure about him. Still, there was nothing unnatural about his appearance; but then again, there was nothing too interesting about him, either.

  “Uh…,” I stumbled with the words and looked down towards Billy, “I’ve got your kid here?”

  “The boy?” the man asked in bewilderment. “Oh, the boy there… quite right, I’ll take him off your hands.”

  “Don’t you want to know where he’s been?” I asked. “He’s been gone for god knows how long.”

  “It all worked out in the end,” he said with a blank look. “You’ve my thanks for bringing him back stranger.”

  “It’s Horace.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it is,” he replied. “You have a good day now.”

  I tried to pass the boy along to his father, but he was strong for a kid his age, surprisingly so, and wasn’t letting go.

  “Please,” said Billy, speaking for the first time since his capture. “Please don’t l-leave me.”

  “I’ve got people that are depending on me,” I said, kneeling down to speak to Billy on his level, “much like a father needs his son. You have a good life, Billy Godwin. You were a real hero back there… never forget that, cowboy.”

  And just like that I left the boy, in the company of his father, yet alone in the world. It wasn’t my problem, though, not anymore. We all had to make sacrifices, and this was no more tragic than any other—especially those that called themselves reapers.

  Chapter Seven

  Duster and a Gun: Reaper

  Gregory Blackman

  Strangers All

  I swung open the shutter doors to the Rusty Nail tavern. It was crammed with people and the aromas of manure and sweat. This was a working man’s saloon. It looked as if the other half of the village had been in the fields. I couldn’t tell one of them from the other, save the differences between the men and the women, they were all dressed head to toe in the most basic white attire. Not a single face turned to greet me with their eyes, and yet not a single person turned to look away.

  “Now that’s a pleasant surprise,” I grumbled. “It’s mighty nice to meet you, too.”

  Usually, a crowd would take one hard look at a gunslinger like me and turn away, and the few that didn’t were likely looking for trouble. This lot was something else entirely, completely willing to go about their business and let me do the same.

  I looked around at the townsfolk, glued to their meals and not a single person made an attempt at conversation. The entire room, packed to the brim, was as hushed as a rundown library.

  Like all these remote settlements that time forgot, Janestown was stuck in the 1800’s and not expected to come out of it anytime soon. It was far removed from the reach of modern advancements and higher education. Strangely, I’d always felt more comfortable around these parts, walking among these people and partaking in their customs. This was not one of those times, however, and I felt a shiver trickle down my spine.

  I searched around the corners of the room looking for a place to sit and was immediately drawn to a single piece of modern technology in the corner.

  “Holographic dancing girls,” I said with an agreeable grunt. “Well, now I reckon I’ve seen every damn thing.”

  The girls, slightly translucent and flickering, were nothing but a projection of light and sound, but you’d never get a complaint from the men huddled around, slipping dollars into the slot for another minute of cheap thrills, but then I’d presume a town like this doesn’t offer much in the way of entertainment.

  “Kick up a seat an’ stay awhile,” the bartender announced.

  “I love it,” I said, taking a stool at the bar. “There’s not an automobile in a hundred square miles, but you’ve got holographic ladies shaking their stuff, and an enormous electric bill.”

  “Aye, they’re lovely ladies, aren’t they?” he said, grinning wildly. “I picked them up on my last trip back home to Houston. Their made in Dodge City… so you know they’ve been made by true-blue Americans.”

  The bartender was a rough looking son of a bitch with a disfiguring scar running from his left cheek down his neck and god knows where else. He was bald as a coot, face full of wrinkles and the stink of rum on his breath. Finally, this was a man I could talk to.

  “Yeah, I bet. You’re from Houston, then?” I said, pointing to the bottle of Jack Daniels on the wall. “It’s nice to meet a fellow Texan.”

  “That so?” the bartender asked as he poured me a shot. “Where are you from, pal?”

  “Austin… though I haven’t been home in a very long time.”

  “That’s a shame,” he said. “It’s a beautiful city. You should be real proud of the folks back home.”

  “That I am,” I said, pounding the shot back and savoring the slow burn, “Real good people there, lots of good memories.”

  “So what brings you to town?” the bartender asked as he promptly poured me another. “It can’t be for the lively entertainment. These are good people, but I can’t say they’re good company.”

  “Yeah, what’s with the clothes?”

  “You mean the white, holier than thou attire” he replied, “nothing a traveler like you need concern yourself with, they are devout people, is all.”

  “How’s that explain the church?” I asked, finishing off the next shot and motioning for another. “It looks like it hasn’t been used in years.”

  “That it hasn’t,” he said with a look of shame. “The town’s full of sin and we’re all degenerates, apparently. We’re not fit to appreciate it or some garbage like that.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Don’t ask me how a preacher’s mind works,” he said. “They’re on a different realm than the rest of us… and it’s not always a holy place, no
matter what they claim.”

  “Well, not like it matters or anything, but this traveler’s opinion couldn’t be further from the preacher’s—.”

  “Yeh stole me goddamn turn, yeh half wit!” shouted a red-headed man over by the holo-dancers. “I swear, yer brain cavity wouldn't make a drinkin' cup for a canary.”

  “Oh, is that so?” another man asked with a shove. “Ya better sit down, pipsqueak.”

  They couldn’t have been more dissimilar; one a scrappy little Irishman with red hair, and the other was a mountain of meat, an enormous seven footer with golden locks and a bad temper. The only thing they had in common was the whisky in their gut. I knew where this was going, and by the looks of the bartender who was removing all the glasses from the countertop, he knew what was going to happen, as well.

  “Look at this, boys,” said the giant as he knocked the cap off the Irishman. “He’s uglier than—.”

  That’s all it took for the Irishman, who threw a right hook to the other’s jaw.

  “Ah shit,” the bartender said as we watched the carnage unfold. “Someone’s always gotta crap in the pool.”

  I probably should have stopped them, but I wasn’t going to do that. This looked like the only entertainment in town. A man bares his soul in the heat of a fight, and you can see what hidden evil lurks in them.

  “Yeah, I’m going to need another shot,” I said, waving my hand to the bar behind me, “and make it a double.”

  The two drunks rolled around on the floor, punching and kicking their way from table to table. It wasn’t much of a fight, mostly insults and glancing blows.

  “Who’s this?” I asked, noticing a group at the saloon’s door. “It looks like the bully patrol is here to make the joint safer… and less interesting.”

  I could see the Sheriff’s bronzed star and matching uniforms which made them stick out like a sore thumb in a sea of white. They never were any good for a laugh, too caught up with the crooked laws they were meant to impose.