Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Banditos ❯ Runner's Valley, Pt. II ( Chapter 11 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Extreme AU, OOC, non-historic West, violence...supernatural themes, violence...Just be prepared for the amount of violence and utter chaos.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
Based somewhat on that thrilling vid-game, Darkwatch. Heh. My inspiration for something gory and dark.

Tri: Yup, yup, yup. But don't worry---he comes back. XD
I'm Alive: Junior's a dick---but ya'll know I need those guys in my story. Seems like I'm surrounded by them (wary look). And not in a good way, either. >.<
Heh.


A/N: Sorry for all the confusion, people, but things will be explained. I'm leaving a lot of loose ends, but, trust me, they'll be tied. I'm still not sure where it's all going, but I'm having fun writing it. As for my other story...well...I'm having trouble continuing that. So...maybe I'll work on it when I get the time, but for now, I'm focused on this one.


Chapter Eleven:
Runner's Valley, Pt. II




He’d treated his own wounds, before–his and Blayne’s. The pair of them had grown accustomed to the sight of their own blood, their brutal wounds; he’d learned to stitch, to cauterize, to fight off infections. So when it came to doctoring the boy, Hotstreak knew he was going to be successful at it.

He found a house that didn’t have very many windows; that was built with stone and concrete rather than wood. Zombies, Mad Men and Ghouls knew how to burn things down when they had the opportunity, and lack of windows made it hard for them to attack.

The house was that of a doctor’s–valuable and useful for his purposes. The medical supplies, as advanced as they could be in this town sprung by gold rushers, were useful.

So, firstly, he treated the infections–those of the boy’s arms, and a couple on his back. Those whip wounds hadn’t healed correctly, and as he worked, he remembered how the boy had screamed that day. Infection was moving through his body, and Hotstreak wondered how it was he kept going. How he hadn’t fallen to sickness, yet.

He didn’t know why he was treating him, actually. Working in numb disbelief on a complete stranger; a boy stranger that dominated his thoughts from the moment he met him. But he couldn’t deny his fascination. He’d already accepted it.

Hotstreak thought about the way the boy continuously cringed, the way he skulked about like a hurt puppy; helpless, defenseless, more than vulnerable. It was a fascination of his that made him imagine just how weak and useless this boy was; used only for his body, and not for anything more.

At first, it made him feel a little ill in that he was thinking this way–but the more he dwelled on it, the more he found it intensely mesmerizing. Of course the boy would be this way–he was trained to be. Working at a brothel, servicing men–obviously disobedient, obviously one that needed plenty of direction. Men loved to dominate; fighting to dominate one another, especially in this perverted way, was something of enthrallment.

So...of course he’d be fascinated.

The town was intensely silent–he figured it would be. It was inhabited by various dark things alike. Though Kangorr was clueless as to why this was a hotspot, it wasn’t of their main concern. Kangorr was eager to find Caine and this ‘him’ that had been mentioned so many times; if they could get to them, they could wipe out the army. Restore the world, so to speak.

He took care of the boy, finding it easier to do this than focus in on the recent horrors of his life. Even as he still thought of the Hawkins, the overwhelming guilt of their loss, he just needed something else to distract him. And this boy did it–Hotstreak was distracted by him, but more than intensely depressed that it wouldn’t last very long.

This boy would turn into a zombie, soon. He was dreading that aspect, but at the same time–what to do? What would he say before then? Do? Think? Now that the boy was here, a real physical entity in his hands, now what?

Hotstreak was just at a loss of that next step. He worked uncomfortably at removing the bullet; at stitching. He cleansed the caked blood, urine and dirt from him, then opened the single window in the room, to allow the flies in. When it was obvious that the boy had a fever from the various infections, Hotstreak was there to administer basic care–not pushing himself for better, as he was certain the boy was going to turn, anyway.

Everything was half-hearted in a way that kept him busy, his fingers working; and from his thoughts to consume him completely.

He had to keep moving–keep everything at bay, keep them from eating him up inside. If he paused for a moment, to allow all the horrors and trauma in, then he would be slowed. Destroyed.

The second afternoon of his ‘care’, the boy woke in a sluggish haze, fever inhibiting his thoughts. Hotstreak was scared for a moment, wondering if he were recognized when those amber eyes fell on him. But the boy had asked for his ‘da’, whining that his leg hurt. Hotstreak felt it weird that this kid, who claimed he was sixteen, was calling him ‘da’. It made him think of his kids with Maria, and gave him an unexpected twist in his gut.

He gave him some cool water; attempted to feed him broth flavored with bacon, but was rewarded with vomit. He didn’t bother with those measures again, not wanting to be the maid to clean things up. Once was enough. Virgil would have been better at this. He had a lot more human compassion than Hotstreak had.

While the boy slept, Hotstreak searched the town for any supplies, and began tracking the creatures that roamed in and out of the area. He was familiar with all of them–he was no longer surprised by their appearances, their actions; he and Kangorr had learned that their ‘behavior’ tended to be quite predictable once they were relaxed. It appeared that the creatures were moving their way north–slowly but surely.

Every time he returned to the house, he kept expecting the zombie-boy to be standing there. And every time, he was denied that expectation. He was starting to wonder if the boy was even going to turn.

Then, the fifth day, Hotstreak found himself wakening suddenly–he blinked away the sleepy remains of a vivid dream he’d had about the train robbery. Seeing Aron piss his pants, hearing the baby mewl. He was sitting in a chair at the back corner of the room, rifle slung over his lap when he heard the whispering of spectres–if they weren’t shrieking or throwing things, they hadn’t discovered them, yet.

He sat still, listening to the whispers, hearing the random nonsense of people that had long passed–they were sweeping through the area, passing by the house a few times, rattling the single window. He had to wonder if his footprints, if Charger–roaming in a field a couple of miles out–had been discovered. If they had...the Hounds would have sniffed them out, by now. Ghouls would have launched an attack–Mad Men would be cackling up a storm.

He relaxed, looking over at the bed with the sleeping boy. He glanced over the pale features, noting the slight grayishness in skin-tone, the slight rise and fall of a bony chest. He ran his fingers over his stubbled cheeks and chin, scraping at the mustache over his upper lip. It should be full and healthy in a few more weeks...the boy was still so young that he hadn’t had very much hair in the areas that mattered. His face was still baby-smooth, soft to the touch. Reminding Hotstreak of a girl.

He then touched his hair, fingering through the uneven dark red strands; it was messy, limp and reeked of sweat and musk. He pulled his hat off and studied the sweat-stained material, wrinkling his nose at the smell that wafted from it.

He slapped it back on with a shrug, figuring that no real cowboy was ever clean smelling, anyway.

He looked back over at the boy, remembering the lavender scent that he had on him that night; soft, yet strong enough to be noticed. He wanted to wonder if the boy could somehow keep smelling that way when clean, but Hotstreak had been close enough to know that he didn’t. He smelled just as strongly as he did, going without a bath.

He figured he’d clean them both sometime soon–after the activity outside died down. Maybe he’d find something lavender scented...scent the water with it, so that when he washed him, the boy would smell that same way.

He looked back over at him, looking over soft pink lips, over dark lashes. He felt an uncomfortable heat fill his lower belly, and he looked away quickly, shifting. He recognized lust; he long ago accepted it. It was an easy emotion to distinguish, and quite easy to satisfy. But to have it applied to some strange boy...he knew that such thoughts weren’t at all strange. After all, he’d traveled a lot throughout his years, and he’d seen his share of lust satisfied in various areas. If a man wanted another, then...there were ways of getting that sort of satisfaction.

Sometimes, people were attracted to the same sex; how it was perceived was something of an entirely different matter. How it was satisfied was something of an entirely different manner.

He looked over at the boy again, feeling uncomfortably needy; the kid was a whore. He was used to satisfying men’s needs and wants. It wasn’t as if he were...well...a virgin, or the sort. There was no such things as virgins in brothels. Besides, the kid knew what he was doing when he’d coerced Hotstreak to his room, that night. Whatever had been done, had been done.

Maybe...maybe before he turned into a zombie–

He frowned at the direction of his thoughts, shaking his head. He’d gone too long without a woman, was all. All this testosterone had him worked into a state that required such satisfaction. And since there were no women...just this male whore...and it would be free. No Alva to pay.

He could just hear Sharon screaming herself hoarse at him; for thinking so casually in that aspect, for making such a subject okay. It was funny–the Hawkins’ were really a sheltered bunch. Why, if they knew a third of his thoughts...he knew Robert would have never taken him in.

Sometimes, humans turned out to be less than one expected.

010101010110

Junior cursed as he eyed the road, clutching his rifle anxiously. The four horses he had tethered nearby were giving soft whinnies, their nostrils flaring at they caught the scent of zombies. The road was caked with the traveling monstrosities, but he didn’t catch any of those strange creatures he’d run into a few times. He was entirely anxious, needing to get back to Runner’s Valley, to get to the chit. He hadn’t run into any living humans along his travels, and due to creatures and zombies, he’d been hindered from a hasty return. All this activity bewildered him–for the West, having all this activity from everyone that had been killed or had been lying in the dirt was entirely confusing for him. He’d gotten over his fear of the beasts and the undead, but that anxiety hadn’t calmed any.

He rose from his hiding spot behind some rocks, and hurried over to the horses. Instead of taking the main road back to Runner’s Valley, he was heading over the mountain–making the trip longer than it should be. He hoped that the boy was still alive–he hadn’t left any supplies. He hadn’t been thinking clearly when he’d gathered his things and left.

Grimacing, he leapt atop the back of a well used mare, her protesting whinny catching the attention of a couple of zombies, whom answered in their guttural cries. Junior shot them an annoyed look, and had the horses moving. The ride back was silent for him–he was filled with constant anxiety and uncertainty. He hadn’t traveled alone, before. Being on his own was something entirely new. In a way, it made him rethink all that he’d done to others in the past. Those crying for their homes, for someone familiar–he wouldn’t admit aloud that he now understood the way they felt.

That night, he was cleaning out a tin can of meat and beans, chewing quickly as his eyes scanned the darkness around him. He hadn’t bothered with a campfire, and chose instead to layer on clothing and wrap a blanket around his shoulders. The horses were standing nearby, behaving in a manner similar to his–overly nervous and twitchy.

The other town hadn’t been touched, surprisingly. Junior was able to find a few valuable things, and these animals. He’d loaded them all with food, weapon and other things that he thought they could use.

Later on, he listened to the odd screams that rang throughout the valley. They were amplified by the space and the area; they made the hairs on the back of his neck and arms rise, and the horses grew even more agitated. It was as if they were all having a pow-wow down there. There wasn’t anything distinguishable by human standards. Shivering, he pulled his blanket close, fingers tight around the barrel of his rifle.

The next morning, he was pushing the horses into a dead run across a flat, hoping that the kid was still alive. Junior needed that one-uppance against his father. Alva had left him, and Junior was steaming about it. But that only drove him to improve his situation. He would use that boy...he would gather up followers, helpless survivors–have them depend on him. He’d build a bigger, better town. He’d exceed his father’s power that way.

Just the thought of seeing that old man’s face looking at him with helpless regard made him grin.

The zombies were headed off in a different direction. They weren’t headed for the Valley. He was able to hit the main road again, the horses growing tired with the effort. He had to rest them, or face dragging along dead animals.

He took them off to the side, heading for the river, looking around himself suspiciously. The valley was a flat, wide-open space, with several smaller roads branching off the first main. Some led into the Eastern mountains nearby, and the others led off further into the West. The silence down this way was just as interminable as Runner’s Valley. The mountain tops seemed to be foaming fog, a light mist curling toward the ground. He could smell moisture in the air, and squinted as he judged the weight and speed of an incoming storm.

As the horses drank, Junior scanned the area for anything out of place. He was seated atop a bunch of rocks when he heard the hard pounding of horse’s hooves against dirt. Startled, he looked up, seeing that there were riders coming his way. For a moment, he thought for sure that it was part of his party–they had been searching for them. Rising, he hailed them noisily, ready to rip into the cronie that reached him first. He’d give them a piece of his mind–

Then he realized that he recognized none of the riders. But they veered in his direction; human riders that were tired and exhausted, but obviously determined to head on their way.

Junior frowned as they neared, and anxiously eyed his horses, his supplies. A little fearful that they’d try to take them from him for their own needs.
The first rider seemed to recognize him, his face blooming with realization. He was a black man, younger than him–it looked as if he’d been riding non-stop for a few days.

“Yer alive!” was his first greeting, Junior frowning because he didn’t know the man. “That’s a surprise...”

“We know each other?” Junior asked sullenly, not relaxing his guard.

“No, not really. My friend an’ I used ta patronize yer place back in th’ day,” Virgil Hawkins confessed, grabbing his bandanna to wipe his forehead, sweeping his hat aside. Adam and the others rested as well, their tired horses moving toward the stream. “That’s who I’m lookin’ for.”

“Yer lookin’ for someone?”

“Yeah. ‘Bout over six feet, over two hundred–he’s got red hair, and–”

“Never seen anybody like that,” Junior muttered, recalling no one of that description lately.

“He’s got a big stallion–creamish, with black socks?”

Junior shook his head again, and looked back at the rider. “You ain’t, by any chance, seen my father?”

“No. You lost him, too?”

“Yeah. Just me an’ another one, now. But I left him back over the hill.”

“In Runner’s Valley? We were headed that way,” Virgil said, replacing his hat with a tired frown. “I’ve been tracking my friend for awhile...they say he might be there. Wanna ride wit’ us? Safety in numbers...”

The idea had merit, and they were going the same way. But Junior licked his dry lips thoughtfully, eyes running over his tired horses. He was wary that these men were going to trick him, and he’d end up shot and/or dead somewhere up the road. But then again...if they were good men...

He grit his teeth and nodded. “I’ll go wit’ ya.”

“Then let’s git goin’. Run the horses slowly, ‘fore they get sick.”

Junior just hoped that it all wasn’t a trick.

010101010110

The slamming had him startling. Jerking in reflexive action, Richie’s eyes shot open. His breath caught in his throat, and instant images of shadow men came to mind. But just as he’d registered the noise, the intensity of pain seemed to overwhelm all fright. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe as branches of throbbing pain shot up his leg. Then, when he sucked in breath, intending to move to hide, a large smelly palm covered his mouth.

That made him much more panicked, stiffening with paralyzed fright as the slamming continued, rattling the walls and various objects within the room. It was too dark to see–night had fallen, he was growing aware that he was inside a house, in a bed–his bad vision kept him from seeing anything clearly; but that thing was around. Looking for him.

A sound of outrage, neither human or animal, sounded above the pounding. The slamming stopped abruptly, doors opening and closing. Shrieks of unknown nature sounded, filling the small town.

Richie promptly stopped breathing, hands going up to his ears to block out the horrid noises. He forgot about the palm over his mouth, the mystery of being in a house; those sounds were like nails upon chalkboard. Various howls of ghostly nature, screams of agonized human torture; high-pitched shrieks ripped from the throats of women–the noises continued for a good five minutes, then began to dwindle.

When they finally died away, the silence was as equally disturbing.

He slowed and caught his breath, registering the feel of human skin against his; wondering bewilderedly if it were Junior. It was startling–he wanted to lash out at Junior for leaving him. He pushed the palm off his mouth, questions filling his mind, but holding himself back for fear of Junior lashing out at him for whatever reason.

He listened to the other person’s–man’s–breathing. Realized fully that he himself was undressed, with only a light sheet covering him. Before more bewilderment could assail him, he felt roughened fingertips roving over his forearms.

“When were you bit?”

There was some familiarity to that whispered voice, but Richie couldn’t place it. He had a sudden, ominous feeling–and a rush of recognizance in that he’d heard this voice, before. He swallowed hard, growing aware to how hot he felt–his skin felt a little damp. He focused on the question.

“Um...maybe...three days ago?” He was too scared to speak loudly–his whisper was barely heard. He didn’t want the other to talk, for fear of bringing those things in this direction.

“Zombie?”

“I...I don’t think so. She was...Alva said she was ‘possessed’. But... I don’t understand the meaning–” Richie cut himself off when he felt the shift of weight on the bed. The rustle of clothing. He wished he could see! “Junior?”

“No.”

His mouth was covered, harshly, and before Richie could realize that it was a kiss, he could feel the sheet being pulled from his body. Horror filled him then, his skin crawling as roughened hands began touching him. Stroking over his hips, pushing apart his legs–he reached up to push at the heavy male, growing utterly horrified that he was going to be used at a time like this. When he was injured, when they were obviously not alone–! But his arms, his body felt wholly weak; lack of food, loss of energy; his efforts were fruitless, and he gave a strangled cry when he felt the familiar, horrible invasion into his body.

He balled his fists and struck repeatedly at the man’s shoulders, feeling so distressed at the harsh, quick movement of his thrusts. He felt his attacker’s breath on his forehead, heard his strained breathing, his legs were shifted over heavily muscled arms–the actions being taken hurt immensely, his leg being jostled and forced into a position that made him continuously cry aloud in protest and pain. He wasn’t sure what hurt most–having this man fuck him, or having his wound agitated.

His fingernails dug into clothed muscle, and he grit his teeth, laying his head flat against the pillow–he felt the warm, heavy splash of cum against his insides, and heard his attacker grunt low in satisfaction, slowing his thrusts until finally stopping.

Listening to the heavy breathing above him, and his own short breath, Richie numbly wondered if there were nice human beings out there.

He was finally released, legs gently set down. He wanted to curl up into a ball, but he was in too much agony to shift his leg that way. He sucked in a long breath, hearing it shake as more branches of pain flitted up his spine, his ass feeling horribly raw and used.

“Sorry,” came the gruff apology. “Just...y’know...yer a whore. I hadda lotta tension.”

The unfairness of that comment made Richie’s skin redden with immense fury. But he couldn’t release it–after all, what could he do? He glared angrily up at the darkness above him, feeling his eyes burn with mortified and pained tears. Shifts of movement told him that the other man was getting dressed. He could hear the jangle of metal, the creaks of leather. Sucking his lower lip into his mouth, he bit it with burning hate and helplessness, his hands lifting to search for the sheet that had covered him earlier.

He heard the dripping of water, and winced at the feeling of a wet cloth against his skin, his legs spread apart so that whomever used him could clean him. Feeling immensely resentful, he lifted his good leg and kicked at the man.

His ankle was caught with the second kick, and with a rising sound of fury in his throat, he struggled to get loose. His attacker grew annoyed with his actions, and that made Richie still immediately, entire body cringing as he waited to be hit. He gave a surprised sound as he was shoved onto his stomach. He was growing more agitated, pained by every action as he lifted his head from the pillow that threatened to suffocate him. But he kept himself from fighting back, struggling to keep himself from crying, knowing that it bothered the men he had serviced. It wasn’t very manly, anyway–he could just hear Junior growling at him for that.

His fingers curled into the sheets, gripping them tightly as he felt the clothed weight of the man settle against him. Breathing strongly, struggling to keep all his emotions and actions in check, he stared off into the darkness, unsure of what this man was going to do with him.

After a minutes of silence, after he’d relaxed slightly with settling with the inevitable, he felt the man shift again; drawing up the light sheet to tuck gently around him.

“How’s yer leg?”

He knew that voice–he knew he’d heard it, somewhere. Richie hated the concern in that tone, the thought–how could this man just use him and pretend to be concerned for him? He grit his teeth, but he didn’t answer. He merely cringed when he felt those roughened hands on his body, smoothing over the blanket to gently touch the wound over his left leg. He winced, cringing again at the movement as pressure was applied upon the examination.

“I cleaned it. I took the bullet out. Dunno how long you were there, but...it’d been three days since I found ya.”

Richie stilled, listening to that Southern-tinged voice. A pout drew his features, sullenly wondering if he should thank this man for such actions.

“Sorry.”

Richie wondered if he were better off sitting outside with the creatures than being ‘safe’ with this man. Who knew what was going to happen, next? How long was this man planning on keeping him? He inhaled slowly, closing his eyes–wanting to be far, far away...with his parents, somewhere safe.

010101010110

He awoke, blinking heavily. He didn’t feel so good. Sluggishly, he turned his head, noting that the room was filled with daylight–he didn’t recognize this room. At first, he didn’t know where he was and what he was doing as he stared blankly at the feminine touches throughout the entire room. The windows were drawn, but through the slits of the curtains sunlight filtered in. He watched the dust motes drift before remembering everything that had happened previously.

Upon remembrance of the man, he looked around the rest of the room. He was so intensely sleepy...so intensely sluggish. He didn’t feel alarmed, nor very coherent. Sighing, he laid back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling–wondering what was going to happen to him. Slowly, he lifted himself atop of his elbows, looking down at his sheet-covered form. He lifted the material off himself, examining his leg, and the fresh wrapping around it. It didn’t hurt as much–in fact, he really wasn’t feeling as much pain as he had, before.

Sighing again, he pulled the blankets up, pausing to examine his arms. The bitemarks were fading–they were still grotesque, but they were fading. Laying back down, he stared up at the ceiling then drifted off.

On and off he hit consciousness, finally realizing a while later that he was being drugged. The laudanum was an obvious indication as he saw it sitting nearby, on the end table. For a moment, he felt horrified, wondering if this was just an indication of a horrible future to come, but the narcotic made him so sleepy that he couldn’t focus on that thought too much. He wondered where the man was, and what he was going to do with him–sullenly figured that he was better off with Junior. At least the man treated him a little better.

He woke up to the smell of breakfast a day later. Sluggishly, he shifted, pushing off the sheet, seeing that he’d been dressed in a shirt. Better than nothing, he figured as he examined his leg. He was utterly startled to see that the cloth was moving, that he could feel things moving within his skin. It was a hair-raising feeling to know that something was on him. He took the cloth off, and felt his entire body shiver with disgust, seeing the writhing forms of maggots within the wound. He began slapping at the tubular forms, panicked sounds of disgust emerging from his lips.

His wrist was caught in mid-slap, startling him.

“Don’t. Those things eat at the rot ya got goin’ there.”

Richie stilled, wondering if he were hallucinating. Wondering if this was some demented dream. Either someone was playing a cruel trick on him, or the cowboy that he’d dreamt about was not the person he hoped the man was. He looked away, feeling hopelessly let-down and waited for his wrist to be released. The narcotic made his stomach feel a little queasy, but he felt the edges of hunger upon seeing the small plate of food set down beside him. He worked the inside of his cheek, utterly aware of the other man as he moved away from the bed. Richie didn’t dare look at him again–he had the fleeting thought that he’d just imagined that.

The silence was thick, pensive–one of the curtains were spread, the windows opened wide to allow the unnatural silence of outside filter in. The air was cool, and he could smell moisture. He stared sullenly at the plate that held a scrambled egg and a piece of dry toast. He wondered where the food came from when he himself hadn’t found any the few times he’d looked.

Even so, he was ravenous enough to ignore his nausea and uncertainty of the situation, and scooped up both with his hands. He stuffed the egg into his mouth and chewed rapidly while working the toast in slowly. As he chewed, he darted nervous eyes toward the man, squinting as he wondered where his glasses were.

When the man moved to look away from the window, Richie quickly looked away, unfortunately looking at the maggots that writhed within his gun wound. He shuddered, food pushing at his throat before he looked away.

It made sense, though. Maggots ate at rot–perhaps it would keep away any setting gangrene.

Nothing was said between the two, and Richie’s head raced with thoughts. While he worked on keeping his food down, he thought anxiously of his future. Being with someone that fixed him, and at the same time wanted to use him made him utterly distrustful and wary. It was almost like being with Junior again, but this was just one man amidst chaos–who knew what could happen?

While he had no real idea of the possibilities, he did know that they were bad.

The day passed slowly–the man left him, saying nothing of his whereabouts, but Richie heard the abrupt pounding of hoof beats almost an hour later. Multiple riders.

He immediately panicked, thinking of those skeletons, and did what he could to throw himself off the bed, rolling underneath. He heard the tired horses wheezing, whinnying in protest, and tried to compare the sounds to those of the animals the skeletons rode. Once he began hearing men shout at each other, though, he immediately crawled out of his hiding spot, pushing himself to move to the window to call for help.

His leg was so intensely sore that he ended up dragging it, excitement in the others overtaking lingering pain.

He slammed against the window sill, looking out to see a group of riders heading out towards the edge of town. He couldn’t believe that he recognized Junior at the head, leading along a few horses with supplies. Relief swept through him, and he called for him, waving once the man turned in surprise at the sound of his voice.

Junior called him out impatiently, and Richie retreated, searching the room for his pants. Realizing he couldn’t find them, he began searching the house hastily for something that he could wear out.

He must have taken a long while, for Junior came stomping in with an impatient expression, reacting with surprise at his appearance.

“What the hell happened ta you?” he demanded, Richie self-consciously pulling his shirt closed. It was a large shirt–the hem fell down over his thighs, but he hadn’t buttoned it.

“I was shot.”

“By who?”

“A...a ghost. A ghost man with a gun–!”

Junior rolled his eyes, and ushered him out of the house, without any regards to his half dressed appearance. The others were looking back at them curiously, and once seeing him, looked confused. Junior pushed him along with an impatient sound, looking around them anxiously.

“Er...everything...all right?” Virgil asked curiously, blinking in confusion over the boy’s half-dressed state. “Ya’ll all right?”

“We’re gonna get goin’, now,” Junior announced. He tossed them a half-hearted expression of thanks. “We’re goin’ different ways. Got some people to find.”

“I–well, if you see ‘im...”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’ll say somethin’ when–when we see them.” Junior pushed Richie to the smallest horse, but the boy wouldn’t mount the obviously tired animal. “What’cha doin’, boy? Git on that horse!”

“You left me!” Richie accused him angrily, holding tightly onto his shirt.

Junior rolled his eyes with severe exasperation, then grabbed his hair, shaking him roughly. “Goddamn you, don’t’chu be back talkin’ me at a time like this, or I’ll be–!”

“Hey!” Virgil protested, sliding off his horse upon seeing the abuse. “Cut it out, man. C’mon. We’re all havin’ a rough time, let’s not get all–!”

“Shut up, nigger! This here’s my property! I treat it the way I want to!” Junior shouted at him. “You ain’t got no say wit’ what I do with it!”

Utterly appalled, Virgil gaped at him for a few moments, watching Junior shove Richie at the horse, angrily commanding him to get on. When the boy wouldn’t, whining about needing pants, Junior raised a fist. Quickly, Virgil intercepted, sickened at seeing such a display. He grabbed the younger Alva’s arm, yanking him back.

“Now, just calm down,” he ordered as Junior quickly caught himself from falling back. “Let him git dressed some, all right? An’ he’s hurt. Maybe ya’ll just need ta rest for a few days...maybe then he’ll listen to you without fightin’ wit’ you.”

Junior was amazed someone was talking down to him in such a way. Richie stood quietly, feeling a little cheered that there were some nice people out there–looking at Virgil with shy relief, utterly grateful for his interference. He clutched his shirt closed, looking at Junior, waiting for him to say something or do something to agree with the matter. After all, he really didn’t feel like traveling. He still felt like shit.

Junior studied Virgil for a few moments, then looked at the other five men. Contempt filled him, then. He was outnumbered–if he tried to resist and tried to prove his point further, they’d overwhelm him immediately. He took a deep breath, and exhaled it slowly–struggling not to show his displeasure at being told what to do. He looked angrily at the boy, who was smart enough not to meet his eyes at that moment, then looked at Virgil.

“Fine,” he spat. “But I ain’t sharin’ nothin’ with the lot of you.”

Virgil held his hands up in surrender. “That’s okay, man. Really. Just...be nice, all right? We all shaken by this shit happenin’, we don’t need any more from each other. A human’s a human.”

Junior snorted at that, then shot Richie a contemptuous expression. “Git those horses an’ take ‘em back to the house we stayed at. An’ no lip from you, either!”

Recognizing Junior’s acquiescement to the situation, Richie shot Virgil another grateful expression of thanks, and did as Junior commanded, leading the horses off while trying to keep his shirt in place. Junior glared back at Virgil, then followed.

Virgil watched the pair with an expression of bewilderment, then looked at the others. It was nearing night–the clouds moving in had already cast their heavy, cold shadows down into the valley, making it much more darker than it was.

“We wanna rest here, a bit?” he asked.

“May as well,” Adam replied, the others murmuring their agreement.

That night, Virgil and Adam stood out in the rain, discussing their next course of action. Virgil kept tossing looks down at the house at the edges of the town, where candlelight was visible from the large windows.

“Kinda funny,” Virgil commented. “I recognize that kid. You know them Alvas’ were takin’ in male whores?”

“Not uh. That happens?” Adam asked in amazement.

“Yeah. ‘Parently so. That kid, he was one of them girls.”

“...He...was a girl? Or...?”

“Worked wit’ the girls.”

Adam shuddered slightly. “Well, it ain’t that unusual. Men like each other, too.”

“Yeah, but...I think it’s wrong when...like...they don’t get no choice in the matter. He’s...what? Thirteen?”

“Yeah. Looked like it. Tiny thing. Think that asshole’s got any food?”

Virgil shrugged.

Adam gestured at the house, turning toward the one they were occupying. “Take somethin’ over there. Make sure the kid eats. Got us some jerky an’ bread.”

Virgil nodded, the pair of them walking into the house. Five minutes later, Virgil was heading over to the house, bearing gifts. He walked in, immediately wincing at the horrid smells that hit him. It was the smell of death, sickly sweet and thick. From the front room, Richie glanced out at the noise, and upon seeing Virgil, quickly gestured at him to be quiet. Virgil was relieved to see that he’d found some pants and a jacket to wear, though his feet were still bare.

Virgil nodded in understanding, and waved him over, signaling that he follow him. He saw the cautious glance away, and heard the slid-drag sound of the kid’s footsteps after him. Finding the kitchen, Virgil set the packs of food down, located a candle and lit it–a little surprised at the blood, scratch marks on the wall and overall mess.

He looked back at the quiet boy that eyed him cautiously from the doorway. “Shit happened here, huh?” he asked, a little too cheerfully. Trying to be friendly. It was like looking at an animal that had been kicked too many times, that intense wariness making him feel like a monster for even trying to be friendly. He gestured at the pack, then began unloading it. “You hungry? Figured we’d share, a bit. Got us some jerky, some bread, an’ a couple of cans of hash.”

“Okay.”

Virgil recognized the Eastern accent, and began dividing up the food into threes. Even if he felt Junior didn’t deserve anything, he felt it safest to do so. “Where you from?” he asked casually, handing over his share.

“New York.”

“Oh yeah? Long way aways...”

At the shrug, Virgil figured that wasn’t a direction to take, and he looked away to open the can of hash. “Kinda crazy out there, huh? I mean...all this stuff goin’ on. My entire family was killed–but...I had an older sister, but we can’t find her. She gone all missin’.”

“...I’m sorry.”

“Yours?”

“They’re still in New York.”

“Ah. Well...I had a friend. Sorta...I sorta blamed him for some stupid shit. He left, an’...I got ta thinkin’, y’know, that I did wrong. So...so we kinda just lookin’ for him, now.”

“What does he look like?”

“‘Bout...this tall,” Virgil indicated a couple of inches above his head, “red hair, green eyes–kinda big. Ridin’ a–”

“Has a beard? Mustache?”

Hope flared in him as he recognized that expression of recognizance in the kid’s expression. “Might be. Has a Southern accent, kinda dumb–”

“He left this morning. He was the one taking care of me.”

Virgil could have laughed in maniacal relief. Instead, a bark of sound came from him. “Yer shittin’ me. He’s here, then? Goes by the name Hotstreak? Or Francis?”

Richie shrugged. “Don’t know. He never told me his name.”

“Might be wearin’ red, black boots–?”

“I don’t know. He gave me laudanum. I haven’t been very...coherent.”

Virgil nodded, about shaking in excitement and relief. He shot the kid a bright smile. “He’s my friend. I did him wrong, but...hopefully he’ll forgive me. Kinda–y’know, we’re good friends.”

He caught the cautious, wary glance tossed his way, the instant stiffening of pale fingers. He looked at him in question, noting the way the kid suddenly seemed to back away from him.

“Thank you,” he muttered, leaving Virgil alone.

Virgil blinked, confused at the sudden attitude. He thought the kid was going to open up to him, was starting to trust him. He finished dividing up the hash, then set the trash aside. Leaving the kitchen with his share and Junior’s, he left the kitchen, heading quietly as he could toward the front.

Junior was sleeping, rather soundly, in the rocking chair nearby. Richie was sitting close to him, eating quickly. Shooting him a confused look, Virgil set Junior’s food down on the floor, then picked it up upon seeing the torrents of discoloration on the floors and walls. The windows were busted, so the cold chill of the rain filtered in, and the heavy rumble of thunder cast loudly within the room. He set the food on a stand nearby, then looked at the pair one more time.

Seeing that he was being ignored, Virgil shrugged and left the house. Instead of heading back to the other’s, he headed to the house where the kid had hailed them earlier. Walking in, he lit a oil-based lamp and searched through the two small rooms, noting that it had been a doctor’s residence. Finding the bedroom, noting the use there, he sat atop of the bed, sitting the lamp atop of the nightstand and sighed heavily. He allowed himself to relax, feeling how sore his muscles were from the constant riding.

Looking around, he noted the narcotic sitting nearby, in liquid form. He looked to see fresh wrappings and dressings in a canister next to it, as well as an empty plate. There was also a small bottle of French perfume, something with lavender in it, sitting atop a box of ammo. Working his lips with thoughtful regard, Virgil wondered how his friend was doing. He wondered how the kid was hurt, and wondered what Junior planned to do.

Figuring he may as well as wait for Hotstreak to come back, he laid back on the bed, folding his arms behind his head to doze a little.