Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Banditos ❯ The Night Has Been Unkind ( Chapter 18 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Manga-Chick 
“Yeah, I’m still alive,” Junior spit angrily, staring at him. “You didn’t even look for me, didya?”
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural / Horror / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 05.19.2006 | Pages: 5 | Words: 8.5K | Visits: 304 | Status: Completed
“Yeah, I’m still alive,” Junior spit angrily, staring at him. “You didn’t even look for me, didya?”
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural / Horror / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 05.19.2006 | Pages: 5 | Words: 8.5K | Visits: 304 | Status: Completed
Extreme AU, OOC, non-historic West, violence...supernatural themes, violence.
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: (bows) Here’s your next chapter, mistress...please be gentle with that whip XD Oh, I forgot to ask–what are nazgul? I took your gentle advice...hope this chapter somewhat pleases you. Thanks for the constant push to write XD
I’m Alive: Why, thank you! ^_^ I haven’t read Mr. King’s The Stand, but...I wouldn’t want my story to be similar to his, as if I’m copying. (Worried) But, yeah, this is going to be long. I keep digging myself a deep one with each chapter...Now, along the way, I lost sight of whom and what I was writing about LOL. I’m growing attached to these charas, and their different stories...blah. Was this a Hs/R romance? Or...or what? (Sad)
Chapter Nineteen:
The Night Has Been Unkind
They were looking at a large town–liveries, blacksmiths, stables, General Stores, sheriff’s office, saloons, train depot; the works. Telegraph lines were already strewn throughout the area, streaming out towards the East. A river ran through the middle of town–small, but lively. And there were people–so many people. The four riders were astounded, all wondering if this town had been hit, yet, and if so–how did they survive when everyone else had fallen to chaos and panic?
Virgil pushed ahead, noticed immediately by those leading along buckboards with lumber, carriages with suspicious faces–everyone had an air of terseness about them. The town looked weathered with their brown buildings, their faded brick; but the more they rode in, the more they saw tarnishes of a war. Most of the standing buildings had bullet holes in them–stains were apparent in the moist wood. Windows were boarded over, and there were men with guns–standing about, guarding the area with suspicious regard.
“Wow,” he muttered, looking around in amazement. “This place been hit, an’ they still standin’!”
Adam nodded in agreement, tipping his hat toward a small family that stared at them with concern. They returned the greeting with cautious smiles–it wasn’t as if the pair were treated unfavorably; it looked as if the town was just weary.
Still, judging from the activity and the obvious preparation this town took against the unnatural invaders, it was evident that this is where Junior would stay. It was a pointed, un-voiced sort of command, and Junior felt it coming from the other three without even looking at them. He was healed as best as he could be for the moment–though the first few weeks had been tough. His injuries had made it hard for him to cooperate with life in general, but it was the only real time he’d first felt pain.
Since he didn’t get along with any of them, recognizing that they only took him in because they were kind and caring, he’d had plenty of time to think. Every jarring bump to his ribs, every twitch of his mouth, every painful bruise and contusion that throbbed on his body due to Paul’s attack made Junior more aware of his mortality–and of his wrongdoings.
He had plenty of time to think–and a short time to change.
Sullenly, but definitely not complaining, Junior eyed the town, studying everyone as they studied them. He recognized no one, and realized that he wouldn’t be finding his father, or their workers, here. This left him feeling dejected and lonely–hurting painfully from within over everything that had happened in his past. The others were going to leave him, here–he knew how they felt about him, and he didn’t blame them. He kept thinking of how the whores–God, he felt so shamed for not knowing their names, for reveling in his abuse of power and control over hapless human beings that had been ripped from all their comforts and homes just to serve him and his father–would express their fear and pain to him, and he’d ignored and abused every one.
He had to wonder how in the world he’d come to live like that. He regretted it all, now that he knew what they felt. He truly did.
Along their journey, they’d come across more supplies from the fallen, and Junior had come across warm clothing and a horse. He kept thinking about what had happened to the boy; he felt very awful for losing him, knowing that he was more defenseless than he was. It made him deeply sick, and it was just another regret he had to live with.
Everyone was cold, tired, hungry, thirsty–they were looking forward for some rest before moving on. But they knew they were going to separate from Junior, and the younger Alva knew this. Muttering a “appreciate it”, he moved his horse away from the others, and dejectedly headed off into another direction different from theirs. The others didn’t say anything, watching him leave.
“Well, that’s the last we’ll see of that bastard,” Virgil decided as Junior disappeared around a corner. Randy nodded in agreement, and Virgil gave Adam a somewhat cheerful look. “Kinda makes it all worth it, y’know?”
“Eh. Prolly. Who knows? He been quiet the last few days. All this trip, actually.”
“Hope he’s thinkin’ about all the wrong he gone an’ done throughout his life,” Virgil muttered. “I mean...he’s one of the worst...”
Adam agreed, shrugging a shoulder idly. It had been a long ride–a long journey. Every town they’d come across was empty, desolate–apparently in devastation after hordes of Underworld demons ravaged it. They’d run into various people along the way, but everyone had been dangerous after the attacks. Growing mean, selfish, desperate–more than a few times they’d fallen into gun battles, taking lives and saving their own. The entire way, Junior was quiet, reserved–sullen and pouty but refusing to overstep boundaries. Virgil had deducted that the man had ‘smartened up some’ and changed some of his ways, recognizing that he hadn’t a chance by himself in the wildness among the chaos.
In a way, Adam had felt some pity for the man–even when Virgil didn’t. Adam felt pity for Junior because, in the end, Junior was just as defenseless and helpless as those he terrorized–and he knew that the younger Alva knew this. It was about time he found some payback for all that he’d done, but Adam couldn’t help but feel that way about him. He didn’t share this with Virgil, though–the man was vehement in his dislike for Junior that nothing changed his opinion.
“Well,” Virgil shifted in his saddle. “Where to, boys?”
“Let’s shack up, first, then clean up. Look for some grub,” Adam announced, touching his face with experimenting feeling. “Wanna shave right, for once. Wanna be clean. I know I can’t smell it, but I know I be smellin’ somethin’ funky...”
“You got that right,” Virgil muttered playfully, leading Sparky off, asking a passing gunman where they could find someplace to stay.
That night, in a small saloon, Junior was nursing a much-needed drink, staring sightlessly off at the corner. Money wasn’t used anywhere in the town–trade and bartering were used. He’d traded off some ammo and a nice leather jacket for a half bottle of Red Eye Pete. It was wonderful to feel his throat burned by the liquid as he swallowed, to feel the effects spreading throughout every limb. He kept thinking about all the wrong doings he’d ever done to get this far, so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the men calling his name, excitedly joining him at the bar. Not until Specs slapped him with real excitement did he notice them, gaping incredulously as they companionably greeted him. Casey, Jerry, Specs and Trapper, and Mitch–all looked worn and older than they actually were, but they were there.
And hope flared in him, wondering if his father was nearby. He wouldn’t be alone–and that feeling felt amazing.
He greeted them just as cheerfully, all of them oohing and awing at the same time, all of them excited to be reunited and knowing that the other was still alive. It didn’t take long for Junior to learn that Alva had taken control of the town–the elder Alva had taken over as soon as the small town was discovered, and laid down his own law. An experienced fighter, mainly in business but living long enough to know a few tricks of his own, Alva had learned his own way around the zombies and accompanying creatures, and had set up the law here. The town had been nothing until they’d shown up–he ruled mightily, and people were grateful for his control.
It didn’t surprise him that his father had taken over, using his knowledge and power to do so. Not at all.
But that wash of righteous indignant anger swept over him–wondering why Alva hadn’t looked for him.
“You guys couldn’t find me, huh?” Junior asked as he was led to Alva’s Victorian mansion downtown–the area heavily guarded by rough-looking gunmen. Casey tossed him a somewhat sheepish expression.
“We tried,” he said, faltering. “But...your daddy wanted us here.”
Junior stared at his trusted friend for a few moments, then narrowed his eyes. “He would have come back for me, right?”
Casey chose not to answer that, pointing out a couple of other men that Junior was familiar with. Amid all the greetings and ostensible cheer, Junior couldn’t help but feel that sinking feeling in that Alva hadn’t bothered for him at all.
He had known–but actually realizing that it was true was a whole different feeling.
The house was nicely kept–he even kept house servants, women milling about with their cleaning supplies and tired expressions. Junior wondered what happened to Jessie–he wouldn’t forget THAT one’s name–and Teresa. He had some vague confidence in that Teresa would do as she was told, no matter how dire the situation. She was smart that way–but feisty enough to keep from breaking totally.
Casey led the way through a few halls–this mansion was bigger than any building Junior was familiar with–and knocked politely at a heavy oak door, walking in at the gruffly given permission.
Junior was right behind him as Casey greeted Alva politely, then stepped aside to reveal the younger Alva. Already, Junior was feeling angry at his father–rejected, brushed aside–and didn’t exactly feel the warmth of happiness upon seeing the older man.
Alva looked as if he’d aged twenty more years atop of his already old age–his gray hair was nearly white, there were added wrinkles on his face, and he’d looked as if he’d lost a few pounds. But as he studied his son, rising from the leather chair on which he sat to greet Junior with nothing more than a scowling expression, it was obvious Alva was just as powerful as he had been, before.
Junior stared at his father for a few moments, then with unconscious regard, not even knowing he did it, he waved for Casey and the two older men that sat with Alva outside. With some confusion, the two old men looked at Alva for confirmation, Casey leaving with casual attitude at the forceful command–Alva nodded at the men to follow, sitting once more in his seat to regard his son with a studious expression.
Junior felt himself fuming, his limbs filling with disbelieving rage that his father could regard him so casually–just knowing that Alva hadn’t put any effort into looking for him was enough for him to stare venomously at him, wondering...why?
Alva studied him, from top to bottom, then lifted his coffee cup, stern eyes cutting away with nothing more than impatient regard. “You’re alive,” he said simply, his voice more graveled than before.
“Yeah, I’m still alive,” Junior spit angrily, staring at him. “You didn’t even look for me, didya?”
“I didn’t have the time, nor the manpower to divide between our survival, and to search for you. As I learned of it, you went on a drunken rampage that morning, took the boy, and disappeared wherever you went. I’m assuming you got rid of him?”
Furiously, Junior curled his fingers into fists, feeling his face fill with red.
Alva set his cup down carefully, eyes sweeping over various documents in front of him. “No one had any idea where you went–Runner’s Valley was a big territory. We were attacked that same day–we barely split with our lives, Junior. I could not afford to give up what little men we had left to go search for you and lost profit.”
“I’m your son! Don’t that mean anythin’?!”
Alva regarded the question carefully, then looked at Junior with a level expression. “Of course!” he finally snapped, giving him another impatient expression. “But I couldn’t afford to let some of the men go–not after counting our losses. We lost all but seven of our men–and we couldn’t afford to go back. We just had to continue forward...”
Junior was aghast at how coldly Alva spoke–as if, his own blood relative and heir, was nothing more than a product.
“Once we were settled here, I didn’t have the time to organize a search party, and besides–I figured you on surviving and eventually locating us. I made this town into a town that everyone can depend and rely on. We have settlers and survivors coming in every day. The train is equipped with–”
“I don’t wanna know about that!” Junior cried, ripping his hat from his head.
“Settle yourself, Junior!” Alva snapped, glaring at him. “You’re not one of those roughnecks you used to hang out, with. I’ve raised you to be better than that.”
“You didn’t even look for me, dad!”
“Where’s the boy?” Alva then asked, over what he thought was the pathetic whine of his son’s voice.
Junior glowered at him, feeling all the fight leave him, then. He was just too exhausted to fight–too broken by his own revelations and by his father’s seemingly cold-hearted choice. He shrugged tiredly. “I dunno. He–he’s just gone.”
Alva sighed, impatiently as he ran his eyes up to a point above Junior’s head–mentally calculating the loss. Junior stared at him in disgust, just knowing what his father was going to say, next. “I’ve only got two girls, workin’. Bringing in more ammo, more men. That boy would have helped our profits considerably–we didn’t have that many to begin with, Junior, and you up and lose that one. Brand new! The girls gotta keep on workin’, then. We’re gettin’ in a few more by the fifteenth...that should raise more of our weapons cache, and draw in more prospective guns into Luna...bringing us more people in need of protection and stability...”
Junior’s expression of disgust turned into that of hatred. He slapped his hat back atop of his head.
Alva stopped talking aloud, and looked at him with considerable measure. “Where are you going? I can have a room prepared for you, if you like. I’d like you to take over where you left off–you were doing rather well with keeping the whores in line–”
“I ain’t doin’ nothin’ for you,” Junior sneered, turning to leave the room.
Alva rose quickly in his seat, slapping his hands atop of his desk. “You stop right there, boy! Don’t you dare turn your back on me, or my orders! You intend to live with me, you work with me–do as I say. I raised you in this business, Junior, and for you to turn against it, having seen some ridiculous light along your travels–or is it because you’re sore at me for not sending out a search party to look for your drunken ass? As far as I’m concerned, this little detour taught you a much-needed lesson. You were getting entirely too damn cocky with that attitude of yours–thinkin’ you can rule the world–you had to be taught this lesson! You survived what you did, that just made you a stronger person. Don’t think that you gotta change for some–better purpose,” Alva’s face twisted at the words, “and think you can leave me. It’s the survival of the fittest! The strongest! God is weeding out the weak with this–gruesome uprise of His, and it’s fitting that the strongest take over where the remaining cannot. And we are the strongest, Junior. I raised you better–!”
Junior snorted, shaking his head. He gave his father a withering expression over his shoulder, and left the room, saying nothing more. Incredulous, Alva stared at the doorway, listening to the sound of his furious footfalls down the hall.
“You’ll be back!” he shouted angrily. “And when you do, you apologize to me! Foolish brat...”
010101010110
Richie angrily tossed a rock at the bawing herd of sheep, all of whom followed each other around in frantic circles, alarmed by his presence and Charger’s. The horse had amused him at first; Charger, upon seeing the wooly animals huddling together for warmth, had ran into and through them like an excited dog. Until sheep started getting hurt and panicked with screaming noises, scrambling all over each other as the horse terrorized them.
Better them than me, Richie had thought, until it became impossible to catch one of the wooly things.
Two weeks here in this small, desolate area, and he’d already managed to learn to take care of himself, and gathered enough curiosity and determination to examine the land and its contents. Finding the sheep herd had been somewhat satisfying–finding the cow herd had been grand. There was a burnt-out shell of a train sitting on broken tracks not that far from here, and inside he’d discovered skeletons of dead cows, sheep, passengers–and evidence that many animals still lived. He’d taken Charger and found the animals in the surrounding area–taking time out to construct his own holding pens and repairing a correl for the animals he planned on keeping.
They’d arrived here in this area, and the first house they’d come to–Hotstreak had left him. Simply left his horse, left no word or look, and shut himself in that house. At first, both horse and boy were confused, standing outside, waiting–not knowing what to do. Then Charger had grown tired of his weight, and Richie had been bucked off–it took him awhile to catch the damn animal, and even longer to learn to ride.
But the two compromised when Richie held ransom some oats he’d found in a nearby barn, and bribed the unruly stallion with it until the animal was nice enough to let him on. The two worked briefly together, finding both herds–and Richie got it into his head he was going to claim both. Enough of this constant travel–he might as well as settle and ride out the chaos until he could find a train back to the East.
At least...these were his plans now. He was just sick of traveling.
They’d left the higher-elevated areas, heading down where snow barely touched, going along with the stallion’s intuition. They hadn’t spoke–it felt, to Richie, that Hotstreak had shut himself off to the rest of the world. He knew the redhead had taken the Indians’ deaths hard–but he wasn’t aware of the man’s past, his experience with the underworld invaders. He didn’t know the severity of Hotstreak’s blame for himself–just knew that he’d lost some friends in the attack.
He felt sad, yes–but he couldn’t just...sit there. They had to survive–and once he found the resources, he began teaching himself and learning through trial and error on what to do. He learned how to use the tools he found throughout the ranch, and learned how to repair. It came easy with him, but he hadn’t any idea what to do with animals.
He knew they provided meat–but he didn’t know how. He’d seen the Indians skin and gut a buffalo to strip off the meat–but that was the extent of his lesson. He was sure he could apply the same techniques to other animals–figuring he learned to catch one, first.
And he knew wool was useful–he just wasn’t sure how to get it off them. How to spin, gather–that eluded him. Search of the ranch house yielded him no clues–he’d just learn it, himself. Someone had to learn somewhere...
But the sheep were so...elusive...
Giving up for today, he turned and started walking back to the ranch, ignoring the startled and protesting squeals of sheep as Charger continued to terrorize them. Richie tossed the stallion a cautious look, shaking his head slightly–that horse baffled him. He wasn’t sure what to think of the animal.
As he headed back, he eyed the ranch house with some thought–wondering when the redhead was going to start showing himself. He knew that the man locked himself into a room on the second floor, and Richie felt miserable for him. Miserable and concerned–there was some food in the kitchen and cellar, and whatever he made for himself, he made for Hotstreak, too. He often left the plates on the floor outside the door, and he heard him leaving the house to attend to bathroom duties, but...since they’d arrived, Richie hadn’t seen him nor spoke with him.
So he fended for himself, entirely grateful that he knew more than he had before the Indians, and that he was given these supplies to work with.
He stared up at the sky, noting the constant overcast of storm clouds–it felt he hadn’t seen a sunny day since Alva’s Town. He was really starting to miss the sun...
Charger nearly ran him over as the stallion charged up the road, feeling frisky and free without the saddle and reins–Richie had learned to ride him bareback, as it was very impossible to saddle the horse up, anyway. He was quite proud of that, actually.
He picked himself up from the road, tossing a couple of rocks after the stallion–then racing for safety atop of the fence that enclosed the house once the horse charged him again, hooves pounding the moist soil. The maniac horse then sped off, sheep running in panic from the stallion. Richie jumped down from the fence, grumbling to himself, then veering away from the house to check on the correl he’d repaired.
He’d seen Junior’s men repair the one in Runner’s Valley, and had followed their example with straightening the gates, with repairing the posts–pulling the wire to reform a more sturdy enclosing. Everything was already in place–he just needed to tidy up some factors before pulling the animals in. His muscles ached and sang with pain everyday after that, but it was well-worth it to see a completed project. He’d gotten blisters and calluses on his hands–had groaned and complained to himself over muscles he’d never used before as they became sore and demanding over the work he’d done. But in the end...it was all worth it.
Sighing heavily, he looked over his work–feeling a swell of pride puff his chest and a satisfied smile to cross his face. Everything wasn’t too bad for a kid that knew nothing of such matters; with no experience. His parents would be so proud...
Thinking of them immediately made him deflate; he missed them terribly. Sadly, he turned away from the correl and began heading back to the ranch house, worrying his bottom lip as he wondered when he’d see them, again.
The ranch house was a two story Victorian–out of place for the area, but fitting with its sturdy frame and hardwood floor. It was large with six rooms, a wraparound porch–with a swing out back, overlooking a couple of acres of farmland–and was furnished with neat, sturdy furniture and pleasing items needed for survival. The few pictures he’d found were of an elderly couple–there wasn’t any sign of their deaths, or anyone else’s.
Outside, there was a small barn that looked to have housed at least two horses, a small shack that held minimal resources–looking to have sheltered at least two men–and a wonderful tornado shelter located just behind the shack. The tornado shelter was stocked much more fantastically than the house with non-perishable food, clothing, cots, blankets, ammo and more weapons–there was even reading material in there, most of modern-day economics, general First-Aid and Care, farming and a price book on animals.
There was a small correl just outside the barn, and a sheep pen that was small, but fit the herd that was running about. He’d found evidence of chickens, but it looked as if wolves had gotten to them. There were five saddles propped in the loft in the barn, but he hadn’t seen any horses or mules about. There was a doghouse outside the house, but there wasn’t a sign of the dog.
Even so, the property was comfortable and fitting. The only thing he didn’t like was the solace that surrounded the place–he wasn’t sure how far the nearest neighbor was, or the next town. He wasn’t sure if these people were killed, or had just left–were they coming back? Still, he liked the place and had grown immediately attached to it.
He liked putting in the work that was needed to make things run–once he figured it out, it was easy to abide to. But his body was untrained and he had to make himself work, even when it hurt. He didn’t want to be a struggling weakling all his life. He had to be a man, somehow. It was very important to him to feel useful, and to know that he was useful–to know that he could do things. He didn’t want to be known and used for only as an object.
This is what pushed him, sometimes.
He had just hurried up the stairs onto the wraparound porch when he heard the sound of hollow jangling from around the house. It sounded familiar, and sensation made him shiver, for hairs to stand on end. He stilled, listening to the noises around him–hearing only the cold wind that swept through the dead corn field, the sounds of frightened sheep. The jangle sounded again–a small sound that would have been missed had he continued on with his thoughts, but once aware it, he wasn’t likely to forget it.
He stared at the end of the porch, which would take him to the front of the house–that was where the sound was coming from. Something in his stomach and chest told him to be afraid–that he wasn’t alone. He knew that he wasn’t alone–Hotstreak was in the house, but...someone was here with him, right now. Only he didn’t know what, or whom.
And still, his hair persisted to stand on end, and his fingers curled anxiously for the safety of a gun. Any gun.
He started to reflect how odd it was that he was depending on a weapon he’d never used before in his life, but that day with Junior had taught him the confidence he needed to use one. That was another thing he was thankful for about that wretched man–he still felt bad, though, for leaving him to die.
The jangle sounded once, then was gone–it felt as if a heavy weight had lifted, and nature began moving again. Charger’s scream of victory echoed throughout the area, and Richie felt himself moving again. He hurried into the house, carefully locking it behind him. Hearing nothing but silence within the comfortable two-story, he lit a couple of candles, then checked the wood-burning stove. It was still burning neatly, and he realized he was running low on wood. Immediately, he sighed, working his shoulders with some exhaustion–then felt himself, wondering if all this work was turning his body around, giving him more substance.
Like...like Hotstreak’s...
He shivered immediately, giving an embarrassed smile as he felt his cheeks warm. He left the house once more, hurrying over to the wood pile that he’d stocked inside the small barn–all stocked within an empty horse stall, with a sharp ax, wedge and mallet to use to break up the dry pieces of wood. He felt strong and able as he chopped up some wood, loading up the wheel barrow and dumping in some kindling pieces–reveling in newfound strength and the persistent soreness in his shoulders and back that assured him he was transforming from a boy to a man. He carted that toward the house, watching Charger warily as the stallion huffed and puffed his way up the road, eyeing him just as warily.
The horse decided not to play, prancing off.
That night, Richie was snoring loudly at the dinner table, fork still in hand–the day’s activities had just caught up to him, and he’d laid his head down to rest ‘for a minute’. He had no way of knowing that, across from him, Hotstreak stared at him in silence, lost in his own thoughts and his own enrapture of the blond. Nothing ceased to amaze him of this boy–! As depressed and low as he felt, Hotstreak just couldn’t shut himself off from Richie. He could avoid him, could avoid talking and letting the kid know he was functioning–but the one thing he couldn’t do was go a day without seeing him.
He’d watched him struggle with the repairs, with Charger, with the exploration of the property–keeping a careful distance away so that Richie wouldn’t know he was being watched. And he simply marveled at it all, amazed at how determined he was to carry on. It helped Hotstreak with his own pain–lifting some of that blame, guilt and sickened misery in that all that he ever come close to was taken from him because of his foolish and childish mistake those years back.
There were many times when he wanted to leave his isolation to help Richie out, but he kept himself back–because he was afraid.
Afraid that if he grew close to him, Richie would just be taken away from him, like everything else.
He didn’t want that–just the very thought hurt.
So...Hotstreak had resolved to keep himself distant.
But he couldn’t leave him–and that just complicated things. He wanted–yet was scared to lose. He wanted to keep himself detached–but it was impossible. It was simply impossible.
Candlelight from a candle nearby made the gold strands of the blond’s hair stand out–Hotstreak was staring at the feathered mass, wanting to reach out and touch it; he wanted to touch him so badly that his hands itched with the need. But he kept them curled and leaned his head into one, setting the other folded in front of him–as long as he could look...neither of them would be hurt.
A loud thud had the pair of them jumping in startled fright–the plate was sent upturned, Richie blinking in disoriented fluster, Hotstreak reaching for guns that weren’t there; both shot surprised looks at each other, each startled at the other’s closeness when another thud on the back kitchen door had them looking in unison in that direction.
Glass tinkered, then a loud scratching sound commenced–slowly, dragging down the length of the window, making both wince; frightening as it was, it told them they weren’t alone. Though they couldn’t see past the glass, they knew someone was standing out there–watching them. The scratching stopped abruptly, and the candle flickered briefly, Richie looking at it with fretful dread, remembering the kitchen scene with Angel. The scarred flesh on his forearms began to itch, and his hair began to stand on end.
He rose from the table looking for a weapon, and then looking at Hotstreak with measuring regard–the other unaware of this as he started to feel that creepy crawling sensation up his spine. Silence reigned suddenly–both were breathing much too quietly for the other to hear. There came the obvious sounds of heavy footfalls on the wraparound porch–heavy weight distributed suddenly and quickly as more footfalls headed in the opposite direction–as if they were being surrounded.
The air grew thick with tension–eyes hardly daring to blink.
The candle flickered again; Hotstreak looked at it with a frown, looking around himself, itching to have his guns–his eyes flicked around the kitchen and dining room, figuring that either spectres were the culprit of this strange occurrence, or it was something entirely new. He looked at the kid, who was regarding him with heavy suspicion, something that made him scowl; immediately defensive over whatever wrong he may have committed since...whenever.
A heavy thud against the front door made them both whirl, startled–footfalls moved quickly back to the kitchen door, the doorknob tried furiously as pounding commenced on the front door. The loud thuds were agonizingly loud within the thick, tense silence–it made Richie suck in his breath, moving anxiously close to Hotstreak despite his fear of another Angel-occurrence. The windows began to rattle, angry squeals of something inhuman and non-animal slashing above the angry thuds at the doors. More hissing commenced, the windows rattling once more before the knob turned furiously.
The front door opened, but was caught by the lock that Richie had turned before retiring to the dinner table–an angry sort of squeal slashed through that front room, and the door slammed shut. He swallowed tightly, pressing his back against Hotstreak’s, dumbly grabbing his dinner fork as a meager weapon against whatever was trying to get inside.
Hotstreak saw this, and snorted–he had a much more composed head than Richie did at the moment, used to these things. He already figured out what kept the bad things from coming in–he just now noticed the small tobacco pouches in each corner of the dining room, above the doors; there were braids of sweetgrass propped atop of decorative tables, above the windows; they were common methods of protection against bad spirits. There were a few braids that were half burnt–strangely, there were no signs of religious worship anywhere in the house; which surprised him. He knew the people were white, and every second person he’d come across was religious in that sense.
Still, knowing that the bad things couldn’t enter the house because of these precautions had him relaxing.
He looked at Richie, who was so tense and wound that any wrong move would have the tines of his dinner fork stuck in some limb. Moving cautiously, deliberately, he eased back into his seat, and eyed his plate.
“What’s that?” he asked, his voice extremely loud within the tense silence. Something inhuman snarled viciously on the back porch, hearing it. The door rattled within its frames as the lock caught, spaces of the night outside visible.
Richie looked at him as if he were insane, and looked ready to stab him with the fork just to save himself. Hotstreak figured he was done being moody–even as it edged at his mind, his very soul. But this welcome distraction kept him from retreating to that darkness that felt suffocating to him. “Sit. They ain’t comin’ in.”
Richie just kept staring at him, judging his sanity. Hotstreak picked at the piece of burnt toast, covered with...something he couldn’t identify. “You made this shit? What’s this? Looks like a horse paddy over...sumthin’.”
Richie couldn’t find words to speak as another window rattled. Red eyes passed briefly past the glass, making his entire being shudder with fright. They were impressioned into his brain–he found himself trembling even as he looked at Hotstreak with incredulous disbelief at his casual attitude at a time like this.
Hotstreak tossed the odd meal back down onto his plate, scratching his ear. He looked up, studying the blond that looked at him and tried to keep his eyes on the window at the same time. He gestured at the seat Richie had abandoned. “Si’down. They ain’t comin’ in. They cain’t.”
Richie once again cast him an incredulous expression, holding his fork in a threatening way that had Hotstreak wary of him. He narrowed his eyes, frowning. He could move faster than Richie could...but...a desperate man was a desperate man. And they tended to do silly things. That fork looked pretty menacing.
He sighed, working the kinks out in his neck. One of the glass windows cracked under the forceful slam of fist upon pane–the kid jumped, whirling in that direction, and Hotstreak took that chance to stand, yank the fork out of his hand, and sit. He set the silverware out of reach as Richie began to back away from him–searching out another weapon.
Hotstreak figured that he’d let him do that–he pulled his plate close to him, and began eating the familiar pieces of venison soaked in some sort of cream sauce. He voiced his approval as he found it sweet, with sour undertones. “This is good...where’d you find it?”
Richie was under attack by his fear, and his intense paranoia that Hotstreak was one of those things–his utter disregard for the things outside the house, and for the fact that he was totally at ease with the situation, totally different from what Richie had seen two weeks ago, was something that convinced him the man was off his rocker. He was trapped inside the house with an insane man–and things outside that wanted to eat him.
His legs were feeling weak–shakily, he grabbed a pitcher off a decorative table near a window, and held that with hands that didn’t want to cooperate. Off-balance, he leaned against the wall, and slid to the floor to stare with terse regard at the man that ate the rest of his dinner.
Hotstreak finished off his food, then frowned at the back door as heavy thuds suggested frustrated kicking. Something shrieked, making his blood curdle briefly–the roof creaked with heavy weight, and the heavy fall of footsteps on the shingles let them know someone was walking up there. Those windows began to rattle angrily–an angry shriek rang out throughout the darkness.
Richie began to tremble even more violently, and Hotstreak felt sorry for him. He pushed the plate away. Pointing at the braids of sweetgrass on the table the pitcher had been sitting on, he said quietly, “That there stuff keeps ‘em out. They can’t come in.”
He pointed at the tobacco pouches within the corners of the rooms. “Them, too. That stuff, along with certain kinda sage keeps them bad ghosties away. That’s all that’s out there, kid. Otherwise, if’n it were somethin’ else, they’d be already in.”
Richie wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him–but he had nothing more to cling to for the moment. He considered the stained red leather pouches that hung in the corners of the room. The braids of sweetgrass he’d thought was just decoration. He looked at Hotstreak again as the man moved, sweeping up the plate and silverware–heading to the wooden bucket to wash them. He re-lit a couple more candles, lighting up the room.
Hotstreak finished the menial task, and looked over at Richie again. The roof creaked, another snarl ripping through the various thuds and frustrated shakes of glass. Seeing that nothing was going to convince the kid that things were okay, he sighed. He poured himself some water from the water bucket, and took a long drink–wincing at the taste of dirt. He hoped he hadn’t drank from the previous dish water, and gave Richie a sour look.
Richie didn’t know what to say, but something croaked out. “I used that to wash out the icebox.”
Hotstreak tried not to throw up, thinking of the many things that may have been stored in there previously. He swallowed down bile, then crossed the kitchen, frowning at a particularly loud thud on the back porch–dishes rattled in their wooden perches on the wall, a teacup smashing into the counter.
But he was confident that none could come in–not with those small forms of protection stationed so abundantly throughout the house. These people were smart for old codgers, he thought. He briefly wondered where they went.
He looked over at Richie again and was bewildered with how much he wanted to sweep him off the floor, to kiss away his frights and worries and distract him from the boogeymen outside. He was frightened with that, because he thought he just might try it. But he knew how sensitive Richie was to any type of contact–it wouldn’t be right.
Still...the appeal was nice.
To distract himself from following through with anything stupid, he started talking–relating his tales of meeting spectres, of battling Ghouls and Hounds, of making mistakes throughout the Panhandle until he found the Hawkins’. He didn’t go into detail over his own past–over how this entire mess started.
Eventually, Richie started to relax, growing more and more confident that the creatures outside couldn’t come in. Eventually, he started to relax his grip on the pitcher, listening to Hotstreak’s stories.
Eventually, the creatures gave up. Silence reigned behind the monotone of Hotstreak’s voice, until he tired himself talking so much about his past.
Yawning, he stretched his arms above his head.
“They’re gone,” he announced, looking at the windows. The first candle had finally died, disappearing into a puddle of wax. The other two were a quarter lower than they were when he’d lit them–how he loved fire–suggesting that an hour had passed since he started talking. He wasn’t sure–he was never good at telling lengths of time with the loss of height in candles. Virgil was better at that than he was.
Thinking about the man made him miss him badly–just as badly as he missed his Indian friends, Robert, the other Hawkins’ ranch hands. Looking at Richie, he suddenly wondered what his oldest kid looked like. If they were even alive.
He shifted in his seat. “Kinda...sorry I didn’t help out these past weeks. I...just...this is...kinda hard. Losin’ people I know always fucks me up.”
Richie stared at him in silence, then thought about it. He had to agree.
“I miss my parents,” he said quietly. Then scrunched up his brow. “And Junior.”
Hotstreak shot him a bewildered look. “Why?” he blurted. “Ain’t that the one that’s always beatin’ you up?”
“Well...yes, but...he...taught me a lot of things. I wouldn’t have gotten this far without him,” Richie said defensively.
Hotstreak stared at him in disbelief. He was using his hands to emphasize his words as he then said, “He bought you like you were some fuckin’ animal, sold ya, used ya, boxed you around–an’ you think that way of him? I’d want to fuckin’ wish he suffered to his very last end!”
“Well, of course–! Of course I don’t completely feel that–! But–there, if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t know how to shoot. He taught me. And–and even if he wasn’t doing a very good job, he did his best to make sure I was safe. He had some good in him that made him redeemable.”
Hotstreak shook his head in disgust. Richie frowned at him. In incredulity, Hotstreak ran a hand through his tangle of hair, wincing at the greasy, tangled feeling. Automatically thinking of Virgil’s hair when he’d decided to go for the dread look.
“So, if’n the bastard did live...wouldja go back to him?”
Richie thought about it. “Well...I....wouldn’t go that far. He did do some pretty nasty things. But...I’m firmly convinced that if he hadn’t...I wouldn’t be here. He went through a lot to...keep me alive.”
Hotstreak continued to stare at him with disbelieving disgust. He played with the sleeve of his worn shirt–realizing it needed serious mending. Or that he needed a new one.
He thought of the younger Alva, and felt his face twist with contempt. For one to feel that way about some turd that–
“Yer in love wit’ him, ain’t you?” he blurted angrily, feeling rejected.
Richie shot him a look that was filled with aghast denial. “NO!”
“Liar. Only fools in love forgive an’ overlook that sorta bullshit.” The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. And the more Hotstreak felt jealous–insanely jealous. “Fuckin’ bullshit, man.”
“NO!”
“Then what is it, huh?”
“It’s–! You won’t understand! You’re not understanding–!”
“I unnerstand ya’ll in love! Don’t know why!”
“I’m NOT!”
“HAH! If you feel so much for th’ creep, what you feel for people that do you right? Huh?”
“I–! There has been a severe lack of such nice intentions in this frontier,” Richie said in disgust, looking away. “Everyone that I have met thus far have been manipulative–always doing something for something. Never out of the kindness of their hearts.”
Hotstreak rolled his eyes, thinking automatically of the Hawkins. They were as close to angels as he was going to get. They were so friendly, so kind–taking in anyone, even if that person thought he was incapable of good.
“Then you don’t know very many people,” he muttered, picking at his beard. He winced. It was so scraggly, thick and unruly.
“I’ve seen enough. Enough to know that men love doing things in groups. That if they experience something new, they pass it on to other people. Other men. No one has been kind in a gracious sense, always having some hidden agenda or some manipulative–!”
“Sheesh, how old are ya, kid? You talk like yer fifty. All them old people spit shit like that all the time.”
“I’m SIXTEEN.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
Richie sighed, absolutely tired of the argument. But he had to admit–it had taken his mind off of the creatures outside. He was bodily exhausted–he could feel the heaviness of his eyelids. He wanted to sleep.
Hotstreak was still sore in that Richie had more feelings for Edwin Alva, Jr., than he was willing to admit. It seriously bugged him. Angrily, he rose from the chair, stomping out of the kitchen, heading upstairs.
Richie didn’t know what to think of that conversation. So he sat in silence in the kitchen, staring at the shadows that the candles cast on the floor, and wondered about his feelings towards Junior.
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: (bows) Here’s your next chapter, mistress...please be gentle with that whip XD Oh, I forgot to ask–what are nazgul? I took your gentle advice...hope this chapter somewhat pleases you. Thanks for the constant push to write XD
I’m Alive: Why, thank you! ^_^ I haven’t read Mr. King’s The Stand, but...I wouldn’t want my story to be similar to his, as if I’m copying. (Worried) But, yeah, this is going to be long. I keep digging myself a deep one with each chapter...Now, along the way, I lost sight of whom and what I was writing about LOL. I’m growing attached to these charas, and their different stories...blah. Was this a Hs/R romance? Or...or what? (Sad)
Chapter Nineteen:
The Night Has Been Unkind
They were looking at a large town–liveries, blacksmiths, stables, General Stores, sheriff’s office, saloons, train depot; the works. Telegraph lines were already strewn throughout the area, streaming out towards the East. A river ran through the middle of town–small, but lively. And there were people–so many people. The four riders were astounded, all wondering if this town had been hit, yet, and if so–how did they survive when everyone else had fallen to chaos and panic?
Virgil pushed ahead, noticed immediately by those leading along buckboards with lumber, carriages with suspicious faces–everyone had an air of terseness about them. The town looked weathered with their brown buildings, their faded brick; but the more they rode in, the more they saw tarnishes of a war. Most of the standing buildings had bullet holes in them–stains were apparent in the moist wood. Windows were boarded over, and there were men with guns–standing about, guarding the area with suspicious regard.
“Wow,” he muttered, looking around in amazement. “This place been hit, an’ they still standin’!”
Adam nodded in agreement, tipping his hat toward a small family that stared at them with concern. They returned the greeting with cautious smiles–it wasn’t as if the pair were treated unfavorably; it looked as if the town was just weary.
Still, judging from the activity and the obvious preparation this town took against the unnatural invaders, it was evident that this is where Junior would stay. It was a pointed, un-voiced sort of command, and Junior felt it coming from the other three without even looking at them. He was healed as best as he could be for the moment–though the first few weeks had been tough. His injuries had made it hard for him to cooperate with life in general, but it was the only real time he’d first felt pain.
Since he didn’t get along with any of them, recognizing that they only took him in because they were kind and caring, he’d had plenty of time to think. Every jarring bump to his ribs, every twitch of his mouth, every painful bruise and contusion that throbbed on his body due to Paul’s attack made Junior more aware of his mortality–and of his wrongdoings.
He had plenty of time to think–and a short time to change.
Sullenly, but definitely not complaining, Junior eyed the town, studying everyone as they studied them. He recognized no one, and realized that he wouldn’t be finding his father, or their workers, here. This left him feeling dejected and lonely–hurting painfully from within over everything that had happened in his past. The others were going to leave him, here–he knew how they felt about him, and he didn’t blame them. He kept thinking of how the whores–God, he felt so shamed for not knowing their names, for reveling in his abuse of power and control over hapless human beings that had been ripped from all their comforts and homes just to serve him and his father–would express their fear and pain to him, and he’d ignored and abused every one.
He had to wonder how in the world he’d come to live like that. He regretted it all, now that he knew what they felt. He truly did.
Along their journey, they’d come across more supplies from the fallen, and Junior had come across warm clothing and a horse. He kept thinking about what had happened to the boy; he felt very awful for losing him, knowing that he was more defenseless than he was. It made him deeply sick, and it was just another regret he had to live with.
Everyone was cold, tired, hungry, thirsty–they were looking forward for some rest before moving on. But they knew they were going to separate from Junior, and the younger Alva knew this. Muttering a “appreciate it”, he moved his horse away from the others, and dejectedly headed off into another direction different from theirs. The others didn’t say anything, watching him leave.
“Well, that’s the last we’ll see of that bastard,” Virgil decided as Junior disappeared around a corner. Randy nodded in agreement, and Virgil gave Adam a somewhat cheerful look. “Kinda makes it all worth it, y’know?”
“Eh. Prolly. Who knows? He been quiet the last few days. All this trip, actually.”
“Hope he’s thinkin’ about all the wrong he gone an’ done throughout his life,” Virgil muttered. “I mean...he’s one of the worst...”
Adam agreed, shrugging a shoulder idly. It had been a long ride–a long journey. Every town they’d come across was empty, desolate–apparently in devastation after hordes of Underworld demons ravaged it. They’d run into various people along the way, but everyone had been dangerous after the attacks. Growing mean, selfish, desperate–more than a few times they’d fallen into gun battles, taking lives and saving their own. The entire way, Junior was quiet, reserved–sullen and pouty but refusing to overstep boundaries. Virgil had deducted that the man had ‘smartened up some’ and changed some of his ways, recognizing that he hadn’t a chance by himself in the wildness among the chaos.
In a way, Adam had felt some pity for the man–even when Virgil didn’t. Adam felt pity for Junior because, in the end, Junior was just as defenseless and helpless as those he terrorized–and he knew that the younger Alva knew this. It was about time he found some payback for all that he’d done, but Adam couldn’t help but feel that way about him. He didn’t share this with Virgil, though–the man was vehement in his dislike for Junior that nothing changed his opinion.
“Well,” Virgil shifted in his saddle. “Where to, boys?”
“Let’s shack up, first, then clean up. Look for some grub,” Adam announced, touching his face with experimenting feeling. “Wanna shave right, for once. Wanna be clean. I know I can’t smell it, but I know I be smellin’ somethin’ funky...”
“You got that right,” Virgil muttered playfully, leading Sparky off, asking a passing gunman where they could find someplace to stay.
That night, in a small saloon, Junior was nursing a much-needed drink, staring sightlessly off at the corner. Money wasn’t used anywhere in the town–trade and bartering were used. He’d traded off some ammo and a nice leather jacket for a half bottle of Red Eye Pete. It was wonderful to feel his throat burned by the liquid as he swallowed, to feel the effects spreading throughout every limb. He kept thinking about all the wrong doings he’d ever done to get this far, so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the men calling his name, excitedly joining him at the bar. Not until Specs slapped him with real excitement did he notice them, gaping incredulously as they companionably greeted him. Casey, Jerry, Specs and Trapper, and Mitch–all looked worn and older than they actually were, but they were there.
And hope flared in him, wondering if his father was nearby. He wouldn’t be alone–and that feeling felt amazing.
He greeted them just as cheerfully, all of them oohing and awing at the same time, all of them excited to be reunited and knowing that the other was still alive. It didn’t take long for Junior to learn that Alva had taken control of the town–the elder Alva had taken over as soon as the small town was discovered, and laid down his own law. An experienced fighter, mainly in business but living long enough to know a few tricks of his own, Alva had learned his own way around the zombies and accompanying creatures, and had set up the law here. The town had been nothing until they’d shown up–he ruled mightily, and people were grateful for his control.
It didn’t surprise him that his father had taken over, using his knowledge and power to do so. Not at all.
But that wash of righteous indignant anger swept over him–wondering why Alva hadn’t looked for him.
“You guys couldn’t find me, huh?” Junior asked as he was led to Alva’s Victorian mansion downtown–the area heavily guarded by rough-looking gunmen. Casey tossed him a somewhat sheepish expression.
“We tried,” he said, faltering. “But...your daddy wanted us here.”
Junior stared at his trusted friend for a few moments, then narrowed his eyes. “He would have come back for me, right?”
Casey chose not to answer that, pointing out a couple of other men that Junior was familiar with. Amid all the greetings and ostensible cheer, Junior couldn’t help but feel that sinking feeling in that Alva hadn’t bothered for him at all.
He had known–but actually realizing that it was true was a whole different feeling.
The house was nicely kept–he even kept house servants, women milling about with their cleaning supplies and tired expressions. Junior wondered what happened to Jessie–he wouldn’t forget THAT one’s name–and Teresa. He had some vague confidence in that Teresa would do as she was told, no matter how dire the situation. She was smart that way–but feisty enough to keep from breaking totally.
Casey led the way through a few halls–this mansion was bigger than any building Junior was familiar with–and knocked politely at a heavy oak door, walking in at the gruffly given permission.
Junior was right behind him as Casey greeted Alva politely, then stepped aside to reveal the younger Alva. Already, Junior was feeling angry at his father–rejected, brushed aside–and didn’t exactly feel the warmth of happiness upon seeing the older man.
Alva looked as if he’d aged twenty more years atop of his already old age–his gray hair was nearly white, there were added wrinkles on his face, and he’d looked as if he’d lost a few pounds. But as he studied his son, rising from the leather chair on which he sat to greet Junior with nothing more than a scowling expression, it was obvious Alva was just as powerful as he had been, before.
Junior stared at his father for a few moments, then with unconscious regard, not even knowing he did it, he waved for Casey and the two older men that sat with Alva outside. With some confusion, the two old men looked at Alva for confirmation, Casey leaving with casual attitude at the forceful command–Alva nodded at the men to follow, sitting once more in his seat to regard his son with a studious expression.
Junior felt himself fuming, his limbs filling with disbelieving rage that his father could regard him so casually–just knowing that Alva hadn’t put any effort into looking for him was enough for him to stare venomously at him, wondering...why?
Alva studied him, from top to bottom, then lifted his coffee cup, stern eyes cutting away with nothing more than impatient regard. “You’re alive,” he said simply, his voice more graveled than before.
“Yeah, I’m still alive,” Junior spit angrily, staring at him. “You didn’t even look for me, didya?”
“I didn’t have the time, nor the manpower to divide between our survival, and to search for you. As I learned of it, you went on a drunken rampage that morning, took the boy, and disappeared wherever you went. I’m assuming you got rid of him?”
Furiously, Junior curled his fingers into fists, feeling his face fill with red.
Alva set his cup down carefully, eyes sweeping over various documents in front of him. “No one had any idea where you went–Runner’s Valley was a big territory. We were attacked that same day–we barely split with our lives, Junior. I could not afford to give up what little men we had left to go search for you and lost profit.”
“I’m your son! Don’t that mean anythin’?!”
Alva regarded the question carefully, then looked at Junior with a level expression. “Of course!” he finally snapped, giving him another impatient expression. “But I couldn’t afford to let some of the men go–not after counting our losses. We lost all but seven of our men–and we couldn’t afford to go back. We just had to continue forward...”
Junior was aghast at how coldly Alva spoke–as if, his own blood relative and heir, was nothing more than a product.
“Once we were settled here, I didn’t have the time to organize a search party, and besides–I figured you on surviving and eventually locating us. I made this town into a town that everyone can depend and rely on. We have settlers and survivors coming in every day. The train is equipped with–”
“I don’t wanna know about that!” Junior cried, ripping his hat from his head.
“Settle yourself, Junior!” Alva snapped, glaring at him. “You’re not one of those roughnecks you used to hang out, with. I’ve raised you to be better than that.”
“You didn’t even look for me, dad!”
“Where’s the boy?” Alva then asked, over what he thought was the pathetic whine of his son’s voice.
Junior glowered at him, feeling all the fight leave him, then. He was just too exhausted to fight–too broken by his own revelations and by his father’s seemingly cold-hearted choice. He shrugged tiredly. “I dunno. He–he’s just gone.”
Alva sighed, impatiently as he ran his eyes up to a point above Junior’s head–mentally calculating the loss. Junior stared at him in disgust, just knowing what his father was going to say, next. “I’ve only got two girls, workin’. Bringing in more ammo, more men. That boy would have helped our profits considerably–we didn’t have that many to begin with, Junior, and you up and lose that one. Brand new! The girls gotta keep on workin’, then. We’re gettin’ in a few more by the fifteenth...that should raise more of our weapons cache, and draw in more prospective guns into Luna...bringing us more people in need of protection and stability...”
Junior’s expression of disgust turned into that of hatred. He slapped his hat back atop of his head.
Alva stopped talking aloud, and looked at him with considerable measure. “Where are you going? I can have a room prepared for you, if you like. I’d like you to take over where you left off–you were doing rather well with keeping the whores in line–”
“I ain’t doin’ nothin’ for you,” Junior sneered, turning to leave the room.
Alva rose quickly in his seat, slapping his hands atop of his desk. “You stop right there, boy! Don’t you dare turn your back on me, or my orders! You intend to live with me, you work with me–do as I say. I raised you in this business, Junior, and for you to turn against it, having seen some ridiculous light along your travels–or is it because you’re sore at me for not sending out a search party to look for your drunken ass? As far as I’m concerned, this little detour taught you a much-needed lesson. You were getting entirely too damn cocky with that attitude of yours–thinkin’ you can rule the world–you had to be taught this lesson! You survived what you did, that just made you a stronger person. Don’t think that you gotta change for some–better purpose,” Alva’s face twisted at the words, “and think you can leave me. It’s the survival of the fittest! The strongest! God is weeding out the weak with this–gruesome uprise of His, and it’s fitting that the strongest take over where the remaining cannot. And we are the strongest, Junior. I raised you better–!”
Junior snorted, shaking his head. He gave his father a withering expression over his shoulder, and left the room, saying nothing more. Incredulous, Alva stared at the doorway, listening to the sound of his furious footfalls down the hall.
“You’ll be back!” he shouted angrily. “And when you do, you apologize to me! Foolish brat...”
010101010110
Richie angrily tossed a rock at the bawing herd of sheep, all of whom followed each other around in frantic circles, alarmed by his presence and Charger’s. The horse had amused him at first; Charger, upon seeing the wooly animals huddling together for warmth, had ran into and through them like an excited dog. Until sheep started getting hurt and panicked with screaming noises, scrambling all over each other as the horse terrorized them.
Better them than me, Richie had thought, until it became impossible to catch one of the wooly things.
Two weeks here in this small, desolate area, and he’d already managed to learn to take care of himself, and gathered enough curiosity and determination to examine the land and its contents. Finding the sheep herd had been somewhat satisfying–finding the cow herd had been grand. There was a burnt-out shell of a train sitting on broken tracks not that far from here, and inside he’d discovered skeletons of dead cows, sheep, passengers–and evidence that many animals still lived. He’d taken Charger and found the animals in the surrounding area–taking time out to construct his own holding pens and repairing a correl for the animals he planned on keeping.
They’d arrived here in this area, and the first house they’d come to–Hotstreak had left him. Simply left his horse, left no word or look, and shut himself in that house. At first, both horse and boy were confused, standing outside, waiting–not knowing what to do. Then Charger had grown tired of his weight, and Richie had been bucked off–it took him awhile to catch the damn animal, and even longer to learn to ride.
But the two compromised when Richie held ransom some oats he’d found in a nearby barn, and bribed the unruly stallion with it until the animal was nice enough to let him on. The two worked briefly together, finding both herds–and Richie got it into his head he was going to claim both. Enough of this constant travel–he might as well as settle and ride out the chaos until he could find a train back to the East.
At least...these were his plans now. He was just sick of traveling.
They’d left the higher-elevated areas, heading down where snow barely touched, going along with the stallion’s intuition. They hadn’t spoke–it felt, to Richie, that Hotstreak had shut himself off to the rest of the world. He knew the redhead had taken the Indians’ deaths hard–but he wasn’t aware of the man’s past, his experience with the underworld invaders. He didn’t know the severity of Hotstreak’s blame for himself–just knew that he’d lost some friends in the attack.
He felt sad, yes–but he couldn’t just...sit there. They had to survive–and once he found the resources, he began teaching himself and learning through trial and error on what to do. He learned how to use the tools he found throughout the ranch, and learned how to repair. It came easy with him, but he hadn’t any idea what to do with animals.
He knew they provided meat–but he didn’t know how. He’d seen the Indians skin and gut a buffalo to strip off the meat–but that was the extent of his lesson. He was sure he could apply the same techniques to other animals–figuring he learned to catch one, first.
And he knew wool was useful–he just wasn’t sure how to get it off them. How to spin, gather–that eluded him. Search of the ranch house yielded him no clues–he’d just learn it, himself. Someone had to learn somewhere...
But the sheep were so...elusive...
Giving up for today, he turned and started walking back to the ranch, ignoring the startled and protesting squeals of sheep as Charger continued to terrorize them. Richie tossed the stallion a cautious look, shaking his head slightly–that horse baffled him. He wasn’t sure what to think of the animal.
As he headed back, he eyed the ranch house with some thought–wondering when the redhead was going to start showing himself. He knew that the man locked himself into a room on the second floor, and Richie felt miserable for him. Miserable and concerned–there was some food in the kitchen and cellar, and whatever he made for himself, he made for Hotstreak, too. He often left the plates on the floor outside the door, and he heard him leaving the house to attend to bathroom duties, but...since they’d arrived, Richie hadn’t seen him nor spoke with him.
So he fended for himself, entirely grateful that he knew more than he had before the Indians, and that he was given these supplies to work with.
He stared up at the sky, noting the constant overcast of storm clouds–it felt he hadn’t seen a sunny day since Alva’s Town. He was really starting to miss the sun...
Charger nearly ran him over as the stallion charged up the road, feeling frisky and free without the saddle and reins–Richie had learned to ride him bareback, as it was very impossible to saddle the horse up, anyway. He was quite proud of that, actually.
He picked himself up from the road, tossing a couple of rocks after the stallion–then racing for safety atop of the fence that enclosed the house once the horse charged him again, hooves pounding the moist soil. The maniac horse then sped off, sheep running in panic from the stallion. Richie jumped down from the fence, grumbling to himself, then veering away from the house to check on the correl he’d repaired.
He’d seen Junior’s men repair the one in Runner’s Valley, and had followed their example with straightening the gates, with repairing the posts–pulling the wire to reform a more sturdy enclosing. Everything was already in place–he just needed to tidy up some factors before pulling the animals in. His muscles ached and sang with pain everyday after that, but it was well-worth it to see a completed project. He’d gotten blisters and calluses on his hands–had groaned and complained to himself over muscles he’d never used before as they became sore and demanding over the work he’d done. But in the end...it was all worth it.
Sighing heavily, he looked over his work–feeling a swell of pride puff his chest and a satisfied smile to cross his face. Everything wasn’t too bad for a kid that knew nothing of such matters; with no experience. His parents would be so proud...
Thinking of them immediately made him deflate; he missed them terribly. Sadly, he turned away from the correl and began heading back to the ranch house, worrying his bottom lip as he wondered when he’d see them, again.
The ranch house was a two story Victorian–out of place for the area, but fitting with its sturdy frame and hardwood floor. It was large with six rooms, a wraparound porch–with a swing out back, overlooking a couple of acres of farmland–and was furnished with neat, sturdy furniture and pleasing items needed for survival. The few pictures he’d found were of an elderly couple–there wasn’t any sign of their deaths, or anyone else’s.
Outside, there was a small barn that looked to have housed at least two horses, a small shack that held minimal resources–looking to have sheltered at least two men–and a wonderful tornado shelter located just behind the shack. The tornado shelter was stocked much more fantastically than the house with non-perishable food, clothing, cots, blankets, ammo and more weapons–there was even reading material in there, most of modern-day economics, general First-Aid and Care, farming and a price book on animals.
There was a small correl just outside the barn, and a sheep pen that was small, but fit the herd that was running about. He’d found evidence of chickens, but it looked as if wolves had gotten to them. There were five saddles propped in the loft in the barn, but he hadn’t seen any horses or mules about. There was a doghouse outside the house, but there wasn’t a sign of the dog.
Even so, the property was comfortable and fitting. The only thing he didn’t like was the solace that surrounded the place–he wasn’t sure how far the nearest neighbor was, or the next town. He wasn’t sure if these people were killed, or had just left–were they coming back? Still, he liked the place and had grown immediately attached to it.
He liked putting in the work that was needed to make things run–once he figured it out, it was easy to abide to. But his body was untrained and he had to make himself work, even when it hurt. He didn’t want to be a struggling weakling all his life. He had to be a man, somehow. It was very important to him to feel useful, and to know that he was useful–to know that he could do things. He didn’t want to be known and used for only as an object.
This is what pushed him, sometimes.
He had just hurried up the stairs onto the wraparound porch when he heard the sound of hollow jangling from around the house. It sounded familiar, and sensation made him shiver, for hairs to stand on end. He stilled, listening to the noises around him–hearing only the cold wind that swept through the dead corn field, the sounds of frightened sheep. The jangle sounded again–a small sound that would have been missed had he continued on with his thoughts, but once aware it, he wasn’t likely to forget it.
He stared at the end of the porch, which would take him to the front of the house–that was where the sound was coming from. Something in his stomach and chest told him to be afraid–that he wasn’t alone. He knew that he wasn’t alone–Hotstreak was in the house, but...someone was here with him, right now. Only he didn’t know what, or whom.
And still, his hair persisted to stand on end, and his fingers curled anxiously for the safety of a gun. Any gun.
He started to reflect how odd it was that he was depending on a weapon he’d never used before in his life, but that day with Junior had taught him the confidence he needed to use one. That was another thing he was thankful for about that wretched man–he still felt bad, though, for leaving him to die.
The jangle sounded once, then was gone–it felt as if a heavy weight had lifted, and nature began moving again. Charger’s scream of victory echoed throughout the area, and Richie felt himself moving again. He hurried into the house, carefully locking it behind him. Hearing nothing but silence within the comfortable two-story, he lit a couple of candles, then checked the wood-burning stove. It was still burning neatly, and he realized he was running low on wood. Immediately, he sighed, working his shoulders with some exhaustion–then felt himself, wondering if all this work was turning his body around, giving him more substance.
Like...like Hotstreak’s...
He shivered immediately, giving an embarrassed smile as he felt his cheeks warm. He left the house once more, hurrying over to the wood pile that he’d stocked inside the small barn–all stocked within an empty horse stall, with a sharp ax, wedge and mallet to use to break up the dry pieces of wood. He felt strong and able as he chopped up some wood, loading up the wheel barrow and dumping in some kindling pieces–reveling in newfound strength and the persistent soreness in his shoulders and back that assured him he was transforming from a boy to a man. He carted that toward the house, watching Charger warily as the stallion huffed and puffed his way up the road, eyeing him just as warily.
The horse decided not to play, prancing off.
That night, Richie was snoring loudly at the dinner table, fork still in hand–the day’s activities had just caught up to him, and he’d laid his head down to rest ‘for a minute’. He had no way of knowing that, across from him, Hotstreak stared at him in silence, lost in his own thoughts and his own enrapture of the blond. Nothing ceased to amaze him of this boy–! As depressed and low as he felt, Hotstreak just couldn’t shut himself off from Richie. He could avoid him, could avoid talking and letting the kid know he was functioning–but the one thing he couldn’t do was go a day without seeing him.
He’d watched him struggle with the repairs, with Charger, with the exploration of the property–keeping a careful distance away so that Richie wouldn’t know he was being watched. And he simply marveled at it all, amazed at how determined he was to carry on. It helped Hotstreak with his own pain–lifting some of that blame, guilt and sickened misery in that all that he ever come close to was taken from him because of his foolish and childish mistake those years back.
There were many times when he wanted to leave his isolation to help Richie out, but he kept himself back–because he was afraid.
Afraid that if he grew close to him, Richie would just be taken away from him, like everything else.
He didn’t want that–just the very thought hurt.
So...Hotstreak had resolved to keep himself distant.
But he couldn’t leave him–and that just complicated things. He wanted–yet was scared to lose. He wanted to keep himself detached–but it was impossible. It was simply impossible.
Candlelight from a candle nearby made the gold strands of the blond’s hair stand out–Hotstreak was staring at the feathered mass, wanting to reach out and touch it; he wanted to touch him so badly that his hands itched with the need. But he kept them curled and leaned his head into one, setting the other folded in front of him–as long as he could look...neither of them would be hurt.
A loud thud had the pair of them jumping in startled fright–the plate was sent upturned, Richie blinking in disoriented fluster, Hotstreak reaching for guns that weren’t there; both shot surprised looks at each other, each startled at the other’s closeness when another thud on the back kitchen door had them looking in unison in that direction.
Glass tinkered, then a loud scratching sound commenced–slowly, dragging down the length of the window, making both wince; frightening as it was, it told them they weren’t alone. Though they couldn’t see past the glass, they knew someone was standing out there–watching them. The scratching stopped abruptly, and the candle flickered briefly, Richie looking at it with fretful dread, remembering the kitchen scene with Angel. The scarred flesh on his forearms began to itch, and his hair began to stand on end.
He rose from the table looking for a weapon, and then looking at Hotstreak with measuring regard–the other unaware of this as he started to feel that creepy crawling sensation up his spine. Silence reigned suddenly–both were breathing much too quietly for the other to hear. There came the obvious sounds of heavy footfalls on the wraparound porch–heavy weight distributed suddenly and quickly as more footfalls headed in the opposite direction–as if they were being surrounded.
The air grew thick with tension–eyes hardly daring to blink.
The candle flickered again; Hotstreak looked at it with a frown, looking around himself, itching to have his guns–his eyes flicked around the kitchen and dining room, figuring that either spectres were the culprit of this strange occurrence, or it was something entirely new. He looked at the kid, who was regarding him with heavy suspicion, something that made him scowl; immediately defensive over whatever wrong he may have committed since...whenever.
A heavy thud against the front door made them both whirl, startled–footfalls moved quickly back to the kitchen door, the doorknob tried furiously as pounding commenced on the front door. The loud thuds were agonizingly loud within the thick, tense silence–it made Richie suck in his breath, moving anxiously close to Hotstreak despite his fear of another Angel-occurrence. The windows began to rattle, angry squeals of something inhuman and non-animal slashing above the angry thuds at the doors. More hissing commenced, the windows rattling once more before the knob turned furiously.
The front door opened, but was caught by the lock that Richie had turned before retiring to the dinner table–an angry sort of squeal slashed through that front room, and the door slammed shut. He swallowed tightly, pressing his back against Hotstreak’s, dumbly grabbing his dinner fork as a meager weapon against whatever was trying to get inside.
Hotstreak saw this, and snorted–he had a much more composed head than Richie did at the moment, used to these things. He already figured out what kept the bad things from coming in–he just now noticed the small tobacco pouches in each corner of the dining room, above the doors; there were braids of sweetgrass propped atop of decorative tables, above the windows; they were common methods of protection against bad spirits. There were a few braids that were half burnt–strangely, there were no signs of religious worship anywhere in the house; which surprised him. He knew the people were white, and every second person he’d come across was religious in that sense.
Still, knowing that the bad things couldn’t enter the house because of these precautions had him relaxing.
He looked at Richie, who was so tense and wound that any wrong move would have the tines of his dinner fork stuck in some limb. Moving cautiously, deliberately, he eased back into his seat, and eyed his plate.
“What’s that?” he asked, his voice extremely loud within the tense silence. Something inhuman snarled viciously on the back porch, hearing it. The door rattled within its frames as the lock caught, spaces of the night outside visible.
Richie looked at him as if he were insane, and looked ready to stab him with the fork just to save himself. Hotstreak figured he was done being moody–even as it edged at his mind, his very soul. But this welcome distraction kept him from retreating to that darkness that felt suffocating to him. “Sit. They ain’t comin’ in.”
Richie just kept staring at him, judging his sanity. Hotstreak picked at the piece of burnt toast, covered with...something he couldn’t identify. “You made this shit? What’s this? Looks like a horse paddy over...sumthin’.”
Richie couldn’t find words to speak as another window rattled. Red eyes passed briefly past the glass, making his entire being shudder with fright. They were impressioned into his brain–he found himself trembling even as he looked at Hotstreak with incredulous disbelief at his casual attitude at a time like this.
Hotstreak tossed the odd meal back down onto his plate, scratching his ear. He looked up, studying the blond that looked at him and tried to keep his eyes on the window at the same time. He gestured at the seat Richie had abandoned. “Si’down. They ain’t comin’ in. They cain’t.”
Richie once again cast him an incredulous expression, holding his fork in a threatening way that had Hotstreak wary of him. He narrowed his eyes, frowning. He could move faster than Richie could...but...a desperate man was a desperate man. And they tended to do silly things. That fork looked pretty menacing.
He sighed, working the kinks out in his neck. One of the glass windows cracked under the forceful slam of fist upon pane–the kid jumped, whirling in that direction, and Hotstreak took that chance to stand, yank the fork out of his hand, and sit. He set the silverware out of reach as Richie began to back away from him–searching out another weapon.
Hotstreak figured that he’d let him do that–he pulled his plate close to him, and began eating the familiar pieces of venison soaked in some sort of cream sauce. He voiced his approval as he found it sweet, with sour undertones. “This is good...where’d you find it?”
Richie was under attack by his fear, and his intense paranoia that Hotstreak was one of those things–his utter disregard for the things outside the house, and for the fact that he was totally at ease with the situation, totally different from what Richie had seen two weeks ago, was something that convinced him the man was off his rocker. He was trapped inside the house with an insane man–and things outside that wanted to eat him.
His legs were feeling weak–shakily, he grabbed a pitcher off a decorative table near a window, and held that with hands that didn’t want to cooperate. Off-balance, he leaned against the wall, and slid to the floor to stare with terse regard at the man that ate the rest of his dinner.
Hotstreak finished off his food, then frowned at the back door as heavy thuds suggested frustrated kicking. Something shrieked, making his blood curdle briefly–the roof creaked with heavy weight, and the heavy fall of footsteps on the shingles let them know someone was walking up there. Those windows began to rattle angrily–an angry shriek rang out throughout the darkness.
Richie began to tremble even more violently, and Hotstreak felt sorry for him. He pushed the plate away. Pointing at the braids of sweetgrass on the table the pitcher had been sitting on, he said quietly, “That there stuff keeps ‘em out. They can’t come in.”
He pointed at the tobacco pouches within the corners of the rooms. “Them, too. That stuff, along with certain kinda sage keeps them bad ghosties away. That’s all that’s out there, kid. Otherwise, if’n it were somethin’ else, they’d be already in.”
Richie wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him–but he had nothing more to cling to for the moment. He considered the stained red leather pouches that hung in the corners of the room. The braids of sweetgrass he’d thought was just decoration. He looked at Hotstreak again as the man moved, sweeping up the plate and silverware–heading to the wooden bucket to wash them. He re-lit a couple more candles, lighting up the room.
Hotstreak finished the menial task, and looked over at Richie again. The roof creaked, another snarl ripping through the various thuds and frustrated shakes of glass. Seeing that nothing was going to convince the kid that things were okay, he sighed. He poured himself some water from the water bucket, and took a long drink–wincing at the taste of dirt. He hoped he hadn’t drank from the previous dish water, and gave Richie a sour look.
Richie didn’t know what to say, but something croaked out. “I used that to wash out the icebox.”
Hotstreak tried not to throw up, thinking of the many things that may have been stored in there previously. He swallowed down bile, then crossed the kitchen, frowning at a particularly loud thud on the back porch–dishes rattled in their wooden perches on the wall, a teacup smashing into the counter.
But he was confident that none could come in–not with those small forms of protection stationed so abundantly throughout the house. These people were smart for old codgers, he thought. He briefly wondered where they went.
He looked over at Richie again and was bewildered with how much he wanted to sweep him off the floor, to kiss away his frights and worries and distract him from the boogeymen outside. He was frightened with that, because he thought he just might try it. But he knew how sensitive Richie was to any type of contact–it wouldn’t be right.
Still...the appeal was nice.
To distract himself from following through with anything stupid, he started talking–relating his tales of meeting spectres, of battling Ghouls and Hounds, of making mistakes throughout the Panhandle until he found the Hawkins’. He didn’t go into detail over his own past–over how this entire mess started.
Eventually, Richie started to relax, growing more and more confident that the creatures outside couldn’t come in. Eventually, he started to relax his grip on the pitcher, listening to Hotstreak’s stories.
Eventually, the creatures gave up. Silence reigned behind the monotone of Hotstreak’s voice, until he tired himself talking so much about his past.
Yawning, he stretched his arms above his head.
“They’re gone,” he announced, looking at the windows. The first candle had finally died, disappearing into a puddle of wax. The other two were a quarter lower than they were when he’d lit them–how he loved fire–suggesting that an hour had passed since he started talking. He wasn’t sure–he was never good at telling lengths of time with the loss of height in candles. Virgil was better at that than he was.
Thinking about the man made him miss him badly–just as badly as he missed his Indian friends, Robert, the other Hawkins’ ranch hands. Looking at Richie, he suddenly wondered what his oldest kid looked like. If they were even alive.
He shifted in his seat. “Kinda...sorry I didn’t help out these past weeks. I...just...this is...kinda hard. Losin’ people I know always fucks me up.”
Richie stared at him in silence, then thought about it. He had to agree.
“I miss my parents,” he said quietly. Then scrunched up his brow. “And Junior.”
Hotstreak shot him a bewildered look. “Why?” he blurted. “Ain’t that the one that’s always beatin’ you up?”
“Well...yes, but...he...taught me a lot of things. I wouldn’t have gotten this far without him,” Richie said defensively.
Hotstreak stared at him in disbelief. He was using his hands to emphasize his words as he then said, “He bought you like you were some fuckin’ animal, sold ya, used ya, boxed you around–an’ you think that way of him? I’d want to fuckin’ wish he suffered to his very last end!”
“Well, of course–! Of course I don’t completely feel that–! But–there, if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t know how to shoot. He taught me. And–and even if he wasn’t doing a very good job, he did his best to make sure I was safe. He had some good in him that made him redeemable.”
Hotstreak shook his head in disgust. Richie frowned at him. In incredulity, Hotstreak ran a hand through his tangle of hair, wincing at the greasy, tangled feeling. Automatically thinking of Virgil’s hair when he’d decided to go for the dread look.
“So, if’n the bastard did live...wouldja go back to him?”
Richie thought about it. “Well...I....wouldn’t go that far. He did do some pretty nasty things. But...I’m firmly convinced that if he hadn’t...I wouldn’t be here. He went through a lot to...keep me alive.”
Hotstreak continued to stare at him with disbelieving disgust. He played with the sleeve of his worn shirt–realizing it needed serious mending. Or that he needed a new one.
He thought of the younger Alva, and felt his face twist with contempt. For one to feel that way about some turd that–
“Yer in love wit’ him, ain’t you?” he blurted angrily, feeling rejected.
Richie shot him a look that was filled with aghast denial. “NO!”
“Liar. Only fools in love forgive an’ overlook that sorta bullshit.” The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. And the more Hotstreak felt jealous–insanely jealous. “Fuckin’ bullshit, man.”
“NO!”
“Then what is it, huh?”
“It’s–! You won’t understand! You’re not understanding–!”
“I unnerstand ya’ll in love! Don’t know why!”
“I’m NOT!”
“HAH! If you feel so much for th’ creep, what you feel for people that do you right? Huh?”
“I–! There has been a severe lack of such nice intentions in this frontier,” Richie said in disgust, looking away. “Everyone that I have met thus far have been manipulative–always doing something for something. Never out of the kindness of their hearts.”
Hotstreak rolled his eyes, thinking automatically of the Hawkins. They were as close to angels as he was going to get. They were so friendly, so kind–taking in anyone, even if that person thought he was incapable of good.
“Then you don’t know very many people,” he muttered, picking at his beard. He winced. It was so scraggly, thick and unruly.
“I’ve seen enough. Enough to know that men love doing things in groups. That if they experience something new, they pass it on to other people. Other men. No one has been kind in a gracious sense, always having some hidden agenda or some manipulative–!”
“Sheesh, how old are ya, kid? You talk like yer fifty. All them old people spit shit like that all the time.”
“I’m SIXTEEN.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
Richie sighed, absolutely tired of the argument. But he had to admit–it had taken his mind off of the creatures outside. He was bodily exhausted–he could feel the heaviness of his eyelids. He wanted to sleep.
Hotstreak was still sore in that Richie had more feelings for Edwin Alva, Jr., than he was willing to admit. It seriously bugged him. Angrily, he rose from the chair, stomping out of the kitchen, heading upstairs.
Richie didn’t know what to think of that conversation. So he sat in silence in the kitchen, staring at the shadows that the candles cast on the floor, and wondered about his feelings towards Junior.