Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Banditos ❯ These Walls Have Eyes ( Chapter 23 )

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

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. Oh, but I DO own original characters and creatures.

A/N: Um...it gets worse. >.< I don’t think you will ever look at R the same again...mua ha ha ha ha ha ha........ha....hah..........ha.



Chapter Twenty-Three:
These Walls Have Eyes



Junior cautiously eyed the townsfolk as they watched him enter. Many of them didn’t know who he was and were just watching him curiously. But some of them had an idea, and were immediately passing the word on that he belonged to Alva. That just made him grind his teeth–as if his father owned him as materialistically as he would with an inanimate object. Dammit, he was flesh-and-blood! Not some damn–!

But he struggled to keep that to himself, feeling a little sheepish in returning. His eyes flit here and there, looking for Virgil and the others. He hoped to find them before his father heard of his return.

That was a hope that wasn’t granted as Casey and the others rode up–most of the men Junior had bonded with had grim expressions and looked reluctant to follow with this role. But Casey tipped his hat in greeting. He looked the most regretful.

“Your father wants ta see ya,” he said, hand touching his guns briefly. Junior eyed the action with a frown, but he nodded grimly.

The moment he set foot in Alva’s office, he instantly knew that things hadn’t changed from their last visit. The elder Alva was busy signing off some forms while some weary-looking riders shuffled from boot to boot, anxious to leave.

“You came back,” Alva said aloud, glancing at him briefly. He packed the forms away into a leather pack, and the group of riders left the room. Alva faced Junior, folding his hands before him. He studied his son with a grim expression. “The world must have been hard on you while you were away...you’re looking older.”

“Gee, thanks, dad,” Junior said sarcastically, not bothering with removing his hat. “I ain’t stayin’ long. Just here to find some dudes, an’ headin’ back out.”

“Whatever happened to the shipment of artillery that was supposed to hit my Montana base?” Alva countered. “Those men were counting on that limited supply!”

“Well, I kinda got sidetracked an’ all–!”

“This isn’t a game, Junior!” Alva snapped, cutting him off. “That whore never did return. Supposing she was just killed tryin’ to get back, or she just ran off–I dealt with the situation, but the most painful part of that conflict was losing my men in Montana. They were to guide what survivors they could find and bring them back to Luna.”

Junior thought of Jessie–briefly wondered what had happened to woman. Secretly, he hoped that she’d just ran away instead of being killed.

“Oh,” he said blankly, shrugging lightly. “Well...that’s that, I s’ppose. Nobody misses a whore. Listen, I gotta go, now. I got some business–”

“Whom is it you have business with, Junior?” Alva then interrupted, looking at him suspiciously. “What business do you have in my town?”

“‘Your’ town?!”

“My town,” Alva repeated. “I built this from ground up. I provided the protection, and the means for a survival hard-fought. This is my town, and what I say, goes.”

“You think yer jus’ God, don’tcha?” Junior sneered.

“I am not a God,” Alva corrected, frowning at him. “I am less than a God. I would not even say that I’m better than most men. I’m just a humble servant, trying to get along...”

“Bullshit, daddy! You think more o’ yerself than most gods do!”

“That has always been your opinion, Junior. But I fancy myself a helper–I provide, an’ people take, but there are rules to the taking o’ my things. Rules are to be made and followed, lest chaos occurs. Everyone here is grateful to find a place where protection is provided from the unrest happening outside our borders. But most people have to work for that protection, and they have to contribute their skills in order to keep this town running. No one sits around doing nothing. Unfortunately, that was a large problem that I had with you,” Alva added, shifting in his chair to rise. “I had to make sure you were in charge of somethin’ that I felt you were able to handle, and you don’t even want that, now. If you are to stay in this town, you must contribute your share of assisting–”

“I ain’t stayin’!” Junior snapped, agitated at that. “I jus’ came here to find someone, an’ leave. To Hell wit’ stayin’ here and followin’ yer damn rules! You ain’t nothin’ but a damn dictator, an’ I ain’t about that.”

Alva studied him for a few moments, then busied himself with a cigar he gingerly lifted from a small box nearby. As he cut the end and struck a match, he gave his son a critical eye. “Seems to me, Junior, that you’re trying to prove some point. What is it, now? Honestly, sometimes I have to assure myself that your mother provided me with a son rather than a daughter. With your acts of rebellion and your accusations that just border on ‘silly’–”

“Now yer callin’ me a ‘girl’?!” Junior cried, utterly insulted. “Jesus, daddy! I didn’t come out here just ta get all insulted by you! I just came here to get someone, an’ get out–!”

“You fell for one of the whores, son? That always happens. You can’t make a whore into some housewife...”

“I didn’t–! I ain’t–! That ain’t–just shut up, you old fart! I don’t haveta discuss anythin’ with you, nor do I have to share my personal business wit’ you. I ain’t plannin’ on stayin’ very long–an’ I really really don’t intend on returning–!”

“You said that last time, and look where you are now,” Alva commanded, gesturing at him. One side of his nose wrinkled. “Smells like you’ve been out there for days. Doin’ what? What’s so important out there that you have to interrupt my business for somethin’ of your own? I reckon yer up to somethin’ that you got drilled into your silly head into thinking that you’re better than me...”

Junior rolled his eyes, heaving an impatient sigh. “Man, you an’ your ideas....yer gettin’ old, old man.”

“Then what is it?” Alva barked. “What did you come here for, if it ain’t ta stay?!”

“...It really ain’t any of yer business.” Junior then smirked at him. “I’ll just be leavin’, now.”

“It is my business, if it concerns one of my townsfolk...”

“Geez, lissen to you! ‘My’, mine, me, me, MY! It ain’t none o’ yer business!”

“On the contrary...if it happens to threaten my town, or one of my valuable workers, it will be my business,” Alva said, sidestepping his desk. He dashed ashes into a tray nearby. “I’ll not have you stealing away with one of my workers based on some silly, drunken idea you’ve gotten into your head, Junior. You are to leave them alone. It’s not worth their loss for your incompetence.”

Gaping, Junior stared at him. Then he angrily whirled, stomping out of the room. Alva scowled, looking at the two men that were posted just inside the door. With nods, they followed after the raging young man at a careful distance.

“Fuckin’ piece o’ shit asshole thinks he can control me?!” Junior was muttering to himself as he strode out from the door, nearly knocking people aside in his rage.

He turned, looking up at the second floor window above the balcony–where Alva’s office was. “You think you can control me, you piece of shit old man? Hah! You ain’t nothin’! You’ll be wishin’ you’d listened to me better, you damn shit eater!”

Amid all the hushed whispering as people paused in their actions to hear him shout angrily at the house, Junior turned and made his way toward his horse, patiently waiting nearby. Grumbling to himself, he untied the mare and climbed into the saddle.

“ I’ll show him, that piece of shit turd ball,” he muttered, guiding the horse around. He noticed the two men following by foot, subtly notifying others to keep him in sight. Narrowing his eyes, he frowned at this, but then he turned and began looking for those familiar faces in the crowd. Seeing as he couldn’t find them visually, he took a deep breath and began bellowing Virgil’s and Adam’s names at the top of his lungs.

Not at all shy, Junior guided his horse through the main road, Alva’s men growing agitated the more he shouted for the pair of men.

“Hey, man,” Casey interrupted, arriving on horseback. Junior scowled at him, their horses nearly colliding as Casey maneuvered into his. “What’s goin’ on? Why you yellin’?”

“It ain’t about you, Casey. Just stay outta my way. HAWKINS!! EVANS!”

“It is about me, if yer daddy’s tellin’ me to keep an eye on ya!”

“You gonna lissen to my daddy yer entire life?”

“He...he kinda pays me,” Casey admitted sheepishly, using his horse to subtly push Junior’s toward one of the roads leading out of town. “Like he always has.”

“An’ you gonna lissen to that windbag? He gonna fuck you all over, Casey! He’s just gatherin’ ya’ll for a fuckin’ slaughter!” Junior shouted angrily, trying to control his horse. “He’s usin’ ya, and he’s gonna just...it’s all gonna fall down. You just see! You hear that?”

He was then shouting at those that were gathered around, listening to them fight. “Alva’s gonna ruin you all! He’s just makin’ sure ya’ll are in one place, so they can get ya’ll without anymo’ trouble! You think you all safe? He just makin’ you think that way!”

Amid all the frenzied words and panicked expressions, Junior gave a satisfied smirk at the suspicion that was now rising up in the townsfolk. Casey was waving at more men to join him, and they began leading Junior out of town.

He gave the older cowboy a frown. “Why you gotta listen to him? He’s just gonna fuck you over, Casey!”

Casey shrugged, but looked wholly uncomfortable as he lead his former friend toward the outer limits of town. Just as Junior was going to leave, he saw Virgil hurrying over on horseback, looking as if he’d just left some sort of mill.

Relief flooded his expression, and he used his mare to shove aside Casey for a moment. “Virgil! Virgil, I been lookin’ for ya! I got ya some news, Hawkins. That friend you been lookin’ for? I know where he’s at!”

Virgil wiped his forehead, and shook his dreads. He was working long hours in the saw mill in the northern end of the town limits, and was just surprised to hear that Junior was looking for him. He had to see what the man wanted, despite his feelings against the younger Alva.

Despite his exhaustion and puzzlement, he managed to look pleasantly curious. “Huh? Who?”

“That–that Hotstreak you been talkin’ ‘bout!”

“Franc–Hotstreak? Really? You know where he’s at?” Virgil asked excitedly. “This ain’t no game?”

“No!” Junior frowned at the others that were starting to get a little impatient with him still lingering about. “Meet me at the junction, Hawkins. I’ll give you more information. Just...just hurry!”

Virgil blinked in confusion as Casey managed to use his horse to prod Junior’s into a hurried walk. Junior looked back to see Virgil still staring after him with some hesitation.

“It’ll be real easy, Hawkins!” he shouted, pushing his horse into a run. “He ain’t goin’ anywhere! But it prolly won’t last long!”

Virgil gave him an uncertain look as his horse shuffled nervously, Alva’s men working their way around him. Subtly coaxing him to move back into town. With one last look at Junior’s rapidly disappearing form, Virgil turned his mount back into town, touching his horse’s sides with his heels.

He thought of Junior’s hurried request–wondered with rising anxiety about the truth to the younger Alva’s words. He really wanted to see his friend, again. To know that he was okay and alive–!

The more Virgil wondered about it, the more he wanted to see truth to Junior’s words.

“Stay here, darkie,” Casey warned him, throwing him a threatening look. Virgil scowled at the word, watching Alva’s men move back into the town, resuming their positions throughout the area. “You ain’t got no business wit’ him! He all got insane from bein’ alone fer too long!”

Virgil frowned, but didn’t stop as he headed back to the house that he shared with Adam and Randy.

010101010110

“So, you really think that man is tellin’ the truth?” Adam asked in disbelief. He and Randy were watching Virgil pack hastily, the younger Hawkins telling them what he’d encountered in town.

“Why wouldn’t he?” Virgil asked. He sighed, straightening. He glanced outside at Sparky, who was tied to lead the simple buckboard the Adam owned outside. He wondered how he was going to sneak and hide his saddle within the space provided without drawing too much attention to himself. “Yeah...I mean, he would–he knew we had a thing against him. But...would he really retaliate?”

“Ain’t got nothin’ to lose,” Randy commented. “Heard he’s been on his own. Heard he was the one that murdered that whore...”

“Jessie,” Virgil stressed pointedly, “wanted a chance to escape. She got it, an’ she left.”

“You and her close?”

“A few times,” Virgil grinned. He shrugged again. “I doubt Junior kilt her, anyway. Besides... why would he lie about seein’ Hotstreak?”

“Hotstreak’s gone, Virgil! Ain’t no one heard of him, or seen him since Runner’s Valley!” Adam exclaimed. “He’s gone! If we split up, Sharon might miss us–!”

Virgil frowned, but he looked at Adam with a determined look. “Stay here, then. I’ll go alone.”

“With that lunatic? Virgil, you don’t know if he’s tellin’ the truth or not! He knows we didn’t like ‘im! He prolly just makin’ up stories to get ya alone!”

“I’ll just have to risk it, Adam. I mean...this is Hotstreak we’re talkin’ about! What if he is alive? What if...what if he’s waitin’ for me to go out there? I can’t just...I can’t just go on knowin’ that there’s a lead an’ I ain’t takin’ it!”

“SHARON is your sister! Sharon is prolly gonna show up tomorrow, an’ you be gone, Virgil! Just stay here! Don’t go out there with him!” Adam argued. “Don’t do it! You might just be throwin’ your life away makin’ this dumb decision!”

“I have to try, Adam.” Virgil hefted up his pack. He then frowned, unpacking several things and packing them into individual bags. After he was done, it looked like a pile of junk and garbage. “I’m just gonna try it. I mean...even if it turns out that Junior’s lyin’...I promise you, I’ll make it back.”

Adam rolled his eyes, hands on his hips as he and Randy followed him toward the back door. Since Alva had been notified of Junior’s meeting with Virgil, there had been some men posted about, watching them. Virgil walked out, cheerfully waving at Mitch, who was standing nearby. Tossing all the bags into Adam’s buckboard, he clapped Adam on the shoulder and walked back inside. Freezing, Adam stared at the men that were watching them closely. Randy turned and followed Virgil back inside while Adam realized that Virgil intended to make him assist him out of Luna.

“You sure this is somethin’ you wanna follow through wit’, man?” Randy asked him again. “I mean...what if it all be a big ole trick?”

“I’m gonna make it! Junior’s been a pampered playboy all his life–he ain’t got good hands when it comes to guns, an’ ‘sides...the man’s obvious when he’s all tryin’ to be tricky. You know that.”

“...What if...what if Hotstreak don’t wanna come back? Wherever he is? Might he be shacked up with some woman, Virgil, an’ intendin’ to settle!”

“Then I’ll check it out, we’ll make friends, an’ I’ll be back,” Virgil reassured him. “But...I can’t just...let this go. What if he’s alive, an’ he’s out there, an’...he’s waitin’ for me? I mean...forget for a moment that I have no idea how Junior knows him or found him–”

“Tha’s another thing, Virgil–!”

“I’m just gonna check it out! If I ain’t back by tomorrow mornin’...then it means I’m off to see Hotstreak, or...I’m zombie-bait. Either way, I’ll be back ta let ya’ll know.”

Randy frowned, visibly confused by Virgil’s declaration.

He then lifted an eyebrow as Virgil laid himself on the floor, at the edge of a worn Navajo rug. Virgil held the end, and signaled at him to start rolling him within the material. Randy rolled his eyes as Adam came back in. He immediately saw what Virgil meant.

He sighed heavily. “‘M thinkin’ this is all wrong, Virgil. It could all be a trick.”

“But I gotta find out, Adam. I haveta! What if Hotstreak needs help?” Virgil tugged on the end, signaling for them to start rolling. Randy and Adam looked at each other with exasperation, but both men complied. Rolling Virgil within the material of the rug, Adam sighed again.

“I don’t like it, man. Not at all.”

“You don’t have to,” Virgil said, grunting as he rolled along. He shifted for a better breathing position as the weight of the material and the combined feeling of claustrophobia began setting in. “‘M just gonna check...nothin’ wrong wit’ it. All Junior wanted was fer me ta meet him at the junction.”

“What if you ain’t comin’ back?” Adam asked as both he and Randy hefted the man encased within the rug up.

“Then I’ll let ya know. Hurry up, man. I feel like I’m suffocatin’, here!”

Both Adam and Randy exchanged hesitant glances, but they continued on. Loading the rug along with the other ‘garbage’, Randy disappeared back into the house and Adam signaled that he was heading for the waste collection site that Alva had designated for the townsfolks’ site of ‘junk’. The men nodded him off, and glanced toward the house.

Adam had to shake his head as he urged the horses forward, hearing Virgil muffle a sneeze within the encasement.

010101010110

Junior was starting to think that Virgil wasn’t going to make it, and was feeling desperate enough to come up with a murdering scheme to get Hotstreak permanently out of the picture when he heard the sound of an approaching horse. He was waiting at the worn junction that would take him north to Nebraska, and west to Wyoming. Night had fallen, and, too paranoid in attracting creatures he’d rather just avoid than engage into battle with, he’d opted for the light of the moon.

Still, with how dark the world was with the constant cloud cover and the silence of natural living things, it was rather spooky standing out in the darkness all alone.

He looked up to see Virgil and his horse hurrying over, Virgil looking skeptical as he approached Junior. Both man and rider were hard to see–Sparky was dark, and his owner wore dark clothing. Junior had to squint to discern them through the darkness.

Still, despite it all, Junior’s relief was obvious and Virgil was taken back by the heavily grateful expression on the younger Alva’s face.

“You ain’t followed?” Junior then asked suspiciously, glancing out in the darkened distance. He heard nothing and saw nothing, but he wouldn’t count out his father’s suspicions on having either him followed, or Virgil trailed. “You sure none o’ them followed?”

“Yeah,” Virgil answered, a little skeptical of Junior’s behavior.

The man had gotten leaner since the last they’d seen each other, and a little more world-weary. There was also a confidence there in Junior’s frame and expression that hadn’t been there before–he had to wonder what it had taken for the younger Alva to grow up.

He had to wonder if that was a good or bad thing.

“No one suspected I left. Anyway, ‘bout Hotstreak–”

“He’s got a settlement down in Wyoming–” Junior started, urging his mare off into that direction, Virgil following hastily.

“‘Wyoming’?! I thought they was headin’ north!”

“I didn’t exactly sit down an’ have tea wit’ him, Hawkins! It was more of...well...a very brief visit. But he’s there. An’ he’s settlin’.”

“Oh, ho ho hoho! That dawg!” Virgil exclaimed with a sort of amused bark of laughter. “Wonder who it is he managed to steal off with? She hot? Think I can steal her away an’ change her mind?”

At this, Junior had to bark his own laugh.

“If’n you like men, you dork,” he muttered to himself.

“Huh?”

“Never mind that. Jus’...he’s been wonderin’ ‘bout you. Kinda wonderin’ if yer alive, too. Said I knew you, said I knew where you live. He weren’t able to leave, so he sent me ta get ya.”

“This ain’t some sorta trick is it?” Virgil asked cautiously. It was a little hard trying to picture his friend as the type to ‘settle’ down. Not with his rowdy, womanizing ways. Maybe all this chaos and strife had given him reason otherwise to drop those bad behaviors and prompt him to grow up. Still, even then, he had to see how Hotstreak was doing. He had to see if things were okay.

“No!” Junior answered, frowning at him. “Why would I do that? Ya’ll helped me...can’t I just return a favor?”

Virgil gave him a skeptical look. “Forgive me fer sayin’, but...you ain’t exactly man of the year, Alva.”

“Yeah, well...things change, eh?” Junior continued frowning at him, but he was more excited in that once he had Richie...he would show Alva. His father would have it coming to him. He would have to recognize that his son had the power in the brain of this kid–but at the same time, he began wondering if his father had any damning contracts that would retain his rights over the kid. After all, Alva had been the one to negotiate the deal with Richie’s parents...

Even then, there wasn’t a set law out here that would keep Alva’s ownership over the boy! Humans weren’t meant to be owned!

...Just...borrowed, for a bit.

010101010110


The pair had met with two more battles with Indians–both managed to win the battles by impossible odds. The second battle had just come to a wind-down; both men agreeing that the bodies would be dealt with in the morning, as the Things continued to lurk about.

After washing himself in cold water and redressing in the flannel nightgown, Richie found himself lost in thoughts–unable to sleep yet again. So many things burned in his mind–the Things, the creatures, his Purpose, his suicidal thoughts, his yearning for his parents and so many questions that he didn’t have any answers to–that he found himself unable to sleep most nights. He felt like he were living in a fog–responding to things that were only life-threatening.

Hotstreak had retired to his room–the man hadn’t bothered with visiting him, anymore. More rather, it seemed as if the redhead were just trying to avoid him. While Richie wouldn’t complain, the isolation of the area and for the fact that the man still wouldn’t reveal his complete past left him yearning in confusion for his company.
Just to talk...that was all. Just talk. Like...like normal human beings.

The candle had just burnt out–he kept forgetting to replace the things when they finally died out–when Richie saw them. He was sitting in the rocking chair, bundled in blankets–rocking with a sense for a need for comfort and something to occupy himself with when he saw the flit of movement along the floorboards. He stilled his movement for a moment, unsure if he’d seen right; then began rocking again when he saw them.

Footprints–small, delicate, half-formed–walking along the shadows and in the thin layer of dust that had collected on the floor with the barest whisper of sound. He imagined them belonging to a child–maybe a very small woman. He watched them appear with a sort of hesitant action–as if the person were walking to be quiet, to avoid whichever horror they happened to want to avoid. He felt every one of his hairs stand on end–the room grew cold. There was a heavy shiver of fear that shot through his body, and his rocking action stopped.

Terror shot through his heart, and as he wondered why the reaction to the ghost was so delayed, the footprints stopped appearing. There was a heavy filter of sound in the room, but it was greatly reduced to something that he could hear only if he’d stopped his own breathing–the quiet exhalations of a living being had his skin prickling with bone-deep fear that had his heart seemingly stopping in mid-beat.

The silence of the night, combined with the darkness, made the whole situation scary.

He felt eyes on him, then. He knew they didn’t belong to the Things, but to the thing in his room. He felt as if he were being examined, his soul searched. Though he couldn’t see the ghost, he could very well feel it as if there was a living being in there with him.

The exhalations stopped suddenly–Richie heard the heavy buzz of silence, the careful skittering of the Things walking about outside. His eyes shot from side to side, and he listened to the instinct of curling up in himself, pulling the blankets close around him. His breathing grew suddenly troubled, and he had the fleeting instinct to just flee the room. Terror had him rooted still, and his eyes continued to flit around the room even as a cold-sweat beaded upon his brow.

He caught sight of movement, eyes flitting up to a point up on the ceiling to see a human face emerging from the shadows. He didn’t stick around to see the features, nor determine the sex.

An inhuman shriek shattered the silence, and he screamed involuntarily, shooting out from the rocking chair and hurtling across the room. The door slammed shut before he could reach it, and that unGodly shriek rang out again. The air turned colder than before, his breath visible as he panted with heavily rising fear. Muslin-like color floated across the room, away from the rocking chair–it was all so tangible to him, that he imagined if he reached out to touch it, it would feel like spiderwebs. But he didn’t want to touch it, and the thing–whatever it was–was scaring him.

A shrill sound of inhalation had him fumbling with the doorknob, and the thing screamed again–a drawn out woman’s shriek of misery and terror that had his blood running cold and his breath pausing in his throat. He frantically raced out of his room with his own shout of terror, feeling breath upon the back of his neck. The feel of cold fingers on his shoulders and fingernails digging into the muscle had him stopping within the middle of the hall. Arms curled around him then, into an embrace of capture that left him feeling almost powerless and enclosed.

With violent movements, he jerked out of capture and ran blindly to Hotstreak’s room. Doors opened and shut simultaneously, and he couldn’t understand why the man hadn’t awakened, yet. Didn’t he hear all the noise?

He flung the door open and raced into his room, practically leaping atop of his bed.

He froze as he realized that Hotstreak was still asleep–almost dead in appearance as he breathed quietly, laying on his side with a gun peeking out from underneath his pillow. Richie stared at him in silence, feeling the room grew cold as that thing entered the doorway. He looked over with a sense of foreboding submission–taking in the shape of a man with broad shoulders. He couldn’t see the face but he knew–just knew–that it was twisted with maniacal intent.

The fear intensified, and he couldn’t think–for the life of him, he couldn’t think!–and he just stared at the silhouette outlined by the faint glow of his candlelight within Hotstreak’s room.

“Where you goin’?” the ghost asked.

The voice was low and scratchy–muffled, as if speaking from behind some invisible hand. But the words drilled fear into Richie’s heart, and he could only sink himself closer to Hotstreak, as if putting the big man in between them would keep the ghost from getting to him. The man didn’t inch from the doorway–he seemed to study Richie intently, and the blond quaked violently behind Hotstreak, his fingernails digging into the man’s biceps. His nose was smashed against Hotstreak’s arm, but he could still see the puffs of cold as he exhaled.

“Can’t get far. Not from us. Better just com’n out, now. Ya’ hear? Just com’n out!”

Richie felt a terrified whine leave his throat as the man’s voice raise with impatient frenzy–rising with each command. Finally, a shadow arm waved about with obvious frustration.

“Just com’n OUT!” he screamed.

Why wasn’t Hotstreak waking up?! What was wrong with him? How could he not hear that man? How could he not hear or feel Richie freaking out behind him?

Richie shook him, his arm locked with the sensation of his limb on the verge of falling asleep. It then felt like his entire body was feeling that way. As if all the blood were leaving him, or if his muscles were losing their ability to function with his brain’s commands. He couldn’t make a sound, then–throat locked tight. It was as if someone was working him from the inside–shutting him down despite his resistance.

The man walked into the room–blending in with the shadows with his silent movements.

Richie’s mind raced frantically with fear as he realized no command would get his limbs to move. His breathing was quick and short–his mind felt as if it were going to shut down. His eyes were wide, unblinking as that man’s silhouette pulled out from the shadow to look down at him. As if he were standing next to it, bending from the waist to peer into Richie’s face. Utter fear had his flannel nightgown soaked around the neck and the armpits.

“Hello,” the man spoke softly–for a brief instant, Richie smelt coffee and cigarettes. He couldn’t see his features–just utter blackness. “I found you. Com’n out. Nice an’ easy. Make no trouble for us.”

Richie wanted to talk–he wanted to move–but nothing worked. He felt arms slip underneath him, and he was lifted from the bed. His breathing grew frantic as he felt his limbs dangle uselessly over the strong hold. He smelt bad body odor and cigarettes–and he heard the heavy thromp of boots as the man carried him away from the bed as if he were nothing. Terror had Richie frantic to make any sort of noise, to move any which way–but his whines never left his throat. Everything felt so slack–! So useless–! But his eyes flit over to the still sleeping Hotstreak–quietly resting as Richie was spirited away from his room.

Where was his luck? What was going to happen? Why didn’t Hotstreak wake up–?! Where were they taking him? What was going to happen to him?! His mind was running through all these questions with utter terror as he watched the hallway disappear behind him; each step of the stairway made his head bounce lightly, and at one point, his toes scraped along the banister. He numbly agonized over his height as the man strode toward the front door, carrying him o-so-easily; and then they were outside, where the cold of the night stole his breath.

He couldn’t swallow, nor could he even think to breathe as the man stopped in the middle of the porch.

The First’s face, with its neon pink tattoos, appeared first in his vision, bangles ringing out musically. Those red eyes flared for a moment, and a sinister smile crossed its lips. The Fourth’s snicker was audible nearby, and the Seventh’s frightening visage appeared over the head of the man holding him.

Richie stared at them in fear, still locked with paralyzation.

“That wasn’t so hard!” the man announced. “Old biddy was nothin’. Can’t stop a real man from doin’ his job.”

The First bared its teeth, and Richie felt those supportive arms drop him suddenly. He hit the porch with a painful crack, and it felt as if his body came alive in that instant. The man disappeared as the Fourth’s weapons passed through it–his scream of agony seemed to echo loudly throughout the night as Richie froze, facing the trio that he’d mainly only heard.

The First crouched, Richie’s eyes blindly taking in the pierced nipples, the tattoos–the Fourth’s odd appearance with its hooded head, and its cloven feet. Thoughts of the devil crossed his mind at that point, but the Fourth wasn’t in charge, obviously.

Still, their appearances burned their way into his memory, and despite his fear–he was already documenting their weaknesses and strengths, their haphazard appearances that seemed randomly taken from various creatures. If only he were able to focus on that connection, that disassociation of the present to the logical design of productive examination of the trio.

You are out, the First said with its mind-talk. And we have a job to do.

Richie couldn’t look away from those red eyes–blinking lazily, the others walking with unsettling humanoid actions as they left the task up to the First. They disappeared with that sickening stench of sulfur, minute flashes lighting the area briefly. He saw this from the corner of his eye, bound by the unspoken power of the First as it faced him with casual expression.

Its arm raised, fingers wrapping around Richie’s neck. As his throat was forcibly closed, the grip intensifying as the First proceeded to choke his breath away, it said, At least you’ll be free, huh? Free to no longer please him. Free to battle your own after-life demons. I’m sure you’ll have plenty. And I’m sure you’ll be pleased with how horrified he’d be, seeing you as a zombie. I’m sure he’ll be broken, then. Seeing you. As much as he values you, I’m sure you’d want that satisfaction of knowing he’d never do anything more to you. Am I correct?

Richie couldn’t speak–he wasn’t even coherent enough to hear the First’s rambling. As much as his body wanted to naturally resist, hands moving up faintly, he really really wanted that death. There was something else that struggled against that need–his Purpose kept running through his scrambled mix of thoughts and memories, of his life passing before his eyes within moments.

His Purpose, his Purpose, his Purpose–he wasn’t supposed to go this way. This wasn’t supposed to happen–! Not yet–!

Suddenly, the First hissed and whipped away from him, eyes blazing with hate. Hotstreak came bounding out from the house, hollering up a frantic storm. Once he saw the First, he charged blindly toward it, Richie hacking violently on the porch, trying to draw in air. The First snarled like an enraged dog, then disappeared into the shadow with a flit of sound. Sheep called suddenly in panic, and the cattle began to sound out their alarms.

Coherency returning to him, Richie blindly made his way back into the house. He was helped to his feet, cold fingers touching his neck tenderly–comfort and security washed through him with a sense of rightness; a blanket of warmth that made him wholly grateful for the attention.

Hotstreak was panting as he hurried back into the house, slamming the door. Richie looked at him in confusion–wasn’t he...? Didn’t he...? He looked around himself, but there wasn’t anyone there. But...but he was sure that he’d felt someone help him–!

“You okay?” Hotstreak asked in a breathless panic, reaching for him. Richie pulled back automatically, massaging his throat–his eyes searched the windows and the doors for those pair of red. For that ghost that had taken him. “You okay? Rich? Oh, Jesus, I didn’t hear anythin’–! I didn’t–I was asleep–! I didn’t hear a thing–!”

“How could you not?” Richie cried. He felt reduced to the hysteria of a frightened child. Nothing was coherent, nothing made sense. His fright made him thoughtless. He’d almost died–! But at the same time, he hated that he hadn’t. He was frustrated with the near-miss. “They were screaming! I was there–I came to you, and you wouldn’t wake up! It’s your fault they almost got me!”

“I’m so sorry!” Hotstreak apologized with uncharacteristic helplessness. He was an entirely different person at that moment–someone helpless and vulnerable for making a serious mistake.

Richie’s feelings of near death left him flustered, confused, emotionally fragile; shakily, he made his way to the nearest table to keep himself standing.

“You let them get to me,” he said with a quiver in his voice. “You let them almost kill me.”

“I...I was...I didn’t...I heard nothin’. Just...” Hotstreak trailed off, trying to explain what had happened. But he had absolutely no memory of waking up–just barging out the doors with both guns and registering the sight of the First choking Richie to death. He’d reacted then, but–but what had happened before?

Richie’s eyes flitted along the table, recalling the footprints–the frantic screams. The ghost man. He was terrified it would come back. Completely ignoring the ‘warnings’ of sweetgrass and tobacco. If that was possible...if that was possible, what else could slip by? What if it only kept the demons out, and...what if zombies–? They were still surrounded by danger, and that feeling of knowing they were all right and safe flitted right out the window.

He caught his breath, feeling incredibly stressed. Nothing was safe or sacred, anymore! He would never be safe! He’d never be the same, and he’d never be–!

Who could live like this?! How could one be sane with all this maddening chaos, with all the lack of answers? He looked up to address Hotstreak on this when his eyes suddenly hit some of the pictures that still hung on the wall.

Looking at the picture of the old couple, his eyes automatically fell on the woman, and his mind fell completely blank. The bliss of an unclouded mind was amazing.

“Muh helped me,” he whispered, not feeling as if he made sense. In fact, nothing made sense, anymore. He was very disappointed death failed to meet him, but at the same time–he found no reason to continue sensibly. “Muh was there. You weren’t.”

Hotstreak blinked. Did he hear right...? “Huh?”

Richie turned to look at him, accusing expression completely overshadowing all that had been pleasant about his features. At that moment, he looked slightly demonic.

“You must not like me too much, do you? For that to happen?”

Hotstreak hesitated–this...this really didn’t sound like the kid he was used to. It seemed as if Richie’s voice had curdled just slightly–as if he were a child, sweet-talking with a soft murmur of sound, but adult in its presence of formation.

“I...”

“You lie to me. You say all these things, but you let that thing get to me. Muh helped me better. She made me feel like she cared. You just slept!”

“...I couldn’t...I dunno what happened, but...who the hell’s ‘Muh’?”

“I don’t wanna be here anymore! I don’t feel safe here, anymore!”

Hotstreak was utterly confused. The way Richie spoke, it was as if...as if he’d forgotten his age. As if he were a child, using a teenager’s voice. He stamped his foot to punctuate his point, and his lower lip quivered.

It was...all in all...very odd.

Hotstreak shrugged helplessly.

“You don’t like me, anymore! I think you hate me. Well, I hate you, too.”

“I don’t!” he argued, but it was with less conviction than he’d felt. He couldn’t look away from the lip that continued quivering childishly. “I mean...I...I don’t...”

Golden eyes narrowed. The teenager was back. “So you think that it is all right to take over on another person without their permission?”

Hotstreak felt stabbed. He even rubbed his chest, thinking of that night. “I...”

“All of you think so. All of you think that it is fine and dandy if you just take what you want! I lack control in myself! I can’t even decide for myself what it is what I want without having someone TELLING me that I want it!”

Hearing his voice once again reach childish level, Hotstreak began growing very uncomfortable at that point.

“It’s not fair,” Richie ended in a growl. “I don’t like it. I want to be in control of myself, now. I want to be! It’s my body! It belongs to me! It’s my body–!”

“Um...calm down. Mebbe...mebbe go back to bed–!”

“The bad men will get me! Again! And Muh can’t do that again!”

“...Who the hell is ‘Muh’?!”

“You want them to get me!” Richie then shouted, voice cracking. He stamped his foot again. “You want them to! You just drag it out–!”

“I do not!” Hotstreak cried, horrified at the suggestion. And utterly–utterly–confused at this point. Who the hell was ‘Muh’? And why was Richie talking like that? Like...like he was...

Richie frowned. But he studied Hotstreak intently–no longer afraid. Just...just angry. And hateful. Wanting rid of Hotstreak, but at the same time–recognizing his uses.

He crossed his arms. “Prove it.”

Hotstreak blinked, then gaped at him. Soundlessly, his mouth worked like a fish’s for a few moments, then he stuttered, “W-what?!”

“Prove you love me, then.”

Hotstreak stared at him dumbly.

Pointing outside, Richie said with a sort of sneer, “They’ll come into our house and ruin everything. Those demons can’t touch you–they run at the sight of you.”

“...I...I don’t...”

“THEN YOU DON’T LOVE ME, DO YOU?”

“Holy Christ,” Hotstreak breathed, unable to look away.

The house was filled with silence, and he had to stare at this diminutive male that stood before him–challenging and frightening. A total stranger from the kid he’d met in Alva’s Town in what felt like so long ago.

Richie faced him with continued challenge, then pushed away from the table. Not looking away from those wholly confused green orbs, he began walking toward the stairway.

“I don’t wanna wake up to evil mean things invading the house while I go to sleep. And I’m sleeping with you, tonight. I don’t want you to touch me, but I don’t wanna sleep alone. Muh says that’s it’s bad if I do. They can get me easily. She cares about me–but I don’t see you wanting to.”

Hotstreak continued to gape at him as he walked up the stairway. He really...really didn’t know what to think of Richie, now.

...And who the hell was ‘Muh’?!

010101010110

That next morning, he awoke with that impending feeling something was utterly wrong. Sucking in a breath of surprise, he sat up in bed–Richie’s side was empty. Cold. How long had he been out? Why was he sleeping so heavily, lately?

But Hotstreak didn’t know what had wakened him, but...it was something odd. Out of place.

He listened to silence, then realized that’s what it was–the silence. The animals weren’t making their usual array of noises. Kicking his legs off the bed, he was on his feet and armed, racing for the door. He clomped downstairs when the smell hit him–he slapped a hand over his mouth and noise, leaping down the last few steps.

What he saw made him still, gun hand lowering slowly to his side.

The front and back doors were open–blood colored the wooden floorboards. The kitchen table was shoved against the wall, and various furniture was swept aside.

The kitchen counters were a clutter of miscellaneous tools–knives, sharpeners, guns, ammunition; glass canisters, skillets and pots and pans were...they were full.

His face fell blank as he stared at the filled pots and pans–dark liquid oozed inside, and various bloody lumps peered here and there from the rims. He stared at the kitchen counter, smelling the heady copper scent of blood and of body organs. Peering into the largest pot, he realized he was looking at cow brains. There were sheep brains mixed within, and a few coils of retinas.

His throat clogged with impending emotion as he continued his way outside. He stopped dumbly within the doorway, staring at the various dead animals–butchered and maimed–that lay just outside the porch. Some were still alive–dragging useless limbs as they struggled for life and safety. A calf nursed at his mother’s teat–but his mother was missing her head. Her two front limbs were butchered clean from her body in obviously violent action.

A Remington lay nearby, shells spilling out carelessly. He heard movement from the barn.

Wholly shocked and numb, Hotstreak picked his way through the insane slaughter, wondering why he hadn’t heard a thing. Animals were noisy when they died–guns even noisier.

As he picked his way over the butchered corpses–sheep missing their eyes, cattle missing half their faces, throats slit, stomachs torn open–he came across the corpse of a human. One of the Indians. His chest cavity was split, ribs neatly severed and set aside.

Hotstreak fought the urge to retch, staring almost sightlessly into the exposed organs within. They were obviously looked through, displaced and awkward within the formerly neat cavity. It looked as if whomever–and he knew exactly who–hadn’t been interested in replacing things where he’d picked them.

Hotstreak made his way toward the open doors of the barn, and froze at the sight. From the rafters hung at least seven of the Indians–hanging from neatly tied nooses. Some were reanimated with their zombie effects, but they were silent with their uncontrollable protest of treatment and lack of freedom. Necks were elongated by the natural stretch of weight as they hung from the ropes–eyes were bloodied black, drool and blood decorated their chins. Features were swelling horrifically due to pressure and rigor mortis. They almost didn’t look human.

Animals corpses were hung in various areas, as well. The whole floor was covered in blood. Innards pooled underneath the hanging bodies. Tools of butchering design lay scattered here and there–as if abandoned for something better.

As he lifted his head, he thought he saw an old woman pass by the back barn door–carrying a lamb. But he was currently in shock–in sickened, disbelieving shock. He didn’t register the sight as well as he should have.

An animal screamed in violent reaction to the sound of flesh being rendered by knife–Hotstreak turned to see a lean heifer swing by her back legs from the rafters, her blood shooting violently from the ugly gash in her neck.

Richie watched her twirl with uncontrollable action due to momentum as she lost her life force slowly. His clothes were soaked with blood–his hair was matted with it. He wore a studious expression as the heifer choked on her own blood and thrashed, hooves slashing through the air.

He turned, and looked at Hotstreak with a sort of cheered expression. Hotstreak stared at the heifer as she slowly died.

“Good morning!” Richie said over the cow’s strangled noises. He looked as if he were merely dirtying his hands in some garden, or preparing for a long day’s work with that expression of determination and thought. Not...not butchering helpless animals. “Did you sleep well? You wouldn’t happen to have any idea where the paring knives are, do you? Muh can’t remember where she’d put them.”

Hotstreak looked at him, then sightlessly looked back at the heifer. How in the world did this ninety-pound kid manage to haul a thousand pound animal onto that rafter?

“Francis?”

The sound of his real name made him start–startling out of his horrified shock and disbelief. He looked sharply at Richie, who frowned at him with that same childish pout he’d had last night.

“Don’t call me that!” he hissed, making the blond turn affronted. Feeling dizzy and sick, he stumbled out from the barn. Richie followed him, wiping his hands uselessly on his pants.

“Did you see this?” he asked as Hotstreak fought for clean air. Richie pointed at the Indian. “We’re all the same! Just our flesh is entirely and wholly different! Same skeletal structures, same organs–look, we all bleed red. Why is it that skin and appearance changes in various regions? What makes a black man’s skin black? What makes an Indian’s skin red? What determines whether or not we’re blond, or red, or brunette? Isn’t this fascinating? I can look without having to bother with those wretched laws that continues to give universities old cadavers that aren’t even interesting to bother with. Same old, same old. It’s more fascinating to examine a fresh body rather than one that has been soaked with embalming fluid.”

Hotstreak vomited, dry heaving uncontrollably as Richie went on.

“You know, I’d always wondered just how long the intestines were. I stretched out a human’s intestines, and those of a sheep’s and a heifer in the house, to compare consistencies and textures! Did you know that–oh, this is even more fascinating, come look at this. Sheep will eat just about anything! Look, this one was eating on a book. Some of the pages are intact...I didn’t think sheep were scavengers that way, but then again, I don’t pay too much attention to animals...”

Hotstreak wiped his mouth, fought for breath. Something at the corner of his eye moved, and he locked eyes with a fear-frenzied lamb that struggled to run–but it was missing all four of its legs. Its eyes were wide and filled with insane panic. It was utterly horrific how it remained alive.

“I killed them all. I mean, we won’t need them. We need to leave here, Francis. I don’t feel my genius can be used here. I will do some research, and we’ll go into town. Muh says that there’s a settlement nearby that can use what I have to offer. That’s my Purpose. I am to be used for my brain, and not my body. You fools are so totally retarded in that aspect, Francis. I hope you enjoyed what you had, because you are never having it again. I will never give you access to my body. Never!” Richie shouted vehemently, stalking off. “No one will EVER touch me again! Not like that! Never without my permission–which I will never give!”

Hotstreak watched him leave, but his brain was so numbed with horror and shock that he didn’t really register Richie picking up the abandoned Remington and loading it quickly.

The first shot missed him completely, and made him jerk in action.

“Just as I thought!” Richie barked, with accompanying laughter that was a little too thin and reedy. “You have a Purpose, too! You haven’t died yet, and that shot should have killed you! But...but it didn’t. And now I wonder what sort of Purpose drives you. Was it to make me stronger? To push me into questioning all that is reality? What? I think you had the Purpose to make me into what I am, today.”

Hotstreak said nothing–Richie’s words meant nothing to him, at that moment. They were all the ramblings of a mad-man.

“But I’m in control, now,” Richie continued as he picked his way through the corpses. Hotstreak was too numb to move. When the blond spotted the lamb, he stared down at the helpless animal for a few moments. Then his foot raised, his heel slamming into the animal’s skull.

But the animal lived, and it suffered terribly as he applied more weight–what weight he had, for his eating habits had changed, lately, and Hotstreak had noticed him getting thinner–into his heel.

“I’m in control! I have control over myself, and I have control over things around me!” Richie said, but it felt as if he were speaking to himself. The lamb let out a bleating cry of agony as bone broke under the force of Richie’s heel slamming repeatedly into its head. “Nothing will touch me! No one will use me! No one, and nothing! For I have a Purpose, and I will fulfill my Purpose!”

Hotstreak stared at him. The animal was in horrible agony–he couldn’t stand those screams. He shoved Richie away and used his own weight and force the kill it. The bleating screams stopped suddenly.

Richie scowled, then shrugged. He headed back to the barn.

“I have work to do!” he called over his shoulder. “I want to see how the zombies work. Don’t touch anything on the counters, okay? Sorry about the animals, I guess you really have nothing to do. Why don’t you go...clean the pictures, or something? Do the wash? Maybe wash the back windows of the house? Maybe you can’t make a housewife outta a whore, but you can make one out of a cowboy. HAH! That’s funny...”

Hotstreak stared after him. Was he...was he dreaming? Having some horrible nightmare? He slowly turned–he was lost. He had no idea what to do, or what to say.

Where to go.

Swallowing hard, he numbly picked his way through the various carcasses and headed into the house.