Slowly We Rot (31 page)

          He went back into the
saloon, hitting the doors with such force that the noise caused more than a few
faces to turn his way.  The patrons who saw Noah nudged their companions and
soon all eyes in the house were on him.  Conversation ebbed and faded to near
silence.  Even the music came to a crashing, discordant halt as Hal realized the
drunks surrounding him had stopped singing.  More than a few hands settled
close to holstered weapons.  Noah ignored the danger and threaded his way back
through the tables.

          Soon he’d pushed his
way through the crowd around the piano and was leveling an accusatory finger at
the man sitting behind the keys.  “This fat motherfucker,” he said, raising his
voice high enough for everyone in the joint to hear.  “I don’t know what he
calls himself now, but his name is Hal.  A while back he molested my sister and
now I want some fucking payback.”

          Noah’s gaze had been
roaming about the place, briefly locking eyes with a number of onlookers.  It
was enough engagement to feel like they were really hearing what he was saying
rather than dismissing his words as the ramblings of a drunken bum.

          Now he glared at Hal,
whose previous smirking expression had given way to a far more dismayed one. 
“I challenge you to a duel in the fucking street.  Come on outside and we’ll
settle this like men.  Unless you’re a goddamn coward.”

          Noah stomped away from
him before he could reply.  On his way out of the saloon, he snatched a bottle
of whiskey off a tray balanced atop the upheld palm of a waitress too
astonished by his behavior to rebuke him.  Noah took a big gulp from it as he
again banged through the batwing doors and stalked out to the street, where he
waited beneath the moonlight to see whether his challenge would be accepted.

          Somewhere out in the
desert, a pack of coyotes started howling.

No one else emerged from the
saloon for several minutes.  During that time, the saloon itself was mostly
silent, with only the faintest of murmurs emerging on occasion.  At last,
however, the doors swung open and a stream of people trickled out into the
street.  They spread out to the left and right as they came out of the saloon,
forming lines up and down the street.  Still more people crossed the street and
did the same on the opposite side.

          Noah took one last swig
from the whiskey bottle and dropped it at his feet, kicking it aside as Hal at
last came out of the saloon and waddled out into the street.  He hadn’t been
armed—at least not visibly—while seated at the piano, but that had changed.  A
gun belt was strapped around his pudgy waist.  Noah assumed it was the man’s
own and not a borrowed one.  This was based on girth alone.  Hal’s belt had to
be a custom job.

          Hal moved to a distance
of about fifty feet from where Noah stood and turned to face him squarely. 
Noah belatedly wondered about dueling etiquette, specifically regarding whether
such a thing actually existed.  He’d for some reason pictured an intermediary
stepping between them to go over the rules of proper gun-fighting.  Almost too
late, it hit him this was a thing he knew only from stories and possibly had no
real life application.  Hal was already drawing his pistol from his holster as
these thoughts went through Noah’s head.  He had the gun up and aimed just as
Noah was finally fumbling with the grip of his own weapon.

          Realizing that being a
motionless target at this point would seal his fate, he dove aside and rolled
out of the way as the first shot rang out in the street.  Another shot rang out
and the bullet thudded into the dirt somewhere near where he wound up.  He
pulled at the grip of his gun again and this time it came smoothly clear of his
holster.  Hal fired again.  A bullet whistled right by Noah’s ear.

          Noah fired blindly as
he sat up and pointed his gun in the general direction of Hal’s last known
location.  He did this without thinking, never expecting anything positive to
come of it.  But a pained cry told him the bullet had found flesh.  For a
flashing instant, he feared he’d shot one of the onlookers by mistake, a
possibility that likely would have gotten him being lynched shortly
thereafter.  He was fuzzy from all the booze, which didn’t help matters.

          But then his vision
cleared and he saw Hal on his knees in the street, his pistol hanging loosely
from a trembling forefinger as blood leaked from a hole in his gut.  A nasty
grin spread across Noah’s face as he got to his feet and approached the wounded
man.  He listed only slightly side to side as he walked, an electric thrill of
triumph bringing him moments of near clarity in the midst of inebriation.

          Noah stopped right in
front of Hal and pointed his gun at the man’s sweat-soaked brow.  Hal’s eyes
were shiny with tears as he lifted his head to meet Noah’s gaze.  Too weak to
hold on to his pistol, it slipped from his trembling forefinger and thumped on
the dusty ground.

          “Have…mercy,” he said
in a thin, squeaky voice.

          “Fuck you.”

          Cries of dismay rose up
from the assembled onlookers as Noah shot the man in the face.  The derby hat
fell off Hal’s head, revealing a bald dome encircled by tufts of dirty white
hair as he fell over in the street.  Noah stood over him and squeezed his gun’s
trigger repeatedly, emptying it into the man’s unmoving corpse.

          There was a moment of
perfect silence once the reports of the gun had faded away.

          Then, out in the
desert, the coyotes started howling again.

          As if that primal sound
was some kind of signal, many of the onlookers converged on Noah.  Several sets
of hands seized him and his gun slipped from his fingers, becoming lost in a
scramble as he was bustled through the town’s streets by the angry mob.  Noah’s
head wobbled on his shoulders as this happened.  His head felt like a balloon on
the verge of sailing up into the sky.  All anyone had to do was cut the string
and away he’d go.  He assumed he was being taken to a gallows or, if he was
lucky, to a jail cell.

          After a while, the mob
transporting Noah reached their destination.  On a dim, distant level, he was
still sort of concerned about what they had in mind.  But he was starting to
drift away, the high level of alcohol in his system making him feel like he was
floating on a cloud.

          Things got fuzzier and
fuzzier.

          Blackness followed.

          And in the blackness he
stayed for a long time.

When Noah came to unknown hours
later, he was lying on his side on an uncomfortable cot in a holding cell.  His
body was tired and riddled with various aches, including the usual severe
hangover throb.  Moving at all inflamed the assortment of pains, but remaining
perfectly still wasn’t an option.  Upon waking, instinct caused him to stretch
out of the tight fetal ball he’d curled into while asleep.  Ensuing waves of
misery made him cry out and grip at the thin, dirty mattress beneath him.

          Bright sunlight was
shining through the cell’s small, barred window.  Noah glimpsed a sliver of sky. 
It was again that familiar shade of washed-out purple, which was as
disconcerting as ever, but it was at least an improvement over the throbbing shade
of bright red that had become so common of late.  Instinct again betrayed him,
making him turn his face toward the light.  Another lance of pain went straight
through the center of his head when he cringed against it.  Sweat broke out on
his brow and a tide of nausea rose up in his throat, which felt raw and sore,
the way it often did at the onset of a bout of flu, the mere prospect of which
made him groan with the dread of it.  Getting sick on top of all this
self-inflicted misery was the last thing he needed.

          His bladder was painfully
swollen, like always after an episode of extreme overindulgence.  The number
one priority in his life in that moment was taking a piss.  Every drop of it
was going to hurt, but there was no way around it.  The only problem was
getting to a toilet in a timely fashion.  A glance around the little cell
revealed no signs of one, though there was a scuffed and dented metal pail in a
corner.  Noah wondered for a moment if it was there specifically for this
reason.  In the very next instant, he decided it didn’t matter why it was
there.  It was about to get pissed in regardless.

          With a groan of effort,
he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the cot, his vision blurring for
a moment as the throb in his head intensified.  He pressed the heels of his
hands against his eyes and held them there until the increased level of ache
subsided.  When he took his hands away, the blurriness had abated.  He got to
his feet with another groan of effort and staggered over to the metal pail.

          After unzipping his
pants, he pulled his dick out and waited in frustration for the stream to
begin.  Sometimes it took a while when his bladder was this bloated.  At last,
however, urine started trickling out, pattering loudly against the outside of the
pail.  His aim had been off in the midst of his misery.  He adjusted it, pissing
inside the pail now as the stream started coming out faster and harder.  It
hurt every bit as much as he’d expected those first several moments.  He
screwed his eyes shut and whimpered with the ache of it.

          After a seeming
eternity, the forceful stream slowed back to a trickle and the pain,
mercifully, began to ease.  Just as he was shaking off the last of it, he heard
boots walking down the narrow hallway outside the cell.  He zipped up and
turned to face whoever was coming.

          Three grim-faced men
moved into his field of vision.  They stood there facing him with nearly
identical expressions of solemn purpose.  Two of them wore badges pinned to
black vests.  One of these was a potbellied older man with a ruddy face and a
thick gray beard.  The other one was much younger.  Noah guessed the older guy
was the sheriff of Hell’s Lost Mile, with the younger one being his deputy. 
The third man held a bible and wore a priest’s collar.

          Noah grunted.  “Well,
something about this just doesn’t bode well at all.”

          The sheriff nodded. 
“You’ve been found guilty of murder.  We’re here to take you to the hangman.”

          “Found guilty?  That’s
funny.  I don’t remember a trial.”

          “There wasn’t one. 
Half the town saw you kill that man after he was no longer a threat.  You did
the deed.  Now you’re gonna swing.”

          Noah glared.  “It was a
vengeance thing.  He hurt my sister.  The motherfucker had it coming.”

          The sheriff shrugged. 
“We’ve only got your word for that.  You being a stranger here, that’s not good
enough.”

          “I see.  Well, that
certainly sounds fair.  That’s sarcasm, by the way, in case you’re all too
dimwitted to pick up on that.  So I guess this is what they call frontier
justice.”

          The sheriff’s
expression didn’t change in the face of the insult.  He just shrugged again. 
“It’s apocalypse justice.  Same difference, I suppose.  Expediency is what
we’re interested in here.  Drawing it out does nobody any favors, not even
you.”

          “Aside from getting to
live a little longer, you mean.”

          The sheriff ignored
this and indicated the priest with a gesture.  “We’ll be off to the gallows in
a moment.  Father Kincaid is here to take your last confession.  If you want.”

          Noah shook his head.  “No
point.  I’m already hell-bound.”

          A chilly smile briefly
lifted the corners of the sheriff’s mouth.  “That you are.”  He glanced at the
deputy.  “Let him out, Danny.  No point delaying this thing any longer.”

          Deputy Danny took a
ring of keys from his belt, flipped through them until he found the right one,
and slid it into the cell door’s lock.  There was a loud clank as he gave it a
turn.  He then pulled the door open, beckoning Noah out with a tilt of his
chin.

          Noah stepped out into
the hallway, not bothering to resist as the deputy turned him around and bound
his wrists behind his back with a length of rope.  The terror he knew he should
be feeling was strangely absent as they marched him out of the building.  Part
of it was that he felt disconnected from what was happening.  It was so much
like countless scenes from old movies that he felt more like an actor playing a
role than a real person moments away from swinging from the end of a rope. 
Resistance was futile.  There was no escaping what was about to happen.

          There were people
milling about in the street as he was led through the town to the gallows,
where more people were waiting.  It didn’t take long to get there, Hell’s Lost
Mile not being a big place.  Again, however, he was taken aback at how many people
were present.  He was seeing actual crowds for the first time since before the
end of the world.  They watched as he was made to climb the steps to the
gallows.  Some had solemn expressions, a few were crying, but the greatest
percentage of them looked almost eager to see this happen.  Not because they
were genuinely angry with him, but for the entertainment value.

          A noose dangled from a
pole that extended out over the center of the platform.  Below the noose was a
trapdoor.  A nudge in the back from Deputy Danny sent Noah trudging over to the
center of the platform.  He stood squarely in the middle of the closed trapdoor,
waiting while the noose was tugged down over his head and fitted snugly around
his neck.  Again, resistance was pointless.

          The priest had his
bible open and was reading from it.  Noah’s refusal of religious counsel didn’t
matter.  This was just how this kind of thing was done.  There was a collective
intake of breath as the priest finished reading.  The money part of the show,
the thing everyone was here for, was seconds away from happening.

          The sheriff locked eyes
with Noah as his hand settled on the lever that would open the trapdoor.  “Go
with God, son.”

          Noah snorted.  “Yeah,
right.”

          The sheriff’s hand
noticeably tightened on the lever.  Before he could pull it, however, the heads
of everyone present turned to stare down the street.  Noah was mystified for
only a moment, because the sound of approaching hoofbeats finally registered. 
It was a thunderous sound, multiple beasts coming at a gallop.  A cloud of dust
was visible first.  Then, out of it, came two horses.  Both were saddled, but
one was riderless.  Atop the other one was a rifle-wielding man dressed all in
black.  Black clothes, black hat, and a black bandanna masking his face.  Women
screamed at the sight of him and the crowd scurried out of the way as the
mystery man and his beasts came charging toward the gallows.

          The lawmen reached for
their weapons, but the man in black aimed his repeating rifle and fired before
they could draw them from their holsters.  They cried out as bullets struck
their hands.  Another blast from the mystery man’s rifle severed the rope
hanging from the pole above Noah’s head.

          After some initial moments
of bewilderment, Noah understood this was something he should have expected. 
And perhaps he had, at a subconscious level.  That sense of being an actor
playing a role was stronger than ever.  Yet he didn’t feel like a man lost in a
dream world.  This was reality.  Or at least reality as he understood and
experienced it these days.  He was awake and aware.  The noose around his neck
was actually there, drawn tight enough even with the rope severed to make him
feel nauseated.  But it wasn’t that simple, either.  The reality felt enhanced
in some way he couldn’t identify.  Embellished somehow.

          The man in black aimed
his rifle at the trembling, terror-stricken priest.  “Cut him loose, padre.”

          The man in black’s
voice was subtly familiar, but Noah couldn’t place it.  He frowned and stared
at the man’s eyes, the only part of his face visible above the black bandanna. 
That didn’t help matters, because nothing there triggered a similar feeling of
familiarity.

          The priest produced a
folding knife from a pocket and tucked his bible away as he set about cutting
through Noah’s bonds.  Once the length of rope had fallen from his wrists, Noah
tugged at the noose until it was loose enough to tug over his head and toss
away.

          Once this was done, the
man in black gestured at the riderless horse with his rifle.  “Mount up, Noah. 
We need to go now.”

          Noah frowned.  “Who are
you?”

          “No time for that.  Get
on the damn horse.”

          Sighing, Noah moved to
the edge of the platform and frowned down at the horse.  For a brief instant,
he considered trying to jump into the saddle from the platform, a thing he’d
seen done often in movies.  But Noah was still hangover-weak and, besides, was
no stuntman.  He descended the steps at the side of the gallows to the ground,
approached the riderless horse, carefully inserted a foot in a stirrup, and
mounted the beast that way.

          And then they were off,
galloping out of Hell’s Lost Mile in another cloud of dust.

          Once they were safely
out of the town with no evidence of pursuit, the men slowed their mounts to a
trot and Noah was able to try pumping his rescuer for information again.

          “Seriously, who the
fuck are you?  Where are we going?  And why did you rescue me?  I mean, I’m
grateful, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t get it.”

          The man in black kept
his eyes staring straight ahead as he replied in that same strangely familiar
voice.  “Not important.  What is important is that you resume your journey. 
Time grows short, Noah.  It’s later than you think.”

          After that, nothing
else was said.  Noah no longer wanted to talk to the man in black.  A deep
uneasiness had taken root inside him.

          He had finally
recognized the man’s voice.