i.
A cold, foamy wave broke over Wesley, shocking him awake. He coughed and spat out salt water, clutching at the wet sand under him. Blinking away the stinging water, he crawled out of the surf, up and away from the ocean. His lungs were burning and his throat felt like sandpaper. All the muscles in his body ached and his stomach was churning with an acidic burn. His clothes, made of some rough woolen fabric, weighed him down. His feet were bare.
The beach was barren in both directions. Hills of soft sand blocked his view inland. As he crawled forward, he pulled off his shirt and wrung out as much moisture as his hands could manage before putting it back on. The air itself was almost as cold as the water, a gray layer of clouds blotted out any source of light from the sky. It felt like morning but there was no way to be certain. The horizon over the ocean was a clean unbroken line of neat, colorless water. Thunder was rolling in the distance without no visible lightning. No ships or islands, no other living souls were visible in the water. Looking up at the sky again, Wesley experienced series of thoughts that startled him fully awake.
I don’t have any idea where I am. Or why I’m here. Or who I am.
His mind spun out of control and the earth under him seemed to roll over. Panic embraced him, squeezing at his heart before he remembered, from somewhere deep inside, how to calm himself. He snapped the fingers on both his hands rapidly and drew in his attention. Getting to his feet, he started walking quickly, keeping the ocean on his left and the dunes to his right. He focused on the sensation of the sand under his feet and the individual granules between his toes. The wind off the water was bracing and he let his mind wander away with it. He let the rhythm of his breathing set his pace. The waves were breaking unevenly and he watched them swell and rush up the sand before receding.
After a few minutes, his mind calmed. Your name is Wesley, something whispered to him before going silent. His body was warming and he started to jog, pushing off the sand from the balls of his feet. Although he ached all over, his muscles responded to the demand. He was immediately aware that he was healthy, his body was in shape. Running felt natural. Wesley increased his speed. A mile went by before his feet started to drag and he was forced to slow to a casual walk.
Calories. You need to eat something, a voice in his head spat out.
His heart was racing and his mind slogged down, he felt lightheaded. Ahead the beach gave way to a hard scrabble of yellow shale hills. Wesley climbed, careful to not lose his footing. He felt it start in his thighs; a sensation like pins and needles. Exhaustion was setting in and his calves felt like rubber. His arms were starting to shake when he reached the top of a cliff and he took a moment to look back over the beach.
Horses. Three of them. No. Four. With men riding them, a few hundred yards behind him on the beach. One of the horses stopped and the rider climbed off, hoisting a long narrow object of some kind. The man stood motionless next to his horse as the other riders closed in. Wesley took a knee and watched them approach.
Maybe they know what I’m doing here? The air next to his head suddenly whistled and snapped. A sharp crack echoed across the ocean wind. Move. Move now, the voice again popped into his mind. A pile of shale to his left exploded sending shards of pebbles into his leg. Dust peppered his eyes, the air cracked again with echoing thunder. Wesley moved. Ducking low he crawled down the far side of the shale cliff, rushing inland towards a field of brush. The ground underfoot was sharp and dry but he moved quickly and capably across it.
ii.
Without knowing how, Wesley recognized the type of terrain he was crossing. Years ago this land had been underwater, part of the ocean floor. The brittle stone underfoot had been compressed by water and sediment. Now it was a white and chalky landscape, covered in thin rooted brush that absorbed rain quickly to stay alive. Wildlife would be mostly snakes, rodents, rabbits, coyote. Few larger predators.
Plunging into the rough foliage, Wesley prayed for a game trail or dried up stream bed. He snatched up a desiccated piece of tree branch as a walking stick, pushing specific plants aside and testing potential snake holes as he moved. After a few hundred yards he came upon a narrow strip of recessed ground that may have been a small creek at some point. It was wide enough to walk along. Heart racing, body howling with pain, he pushed on as fast as he could up the creek bed, ducking under the overgrowth. The sky had cleared to a dull blue. The sun was now beating down as the middle of the day set in.
Rounding a corner, Wesley almost slammed into a solid surface partially cutting across his path. It sat a few feet off the ground and, after checking for snakes, he crawled under it to rest in the shade and catch his breath. After a few minutes he closed his eyes and felt himself dozing lightly.
The wooden planks under his feet were rocking gently and he rolled his heels to compensate, ably keeping his balance. His head was pulsing with pain making it difficult to see clearly what was around him. A man nearby was shouting but not at him. There were uniformed men nearby, lined up in some kind of formation. There was a constant creaking of old wood heaving under foot. He could smell the salt of the ocean, it sprayed against his face. The sensation tickled slightly but when he reached to scratch his beard he realized his hands were tied behind him with some kind of coarse rope. His ankles were also bound and for a moment he wondered who was playing a joke on him. But as his eyes slowly focused, he noticed the man shouting was also in uniform. He had an enormous beard and a comically large hat. I’m on a ship, he thought. But when he turned his head to look around at his surroundings the familiar sensation of coarse rope clutched around his neck.
Snapping awake, Wesley held his breath and listened to the wind rushing through the bushes. For a moment he was certain someone was moving through the brush nearby but after a few seconds he recognized the randomness of the wind. Getting to his knees, he continued underneath the massive object to the other side and discovered a road. It was peppered with weeds, the asphalt riddled with cracks but it had once, a long time ago, been a two lane highway.
Looking back at the creek bed, he recognized the object that he had been resting under. It was a faded yellow school bus, turned over on one side. The wheels had almost entirely rotted away and the undercarriage was a twisted mess of steel. All the windows he could see were broken out. It lay like an old forgotten dinosaur carcass, petrified and no interest to scavengers.
Wesley considered climbing onto the engine block for a look inside. There might be food or water and hopefully nothing else. He hoped the bus had been empty when it had crashed but he was too tired to be optimistic. Before he could make a decision the sound of hoof beats broke his concentration. Dropping to the ground, he crouched against the bus again.
Down the road in the direction of the beach was an old burro with a dusty old man rocking back and forth in the saddle. There were bags and boxes strapped to either side of the tired animal. The man wore an broad brimmed hat that drooped down near his shoulders. His hair was long and tangled but his face smooth and clean shaven. From a distance, Wesley could not determine if he was fifty years old or a hundred. As the rider closed in, he decided to take a chance. Standing up at the side of the road, he waited and watched the old man approach. Without realizing why, his right hand slid across his chest, reaching under his left arm. For a moment his hand hung in the air gripping…what?
That was the first thing they took. Now put your hand down, you look stupid, said the voice from his mind.
When the burro was close enough, Wesley opened his mouth and tried to speak but no words came. His throat was as dry as the road under him. For a moment it looked like the old man would ignore him and ride by. But as he started to pass he clucked his tongue once and the animal stopped in place. His voice was gruff as expected but deeper than his size implied. He was looking directly at the younger man, though Wesley could not remember seeing his head turn.
“Well. You are one sorry-looking son of a bitch.” His mouth barely moved when he spoke. The burro stared straight ahead without moving.
Say something clever, the voice in his head chimed in. Wesley croaked. He tried to clear his throat without success. After a beat, he stared back at the old man and shrugged. Smooth, added the voice.
“Here,” a canteen appeared in his hand which he tossed down to Wesley. “Keep it. I have others.” The water was warm and stung his cracked lips. His throat was so dry that he choked on the first gulp. The second and third went down smoothly.
“Not so fast or it’ll come back up.”
Wesley took another small sip and corked the canteen. “Thank you.” His voice sounded raspy and distant. Touching his neck, he realized the skin was tender, bruised. If the old man noticed this gesture he hid it perfectly.
He said, “You know you’re being followed?” Wesley nodded. The old man produced a package of folded wax paper. Instead of tossing it, he held it out. Approaching with his palms up, Wesley accepted the package and rolled it up in his shirt. “Some dried meats and a few rolls.” The old man was looking ahead along his path. “There’s a spring in those hills to the east.” He gestured to the far side of the broken road. “And a town a dozen miles or so along this here road. I don’t think you’ll make it that far today, however.”
He has an Irish accent. Or he used to. Why is he covering it up? The voice in Wesley’s head was familiar like a close friend from childhood that he couldn’t entirely remember. Of course I’m familiar. I’m you. Wesley blinked and looked up at the old man, fearing he’d spoken aloud. When the old timer didn’t react, Wesley asked, “A dozen miles of hard country?”
“No.” The old man reached into another bag carefully. “It’s an easy ride but it is open. You won’t make it because of them.” He gestured back the way he had come, “They ain’t in a hurry to catch up with you. But they have your trail. Won’t be long.” A knife appeared in his hand. Long and silver, with a bone white handle. Wesley tensed but before he could move away the old man tossed it in a slow arc towards him.
With smooth dexterity, Wesley snatched the blade out of the air. Rolling it off his fingers, he popped it up and let it land, point down, on the trigger finger of his right hand. The tip stuck lightly into the thick callous there. Balancing it for a few moments, Wesley stared. His eyes were wide with surprise and a little bit of embarrassment. “That was pretty.” The old man said, unimpressed. “Ain’t going to do you any good when they catch up to you.”
Wesley dropped the knife back into his hand and found a loose strap on his pants. He used it to secure the blade against his side while the old man stared ahead. “You may stand a chance of making it to nightfall up in those hills.” He again gestured to the far side of the road. The shale gave way to some granite deposits and scrub. The hill itself rose a few hundred feet off the ground but it looked like a shallow climb. It would be challenging but not impossible.
“Like I said, there’s a town that away. Dozen miles or so. Not too friendly but friendlier than them on your heels.” The old man clucked his tongue once and the burro started walking again. “Thank you,” Wesley said, taking a few steps after the old man. “Don’t thank me yet.” The man rode on without looking back.
iii.
Wesley looked down at his new prizes with awe. He clutched the wax paper and canteen to his chest and started off across the road. Although his stomach was aching and his mouth was already drying up again, he decided he would not rest until he’d made it over the first hill.
The climb itself did not seem difficult but as the ground incline steadily increased he realized he may have overextended himself. His pace slowed to a crawl and the slope became so extreme that he went to his hands and knees. Sweat poured off his body and he took a few swigs of water to keep from passing out. After a half hour or so, he took a moment to look down the way he came and his head spun with vertigo. The earth dropped away behind him and the road had turned into a checkered line in the distance.
Four figures, like tiny black motes, were crossing the two lane road. He could not make out any details other than their unique hats and attire. A bowler here, a cloak there. One had on a white undershirt that glowed in the clear daylight. Another had a red cowboy hat, like a rodeo clown. This figure turned down the road instead of crossing it, following the path the old man had taken. Running his fingers over the knife at his side, Wesley turned back up the hill and continued climbing.
The peak was anticlimactic. It was more of a steady reduction of incline to an open flat area. A massive, ancient tree with low hanging branches provided some shade. Wesley ate slowly, the salt from the meat burning his cracked lips. Although it was old and barely seasoned the meal was exquisite. His energy returned slowly as he considered his options. For a moment the thought occurred to climb the tree and hide. Surely the men following him would not be able to get horses up the hill where it was steep. Perhaps they would go around and look for his trail descending. Then he could retrace his steps and follow the old man down the road.
Or you could climb the tree to the very top, jump off and break your own neck. Save everyone a lot of trouble for how stupid that idea is. The voice was clearer now. More confident. They will send one or two men unhorsed up the hill along your path while the other circles around behind it, cutting off your escape.
Wesley shook his canteen. It was nearly empty already. He tried to remember which direction the old man had indicated when he had mentioned the spring. Get up in the tree and look for a green belt of foliage. Or a forest of green. Or a patch of green. Or a flowing fountain shooting spring water all over crowds of nude women.
The tree was an easy climb, the bark smooth and tough from the dry wind. Looking down over the hill country he saw what he was looking for. A broken box canyon stretched away in the direction of the town but was lined with dark green foliage and soft looking trees. A quick climb down and Wesley was on the move. I hope they don’t hurt the old man, he thought to himself as he found his footing.
I think he’ll be just fine, the voice answered back.
iv.
The old man was not as old as he let on, although he did allow himself the vanity of a clean shave every morning. The sun was closing in on the horizon by the time the rider caught up to him. It was the one with the clown hat, red and fashionable. He’d made out the sequins along the rim from a mile away. When the horseman was within rifle shot, the old man clucked twice at the burro who obediently stopped and rotated in a half circle to face the man. They both sat motionless in the middle of the road, waiting.
Realizing he’d been seen, the horseman increased his pace to a trot and closed within ten yards before halting. “Hey, old timer.” he shouted. “You seen a friend mine, I think.” He was still mostly a boy. A spotty beard and a reedy voice betrayed his youth. His rifle remained holstered but the old man took note of the pistol strapped sideways across the front of his saddle.
Right handed draw. Double action. Big bore. The old man thought, then said, “Maybe. How tall is your friend?” The younger man cocked his head slightly in disbelief and then seemed to decide the old timer was a fool. “Oh, about yay big.” he answered, holding his right hand a man’s height from the ground. Small, weak hand. That gun is too big for him.
“You give him anything, old timer? Food? A gun, maybe? My brothers and I are tracking him and we need to know if you armed him.” The younger man was too confident, a little condescending. The old man hated condescending people, they got under his skin. He answered, “No, he wadn’t armed.”
“That’s not what I asked you, old timer. Now, show me your hands.” The younger man was resting his hand on the pistol now, his thumb rubbing the hammer lightly. He had a glimmer in his eye and the old man could tell what he was looking for. Too quick to remind himself he was armed, too eager to take control. The young man was looking for violence. He repeated, “I said ‘show me your hands’.”
“You don’t want to see my hands.” He answered.
The younger man flinched at the sudden authority in his voice. “I ain’t playing with you old man, now do what I say-”
“I have a name. It’s McElhone. You’re going to wish I had not shared that information with you.” The old man spoke in a terse, efficient manner. The burro lowered it’s head impatiently but stayed in place. The wind picked up from west to east, cooling the afternoon air. The younger man squeezed the butt of his pistol tighter, cocked the hammer and started to speak but the older man cut him off, “I wouldn’t do that.”
“I don’t care what your name is and I do what I please, old timer. Now show-” But the old man had already drawn on him and he was looking down the end of a long barreled revolver that had appeared from nowhere. Impossible. He didn’t moved at all. Nothing moves that fast, the young man thought. He had seen gunfighters, carnival performers and real killers; no matter how fast they were you could always track some kind of movement but this old man, this McElhone, may as well have had a gun on him the entire time. Fear clutched at his stomach. Cold sweat ran down from his blood red hat into his eyes. “You’re not going to shoot me, old…Mr. McElhone, I ain’t threatening you with anything.”
“But you’ve seen my hand, now. I told you you didn’t want to see my hands.”
“No harm done.” said the younger man, letting go of his own pistol and spreading his arms to his sides. “I wasn’t looking too close, anyway.” He slid his hat off and let it hang on his back by the cord, taking a moment to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. “I’ll take my leave, now. If that’s alright.” He started to turn his horse, a beautiful brown bay with a long flowing black mane but stopped cold when the pistol in the old man’s hand clicked like the hand of grandfather clock.
“Here is the thing about ‘surprise’, young man. If you get around to telling people there is a crotchety old man on a burro with hands like I have, then I don’t have it anymore. Do you understand?” The young man nodded, eagerly. “Good, I’m glad we have that. An understanding. Now before I send you off, why are you chasing that other young man around the hills? For my own edification.”
“Bounty. Good money, if you’re interested.” The young man saw a glimmer of hope in his future and let himself smile. Every man had a price. At least, every man he’d ever known. He carefully replaced his bright red hat, running his sweaty fingers along the sequined rim for good luck. People usually mistook the styled hat for foolishness but it was his lucky hat. It hadn’t let him down yet.
McElhone said, “Shame. I hate bounty hunters. There’s only one grim reaper and he don’t take a paycheck. Neither do I.” The young man felt his smile drop away an instant before his right eye erupted in the path of the bullet. His hat flew away and then caught on the cord around his neck, absorbing the lion’s share of his brain matter. Lifeless, he fell from the startled brown bay who reared up and bolted, catching the cord of his red hat in the pommel, snatching it away. The old man watched the horse flee back down the road, red hat swinging back and forth as it went before disappearing around a bend.
The old man clucked twice at the burro, who turned in a half circle and started back down the shambled road.
v.
Wesley was holding his knife out in front of him as he walked but he could not remember why. The stones underfoot were slick with water and algae. He slipped twice before stepping back onto dry land. He had a headache but it felt distant, far away. Someone was shouting at him but that might have been in his head. The underground spring had bubbled to the surface and pooled in several places along the canyon floor. It ran in shallow streams from higher ground into pools. Something exploded overhead, echoing around the canyon walls and he looked up at the darkening blue sky. It was early evening all of a sudden, when did that happen?
He said to himself, “Doesn’t look like rain. Weird.” Then there was that feeling of someone yelling at him…
…run, run, run…, a voice shouted, but where was it coming from? Not to mention, the ground was very slippery. Maybe if he crossed to the other side of the stream he would be able to hear better. As he stepped across, his foot landed on a stone covered in green moist algae and he fell over into the water. His knee landed on the corner of a small flat rock. Pain shot up his leg, shocking him awake.
…been shot. Your head is shot, the bullet must have glanced off the skull but you’re in shock. You need to run, run run…, the voice was saying and it started to come back to Wesley. He had been refilling his canteen after crawling down into the narrow canyon. Something had jumped out and slapped him across the side of the head. Then everything got blurry. He put his hand to the side of his head and felt a sticky wet sensation. His hand came away bloody. Damn it, he thought to himself and then he was back on his feet, staggering.
Another shot rang out from behind him but he couldn’t tell if it was close. He took the most shallow path up and out of the canyon, struggling to keep his balance. The knife was still in his hand, he squeezed it tight and kept moving through the low hills. If he could just get around the next series of rocky bluffs he might be able to-
Wesley came to a stop so suddenly he lost his footing and fell to his knee. A rider rounded the boulders a hundred yards ahead, moving at a steady gait, without urgency. The hills on either side were steep and tall, pocked with shallow cave-like recesses. They were herding you this way. I should have seen that. I’m sorry, the voice in his head was distant now, defeated. Behind him he could hear shouting echoing up from the canyon. There was laughter then another handful of gunshots; the rider ahead of him fired once, startling him.
“I’m not done, not yet”, he mumbled to himself but the other voice was silent now. He climbed. One of the recesses was darker than the others. The light was fading from the sky and he could see the walls of the other caves but there was one, close to the top, that was as dark as coal. If he could get to it and if it was deep enough, he might get a chance to fight back. Or he’d end up just as trapped as he already was.
This may not be a good time to mention this but you don’t have a very good time in small spaces, the voice suddenly said, as Wesley neared the mouth of the cave. “Now why would you bring that up now?” he said out loud. He was exhausted and delirious from pain but his patience was gone. “I have enough to worry about and you have to remind of something I don’t need to remember.”
When I say you I mean me. Might get a little panicky. Also, you sound like a crazy person talking to yourself out loud, the voice was playful again but when he reached the mouth of the cave and looked in, he felt fear. The walls were dry and rough. It was oval shaped, about three feet from floor to ceiling and it sloped up into the hill side. He could not see where it ended, the light was swallowed by the darkness. Can’t go in there, not enough air, the voice said.
Below, the riders had reached the base of hillside. Only three this time, where was the fourth? They were still shouting and another shot rang out. Wesley felt shards of rock and debris shower his legs. He rushed in through the cave entrance and into the darkness. Crawling on his hands and knees, he felt the roof scraping against his back. As the tunnel darkened he felt rubbery dry surfaces against his elbows. Snakes. Move slow, the voice said. He slowed his crawl, feeling ever closer towards a suffocating dead end, hoping against logic that there would be a exit or an escape.
Wesley had to stop every few feet to control his breathing. Panic was creeping in closer with every foot. This is an awful idea. Really awful. I hope there’s a bear in here, the voice was petulant now. Suddenly, the cave opened up into a small chamber, Wesley rolled into it and was able to almost stand up. His eyes adjusted. He had enough room to stretch out.
Taking a moment to test the side of his head, he found it sore and tacky but the bleeding had stopped. The canteen and food were gone, dropped somewhere on the canyon floor. He kept the knife in his hand and did not set it down for fear of losing it in the darkness. He could hear voices echoing up through the cave walls. They were outside. The light coming from the entrance was growing dimmer and flickered with shadows. The sun would be down soon.
“What are they going to do? Come in shooting? Wait until morning?” Wesley asked himself in a hushed tone. It felt good to rest, even on the cold stone floor. Not sure, the voice was small now, distracted, but I know what I would do.
“What? Why is this happening?” he asked the voice, laying back against the cool rock enclave. You can remember if you want to, came the answer. Wesley closed his eyes and focused. What about the ship. What happened there? Like falling into a dream, the memory swallowed him up.
It was the Captain in the large hat and full beard, he looked ridiculous. He was berating his crew in front of him. There was some kind of ceremony taking place and Wesley was the center of attention, all eyes were on him. The rope around his neck was tight but he was able to breathe and look around. Every face was familiar, he knew these men and they looked at him with open contempt. I’m being hanged, he thought. Not how I expected to go. The ship was listing hard to starboard, they were anchored against some incredible current. The deck itself was leaning at a nearly thirty degree angle but the Captain continued his rant, unconcerned. Wesley was standing at the edge of an open railing. To his right were several marines pointing ancient muskets at him, guarding his every movement. And to his left was a woman, also bound. Her hair was tied back, she stared down at the deck below. She seemed very familiar but Wesley could not remember how he knew her. The Captain gestured to her and drew a pistol, pointing it at her head and Wesley realized that he was screaming something, wrenching against the rope around his neck until he was red in the face and his throat gave out. After a moment, the woman turned and looked directly at him. It was her eyes that called it all back to him. Golden brown, wounded and older than her years. She said, “You were worth it.”
“I love you.” Wesley whispered, reaching into the dark cave. The stone walls remained silent.
The Captain sneered, and then she shined that damnable smile at him, beaming away like there was no one else in the world but two of them. That smile will be the end of me, he remembered saying to her once, in a moment of intimacy. The pistol reported. She fell to the deck, bleeding from the side of her head. Wesley looked up to the sky for the rope that held him but gasped when he realized that there was none. The rope around his feet, hands and neck were the same. He would not hang. The Captain told him to turn around and when he did not move, the marines yanked at his arm, pointing him towards the ocean below and then Wesley understood his sentence.
It was The Maelstrom. The great whirlpool off the coast of some forgotten northern country. Three hundred yards across on a calm day, it was a churning spiral of horror, swallower of ships, nightmare to all sailors. No one knew how deep it went. No one who had been in the water close enough to see it had lived to talk about it. It spun, unrelenting, unchanging. Like a black hole in the sea. Wesley felt his ropes being cut away. The Captain was in his ear. My wife, he said. This is the cost of another man’s wife. And then he was falling into the water.
Gasping, Wesley jolted to his feet, slamming his wounded head into the low rock ceiling. Breathing hard and cursing, he smelled smoke. At the entrance of the cave a light flickered, like campfire. The air was turning caustic, his eyes stung when he blinked. They are smoking us out, the voice said. We’re done. Dropping to his knees, Wesley groped along the cave walls for an exit, finding none. “How did I survive? How did I escape the whirlpool?!” he shouted at himself. Laughing. The voice was laughing in his head. He frantically scraped at the walls until his hand found a gap. Chest high, about a foot and a half tall, it was enough to crawl into.
NO, the voice stopped laughing, you will get stuck in there and suffocate, or the cave will shift and you’ll be crushed, no no no, do not go in there. “How did I escape the Maelstrom?”, he demanded but the voice started to laugh again with maniacal enthusiasm. Wesley heaved himself up and pulled his way into the crevice. The laughing stopped and the voice answered.
You didn’t.
Wesley stopped cold. The rock around him was tight. Too tight. He could barely breathe enough with the smoke in the air. He could not see ahead of himself, there was no light except the dull glow of the fire at the entrance of the cave. Ahead, he could feel an opening but it was no wider. The possibility of becoming stuck seemed certain. With one long breath, he reached as far into the dark as he could and pulled himself deeper, ignoring the screaming in his mind.
i.
The two children were screaming with glee at each other as they raced in circles around the burro. One had long braided hair, the other had a clean shaven head, both were dark brown from being in the sun. McElhonne ignored them and spurred the animal on, his possessions jangling against its sides where they hung. After a few minutes, the children lost interest and screeched away into an alleyway. Ahead was the main avenue into town, guarded on either side by looming gas stations that had been abandoned. One was blackened and gutted by fire, the other empty and alone, like a skeleton bleached white under the sun. The road itself split in three directions towards neighborhoods, an industrial park, and right through the middle of what looked like a ghost town in the failing light. But the older man knew better. This town was still alive and breathing but hidden from view.
Inside of his serape, McElhonne was holding his revolver across his chest. The hammer was locked back in position, ready to fire, as he continued along the road. The unshod hoof beats of the animal drummed out a steady cadence along the cracked asphalt. Ahead on the right side of the road was the Luxury Inn, a rundown motel that had never been luxurious in its prime, even before the end of everything. Riding past the front office, the man found a plot of wild grass and bushes where he tied the burro to an old parking sign. The beast slid to his belly and seemed to fall instantly asleep. The old timer took a moment to envy the animal before turning his attention back to the motel where he was sure he was being watched from at least three different places. The curtains were drawn in nearly every room, most of the windows were boarded up but there was movement here and there on the second floor. He pretended not to notice, but his right sleeve still hung empty at his side. His grip on the revolver was strong.
The front office looked like someone had driven a truck through it. But there was still a desk with a chrome bell sitting on it that was well polished. It looked new and terribly out of place. The old man slapped the button on top with his free hand and a beautiful sonorous tone rang out into the dusk air. He waited. After a few seconds he heard a familiar patter of feet. The child with the braids appeared in a doorway and darted around the desk. There was the sound of a stool or a chair scraping against the ground and then his head appeared behind the desk, hand extended. The child waited, staring up expectantly. The old man grumbled to himself, stole a glance around and produced a small leather pouch that he dropped on the desk. The kid, it was a boy, reached for it and came up short. McElhonne slid it closer and stood back. Snatching it up, the boy’s small fingers worked away at the leather cord, pulling open the bag. His finger dipped in and came out coated with white granules. The finger disappeared into his mouth and his eyes crinkled together for a moment. He blinked away for another second before resealing the bag, a few flecks of salt still stuck around the corners of his lips. He said, in a high pitched voice, “My sister will take you to a room. This is good for a couple nights.”
It was good for more than a couple nights but the older man did not object. He turned to leave and found the other child, the bald one, leveling a sawed off shotgun at his back that was nearly as tall as she was. Her eyes were steady and mature. He regretted not paying more attention earlier, that had been sloppy. And he was a little annoyed she had been able to sneak up on him so easily but the damage was done. He made a hand gesture to indicate ‘lead the way’. The child shouldered the weapon, nearly tipped over with the weight of it, and then plodded off back towards the rooms. The old man followed.
“Don’t go in there,” She pointed to a room, number 103. There was plywood blocking the windows from the inside. A chain was looped around the doorknob to a handicapped parking pole, holding it shut. “There’s pythons in there.” The man eyed the door with care. He could smell it, the sickly sweet odor of reptile waste. He said to the girl, “What for?”
She shrugged, wavered out of step for a moment, and kept walking. At the end of the block of rooms, she stopped and pointed at a door that hung open. It had no door knob and the windows were still intact. “Thanks,” said the old man. The little girl held out her hand and made a sound like ahem. McElhonne looked at her and blinked, “You want a tip?”
She said again, ahem.
“Here’s a tip: don’t point a shotgun at people. It’s rude.” he said. She frowned and wiggled her fingers. “Jesus.” he said, “Alright, bring in those packages I’ve been carrying on my burro and there might be something in it for you. He’s right over there, the ugly one. Hop to it.” The girl gave him a dirty look then turned away.
Looks like rain, McElhonne thought, scanning the sky.
ii.
Wesley heard a rolling thumping sound and lost all hope, squeezed deep against the rock walls. This is it, he thought to the voice in his head, You were right.
The voice in his head was silent now, except for the occasional expletive. Beyond that, he saw flashes of the woman from his memory. Moments of happiness were punctuated by a deep pain in his heart that he had not done enough, that it was his fault. And as he listened to the thundering sound he held on to the memory of that smile of hers and waited to die. But the sound was not the mountains around him collapsing and after a few minutes he smelled rain, damp and humid. Water trickled down onto his head. He pushed on.
When he reached open air he did not realize it at first. He clawed at nothing and pulled himself forward along the ground as the rain showered down on him. A noise he was not expecting shook him into awareness. It was a horse braying. He jumped to his feet and looked around for his attackers but there were none. There was a brown bay thirty feet away, fully saddled. A hat hung off its pommel that was blood red in the downpour.
Well. That’s odd, said the voice. The hat seemed familiar.
The horse, soaking wet and clearly tired, watched Wesley with a careful gaze. Lightning flashed over head followed by a deafening roll of thunder and it spooked for a moment, breaking into a trot towards him. Collecting the reins, he started going through the various satchels, pulling a large patterned blanket out and wrapping himself. There was food, some water, and a gun strapped across the saddle.
I don’t know what to say, the voice said.
“Then that would be the second luckiest thing to happen in the last few minutes.” Wesley remarked out loud. The horse whinnied and looked at him, unimpressed with his humor. Mounting up in a quick efficient movement, he turned the bay and started off towards the town.
iii.
Mitchell almost made it out of the cave gracefully but slipped at the last minute, sliding into the remains of the brush they had set on fire. He cursed, stumbled forward and slapped at his legs and ass. Cinders exploded off of him. Calvin watched the other man compose himself without reaction, crouching on one knee against the incline of the hill. His pistol was in its holster, now uncocked.
“He ain’t in there.” Mitchell finally said.
No shit, thought Calvin. The man must have made it into cave network, or slipped into an underground spring. Or turned into smoke and drifted off into the air. Calvin had seen stranger things.
“What now?” Mitchell asked before almost sliding down to his ass again in the unstable scree. Calvin cocked his head down to the horses at the base of the hill and waited for the younger man to descend first. Following, he held his right hand behind him for balance so that his gun hand remained free.
They mounted and the older man gestured north. In the heavy dusk air it started to drizzle. Both men pulled on their coats.
“Figure he’s headed towards town, huh,” said Mitchell, not expecting an answer, “Yeah, he don’t have too many options.” His attitude was confident, sure of himself, but the man was a mediocre tracker. At least the kid in the red hat had asked real questions and paid close attention to Calvin, watching him work.
The kid was dead, the old tracker was almost sure of it. They had heard the shot hours earlier and Mitchell had remarked that the kid must have gotten the job done, whatever that meant. But the kid wasn’t good enough to do a job with one shot, not by a long while. Not a job involving gunfire, anyway. No, the old timer on the burro had been a wild card and Calvin had taken a gamble sending the inexperienced kid after him. He deduced this before the shot had stopped echoing down from the overcast sky but said nothing to the other man. Instead, he had sent the other one, the tall black man in the bowler hat back along their path south with a message he had handwritten and sealed. He was the only one of their posse that Calvin did not trust and not just because they had never ridden together. The black man was intelligent and highly competent, Calvin discerned this immediately when they had started riding together. Objectively, he frightened the older tracker, they had the same habits. His gun hand was always free, his back never turned, and his eyes fixed on what he was looking at intently breaking down whatever held his attention. He was a predator. So he’d sent the black man back and away from the bounty.
His suspicions about the kid were confirmed when they discovered the bay’s tracks running erratically across their path. The ground was dampening but had not yet become muddy, making light casts of the hoofprints.
“That’s an unmanned horse.” Mitchell announced. “Shod. That’s not Joseph’s mount is it? Can’t be.”
Calvin had forgotten the kid’s name. Too many to keep track of these days and no real reason to. Intuition flared into the old tracker’s tired mind and he spurred his horse into a trot. The countryside was opening up and he cut east by northeast, with Mitchell obediently catching up. This man they were tracking had been lucky up until now but not skilled as far as could tell. This made Calvin uneasy. Skill he could handle but luck was something else entirely, there was no accounting for it. The bounty on him was expensive but vague. He’d been told the man was desperate, possibly crazy, potentially dangerous. But the only desperate behavior he’d displayed had kept him alive, which was not consistent with crazy or unskilled. He had acted predictably but not irrationally. This also made him uneasy.
Lighting split the sky and Calvin heard the other man spout epithets in excitement. He kept his keen eyes on the horizon, grateful for the illumination. His mind’s eye recounted in detail the tree line, the clearing, a sloping hillside to the east and a lightly wooded area with…what looked like a distant mounted figure.
The old tracker dug his heel in the side of the Appaloosa and turned her sharply east and then eased her into a gallop north. When they reached the clearing he reared back into a light trot. His hand came up to the horse’s mane and tugged firmly causing her to step with gentle, steady purpose. She was not silent but hard to hear at a distance to the untrained ear. The patter of rain was light but steady and Calvin found his way through the dark with professional canniness. His horse moved like a machine, ever attentive to his posture.
When Mitchell caught up, the older tracker gestured north with urgency, made a circular motion and mimed pulling the trigger on a gun. The other man obediently turned his horse sharply north and galloped off in a wide arc. Calvin’s fear had been confirmed. This bounty was lucky. Very lucky. But he was riding towards town on his good fortune wrapped in a blanket in the middle of a rainstorm only a few thousand yards away. Calvin closed the distance with implacable purpose. Lighting flashed again and he watched the other horse and rider trot through the tree line. With the thunder rolling overhead, he spurred the horse into a sprint, drawing his revolver from the holster.
iv.
Wesley had been on watch the first time he saw her on the deck of the ship. A light squall had just broken and the air was clear and refreshing. The ship was still rocking hard enough that he still held on to the railing for support. But she moved gracefully, with a kind of foolish confidence that almost made him call out for caution. He assumed she was headed for the rail herself to be sick. Instead, she ably ascended the stairs to the quarterdeck where he stood. A young lieutenant saluted awkwardly when she went by, she nodded politely in response.
He had intended to ignore her as she approached, but when she passed his position at the railing, he tried to glance back at her casually. She was looking directly at him and a moment passed between them. Wesley had grown up uncomfortable with eye contact and he was usually quick to break it but not this time. Her boldness startled him. Her eyes were beautiful. She had an incredible calmness to her that made him feel like they were the only two people in the world in that brief moment. I’m in trouble, he had time to think before an errant white cap exploded against the ship where he stood, the boat rocked under him. Soaked, he lost his grip and slid to the deck landing hard on his hip. While climbing to his feet, he looked up for her, expecting see her down as well but she was holding onto a bulkhead for support, laughing. Her smile lit up her face, her laughter was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. I am in serious trouble, he thought. In the distance, lightning split the sky with soundless intensity.
v.
Calvin navigated through the trees with the riding skills he had developed over years, his horse reacting to his every direction with perfect obedience. He said a silent prayer against an errant root or gopher hole and pressed on through the downpour. His gun was in hand, lowered under his cloak to keep out the rain, his other hand clenched tightly with the reins, jerking and tugging as necessary. There was still the chance they could catch the man unawares but he had no intention of taking him alive, not anymore. He could feel it in his bones that this was going to be a unique encounter, there was something off about it and he was not going to take chances. Mitchell would be coming in from the north and the man would be between them, mounted but surrounded. And as soon as Calvin saw that recognition, that panic in that man’s eyes he would put a bullet between them.
Calvin dug his heels in again, spurring the horse on faster. He broke into a clearing and saw him, hunched over in the saddle. A heel to his mount spurred her into a gallop. He took aim, closing the distance to within a few dozen yards and squeezed the trigger gently but stopped. There was something wrong, something too easy about the kill shot and when he realized the slouched figure on the bay was a bundle of cloth piled into the saddle he had enough time to wonder how bad his mistake would be before the wet, violent slaps impacted across his head. Gunshots echoed into the rainy sky and felt himself slouching into the neck of his horse. He had the single wild thought that maybe his own pistol had discharged accidentally. Maybe that was what he was hearing before he slid completely out of the saddle into muddy grass below. His mount trundled on, turning briefly to survey its former rider before starting and stumbling away as the sky lit up with lightning and thunder again.
Calvin’s mind surfaced one last time, briefly aware of its surroundings with enough time to think, Not like this. Not after all this time. After all the close calls and the…, but the rain was pooling on the ground under his mouth and he choked. The thought evaporated and, as he willed his body to move, he felt himself turn. He was suddenly facing the sky. It was the man he was chasing who had kicked his shoulder over and was now standing over him. Calvin focused his whole life into looking up at the man, to look him in his eyes and when the clouds lit up again with electricity he knew that he had been beaten. That this was not a random accident. The face looking down at him was young and exhausted but strong. It was the face of a killer and Calvin was glad. His own bounty was looking straight down into his eyes and all the years of experience, all the long nights tracking, all the days he’d spent hunting and killing men was reflected back at him, weighing his soul, watching for it to depart, not for entertainment or out of curiosity. No, this man had killed before, he had not gotten lucky. He was going to wait with him for the boatman to come and send him on his way, a sentiment Calvin understood completely. He had done the same many times, when he was younger and still coming to terms with the job, with murdering for money. He’d forgotten how to do it. He hoped he was smiling as the thought carried him away into the next world. He hoped the man saw his appreciation as he turned his mind to something kinder. Angela, I hope you’re…, and the light gave way, he couldn’t see the other man anymore. He heard more thunder booming nearby but it might have been gunfire.
Wesley felt the current as soon as he hit the water, spinning him around, tugging his body away from the ship. He pulled off his boots and slid out of his coat before swimming for the surface. Breaching, he inhaled as much air as he could and searched the waterline. The Andrea Gay was already half a league away, its crew was waving and calling out over the roar of ocean around him. Wesley turned with the current and started swimming along with it with steady slow strokes, conserving his energy for the the return trip. The ship grew smaller behind him and the Maelstrom pulled him closer. He pulled along with the current with images of her in his eyes and his speed increased. It drew closer, the massive hole in the ocean and Wesley felt control slipping away as it pulled him onward. Eyes wide, he spun around the outer rim before blacking out from the horror.
His vision lit up with blinding pain, like a vicious slap. He was pressed against something wet and hard. Lumber. Ship lumber, damp and cold jutting out of the water. It was the skeleton of some destroyed frigate wedged against the ocean floor, the current pressed him against it with steady, painful pressure. He clung to it with his remaining strength and searched the horizon for the Andrea Gay. It was still anchored, small in the distance. He took a moment to awe at the distance he had covered. The sky above was darkening with twilight and thunderheads. They were fat with moisture and he had a moment to wonder at the storm that was coming before a brilliant bolt of lightning sheared the sky overhead.
i.
The name he had grown up with was Zeke but in his late teens, while in the army, he was called Crow by others. This was supposed to be a joke at his expense, when an actual crow landed on his hat where it was resting on a tree stump. The bird refused to take flight and a colleague remarked that it was because of his skin color. He thinks your kin, the man had said and everyone else laughed. But when the time came to see action he had killed in silence with a disturbing grace and the tone of his nickname steadily transformed into a reverential title, albeit one that was whispered behind his back. And when that time passed and those acquaintances either passed or moved on the handle stuck and travelled ahead of him. When he took up bounty hunting as a means of living he kept it, only occasionally remembering the name his mother had passed on to him, and only rarely thinking of her at all.
When Calvin had dispatched him midday with a hastily scrawled, poorly sealed message, Crow had ridden a safe distance away and set up camp with no intention of delivering it. It’s contents were coded, barely legible. He was almost certain that it was nonsense. No, Calvin was too sharp, too seasoned to trust him right away. It was obnoxious but not unreasonable, Crow would have massacred all three of them had the opportunity arisen. But it had not, he lacked subtlety and he knew it. So had the old man.
When the sky opened up and poured down with much needed rain, moisture the arid hillsides would absorb and flourish with, he crawled into his pup tent and listened to it come down. It beat away at the fabric until it was only a steady rushing roar. He considered his options. Being dismissed by Calvin had been the best thing that could have happened at the time. He functioned better alone. And as long as Calvin thought he was away he would have time to do his real work. The only real question was whether or not Wesley would survive the night. Odds were two to one against, as best as he could tell.
Stay alive. Keep moving, brother. , he thought. His mind drifted back to days past and the few good memories that were harder and harder to keep alive, like dying embers that he had to blow gently on and tend. He dozed lightly but when the sky flashed above he saw the ship again. His friend watching the woman he loved killed. The blood on the deck. Her mottled, ribboned ear as she lay still. His friend going overboard. The fire. No one was around to hear him groan in panic before he fell into a deep sleep, brought on with urgency by days of wary dozing in the company of killers and fools.
ii.
The Captain was blind drunk, to an embarrassing degree. The small land party had ridden inland on borrowed horses to a villa of some retired acquaintance with whom he had set to drink immediately. Wesley socialized as best he could but he did not know the men they had brought with them from Andrea Gay as well as others and they quickly sequestered themselves leaving him alone with the Captain’s wife. Her name was Angela and she made meaningless small talk with ease. Wesley savored every word. When the night became early morning and her husband became a combination of abusive and sexually demanding of the house staff, Angela requested an escort back to the ship. Wesley, mostly sober, volunteered, knowing there would be no one to remember his enthusiasm in the morning. She pretended not to notice.
The air outside was cold, with a vicious snap that drained the warmth through their clothes, sobering Wesley and further upsetting Angela. When she insisted on sharing a saddle he thought his mind would split in two. But she slid in front of him and took up the rains without hesitation before he could object. They rode seabound in silence for what seemed like an eternity.
She asked an innocuous question to break the silence and suddenly Wesley was rambling about his life, sharing details and experiences with more ease than he could ever recall having. He could hear himself going on and a voice in the back of his mind begged for silence. He ignored it. Finally, his mind seemed to quiet and his mouth followed suit. Before he could apologize she asked a question that would start the real trouble.
So is this as close as you’ve been to a woman you haven’t paid for?
He snapped out his answer before he could stop himself, I have never and I will never pay for the company of a woman. More than I can say for your…
The silence returned. Internally, Wesley was horrified with himself. He had not meant to reply in such an offended tone but before he could offer a clumsy apology, she muttered a response.
Pardon? he asked.
She turned to look at him but he barely registered her response, I’m sorry for assuming.
But it was her breath against his cheek that displaced every thought in his mind. It was almost too intimate and he forgot who he was with the sweetness of the sensation. She stayed that way for a few moments, leaning back against him, her shallow, warm breaths breaking against his neck and face. Her hand took his and slid it under her coat and he felt softness unlike anything he’d ever experienced. It was her belly, smooth and hot after the early morning chill. They rode on until the ocean appeared and the sun broke through the darkness behind them.
iii.
McElhonne woke to the sound of birds cawing at the new dawn. The morning air had crept through the boarded up windows and stole what little warmth the remained I’m the room but it was still a welcome reprieve from the road. He rose too quickly and felt his back betray him, seizing up momentarily. His disguise as an old timer had become less of an illusion and more of a reality faster than he’d expected. Too many long days on the road. Too much sun, too little time for creature comforts. Too much time on the back of the mule that was staring stupidly at him from the remains of the kitchenette side of the motel room.
He’d almost left the animal outside but when the downpour increased he’d brought him in, less out of mercy than necessity. A sick mule was a useless mule, as redundant as the thought seemed to him. The truth was that he hated the animal in some ways and wished that it wasn’t so loyal and trusting, so completely dependent. It irritated him that there still creatures like that in the world, that loved unconditionally in a place and time that would never love it back. The truth was that the mule was unusually intelligent for its species and it reminded McElhonne of a dog he’d owned years ago. And he did not like to think about those kinds of things anymore.
There were noises outside like real life had returned. Voices, footsteps, joyless laughter. The old man armed himself and let the mule back out to it’s makeshift hitching post. He walked with purpose towards some lackeys near the road making as much noise as possible. No sense in startling what seemed like a confederation of morons armed with what looked like hunting rifles and small caliber pistols. They stopped talking when he’d gotten far closer than he should have and in the moment that they turned to regard him with suspicious glares he measured his odds. He was fast and at this distance, about eight yards, he could probably have them on the ground or scattering with a round to spare. But that would be bad for business. Instead he took a chance and raised his hands gently, affecting a slight quiver in his gun hand.
“What news?” He asked with a lazy, higher than normal speaking voice. They did not respond or continue their conversation and only watched his slowed advance.
From the motel lobby a familiar more competent looking face appeared. The lawman, McElhonne recognized. A younger man aged by pressure and violence named James, the old timer had dealings with him in the past. James paused a moment in step and waved the old timer over to join him on the way to a barricaded husk that might have been a truck facing the road into town. McElhonne rounded the gaggle of idiots who continued to eyeball him with unmasked contempt.
“Mac.” The lawman said when he’d caught up.
“Sheriff.”
“I asked you not to call me that.”
The old man replied, “If you’re not sheriff you can’t tell me what to do, can you.”
The younger man ignored this and peered down the street that led into the ungoverned hills. “You come down this road last night. Did you meet anyone we should be concerned about? Any harriers?”
“Only every day.” McElhonne answered. “Something got you all up on your toes, I see. Would you be more specific?”
“A rider come along your trail. Alone. Big red hat the color of dried blood. I see that rings a bell…”
The old man had flinched and covered it up poorly. “Not unless the dead and brainless are up and wandering around. Which case I’m tying this life off now and letting The Lord know he’s over doing this whole ‘end of the world’ nonsense.”
James ignored his answer, “I need to know, Mac.”
After a pause to consider the right words he said, “Probably. Killers, or just trackers. Probably killers. Not alone, though. They were hunting a man with only the rags on his bones.”
McElhonne produced a rolled cigarette from a hidden pocket and lit it. “They either kilt him and are looking for supplies. Or they lost him and are looking for supplies.”
James watched him smoke a moment, “I was certain the road would have killed you by now.”
“Trust your instincts. All in good time.”
Someone whistled from the rooftop and the men started taking position on either side of the road, peering around cover at the coming stranger. A figure had appeared on the road ahead and for a moment McElhonne was looking at a ghost. Same stupid red hat. Same brown bay. But there was something else, something about the rider that was different. As the man closed the distance guns cocked around him, the old timer split his attention, preparing for danger from all sides. But as the rider got close enough for even his aging eyes to make sense of him a genuinely amused chuckle escaped his dry lips.
James turned to him with the kind of calm nature that made him a good leader. Noticing the attention, the older man said, “Do you mind if I handle this, Sheriff?”
The lawman watched him for moment before offering a ‘by all means’ gesture.
McElhonne strode around the barricade and walked slowly towards the rider. When they were close enough for words he said with a smile, “I told you not to thank me yet…” But the smile faded as quickly as it had arrived. It was the same man he’d met on the road, the same starved and exhausted face looking down at him, he was certain of it, but there was a different man altogether looking out through his eyes. The instincts he’d mentioned off-hand to the lawman kicked in. With rare, obvious purpose, he put his palm on the smooth ivory butt of his pistol and left it there.
He said, “The man I met on the road yesterday, he was on the edge of everything. You’re not the same man.”
Wesley held the other man’s cautious gaze without reacting and replied, “No. I’m not.”
iv.
The bolt of lightning and the thunder that followed were so violent that Wesley could smell it in the air immediately. The acrid burning intensity shocked him into merciless sobriety and he comprehended his fate with open eyes as the ocean churned and sprayed into his face. He searched for the Andrea Gay, for some kind of solace and it was a series of eternal moments before he realized the blinding light on the horizon was the ship itself. It had erupted in flame and was splitting in half as it drew nearer, the sails billowing with flames like marquee flags in reverence to Hell itself. Debris and men, some lit afire tumbled from over the sides as it heaved and spun faster towards him, faster than an object that large should move. Madness rushed through him. His mind reeled in horror.
As the ship rolled into the barrel of the Maelstrom it tipped at a severe angle. He watched as it swung around towards him at an impossible speed. It careened and broke apart within the last thirty yards and Wesley had one last sensation pass through him: satisfaction. He smiled at the idea of the captain burning and crushed inside the remains of his own ship as it came crashing down on the debris he was clinging to and then the world was only noise and fire and violence. And then dark.
Between Dark and Dawn 