Reeferpunk Shorts, Page 3

  The gravel crunched behind him. Faster than God, he spun and pulled the trigger.

  ~~~

  “¡Maria! ¡No, Maria!” A woman’s wailing echoed off the adobe walls.

  He inched closer to the body he'd just shot, now slumped on the ground, and kicked the head out of the shadows. It listed into the sliver of moon light in the narrow alley. McCutchen made out the shape of a woman’s face, a woman’s hair. He knelt down. It was the girl el Jeffe had threatened with his knife, no more than 13 years old. Her dress torn, a dark stain spread across her chest.

  “Jesus.” McCutchen stood woozily. He'd never shot a women. Never in all his years of bringing justice to these God-forsaken borderlands. And only a girl at that. Sobs came from a nearby adobe.

  “Shut up! Shut the hell up, you hear me? Comprende English?” McCutchen limped around the back of the adobe into the open night air. “I ain’t no bug. I ain’t no badman. I’m the God-damned law! You hear me?” He fired into an open window. “You caused this, not me!”

  Something behind him caused him to turn, the hair on the back of his neck jolting with electricity. Something big was moving in the dark a hundred yards off, or a lot of somethings. A single shot echoed from the direction of the sentry on the knoll. He flinched, but it hadn’t been aimed at him.

  Suddenly the night air boiled with angry voices. “¡Viva la revolucion! ¡Viva Villa!”

  “Son of a bitch.” Of all the nights for Villa to attack the Huerta stronghold, it had to be tonight. Of all the dumb luck. McCutchen limped as fast as he could toward the last adobe in the row of buildings, a large square structure standing thirty yards apart from the others. In the daylight it appeared to be the best built, and in this case, the most likely to stop bullets. It also had no windows, only a huge double doors.

  War whoops shattered the quiet like church bells on a Sunday morning. Momentarily he thought about bolting, setht boltiimply running into the brush and letting the Mexicans kill each other. But he couldn’t do it. He wouldn't scurry into the desert like a bug. Sons a bitches, he still had a job to do.

  He shot the lock off the heavy wooden doors and swung them open enough to see inside. A stack of kerosine lanterns sat next to a bucket of lighters. Good enough. He shut the heavy doors behind him, drowning in the pitch blackness. Shouts from outside grew louder. Groping in the dark, he found a four by four beam meant to barricade the doors from the inside, and dropped it into place just as bodies slammed against its callous surface.

  He turned toward the lanterns, found one and lit it. “What in the name of all things holy?” He held the lantern high until it revealed an armored vehicle and crate upon crate of weapons. Several of the crates opened, he didn’t even recognize some of what he saw. They were guns, he just hadn’t seen their sort before.

  ~~~

  A large pile of rifles spilled at his feet. Behind and to the right, several boxes originally reading “Vasićka” had been scratched out and relabeled, “granada.” He pulled off one of the lids.

  “Bombs.” The box was filled with handheld bombs. He'd heard of these, explosives with a fuse or that detonated on contact. He stepped away slowly. The auto loomed to his left. Beyond that, a stack of machine guns, like the ones the cavalry carried, but newer. German. Overwhelmingly, the crates where imprinted with German. He'd seen enough of the language in the hill country around Austin to recognize it without a doubt.

  The pounding on the doors grew louder before coming to a stop. Gunshots splintered the wood. The heavy doors would take a battering, but they wouldn’t last forever. He jumped onto the runner of the truck which had a large machine gun mounted to its bed, coils of ammunition already fed through the device. He'd never driven an auto or fired a machine gun, but he'd driven a tractor since he was 13 and seen the military work the contraptions several times.

  “This is crazy."

  Snatching two granadas, he scurried back to the truck, which to his relief started right up. He put out the lantern and stood in the driver seat waiting for the doors to give way. Within seconds the beam splintered and fell to the ground. As the two giant doors swung outward the low rumble of the gasoline engine greeted the confused mob.

  McCutchen chucked one granada and then the other as hard as he could. Both exploded simultaneously knocking him back into the driver’s seat, deafening him. He jammed the truck into gear and shoved his foot down on the pedal. Spitting gravel against the back wall of the adobe, he shot out a short distance before slamming on the breaks as soon as he cleared the doors. Groans and swears filled the immediate darkness while shooting and yelling filled the further distances like coyotes calling to each other.

  With his good leg he leapt into the back of the truck to wield the machine gun. Here goes. He depressed the trigger slightly, and the recoil shook him to the bone. He held on, clinching his jaw to keep the teeth from rattling out of his head.

  Anything that moved, he lit it up, until finally nothing moved. He released the trigger, giving the gun a chance to cool and taking the opportunity to untangle sevhe untangleral more feet of ammunition. From his vantage he saw directly across the fields to the old hacienda.

  Foolishly, every lamp in every room had been lit, or perhaps the lights were electric. The Huertistas pulled back and retreated across the field toward the stone walls of the hacienda. But the Villistas responded to the machine gun fire thinking it was intended for them.

  A cluster of horses pulled away from the main regimen, riding around the field toward McCutchen’s position. “Come and get me, boys." As the lead horses got within fifty yards he opened it up. The pealing thunder of the gun erased all sounds of life. His eyes, rattling in their sockets, saw nothing but death.

  Then a click and a whirring buzzed around his head as the barrel spun but the ammunition jammed. Amazed it had lasted this long, he jumped down and took one last granada from behind the seat. As several Villistas regrouped and bore down on him with guns blazing he chucked the bomb into the yawning darkness of the munitions shed and worked his good leg as fast as he could toward the fields.

  ~~~

  This time the explosion rippled like a chain of firecrackers, until eventually fumes from the kerosine combusted into a fireball that lit up the night like high noon. The concussion, followed by a wave of heat, launched him headlong into the furrows of marihuana.

  “Santa Maria.” The lead rider, tossed by the explosion, landed yards away from McCutchen. Shock registered on the dazed revolutionary's face as he realized a chewed up gringo leveled a pistol directly at him.

  Without another thought the ranger dispatched him. “Mary can’t help you. The time for prayer is over. Judgment has come.”

  McCutchen picked up a burning splinter of the wooden doors and limped around the edge of the field, lighting the last stalk of each row on fire as he went. He arrived at the bonfire pleased to see the Winchester waiting for him. Holstering his Colt, he clutched the rifle in his hands.

  “No gods. No prayers. Only justice.” He reached inside his duster, took the old woman’s amulet and threw it in the fire. He continued his uneven progress through the blazing field of cañamo, a single, sinister silhouette cutout against the flames he left behind him. Halfway across the field the alarm sounded for retreat. The remaining Villistas gathered in clumps along the road and lashed their horses toward the west and south.

  McCutchen reached the great stone gates as the surviving Huertistas scattered, gathering whatever horses they could. Right inside the gate, barking orders, stood the man the ranger had hoped to find. While the man waited impatiently for his horse to be brought to him, McCutchen limped steadily forward. His clouded thoughts could think only one thing. Justice demanded to be paid in blood. The marihuana-fueled lawlessness of Mexico would not reach Texas while he still drew breath, and he was breathing now.

  At thirty paces the bandit turned to face him. A charred rinche recently back from the grave several times over was the last thing he expected, and the site clearly un
nerved him. McCutchen wanted to be sure before he shot the man down, so he let him draw first. Steal flashed and gunpowder flared, but the bullet went wide. Mielwent wiore importantly, as McCutchen drew his .45 he knew with a certainty he'd been fired on with his own gun. From twenty five paces he pulled the trigger, putting one bullet in the Mexican bandit’s eye.

  He took his stolen Colt from the dead man’s grip, using it to shoot the man who finally delivered the ringleader’s horse. The horse snorted but didn’t bolt. McCutchen recognized a mutual spark burning in the beast’s eyes. “Whoa there,” he calmed the animal. “You’ve got a new boss now.” Hoisting himself up with the horn until he could swing his injured leg over the horse’s rump, he stroked the animal's neck. “Chester V, that’s what I’ll call you. Now Hyaw!” He lashed the animal with the reins and galloped out the front gate, heading toward home.

  As he mounted the little knoll, he stopped to look back at the carnage outstretched below him. “La Cucaracha indeed. Everybody knows its the roach that lives in the end.” He spat and turned to go, now at a walk. The next day reports would reach Brownsville of a great battle at Nuevo Santander. Many dead, and many wounded. But nobody would ever know a rinche had started it, or that a rinche had finished it.

  Fourth Horseman

  “When the Lamb opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature say, "Come!" I looked and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hell was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth.” ~ Revelation 6:7-8

  The storm thinned allowing sepia sun rays to filter through the dust and illuminate the interior of the trailer with a gaunt light. A man, slack-jawed and skewed across a straw-stuffed mattress in the rear of the trailer, gargled and choked until a clot of phlegm hurdled from his opened mouth. He coughed and his swollen tongue listed back in place. Snot seeped into his mustache as he dreamt. But it was not a fantasy or a dream of past or future from where his dreaming began. First he dreamt of his current situation as seen from outside his body, an effort of his subconscious to free itself. What he saw was a world effected by his apathy.

  Roiling black clouds of dust and hot winds scoured the flatlands from horizon to horizon like a stew of steel wool brewing over a fire. Beneath the banshee was the panhandle of Texas. An abandoned ranch north of Amarillo lay scattered with the dried out carcasses of its cattle. In the center of the ranch a dirt road leading from Farm to Market 1061 dead-ended at a small Airstream trailer.

  The trailer pitched in the storm. Abandoned to its fate, the solitary tear-shaped capsule could just as well have sprung from the ground or fallen from the sky as been delivered there by some long gone vehicle companion that forsook its cargo to save itself. Yet tethered to the leeward side was a living beast, a grey gelding with smoking dark eyes like molten lead had recently cooled in both sockets. Impervious to the howling sand the beast neither whinnied nor blinked, only peered th ofrough the black roller as if watching a movie unfold across the curtain. A handful of tenacious flies clung to its rough hide.

  The horse turned its head to snort at the porthole window of the trailer. Phlegm from its nostrils latticed the glass before being encrusted with dust. Inside the trailer creaks and snaps could be heard above the constant howl of the storm. An irrepressible, fine dust levitated in the space. A tin cup clanged about in a porcelain basin, water a bygone thought. Water, the basis for life.

  The front cabin of the trailer housed a small kitchen and storage cabinets, all enshrouded with dust. A blue enameled kettle, matching the cup, overturned onto the floor. The sound was instantly muffled by the suffocating dust and terrible storm. The door to the trailer rattled on its hinges but held fast. On the floor, just beyond the man’s reach, sat a green bottle with a rectangular bottom. Raised glass lettering said only Casa Herradura, 1878, Reserva. A wooden crate, half full of similar bottles still corked and sealed with wax, sat by the door.

  The man was Death. His skin was raised and bristled with hair as if permanently chilled, his face sallow and etched with the burden of time. His chest rose and sank steadily while an occasional limb or facial muscle jerked with seizure. On his stomach perched an odd device illuminated with a dim, morbid green light from within. Letters and words scrolled across the face of it, appearing and then disappearing from the bowels of the black box.

  Routinely it vibrated and began its short message anew: “Work backing up without you. Coming to a head, can’t wait much longer. ~ Famine.”

  Next he dreamt of the past.

  ~~~

  The air exploded with sulfur, as it did every time the riders scorched the surface of the earth -- burning through planes of time and space to crash exclusively into the four dimensions that humans called home. The smell would become as comforting as pumpkin spice cookies and then lose all distinction of joy, but currently the sizzling sulfur air ignited a raw lust in him, so fresh, so new was his experience.

  The visceral sounds of war washed over him. Nearby a lance found its mark, pierced flimsy steel armor pounded and reshaped too many times. Then came the sound of snapping wood, an impact, the air being knocked out of mortal rider as he loses his mount. Fresh. All of it so fresh.

  His lungs burned as he swelled to test the limits of his new mortal shell. Giddy, he swung his scythe with all the might his muscles could muster. In a single stroke the downed rider was cleaved and the earth split for the space of a few yards. Ah, he thought, I will have to do better.

  According to convention, his companions crossed over before him scattering the battlefield into chaos. Upon his arrival the smell of cooked flesh already intermingled with rot and decay. He spun his weapon in his right hand, dipping it down and back, then lifting it horizontally above his head before finally lashing out at full arm’s length and releasing two heads from their earthly anchors.

  He lifted his gaze toward the hill Golgotha. Upon it Famine, always mindful of his protege, nodded back in affirmation before turning his horse and galloping off to judge the surrounding lands with scale and withering hand. Injusar hand. tice and Death always followed Conquest and War.

  And then he bathed in the details of it all. A mongrel hound dodged a falling Muslim warrior. Rain clouds rolled in from the Mediterranean, a whiff of winter in the air, yet still a vague scent of olive lingering from the fall.

  He raked his scythe low, back in front of his body with both hands, and disjointed a couple of knees from behind. Then he wound it around to the left and unfurled it above his head for a full reaching blow which left the weapon in his left hand. The untethered head flew fifteen feet before striking a mounted knight and knocking him from his steed. It was a good shot. Something fun to share with Conquest and War later.

  He spun his weapon down and back before twisting his body to take the scythe in both hands at mid-torso. His last blow had inspired him. Now he was playing around. Hearing someone behind him, he leveled a baseball style swing as he turned to face him.

  Salty. He had always loved the Mediterranean because of the salt. Now, as the scene played over again in his dream, salt would always remind him of the moment he had felled his mentor, his companion in the transition -- the only one who had known him before he became Death. A stoic look of disapproval, Famine, with his arm outstretched almost to Death’s shoulder, listed and fell. His upper half removed cleanly from his lower.

  Death jolted from his sleep, smacked his forehead against a shelf above the head of the fetid mattress. Dust lifted from its surface as he shifted to an upright position, sending the peculiar black box tumbling to the floor where it proceeded to vibrate.

  ~~~

  He rubbed his hand on his forehead and ran it through his hair. His mouth was a catacomb, exhaling a noxious gas into the cabin of the Airstream. His arm ached. He rubbed his left armpit as he rolled his shoulder and raised it above his head, causing him to grimace. The wound represented another dr
eam waiting to haunt him at a later date.

  He exhaled, more slowly this time. These were the tradeoffs. He ached always, racked with nightmares, but the tequila took the edge off. And being here meant he wasn’t there, reporting for duty, punching in for a job that he could no longer bear.

  He nudged the glowing box with his rattlesnake boot before rising from the mattress with considerable effort. His movements caused the trailer to creek as much as his joints. His mortal shell, the skin he put on every time he dwelled upon the surface, could not stand much more traditional aging. Not without a return to Megiddo.

  Screw it. Opening the latch to the icebox, he took out a beer. Blowing a cloud of dust from the mouth of the can, he pulled the tab. The sound of the carbon dioxide escaping brought an angry snort from outside the window where snot already plastered the glass. Death reached back into the sweltering icebox for another hot beer. He and ice had never gotten along.

  Outside the trailer most of the dust had settled, the storm barely visible to the east. They were getting worse because of his presence, but mankind had started the apocalypse by himself. It was typically the sort of thing that would have cheered him, if he’d been working. He gazed upward toward the sun. It was terrible and wonderful at the same time. So much explosive pote ofplosivential. Such a waste. Outlined against the orb, a scattering of vultures circled while waiting out the last of the black blizzard.