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| The following story is an entry in Network Twenty's March 2008 Fiction Contest. Author's name will be posted after a winner has been chosen. The Endless Winding Road On a long and empty patch of dirt turned mud trekked the figure of a man hidden within the folds of a cloak and under the brim of a hat, half hidden by the rain slashing down around him. He was aware of the rain that dripped from the wide, sagging brim of his fedora and which steadily soaked through the heavy folds of his weather-beaten cloak, but he did not feel it. He no longer felt anything. Except, perhaps, for the cold hard lump in his chest where he had once held his humanity, where once had resided his soul. His boots, worn thin by miles beyond count, made nauseating squelches in the thick, gripping mud with every trudging step. And with each successive lifting of his foot he felt that same muck grasp at his boot in an attempt to draw it down, back into the soup the road had become. It was as if the damned were reaching up from the Pit, groping and clawing, tugging him down, down, down to the same fate they had perhaps stumbled into. Yet, he was stronger than the mud, or perhaps the fingers of the damned, and so he continued to steadily creep forward. Beneath the tattered brim of his hat lay a face as hard as granite, strong as steel, the sort of face that looks as if it will go on until Judgment Day without changing so much as a wrinkle or line. The features were proud, noble—the visage of a king. Not the petty fools who fell into kingship through birth and titles, who would waste their lives on childish squabbles over treaties and borders. No, he could never be thrown in with their lot. His face was not that of a man born a king, but a man born to become a king. It was the sort of face men would rally behind in battle and that would inspire dread in all he would deem an enemy. It was the sort of face that inspired legends. But within those features was the very thing that made others shrink away from him rather than leap to his call—a set of eyes as wild, feral, as any beasts, and as green as the purest jade. They were the eyes of a man haunted by his past, a man with a purpose, or more likely, an obsession. It was these eyes that looked forward, always forward, as he continued his steady procession towards a group of lights flickering in the distance against the suffocating darkness of the storm. Most would have seen this and felt elation at the prospect of reaching an inn and getting out of the storm, of finding some rest after such a long, hard journey. The more poetic of people, perhaps, would even view the brave flicker of the distant lights against the lashing storm as a symbol of hope against the most dire of odds. All that he felt when his hellfire eyes settled on the distant suggestion of a town was the same cold detachment, the same stoic observation, that he now gave to everything and everyone—including himself. And so he continued to make his way forward, step by step, foot by foot, and mile by mile as all the while the storm grew fiercer about him until the frayed bottom of his cloak whipped and snapped about his ankles like an angry wraith thirsting for vengeance. In the back of his mind he wondered, in the same casual way another man might wonder about the shapes in the clouds or the names of his unborn children, about what it might be like to die here on his feet, to fall down into the mud forever and ever and ever, to let it entomb him, hide his bones from man and god alike. But he couldn't do that, not yet at least, not until Stella could rest as well. Though he had died all those long years ago at her side, neither of them had found rest ever since. He could hear her name mournfully sounded in the wail of the wind, hear her voice whispering in the folds of his cloak, feel her eyes peering at him from the other side of the darkness. Her eyes had been the cold gray-blue of trusty steel, the same color as the revolvers hidden away in their old leather gunbelts, kept dry by the duster beneath his cloak. Before he could stop the thought, the image of how she must look now flashed through his mind, those wonderful blue eyes rotted away to nothing but hollow black sockets, her silky red hair as dry and brittle as long dead grass...he creamy skin grey and shriveled. No, he commanded himself, he must not think of her like that...she was as beautiful now as she ever had been, perhaps more, and she stood just on the other side of the darkness. So close, yet so very far. Another step, another step, another step, another... It was not long until a sign loomed out of the darkness at the roadside, little more than a rotted plank of wood lifted high on a tilted pole, the vague suggestion of painted letters showing through the heavy darkness. For the first time in days his eyes turned to something other than just the road ahead or the dim lights in the distance, turned to peer expectantly at the sign as he waited for a flash of lightning to reveal to him what he already knew in the depths of his soul. At last a streak of lightning tore the sky, painting everything a momentary electric blue—Kurtis. He was here again, where it had all begun those long, bleak years ago. Back to where the man they had called Richmond had died, and at the same time, where the man they would come to call Stone had been born. He had come full circle now, at last. He began to walk once more, once more towards the lights he had known so well all those long years ago. The mud tore at his boots more fiercely than ever, but there was no stopping him now. No, would not be denied any longer. For the first time in what seemed ages, what seemed an eternity, he felt he was truly near the end of it all, that the climax of his existence was at hand. Not rain nor mud nor the damned, not even God himself, could stop Stone now. Nothing and no one could turn him away now. He could almost smell her perfume on the air, a faint hint of it tainting the edges of the rank odor of bad mud and animal waste—faint, but there. She had always smelled of roses, his Stella, always—all the long years he had known her, on the day those men had ridden into town, the day he had buried her on the hill. But she hadn't stayed buried, his love, she had been with him every day since, just there on the other side of the darkness. During the years since he had left the name Richmond in a hilltop bone yard next to a crude wooden marker and taken up the name Stone, he had left a trail of blood and broken bodies a mile wide behind him in his search for justice, his hunt for retribution, his need to dull his pain. It was said by some that the great warlords of history were forced to stand in a burning river of blood in hell, its depth determined by how much blood—and perhaps tears—had been shed in their names. If that was true, then upon his death he imagined that Old Scratch would gaily toss him into a whole sea of scalding gore. He could feel the end of it all drawing close now, knew it was finally truly upon him, and yet he held no delusions about being reunited with his Stella when he had finally used up this body. He had done too many terrible things and scarred his soul too deeply to ever hope to attain the paradise he knew that she had earned. True, he had done them all in her name, all for her, but a wicked deed performed for a noble cause was a wicked deed still. In knowing she had been avenged, though, he would be able to find peace even in the foulest pits of hell. Revenge would be a heaven enough for him. She had been so pure, so kind, so loving...he couldn't remember a single cruel word that had ever passed her lips, a single unkind deed to stain her name. Always had she been there to guide him along the right path, a gentle hand to show him what was right and what was wrong, always trying to showing him what a good person he was capable of being. He had called her his guardian angel, his guiding light...and she had always told him that he was the other half to her soul. Often after they had made love she would look up at him and smile, nothing but love for him in her eyes, and she would say that he was the most beautiful thing in all the world, would tell him to hold her and never let her go, would whisper into his neck that she wished to stay in his arms forever. For a moment something seemed to stir in his chest, a flash of pain in his long dead heart. He could not have that now, not when his hands would have to do their deadly work again so soon. He would have time enough to grieve when he was dead. With every step the distant lights drew nearer, with every stride the vague silhouettes of the buildings became clearer, and he found himself drifting into that same calm that always stole over him before he went to work. He had expected it to be different this time, had expected himself to be possessed by rage or fear or excitement, had expected something to be somehow different from every other time. And yet something his father had said to him as a boy returned to him then, though it had been so long since he had laid the old man to rest that he found himself struggling to recall a face to put with the words that had been spoken. They had been on a barren hill top in the badlands hunting game, Richmond excited to finally be brought along for the first time, allowed to bring down his first deer. He could still remember every detail of that first kill as clearly as if it had been only yesterday...bringing the unsuspecting animal into his sights...waiting until at last he had lined up the perfect shot...the feel of the trigger against his finger...the recoil pleasantly jerking his hand...success. On a whim, for he could never be sure just why the question had occurred to him, he had turned to his father then and asked him if killing deer was like killing men. He knew that his father had gunned down men before, had known even that the notches on the barrels of his father's guns was a tally of men laid to rest by them—his father had never believed in sugar coating life for his son. The old gunfighter had stared at him for a moment, as if to take measure of his son, seeming caught off guard by such a question. At last he had taken a deep, slow breath, and turned his eyes out towards the barren expanse of the badlands, seeming to lose himself in the rolling hills and valleys. Richmond had begun to wonder if perhaps it had been the wrong thing to ask, but before he could apologize, his father turned to him again and spoke, "For some it's entirely different, as different as night and day. For some of us it's all the same, for some of us killing is killing, no matter what the quarry is. For some of us, the calm before the storm is always the same, no matter how hard the winds might blow afterwards. Do you understand, boy?" He had nodded and said he had, though in truth he had only grasped at the bare edges of the fundamental truth his father had spoken on that hilltop. Years later, when he had killed his first man and found himself calm throughout and afterwards, only then did he truly grasp what his father had said. Some men were born to kill, and for them their deadly work was all the same. Never had that rung more true than now, the time when he should have been consumed by something, but instead found only that same preternatural calm that always stole over him before. He passed the first of the outlying houses not long after the sign, some homey little farmhouse with what looked to be a barn in the back, all of it guarded by rickety wooden fencing. He found himself toying with the thought of walking in and gunning them all down, whoever lived therein—to begin his assault here instead and work his way to the heart of it all. They were guilty, all of them. He was here to collect upon the debts they owed to him and the reaper both, the taxman of eternity. But a voice, no, her voice, whispered in his ear then as if she were standing not a foot behind him, "No, this is not the place...you know where your work lies...turn not from the road till it is time." He spun then, expecting to see her standing behind him on the road, up to her shins in the muck...but there was only the wind, the rain, the darkness. He had heard her message, though, and turned to face the town once again, walking past the farmhouse without a second thought towards it. The houses became more frequent, scattered haphazardly here and there by the roadside, slowly changing from pastured farms to little homes and cabins, the people who made their living in the town rather than off the land. He never considered stopping for any of these, either, for his love had made her wishes clear enough to him. There was no question now as to what he must do to make things right. A great fork of lighting tore across the sky, stopping him in his tracks, for at last he had come to the edge of the town proper. So many years leading up to this moment, so much blood shed in preparation for this final act...one more step, and there would be no turning back. One more final, fatal step and there would be no stopping. He tilted his head back to expose his face to the sky, letting the rain pour over the stony features of his face. It wasn't just the rain, it was the grateful tears of his Stella, it was a baptism. He took the first step on the road to Armageddon. The town hadn't changed much in the years since he had left it behind him, hadn't changed at all so far as he could tell. And as surely as he remembered those buildings on either side of him now, he knew that the Lame Horse Saloon would be right where it always had been, as busy as ever. And that was where it must begin, at the genesis of all this, where those men had robbed him of his Stella, where they had ravaged his delicate angel and tossed aside her broken body as if it were nothing but an old blanket. All were accountable, all were guilty, and all would pay their debts tonight. He saw people on the boardwalks to the sides, taking shelter in doorways and beneath awnings, hiding themselves from the storm. But they would not be able to hide themselves from the storm that was about to hit, he knew. And then, there it was. The Lame Horse, in all her glory. Her windows were alight, and from within he could hear all the normal noises of a healthy, bustling saloon. Laughing, yelling, a snatch of tune roughly banged out on an old piano. A faint smile tugged at his lips then, as the thought played through his mind that it was almost as if he had stepped into yesteryear, as if he had never really left. And who knew, for he had seen enough strange things in his travels to never count anything out as impossible any longer. He found that he had stopped in the middle of the road as he had gazed upon his destiny, but at last he stepped forward again, and soon he found himself on the boardwalk beneath the awning, his hand resting on the swinging front doors. One last breath. He swung open the doors and stepped inside. The saloon quieted as he entered, many a curious eye turning away from cards or drinks or friends to take in the sight of the man who had just entered. Most would have earned a brief glance from the patrons before they returned to their own business, but the sight of Stone held more sway than the average man. He seemed a mile high as he stood there in the doorway, a pillar of obsidian, his form hidden 'neath cloak and duster, face hidden in the shadows of his weathered fedora. He met them one by one with his emerald eyes, eyes wilder than the wolves that roamed the badlands, each one flinching and backing down from his attentions. And then he saw them, the three men he had dreamt of every night for years beyond count...the three men who had so cruelly stolen his Stella from him. They were gathered around a card table, looking at him like all the others, looking no different from all the others. But he knew their faces, knew what they had done, knew that they were the guiltiest ones. It was funny, he thought to himself, that such monsters could so easily pass for men. He heard her voice in his ear then, more clearly than ever, and he could smell the aroma of roses cloud the air around him, "Justice is blind...," she cooed into his ear, feeling her breath tickle his neck, "...so trust in me...go to work, my love." He felt a single tear make a lonely path down his cheek then, nodding. "For you...all for you, my love." There was an empty table nearby, and he turned towards it, the sound of his boots on the wooden floor the sound of coffin nails being pounded in one by one. By the time he stood next to it, most of the attention had shifted away from him once again, though the three in the corner still kept their gaze on his shrouded form. Maybe they could sense what was about to happen, could feel the tension of the storm about to break. It made no difference to him, though, for he could not be stopped now. With a casual flick of his leg he kicked the heavy wooden table onto it's side, jerking the attention back to himself once again. He stood silently for a moment, whispering her name to himself once again, before speaking with the voice of death itself, "All are responsible...all are guilty...give the Devil my regards and tell him I'll be along shortly." And with that, his hands pulled open his duster to expose the gun belts beneath and the twin revolvers slung in them. They were in his hands like a flash of lightning, and like lightning, thunder followed shortly. He fired three shots so quickly that it seemed like a single shot, but there was no denying that there had been three. The three in the corner, the three who had made his angel suffer so, screamed in mixed agony and horror as they found their stomachs deposited into their laps and across the walls behind them. He hadn't given them the mercy of a head shot, hadn't been kind or weak enough to give them a quick death...he'd let them suffer, let them yearn for death, let them take long minutes to die. They held the most guilt, and their deaths must be the worst. He was not yet relieved of his burden though, for all were responsible, for they had done nothing to stop the defilement of his love...each had paid for his own death sentence. And so he began to carry out his sentence. The bartender's head evaporated in a red mist as he reached beneath the bar, assuredly reaching for a weapon. Next came a group of 5 men sitting around a card table near the exit, each one dead before they struck the ground. He gave the piano player two in the back as he dashed to escape upstairs, turning his shoulders into wet shanks of meat. A man at the bar managed to get his own weapon out, but Stone's bullet caved in the man's chest before he ever had a chance to aim, nonetheless fire it. He dropped behind the card table then, his hands opening the chambers and loading them with the sort of speed and skill that only came through years of practice, and a great many new headstones. He knew that the ones who hadn't yet dashed out the door would have their own weapons drawn by now. The ones who had ran out, he would deal with later. For now he must worry about the ones still here. He rolled to the left and came to his knees, catching them off guard, taking two down before they even realized he had emerged once again. He stood then, and began to fire, screaming her name as he recklessly dashed towards them. Their bullets could not hurt him, he could not be killed now—no, now he was an avenging angel, now he was God. And there she was, his angel, his goddess, his Stella, dancing and swirling amongst it all...her pale skin and velvet dress untouched by the gore that erupted around her, her laugh echoing above it all. He began to laugh with her then, the sound of them together echoing above the hell he had unleashed. At last he stood there, panting, surrounded only by the dead...and three dying. They were still alive, the three, even if just barely. He turned towards them, his steps slow and steady, the sound of an undertaker's mallet. Thump...thump...thump. At last he stood before them, and though he could see their mouths moving in what he assumed were screams and curses and begging and questions...he could not hear them. The only sounds he could hear were the sounds of her singing, singing as she danced through the graveyard he had created. He took the knife from his belt, allowing his eyes to play over the razor edge of the blade, to trace its silver curves. He had planned this exact moment so many days over so many years...dreamt of it so many nights. He leant down then as he put the tip of the knife against the first man's chest and began to inch it into his flesh, guiding it steadily through his ribs. The man beneath him writhed and bucked with the purest agony, and Stone was forced to put a strong hand onto his shoulder to keep him still enough to do his work. He whispered her name as he gave the knife the final push into the man's heart, felt him stiffen, felt the life leave him. He did the same to the other two...every time he whispered her name as the life escaped them, as they began their long walk on the road to hell. He wiped his knife on the last man's shirt before sheathing it once more, turning towards the double doors he had stepped through only minutes before, when this had been a place of laughter and levity. She was out there, dancing in the rain, singing to him...reminding him that his work was not yet done, that all the town was guilty, that all the town owed a debt to them both. He reloaded his pistols as he made his way towards the doors, snapping the chambers closed as he stepped out onto the boardwalk once more. Through her singing he heard her whisper to him once again, and this time he could hear the eagerness in her voice, "Justice is blind...so trust in me...go to work, my love." He went to work once again. He trudged up the hill, slipping and falling in the mud, each time dragging himself up once more and forcing himself onwards. The stones bruised his hands and split his nails, the mud fought to hold him down, but he would not let it win. He had come too far and accomplished too much to fail in the last leg of his journey. He had only a single bullet left, and he knew what must be done. Here at the end of it all, there was one last thing he must do before they could find rest. She walked just ahead of him, smiling down at him, beckoning him forward, her slippered feet dancing above the mud, untouched by the slashing rains. They would again together, wholly together, soon. He climbed for what seemed an eternity, climbed up that hill for years and years, stumbled and crawled through the mud and mire for a thousand millennia. So close to the end of it all now...so close. He wondered if maybe he had died after all during the slaughter, if maybe this was hell, and being doomed to forever climb this hill without reaching the top...to forever be only a few feet from reaching the end of it all was to be his punishment. If that was so, then truly the Devil was crueler than he could have imagined. But as he drew himself up from the mud and to his feet once more, he realized that at last he had reached the summit, that he had finally come to the end of the road. He leant against the gatepost as he looked over the cemetery stretching out over the hill before him, gathering his strength before stumbling forward through the mud once again, following her as the danced and sang through the rain. Though he had not been to this place in an age, he could still remember it as if it were yesterday, could still remember that hot summer day when he had been forced to bury his Stella in this unforgiving dirt. He hadn't had the money to hire an undertaker or a gravedigger, not even enough to buy her a decent coffin, they had been so poor. They had been young and foolish enough to believe that their love was all they would ever need, that as long as they had each other things would somehow be work out in the end. And then she was gone, stolen from him, and his love for her could not pay the people that needed paying. Trying to pound through this stony soil with a pathetic excuse of a shovel with the sun pouring down hatefully on his back had taught him the value of money that day, had broken his illusions about the world...as her death had broken him. When he had finished burying her his hands had been a bloody mess of blisters, but at least she had been laid to rest so that at least her body could rest in peace. Her soul, he knew, would not be able to rest until the day he had returned and earned vengeance, until he had finished his dark work. But his work was done now, and now she might find rest at last, might be free of his world at long last. Soon they could both rest, and be rid of this world. The years seemed to be catching up with him now, dragging him down into the mud below him with every step, but still he followed her as she danced and beckoned, enslaved by her siren song, by his love for her. He passed row upon row of tombstones, and as he did the thought occurred to him of who would burry all the dead down in the town below. Maybe they would burn the town down with the bodies in it, be done with it, pretend that it all never happened, act as if the town had simply gone up in a puff of smoke. Maybe some kind souls would round up a posse and come in first, gather the corpses up and give them a proper burial. It wasn't his concern any longer though, for he had finally earned his rest, he no longer needed to carry the woes and troubles of the world upon his shoulders. He had dug enough graves in his life, more than any decent man should have to. And then, all at once Stella was gone from before him, he was there. Not a foot before him was the wooden marker he had placed upon her grave, her initials crudely carven into the old wooden plank. He had wondered if it would still be here after all these years, if something might not have happened to it, but there it stood as if he had only been gone for a few days. The inscription he had engraved still reading as clearly as ever, "Beloved wife and mother." He felt his knees buckle beneath him, and he found himself involuntarily kneeling before her grave, though he found that this was fitting all the same. He had knelt here when he had put his happy life behind him and started out on the road to vengeance. He had knelt in this same spot and wept for hours before he had at last stood once more and taken the name of Stone, going into the world to seek vengeance for her. And here he was again, at the end of things, come full circle. The men of the forest had once told him that all things move in circles, all things follow a cycle, and as he knelt there he knew that they were right. She was so near now that he felt as though he could reach out into the darkness and truly touch the hem of her dress, maybe feel a brush of her silky hand against his cheek, and he knew that she was waiting on him. She had waited for him so long, waited for him to honor her memory and take his place at her side, but she need not wait any longer. He reached into the folds of his coat once more and drew out his right pistol, the metal still warm from the slaughter below, and opened the chamber to see if his counting had served...and saw that there remained one unspent bullet amongst the six. He had been right, he had managed to save one for himself. He turned his hellfire eyes to her marker then, let it fill his vision, let it become his entire world as he lifted the gun and pressed the barrel to his temple. The cocking of the hammer was like a clap of thunder in his ear, the sound of a coffin lid snapping shut, and he felt a faint tremor shake his hand as he fought to keep the weapon steady as the rain poured down around him. He took a deep breath, then, and found the wet air to be laced with her perfume once more...and then he heard her voice, whispered through the rain into his ear, whispered below the cold steel of his gun, "I love you." He felt the tears well in his eyes for the first time in so many years, let the anguish and sadness and loss he had held within for so long wash over the noble features of his face, his eyes clenching shut as he forced out a ragged whisper of "I love you too." A flash of lightning, a clap of thunder, and then darkness. | |