Under the weight of rain

“Looks like we got ourselves lost.”

A voice, low and resigned, words like the crunch of gravel under horse hooves, heavy, stones rolling down an endless plain. The man bends over in his saddle, patting the horse’s steaming flank, kneading his knuckles down its heaving neck. Foam gathers on its lips, frothing and bubbling, dripping to the sodden ground bit by bit, as hot air heaves from its lungs. Ears quiver, hooves stamping anxiously on the floor, eye twitching as it struggles to remove the dying fly caught in its corner, thin limbs caught on the wet iris, stretched out on the expansive surface. Melting. Above their stooped heads, heavy droplets of water stained with green fall to the ground below, rock sweating in damp heat.

“I know, I know. Easy there.”

He whispers, humming into the ear as it flicks back and forth, spraying warm sweat onto his face. He peers out into the darkness, listening as the rain batters against the ground, flashes of thunder cracking in the distance. His hat is pulled low on his head, long hair sticking wetly to his skin, a thin beard covered in dust and grime. He feels his heart racing with knobby fingers, listening for its rhythm hidden by the rain. He knows that here, wherever it may be, is not somewhere to spend the night, pressed against a craggy outcrop, pelted with muddy rain. He knows that whatever lies behind them, in a cave that reeks of rot and mildew, where the very rock seems to be against them, breathing rancid breath down his spine is not a place to wait out the rain. And so he leans forward, humming to the frantic animal, one hand on his heart, another shielding his eyes, peering for a sign.

Laughs and cheers fill the crowded bar, mud stained boots propped up on wooden counters, whiskey glasses dangling from grimy hands. A man strums the guitar in the darkness, and beards flaked with crumbs nod their heads as they drift off, clutching the cold metal that hangs at their hips.

“Aye, I've heard of things that happen at night now and then. Frightening things.”

Bodies pressed together listening to the old voice that speaks, hat brim obscuring his eyes.

“It’s a different world out there now. Carcasses half eaten, rotting in the desert, packs of dogs and wolves tearing horses apart. You see a body now, and you hardly bat an eye.”

At this, voices pile over one another, people jostling as they argue amongst themselves.

“Yeah maybe, but we do what we have to now don’t we? Can’t expect a man to stay as he were for so long when he’s out there.”

The sentence tapers off and the young man that spoke up falls quiet, shivering as he glances out the window. The desert is dark, and it is night, and the men drink and sing themselves sick before staggering back out, all of them choosing to spend the night wrapped in the sticky embrace of whiskey and ice, turning their heads away from the emptiness that stretches out behind them. The guns that jostle as they plunk themselves down into wooden chairs, the metal that shines as they lovingly polish it, feels so dull in the frosty air. Outside, even the horses shake, snorting and shaking their heads as the cold creeps behind their ears.

The rain gives no sign of letting up, and the man shivers, rubbing his hands up and down his sodden shirt. The gin has left his body now, warmth replaced with a prickling cold that chills the sweat across his brow. His heart thuds faster and faster, the hot breath steaming behind him creeps closer and closer against his spine. His horse stamps its feet against the ground, eye spasming, the fly’s limp corpse spinning wildly, around and around, wings fluttering weakly. His gun hangs heavy at his side, his whole body sinking down, the hungry rock sapping his strength as it eagerly licks the salty drops hitting its surface. Sand gathers in his mouth as the wind spits in his face, whipping his hair against his eyes, coating his nostrils with the greyish, grainy sludge. He thinks of the desert, stretching out in the darkness before him, trodden down with the weight of countless hooves, bursting and swollen, feeding off of bodies gripped by sand, sinking into the landscape around them as the desert grows and grows. He thinks of how it was just an hour ago, the warmth of the bar, the comfort of another human body, a solitary outpost in the darkness where for a moment he could forget about what lies waiting outside.

“Hush now, the sky’s clearing already.”

His heavy eyes run across the animal's tired body, lids wrinkling at the corners as he twists the matted hair between two fingers.

“It’ll clear.”

The table falls to the side, skidding against the stone floor. Chairs skid back and men fly to their feet, bleary eyes blinking rapidly, voices shouting in the dark.

“You watch your mouth.”

The man points his gun at a figure bent over in shadow, crumpled away in a corner. The man shakes as he stands, one hand clutching cold metal, the other lying clenched at his side. His hat covers his eyes but his lips twitch, his jaw locking firmly in place. All around him, the men have stepped back, looking at the ground, quietly gathering their things . The figure doesn’t move, spindly arms wrapped around its knees, draped in a thick shawl.

“You’re just like the rest of us, only a coward. We’re all fighting here.”

He spits on the ground, furrowing his brows, hair hanging down his face, swinging in the slight breeze that passes under the door, whistling through the cracks in the walls. They wait, all the men trapped in the stifling silence, unspoken words and bad whiskey weighing down their minds.

“Choosing a good time to be silent.”

The man lowers the gun, his rage fading against the stone wall of thin limbs covered in patterned wool.

“We all know there’s a hellscape out there. But we have loved ones to feed. Keep your dirty superstitions to yourself.”

The gun slips back into the soft leather, thudding against his thigh. He mutters under his breath and turns on his heel, pushing open the hard wooden door, walking out into the soft patter of rain as the door slams behind him, clouds of dust shining in the soft light.

The man’s eyes grow heavier, each breath a soft weight, pressing against his lungs. His knees nudge the horse, gently trying to coax the frightened animal out. He chuckles softly, murmuring reassurances as he taps its side, wiping away the rain that pours down from the brim of his hat. 

“We’ve got to leave. If not now, then never.”

The last words taper off as his head jolts upwards, eyes alert, fingers moving to his side. The horse retreats, and he sits upright, peering out into the rain. A grim smile twists his face and he shrugs off his sodden jacket, gathering the reins in one hand.

“There’s something out there.”

Hooves sound far away and the horse turns, hot breath panting loudly, snorting against the reins.

“Easy now.”

The man feels his heart, swallowing thickly, the heavy thumping filling his ears, clouding the back of his head, swelling in the corner of his eyes. His breath quickens and hitches in his lungs, jaw trembling. The hooves run by again, blending with the overwhelming thud thud thud of his heart, the rain, the hooves. His heart.

“C'mon boy, let’s go see.”

The animal refuses to budge, every muscle in its body twitching madly, hitting its hooves against the black rock, eyes rolling back in its head, blinking over and over again. Spittle dribbles down to the soaked floor, the rock absorbing its scent, the air thickening with its scalding breath. The man jams his heels into its side, slapping its neck as it shakes its head back and forth, spraying spittle and foam onto the rocky walls.

“Boy!”

The thudding grows louder, louder. The man's head jerks to the darkness, and his eyes widen, tracing a thin figure wrapped in wool as it races by, a large hat pulled low on its head.

That bastard.

Jumping off the horse, he pulls his gun from its holster, hands furiously trembling as bullets fall from his fingers, skittering on the ground. The cylinder snaps into place and he races into the darkness, calling after the disappearing figure. All around him the hoofbeats grow and grow, his horse whinnying behind him, striking at the rock. He gasps, breathing in cold air, his lungs stinging, water and sweat pouring down his face, his head crying out in pain as the cold strikes his sodden skull. The horse runs in front of him, the figure’s clothing flying out behind, the brightly patterned wool, painted all over with small figurines, stretching out like a flag. He tries to fire but his fingers can’t close around the trigger, and his trembling hands fumble with the slick metal as he runs, boots slapping against the ground. Thud thud thud. He cries out to the figure, shouting, his throat red raw, eyes burning dark green, features coated in sand. Sand lining his mouth, his teeth, his nose. Sand creeping its way up his legs, covering his shoes, clinging to every fold and crease in his pants. He runs even after he can’t hear anymore, after the thudding all around him swallows him whole, a hammer hitting down on his skull, his gun nothing but a toy in a young boy’s hand. He runs close enough to the animal to feel its tail flicking his face, but there is no scent of sweat, no frenzied energy, no heat of life. It’s as if he was still back in the cave, chasing after that shadowy figure, never close enough. The figure that rocked back and forth in its woolen poncho, that turned his rage into clay, then molded it back into fiery flame at the sound of hooves drumming with the rain. He reaches out, knobby fingers coated with sand, grasping thread between his fingers, wool itching against red raw palms. And the figure turns, hat falling down to the ground, two dark pits staring into his eyes. Ivory that shines in the darkness, smooth, soft, pale white where skin should have been. A carcass devoid of all life, a corpse cleaned by the vultures and scrubbed by the sand. Two empty eyes that look back at his. The man gasps, grabbing his throat, clutching his skin as if to feel that it is still there, feeling veins throbbing beneath burning skin, blood flowing through warm flesh. His legs give out, tumbling to the ground. The creature thunders away, impassive eyes staring at him as he chokes on air, a darkness darker than the night around him, cold that leaves an empty pit in the air long after it has left. The rain falls around him, as he stands there, clutching his throat, trying to take in cold air with frozen lungs, half buried in sand. All alongside him, objects lie, molding in the sand. Hats half eaten by the rain, festering, a putrid wet smell. Pieces of polished metal glinting in the air and mangled bones of ivory, strewn all around him, cleaned by the vultures and scrubbed by the sand. The thudding all around him fades, and the man falls into the sand, a shiny piece of metal falling from his hand.

Underneath a rocky roof, not too far away, a horse snorts nervously, pressed tightly against a cold rock wall. Trapped in its eye, a fly drifts, wings twitching in the soft slime as it gazes up into the night sky.