Stranger

Reader Discretion:

-Foul Language

-Substance Abuse

-Physical Violence

-Death

Stranger -

Small town. Few people. The air is violated by alcohol and rubbish. No doubt one of the hundreds of towns barely scraping by in this god-forsaken county. We live in a world built on the bones and ashes of our far more fortunate ancestors so all we get is scraps and depraved communities. I am among a select few officers sent here on a mission to track down an old man for treason. The coot couldn’t get too far on brittle bones so reason would assume he’s hiding in one of the ghetto towns that are unfortunately under our supervision. Why the big chief sent me to the groggiest place on earth is beyond me but I’d rather focus my attention on finding the old fuck and save the spite for later.

Each step I take in the green tinted brown dirt leaves a slimy and uneven imprint on the moist dirt beneath my feet. One of countless others left by the denizens of this empire of rot. The sky is a dark green and the clouds are musty and grey. The men here look at least 20 years older than they really are and the buildings are one mild storm away from toppling over. I can feel myself getting splinters just looking at the poorly painted wooden walls and trader stalls. If the look and smell weren’t bad enough, my ears are violated by the sounds of grown men crying to themselves on the sides of buildings with unsurprising empty bottles lodged in their dirty hands. I’m not in my element here.

I wear sharp black shoes and tight slacks that both have already met the airborne dirt molecules and whatever other horrors float around here. I’ll certainly have to throw them out when I get back. Thankfully a thick brown coat covers my chest and the hat is nothing more than a throwaway. I don’t look crazy good in fedorahs anyways. In these troubled hospices of misery it’s always safe to bring protection and old Debby has never let me down before. She’s a polished nine millimetre that fits real snug under my coat. I doubt these pathetic men are stable enough not to stumble to the floor should they want trouble but you can never be too safe. Our chief back at the station warns us of “bad actors” on missions like this so my guard is far from down.

Leads are sparse. Everything here looks about the same and nobody looks conscious enough to speak with even a semblance of cognizance. One of the few buildings with lights on is the bar and for some reason I decide to start there. Knowing full well that in a town of drunks the bar is not the place to find clear answers, I march forward ready for the unexpected. The rickety door pushes open with the weight of a feather and inside is a sorry sight I’ve only ever pictured in depressing nightmares. Men of all ages are slouched over their decaying tables surrounded by bottles and bile. The few who aren’t passed out either stare off into space or fidget with their meals. Two tables at either side of the bar host multiple men engaged in minor activities. Dominoes are played at one and muffled conversation at the other. The bartender, and likely owner of this fine estate, leans against a broad pillar near the stairs and not far from the bar top. He wears an oddly well kept thin mustache and combed black hair. He spins a damp towel inside a smudged clear glass all the while staring directly at me with the eyes of a demon. He doesn’t scare me.

“I don’t imagine you get many visitors out here, do you?” I ask as I waltz over to him. My every step triggers the floor panels below me to creak.

“I don’t imagine we do, no”. His voice is dense and stiff. The likes of me are unwelcome in depraved towns like this. There’s no winning this guy over with a silver tongue. So I take a more direct approach. A better approach.

“Scotch. If you hicks even have any”. I cross my arms and nudge my head at the counter.

“I know you aren’t here for drinks. Now watch your tone and order like a normal human being because I sure as shit don’t host bad company”

I look around the bar. The stairs. The shattered windows. The torn posters. “I don’t believe you. But, that’s your business, not mine. I’m just looking for a harmless old man no wiser than a frog. Dark skin, shaky legs, visibly blind in one eye”

“You just described half the town”

“Yes or no, asshole. I’m not here to bicker”

“Could’ve fooled me. You carry yourself like some kind of royalty. We don’t take kindly to suit wearers, especially ones that think they’re so much better than everyone else. Either stop being a prick or leave my bar!” His voice rises, drawing the eyes of all men conscious enough to lift their heads.

“Yes or no!?” I pin the man against the pillar, the glass shatters on the ground and blades are quickly drawn around the bar. As tempted as I am, now’s not the time to pull out Debby.

I release the bartender who now stares me down with murder in his eyes. The others keep their knives in hand. I don’t necessarily blame them for that. “At least tell me who would know. I’m sure someone keeps track of all the strangers that come through here. I’m not here to hurt anybody. It’s just I’ve got an important job to do and it’s going to get done”.

The bartender’s lips snarl while he pushes his hair up to normal. “I don’t owe you shit. Leave my bar before I call the sheriff”

“First of all, don’t kid yourself, if there is a sheriff he’s probably half way to heaven from drinking like the rest of you. Second of all,” I turn my hips and lift my coat slightly enough to show old Debby off. She thirsts. “I already told you I have a job to do and it will get done”

Blades are sheathed and the bartender's hands raise up. His eyes turn shallow. “Murphy and his boys keep an eye on things around here where the sheriff doesn’t look. You want information, you go get it from them at the big house across from the church”

I say my thanks and make my leave. The air is motionless and mute. I take one last glance around only to find a man in a grey cap and blue flannel quickly avert his eyes from me. I keep a mental note of his clothes. As the door swings open the bartender yips at me, “This world would be heaven without people like you”

“Oh I’m sure it would be thriving”

The churchyard is somehow more lively than the rest of this place. All I can see are tombstones, overgrown weeds and empty bottles. I imagine the corpses here are happy not breathing in this hell anymore. There are a few old buildings nearby but only one directly across the church. Its roof is half caved in but most of the building is intact. It’s a good size too. Enough renovation could turn into this town's equivalent to a mansion. Still not one I’d ever live in though. I choose not to head directly for it. “Murphy and his boys” might have already seen me but on the off chance they haven’t I need to play it safe.

The alleys behind the buildings are short and provide little cover but it’s the best I got so I must continue. I rest my right hand at my side ready to shoot at any moment. I spot a dead dog and a murder of looming crows not far from it. I pride myself in having a strong stomach after all the shit I’ve seen in my life but this hellscape is starting to get to me a little. I pray this ends soon.

I soon find myself at the side entrance of the wannabe mansion. I don’t step too close to any windows or doors but I still peruse around. The windows behind the building are mostly boarded up so I step close with slightly more confidence. I make sure to glance around every few moments for safety. The only sounds around me are of soft wind brushing through bushes and fenceposts and the occasional caw of the black birds. I lean my ear against the wall. Nothing. I trace the wall while leaning in and check every window. At last, I spot a sorry looking but brutish man sleeping in a red wooden chair. In front of him rests atop a table a freshly sharpened machete. If these guys have guns they don’t have many.

Knowing there are in fact people in the house, I very carefully continue tracing the wall until I find a staircase leading up to a balcony on the second floor. Half the steps are rotted with mildew and termites but the wood holds strong enough. I look around intently as my legs navigate these wretched stairs. The wood creaks quietly but only to the same extent a normal house would on its own. I keep my head down and my eyes wide open. The balcony accompanies many windows. In fact the door up here is practically a window itself. The glass is smudgy and similarly boarded but less so. I can see clearly inside which only means if someone's in there, they can clearly see me.

I exhale every doubt in my body and swiftly turn the door knob, slide inside the doorframe and close it behind me all without muttering a sound. It’s miraculous what one can do with the confidence of the fourth highest paying job in the force. The inside of the house is as damp and dark as I expected. There are at least two men downstairs. I hear their voices through the cornered staircase leading down. I take my safer bet and begin to look through the winding hallway upstairs. There aren’t many rooms. Being this close I can’t help but think of the creative ways I might get this Murphy character to fess up. I might even finish the idiot off so he doesn’t have to live like this anymore. Imagine being the leader of a misfit gang in the worst example of human settlement one can imagine. There’s nothing to rule over. Just piss and shame.

The walls are chipped enough to peek through, giving me a safe way of surveying the trashed habitat of my prey. I am utterly astonished by what I see. I check multiple times to make sure I’m not going crazy with wishful thinking. It's him. The old man. He reads a tattered book with letters faded and shaded by the dark in the room to make out. A dim lantern on a bedside desk lights his side. Whatever he’s reading he's rather invested and comfortable. It's a shame for him but a blessing for me that I found the bastard. I pull Debby from her bed and place myself in front of the door. Time to go back home you old fuck.

Before I can even lift my leg I am violently grabbed at the neck by a pair of weaselly arms. “Got you you fucking monster!”. The voice is youthful and winded. If he had this much of a jump on me then he's made a big mistake not killing me.

“Murphy!” The old man cries with a gravely and drained voice. What follows are the sounds of furniture collapsing and a loud thump presumably from him falling. “Murphy what's going on?”

The man holding me weakens his grip as I wiggle my body and rampantly bump my elbow near his gut. I am able to break free and reach for my gun which lays at my feet. I get a clear enough look at the man, to no surprise he wears a grey cap and blue flannel. Two more men tumble down the hall and pin me to the floor knocking my hat to the splinter floor. I am able to keep dear Debby lodged between my legs. Thankfully the men are too occupied holding me down to notice.

“Keep him down there!” A man in an orange Hawaiian shirt and linen pants brushes past us and rushes into the old man's room.

“Murphy, you scumbag!” I call, “I’m an officer of the capital. I'm here for the old man, not your lives so give him to me and I’ll forget anything happened!”

Murphy ignores my proposition all the while his men huff things like “Not a chance in hell, you pig”. I've played my last card. I can either fold or go all in. I've always been fond of the latter.

By the will of God or lady luck herself, I am afforded a chance to grab old Debby by twisting my chest. It's an agonizing process but effective.

The first guy doesn't see it coming. POP. Clean shot to the shoulder. There’s no doubt the entire town heard it. The other two scamper off into the hall either for help or safety. As I try to combobulate the situation, Murphy rushes the old man to the mangy balcony I entered from. The old man pants and wines like a small dog while Murphy encourages him to keep going. I try darting for the two but a sharp and sudden pain terrorizes my ankle, causing me to fall to the floor. I quickly realized the brat I shot only moments ago had used his only good arm left to stab me clean in the ankle with a rusty hunting knife. “I got him in the leg! I got him in the leg!” He shouts to his comrades but doesn't have the energy to follow me as I get up and shuffle to the balcony. His cries for help continue.

“Don't get testy with me assholes! I still got a gun!”. In all likelihood the vile sods have probably high tailed it somewhere far and quiet. Still, lowly savages like them are too cowardly to chase after a crazy man with a gun even if he is injured.

I painfully drag my limp foot to the balcony and watch as Murphy shoves the old man in a stage coach hoisted by two large but skinny steeds. I use the moldy banister as stability to take a few shots hoping to hit one of the horses. Losing blood turns out to make you a bit hazy and my shot is botched because of it. The fear sparks the flight of the two scrawny beasts and off goes my target into the endless hills soon to be shaded by the moon's dark embrace.

I roll my eyes and try lifting myself off the banister but a subtle crack catches me off guard. Not even half a second and I’m left with no time to react to the fall. Next thing I know, I’m flat on the ground surrounded by broken planks and bars of old wood. My insides feel as though they’ve burst like flimsy balloons. It’s a vibrant achy pain and it keeps me grounded, at least until the idiot who stabbed me decides to practice his yelling again while leaning on what’s left of the banister.

“He’s down! Get him!” his voice breaks from its own intensity.

Without a second thought, I lift myself partially with my elbow and shoot the poor fool between the eyes. His friends arrive in time to meet the rest of my chamber. Traitors. Every last one of them.

When all is done and the wind has carried the sound and souls from the air I rest my head on the coarse dirt and take a long, much needed breath. Tomorrow I’ll be back home with bad news and an earful from multiple nasty faces. Still better than whatever this was but I expect this isn’t over. They’ll be expecting me to compensate. What kind of fresh hell have I gotten myself into.

I stare off into the distance where Murphy took the old coot. The tired sun leaves me with a blood orange sky. Were I not bleeding like a stuck pig I might find some peace in such a sight. All I can think about is the very thought that has been plaguing me since I stepped foot in this nightmare. I don’t belong here.