Wednesday, February 27, 2008

• Buzzards

  There's a new writing group in town, focusing on flash fiction. Our first assignment was 1,000 words with the topic of 'supernatural or weird western'. This is what I came up with. (Warning: This is the result of 30 minutes extemporanea, and has not been extensively edited or spell-checked.)
  =====================
  http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"> name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12">

  "Buzzards 're comin' for you, old man."

  The speaker, not exactly a young man himself, took a deep drag on his cigar, then used it to point skyward. Black shapes circled, silhouetted against the noon sun. It was a hot day, even by the standards of the desert in summer, and the old man lay on the ground, gasping, a dank red patch growing on his leg. The other man just smiled.

  "I hear", he continued, "that sometimes...sometimes they don't wait fer a man t'be all the way dead, if'n they think he's weak enough. They just come on down and start feedin'. They like to go fer the soft spots first...the eyes, the guts...must be terrible, lyin' there, can't move, can't see 'cause they've got your eyes, listenin' to 'em chompin' on you. It's not like they can take terribly big bites, neither...take a long time for a man to die..."

  The old man coughed once more, and tried to stand. The speaker kicked him in the ribs, causing a sudden coughing fit which spewed up blood and bile.

  "Now, now, don't ye be gettin' no funny ideas. Been a long time trackin' you down."

  "Water." It was the first word the old man had managed to say.

  The other man shook his head. "Now, why'd I go and do a fool thing like give you water? It's a long hot ride back to Copper Creek. Heck, you ought to be glad you ain't gonna have to make that ride yerself!" He laughed at that.

  "Bastard." The word was a hoarse whisper.

  The speaker looked shocked. "Me? We forgettin' why you're here, old man?"

  "Lies."

  The other man kicked him again. "Oh no. We ain't startin' that up. I know what I saw...what everyone saw...them little girls..yer lucky. There's way worse ways to die. Way worse ways, 'specially given what you did."

  "Not me." It was more of a burble than a voice.

  "You. Look. Buzzard's gettin' closer. They know, y'know? They won't do come close if'n I'm here, but I ain't leavin' fer good till I see your eyes getting crunched." He knelt down by the bleeding man, careful to keep his hand on his gun and his gun out of reached. There had been too many escapes, too many tricks.

  "Why'd y'do it, anyway? Damn, old man, there wuz plenty of whores in town, some not much older'n them. What makes a man do them sorts of things?"

  The man on the ground just wheezed. His fingers twitched in the dust.

  The other man stood and took a few steps back. "They say it was witchcraft. That you was the devil. That true, old man? You the devil?"

  Feebly, the man on the ground shook his head.

  "Hm. Well, don't matter much. Pretty soon, you'll be meetin' the devil, if 'n you ain't him." He looked up. "Buzzards gettin' closer."

  Suddenly, the man on the ground twisted and moved. With speed that no one of his age and his condition should have, he lunged at the man standing over him, grabbing for the gun dangling loosely in his tormenter's hand. The target leapt back, almost falling, as the old man's grab fell short, leaving him sprawled in the dust once more, panting and twitching.

  The man fired twice more, bullets tearing into the prone man's chest. He seemed to almost curl around them, then fell flat again, fresh blood adding to the dried on his clothing.

  The shooter looked up. The birds were still there, still circling.

  "Don't that beat all...they must really be hungry. You're gonna make 'em happy."

  The old man groaned.

  "I will say this -- I have never seen anyone cling to life like you. Young men, healthy men, they'd die after a tenth what you've had. I guess you know what's waiting for you down below, old man. Things worse than bullets. Worse than buzzards. If'n I were you, I'd be scared to let go, too."

  "I know..." The words were so close to silence they might almost have been the wind.

  There was a hideous wheeze, a death rattle in reverse. The old man, two bullets still burning in his chest, kept trying to speak, his voice a hideous rasping gurgle of air forced through blood. "One thing...one thing you don't know..."

  The other man laughed, but kept his distance. "What's that, old man? What don't I know?"

  The old man turned, and the other could see the whites of his eyes were yellow, the yellow of faded ivory, of sun-bleached bone, and the pupils...the pupils were not there, just holes, empty holes in his eyes pouring down into emptiness. "They're not here for me," came the words from the motionless, gaping, mouth.

  The other man stepped back and looked up. The birds, which were high up second before, had swooped in close. They were large, too large, and birds were not supposed to have teeth, nor talons that glinted like gunmetal in the sun, nor eyes that glistened with black fire.

  Then, they were on him. He fired once, madly, and then his gun clicked on empty chambers. Talons and beaks tore into him, causing blood to spray in great arcs. Some of it fell onto the old man, whose tongue eagerly lapped it.

  He lay there, under the sun, listening until the screams fade. Then he stood. His body creaked and cracked as he did, bones sliding into position under flesh. He reached into his chest and drew out two bullets, then tossed them to the ground. He looked at the shredded corpse before him, and at the three things that were not buzzards sitting around it. He smiled at them and petted one on its scabrous head.

  "Aw...you saved me the eyes. Good boys."

  
  
  

  • 9:41 PM
  • 6 eprops
  • 3 comments