ALIEN INVASION (16 page)

I felt close to him every time I wore the hoodie, watched the movie, and had the scents I’d associated with him around me. I should have let go. People had told me I should, and they didn’t even know what I did every night. They did know I hadn’t been able to throw anything of his away though. I used Freddie as an excuse, told them he feared change, which he did, but I feared it too.

Morris swallowed and then cracked his neck. “You don’t seem like the type of cowboy it would be wise for me to avert my eyes from. But in my stupid dumb-ass drunk state, I’ve already done it, twice. And you,” he pointed at Bowie with his left hand, “in your dumb-ass sober state, didn’t even take the opportunity to plug me. That could be a big mistake, boy.”

“It wasn’t a mistake, it was a conscious decision,” said Bowie. “It was a mistake for you to get drunk, though.”

“Maybe you’re right,” admitted Morris, swaying, his head looking like it was spinning internally. “Maybe it was a mistake to drown my sorrows.”

There was silence. Bowie examined the shaking hand of Morris. It was edging near his gun.

“Well, don’t you want to know what my sorrows are?” Morris asked, raising his hands, palms up.

Bowie relaxed slightly. “If you feel you must tell me … then go ahead.”

I opened up the whiskey and had a swig. The first night I’d done that I’d coughed; now it didn’t affect me. I looked at how much of the liquor was left. I’d been careful, never drinking more than a minuscule amount, but it wouldn’t last forever. A lump appeared in my throat and started to choke me.

“I was drowning my sorrows on account of the death of my partner in crime, Bobby Brains. That nasty incident has caused me to drink more than my usual relaxing amount. I’ve gone into a place I like to call, pissing your bed intoxicated, with the hope of getting the image of Bobby’s swinging corpse from my mind.

“I’ve seen many a man hang, but never none I’ve grown up with. Normally when I drink, I’d be more alert than this. You’d have never crept up on me then. You little …” he thought, most likely searching for the right insult, “… cockroach bastard.” There you go.

“I was thinking,” began Bowie, “if you would care to have a private word with me.”

“I don’t care none for this secret and elusive manner, but I’m curious as to how you know my name, and just what you have to tell me.” Morris cupped the butt of his pistol, his thumb caressing its hammer. “And what would a private word consist of?”

“A word … in private,” came the answer from Bowie.

I took another puff from the cigar. That used to make me cough too. I’d told my husband to not smoke, that it wasn’t healthy, that I wanted him around forever; it wasn’t fair on Freddie and me for him to be playing a game of chance with his life like that.

It wasn’t the smoking that killed him in the end. It was the drink. Not even his own. It was the drink of the drunk behind the wheel and the drink the car had flown into.

Bowie’s words looked to have cut Morris like a sharp icy wind. He tensed, his mind appearing as if it had cleared. He seemed to have sobered up in an instant, gunslinger intent seeping into his expression from somewhere within.

“I don’t got time for people making jokes at my expense.” Morris was more than just agitated, he was mad, and it was evident in his tone of voice. Husky. Guttural. Animalistic.

“I’m not jarred by your increased animosity, so ease up on that gun hand, will you?” Bowie said as he shifted his weight to his right leg for comfort. “If you don’t got time for people making jokes at your expense, then why do you spend so much of your precious time with the Holt brothers?”

Morris pondered the question for a moment then said, “You sure know a great deal about me.”

“I’ve seen, with my own God given eyes, how your so-called friends treat you,” continued Bowie. “You know the behavior I’m referring to, Morris. The constant name-calling and demeaning jobs you’re always lumbered with.”

It was the next day when the car was found. A guy was walking his dog out by the lake. It was him who had called it in. I was at home, in the kitchen, roasting a turkey. It was Christmas and my husband’s parents were coming around for dinner. They never came. They were in the car with him.

When the officer knocked on the door I made him wait. I had my hands full. I wish I’d made him wait longer. When he told me I fell to my knees and screamed. The sound of my shriek caused Freddie to have a meltdown. I had to hold back my anger, to hide my emotions in order to settle him.

I remember fucking hating him for that. Poor kid. Horrible mom.

Bowie paused for a beat, watching Morris’s reaction. The grubby man broke his stare and looked down to the dirt. “As any good inquisitor could, I can see the internal discomfort this is causing you. The list that I just … listed, it has stung you. You can try and force your face to give nothing away and you can hope the dark of the night will help your disguise, but hope is not enough.”

“They treat me just fine,” said Morris looking back at Bowie. “And stop using fancy words.”

“The absurdity of that reply is tremendous.” Bowie smirked. “Do you have nothing more than whiskey resting between those ears?”

Morris gritted his teeth. “I’ve had enough from you. I don’t take kindly to insults.”

Bowie glanced to Morris’s gun hand, then smiled.

“What the hell are you smiling at, you son of a bitch?” Morris was shouting now.

“I’m enjoying myself. I relish playing with my quarry.”

Morris’s pot of anger boiled over. He was now a full-blown rage of flying spittle and reddening skin. He screamed, “Why don’t I give you something to really plaster that shit-eating grin all over your face?” Morris drew his gun, creating the old familiar sound of cold hard steel dashing from leather.

Bowie was equal to that of lightning in movement and his gun to thunder in sound. Morris took the bullet clean in the chest, blood spurting from his brown shirt. He froze there, stood, gun limp in hand.

Bowie nestled his Peacemaker back in its home as Morris fell on his face. “You’re right, that did gimme something to bolster my shit-eating grin.” Bowie grinned.

Janice came around when her children had gone home. She took Freddie to her house and Clarence let him play with their dog. I still hadn’t told Freddie his dad had gone to sleep by that point. I waited until the next day to do that. I needed to summon up the courage, to settle myself enough to be able to do it without causing him to have another meltdown.

Janice stayed with me all night, sat on the edge of my bed, as I cried and called God a cunt for taking my husband. It must have been difficult for her to hear that. She was the church going type, but she didn’t say a word. She just held my hand.

A shitty way for my neighbours to spend their Christmas.

Bowie grabbed Morris’s body by the feet and dragged him out of view behind the back of one of the stores. He left the alley and entered the main street of the town, heading toward the saloon.

A jittery and wide-eyed old man stepped into his path, tightly gripping a Greener. “Did I hear a gunshot?” the old man asked, his voice hoarse from age.

“Yeah,” Bowie answered. “Want to hear another? If you don’t, you better make sure that shotgun is pointing in any other direction than the one I’m standing in.”

“No, not really, son,” said the old man. “You’ve heard one gun shot, you’ve heard them all.” He nervously laughed and scuttled away.

Bowie stepped through the batwing doors and entered the music-filled saloon, his eyes scanning the patrons, looking for a sign that any had recognized him, but no one paid any attention. The men were too busy drinking or gambling, and the heavily scented soiled doves were working the room, flirting with, and touching, any pervert who looked to have some spare cash.

Bowie took a few more paces forward and nodded to the bartender, who returned the gesture before pointing a finger toward the stairs on the far side of the building. At the foot of the stairs was a man with a black patch on his left eye, using the wooden beams of the stairs to prop himself up. He looked tired, bored, but not drunk.

It was soon to be Christmas again. That filled me with dread. If it weren’t for Freddie I wouldn’t have had a tree or hung any kind of decorations. They reminded me of that night too much. The night my world fell apart.

Everything about the holidays made me upset. The music. The gifts. Families spending time together. I couldn't spend time with my family, why did they get to spend time with theirs? It didn’t seem fair.

Apart from Janice and Clarence. I didn’t mind them spending time with their family. They’d earned it. I owed them a Christmas. They invited Freddie and me around every year, as if they owed me one. We’d never been. They didn’t owe me anything.

As soon as Bowie’s foot touched the first step, Patch placed his hand on his chest to stop him climbing the stairs. “Not tonight, dude, there’s a private party upstairs.” Patch smiled, showing blackened and rotted teeth, all three of them. Not a friendly smile, a polite warning. “And if I’m not mistaken,” continued Patch, “you’re not on the guest list.” He spat on the floor. The gob was dark and crimsoned red from his infected bleeding gums.

Bowie looked at the hand on his chest. “I’m not fond of people touching me. And I’m not fond of people getting in my way while I’m at work.”

“You’re fired then. Now you ain’t at work, does that make you feel any better?” Patch smiled again.

“Like a fella I knew once, named Morris, I don’t like being the butt of no one’s jokes,” said Bowie.

“Is that so? Well, I’ll bet you’re a tad angry at the moment then,” said Patch.

“You don’t know the half of it.” Bowie hammered him in the face with a right hook.

Patch stumbled back, dazed, his hand covering his mouth. From behind it he gurgled out a few words, “You knocked my teeth out.”

“And you’ll lose your eye as well, if you follow me up these stairs.” Bowie pointed at the good eye. He waited a few seconds for a response. He got none, so he started his ascent up the stairs.

I took another drink of the whiskey. Another puff of the cigar followed. I wiped a tear away next. My mouth turned dry. I wanted to sob. I wanted to scream. I wanted to do what Freddie had done earlier. I wanted to smash my head in the wall. I didn’t want someone’s hand to cushion the blows though. I didn’t want any helping hands anymore.

Bowie turned onto a deserted hallway that was lit by a dim lantern that sat on a small wooden table. A girl’s whimpers and screams echoed down the corridor, high-pitched hyena-like laughter followed them.

“The Holt brothers,” Bowie said to himself in a whisper. “Jeremiah Holt. I’d know that laugh anywhere. You’ll be most likely watching, waiting your turn.”

Bowie walked slowly and silently to the door the noise was coming from. He stopped, facing it, his nose almost touching. He listened to the ruckus a little while longer, taking in all the noises and even the smells that were filling the air. Moans. Grunts. Sweat. Semen.

“I’ve got the room mapped out in my mind … and I know the positions of the players in this game.” He was barely moving his lips as he spoke. “You scummy little pissants are in deep shit.” Bowie slowly drew his gun and cocked the hammer back even slower.

Click.

“No need to announce myself too early.” He placed his right leg slightly behind and put his weight onto a somewhat bent left leg. “The ass-kicker is geared up.”

Crack.

Bowie had kicked the door open. Thomas, the brother who’d been laughing, was on the bed atop of the young girl, her clothes ripped and torn. Thomas looked at Bowie, shock all over his face, “Lemme finish up,” he begged.

“You’re one sick puppy, Thomas Holt.” Bowie shot him in the head, the blood of the dead outlaw rouging the girl’s cheeks.

Jeremiah, who stood watching from a corner, turned from his dead brother to Bowie. He was wide-eyed, in shock from the sight of his family member’s forehead erupting in a lava of red bloody gore. He shook his head and went for his gun, but he grabbed only at air, his fingers frantically grasping at the place where it should have been. His britches and his gun belt were on a chair next to the bed.

“Caught with your pants down, hey, Jeremiah?” said Bowie.

Jeremiah backed up, raised his hands, and forced a smile. “Hey, mister, let’s say we make a deal?”

“No.” Bowie walked toward the girl, keeping both his eyes, and his gun, locked on Jeremiah. He pulled Thomas’s body away from her. She didn’t move. She just lay there, looking at the roof, breathing heavily. Bowie carefully took a sheet from a drawer next to the bed and gave it to her.

The girl sat up quickly and covered herself with it. She ran to the door. “Thank you,” she managed to say as a tear ran over her lips. She exited the room.

Bang.

Bowie walked down the stairs into the saloon to see the girl run through the now deathly silent room and out of the batwing doors. “Look at you all,” Bowie said loudly to the patrons. “You can see the fear of recrimination from your consciences all over your faces.” He got no replies.

Bowie walked to the bar; all eyes on him. The bartender handed over the cash. Bowie counted the dollars then placed them in his pocket. “If you remember right,” Bowie started, “your money didn’t cover the killing of Jeremiah. However, I felt obliged to terminate his evil rapist ways by some other means.”