06-22-2018, 08:06 PM
Jim ran his coarse fingers over heavy eyes and pinched them under his chin. His arid tongue licked at his chapped and broken lips. He gave a cursory glance to the utility vehicle driving away from the town, its tray piled high with bandit corpses, and brought his attention back to Ronald.
“And our small little town gets a little more smaller,” the sheriff said, standing before a row of freshly dug graves, wooden crosses with names carved into the planks marking each body. He held his wide-brimmed hat in his hands, crossed over his belt. “Another six souls leave us to journey into the great unknown. Another six lives cut short, claimed by… the reality of life in the Dunes.”
Jim heard a sniffle or two in the folding chairs behind him. Someone else honked the contents of their nose into a handkerchief. Swann and Karax sat beside him; the rest of his squadron was taking care of the body disposals and immediate clean-up.
“We all know livin’ out here is risky,” Ronald continued, his voice strong. “But we do it because we love it. This is our home, and ain’t no one gonna take that away from us. And just like those we lay to rest today, we ain’t movin’. We won’t be chased from what is rightfully ours. Let us remember the sacrifices and determination of these common but brave folk and never give in. Let us fight for what is ours until the breath has gone from our bodies, as they did. May we learn the lesson that some things, no matter the cost, are just worth fightin’ for.”
And just like that, the service was over. The townspeople took their folding chairs with them and got back to living. Jim nodded a goodbye to Swann and Karax as they returned to the garage, but he stayed and watched over the graves a little longer.
Ronald donned his hat and moved next to Raynor. “Don’t get any easier. You’d think after a time it would, but… it doesn’t.”
“I’ve seen more boys die out on the battlefield than I’d care to count,” Jim said. “They say time heals all wounds. Well, they’re wrong. Some things even time can’t fix.”
“And yet not one of those stubborn sons-of-bitches will want to leave come the morning,” Deschain said, running a thumb over the chipped and scratched star buckle that held his belt together. “When some people find their home, that’s it. They’d rather die than move on.”
Jim reached into his vest and retrieved two cigars. He pointed one at Ronald. The sheriff grasped the end in his teeth as Jim popped the other in his mouth. With a lighter, Jim ignited the tip of Ronald’s cigar before his own. They stood in silence for a while, puffing smoke and letting the quiet say what needed to be said.
Raynor took a long drag of his cigar and jetted the smoke out of his nostrils. “The day ain’t over yet.”
Ronald nodded. “Holler if you need a hand.”
“Will do, sheriff.”
Jim drifted through the town, cigar clenched in his teeth, as the sinking sun shed vibrant orange on the horizon. He stared at the pastel colours painted over the darkening sky, trying to find a shred of solace in one of the few natural wonders of the desert that wasn’t out to kill him. He breathed deeply one last time of his cigar and flicked it into the sands, staring at the threshold to the prison.
His thumb rested on the handle of his revolver hanging from his waist. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to use it.
Jim carried a lit lantern with him down the steps of the prison, the flame swaying back and forth. The light from the sun barely reached the cells; a few crepuscular beams glimmered at the top of the doorway but they were thin and insubstantial. During the day, it was bright enough to see the blood stains on the stone floor.
The cell at the end of the room had a small candle burning in its corner, the light hugging a body hanging by their arms from the ceiling. Chains jingled at the sounds of Raynor’s boots on hard stone. The head, chin planted in their chest, rolled towards Jim.
Grabbing a chipped and weathered chair from the wall, Raynor dragged it across the floor and placed the lantern down. The light washed over the bandit as he squinted and turned his face away from the flame. Dark crimson soaked his jacket and pants, with lighter splotches of red caked onto his chest and arms. His bloodshot eyes gingerly opened.
“You’ve spent most of the afternoon strung up by your wrists,” Jim said, lowering into the chair and crossing his arms. “Bet it’s given you a long time to think about your actions.”
The bandit scowled but said nothing.
“Hopefully it’s given you enough time to consider my offer properly.” Jim leaned forward, hands resting on his knees. “What’s your answer?”
A wad of spittle flew through the bars and just wide of Raynor’s face. A wet splat echoed from behind him.
Jim clenched his teeth. A whirlwind of emotions ran through his mind, but for the sake of those who rested beneath the sands and for those above them, he had to tame them. This intransigent marauder might be the key to resolving the endless attacks on the town, if only he could stay his weapon.
“You should have just left me to die,” the bandit said, his voice dry and weak.
“I almost did,” Jim said through his teeth. “We lost some good people today, and for what? So you bandits can try and take what ain’t yours? Well I’m sick of it! It’s about time you criminals learned to stick to your own lands and leave us the hell alone!”
“They wouldn’t have died if they weren’t so pathetic,” the bandit said, a new fire in his tone. “Like you said, all we are is criminals! How did they let themselves get killed? They probably just wanted to die!”
A second flew past and in the next, Jim came to his senses on his feet with the revolver aimed at the bandit’s head. His fingers trembled around his weapon. A part of him wanted to do it so badly, to add another darkened smear to the cell wall, but the rational part of his mind took a grip of his emotions. Killing him would only feel good for a second, no matter how justified.
“Go on! Do it!” the bandit yelled.
Raynor took a deep breath and lowered his revolver. He stuffed it back in its holster. “Why were you all yellin’ ‘let me in?’”
“You ask me that now?” the bandit said, scowling. “You could have led with that.”
Jim hardened his tone. “Why were you and your buddies yellin’ ‘let me in?’”
“Why else would we be?”
“Because you want our town,” Jim said. “But you’ve always wanted that. Why are you all so suddenly champin’ at the bit to have it now?”
“Don’t you see?” the bandit said. “We’re running! We’re terrified for our lives!”
Jim frowned. “What are you runnin’ from?”
“Did you notice that in all the times we hit your town, of all the gangs that banded together to attack you, that there was one gang that was not with us? Never appeared?”
Raynor had only been present for the most recent assault but he ran over the gang colours and accessories that he remembered seeing during the fight and on the corpses. One name sprung to mind.
“The Sand Vipers,” Jim said. “But why are you runnin’ from them? They wouldn’t be strong enough to rally all of the bandits together against them. And why attack us anyway? Shouldn’t you turn around and fight them?”
“No, we’re not running from them,” the bandit said. “It’s-”
A gunshot rang out from the doorway. Jim’s arm cracked down and whipped his revolver up. His narrow eyes relaxed. “Roy? What are you… doin’?”
Salvatore bared his teeth, staring daggers at the bandit in the cell. He leveled a pistol at the cell. “I saw him. He killed Jasper. Him and all his filthy kind… they don’t deserve to live.”
It was then that Raynor noticed the smoke leaving the barrel of Roy’s pistol.
“Roy… no…”
Jim spun. The bandit’s head sagged into his chest. His eyes gazed emptily at the ground. Blood flowed down his exposed chest from a deep red circle just below his neck.
“He… deserved it,” Roy said through clenched teeth, his eyes red and watery.
Jim stared at the bandit drooping in his shackles. A great weight pulled downwards in his chest. The bandit knew why the raids were relentless and aggressive and Salvatore had destroyed any chance of discovering what that reason was.
“Get out,” Jim said in a low tone, his eyes hard.
“Were you actually going to let him live?” Roy said. “You were actually going to listen to what he had to say? He would have said anything to get out alive! The only right thing to do was-”
“I said get out!” Jim roared.
Salvatore stared at him for a moment, eyebrow furrowed, then stormed out.
Jim slumped back into his chair and watched the bandit dangle limply from the ceiling. He felt so exhausted, so drained, like his whole body was filled with lead. His mind whirled about in a futile attempt to eke out a plan but it was getting him nowhere.
Walking out of the prison and into the first winds of the evening, Jim headed back to his room. Perhaps in the morning, after sleeping off the last horrible day, things would be clearer.
“And our small little town gets a little more smaller,” the sheriff said, standing before a row of freshly dug graves, wooden crosses with names carved into the planks marking each body. He held his wide-brimmed hat in his hands, crossed over his belt. “Another six souls leave us to journey into the great unknown. Another six lives cut short, claimed by… the reality of life in the Dunes.”
Jim heard a sniffle or two in the folding chairs behind him. Someone else honked the contents of their nose into a handkerchief. Swann and Karax sat beside him; the rest of his squadron was taking care of the body disposals and immediate clean-up.
“We all know livin’ out here is risky,” Ronald continued, his voice strong. “But we do it because we love it. This is our home, and ain’t no one gonna take that away from us. And just like those we lay to rest today, we ain’t movin’. We won’t be chased from what is rightfully ours. Let us remember the sacrifices and determination of these common but brave folk and never give in. Let us fight for what is ours until the breath has gone from our bodies, as they did. May we learn the lesson that some things, no matter the cost, are just worth fightin’ for.”
And just like that, the service was over. The townspeople took their folding chairs with them and got back to living. Jim nodded a goodbye to Swann and Karax as they returned to the garage, but he stayed and watched over the graves a little longer.
Ronald donned his hat and moved next to Raynor. “Don’t get any easier. You’d think after a time it would, but… it doesn’t.”
“I’ve seen more boys die out on the battlefield than I’d care to count,” Jim said. “They say time heals all wounds. Well, they’re wrong. Some things even time can’t fix.”
“And yet not one of those stubborn sons-of-bitches will want to leave come the morning,” Deschain said, running a thumb over the chipped and scratched star buckle that held his belt together. “When some people find their home, that’s it. They’d rather die than move on.”
Jim reached into his vest and retrieved two cigars. He pointed one at Ronald. The sheriff grasped the end in his teeth as Jim popped the other in his mouth. With a lighter, Jim ignited the tip of Ronald’s cigar before his own. They stood in silence for a while, puffing smoke and letting the quiet say what needed to be said.
Raynor took a long drag of his cigar and jetted the smoke out of his nostrils. “The day ain’t over yet.”
Ronald nodded. “Holler if you need a hand.”
“Will do, sheriff.”
Jim drifted through the town, cigar clenched in his teeth, as the sinking sun shed vibrant orange on the horizon. He stared at the pastel colours painted over the darkening sky, trying to find a shred of solace in one of the few natural wonders of the desert that wasn’t out to kill him. He breathed deeply one last time of his cigar and flicked it into the sands, staring at the threshold to the prison.
His thumb rested on the handle of his revolver hanging from his waist. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to use it.
Jim carried a lit lantern with him down the steps of the prison, the flame swaying back and forth. The light from the sun barely reached the cells; a few crepuscular beams glimmered at the top of the doorway but they were thin and insubstantial. During the day, it was bright enough to see the blood stains on the stone floor.
The cell at the end of the room had a small candle burning in its corner, the light hugging a body hanging by their arms from the ceiling. Chains jingled at the sounds of Raynor’s boots on hard stone. The head, chin planted in their chest, rolled towards Jim.
Grabbing a chipped and weathered chair from the wall, Raynor dragged it across the floor and placed the lantern down. The light washed over the bandit as he squinted and turned his face away from the flame. Dark crimson soaked his jacket and pants, with lighter splotches of red caked onto his chest and arms. His bloodshot eyes gingerly opened.
“You’ve spent most of the afternoon strung up by your wrists,” Jim said, lowering into the chair and crossing his arms. “Bet it’s given you a long time to think about your actions.”
The bandit scowled but said nothing.
“Hopefully it’s given you enough time to consider my offer properly.” Jim leaned forward, hands resting on his knees. “What’s your answer?”
A wad of spittle flew through the bars and just wide of Raynor’s face. A wet splat echoed from behind him.
Jim clenched his teeth. A whirlwind of emotions ran through his mind, but for the sake of those who rested beneath the sands and for those above them, he had to tame them. This intransigent marauder might be the key to resolving the endless attacks on the town, if only he could stay his weapon.
“You should have just left me to die,” the bandit said, his voice dry and weak.
“I almost did,” Jim said through his teeth. “We lost some good people today, and for what? So you bandits can try and take what ain’t yours? Well I’m sick of it! It’s about time you criminals learned to stick to your own lands and leave us the hell alone!”
“They wouldn’t have died if they weren’t so pathetic,” the bandit said, a new fire in his tone. “Like you said, all we are is criminals! How did they let themselves get killed? They probably just wanted to die!”
A second flew past and in the next, Jim came to his senses on his feet with the revolver aimed at the bandit’s head. His fingers trembled around his weapon. A part of him wanted to do it so badly, to add another darkened smear to the cell wall, but the rational part of his mind took a grip of his emotions. Killing him would only feel good for a second, no matter how justified.
“Go on! Do it!” the bandit yelled.
Raynor took a deep breath and lowered his revolver. He stuffed it back in its holster. “Why were you all yellin’ ‘let me in?’”
“You ask me that now?” the bandit said, scowling. “You could have led with that.”
Jim hardened his tone. “Why were you and your buddies yellin’ ‘let me in?’”
“Why else would we be?”
“Because you want our town,” Jim said. “But you’ve always wanted that. Why are you all so suddenly champin’ at the bit to have it now?”
“Don’t you see?” the bandit said. “We’re running! We’re terrified for our lives!”
Jim frowned. “What are you runnin’ from?”
“Did you notice that in all the times we hit your town, of all the gangs that banded together to attack you, that there was one gang that was not with us? Never appeared?”
Raynor had only been present for the most recent assault but he ran over the gang colours and accessories that he remembered seeing during the fight and on the corpses. One name sprung to mind.
“The Sand Vipers,” Jim said. “But why are you runnin’ from them? They wouldn’t be strong enough to rally all of the bandits together against them. And why attack us anyway? Shouldn’t you turn around and fight them?”
“No, we’re not running from them,” the bandit said. “It’s-”
A gunshot rang out from the doorway. Jim’s arm cracked down and whipped his revolver up. His narrow eyes relaxed. “Roy? What are you… doin’?”
Salvatore bared his teeth, staring daggers at the bandit in the cell. He leveled a pistol at the cell. “I saw him. He killed Jasper. Him and all his filthy kind… they don’t deserve to live.”
It was then that Raynor noticed the smoke leaving the barrel of Roy’s pistol.
“Roy… no…”
Jim spun. The bandit’s head sagged into his chest. His eyes gazed emptily at the ground. Blood flowed down his exposed chest from a deep red circle just below his neck.
“He… deserved it,” Roy said through clenched teeth, his eyes red and watery.
Jim stared at the bandit drooping in his shackles. A great weight pulled downwards in his chest. The bandit knew why the raids were relentless and aggressive and Salvatore had destroyed any chance of discovering what that reason was.
“Get out,” Jim said in a low tone, his eyes hard.
“Were you actually going to let him live?” Roy said. “You were actually going to listen to what he had to say? He would have said anything to get out alive! The only right thing to do was-”
“I said get out!” Jim roared.
Salvatore stared at him for a moment, eyebrow furrowed, then stormed out.
Jim slumped back into his chair and watched the bandit dangle limply from the ceiling. He felt so exhausted, so drained, like his whole body was filled with lead. His mind whirled about in a futile attempt to eke out a plan but it was getting him nowhere.
Walking out of the prison and into the first winds of the evening, Jim headed back to his room. Perhaps in the morning, after sleeping off the last horrible day, things would be clearer.
![[Image: jimsig.jpg]](http://www.cytokineindustries.com/chevereto/images/2017/07/07/jimsig.jpg)