Crossing the Rubicon

Disclaimer: They all belong to MGM, Mirisch and Trilogy, not me.

Vin took a deep breath and let it out slow. Then he rapped on the door, making sure he stood to one side, just in case. “Chris?”

There was no sound from behind the door. He’d become used to interpreting the muffled sounds Chris made – a grunt meant I don’t care if you come in or not, a growl meant come in at your own risk, a plug through the door meant come in and I’ll kill you.

There had been more of those in recent days.

Usually silence meant that Chris was still sleeping it off, so Vin tested the knob. Unlocked. He eased the door open and, when he wasn’t greeted by a bullet, entered Chris’s room. The floorboards creaked under his every step, it seemed like, and he cursed them under his breath for giving him away. No sense tryin’ to sneak up on Chris, Buck had said once, and Vin had to swallow hard to keep his throat clear. Only time you might have a chance is when he’s passed out drunk, else you’ll have a gun in yer face if yer lucky or a bullet in yer head if yer not.

The air in Chris’s boarding house room made his nose twitch. It was thick and stale; a haze of blue smoke and the scent of tobacco, the overripe odor of Chris’s unwashed body, and over it all, whiskey, strong, cloying, until it felt like he was half-drunk himself just on the fumes.

Chris lay curled up on the narrow bed, one arm flung out across the mattress. He was still dressed but for his boots, in the same clothes he’d been wearing for days. Vin let out a soft breath when he saw Chris’s black gun belt coiled up on the table by the bed, right where he’d left it when he’d taken it off Chris early that morning, gun still in the holster.

“Hey, Chris,” he called again. He didn’t reach out to shake him yet, though; he’d tried that early on and gotten knocked galley west for his trouble. Chris shifted on the bed, but didn’t wake. “Time ta get up, cowboy.”

Chris moved again, turning his face into the pillow and snarling something that sounded like “get the fuck out,” but it was too muffled for Vin to tell for sure.

“Naw,” and how he forced himself to sound even slightly cheerful, he had no idea. “Think it’s ‘bout time t’air this place out.” He crossed to the nearest window and pulled open the curtains to let the late afternoon light pour in.

Chris let out a string of vicious oaths, lifting a hand to shade his eyes, though it quickly fell back to the bed. “You’re a bastard, Tanner.” His voice was gravelly from smoke and drink.

Well, this is gonna be a good night, he thought, full of black humor, shoving the window sash up to let the faint breeze in. “Got a picture of my ma and pa that proves otherwise,” he said, turning around. “Now, you gonna get up or do I gotta haul yer ass outta that bed? Warnin’ ya now – if I do, I’m dumpin’ ya in a tub.”

Before, he would have expected Chris to at least crack a half-smile, maybe say something like you sayin’ I stink? or don’t need a dunkin’. But now he got nothing but silence. Chris looked away, jaw working, blinking bloodshot eyes. The bed creaked as he rolled over to fish around underneath. He came up with a nearly empty whiskey bottle, and pushed himself just enough upright against the wall to take a long swallow. He stared across the room at the cluttered dresser, but Vin knew he wasn’t looking at anything there; he was seeing another place and time entirely.

***

Vin leaned out of his saddle a little to confirm they were still on the trail, then straightened, squinting into the distance.

“Vin?” Chris didn’t have to say anything more; Vin knew the question he was asking without words.

“Figure they’re headed up toward Rogers Bluff,” he said. “Gonna try an’ lose themselves in the rocks there.”

Buck leaned forward, resting his arm on the saddle horn. “They get holed up in them rocks, we ain’t never gonna get ‘em out.”

“Not without more of us than there currently are,” Ezra added, not quite under his breath enough not to be heard.

Vin blew out a breath. “It’d be a long shot, but maybe we can cut ‘em off ‘fore they get there. Haveta go through the Indian reservation to try, though. Not sure they’d take kindly to that.” These Indians didn’t know them, not like Ko-je’s band. They could make things dangerous and difficult.

Chris considered, rubbing his chin with the back of one hand. The rest of them were silent, waiting on his decision. Vin knew what it would likely be.

They had been riding hard, chasing after the ones who had gotten away during the attempt on the bank. Some of the others had gone to the jail, some had gone to the undertaker’s. Vin had seen three of them make it to their horses. He’d gotten one; they found his body not too far out of town, and sent JD back to tell Nathan and Josiah. He didn’t have any money on him, but there were still two more of his friends ahead of them.

“Guess it’s a chance we gotta take,” Chris said at last. “We wait too long, they’ll get ahead of us, get dug in.” He didn’t even have to look at Vin before Vin was urging his horse forward again.

Before they’d followed it too much further, the trail veered up into a woody area. It was easier to follow in the fallen pine needles and soft earth, and marking the direction, Vin was certain now that the two bank robbers were heading toward the base of the bluff.

They were just about through the strand of trees when Vin heard a rustling in the underbrush. He pulled up just in time to avoid the figure that leapt out in front of him.

“A denizen of the land appears,” Ezra said, voice just loud enough to be heard.

The figure was an Indian. He had seen many years; hair mostly grey, dark eyes surrounded by wrinkles, skin tanned like leather. He was not wearing his shirt; he held it in one fist as if he’d been surprised in putting it on, rather than surprising them. His chest and arms were covered with scars, pale against his sun- and wind-burned skin. He could see the patterns in them, wondered if his friends did as well.

Chris’s horse nudged up next to him; Vin obligingly turned his aside. “We don’t mean any trouble,” Chris said, leaning forward over his saddlehorn, his tone as friendly as he could make it. “We’re just passin’ through, nothin’ more.”

The old man looked at them each in turn, then nodded. “Go back where you came from,” he ordered. His English was laced with an accent that was familiar to Vin’s ear.

Chris sat straight and blinked at the Indian. “What?”

“Go back,” the Indian repeated. He stayed right in their way, solid as an oak.

“Now see here…” Buck started.

Vin heard the creak of his saddle as he started to dismount, turned and shook his head. Buck glowered at him, but settled back. Ezra had his hand on his gun, but stayed on his horse, sharp gaze on the confrontation.

Chris blew out a breath. “I need to get by,” he said, and he sounded like he was getting a mite angry. “There’s some bank robbers up ahead, and we need to get that money back.”

When the Indian said nothing, Chris urged his horse forward, intending to crowd the old man off the path. But it didn’t work; the Indian – Vin was about positive he was a shaman; he just had that air about him – stood in Chris’s way, moving as Chris aimed his horse to try to get around him.

“Go back,” the shaman said, blocking him again. “This is our sacred ground. To cross it is to end the world.”

Chris’s impatience seemed to flow into his horse; the animal snorted and pranced, shying away from the old man’s loose shirt, flapping in the breeze. Chris jerked the horse’s head, forcing him to cut a quick circle. As they came around, Vin could see Chris’s jaw clenched tight. “Got no time for this,” he muttered, and dug his spurs into his horse’s sides. The black leapt forward, and the Indian stepped aside just before he would have been run down. Buck followed, then Ezra, both casting curious glances at the old man, but saying nothing.

As Vin would have ridden by, the shaman stepped forward again. “You know I speak true, brother of the wolf,” he said, raising his hand as if to rest it on Vin’s leg, though he did not touch him. “Following this path… it is the end of the world.”

Vin nodded. “Reckon I do,” he answered. “But we wouldn’t be doin’ this if it weren’t necessary.”

The Indian shook his head. “It is only as necessary as you think it is,” he said softly, then moved away again, and Vin gigged his horse forward.

He was still thinking about the shaman’s words when he caught up to Ezra, and even after that, when they started into the narrow defile that led to the base of the bluff.

They hadn’t gotten far when two shots sounded, one right after the other, and Buck and Ezra fell from their saddles almost as one, right in front of him. Vin yanked his rifle from the saddle scabbard even as he jumped from his horse, scrambling instinctively for the cover of a nearby boulder and searching the direction from which the shots had come.

The horses milled between the close stone walls, snorting, making shrill sounds of fear, and their fallen riders lay achingly still.

Chris flung himself off his horse, gun already in his hand. He used the animal for cover, firing over its back toward the top of the nearest rocks.

Vin caught the glint of sun on metal and took aim. Even as he jacked another round into the chamber, he heard a scream of pain from above and smiled in grim satisfaction. Got the bastard, he thought, and took the risk of scanning the rocks again.

A bullet whizzed past him and he ducked down again, cursing. From the corner of his eye, he saw Chris rise up, arm straight. He fired twice, and then there was silence.

He didn’t even have a chance to tell Chris to be careful, he might have only winged the man before Chris was pushing his skittish horse aside and hurrying out into the open, no cover at all, only to drop down beside Ezra.

Shocked, Vin stood from behind his cover, glancing over to where Buck lay, then quickly away again, trying to ride out the sudden gut-wrenching grief. He’d seen men killed but a shot to the head before, but never a friend.

Ezra wasn’t an easier sight as Chris rolled him over; the bullet had caught him in the back, tore open his chest as it exited. Now that everything was silent but for the stamping and blowing of the horses, Vin could hear Ezra’s wheezing breaths. That sadness came back double, twisting through him until he felt like dying himself.

“Ezra?” Chris touched Ezra’s face, hand curving against his cheek like it belonged there. Vin tightened his grip on his rifle, staring. What the hell is this?

Ezra struggled, managed to open his eyes at Chris’s call of his name. Blood had spattered his chin, had turned the front of his brilliantly white shirt to glistening red. “Chris,” he coughed thickly, pain twisting his face, and more blood dribbled out between his lips. “S-sorry…” And then the bubbling sound of his breaths just… stopped.

Chris didn’t straighten away like Vin expected. He continued to cradle Ezra’s face, thumb brushing back and forth over his cheek as if Ezra could still feel it, could still get comfort from it. And his expression… Vin had to look away. Somethin’ like that oughtta be private, he thought, and wished he hadn’t seen.

He watched the top of the bluff a short while – longer than he wanted to, not knowing for sure what had happened to the men who’d ambushed them – before trying to get Chris’s attention. “Chris,” he said, keeping his voice low, “we gotta get movin’.”

There was a long pause before Chris replied, heavy and slow. “Yeah… guess so.”

Vin waited until he heard Chris climb to his feet before turning around. “Reckon those two up there are either gone or dead. I’ll check ‘em out, bring ‘em back if they’re dead.”

Chris just nodded and strode toward Ezra’s horse, muttering soft words to calm him, stroking his neck before untying the bedroll behind the saddle.

When Vin returned, he led two horses behind him; both of the bank robbers were dead, wrapped in their own bedrolls and slung over their saddles. Chris had done the same for both Buck and Ezra, was just swinging up on his own horse as Vin picked his way up the defile.

They rode in silence, broken only when they entered the woods where the Indian had challenged them. Chris pulled up, started to dismount.

“Where you goin’?”

“Gonna find that Indian,” Chris replied, his voice flat, like here weren’t no life left in him. “And then I’m gonna kill him.”

“No, you ain’t,” Vin said, calm as he could. “He didn’t have nothin’ to do with this. We’re gonna get ‘em back to town, bury ‘em good and proper.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth, and he had to resist the urge to spit after he’d spoken them.

He could see Chris’s work as he bit down on the words he wanted to say, could see the way his mouth pulled down at the corners. But he didn’t get down, just growled “Hyah!” and kicked his horse into motion.

Vin let out a breath and followed.

First thing Chris did on returning to town was to head to the saloon, wearing a scowl like thunder that kept everyone from his path. He’d bought a bottle and retreated to his room at the boarding house. He’d sobered up by the next afternoon, when Buck and Ezra… when the funeral took place, stood there with the rest of them in the cemetery, his jaw clenched tight, so raw that Vin wondered how anyone could bear to be near him, his pain was screaming so loud.

He hadn’t seemed to hear JD when he said they were heading to the saloon; just stayed staring at the graves side by side. It was nearly dark when Chris showed up in the saloon, and he had gotten so hellishly drunk and mean that it’d taken four… all four of them to drag him to the jail to sleep it off.

***

Chris hadn’t had many sober days since then. Vin could count them on one hand and still have fingers left over.

And this ain’t gonna be one of ‘em, I guess, Vin thought, watching as Chris drained what little whiskey was left in his bottle. It fell from his fingers to the floor with a hollow thunk and for a moment, Vin hoped that would be it. Then Chris swung himself upright, sat for a moment with his head in his hands, then pushed himself to stand. He wavered for a moment, then caught his balance and reached for his gun belt with an unsteady hand.

“Where you goin’, cowboy?” Vin asked quietly, and watched Chris’s shoulders snap straight with surprise. He forgot I was even here…

Chris shot him a bloodshot look. “Saloon,” he muttered. “If I can find my goddamned boots…” He stumbled toward the end of the bed, nearly tripped over his boots, still standing where Vin had left them, and sat down heavily to pull them on, careless of the spurs.

Even as he watched, trying to think of something to say to make Chris stop, Vin knew how this night would go. He’d shadow Chris to the saloon, watch as he drank himself senseless, and corral him before he killed anyone. He’d drag Chris back to his room, bottle in hand, just as the sky was thinking about dawn, wait for him to sleep it off, wait for the cycle to start again.

It was starting now – Chris stood again, steadier this time, like the boots and gun had anchored him somehow, and didn’t quite stagger to the door. He leaned hard against the banister all the way down the stairs, cursed and squinted at the late afternoon sun as he stepped outside. Vin followed silently, gut churning at what was coming.

He didn’t know this man, drunk and furious and damn near dead inside. All the times Chris had gone off the rails before, on the anniversary of Sarah and Adam’s deaths – that hadn’t been anything like this. Then, he’d known what to do: put Chris in a cell, let him sleep it off and things would be near enough to normal the next day.

Buck knew this Chris, Vin believed; knew him well. And maybe Buck could have pulled Chris away from the whiskey – hell, he’d done it before, at least for a little while. Or maybe it was because Buck was dead that Chris was so lost.

But the way Chris had touched Ezra’s cheek… this wreck that Chris had become wasn’t just a man who’d lost his best friend… or even two good friends. This was the wreck of a man who’d lost everything.

“Only so much grief a man can bear,” Buck had said one time. Vin was starting to think he knew what he was talking about.

Because at first, he had thought that the shaman was wrong. Them crossing the sacred ground hadn’t been the end of the world. Now he decided he was wrong. It may not have been the end for the rest of the world, but it certainly had been the end of Chris’s.

4/26 (after) – Author’s choice, author’s choice, post-apocalypse