Westward Bound: Part 2

"Keep scratching, and I won't stitch you up again if they come loose." 
I was bluffing, of course. Not that she'd know. She could stand to see a doc once we reach a town, but for the moment she's conscious, with a hand reaching into her oversized shirt. Her eyes regard me with unveiled suspicion, not that I blame her. Even as I sewed her up, my eyes couldn't help straying from their task somewhat. 
Her eyes looked almost orange as they reflected the flames in front of her. The setting sun had given them a honeyed glow, but that was hours ago. As she took her hand out of her shirt, I noticed her tan. And the faint scar along her ring finger. I pulled another piece of dried meat from my pack to chew on, tossing her the rest. 
"You need to keep your strength up."
She didn't disagree with me, demonstrating a hearty appetite in spite of our meager provisions. I lay back, tucking my satchel behind my head as a makeshift pillow and lowered my hat over my face. 
"Thank you."
The first words she spoke to me since I fell off the train. Not looking up, I gave them a dismissive wave of my hand. It wasn't as though I could have done anything else. 

I lifted the brim of my hat a bit higher, glaring at the vehicle as it blared past me. Those motorized buggies irked me more than anything else, and there were a lot of them in the city. Progress, they called it. Yet they seemed to have forgotten their manners along with it. 
I nodded to the hotel clerk as I entered, taking the stairs up a few floors. When I turned the key to the room, I found a curious sight behind the door. The dress she wore was a deep blue. A bit worn around the hem, and faded all around. Her hair was pinned up under a matching bonnet, and seeing a strip of flesh from above her high collar of her jacket stirred me more than the glimpse I caught under her shirt those weeks before. Then she turned around, taking her eye away from the spyglass I had set up before I wired her. 
"Are you going to change your mind?" I asked her. 
She shook her head, and started to push past me. I grasped her arm, more roughly than I intended, but led her back to the window. Outside and across the street was the jailhouse. And through a barred window, hatless and looking a lot cleaner was the leader of that gang on the train. He peered out into the street a moment and went back to pacing in his cell, like a caged animal. 
I could feel her tense, and stilled her with a finger pressed gently to her lips. Then I pulled a bundle that was leaning against the wall and drew out the rifle. It was a small caliber, the kind that won't make much noise compared to this bustling town. The sound of the shot would be lost in the city, and I had already set the scope earlier in the day. I told her as much, and laid it onto the bed next to us. 
Without another word, I turned and took a few steps towards the door. And waited in the middle of the room. I could see her in a mirror, something she was oblivious to as she lifted the rifle, working the bolt to feed a new round into the chamber. She took her place a few steps back from the window and lifted the weapon, peering through the sight and into the cell across the street. 
By the rise and fall of her shoulders, I could see her breath steady and unconsciously matched my own with hers. I stopped breathing when she did. At the first sob, I exhaled and turned around, placing a hand on her shoulder as she lowered the weapon.  I took it from her, laying it aside as her hands came up to her face, collecting her tears. Her cry carried with it her frustration, despair, and sorrow. A sound that echoed in my bones, and one I won't soon forget. I gave her my handkerchief, glancing at the scar along her finger as she took it. 
"It's enough to see him hang." I told her. I don't know if I believed it myself, but even if she didn't, it's best if it was. 
When she pushed past me and ran through the door, I had some trouble deciding wether or not to follow. By the time I made up my mind, the world went white as the sun came in through my window.

Non Sequitur

"So, I think it would be fun." She told me, tucking an unruly lock behind an ear. Her eyes gazed at me expectantly, and I looked away to the screen in front of her.
"It would be nice to get out and do some hiking," I conceded. "Especially with the ocean right there."
"Great! I'll be right back." she said, sliding down from her seat upon the table. I watched as she slowly made her way to the restroom across the room. The sway of her hips was almost hypnotic, especially with how her dress flared slightly at the bottom. It would have been daringly short if not for the tights she wore underneath, and the black heeled boots she wore just added that much more emphasis to her legs.
A flicker on the screen caught my attention, and her Facebook page popped up on it's own accord. One wall entry caught my notice, though it was dated some months ago. She's single. And apparently, her ex turned out to be gay. She thinks it's because of her, but going by how she looks and her bright personality, I don't see that as even remotely possible. 
"She really likes you. I can tell." 
He was a gangly looking fellow in cargo shorts and a t-shirt. As he came up to me, he made a gesture towards the restroom and gave me a very earnest look. 
"She's been through some rough times, but she's the real thing. She's a good friend too, so don't break her heart. You get me?" 
His tone held more concern for her than any threat or warning towards me. Still, I couldn't believe it. 
"I know it. But she doesn't feel that way about me. I'm just a friend, nothing more." 
"Sure you are. Just take care of her, okay?" And after clapping his hand on my shoulder, he walked off. Just as she had returned. 
I must have given her a funny look as she regained her place on the edge of the table, crossing her legs before me. 
"What?" She asked. I pulled my eyes away from hers, clicking the map open again on her laptop. 
"It's nothing." I replied. Nothing at all. 

Westward Bound

I bit back a cough as the dust caught in my throat. A quick glance around and I spit off to the side. There weren't any ladies present, thankfully, at least until I turned the corner and onto the platform. The assembled travelers were bunched under the awning to take what shade they could find, but the wind still scraped along my face with the heat.
With the sun high overhead, I figured I had time to look around. The station, along with the town, was surrounded by dust and clay, save for the occasional dry patches of grass. While the sun burned down, I felt a throbbing ache along my left arm. I could see the clouds far off on the horizon, dark and menacing, but not quite hiding the plume of steam over the track.
Angling the brim of my hat over my eyes, I felt a hard nub rub against my skull, like a pebble in my hatband. Then the memories started coming back, hazy, fleeting, like a half remembered dream. The flash of fireworks, the glint of a diamond... And a bone handle sticking out of a gunman's chest.
Rubbing my neck revealed that I hadn't come away unscathed. And then things got a little clearer. The reward, splitting the take with the hotel owner, and buying myself a ticket to someplace quieter. I tightened the strap on my satchel as the locomotive steamed into the station. Following the crowd, I flashed my ticket to the conductor and was waved to a passenger car. I took a seat near the back and slouched down, sliding my hat over my face. It wasn't much longer before the train started moving again, and I felt myself start to nod off.
The ache in my side roused me first, the handle of my knife jabbing a rib. I slipped it back around, and sat straighter, taking in the scene. The sun was at that final stretch of sky, beating the train to the coast. It was the chattering that caught my attention, suddenly silenced by the sharp crack of the butt end of a revolver against the doorjamb. The sound was repeated twice more, and a dirty fellow in a black hat stepped into the car, followed by two riflemen. They were wearing masks.
No one put up a fight as a fourth one came up from behind them with a bag. As the other passengers started throwing in their money, jewels and watches, I leaned back and assumed my previous pose, my hat over my face. A small tap with my heel, and I felt my other blade was still sheathed in my boot.
A harsh, muffled voice shouted at me. Not moving a muscle, I feigned sleep until my hat was knocked off my head by a firm slap. My eyes glanced over the interloper, tall, slim, and with the eyes of a scared child. He couldn't have been more than sixteen. Taking up my hat, I felt for the diamond, feeling it safe in the band. Once safely back atop my head, I reached for the boy, quick as a snake, and grabbed a fistful of hair, slamming his face into the seat in front of me.
The guns pointed at me were kept silent thanks to the boy in my grasp. He whimpered as a dark stain spread over the bandana covering his face, and I shuffled him into the aisle. I asked nicely. Seemed the least I could do. They declined, pointing out my lack of firepower. That was a point I had to concede.
My foot came up to the kid's backside, and a firm shove had him stumbling over his pals. A hard stomp released the catch in my boot sheathe, sending my knife into the air and in my grasp as I sprang forward, letting my weight disorient most of the gang. Some of the passengers up front took advantage of the commotion to disarm the riflemen. The leader shoved the boy away and ran back through the door before the way could be cleared.
I caught the kid before his head hit the floor, and was frozen as my eyes met another pair. She had blue eyes, light as the afternoon sky with long dark lashes and hair as black as ink. The dress she had on was suitable for a woman in mourning. She looked too young to be a widow. I fought to pry my eyes from her quivering lips, lifting my hat to her and passing the boy to one of the armed passengers to look after.
I ran out the door. A glance showed me he hadn't retreated into the next car, so I crushed my hat, stuffing it into my belt as I grasped a ladder and climbed up to the roof of the car. I was nearly given a lead slug for my efforts. A second shot hit the car behind me, his aim thrown off by the rocking of the train.
I pulled myself up and charged, fighting the wind, the motion of the car, and the urge to leap out of the way of his next shot. It went wild, and I lunged, my knife carving a slit into his hand. He fell back, still grasping his weapon, and I fell onto my face, struggling not to slip over the side. He got up first.
It was taking all I had just to hold on. As his hand came up, I felt certain the next shot would go through my skull. The crack of a rifle was almost lost in the wind, and we both looked off to the side to see a rider in a long duster racing the train on a gray horse. The next shot from the rider missed as well, but it was enough to have my opponent focus on him instead for his next shot.
I brought my legs back up under me and jumped again, tackling the gunman as his shot went off. I saw the rider fall, but felt a stab of panic in my heart as I tumbled off the side of the train. I reached for the edge, missed, and went tumbling along the ground as the cars thundered by.
My fall was softened by the green grass, but I still felt each blow of an errant rock or pebble as my body was battered along the ground. When I came to a stop, I lay still, dazed for some minutes. A sharp breath filled my lungs, and coughs wracked my body until I regained their equilibrium. Getting up slowly, my eyes scanned the area for the gunman. There wasn't a sign of him. Drawing my hat from my belt, I beat it back into shape and slipped it on, looking around some more. There was a figure in a brown duster a few hundred yards off being nudged by a gray horse.
The rider lay still as I approached, obscured by a mass of long brown hair. I saw a red stain spread across his shirt, and I ripped it open to inspect the wound. I found I was mistaken. The rider was a woman. A revelation that stunned me until a surprisingly firm punch from her had me flat on my back again.

I woke up with a bad case of dry mouth. Not a pleasant way to wake up. Recurring dreams are nothing new to me, there are even ones that change over time. This is a rare case where a dream has a sequel. I wonder if there's a market out there for western adventures.

Just Five More Minutes...

I was seated at a writing desk, my feet propped up on an open drawer, with a laptop quite appropriately on my lap. The walls were painted a forest green, and outside the curtained windows I could see the trees turning golden from the autumn. Another glance over the desk revealed a shelf with bookends containing between them a collection of Raymond Chandler, as well as some titles unfamiliar to me save for a couple. They were my books. And on the screen in front of me was another work in progress.
I set the laptop on the desk and go over what I have put down. Nero was working another case with his more effective if questionable methods, and his girl caught him at it again. Doesn't look like he'll be able to talk his way out of it so easily this time, but I have a feeling they'll work it out. They always do.
As I was reaching for the keys, I felt a set of slender fingers sift through my hair, getting a handful before slicking it back. The tips came back through, gently caressing my scalp above and behind my ears. I would have preferred they scratched a little lower. She knows this.
"Why does he only call her "darling" when he's in trouble?" She asked me with amusement giving a musical lilt to her voice.
"He hopes it'll be endearing." I answered. "I don't know if it should have quite the effect he intends. What do you think?"
She continued scratching lightly behind my ear. Her fingers slipped lower onto my shoulders as her lips took their former position by my right ear.
"She wishes he would call her that without being in trouble."
"He likes to call her 'My Love'."
"And as you keep telling me, variety is the spice of life." She reminded me teasingly.
I loved seeing this side of her.
"Sounds like you had a good time today." I said, reaching back to touch her face. It didn't take long for my fingers to trail down past her shoulders.
"You should come next time." She replied. I was halfway through a double-entendre when an electric chime came through my ears.

I opened my eyes to darkness. My hand automatically reached over for my phone and I checked the number. Not recognizing it, I answered. Maybe I should have hung up. I did a minute or two later, but I indulged her with some texts, wishing all the while that I could get back to my dream. I never did. I never could turn down a damsel in distress, but sometimes I wonder if it's really worth the trouble.

Wings Of Honor

I didn't think I would see her again, but there she was, her dark eyes gazing at me. She was dressed the same as she was the last time I saw her, black lace up boots, red fishnets with suspenders, pleated gray skirt, and a tight white blouse under a red sweater vest. She had her hair in an updo this time, and was all the more lovely for it. She was sprawled provocatively along her name, intricately painted underneath her on the nose of the aircraft. July. An odd name for a girl, but more lyrical than May, June, or April. The last dream I had of her certainly had it's share of fireworks...
I patted the nose of the plane and gave the pilot a thumbs-up and jogged to the hangar. As is sometimes the case, I was able to trace the origin of this dream from something in the waking world, this time from a conversation I was having with a friend of mine over the weekend. I told her I loved the old aviator aesthetic, a fascination she shares. And a concept that has ingrained itself in my dreams. I watched as the bomber took off for parts unknown, hearing engines turn all around me as other planes, bombers and even some vintage fighters started up.
Then I heard the sirens.
Crews scrambled to get the planes spinning and up in the air. I was shoved aside by a guy in a tan jacket hauling a duffel bag. He exited the hangar through a side door. I continued on, looking around. I saw her at the end, getting a tune-up from a mechanic.
She was a P-51 Mustang, painted gunmetal grey with two red pinstripes streaming along either side of the fuselage. The bubble canopy, dorsal fin, and four bladed propeller showed her to be a D model, a later addition to the war. The engine was exposed, the nose sheathing discarded on the floor. Remembering that Chuck Yeager had named his planes Glamorous Glennis, I glanced down to it, only making out the letters "-lla" before the mechanic shouted. After a brief exchange, he said she was grounded and wouldn't fly.
I was ready to tear out my hair, but that wouldn't help things. It didn't keep me from going to the back of the hangar and kicking the door open. That was when the bombs started falling. One flashed close by and I was knocked aside by the blast. When I came to, I wasn't at the hangar, but in the back of a plane. With all the jostling, I could tell we were up in the air, me and the soldiers decked out in gear appropriate for the period. One slapped me on the shoulder and shouted something. I didn't hear and was about to ask he repeat when the side hatch opened and they started jumping.
I was rather unceremoniously tossed out.
The other guys had parachutes and were floating above me, coasting safely towards the ground. Despite the tumbling, I wasn't panicked yet. I had no chute, and I didn't have a drop pod this time. I wasn't even falling with much style. Looking down, I made out a country road, green hills, and a town a few miles out. The trees looked soft enough.
I figured I had less than a minute before I found out when my belt was caught on something. My trajectory changed to a more horizontal one, and as I neared the ground, I was dropped hard, but not as hard as I would have been at terminal velocity. I rolled over, looking up at the paratroopers and saw a familiar looking finhead rocket by.
Next time, I'm going to have to dream up a rocket pack for myself.

Now, Count Up Your Sins

I found myself walking in a black void. I could feel the floor under the soles of my boots. It felt like asphalt, it had that hint of softness to it with each step I took. A spotlight came on in front of me, showing a white suited figure with a matching fedora. It was either Michael Jackson or Narumi Sokichi from Kamen Rider W. 
Saa, omae no tsumi wo, kazoe.
Okay, I guess that answers that question. He walked further into the void and I followed until he went around an unseen corner. Once there, the world brightened up enough for me to see that I was once more by my usual coffee shop. Down this corridor lies an Italian restaurant that I am almost convinced is a front for the mob (seriously) and an alleyway that featured in an earlier dream. Rather than go towards Ben, I walked through to the street. 
Looking at the clouds overhead, it felt later than I would normally be on these streets, yet the town was alive. Every joint had it's lights on, and I was passing by people enjoying a night on the town. As I walked on, I lost sight of Narumi Sokichi, yet a familiar looking figure caught my eye through the window of a used bookstore. 
The chime sounded when I entered, but when I made it around the corner she wasn't there. Just the glint of steel tucked into a bookcase to my right. I plucked out the blade, tracing the pad of my thumb along the glyph engraved on the tang. It's Archer's, alright. She's persistent, but she'll have to wait her turn. 
Looking back to the shelf, I pulled out the book she had tucked the knife beside; The Long Goodbye, by Raymond Chandler. A decent read, though not my favorite of his. I set it back into the shelf and walked out of the store, flipping Archer's knife in my hand. I caught the tip between two fingers and gave it another flip to set the handle in my palm. It's well balanced. She does good work, and I hope to see if I can do as much someday. 
I stopped cold when I saw him in front of me. For a moment, I was glad I had a blade in my hand, but that passed quickly. Cait would be aghast if I had gotten blood on her knife for any reason other than defense. With another twirl through my fingers, I tucked behind me on my belt and approached my father. 
As I stood face to face with him, I had remembered a scene from Alexandre Dumas' Twenty Years After: "...it was not a man... It was an apparition.... I conjured it away". The malice was clearly written on his face. I stared him down and he seemed to fade before me. I reached out to see if he were really there, and he vanished altogether in a white mist. The tips of my fingers brushed something soft. I made a grab and my hand came back with a white fedora. It had a tall crown, a wide brim, and a solid black band. I turned it around, feeling it's weight. It was a solid hat. White doesn't suit me, but something compelled me to put it on. It was a perfect fit.
As I continued on down the sidewalk, I pulled the brim lower over my eyes. Saa, omae no tsumi wo, kazoe.

The city was laid out before me, it's glow much gentler than the black clouds above. With a gloved hand, I tugged my hat forward a shade. My eyes traced the barren streets and alleyways, and I didn't see a sign of anyone.
"It's the mystery," said a slightly metallic voice from behind me.
I turned to see her glowing form step from the shadows. She was literally glowing, strips of light embedded into her white outfit. It was as tight as a second skin, and even her face was powdered white.
Her heels clicked like a metronome as she stepped up beside me.
"You like to earn your answers." she said, staring at me with sky blue eyes. Her face stood out like a ghost with her black hair fading into the darkness.
"I was never one for a siren's song." I replied, remembering where I had seen her. I'm a bit of a Bogie fan, and playing with femme fatales never ends well. I walked away and doffed my hat, clipping it to the belt of my coat before slipping on my helmet. As I mounted my bike, she had another pearl of wisdom to share.
"You won't find your answer out there."
With one last look at her, I flicked down my visor and rode off.

There was a burst of dirt and gravel a few feet in front of me. I had ducked down to shield my face, then sprinted on through. The setting was different. It was during the day, the sky overcast, and this neighborhood had obviously seen better days. And I had a large silvery knife in each hand. And I heard running with scissors was bad.
I stopped before a corner and peeked around, seeing something large, metal, and bipedal. I didn't bother to look any higher than it's legs, those were scary enough. But the access panel on the hip looked promising. As it stepped closer, I ran out and grabbed ahold of it's thigh, rising up with it's next step. As it came down, I lifted myself up and used a knife to pry open the panel, revealing a few circuit boards inside, as well as few thin rubber hoses.
I slashed the tubes open and was rewarded with a spray of fluid. The machine crashed down with it's next step, and I jabbed my knife through the circuit boards reflexively hoping to brace myself. With a jolt, I realized how bad an idea that was and managed to let go as the live current gave me a shock. As I crumpled into the ground, I looked up to see the machine rear back and roar, it's shape reminiscent of Metal Gear Rex.

I closed my eyes and felt myself sinking. There was a nothingness, a void, but I felt the grit against my skin. Not like a sand or gravel, but more like a fine granule of sugar. I sunk lower into the mass, as slow as molasses, but it was relaxing. Soothing. I sank deeper and felt myself start to fade. Thoughts and feelings passed through me like smoke in the wind, and in the end there was a warm darkness.

It was early. The sun was out, but I could hear my brother heading off for school, and the neighbors stirring in their yard next door. I coughed, letting out some of my congestion into a tissue. I'm still fighting a cold, but at least I'm winning. Weird dreams aside, it seems I finally got some regular hours in as far as sleep goes.