Ghost Stories: A Collection of Short Stories on Death and Dying © copyright 2014 by Lillian Carrero
Excerpt:
The Vampire Hunter’s
Kit
The older guy was old enough to be the other
fellow’s father, and in ways almost was. Eddie was the closest thing the
younger man had to a father. In appearance they were so vastly different that
most people assumed Eddie would be insulted by any insinuation that they might
be father and son. They were different, the one from the other. Eddie’s sun
hardened face with creases etching permanent and ever expanding patterns, his
hair more grey than the reddish blonde it had once been, and those blue eyes
had gone from alluring sparkle to mischievous twinkle. Years wasn’t the only
thing separating the traveling companions, Eddie had fought for the south.
Slavery had never been the issue. In his lifetime he’d known too few people
afforded the luxury of owning any slaves. He’d fought for honor and a way of
life, all that was gone now. What the war had not ravaged the carpetbaggers had
pilfered.
The younger man had fought for the
North. His enlistment was also motivated by personal reasons, but there were no
virtuous notions spurring him into action. He wanted work that didn’t involve
tending to the outhouse or animals. He wound up cleaning latrines and shoveling
horse manure. His age had worked against him, he’d been too young to have reach
his full height and only the first signs of baby whiskers grew on his face. It
wasn’t until the fighting had gotten pretty bad that some sergeant had rammed a
rifle in his hand and pointed him at the enemy. When the dust had settled and
he’d refused to relinquish his weapon his much-cultivated stoicism served him
well. Even the men who’d taken pleasure in watching him perform menial task
were too scared to insist that he return the weapon. It was those dark midnight
eyes that stared into the soul, the too straight jet-black hair, and the rich
honey colored skin that was more from birth than sun. Some people thought him
too tall for a Mexican and his look didn’t quite match up with Indian, but it
was hard to tell where he’d started and he did speak Mexican after all, people had heard him more than once. He was a puzzle.
The war had ended and taken with it more
than each man cared to admit. How these two had wound up, as traveling companions
was an interesting story, but better suited to another day. The younger man
went by the name of Santos, which meant something like saint, which he really
wasn’t.
After the war had been long over
they’d each had grandiose ideas of being hired guns, but neither one was
particularly skilled in that respect, nor did they have the stomach to pursue
it. For a while they had done good quoting scriptures and selling bibles, but it
was the miracle curative that was mostly whiskey and water and sometimes not
much of the former and too much of the latter, that was their real source of
income. It just came at a small price; this selling of small vials of empty
promises included traveling light and now and then running away from an
impromptu lynching.
Rations were low and the coast seemed
clear enough as they headed for a town somewhere in the middle of some hellish
heat ridden expanse. It was awfully intimidating, the arid vastness with
scattered reminders of how the sun could kill you and bleach out your bones.
They were not men easily bowed.
Miles and weeks ago they’d been given
directions that named the flats in theses parts Mar de fuego, Sea of fire and the crevice in the canyon that they
needed to cross La Boca del Inferno, Hell’s
Mouth. The names alone should have been deterrents, but odds were they could
hold up there unnoticed for a spell. They could wait it out until the last most
recent group of outraged good people lost interest, inevitably they always did.
They carried the bulk of their worldly
possessions on a bitch of a mule and the rest on their own saddlebags. Moving
pass the fire their canteens just
about ready to spit dirt they found hell.
It was a narrow passage and if bushwhackers were inclined to set up an
ambush, well this sure was the right place to go from notion to action. Eddie
went to take the lead but was slightly hampered by the mule tethered to his
saddle and Santos easily pushed ahead. Without words between them they were
each reluctant to let the other take the greater risk. The way they looked out
for each other that was the real reason most people thought they were father
and son.
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