Homicidal By Design [Hector Escaton]

Chapter 7

Hector sighed as his stomach growled for the millionth time. The deputy had slid food under the bars, but he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of stooping to eat the dirty slop. He did, however, drink the water when he was sure no one was looking.

He wasn't stupid, just stubborn. He knew he needed water—he was only human after all. Ugh but this was only day two. He was going to die of dust and boredom by the time Armistice finally got there.

It was just then that Hector heard a commotion outside the jail. The jingling of harness brass and rhythmic clopping of horse hooves signaled the arrival of another prisoner. He cocked his jaw, happy for the distraction, but was not looking forward to sharing a cell.

There was a slight commotion outside as the lawmen laughed like hyenas. Hector rolled his eyes, but wasn't inspired enough to peer out the small window. He was sure he would know the butt of the joke soon enough.

The suspense didn't last for long. Thanks to their inability to talk quietly, Hector overheard the men joking about one of the prisoners being a very wanted man, and that he preferred a firing-squad execution.

He was surprised to see that a second prisoner, an older man dressed in black, was also brought in. Without much preamble, the deputy thrust the prisoner into the cell with him. The man immediately smoothed himself over and regained a self-assured composure as the door clicked shut; he was a little overdressed, with a tie, vest, and overcoat.

Oh good, one of those types. He probably was caught cheating at cards or some other reckless, stupid city slicker pastime. Idiota.

"Enjoy the cigars," the man in black joked.

"Go fuck yourself," the deputy spat tactlessly.

Wow, what a comeback, zinging, really. No doubt he lacked the cognition to make a witty retort even if he had wanted too.

Of course the big bug chuckled to himself like he had it all figured out. Hector studied him for a moment longer before the temptation became overwhelming:

"And just who are you supposed to be?"

Without breaking character, the older man turned to him with a self-righteous surety that grated Hector's nerves. "Your salvation."

His salvation? Oh, por supuesto. He was obviously so good at handling his own salvation. Hector adjusted his hat and stared at the man unamused. "I don't think we have ever met."

The man had moved to the window and was fixated on something outside, only turning back to respond. "You know, you always seemed like a...a market tested kinda thing." He walked to the middle of the cell and continued his monologue as if he was saying something of great importance. "Big gun, tasteful scar, locked in your little cycle like a prized poodle after his own tail."

Hector bit down on his tongue, forcing his tone to remain level despite his rampant annoyance at the pompous asshole in front of him. "And you sound like someone who has grown tired of wearing his guts on the inside."

"There's no need to get testy," the man began condescendingly. "I'm just curious about your...world view. Some kind of native mumbo-jumbo?"

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the oversimplification of his nihilistic philosophy, he gave the easiest explanation he possibly could. "It's simple: I believe that only the truly brave can look at the world and understand that all of it—gods, men, everything else—will end badly. No one will be 'saved'."

The old prune nodded as if he had any true understanding, and chewed on his toothpick. "Maybe we've got more in common than I thought."

Hector weaved his hands together and squeezed them tightly to distract himself. WIthout thinking, he asked: "What about you? What turns of fate have brought you here?"