Twitch and Die!

Ch.4: No Road to Thurber

Chloe rushed forward, her hand over her heart. “For the love of…” she stopped short of Chancho, wide-eyed. “What happened?”

Standing motionless in the doorway, Angelo’s albino qualities bleached whiter than a sheet. Assaulted by the Italian’s rising fear and grief, Chancho plucked gristle from his shoulder while spot-checking the blood-spattered front of his serape.

“We’re not completely sure.” Starr stepped toward Angelo, breaking the news before the man saw it for himself. “But your brother and Mrs. Marcon are dead, shot to death.” Angelo starred past them at the two covered figures in the back of the room. Wind whipped through the stone house, rippling the sheet and revealing Phebe’s swollen toes.

Chloe gripped Chancho’s arms, searching his watery eyes for explanation.

“Jesus, Joseph and Mary.” Cap in hand, Angelo dropped to his knees and spat.

Starr stepped aside. “I was unconscious most of the time,” and waited for Chancho to take over.

Chancho watched the Italian wearily. The odors of stagnant pond, cornmeal and various bodily fluids created the stink of a slaughter house along with the natural instinct to flee. Yet the proximity of Angelo’s pain shattered Chancho’s bonds of fear, releasing a deeper desire to comfort. But how could he explain what he saw?

“It was terrible, mis amigos.” Chancho moved Chloe gently aside and stepped toward Angelo. On his knees, the Italian seemed smaller than a child, but wound up like a badger protecting its young. “The illness possesses its victims, gives them strength, makes them crazy.”

The haze over Angelo’s eyes dissipated. “You killed them?” He sprang upward, latching his hands around Chancho’s neck. “Son of a bitch! You kill my brother!” With a crunch, Chancho’s throat compacted in Angelo’s grip.

Starr swooped in, using the crook of his arm to lift Angelo from the ground in a headlock. The venom in the Italian’s eyes didn’t fade. Chancho clasped his hands together. Swinging them downward, he dislodged Angelo’s chokehold.

“Not us!” Starr yanked him off, wrenching an arm behind his back.

Angelo spun. Yanking his arm free, he prepared to assault Starr, a man twice his size.

But Chloe gripped his shoulder. “Angel, wait.”

Breathing heavy, teeth showing, Angelo yielded.

Chancho swallowed, rubbing his neck. “It was…” he coughed, his mind hovering over the answer. The black hat. Chancho recognized the black hat—a common Boss of the Plains weathered beyond reason. His lips wouldn’t consent to saying it. Maybe he hadn’t seen right. “It was a man in black.”

Angelo swore and spat as he bent to pick up his cap. “The Angel of Death.”

“Who?”

Angelo tugged his hat in place. “I thought they were rumors. But I have heard people from Mingus and Strawn talk about a black figure. He breaks into homes to kill de sick.” He sneered. “Some have started leaving black tar as a sign of de infected.”

“Like the blood over the mantles of the Israelites.” Starr said.

“Except this ensures de angel drop in rather than to pass over.” Angelo stepped past Chancho to study the rest of the room.

“This was no angel, compadre. I promise you, he was a man.”

Angelo turned to face him, saw the carnage spattered from head to toe. Formal, business-like, he stretched out his hand, “Scuse,” and they shook. “You tried to save him. You have no doubt seen something terrible.”