Dead Remnants

Chapter 5 (Part One) : THE DEAD AIN'T SPECIAL

A fine mist still hovered above the pavement as the truck's tail lights slipped around the corner. Ashen staggered into the street. Now that Miss Callahan had left, Ashen's one chance at getting her questions answered had been scattered to the winds. As her panic took root, she heard a husky drawl echo on the wind.

"That's so darned annoying. Ruins the whole of my day."

Tiny spiraling particles embraced one another. The cowboy's form began to emerge, the collected pieces radiating with the same Northern Lights shimmer everything else seemed to be made of. Small flecks were still floating to their proper locations when he cocked his head to the side, one eye locked on her shoes.

"Ma'am, I ain't too sure if you're aware, but your feet appear to be on fire."

She looked down at her Converses. The multicolor flames licked at the rubber soles, curling playfully over her shoelaces.

"Guess you'll be leaving your tracks all over the city," Macajah said, looking on as she inspected each foot. "Reckon we'll have to teach you how to control that."

"Control what, exactly?" she said, her eyes narrowing. "What can you teach me? Do you have a school or a class that teaches you how to be a dead person?"

"That's plain burro milk," Macajah scoffed. As she stared blankly at him, he coughed and raised an eyebrow. "Foolishness."

"No! Waking up in a morgue is 'foolishness'! Running into a man who has some gigantic magic gun is 'burro milk'!"

"Hey, it ain't magic and it ain't a gun. This here is Agnes." He patted his duster where the enormous firearm hid. "My Winchester rifle. The very same that won the West, they say. Well, mostly the same. I opted to stretch the truth some and make my own modifications."

"Fine! Whatever!" Ashen yelled. "I don't care about your stupid gun! I care that I'm on fire! I care that I'm very possibly dead!"

"Ma'am, I suppose I should advise that you're correct. You are, in fact, dead." He focused on Ashen's sneakers, taming his mustache with a weathered hand. "And you're unmistakably on fire."

"But why am I dead? Why am I on fire? What did you do to me, cowboy?"

He raised his hand defensively. "Hold your dang horses a minute. First off, let's get your circumstances square. I didn't do a thing to you. I didn't kill you. Heck, that's just an unfortunate event that occurs on the daily. And you ain't special 'cause you're dead, Little Missy. Everybody dies. You're like all the other bags of bones on this rotating ball of mud."

Macajah tugged down on the brim of his Stetson and continued. "Secondly, I'm none too fond of being referred to as 'cowboy.' It's disrespectful. Tends to vex me something terrible. Granted, when you modern folks lay eyes on me, I reckon that's what you see. But back in my day, most Easterners confused that with being a rustler, which meant a man was a horse thief. As I'm a gentleman and no horse thief, I would be much obliged if you'd call me Cage or Macajah. Or even the formal Mister Sloan."

Ashen scowled. She crossed her arms in dramatic indignation, spun around, and stomped back to the curb. The cowboy followed, punctuating the tongue-lashing he had given her by roughly smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his duster. Ashen's thoughts flitted to her short life. How she'd never go to college, get married, and have children. How she'd never have the chance to become a better mother than her own. How she would never know what it felt like to fall in love.

She hung her head, blinking fast to fight back the tears. In the end, the tears won, spilling out to form fat splatters on the concrete. Macajah looked up from his preening to catch her quickly dab at her eyes. His gaze met hers and the hard edges of his face softened.