Seeing Red (cowboys)
December 22, 2022 1:30 pm Leave your thoughtsIt’s Christmas and I’m busy AF.
So here is a chapter from RED COWBOYS. This is featured in the epilogue/end of King of Spades.
It’s a re-post.
Back next week!
Trent was drunk as shit. He had left the Blue Tag building knowing he was down for the count. The rest of the night was going to be spent leaning over the toilet in his washroom and sleeping on the tiles. He’d managed to excuse himself, said he was coming back but he knew he wasn’t. He’d gone through almost two bottles at dinner before Number One had given a Yeti a look and signalled him to collect the other bottles nearby and distribute them elsewhere.
He was staying up on the fifth floor of the Red Tag Building. He’d thought getting the whole floor was a pretty good deal for weeks before realising it was probably because Number One didn’t want him infecting other agents with his sudden weakness, his failure to come back from what happened to him overseas and at the Stella Hotel. The thought nagged at him, trying to squeeze through the drunken brain fog.
He didn’t want to be on Level 4 anymore anyway, right around the corner from Number One’s office and Cleo’s old room. He had lived in a massive tent with about forty other guys in the Middle East and before that, mostly slept in assigned cars, dorms and his place on The Outside, but his condo was out of the question. He was smart enough to know he didn’t want to be alone there so Level Five it was.
Everything was blurring in and out of his vision as he coasted down the hallways towards his room, trailing his hand along the wall to remind himself to keep upright while his steps dragged and tempted him to drop. Something about the flicker rate in the mutant-fluorescent lights above was playing tricks on his mind enough to make his guts churn. He knew his room was a few doors up from the far end, well away from the elevator where he had got out but heading that way was proving hard work.
He wanted a rest stop when he hit the halfway point, a few seconds to make the feeling in his stomach go away but a wall came up out of nowhere and blocked his path so he shoved it back with his left hand. The coolness on his palm didn’t budge and he didn’t want any trouble so he stepped back instead and just gave it a dirty look.
He continued the stumbling journey down the hall and repeated the action over and over. Whenever he pushed one wall back it was like it propelled him across towards the other until he was tripping down the hall from side to side like a human pinball. It was great. Drunken haze was so perfect, he was void of everything and he didn’t care. All he wanted was to go to bed, after he’d thrown up a few times maybe.
He laughed and the sound bounced around him, boyish and kind of pussy while his head spun and threatened to dunk him on his ass. He took a long blink and Cleo was there when his eyes shut, her finger on his lips, dark hazel eyes resting on his. He knew what that look meant. Shit, he wanted to kiss her, start something that wasn’t going to finish until dawn.
His eyes sprung open when he crashed into something hard enough to jar his scraped-up elbow.
It was solid and rectangular and taller than him, covered in a thick grey plastic tarp. He was pretty sure it hadn’t been there earlier when he flashed past to change his clothes and race to dinner but he didn’t know. It was almost at the end of the hall, maybe far back enough for him to have overlooked it, it was possible. He swayed as he pulled the corners and yanked the tarp. It stuck a few times, throwing him off balance and making him bow his back. He overcompensated and fell forward when it suddenly came away, slamming his hands out on the glass in front of him.
It was an expensive display case for trophies or fine china; thick glass up front and wooden frames, sturdy enough to take his weight if he’d wanted to climb it for some reason. It hadn’t even shuddered when he’d fallen into it. His hands were pressed up on the surface while everything spun around him, his full weight on it waiting for his balance to return.
He forced his eyes to focus on his dirty square fingernails, move down his fingers past minor cuts and scrapes across his knuckles and then back up again. He pulled away from the case and left white prints slowly waning with the air. Trent saw the contents of the display case behind them and choked, halfway between a gasp and a yelp.
His back hit the opposite wall hard, driving all the air from his lungs, leaving him coughing and unable to get a breath. He couldn’t take his eyes off the case but he was caught, bent over trying to clear his throat and get some oxygen. His eyes were watering with the strain. He hadn’t realised he’d shoved himself backwards so violently until impact.
He could see a grimy female Red Tag uniform with grass stains and dirt on the knees and blood spatter on the arms and chest. Two bullet holes graced the torso area and then one near the shoulder. The words “Agent Cleo Darkrose – Deceased” were printed on a small gold plaque below the glass on the wooden cabinet area of the display case, engraved in thick stamped-out italic font. It looked authentic, it matched his memories.
It was the uniform Cleo had been wearing when she fell from the Stella Hotel and died.
“No, nuh uh, it’s gotta be a replica…but why would they make a fucking replica?” His mind was screaming now,“How did that get here? What the hell is going on?!”
Horror.
Trent turned and ran. He didn’t know where he was going or how long he was going to run for. Something didn’t make sense and his mushed brain couldn’t figure it out.
He had to get away.
It felt like the display case would come after him.
Run. Just run.
He snapped his head around over his shoulder to see if it was chasing him as he tore down the hall, a thick fearful groan oozing from the side of his mouth. When he looked ahead the hallway was getting shorter from the elevator side, shrinking so he was running out of space to go.
He knew this feeling. He’d felt like this before, some cave in the Middle East with the enemy chasing.
The display case was closing in behind him. He was going to die.
His head snapped back again to check its position; it was still coming after him, gaining on him just like he knew it would. Stomach bile rose in his throat as he pushed forward, running harder, larger strides to escape, panicked breaths.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Get away.
He faced the front, too late to notice the wall come up, too drunk to stop himself hitting it at full force then rebounding off and almost taking an eye out when he banged his head on the corner of a drink fountain on the way down. He tasted vomit as he smashed his jaw on the ground.
AUDIO VERSION: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lj6YGA28AhQ
I read to you. Merry Christmas.
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