The desert can be a horrible prison for a man alone. Solitude can give someone too much time to think. The night falls hard, fast and lasts an eternity. The cries of the coyotes came to be a comfort to Dusty. He felt at home in their sorrow.
Wrapped only in his woolen blanket, he stared at the stars in the black sky that seemed close enough to touch. Unable to sleep - afraid to sleep - but desperately in need of it. He wished the heavens would fall on top of him. He wanted to be put out of his misery. But most of all he wanted to see the cowshit that killed his wife, dead. That's what got him up in the morning. It was his inspiration, his security. In his anger, he drifted off into the distant unfamiliar land of sleep.
"Charles!"
Dusty could see the pale face of Clara. "Please, Charles - help me! He's hurting me!"
The sickly distorted face of the monster sneered out from the darkness as he raped Clara. Dusty tried to move towards them, but there was a leash around his neck, choking him as he tried to reach out to her. Blood was pouring from Clara's mouth. As it rolled down her cheek, the animal would catch it with his long black tongue. He raised his head and smiled, blood oozing through his teeth and over his lips. He spoke as if from the pit of hell: "She really knows how to do it. And I know how to excite her. She loves it!"
Clara lifted her bloody head and groaned though her red teeth. "He's sooooo good! Ooh, you were never this good." Her voice shook with each thrust of his pelvis. Then her face turned from pleasure back to pain. "Charles, why are you letting him do this to me? Pleeeease..." She moaned and breathed rapidly, then - nothing. But the monster continued to pump.
"I AM HE! And you'll never get me!" A dark laugh burst from his bloody mouth. "Never!" He plunged his hand into Clara's chest and tore out her heart. It twitched wildly in his hand. "Sweet dreams, Dusty... ha ha ha..."
He sunk his teeth into the convulsing heart.
Dusty jolted forward as he woke and the leash that held him let him go. His hands were in front of him reaching for the stars, where Clara had been just seconds before. Cold sweat covered his body. He was exhausted, but never wanted to sleep again.
He sat up and with his boot kicked at the dying embers that once were a fire. He was freezing, and the night still had about four more hours before it would release its grip. The fire would soon die completely and there was no way Dusty could save it.
Each day, as he made his way through the desert wastelands, Dusty would collect every stray piece of wood he could find. That day's supply had been skimpy, and it was now gone. The cold was closing in. The dull aching in his toes was beginning to turn into a hard pounding. The desert was cruel and merciless.
Dusty stood, still wrapped in his blanket, and began to walk around. He was hoping the circulation would warm his feet. It didn't work. He began to worry about losing his toes to frostbite. A coyote howled, and Dusty jumped; it sounded like it was sitting right beside him.
He bent down and picked up his Smith & Wesson Old Frontier pistol, and walked in the direction of the howl. He could barely make out the silhouette of the coyote. It was a hundred yards in front of him, standing upright on a small dune.
As Dusty brought the cold gun out form under his blanket, he imagined that the coyote was the monster. Carefully he laid the sights on his target and squeezed the trigger. The night exploded, as fire shot out of the long barrel and the small cannon shook the desert. Dusty's nostrils came alive with the aroma of the gunpowder.
He began to run toward the still-breathing animal, ignoring the sharp, throbbing pain calling to him from the cold raw meat in his boots. Steaming vapors poured out of the coyote's mouth as its body twisted in pain. Shortening the distance between himself and the dying beast, Dusty noticed that he had accomplished exactly what he set out to do - blow the front legs, and nothing but the front legs, right off its frame. Otherwise, the animal was in one piece. It just lay there whimpering, unable to escape.
Dusty approached the coyote with little caution. He was a desperate man, no longer fearing pain, or death - he welcomed it. The animal did not respond when he reached out for it. One hot piece of lead ripped all the spirit out of it. If it can be said that an animal can pray, that coyote prayed for death. Lying on the cold desert sand, it wanted only quick relief from the misery.
Dusty held the hind legs of the coyote with one hand while drawing his razor-sharp knife with the other. With a quick downward slice, he opened the belly of the beast, exposing its warm insides. He quickly removed his boots and inserted his numb feet into the opening. His toes began to regain their feeling, and they felt the faint, dying heartbeat of the desert scavenger that unwillingly sacrificed its life, so that his feet might live.
Dusty waited for day.
(to be continued)
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