Chapter 321 - Utah, One Week Ago part 6

The next morning, as Sydney slept in the shade of a paloverde tree, he was roused by something creeping stealthily nearby. It was midmorning and unseasonably warm, and he was sleeping in just his faded red longhandles. The boy and his vampire companion had come to the confluence of the Beat Stone and Canadian last night and that is where they made their camp. Sydney had washed his clothes in the river before lying down to sleep, squatting on the stony shore of the waterway as dawn reddened the sky in the east. They hung now from an overhead branch, stiff and dry.

The boy was soundly asleep, and dreaming his friend had made him an immortal. In the dream, his skin was white as chalk and he was flying over the roofs of his old hometown, floating like a kite upon cool currents of night wind, arms outstretched to guide his movements, incandescent eyes trained on the village below. He was looking for Dutch Jacobson's cronies. He was not just looking for them, he was hunting them, for he meant to kill them and feast on their blood.

Sydney twitched as a branch crackled a few feet to his left. He slitted his eyes, pretending he was still asleep, and spied an old man easing his shirt down off the branch he had hung it on to dry. The man was thin as a whippet, with a long gray beard and clothes so filthy and worn they were colorless. Hanging from his hip was a large twin-barrel LeMat, a nine-shot revolver with an underslung 16-gauge barrel that fired buckshot. The old man was lifting Sydney's shirt from the branch with a stick. Tongue thrust from the corner of his mouth, the old man glanced nervously at the boy as he draped the stiff shirt over his shoulder, then went back for the trousers.

Sydney waited until the old man's attention was focused on his trousers, then slid his hand carefully beneath his blanket. He found the grip of his father's Colt .45 and eased the weapon free. "A feller could get shot for a thing like that," he said in a civil tone. He rose to a seated position, pointing the pistol at the old man.

Despite Sydney's mild tone, the old man startled. He dropped the stick and fumbled his own revolver from its holster. The muzzle of the gun shook wildly as he pointed it at Sydney. His pale blue eyes bulged fearfully from their sockets. He had the mien of a small animal that had been beaten often and without pity for most of its life.

"Easy, old timer," Sydney said, heart beating quick and hard in his chest. "No need to get excited. Just drop the clothes and go. Nobody needs to get hurt here today. Not over a pair of old britches."

"They're mine! I need 'em!" the old man cried. His voice was a high-pitched whine.

"As a matter of fact, they're mine," Sydney said, as reasonably as he could manage. The old man was obviously desperate and probably more than a little insane. He most likely intended to steal Black Devil, too. "Those are the only clothes I got, mister. You don't want me running around in my underdrawers, now do you? Some lady might see me and fall out with the vapours."

"I don't give a shit about no lady," the old man said. "Don't give a shit about you neither. I'm taking your clothes, and I'm taking your horse, too. They took my horse so now I'm taking yours. Try 'n stop me and I'll paint that there tree with yer innards."

With a sinking sensation in his belly, Sydney realized he was going to have to shoot the old codger. He had never wanted to kill anyone—not even Dutch, not really—and now he had to do it again. That was two killings in one week. It beggared belief!

Crazy as he was, the old man saw the resolve in Sydney's face. He recognized the death stare that came into the boy's eyes, had seen it many times over the years, and he acted instinctively. Turning his head aside, one eye squeezed shut in case of splatter, the old man pulled the triggers of his revolver.

Sydney fired at the same time.

Both men shot at point blank range. Sydney's bullet struck the old man in the hip, spinning him to his knees in a clumsy pirouette. The old man's ball went whistling off into the distance, for Sydney was no longer sitting where he had been just a moment before.

The old man had the impression that a dark wind had swept in from the river, twin rooster tails of spray arcing in the air in a sparkling V formation. The dark shape had scooped the lad up the very instant both men pulled the triggers of their weapons-- scooped him up and bore him to safety-- but he did not have the presence of mind to fully comprehend what his senses had reported to his brain. It had all happened so quickly!

Sydney felt like he had been swatted by a large invisible hand. The young man swooned, black spots dancing in his vision, as Gon placed him carefully on the ground at a small remove. The vampire searched his body for injuries as Sydney fell back, waving the vampire away.

"What are you--? What happened?" Sydney stammered, eyes fluttering dizzily, but the immortal did not answer. Lips peeled back from his fangs, the vampire turned and launched himself at the bandit. Sydney heard the old man howl despairingly.

Sydney rose woozily and stumbled back to camp, still holding his revolver. He could hear his blood rushing in his ears, a rapid whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. His heart felt like it was trying to batter its way out of his chest. He saw the vampire then, crouched over the old man, sucking hungrily at his neck. The sight made his legs go noodly with fright.

The old man was bled white, eyes blank and staring sightlessly at the clouds overhead. Gon turned to look at Sydney, lips still curled back from his teeth. His entire lower face, from his nose down to his chin, was slick with blood. His beard and mustache were red and sodden, and blood was trickling down his throat.

Sydney groaned and collapsed to his knees. The world wavered in and out, darkening and then brightening, as Sydney sat there, watching his new friend devour the old man.

Gon glared at Sydney for a moment, his expression wolf-like and inhuman, then returned to slurping at the old man's neck.

Sydney raised his father's Colt, pointing it at the monster's head. He squinted down the barrel with one eye, lining up the sights. At this distance he couldn't miss. But then he hesitated. He lowered the weapon, then let it drop onto the ground between his knees.

"Jesus Christ," he moaned.