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Language:
English
Series:
Part 3 of Whumptober 2020
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Whumptober 2020
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Published:
2020-10-03
Updated:
2020-10-12
Words:
1,877
Chapters:
2/?
Comments:
21
Kudos:
72
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469

West Texas Skies

Summary:

Simon runs a small cattle ranch in west Texas.
This ethereal landscape is replete with myths and legends. The mind wanders to dark places on lonely nights.
Simon encounters a different sort of ghost in these hills.

Chapter 1: A Ghost in these Hills

Chapter Text

Baz

I murmur an apology to the calf before I take her. She’s been here awhile. Trails carved in the dust and gravel where she struggled, unable to rise, her leg broken. Accidents happen, I’m doing her a favor. Ending her suffering.

Basilton Pitch: a regular angel of mercy.

Plus, I get a meal out of it.

I just settle down to feed when I hear the unmistakable crack of a shotgun being cocked.

I close my eyes and lower my head. How the hell did I let him get the drop on me? I take a breath, I know exactly how. I was starving, careless. His livestock has been too healthy lately, I only take the weak.

Simon

“Put your hands where I can see ‘em and stand up slowly.”

I’m not one to shoot an unarmed man in the back, but rules are meant to be broken. There is something unearthly about the lithe, dusty figure kneeling by the dead calf. Everybody’s heard the stories. Monsters in the hills, sucking the blood of women and children. Hideous creatures, half man half demon.

The man places his hands behind his head and stands. He’s tall. Really tall. Slim, and a little hunched, in the manner of big men in a small world. He’s wearing all black. Faded jeans, cotton button down. Even his boots are black, but not the shiny boots of an armchair cowboy. His are cracked, heels worn, leather soft. Those boots have lived.

“Turn around, nice and slow. Any sudden moves and you’re gonna end up on the ground with that calf.”

He’s bigger than me, but my rifle makes up the difference. I keep it trained on his chest.

An eagle screeches overhead. I cast a quick glance; those things don’t shut up. It’s hot. This is Texas, it’s always hot, but this heat is expectant, the burn of a breath held too long.

The man turns around, hands still clasped behind his head. Long black hair falling over his face. He looks at me.

I almost drop my gun.

Almost.

I know those eyes. I’ve always known them. Thundercloud grey. Flashes of memory like lightning. His lips on mine. Sweat. Arms, legs entwined.

My heart is a rock in my chest.

I aim the shotgun at his face.

“Baz?”

That face. That beautiful face.

It’s been 15 years.

“In the flesh,” He says. A small smile.

“I thought you were dead,” My voice is dusty. As if I hadn’t spoken since I saw him last. That night, in the woods. Tears threaten, I blink them away. The time for tears has passed.

“I am. So to speak.” A bigger smile.

Fangs.

A feeling like cold water, flows from head to foot. The word comes unbidden, from fireside whispers, tall tales and myths: vampire . These bullets aren’t silver, isn’t that how you kill them? Garlic? It’s high noon. Not a cloud in the sky. Shouldn’t he have burst into flames by now?

Our eyes meet. I loved him once. We were nineteen.

That smirk.

The gun flies out of my hands. I blinked, that was it. Baz in my space, he snaps the shotgun over his knee like a dried branch. I stumble to the ground.

“Now can we talk like civilized human beings?” He reaches a hand down to me.

“Are you going to drain me dry?”

“I haven’t drained you yet, have I?”

“Only my cattle?” I take his hand, pulling myself up. I rub the dust off my jeans.

He looks away, flattens his lush lips to a line. “Only the injured or the sick.”

“You’re what’s been culling my herd? I thought it was a lone wolf.”

“Just me. I’m the lone wolf.”

He’s still holding my hand. I should let go. I can’t.

“I thought vampires turned into bats.”

He lets go of my hand. “Not in Texas, I’m the Chupacabra.”

I run my fingers through my hair. They catch on a day’s ride worth of dust and sweat. I shake my head, this can’t be real. Heat madness.

“I’m kidding.” Baz’s face is open, “About the Chupacabra thing. That’s a myth.”

“What?” I just can’t.

“Look, we can talk about this. I’ll tell you everything. Just—can I—er— finish ? He cringes lightly and points at the calf lying still on the ground. The flies haven’t noticed it yet.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” that’s it. I’ve had enough of this fever dream. “Agatha!” I turn and call as I stomp away, spurs jingling. Where the hell did she wander off to? I catch a flash of palomino in some nearby scrub.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” Baz calls after me. I ignore him. Hallucinating, that’s it. This is a hallucination.

“C’mere you old fleabag,” Agatha eyes me, bored, oblivious to the predator in our midst. She chews a hunk of dried grass around her bit. “When I tell you to stay put, I mean stay put.” She gives me a light shove with her nose. I hand her one of the sugar cubes from my pocket. “Worst horse ever.” I place my boot in the stirrup and haul myself astride.

I pull the reins and point her towards the house. “Let’s get out of here girl.” The saddle creaks as she picks a path through the rock and brush. “Too many ghosts in these hills.”

I don’t let myself look back.

Chapter 2: Day 10: They Look So Pretty When They Bleed

Summary:

Baz shows up after a 15 year vampire induced absence. Where has he been?

Notes:

I'm super behind on these, so this work is totally unbeta'd. Someday I'll come back and clean these up. Probably come up with a proper title for this thing too.

Chapter Text

Simon

“You don’t have to call me darlin,’ darlin.” David Allen Coe urges from the tinny phone speaker on table at my side. I’m drinking Bulleit Rye from a coffee cup. The sky is a riot of orange, purple, pink. West Texas sunset. Most of the chickens have gone off to roost for the night. Dusk at the farm is a soft, subtle thing.

Gareth cocks a beady eye at me from the porch railing. “Aren’t you supposed to be watching over the girls?” He puffs up his feathers and cocks his head the other direction with a quizzical squawk. “Fine, but this isn’t going to be a regular thing.” I reach into my pocket for a few kernels of dried corn and toss them on the wooden porch slats. Gareth crows his appreciation and flops to the deck to claim his prize.

Fucking birds. Most of the flock have names and unique personalities. You’re not supposed to get attached to the livestock, but damn it if chickens aren’t funny and endearing. Phillipa spends half her time in the house, rushing in and making herself at home every time I open the damn door. She shits all over the place.

There’s probably something deeply ironic about being a vegetarian cowboy, but I’m not going to unpack that. I choose not to think about what happens to the cattle when I send them to the feedlot. Man’s got to make a living and ranch life is all I know.  I prop my feet on the deck rail and pour myself another rye.

The sky has shifted to my favorite shade of blue. That inky purplish indigo that happens after sunset and before dark. Shep rises from his place at my side and issues a warning bark, keen eyes cutting into the distance. The grizzled heeler is better than any alarm. I watch him assess the threat level, it’s probably a coyote making his evening rounds.

Let it be a coyote.

Shep growls low in his chest. In the distance, a brilliant pinpoint of red glows and fades followed by a plume of white smoke. The crunch of gravel. “It’s me, Snow.”

Not a coyote then.

I shoot a glare at Shep, shouldn’t you be attacking him? Shep looks at me quizzically. I can almost hear him say fuck no, he’s a vampire, as he hides behind my chair.  

Baz makes his way up my porch steps. He stubs his cigarette out on on his boot and tosses it in the yard.

“Dude, littering.”

“Oh, sorry.” Baz lopes back down the stairs. He picks up the butt and looks around for a receptacle. Finding nothing, he pockets it and slouches over to the chair next to mine. He picks up my mug and drains it. His hand trembles when he returns the mug to the table. Nerves? Hunger? Thirst?

“The fuck, Baz?” Shep takes this opportunity to exit the premises, slinking off the deck to check on the goats. My heart is beating like a jackrabbit and I simply cannot think. Baz Pitch is here. Alive (ish). Drinking my whiskey. He smells the same, Marlboro red and black tea. He’s that close.

I want to take him in my arms, smooth the hair from his face, taste his skin. I close my eyes. Breathe. “What the fuck are you doing here.”

“I’m—” Baz starts. Stops. Refills the mug. Drains it again. “I’ve—” He looks at me. His face is pale. “It’s been a long few years.”

“Fifteen,” I provide.

He covers his eyes with his hands, wipes his face. “Fifteen. I don’t remember most of it. They killed my family. “

“Who?”

“Vampires, I suppose, seeing as that’s what I am now. I didn’t see them. Just the after. There was a lot of blood. Mom, Dad, the kids, all gone.”

“Except you.”

“Except me.”

“Did you do it?”

A look of horror, disgust. “Jesus, no, Simon—I couldn’t. I’m not—that.”

“I had to ask.”

“I know.” Baz looks down, he picks at a hangnail on his thumb.

“So then what, you’ve just been knocking around the hills draining my cattle?”

“Pretty much. Supplementing with prairie dogs, snakes and the like.”  He leans back in his chair, a click as he lights another cigarette. “They’re so pretty when they bleed.”

“What?”

“Sorry, I get creepy sometimes. Vampire thing, I think.”

“Jesus.”

“Now you’re here. Why?” The crickets have started their evening symphony. The night air hangs thick and heavy like a shroud.

“You found me.”

“I stopped looking.”

“You found me nonetheless.”

Baz grinds out the cigarette with the heel of his boot. He casts a sideways glance at me and picks up the butt. Pockets this one too.

Baz:

Simon places his hand on the table. Facing up. An invitation.

I missed that hand. Each whorl of print. Every callus.

I reach over and hook his index finger with mine. A familiar gesture from a different time.

“You stayin’?” Simon asks, he isn’t looking at me. A barn cat chases something invisible across the yard, just at the edge of the watery patio light. Catching ghosts.

I look at Simon. Bronze curls, bleached straw by the sun. His eyes are the same, blue as worn denim, but something is missing. The quick joy has been replaced by something heavier, more solid. “Can I?”

Warm, rough fingers interlace with my long, cool ones. Snow turns to me, “Yeah. You’re not going to kill me, right?”

“I’m not here to kill you, Snow.”

“There’s a lot to figure out, Baz.”

“I know.”

“Then I suppose we can start figuring.” His grip on my hand tightens. I close my eyes and listen to the night. The coyotes are discussing current events. Somewhere a horse stamps a hoof. A tired breeze brushes my face. For the moment I feel whole.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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