In My Time of Dying by David J. West

Author:David J. West [West, David J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lost Realms Press
Published: 2019-07-26T22:00:00+00:00

God never labels his gifts; He just puts them into our hands. — M.R. James

15. Black Dog

Porter lay upon the hay and reached for a bottle. It was empty. Tossing and turning, he tried to go back to sleep but it wouldn’t come. He searched in vain for another. He always tried to be prepared and have extras somewhere, a flask here or a bottle there in a saddle bag. But Porter knew deep down he hadn’t had a chance to buy any more since he left Frisco, and he had stretched it out as best as he could on the long ride from Sacramento.

Success! He found one laying half buried beside him in the hay. Defeat. He threw the empty bottle across the barn. He wanted another as bad as anything. He needed it. Guts churned and grumbled like they were twisting end over end on one another like snakes in a pit. He was tired, but that dry feeling in his throat was calling. Salty demons speared his tongue and his gut cried out for the only sustenance it gave a damn about.

He told himself that if he got up to leave the coach and casket, nothing would happen. No one knew they were here. Nobody would mess with a supposed corpse. Corpse! Ha! If they only knew. Porter had seen some strange things in his time, but this just about took the whole county fair and then some. At least Mr. Methuselah, being a desiccated mummy, didn’t stink. Most folks wouldn’t say a word for fear of bringing on tears over the deceased.

He was never sure how much Mr. Methuselah was listening. What do the undead think? How much can they listen? Do they pine after the living like we do departed loved ones? Or do they gradually forget us as we gradually forget them? It was more philosophy than Port wanted to think about now and he realized he was stalling because he felt he should stay put but he wanted that drink. The bottle was calling him again. He would only be gone a few minutes. Grab a bottle from the saloon around the corner and be right back. “I’ll be right back,” Port said softly, to himself as much as to the sleeping corpse.

There was no response from the desiccated man in the casket. Porter was satisfied that if Mr. Methuselah had any reservations he would have spoken up by now.

Porter stood and stretched his legs a spell. There was no other movement in the barn, nor much sound either, save the light creaking of timbers against the night winds. Somewhere far away he heard a cock crow. It had to be a fool bird thinking false dawn was the real deal.

He stepped to the threshold of the door and let the breeze waft over him. Still held by shadows, he watched the city. Stars overhead were comforting. It felt good to be alive. But the bottle called once again, and his addiction was a bottomless hole that could never be filled.

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